"This is T. J.," I said, chummily. "You still own that block of floating stock in the Remey Company, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Fine! Fine!" I complimented. "Bring it over to my office as soon as possible. And, by the way," I added, casually, "have it transferred to my name, you know."
"Yes."
He was in my office in less than an hour, his fat hulk sweating and panting in the chair before my desk, the heavy lids drooping over his black eyes. The stocks were piled neatly before me. I thumbed through them. They seemed to be quite in order. I skipped across the room to the files with them.
"Pasquamine," I said, returning to my desk and handing him a cheap cigar, "do you by chance own a gun?"
He shook his fat head. "No."
"Do you have at home, perchance, a rope?" I glanced at his obese body. "A good stout one?"
"No."
"A knife, perhaps? A good sharp one?"