The Twister by Edgar Wallace

After Tony Braid's departure there was a long--and to one man a painful--silence. Frensham stood by his desk, his eyes moodily surveying the blotting-pad, and fiddled with a paperknife. He was a poor man. His incursion into the City had been, in a sense, an act of desperation. There were directorships to be had. At first he had accepted every offer, but had learned by painful experience the necessity for discriminating.

Lulanga Oils was his pet; he had bought a large block of shares, mortgaging his every asset, and had refused to sell. He had faith in this stock, more faith perhaps in this clever nephew of his who had preceded him in the City by a few years.