"Me? Oh, I'm in the East mostly," said the other moodily; "got a client or two; give a tip an' get a tip now an' again. Small money an' small profits."
He dropped his eyes under the steady and pseudo-benevolent gaze of the other.
"No companies?" said the detective softly. "No companies, Mr. Moss? No Amalgamated Peruvian Concessions, eh? No Brazilian Rubber and Exploitation Syndicate?"
The young man shifted his feet uneasily.
"Genuine concerns, them," he said doggedly; "an', besides, I'm only a shareholder."
"Not promoter. Mr. Moss is not a promoter?"
In desperation the badgered shareholder turned.
"How in 'Eaven's name you get hold of things I don't know," he said in helpless annoyance. "An' all I can say—excuse me."
T. B. Smith saw his expression undergo a sudden change.
"Don't look round, sir," said the other breathlessly; "there's one o' my clients comin' along; genuine business, Mr. Smith; don't crab the deal."