He grinned expansively at his own witticism, then his face clouded dismally.
“Can’t go into it, though; wife won’t hear of it, and you know what it is, Storm, when a woman holds the purse strings. You know how I’m situated!”
Storm nodded. Everyone in Greenlea knew that Millard had married a rich woman and suffered the pangs of hope deferred ever since. Then he glanced up and frowned.
“Your friend is coming over,” he remarked in bored impatience. “When you gestured toward him he must have taken it for an invitation.”
“’S all right!” Millard responded easily. “Wonderful chap, Du Chainat. Wonderful proposition—Look here! You spoke of making some reinvestments; here’s chance of a lifetime! Never heard of anything like it! Gilt-edged—”
The stranger halted by the table and Millard made as if to rise and then thought better of it.
“Storm, let me present Monsieur Maurice du Chainat. My old pal and neighbor, Mr. Norman Storm.”
The Frenchman bowed with courtly suavity, and Storm could do no less than proffer him a chair at the table and beckon to a waiter.
“Mentioned your little proposition, old chap,” the irrepressible Millard continued, adding airily as a shade of protestation passed over Monsieur du Chainat’s mobile countenance: “Oh I know it’s confidential, but Storm’s all right. He wants to make some reinvestments, and now’s his golden opportunity!”
“Mr. Millard has told me nothing of the nature of your proposition, Monsieur,” Storm hastened to reassure the Frenchman. “He merely mentioned it in passing.”