Orde crumpled the paper and threw it into the waste basket.
“Correct,” said he. “Good enough. I ought to get along on a margin like that.”
He went over to his own desk, where he again set to figuring on his pad. The results he eyed a little doubtfully. Each year he must pay in interest the sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. Each year he would have to count on a proportionate saving of fifteen thousand dollars toward payment of the notes. In addition, he must live.
“The Orde family is going to be mighty hard up,” said he, whistling humorously.
But Orde was by nature and training sanguine and fond of big risks.
“Never mind; it's for Bobby,” said he to himself. “And maybe the rate of interest will go down. And I'll be able to borrow on the California tract if anything does go wrong.”
He put on his hat, thrust a bundle of papers into his pocket, and stepped across the hall into Taylor's office.
The lawyer he found tipped back in his revolving chair, reading a printed brief.
“Frank,” began Orde immediately, “I came to see you about that California timber matter.”
Taylor laid down the brief and removed his eye-glasses, with which he began immediately to tap the fingers of his left hand.