"Not a bit. You'll—" 

 "I know. I'll have to see Mr. Gamble! Well, where do I find him?" 

 Mr. Courtney kindly wrote the address on a slip of paper. Mr. Washer looked at it with a grunt, stuffed it in his waistcoat pocket and slammed out of the door. Mr. Courtney winked at himself in the glass. Old Mort Washer would try to take advantage of him, to the extent of an eighth of a million dollars, would he! Make his old friend Courtney take an eighth of a million less than he paid, eh? Mr. Courtney whistled a merry little tune. 

 Fifteen minutes later, Old Mort Washer bounced into Loring's office. 

 "Mr. Gamble?" he popped out. 

 Both gentlemen turned to him, but Loring turned away. 

 "I'm Gamble," stated that individual. 

 "I'm Morton Washer." 

 Since Mr. Gamble was aware of that fact and was expecting this visit, he betrayed no surprise. 

 "What can I do for you, Mr. Washer?" he inquired. 

 "Are you taking bona fide subscriptions to your Terminal Hotel Company?" 

 "No other kind interests me." 

 "How nearly is your company filled?" 

 "Why do you want to know? Do you figure on taking some stock?" 

 "No." 

 "What do you want?" 

 "Your price on the property. Will you sell it?" 

 "Of course I will—at a profit." 

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