“The Melody mine!” the young man murmured to himself.
“That was it! He sank one fortune in it, but he would never let go—that was his way.”
When they had reached their coffee, the banker turned suddenly upon Brainard.
“Have you made up your mind to take my offer?”
“Your people here have a good deal of money tied up in this business?”
“A good deal more than I wish we had,” the banker replied frankly. “So we must send more down the well to bring back what’s there already. We shall have a fight on our hands, too.”
“I don’t understand business,” the young man said. “The chances are that Mel—Krutzmacht’s heirs don’t, either. That’s why he told me to come over here to dispose of his stuff. The best I can do is to take cash and quit.”
“Exactly!” the banker beamed.
“Of course,” Brainard drawled, “we don’t sell Krutzmacht’s private things—the mine, I mean—the Melody mine.” The banker waved his hand indifferently. “And for the rest you can give us”—the banker held his cigar poised in the air—“two millions.”
The banker leaped to his feet.