The room was silent for a long, heavy moment.
Elias Thorne stared at Arthur. The lawyer's sharp, intelligent eyes were wide. He was not looking at a boy; he was looking at an idea, an idea so large and so sudden that it had sucked all the air out of the room.
"President?" Elias whispered. The word sounded strange.
Arthur simply nodded. He remained seated, his hands resting lightly on the arms of the leather chair. He had made his pitch. Now he would wait.
Elias Thorne finally broke his gaze from Arthur and pushed himself up from his desk. He walked slowly to the large window, turning his back to the room. He needed to think. He looked down at the men and cars moving on Wall Street, so far below.
"You are asking me," he said, his voice muffled by the glass, "to end a thirty-year legal career. To risk my name, my reputation, and my savings... on a gamble."
"It is not a gamble," Arthur said, his voice calm and clear. "It is a certainty. The industrial output for this war will be unlike anything the world has ever seen. The money to fund it has to come from somewhere. It will either be from the old banks, or it will be from us."
Elias turned around. His face was pale. The kindness was gone, replaced by the hard, stressed look of a man being forced to make an impossible choice.
"A certainty," Elias repeated. "You are 18 years old. Nothing in life is a certainty, young man. You talk about financing a war... I see a world on the brink of collapse. You talk about a boom... I see the bread lines from ten years ago. They are still fresh in my mind."
"I understand," Arthur said. "You see the risk of today. I see the profit of tomorrow."
Elias walked back to his desk. He did not sit. He leaned on it, his hands flat on the polished wood. He looked down at the file, the one that contained the details of Marcus Vance's will.
He sighed. It was a deep, heavy sound. It was the sound of a man coming back to earth.
"Mr. Vance... Arthur," he said, his voice soft again, but now with a deep sadness. "You are an extraordinary young man. I have never, in all my years, met anyone like you. That... speech... was the most convincing argument I have ever heard."
Arthur felt a small spark of victory. He had him.
"But," Elias continued, "it does not matter."
The spark died. "What do you mean?"
Elias shook his head slowly. "I almost... for a moment... I almost believed it was possible. But the fact is, this entire conversation is... pointless. I cannot be your bank president. And you cannot build your company."
Arthur's calm exterior did not change, but inside, a cold alarm bell began to ring. "Why not?"
"Because of your uncle," Elias said. He tapped the file. "Your uncle Marcus was a very smart man. He was also a very protective man. He knew he was leaving his fortune to a very young man."
He looked up, his eyes full of a lawyer's regret. "He did not just... give you five million dollars. It is not a bank account with your name on it. It is not cash in a vault."
"What is it, Mr. Thorne?" Arthur asked, his voice still perfectly level.
Elias took a deep breath. "The five million dollars is in a testamentary trust. Your uncle's will created it. And that trust has very, very strict rules."
Arthur's 2025 mind knew exactly what a trust was. It was a legal cage.
"What rules?"
"First," Elias said, counting on his finger, "you are the sole beneficiary. You are to receive a generous income from the trust's investments. A very generous income. Enough to live in the best hotels, eat at the best restaurants, and, as he requested, get the best education. Harvard, Yale, anything you want."
He paused, then delivered the first blow. "But you cannot touch the principal. Not one dollar of the five million. Not until your 25th birthday."
Arthur's blood ran cold.
Twenty-five.
He was 18. That was seven years.
Seven years. By 1947, the war would be over. The great boom would already be underway. The greatest period of growth in history would have passed him by. All his knowledge, all his perfect foresight, would be useless. He would be just another rich man, joining the party after it was already over.
His mind was screaming. No!
But his face showed nothing. He kept his eyes locked on Elias.
"I see," Arthur said, his voice impossibly calm. "Seven years. And... the investments? The ones that provide my income?"
Elias looked relieved. He thought Arthur was taking the news well. He had expected a teenage tantrum.
"Exactly," Elias said. "And that is the second rule. The 'iron cage,' as we lawyers call it. As your uncle's lawyer, I am named as the sole trustee."
"So you control the investments," Arthur stated.
"I don't just control them, Mr. Vance. I am legally bound by the terms of the trust. I have a fiduciary duty. That is a sacred, legal obligation. My duty is not to 'gamble.' It is not to 'build an empire.' My duty is to preserve the capital."
