In a fortnight he was
the nominal owner of sixteen thousand shares in a company of which
only ten thousand actually existed. Then he sat still, and the panic
began. The shares in a company which everyone believed to be worthless
stood at thirty dollars, and not a share was offered.
A small pandemonium reigned in Wingrave's sitting room. The telephone
rang all the time; the place was besieged with brokers. Then Wingrave
showed his hand. He had bought these shares to hold; he did not intend
to sell one. As to the six thousand owed to him beyond the number
issued, he was prepared to consider offers. One broker left him a
check for twenty thousand dollars, another for nearly forty thousand.
Wingrave had no pity. He had gambled and won. He would accept nothing
less than par price. The air in his sitting room grew thick with
curses and tobacco smoke.
Aynesworth began by hating the whole business, but insensibly the
fascination of it crept over him. He grew used to hearing the various
forms of protest, of argument and abuse, which one and all left
Wingrave so unmoved. Sphinx-like he lounged in his chair, and listened
to all. He never condescended to justify his position, he never met
argument by argument. He had the air of being thoroughly bored by the
whole proceedings. But he exacted always his pound of flesh.
On the third afternoon, Aynesworth met on the stairs a young broker,
whom he had come across once or twice during his earlier dealings in
the shares.
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