"Often," the stockbroker replied. "He told me it was done in a saloon fight out in the Far West."
"I did it in the Far East," Wingate declared grimly, "as far east, at least, as the drawing-room of his Fifth Avenue house. He'll never lose that scar. He'll never lose his hatred of the man who gave it to him.—So he wants me to sell him wheat!"
"It's a pretty dangerous thing to introduce feelings of this sort into business," Kendrick remarked.
"You're right," Wingate admitted. "It makes one careful. I'm not selling any wheat to-day, Kendrick."
"It will be a disappointment to the office," the other remarked.
"Personally, I'm glad."
"Oh, I'll keep your office busy," Wingate promised. "I'm not coming into the City for nothing, I can assure you. There are five commissions for you," he went on, drawing a sheet of paper from the rack and writing on it rapidly. "That will keep your office busy for a time. I'll give you a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. Don't ring me up unless you want more margin. Closing time prices are all I'm interested in, and I can get those on the tape anywhere."
The stockbroker's eyes glistened as he looked through the list.
"You're a good judge, Wingate," he said. "You'll make money on most of these."
"I expect I shall," Wingate acknowledged. "Anyhow, it will keep you people busy and serve as a sort of visiting card here for me until—"
"Until what?" Kendrick asked, breaking a short pause.