"Well?" barked the millionaire sharply.
But little Mr. Goby was not to be hurried. He sat down at the table, produced a very shabby pocket-book, and proceeded to read from it in a monotonous voice. The millionaire listened attentively, with an increasing satisfaction. Goby came to a full stop, and looked attentively at the wastepaper-basket.
"Um!" said Van Aldin. "That seems pretty definite. The case will go through like winking. The hotel evidence is all right, I suppose?"
"Cast iron," said Mr. Goby, and looked malevolently at a gilt arm-chair.
"And financially he's in very low water. He's trying to raise a loan now, you say? Has already raised practically all he can upon his expectations from his father. Once the news of the divorce gets about, he won't be able to raise another cent, and not only that, his obligations can be bought up and pressure can be put upon him from that quarter. We have got him. Goby; we have got him in a cleft stick."
He hit the table a bang with his fist. His face was grim and triumphant.
"The information," said Mr. Goby in a thin voice, "seems satisfactory."
"I have got to go round to Curzon Street now," said the millionaire. "I am much obliged to you, Goby. You are the goods all right."
A pale smile of gratification showed itself on the little man's face.
"Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin," he said; "I try to do my best."
