“A bare-faced forgery,” he asserted with an effect of judicial severity; “as will be proved at the proper time.”
“Let us assume it to be, for the sake of courtesy. It got a quick endorsement,” replied young Robson smoothly.
Mr. Wymett hastily set down the re-filled glass which he was voluptuously raising, and rather wished that he had n’t taken that other one. Young Robson was not, perhaps, as young as his years.
“Endorsement?” he inquired.
“Locker and Mayne have skipped out. The forgery impressed them to that extent.”
“Yellow,” commented the severe Mr. Wymett. His hand crept toward the stimulant which possesses the mystic power of changing timorous yellow into fighting red—up to a point—and was retracted again before attaining the goal. The caller’s quick eye noted the movement. “They own no part of The Guardian,” added its proprietor, “and their action has nothing to do with the matter of its sale.”
“No,” commented young Robson in a tone disturbingly indeterminate between confirmation and incredulity.
“I’ve been offered a hundred thousand for the paper,” remarked Mr. Wymett casually.
“Coal-oil Johnny must have been out this way.”
“My dear young sir,” said Mr. Wymett in a tone intended to be crushing; “I am talking business. May I trouble you to do the same?”