"Nine to two on Jefferson offered; and no takers," was the reply. "There's something up, Mr. Sage; I'll take my dying oath on it," he said, leaning across the table and dropping his voice.
"Any big amounts?" enquired Malcolm Sage.
"No, that's what troubles me. The money's being spread about so. The funny thing is that a lot of it is being put on by letter. I've had a dozen myself to-day."
Malcolm Sage nodded slowly as he filled his pipe, which with great deliberation he proceeded to light until the whole surface of the tobacco glowed. Then, as if suddenly realising that Lindler was not smoking, he pulled open a drawer, drew out a cigar-box, and pushed it across, watching him closely from beneath his eyebrows as he did so.
Lindler opened the box, then looked interrogatingly at Malcolm Sage.
"Didn't know you smoked the same poison-sticks as the 'Downy One,'" he said, picking up a long cigar with a red and gold band, and examining it.
"Who's he?"
"Old Nathan Goldschmidt, the stinking Jew."
"I'm sorry," said Malcolm Sage; "that should not have been there.
Try one of the others."
Lindler looked across at him curiously.