Edgar Wallace

“ He was a stout and hairless man. “We’ve bought in all the shares at dead meat prices, except our friend Callander’s, and you can manage that, can’t you, Pinlow?”
“I cannot,” replied Pinlow shortly. “The old fool has handed them to Burton, of Burton and Freebody’s.”
“Buy ’em,” suggested Fanks.
“I can buy them,” replied Pinlow grimly, “at a price—that’s what I have come to see you about. Burton will sell at the price Callander gave.”
“What!” cried the indignant Freeberg. “Why, that’s robbery! It’s monstrous! The man ought to be prosecuted!” ”

“ Pinlow got up.
“It is blackmail,” he said, “blackmail, pure and simple.”
“You can put it just as you like,” said Mr Burton, unperturbed; “blackmail, whitemail or pinkmail; here is the fact. I have some twenty thousand shares to sell, numbered, ah! from 100,001 up 105,001, and so on and so forth. I did not invite you to tender for these, and I set my own price on them. I attempt to squeeze nobody. I ask a fair price, a price which will enable Mr Callander to sell without a loss. It is for you to buy or to leave.”
“I shall certainly not buy,” said Pinlow. ”

“ The old man—and old he looked that morning—cleared his throat before speaking.
“It is this—these wretched shares,” he said. “Do you know, Pinlow, I have lost a great deal more money than I can afford? I didn’t realize, you know, what a speculation they were, and your friend told me—and you yourself supported him—that they would go to twelve.”
Pinlow concealed a smile at the almost pathetic entreaty in the other’s voice.
“These things happen,” he said suavely; “one can never foretell. How much have you lost?” ”