Now Joan knew why Gallon had written yesterday to a man in Manchester, asking him how many Clerios he had to sell, and what was the lowest price he was prepared to take for them, adding that it would be useless, in the present depressed state of the market, to name a high figure. This man had been requested to wire his answer, and at any moment it might arrive.
When Joan had jumped so far in her conclusions, Gallon escorted his visitor out, flinging back word that he would be in again in half an hour.
The girl's blood sang in her ears. It seemed to her that Fortune was knocking at the door; but could she find the key to open it? She called all her wits to the rescue, and in five minutes that key was grating in the lock.
In Gallon's private room was a small desk, which she used when her services were wanted there. This gave her an excuse to go in, and in passing she threw a glance at Tommy Mellis, which caused him, after the lapse of a decent interval (he counted eighty seconds), to follow.
"Once you said you would do anything for me," she began, with a lovely look. "Did you mean it?"
"Rather!"
"Well, then, the next question is: Will your father do anything for you?"
"He'll do a good deal."
"If you tell him you've a tip about some shares that are bound to rise, will he give you the money to buy them?"
"He'd lend it. That's his way. He'd be tickled to see me taking an interest in business. But what has that got to do with----"