“Of course I didn’t have any ready money,” explained Mrs. Effingham, “but I had the bonds—­they only paid two per cent and the oil stock was going to pay twenty—­and so I took them down to the bank and borrowed ten thousand dollars on them.  I had to sign a note and pay five per cent interest.  I was making the difference—­fifteen hundred dollars every year.”

“What has it paid?” demanded Mr. Tutt ironically.

“Twenty per cent,” replied Mrs. Effingham.  “I get Mr. Badger’s check regularly every six months.”

“How many times have you got it?”

“Twice.”

“Well, why don’t you like your investment?” inquired Mr. Tutt blandly.  “I’d like something that would pay me twenty per cent a year!”

“Because I’m afraid Mr. Badger isn’t quite truthful, and one of the ladies—­that old Mrs. Channing; you remember her, don’t you—­the one with the curls?—­she tried to sell her stock and nobody would make a bid on it at all—­and when she spoke to Mr. Badger about it he became very angry and swore right in front of her.  Then somebody told me that Mr. Badger had been arrested once for something—­and—­and—­Oh, I wish I hadn’t given him the money, because if it’s lost Jessie won’t have anything to live on after I’m dead—­and she’s too sick to work.  What do you think, Mr. Tutt?  Do you suppose Mr. Badger would buy the stock back?”

Mr. Tutt smiled grimly.

“Not if I know him!  Have you got your stock with you?”

She nodded.  Fumbling in her black bag she pulled forth a flaring certificate—­of the regulation kind, not even engraved—­which evidenced that Sarah Maria Ann Effingham was the legal owner of three hundred and thirty thousand shares of the capital stock of the Great Geyser Texan Petroleum and Llano Estacado Land Company.

Mr. Tutt took it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.  It was signed ALFRED HAYNES BADGER, Pres., and he had an almost irresistible temptation to twist it into a spill and light a stogy with it.  But he used a match instead, while Mrs. Effingham watched him apprehensively.  Then he handed the stock back to her and poured out another glass of toddy.

“Ever been in Mr. Badger’s office?”

“Oh, yes!” she answered.  “It’s a lovely office.  You can see ’way down the harbor—­and over to New Jersey.  It’s real elegant.”

“Would you mind going there again?  That is, are you on friendly terms with him?”

Already a strange, rather desperate plan was half formulated in his mind.

“Oh, we’re perfectly friendly,” she smiled.  “I generally go down there to get my check.”

“Whose check is it—­his or the company’s?”

“I really don’t know,” she answered simply.  “What difference would it make?”

“Oh, nothing—­except that he might claim that he’d loaned you the money.”

“Loaned it?  To me?”

“Why, yes.  One hears of such things.”