"Oh, well," Irons said at length, rising with the air of one who cannot
waste his time puzzling over trifles; "have it your own way. It's only
a matter of words."
He took out his pocket-book, and with deliberation turned over the
papers it contained. He selected one, read it carefully, and then held
it out to Fenton.
"Our manufacturing corporation is practically on its legs now," he
said, "and the stock will be issued at once. That entitles you to ten
shares. They will be issued at sixty, and ought to go to par by fall.
Indeed, in a year's time, we'll make them worth double the buying
price, or I am mistaken."
Fenton looked at the paper as if he were reading it, but its letters
swam before his eyes. He needed money sorely, and had this gift come in
a shape more readily convertible into cash, he might have found it
impossible to resist it. As it was, he allowed himself to be fiercely
angry. He was furious, but he was consciously so. He raised his eyes,
flashing and distended, and fixed them upon the mean, hateful face
before him. He paused an instant to let his gaze have its effect.
"And I understand," he said, with a slow, careful enunciation, "that in
consideration of the service I have done you, you give me your promise
never to mention the fact that you saw a lady in my studio."
"Certainly," Irons returned.
Fenton's look made him uncomfortable.
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