Elias leaned forward, his voice firm. "The trust document is very specific. I am legally permitted to only invest in the most secure, high-grade assets. U.S. government bonds. Maybe some AAA-rated municipal bonds. And that is all. The risk must be, for all intents and purposes, zero."
He spread his hands wide. "Do you see? I cannot be your partner. I cannot agree to your plan. Even if I wanted to... even if I believed you were a prophet from God... it would be illegal. Taking that five million dollars and using it as the seed capital for a new, high-risk investment bank?"
He shook his head. "It's not just a bad idea, Arthur. It's a crime. I would be disbarred, and you would be left with nothing."
The plan was dead.
Arthur's grand vision—the Continental Investment Bank, the funding of the war, the thirty-year boom—all of it had just evaporated. It had all been a fantasy. His 85 years of knowledge was worthless. He was a prisoner of the past, locked in a cage built by a dead man.
He felt a crushing, terrible disappointment. It was worse than the car crash. It was the death of a second life.
Elias Thorne watched him. He expected the boy to argue, to shout, to be angry.
Arthur did none of those things.
He stood up slowly. He walked to the window, just as Elias had done. He looked down at Wall Street. It was all still there. The future was still coming. But the key—the five million dollars—was locked in a box, and this man, this honest, kind, safe man, was the guard.
Bonds, Arthur thought. The word was like acid. He is going to put my capital to sleep for seven years. At two percent interest. While the world is on fire. The opportunity cost was not just millions. It was billions. It was history.
Elias misread the boy's silence. He thought it was disappointment. He put on his kind, fatherly voice again.
"Arthur. This is not a tragedy. This is a gift. Your uncle has protected you from yourself. He has guaranteed that you will be a very, very wealthy man at 25. For now, you are free. You have a large income and no responsibilities. Go to university. See the world. Forget this... this wild idea. It was a nice dream, but the law is the law."
Arthur stood with his back to the lawyer for a full minute. The 38-year-old analyst was in control. Panic was useless. Anger was a waste of energy. The plan had failed.
So, he needed a new plan.
He turned around. His face was a perfect, calm mask. The fire in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, flat focus.
"I understand," he said. His voice was quiet. "You have explained the legal situation perfectly, Mr. Thorne. You are bound by your duty."
Elias let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The crisis was over. The strange, intense boy was gone, replaced by a polite, reasonable young man.
"I am very glad you see that," Elias said, smiling. "It is a great weight off my mind."
"I will, of course, need a copy of the trust documents," Arthur said. "I would like to read them myself. And the details of my great-uncle's will."
Elias was surprised. "Of course. That is a very wise and mature request. Most young men would only ask where to pick up their money."
He pressed a button on his desk. "Mrs. Gable, please bring me the Vance trust file."
A moment later, the secretary entered and handed Elias a thick, bound folder.
Elias passed it to Arthur. "It is all in there. It is dense, I must warn you. A lot of legal language."
"I am a fast reader," Arthur said, taking the folder. It felt heavy in his hand. It was the written blueprint of his prison.
He stood up and put the folder under his arm. He held out his hand.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Thorne. You have been very helpful."
Elias shook his hand, confused by the sudden, formal end to the meeting. "Of course, Arthur. Please, call me. We will set up your bank account and arrange for the first payment of your allowance. Go... go enjoy yourself."
"I will," Arthur said. "You have given me a great deal to think about."
Arthur walked out of the office, past the secretary, and into the elevator. He did not look back.
He stepped out of the grand marble lobby and onto the cold, busy sidewalk of Wall Street. The city was just as loud as it had been an hour before, but to Arthur, it was silent.
He walked for blocks, with no destination. He just walked, the heavy folder under his arm.
His plan had failed. His assumption—that the money was his—was wrong.
He had the knowledge. He had the ambition. But he had no capital. He was just an 18-year-old boy in a new suit, with an allowance. The word made him feel sick.
He found a small, empty park and sat down on a cold, iron bench. The wind was bitter.
He opened the folder.
He began to read. He read every line. Every "whereas" and "hereinafter." He was not an emotional boy. He was a 38-year-old financial analyst. He was not reading a will. He was reading a contract.
And he was not looking for a fight. He was looking for a loophole.