"A touch of liver," he murmured. "What did you say about the markets?"
"You look pretty rotten," Van Teyl remarked sympathetically. "Shall I send out for some brandy?"
"Not for me," Fischer scoffed. "I don't need it. What price are
Anglo-French?"
"Ninety-four. You've only done them in a point, after all, and that's nominal. I daresay I could get ten thousand back at that."
"Let them alone," was the calm reply. "I'll sell another fifty thousand at ninety-four."
"Look here," Van Teyl said, swinging round in his chair, "I like the business and I know you can finance it, but are you sure that you realise what you are doing? Every one believes Anglo-French have touched their bottom. They've only to go back to where they were—say five points—and you'd lose half a million."
Fischer smiled a little wearily.
"That small sum in arithmetic," he remonstrated, "had already passed through my brain. Send in your selling order, Jim, and come out to lunch with me. I've come straight through from Washington—only got in this morning."
Van Teyl called in his clerk and gave a few orders. Then he took up his hat and left the office with his client.
"From Washington, eh?" he remarked curiously, as they passed into the crowded streets. "So that accounts—"