"I am tired," he said. "Telephone down to the office, Nikasti, for a doctor."
Nikasti obeyed, and his summons was promptly answered. The doctor who arrived was pleasantly but ominously grave. In the middle of his examination the telephone rang. Fischer, without ceremony, moved to the receiver. It was Van Teyl speaking.
"I've sold your hundred thousand Anglo-French," he announced. "It's done the whole market in, though—knocked the bottom out of it. They've fallen a point and a half. Shall I begin to buy back for you? You'll make a bit."
"Not a share," Fischer answered fiercely. "Wait!"
"Have you any news you're keeping up your sleeve?" Van Teyl persisted.
"If I have, it's my own affair," was the curt reply, "and I don't tell news over the telephone, anyway. Watch the market, and go on selling where you can."
"I shall do as you order," Van Teyl replied, "but you're all against the general tone here. By the bye, you got my letter?"
"I haven't opened it yet," Fischer snapped. "What's the matter?"
"Pamela and I have taken a little flat in Fifty-eighth Street. Seems a little abrupt, but she didn't want to be alone, and she hates hotels. We felt sure you'd understand."
"Yes, I understand," Fischer said. "Good-by! I'm busy."