Fifteen years ago Wall Street was Arcady for Richard D. Wyckoff. He had a good nameeditor and financier. He had a magazine, a big bank book, a glass-topped desk. And he had a pretty brunette for stenographer.
Last week he crawled into court and confessed that the pretty brunette has everything that once was his: name, magazine, bank book, glass-topped desk, stenographers aplenty of her own. He wanted some of it back again.
The story is familiar enough in the financial district of New York, where the memory of Wyckoff hovers ghostlike in many an...
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