"Who? What's the mat—"
"It's Roosevelt!" she choked. "He's dead. It just came in on the ticker."
"No!"
"He died at Warm Springs." And she hid her face in her hands and left the room, sobbing.
Phil Cone stood up, paper-white, crossed over and turned up the radio.
"Flash!" the announcer was saying. "Warm Springs, Georgia. President Roosevelt died this afternoon following his collapse from a severe cerebral hemorrhage. More in a moment. Keep tuned to this station."
"Well, I'll be eternally damned!" I said. "So he was right—"
Cone whirled on me. "You knew about this," he stated flatly "When we were talking yesterday morning. You had more than a hunch. You knew he was going to die."
"Be your age, Phil," I told him. "How in hell could I know?"
"Je-sus Ke-rist!" Wasson growled. "This will knock holy hell out of the Market. Lucky trading's closed for the day. They can't open tomorrow. They'll have to shut down all the exchanges. They'll have to close the banks. God! What a mess!"