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Title: The President: A Novel

Author: Alfred Henry Lewis

Release date: June 13, 2006 [eBook #18572]
                Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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THE PRESIDENT

A Novel by

ALFRED HENRY LEWIS

Author of "The Boss," "Wolfville Days," Etc.







New York
A. S. Barnes and Company
MDCCCCIV




_To ETHEL OVIATT LEWIS_




[Illustration: Across the Senator's Desk]




CONTENTS


        I. How Richard Began to Woo

       II. How a President is Bred

      III. How Mr. Gwynn Dined with the Harleys

       IV. How a Speakership was Fought for

        V. How Richard was Taught Many Things

       VI. How Storri Had a Vivid Imagination

      VII. How Richard Gained in Knowledge

     VIII. How Storri Wooed Mrs. Hanway-Harley

       IX. How Storri Made an Offer of His Love

        X. How Storri Plotted a Vengeance

       XI. How Mr. Harley Found Himself a Forger

      XII. How Mr. Fopling was Inspired

     XIII. How the San Reve Gave Storri Warning

      XIV. How They Talked Politics at Mr. Gwynn's

       XV. How Richard Met Inspector Val

      XVI. How Richard Received a Letter

     XVII. How Northern Consolidated was Sold

    XVIII. How Storri Explored for Gold

      XIX. How London Bill Took a Pal

       XX. How Storri Foolishly Wrote a Message

      XXI. How the Gold Came Down

     XXII. How the San Reve Kept Her Storri

    XXIII. How Richard and Dorothy Sailed Away




ILLUSTRATIONS


   Across the Senator's Desk

   One of the Most Reverend of the Senate Walruses

   At the Door of the Caucus Room

   It was a Kind of Prodigy

   That Artist of Pursuit

   "Sit Down!" Thundered Mr. Harley

   He Held Her Close

   "It'll Take Two Months to Dig that Tunnel"




THE PRESIDENT




CHAPTER I

HOW RICHARD BEGAN TO WOO


On this far-away November morning, it being ten by every steeple clock
and an hour utterly chaste, there could have existed no impropriety in
one's having had a look into the rooms of Mr. Richard Storms, said rooms
being second-floor front of the superfashionable house of Mr. Lorimer
Gwynn, Washington, North West. Richard, wrapped to the chin in a
bathrobe, was sitting much at his ease, having just tumbled from the
tub. There was ever a recess in Richard's morning programme at this
point during which his breakfast arrived. Pending that repast, he had
thrown himself into an easy-chair before the blaze which crackled in the
deep fireplace. The sudden sharp weather made the fire pleasant enough.

The apartment in which Richard lounged, and the rooms to the rear
belonging with it, were richly appointed. A fortune had been spilled to
produce those effects in velvets and plushes and pictures and bronzes
and crystals and chinas and lamps and Russia leathers and laces and
brocades and silks, and as you walked the thick rugs you made no more
noise than a ghost. It was Richard's caprice to have his environment the
very lap of splendor, being as given to luxury as a woman.

Against the pane beat a swirl and white flurry of snow, for winter broke
early that year. Richard turned an eye of gray indolence on the window.
The down-come of snow in no sort disquieted him; there abode a bent for
winter in his blood, throughout the centuries Norse, that would have
liked a Laplander. Even his love for pictures ran away to scenes of snow
and wind-whipped wolds with drifts piled high. These, if well drawn, he
would look at; while he turned his back on palms and jungles and things
tropical in paint, the sight of which made him perspire like a harvest
hand. As Richard's idle glance came back from the window, it caught the
brown eyes of Mr. Pickwick considering him through a silvery, fringy
thicket of hair. Mr. Pickwick was said to be royally descended; however
that might have been, indubitably his pedigree harbored somewhere both a
door-mat and a mop.

"Rats!" observed Richard to Mr. Pickwick.

Richard did not say this because it was true, but to show Mr. Pickwick
that the ties which bound them were friendly. On his side, Mr. Pickwick,
albeit he stood well aware how there was never a rat in the room, arose
vivaciously and went snuffling and scuffling behind curtains and beneath
sofas, and all in a mood prodigiously dire.

