The Laird lay back in an easy chair, stretched out his legs, lit his cigar, and held it at arm's length, as if it were something that ought to be looked at at a distance.
"You had something to do with the purchase of Miss Mary's American stock, eh?" said he, pretending to be concerned about the end of the cigar.
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"Funded Five per Cent."
"What would be about the value of it now?"
"Just now? Oh, perhaps 106, or 107."
"No, no, no. I mean, if the bonds that that ill-faured scoondrel carried away with him were to be sold the now, what money, what English money, would they fetch?"
But this required some calculation.
"Probably about 7,300*l*."