“Good morning, Griscom,” he said tersely.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilberton,” replied Griscom. “You remember Mr. Cranston?”
“Yes.” Wilberton dismissed the greeting with a single word. “What brings you to see me, Griscom?”
Howard Griscom shifted in his chair. He felt ill at ease in the presence of the great financier. He invariably sank to inferiority when he met Stanley Wilberton; yet, somehow, he usually managed to receive consideration from Wilberton.
“I have come in reference to the theatrical merger,” explained Griscom. “You will recall that I was approached by a representative of the Theatrical Owners Cooperative Association — in reference to paying money to what we considered to be a racket.”
“Yes. I recall it.”
“Since then,” continued Griscom, “the situation has become more acute. The merger is even more necessary than before. We must float our loan.
“At the same time, the vague suggestions made by the representative of the Cooperative Association have become tangible activities.”
“In what way?”
“In malicious attempts to harm our theaters,” declared Griscom. “In one outlying theater, the cashier was held up and the box office robbed. In another larger house, an unexplainable accident occurred in the projection booth. It nearly caused a panic.