“Safety,” I reminded her, but she shook her head.

“I mean it would have to get me something in a financial way. It’d be worth something to you, and you ought to pay something, even if not a fortune.”

“Can’t be done.” I grinned at her. “Forget the bank roll and go in for charity. Pretend I’m Bill Quint.”

Dan Rolff started up from his chair, lips white as the rest of his face. He sat down again when the girl laughed⁠—a lazy, good-natured laugh.

“He thinks I didn’t make any profit out of Bill, Dan.” She leaned over and put a hand on my knee. “Suppose you knew far enough ahead that a company’s employees were going to strike, and when, and then far enough ahead when they were going to call the strike off. Could you take that info and some capital to the stock market and do yourself some good playing with the company’s stock? You bet you could!” she wound up triumphantly. “So don’t go around thinking that Bill didn’t pay his way.”

“You’ve been spoiled,” I said.