“Mother is—well, in her nervous state any shock is disturbing. She is bearing the anxiety as well as we should expect.”
I judged that not much was expected.
“It was not on account of Father's illness that I sent for you, Mr. Paine,” she went on. “If he had not been ill I should not have needed you, of course. But there is something else. It could not have happened at a more unfortunate time and I am afraid you may not be able to give me the help I need. Oh, I hope you can! I don't know what to do. I know it must be dreadfully important. Father has been troubled about it for days. He has been saying that he must go to New York. But the doctor had warned us against his going and so we persuaded him to wait. And now . . . sit down, please. I want to ask your advice.”
I took the chair she indicated. She drew another beside me and seated herself.
“Mr. Paine—” she began. Then, noticing my expression, she asked, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I answered, “nothing except—Isn't that the telegraph instrument I hear? Isn't someone calling you?”
“Yes, yes, it is Mr. Davis, Father's confidential man, his broker, in New York. He is trying to get us, I am sure. He telephoned an hour ago. I got a part of his message and then the connection was broken off. Central says there is something the matter with the wire, a big storm in Connecticut somewhere. It may take a whole day to repair it. And it is SO important! It may mean—I don't know WHAT it may mean! Oh, Mr. Paine, DO you know anything about stocks?”
I looked at her blankly.
“Stocks?” I repeated.
“Yes, yes,” a trifle impatiently. “Stocks—the stock market—railroad shares—how they are bought and sold—do you know anything about them?”