“I want you to go to Washington immediately, Mr. Burnett. Return by the night train. You can do without your grip? Take these papers to Buckston Higgins—you see the address—who represents the British Argentine syndicate. Wait till he reads them and get his reply. Here is the money for the trip. Oh, after Mr. Higgins writes his answer, ask him if you can telegraph me 'yes' or 'no.' Good-morning.”
While Philip was speeding to Washington, an important conference was taking place in Murad Ault's office. He was seated at his desk, and before him lay two despatches, one from Chicago and a cable from London. Opposite him, leaning forward in his chair, was a lean, hatchet-faced man, with keen eyes and aquiline nose, who watched his old curbstone confidant like a cat.
“I tell you, Wheatstone,” said Mr. Ault, with an unmoved face, bringing his fist down on the table, “now is the time to sell these three stocks.”
“Why,” said Mr. Wheatstone, with a look of wonder, “they are about the strongest on the list. Mavick controls them.”
“Does he?” said Ault. “Then he can take care of them.”
“Have you any news, Mr. Ault?”
“Nothing to speak of,” replied Ault, grimly. “It just looks so to me. All you've got to do is to sell. Make a break this afternoon, about two or three points off.”
“They are too strong,” protested Mr. Wheatstone.
“That is just the reason. Everybody will think something must be the matter, or nobody would be fool enough to sell. You keep your eye on the Spectrum this afternoon and tomorrow morning. About Organization and one or two other matters.”
“Ah, they do say that Mavick is in Argentine up to his neck,” said the broker, beginning to be enlightened.