“I’d handle it at 93⅜,” he answered quietly.
“Oh, come! That’s dropping two points!” said Cecil, shocked. “A minute ago you were prophesying a further rise.”
Rainshore’s face gleamed out momentarily in the darkness as he puffed at his cigar.
“If you must unload,” he remarked, as if addressing the red end of the cigar, “I’m your man at 93⅜.”
Cecil argued: but Simeon Rainshore never argued—it was not his method. In a quarter of an hour the younger man had contracted to sell twenty-five thousand shares of a hundred dollars each in the United States Dry Goods Trust at two points below the current market quotation, and six and five-eighths points below par.
The hoot of an outgoing steamer sounded across the city.
“I must go,” said Cecil.
“You’re in a mighty hurry,” Simeon complained.
IV.
Five minutes later Cecil was in his own rooms at the Hôtel de la Plage. Soon there was a discreet knock at the door.