“Yes, Mr. Nicholson will see you; but I say, Steele, don’t meddle with wheat. If you want any information from him, remember he can’t give it out, except to the morning papers.”
“Oh, I shan’t buy a bushel of wheat; don’t be frightened.”
“This boy will take you to Mr. Nicholson’s room. Good night.”
Nicholson proved to be a man of uncertain age. His hair was closely cropped, his face smoothly shaven, bearing a look of determination and power, which one might not have expected to find in a mere subordinate.
“Is this Mr. John Steele,” he asked pleasantly, “the Napoleon of finance who stood out against Rockervelt?”
“Well, I don’t know about the Napoleon part of it, Mr. Nicholson, but Rockervelt and I had a little negotiation a while ago which I trust ended in our mutual advantage. Now, Mr. Nicholson,” continued Steele, sitting down in the chair offered him, “if you are not too busy I should like to ask you a few questions.”
“I am not very busy, Mr. Steele, and shall be pleased to answer any question you ask, so long as the information sought belongs to me, and not to my employers.”
“Who is your employer, Mr. Nicholson?”
“My employer? Why, the Press Alliance, of course.”
“The Press Alliance is one of your employers, I know. Your nominal employer, let us say. It pays you to collect accurate information. Who pays you for disseminating false news in the daily journals of this country?”