“You will not get the money the police have,” Wilbur said, “until you leave prison, and that may be some months or many years. I can’t afford to wait, and I know you must have money stowed away other than this.”
“And I have,” cried the broker. “Heaps on heaps of it.”
“Then everything is all right,” said the visitor, appearing satisfied for the first time since entering the cell. “You are not such a fool after all, Tom. Fill me out a check for fifty thousand on your broker; we can have a final settlement when you get out.”
“Fifty thousand!” muttered Smith; “you are quite reasonable in your demands. Very reasonable, indeed.”
“I am not going to wait here all day,” said the visitor, angrily.
“You can go when you choose.”
“But the money?”
“You will get none from me, neither you nor the other rascal,” cried Smith. “My lawyer tells me the money is mine, and I shall keep it; not one penny shall either of you have. I offered you ten thousand dollars; I take them back.”
“But I gave you over thirteen thousand in cash,” exclaimed the other, becoming greatly excited.
“And, of course, you have my receipt to show?” sneered the broker.