“The South Indian?” said Bartley Bradstone, quite easily.
The gentleman stared at him.
“Well, you take it pretty coolly, Bradstone,” he said. “But I suppose to a man with your pile a facer like this does not matter, though I had an impression that you were in it more deeply than any of us. Why, it was one of your pet schemes, was it not?” and he smiled and winked.
Bartley Bradstone nodded curtly.
“Yes, I was in it pretty deeply,” he said. “But I sold out a week ago.”
The other man stared at him.
“Why, man, your name is still in the list of shareholders published to-day. Look here,” and he drew the city paper from his pocket, rapidly found the paragraph, and thrust it into Bradstone’s hands.
Bartley Bradstone looked at it, then turned white.
“There is some mistake,” he said. “I tell you I sold out a week ago—every share.”
The man looked at him with something like pity.