The maddened financier let go, staggering back. He reached for one of his hip pockets.
But two new actors moved swiftly into this scene. They were plain clothes policemen, provided by the thoughtfulness of Broker Coggswell. Bolton was seized, and his right hand followed to his hip pocket.
“You don’t need this weapon,” remarked one of the officers, taking Bolton’s revolver. “Calm down, man, and come with us.”
“But, good heavens, officer, I can’t leave here now,” cried Bolton, his eyes flashing fire. “I’ve millions of dollars at stake on the floor below.”
“Then calm down and behave yourself,” advised the other policeman. “If you had drawn that gun and pointed it, we’d have to take you. Behave yourself, and we’ll let you stay here and attend to your deals.”
“I’ll—I’ll promise,” agreed Justin Bolton, his words coming in a gasp.
This scene, as quickly as it had taken place, had not altogether escaped the attention of those about Francis Delavan.
“Gentlemen,” said the “Rocket’s” owner, “if you can see any connection between my brief disappearance and that scene over yonder, you’re welcome to draw your own conclusions. But I’ve nothing further to say on the subject, for the present, at any rate. My absence from the world wasn’t a matter of my own choice—that’s all. As to P. & Y., I give you my word of honor that I regard it as a splendid investment, even at 110. If there’s any man here who ever knew me to lie, let him stand back and keep out of the good things that are going to happen on the Stock Exchange to-day.”
Broker Coggswell, with the help of three of his men, was now on the floor, snapping up all P. & Y. stock that offered. The selling price was above 70.