“Delavan!” cried Moddridge, sharply. “I protest. Not another word.”
“Nonsense!” retorted the big man, cheerily. “Halstead, whoever makes the right guess as to what big money deals Gordon has arranged abroad can make barrels of money in Wall Street during the next two or three days. Those who guess wrong will lose their money. Money will be made, and money will be lost in Wall Street, during the next few days—all on guessing which way Gordon’s cat jumped in Paris.”
“And all the while no one will know, except Mr. Gordon himself?” smiled Tom Halstead.
“That’s the point,” chuckled Francis Delavan, contentedly.
“S-s-stop!” cried Moddridge, warningly. But his large friend, disregarding him utterly, continued:
“On that same ship a man came over whom Moddridge and I trust. Our man has a great knack for drawing people out. It was his task to talk with Gordon at every good opportunity, and to get from the great man some indication as to the real news. Our man was paid by us, and paid well, but he also gets a substantial share of the profits we hope to make. He has made every effort to get a tip from Gordon, and it was that information that our man, by two or three simple movements, signaled to us.”
“And now I suppose you’re going to unbosom yourself, and tell this young boat-handler just what our information is?” groaned Eben Moddridge.
“No, I am not,” grinned Mr. Delavan. “I don’t believe Halstead even cares a straw about knowing. If he had our information he isn’t the sort of lad who’d venture his little savings in the vortex of Wall Street speculation.”
“Thank you. You’ve gauged me rightly, sir,” laughed Halstead.