“And the capital?” gasped Waldbridge.
“I told you what I want, the rest I’ll leave in business; you can’t go on without it, can you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the use of talking about it.”
He held out his hand; Waldbridge grasped it, trying to stammer out his gratitude, but Martin was gone. He dashed out of the place, threw himself into a taxi.
“Uptown.”
The New York chauffeur is accustomed to indefinite addresses. He looked back at the man with his hat pulled over his eyes, crouching in a corner. “A bloke who had lost his wad.” Then he wondered if it was a defaulter or a gunman—some of them looked like perfect gentlemen. He drove uptown, entered the Park. There he stopped. He was hungry; that guy in the corner could sleep all day.
“Where to?”
Martin, pitched forward by the sudden jolt, glared at him.
“The Waldorf.”