"What is the company?"
"The Finer and Better Motion Picture Company of Hollywood, California, Mr. Beamish."
"How many shares did you buy?"
"Fifty thousand dollars worth."
"How much did you pay?"
"Three hundred dollars."
"You were stung," said Hamilton Beamish. "The stock is so much waste paper. Who sold it to you?"
"I have unfortunately forgotten his name. He was a man with a red face and grey hair. And if I'd got him here now," said Officer Garroway with honest warmth, "I'd soak him so hard it would jolt his grandchildren. The smooth, salve-slinging crocodile!"
"It is a curious thing," said Hamilton Beamish musingly, "there seems to be floating at the back of my consciousness a sort of nebulous memory having to do with this very stock you mention. I seem to recall somebody at some time and place consulting me about it. No, it's no good, it won't come back. I have been much preoccupied of late, and things slip my mind. Well, run along, Garroway, and set about rewriting that poem of yours."
The policeman's brow was dark. There was a rebellious look in his usually mild eyes.