So they left, and in a few minutes more our hero was in his automobile and speeding rapidly up town. He entered his club-house, and went to a private room, into which shortly after there came hobbling an aged, red-nosed, and gouty old aristocrat, swearing furiously and demanding, "What in the devil did you want me here for, anyhow?"
It was Mr. Chauncey van Rensselaer.
"Well," said the son, after dutifully helping him to a chair, "what do you think of it?"
"That's not answering my question," growled the other. "But Lord, Robbie, I've had a day of it! Do you know I hold five thousand of T. & S.? And I've just been crazy all day, waiting—waiting—"
Humph!" said Robert, with a smile. "Waiting for what?"
"Why, haven't you got any?" cried the other. "Don't you know who's in that syndicate?"
"Yes," said Robbie; "it's the T. & S. gang, and Smith and Shark, I supposed."
"Yes," said the other, "just so; and they mean business, too, I can tell you. You'll see this stock up in the 200's to-morrow. Who do you suppose are those fools that are fighting them?"
"I don't suppose," said Robbie, "I know."
"And who are they?"