“Good Lord! It looks as though you had stayed down here all night.”
Emma McChesney smiled a little wearily. “Not quite that. But I was here this morning in time to greet the night watchman. Wanted to get my mail out of the way.” Her eyes searched T. A. Buck's serene face. Then she leaned forward, earnestly.
“Haven't you seen the morning paper?”
“Just a mere glance at 'em. Picked up Burrows on the way down, and we got to talking. Why?”
“The Rasmussen-Welsh Skirt Company has failed. Liabilities three hundred thousand. Assets one hundred thousand.”
“Failed! Good God!” All the rosy color, all the brisk morning freshness had vanished from his face. “Failed! Why, girl, I thought that concern was as solid as Gibraltar.” He passed a worried hand over his head. “That knocks the wind out of my sails.”
“Don't let it. Just say that it fills them with a new breeze. I'm all the more sure that the time is ripe for my plan.”
T. A. Buck took from a vest pocket a scrap of paper and a fountain pen, slid down in his chair, crossed his legs, and began to scrawl meaningless twists and curlycues, as was his wont when worried or deeply interested.
“Are you as sure of this scheme of yours as you were yesterday?”
“Sure,” replied Emma McChesney, briskly. “Sartin-sure.”