Rivington began a question.
"It's all right," nodded Hallett. "And by the way, that little Forbes concern's come into the combine."
"I know," said Rivington; "but those letters—You remember——"
"Stein sent 'em over to me yesterday morning. We'll burn 'em this time."
The man at the head of the table rapped with his spatulate finger-ends.
"We are too busy to bother with trifles," he said. "I've got here"—he indicated the memoranda—"all the reports on the proposed foodstuffs monopoly. I must decide on that right away...."
After a momentary silence, the stock-ticker, with metallic insistence, went on weaving out its yards of tape beside the windows that looked down to the web of radiating streets, on which minute black objects that were men and women bobbed and buzzed like entangled flies....
THE END
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