“They never tell anything, as you are aware,” Macloud replied.
“I could refuse to sell unless Blaxham & Company disclosed their customer.”
“Yes, you could—and, likely, lose the sale; they won’t disclose. However, that’s your business,” Macloud observed; “though, it’s a pity to tilt at windmills, for a foolish notion.”
Croyden creased and uncreased the letter—thinking.
Macloud resumed the smoke rings—and waited. It had proved easier than he had anticipated. Croyden had not once thought of Elaine Cavendish—and 224 his simple word had been sufficient to clear himself....
At length, Croyden put the letter back in its envelope and looked up.
“I’ll sell the bonds,” he said—“forward them at once with draft attached, if you will witness my signature to the transfer. But it’s a queer proceeding, a queer proceeding: paying good money for bad!”
“That’s his business—not yours,” said Macloud, easily.
Croyden went to the escritoire and took the bonds from one of the drawers.
“You can judge, from the place I keep them, how much I thought them worth!” he laughed.