"And what is your figure, Mr. Wray?" he asked.
Jeff Wray reached for the match box, slowly re-lit his cigar, which emitted clouds of smoke, through which presently came his reply. "You gentlemen have been kind to me here in New York. I want you to know that I appreciate it. You've shown me a side of life I never knew existed. I like the West, but I like New York, too. I want to build a house and spend my winters here—I wasn't figuring on doing that just yet—but if you really want my interests I'll sell them to you—without reservation—every stick and stone of them for thirty millions."
"Thirty millions?"
The voices of both men sounded as one, Janney's frankly incredulous—Bent's satirical and vastly unpleasant.
"Thirty millions!" Bent repeated with a sneer. "Dollars or cents, Mr. Wray?"
Jeff turned and looked at him with the innocent and somewhat vacuous stare which had learned its utility in a great variety of services. Jeff only meant it as a disguise, but the General thought it impudent.
"Dollars, sir," said Jeff coolly. "It will pay me that—in time."
"In a thousand years," roared the General. "The Amalgamated doesn't figure on millenniums, Mr. Wray. We don't want your other interests, but we'll buy them—for five million dollars—in cash—and not a cent more. You can sell at that price or—" the General did not see, or refused to see, the warning glance from Janney—"or be wiped off the map. Is that clear?"
"I think so, sir," said Wray politely. "Will you excuse me, Mr. Janney?" and bowed himself out of the room.
CHAPTER XI