“Wait, then, until my office building is up,” he said, trying to disguise by affected gayety how he was touched. “Art glass was only my struggle for a foothold. I am by education an architect.”
“Your office building! Who is it for?”
“John Throckmorton. But he doesn’t know it yet.”
“John Throckmorton, the banker?” Billee gurgled and gasped. Then she suppressed a little scream and stared wildly.
“Yes, the plans are all ready.”
“Has he seen them?”
“No; there’s the hitch. He has only talked about a thirty-five story building out in Chicago, a trust fund investment. So far it has been impossible to break through the guard around him. Harvard couldn’t do it.”
She was silent a long moment, with parted lips, still staring at him.
“Listen, King. Do you believe in premonitions?”
“Hunches? Yes. Terence, my office boy, has one every time there is a big game on up at the park, and he needs somebody to finance him. They never fail.”