"Peter," he said softly, "how much money have you squandered on this business in the last year—since you were indicted, convicted and so forth. I mean outside of what you haven't paid me and of what I know about?"
Wilkinson grunted in disgust.
"Ten, I should say."
"Millions?"
His client fumed and nodded.
Morehead made a gesture of impatience which included the other.
"Didn't I warn you, Peter, that it would be of no use? That at the end of the race you'd find yourself with a ten-years' sentence staring you in the face. You might have saved your money, or given it to me, preferably the latter course."
"Oh, come, Morehead, what's the use of these post mortems of yours! Let's get to work. How much time have we got?"
"I can get a few certificates of reasonable doubt—that part's all right—run it along for months yet. We've got to concede, however, that they shoved it along mighty quick. What I'm trying to figure out is whether we hadn't better apply to Beekman now—strike while the iron's hot. For that opinion will make him mad, and if so, now is our time...."
"Sure it's our time, Colonel; let's do it right away."