“Your plunder won’t do you any good,” the banker observed. “You can’t raise a penny on it.”
“We’ll see about that. There are others who might be willing to pay me something for the paper. I have a pretty good idea that their agents are hunting for my address at the present moment. Suppose I let them find me?”
“Call it a million marks!” the banker snapped.
“I said two million dollars, and I’ll keep the bonds, too. You said they were no good, as I understand. They might as well stay with me, in that case. They look pretty!”
The banker gave him an evil look. Brainard, unconcerned, rang for a waiter, and when the man appeared he ordered his bill and a cab.
“When can you deliver the papers—those that you have with you in Europe?” the banker asked briskly, when the servant had departed.
“Whenever you are ready with the cash—two million dollars, not marks—Herr Schneider!”
“One doesn’t carry two million dollars in one’s trousers pockets, over here,” the banker sneered.
“I will give you one week to deliver the cash in Paris,” Brainard replied carelessly. “Just seven days.”
“Your cab is waiting, sir,” the waiter announced.