Winter sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting dark golden stripes across the walnut-paneled walls.
Cigar smoke drifted slowly in the beams, like a symphony frozen in time. Old Henry reclined deeply in a leather armchair, his fingers tapping rhythmically on The Wall Street Journal lying on the desk.
His sharp, observant eyes peered over the top of the paper, scrutinizing Shane sitting opposite him.
Shane's charcoal three-piece suit was slightly rumpled, with the top two buttons of his shirt collar casually undone. His silk tie and tweed fedora rested carelessly on the back of an oak chair, giving him the look of someone who had just emerged from a storm of activity.
Today, Henry had summoned Shane to discuss matters of utmost importance. Slowly exhaling a smoke ring, the aroma of the cigar permeated the study.
"Shane, how is your laboratory coming along?" the old man asked, his voice low and deliberate.
Shane's fingers traced the delicate rim of his porcelain coffee cup. The deep, black brew reflected the morning light. "Everything is progressing smoothly," he replied evenly, his calm voice betraying none of the tension that thrummed beneath.
Henry narrowed his eyes, cigar paused mid-air, ash poised to fall. "Have you considered what the future Vanguard needs?" The smoke swirled between them, forming a subtle, almost imperceptible boundary.
Shane looked up, meeting the old man's gaze—eyes that had witnessed decades of market cycles, carrying the sediment of every violent fluctuation of the Dow Jones Industrial Average.
After a brief silence, Shane ventured, "You mean…"
Henry opened a mahogany drawer and retrieved a document sealed with a wax stamp. Light glinted off the brass paperclip, dancing across the oak wall panels like a restless butterfly.
"Now that the company is established," the old man said, "I plan to recruit securities traders and client relationship representatives." He tapped a finger gently on the first name: "Benjamin Graham…"
A low chuckle, tinged with cigar smoke, escaped him. "He openly questioned market valuations in his Columbia University classes."
Straightening, he mimicked a scholar's tone, fingers gesturing in the air: "'Stocks are not lottery tickets, but parts of a business.'"
Shane's lips curved slightly as he watched the brass radiator tremble from the hot steam. "Sounds like someone I'd argue with," he said, the warmth of the room mirrored in his relaxed tone.
Outside, a robin perched on the windowsill, tilting its head at the unfolding conversation.
Henry's fingers traced the document. "Benjamin Graham, last year, founded the Graham-Newman Partnership with Jerome Newman. An annualized return of 17%. Not spectacular—but…" He leaned forward, tapping the cigar on the ashtray. "What matters is his investment philosophy."
Shane felt a ripple of excitement. In the financial history of his previous life, Graham was the "Father of Value Investing," mentor to Warren Buffett, the originator of the 'margin of safety.'
Henry's index finger landed on the next name. "Gerald Loeb. I personally vouch for him. Last year, when Baruch was criticized by The Wall Street Journal, he made reporters rewrite the headline."
He placed two yellowed clippings on the desk. The original Speculators Devour Small Investors had been replaced with Victory of Long-Term Holders.
Shane raised an eyebrow. "He bribed the editor?"
Henry waved a hand. "Cleverer than that. He fed reporters an 'exclusive scoop' about a Federal Reserve official's affair. That morning, every financial editor received an envelope with photographs and bank records—enough to ruin the man."
"Both are impressive," Shane said, tapping the table lightly. "But I also have someone to recommend."
He produced a folded San Francisco Chronicle from his briefcase. The ink still smelled fresh. At the bottom right of the financial section, an article titled The Invisible Logic of the Radio Industry was circled in red. The initials P.F. were neatly written.
"This young man, Philip Fisher…" Shane's long fingers traced a paragraph describing meticulous worker records. "Called a 'freak' by colleagues at the Bank of San Francisco. He once spent nights outside the RCA factory, counting welding sparks to estimate production."
A chuckle rumbled from Henry, cigar ash falling to mark the clipping.
"So," the old man said, interest flickering in his eyes behind his glasses, "you intend to recruit this West Coast eccentric?"
Shane drained the last of his coffee, looking past Henry toward the waking financial district. "No. I want him to remain the 'freak' he is—only now, he'll be working for us."