"No—that's all in the game. Thank you. I'll send my check to-day. Thanks."
He put up the receiver, glanced curiously at the clock, which marked twelve minutes after ten, and studied the pad.
Beecher had never been intimate with Lynch, but he liked him and his standards of Britannic phlegm. He belonged to that curious freemasonry of men, an indefinable, invisible standard of association, but one that cannot be counterfeited.
"How did you come out?" he said carelessly.
"About as I expected. The market has gone wild."
Bo Lynch poured out a morning peg, adjusted his cravat critically in the mirror, and took up his hat.
"Lunching at the club?"
"Not to-day."
"It'll be a cheerful funeral. So long."
After his departure Beecher studied the jotted figures on the pad. In the twelve minutes of the opening, Lynch had lost a clear thirty-two thousand dollars.