“Yes — on two provisos. One, that it’s really necessary; two, that I can adjust the business so I can leave it.”
Endicott started for the door. “If it’s all right with you, Arthur,” he said, standing with one hand on the knob, “I’ll leave here as close to ten o’clock as possible. That will get me in the office shortly after noon.”
Whitewell nodded.
“Now, you wanted to write a letter of acceptance on that option given by—”
“Yes,” Whitewell interrupted as though anxious to keep details from being disclosed in public.
Endicott took his hand from the door knob, nodded toward the writing-desk. “Just scribble a note,” he said. “All you need is to mention the option. It was dated the sixteenth of last month.”
Whitewell dashed off a note and affixed his signature with something of a flourish. Kleinsmidt watched him, studying every move he made.
“There aren’t any stamps here,” Endicott said suddenly. “I’ll run down to the lobby and pick up some stamps. There’s a vending machine—”
Whitewell said, “Don’t bother, Paul. I always carry stamped envelopes ready for just such an emergency as this. Not quite as fresh perhaps as one you’d take from a desk drawer, but Uncle Sam will honor ’em just the same.”
He took a stamped air-mail envelope from his pocket, slid it across the desk to Endicott, and said, “Fill out the address. You know where it is.”