"Well, that's the situation." Wendle Foulkes' keen old eyes narrowed as they gazed into the turbulent ones of his client across the wide desk. "This last batch of securities is absolutely all that you have left of your inheritance from your father. Leave them alone where they are and you are sure of three thousand a year for yourself and for Leila after you."
Norman Storm struck the desk impatiently, and his lean, aristocratic face darkened.
"Three thousand a year! It wouldn't cover the running expenses of the car and our country club bills alone!" he exclaimed. "I tell you, Foulkes, this investment is a sure thing; it will pay over thirty per cent in dividends in less than four years. I have straight inside information on it—"
