Paget looked up suddenly.
“Not yet, Wilbur,” he said, speaking as though to Blake himself. “I want to think a while.”
The other man rose and leaned close to Paget.
“Listen,” came his voice. “If you’re worrying about this business, you’re wasting your time. Look at me. Who am I?”
“You look like Wilbur Blake,” replied Paget in a low voice.
“You’re right,” was the answer. “I am Wilbur Blake — so far as the world is concerned. We’ve been playing the game a week, now, and there hasn’t been a slip. It’s getting better every day.
“Look at me. I’m confident. A few days more, and we’re going to swing a sale that will bring in three million. You’re fixing the percentage to suit yourself. So why worry?”
Paget shook his head dubiously.
“Look at this.” Blake picked up a pen and scrawled a name across a sheet of paper. “Whose signature is that?”
Paget looked at the writing. A trace of admiration appeared on his face.