During the next few days he gave a considerable amount of thought to the problem of the Eden family's unprofitable investments; and since he had never been afflicted with doubts of his own remarkable genius, he was not surprised when the course of his inquiries produced a possible market which had nothing at all to do with the Stock Exchange. Simon had never considered the Stock Exchange anyway.
He was paying particular attention to the correctly rakish angle of his hat preparatory to sallying forth on a certain morning when the front door bell rang and he went to open to the visitor. A tall saturnine man, with white moustache and bushy white eyebrows, stood on the mat, and it is an immutable fact of this chronicle that he was there by appointment.
"Can I see Captain Tombs? My name —"
"Is Wilmer-Steak?"
"Steck."
"Steck. Pleased to meet you. I'm Captain Tombs. Step in, comrade. How are you off for time?"
Mr. Wilmer-Steck suffered himself to be propelled into the sitting-room, where he consulted a massive gold watch.
"I think I shall have plenty of time to conclude our business, if you have enough time to do your share," he said.
"I mean, do you think you could manage to wait a few minutes? Make yourself at home till I come back?" With a bewildering dexterity the Saint shot cigarette-box, matches, pile of magazines, decanter, and siphon on to the table in front of the visitor. "Point is, I absolutely must dash out and see a friend of mine. I can promise not to be more than fifteen minutes. Could you possibly wait?"
Mr. Wilmer-Steck blinked.