Bascom shook his head.
“There’s the Mexican revolution, and our own spineless administration. If we involved Tampico Petroleum, and anything serious should break down there, you’d be finished, cleaned out, broke.
“And yet,” Bascom resumed, “I see no other way out than to use Tampico Petroleum. You see, I have almost exhausted what you have placed in my hands. And this is no whirlwind raid. It’s slow and steady as an advancing glacier. I’ve only handled the market for you all these years, and this is the first tight place we’ve got into. Now your general business affairs? Collins has the handling and knows. You must know. What securities can you let me have? Now? And to-morrow? And next week? And the next three weeks?”
“How much do you want?” Francis questioned back.
“A million before closing time to-day.” Bascom pointed eloquently at the ticker. “At least twenty million more in the next three weeks, if——and mark you that if well——if the world remains at peace, and if the general market remains as normal as it has been for the past six months.”
Francis stood up with decision and reached for his hat.
“I’m going to Collins at once. He knows far more about my outside business than I know myself. I shall have at least the million in your hands before closing time, and I’ve a shrewd suspicion that I’ll cover the rest during the next several weeks.”
“Remember,” Bascom warned him, as they shook hands, “it’s the very slowness of this raid that is ominous. It’s directed against you, and it’s no fly-by-night affair. Whoever is making it, is doing it big, and must be big.”
Several times, late that afternoon and evening, the Queen was called up by the slave of the flying speech and enabled to talk with her husband. To her delight, in her own room, by her bedside, she found a telephone, through which, by calling up Collins’ office, she gave her good night to Francis. Also, she essayed to kiss her heart to him, and received back, queer and vague of sound, his answering kiss.