"982, Wall," he said—"an urgent call."
He stood waiting, his face an epitome of breathless suspense. Soon a voice answered him.
"That the office of Neville, Brooks and Van Teyl?" he demanded. "Yes!
Put me through to Mr. Van Teyl. Urgent!"
Another few seconds of waiting, then once more he bent over the instrument.
"That you, Van Teyl?… Yes, Fischer speaking. Oh, never mind about that! Listen. What price are Anglo-French?… No, say about what?… Ninety-five?… Sell me a hundred thousand…. What's that?… What?… Of course it's a big deal! Never mind that. I'm good enough, aren't I? There'll be no rise that'll wipe out half a million dollars. I've got that lying in cash at Guggenheimer's. If you need the money, I'll bring it you in half an hour. Get out into the market and sell. Damn you, what's it matter about news! Right! Sorry, Jim. See you later."
Fischer put down the telephone and wiped his forehead. Notwithstanding the fatigue in his face, there was a glint of triumph there. He laid his hand upon Nikasti's shoulder.
"My friend," he said, "there's big proof coming of what I said to you the other day. You'll find that letter you carry will mean a different thing now. There's news in the air."
"There has been a great battle, perhaps?" Nikasti asked slowly.
"All that is to be known you will hear before evening," Fischer replied. "Tell some one to send me some coffee. I have come through from Washington. I am tired."
He sank a little abruptly into an easy-chair, took off his spectacles, and leaned his head back upon the cushions. In the sunlight his face was almost ghastly. A queer sense of weakness had suddenly assailed him. His mind flitted back through a vista of sleepless nights, of strenuous days, of passions held in leash, excitement ground down.