Two weeks later, my secretary told me Christopher Lawson was in the lobby, asking for five minutes.

I took the glass elevator down and found him near the entrance, worn thin, in an ill-fitting off-the-rack blazer, every trace of his old arrogance gone.

We sat in a quiet corner, and he slid a plain manila envelope across the table.

“I sold my watch, and my car,” he said, his voice raspy.

“I liquidated what was left of the office equipment.

There’s a cashier’s check in there for eighty thousand dollars.