“What did you say?” he asked.
“I asked you how it happened that my uncle now has father’s Stock Exchange seat in his possession.”
“Why!... Has he?”
“Yes. And I think you know he has, Mr. Sylvester. I know it, because he told me so himself. Didn’t you know it?”
This was a line shot from directly in front and a hard one to dodge. A lie was the only guard, and he was not in the habit of lying, even professionally.
“I—I cannot answer these questions,” he declared. “They involve professional secrets and—”
“I don’t see that this is a secret. My uncle has already told me. What I could not understand was how he obtained the seat from the man to whom it was given as a part of father’s debt. Do you know how he obtained it?”
“Er—well—er—probably an arrangement was made. I cannot go into details, because—well, for obvious reasons. You must excuse me, Caroline.”
He rose to go.
“One moment more,” she said, “and one more question. Mr. Sylvester, who is this mysterious person—this stockholder whom father defrauded, this person who wishes his name kept a secret, but who does such queer things? Who is he?”