Another interview Francis had that afternoon. Arrived back at his broker’s office, Bascom told him that Regan had called up and wanted to see Francis, saying that he had some interesting information for him.
“I’ll run around right away,” Francis said, reaching for his hat, while his face lighted up with hope. “He was an old friend of father’s, and if anybody could pull me through, he could.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Bascom shook his head, and paused reluctantly a moment before making confession. “I called him up just before you returned from Panama. I was very frank. I told him of your absence and of your perilous situation here, and——oh, yes, flatly and flat out——asked him if I could rely on him in case of need. And he baffled. You know anybody can baffle when asked a favor. That was all right. But I thought I sensed more ... no, I won’t dare to say enmity; but I will say that I was impressed ... how shall I say?—well, that he struck me as being particularly and peculiarly cold-blooded and non-committal.”
“Nonsense,” Francis laughed. “He was too good a friend of my father’s.”
“Ever heard of the Conmopolitan Railways Merger?” Bascom queried with significant irrelevance.
Francis nodded promptly, then said:
“But that was before my time. I merely have heard of it, that’s all. Shoot. Tell me about it. Give me the weight of your mind.”
“Too long a story, but take this one word of advice. If you see Regan, don’t put your cards on the table. Let him play first, and, if he offers, let him offer without solicitation from you. Of course, I may be all wrong, but it won’t damage you to hold up your hand and get his play first.”
At the end of another half hour, Francis was closeted with Regan, and the stress of his peril was such that he controlled his natural impulses, remembering Bascom’s instruction, and was quite fairly nonchalant about the state of his affairs. He even bluffed.