In the midst of the deliberations the quiet of Liberty Street was disturbed by the sputter of an automobile. For the most part, Liberty Street, in the vicinity of the brokers’ offices, was a deserted cañon at that hour.
But if the automobile disturbed the quiet of the street, it did not disturb the deliberations of those in Random & Griggs’ offices. It took a rap on the outer door to do that. Mr. Griggs himself answered the summons.
“McGlory and Levitt, colonel,” he called.
Mr. Griggs had made a slight mistake. Hearing the name McGlory, and understanding that Levitt was expected with him, the broker had jumped at conclusions.
“The expert, gentlemen,” smiled the colonel, addressing the capitalists, “whom you sent to investigate my little property. A very painstaking person, and reliable to the last degree. McGlory is one of our original stockholders; a young man—a mere lad, in fact—but sharp as a steel trap.” The colonel lifted his voice. “Have them come right in, Mr. Griggs,” he called.
Matt King and McGlory did not stand on the order. Supporting his chum by the arm, King and the cowboy passed into the conference room and stood under the astounded eyes of the colonel.
“Why,” said Mr. Isidore Sleipnitz, one of the moneyed men, “dot ain’t der expert, Levitt. Neider of ’em is Levitt.”
“But I’m McGlory,” said the cowboy, steadying himself by leaning against a table. Although his face was white, his eyes glowed with resolution and steadfast purpose. “Mr. Levitt was thrown from the automobile and injured. He’s now in a doctor’s office in Hempstead. This is my chum, Matt King. If he hadn’t picked me up I’d never have got here.”
The colonel, to put it colloquially, “smelled a rat.” Something was wrong, and he knew it.
“This meeting, gentlemen,” said he, “is not for outsiders. Mr. King is not a stockholder in the ‘Pauper’s Dream,’ nor, so far as I am informed, is he one of your syndicate. I think he had better withdraw.”