"Don't bother," said the Saint briefly.
He went to his desk and flicked open a drawer, from which he extracted the bundle of shares.
"I know your position as well as you know it yourself. It's one of the nuisances of running a bucket-shop that you have to have shares to work on. You couldn't have anything more worthless than this bunch, so I'm sure everyone will be perfectly happy. Except, perhaps, your clients — but we don't have to worry about them, do we?"
Mr. Wilmer-Steck endeavoured to look pained, but his heart was not in the job.
"Now, if you sold those shares for, let's say, three hundred pounds —"
"Or supposing I got five hundred for them —
"If you were offered four hundred pounds, for instance —"
"And finally accepted five hundred —"
"If, as we were saying, you accepted five hundred pounds," agreed Mr. Wilmer-Steck, conceding the point reluctantly, "I'm sure you would not feel you had been unfairly treated."
"I should try to conceal my grief," said the Saint.