"There is a nominal share value of twenty-five thousands pounds," said Mr. Newdick seriously. "But, of course, they are worth far more than that. Far more… I very much doubt," he said, "whether fifty thousand would be an adequate price. My patents alone are worth more than fifty thousand pounds. Sixty thousands pounds would scarcely tempt me. Seventy thousand would be a poor price. Eighty thousand—"
"Is quite a lot of money," said the Saint, interrupting Mr. Newdick's private auction.
Mr. Newdick nodded.
"But you haven't seen the place yet — or the machine we turn out. You ought to have a look round, even if we can't do business."
Mr. Newdick suffered a twinge of horror at the thought even while he uttered it.
He led the Saint out of his "office" to the junk shed. No one who had witnessed his sad survey of that collection of lumber a few minutes before would have believed that it was the same man who now gazed on it with such enthusiasm and affection.
"This," said Mr. Newdick, "is our workshop. Here you can see the parts of our machines in course of construction and assembly. Those lengths of wood are our special longerons. Over there are stay and braces…"
"By Jove!" said the Saint in awe. "I'd no idea helicopters went in for all those things. They must be quite dressed up when you've finished with them, what? By the way, talking of longerons, a girl friend of mine has the neatest pattern of step-ins…"
Mr. Newdick listened patiently.
Presently they passed on to the other shed. Mr. Newdick opened the door as reverently as if he had been unveiling a memorial.