Lansdale laughed. "A good living, doubtless."
"Of course; and much more, with the pickings. But there is a salary which is supposed to be the consideration, isn't there?"
"Oh, yes; and the figure of it varies with the imagination of the gossips from ten to fifty thousand a year."
Jeffard stopped to relight his cigar, and Lansdale fancied that the Finchly query went out with the spent match. But Jeffard revived it a square farther on.
"Suppose we assume, for the sake of argument, that the man has a conscience. How much could he justly take for the service rendered?"
They were at the entrance of the "Coloradoan" building, and Lansdale took out his notebook and made a memorandum.
"That is good for a column," he said; "'The Moral Responsibility of Millionaire-Managers.' I'll answer your question later, when I've had time to think it over."
"But, seriously," Jeffard insisted. "Is it worth ten thousand a year?—or the half of it? The man is only a cashier,—a high-class accountant at best."
"Finchly is much more than that; he is Murray's brain as well as his pen-hand. But if he were only a money-counter, a money-counter's salary would be enough; say two or three thousand a year, to be liberal."