II
As Sylvester left the cigar store, Waldron Crosby followed him out, and turning off Fifth Avenue down a cross street entered a brokerage office. A plump man with nervous hands rose and hailed him.
“Hello, Waldron.”
“Hello, Potter—I just dropped in to hear the worst.”
The plump man frowned.
“We’ve just got the news,” he said.
“Well, what is it. Another drop?”
“Closed at seventy-eight. Sorry, old boy.”
“Whew!”
“Hit pretty hard?”
“Cleaned out!”
The plump man shook his head, indicating that life was too much for him, and turned away.
Crosby sat there for a moment without moving. Then he rose, walked into Potter’s private office and picked up the phone.
“Gi’me Larchmont 838.”
In a moment he had his connection.
“Mrs. Crosby there?”
A man’s voice answered him.
“Yes; this you,