The room being exhaustively searched, Mr. Pickwick came and sat by
Richard, and with yelp and howl, and at intervals a little epileptic
bark, proceeded to disparage all manners and septs of rats, and spake
slightingly of all such vermin deer. Having freed his mind on the
important subject of rats, Mr. Pickwick returned to silence and his
cushion and curled up.

Matzai, the Japanese valet, brought in the breakfast--steak, potatoes,
eggs, toast, marmalade, and coffee. The deft Matzai placed the tray on
the mahogany at Richard's elbow. Richard did not like a multiplicity of
personal attendants. Of the score of souls within the walls of that
house, Richard would meet only Mr. Gwynn and Matzai. This was as the
wisdom of Solomon, since neglect is born of numbers.

Mr. Lorimer Gwynn was a personage--clean and tall and slim and solemn
and sixty years of age. He was as wholly English as Mr. Pickwick was
wholly Skye, and exuded an indomitable respectability from his formal,
shaven face. Rumor had it that Mr. Gwynn was fabulously rich.

It was in June when Mr. Gwynn came to town and leased the house just
vacated by Baron Trenk, late head of the Austrian diplomatic corps. This
leasing of itself half established Mr. Gwynn in a highest local esteem;
his being English did the rest, since in the Capital of America it is
better, socially, to come from anywhere rather than from home. In
addition to those advantages of Baron Trenk's house and an English
emanation, Mr. Gwynn made his advent indorsed to the Washington banks by
the Bank of England; also he was received by the British Ambassador, on
whom he made a call of respect the moment he set foot in town.

It became known that Mr. Gwynn was either widower or bachelor; and at
that, coupled with his having taken a large house, the hope crept about
that in the season he would entertain. The latter thought addressed
itself tenderly to the local appetite, which was ready to be received
wherever there abode good cooks and sound wines. Mr. Gwynn, it should be
mentioned, was duly elected a member of the Metropolitan Club--where he
never went; as was likewise Richard--who was seen there a great deal.

Richard had not come to town until both Mr. Gwynn and his house were
established. When he did appear, it was difficult for the public to fix
him in his proper place. He was reserved and icily taciturn, and that
did not blandly set his moderate years; with no friends and few
acquaintances, he seemed to prefer his own society to that of whomsoever
came about him.

Who was he?

What was he?

What were his relations with Mr. Gwynn?

Surely, Richard could be neither son nor nephew of that English
gentleman. Richard was too obviously the American of full blood; his
high cheekbones, square jaw, and lean, curved nose told of two centuries
of Western lineage. Could it be that Richard was Mr. Gwynn's secretary?
This looked in no wise probable; he went about too much at lordly ease
for that. In the end, the notion obtained that Richard must be a needy
dependent of Mr. Gwynn, and his perfect clothes and the thoroughbred
horse he rode were pointed to as evidences of that gentleman's
generosity. Indeed, Mr. Gwynn was much profited in reputation thereby.

Richard, while not known, was not liked. He wore the air of one
self-centered, and cold to all judgments except his own. This last makes
no friends, but only enemies for him whose position is problematical.
Richard's pose of insolent indifference would have been beautiful in a
gentleman who counted his fortune by millions; in a dollarless beggar
who lived off alms it was detestable. Wherefore, the town, so far as
Richard encountered it, left our silent, supercilious one to himself,
which neglect dove-tailed with his humor and was the precise lonely thing
he sought. This gave still further edge to the public's disregard; no
one likes you to accept with grace what is intended for punishment.

Matzai carried away the breakfast tray, and Richard lighted a cigar.
Matzai returned and stood mute inside the door, awaiting new commands.
Richard pointed through the cigar-smoke to the clock--one of those
soundless, curious creatures of brass and glass and ivory which is wound
but once in four hundred days, and of which the hair-hung pendulum
twists and turns and does not swing.

"In an hour! Eleven o'clock!" said Richard.

At the risk of shaking him in general standing it should be called to
your notice that Richard preceded breakfast with no strong waters.
Richard would drink nothing more generous than coffee, and, speaking in
the sense limited, tobacco was his only vice. Perhaps he stuck to cigars
to retain his hold on earth, and avoid translation before his hour was
ripe.

It was no pale morality that got between Richard and the wine cup. In
another day at college he had emptied many. But early in his twenties,
Richard discovered that he carried his drink uneasily; it gave a Gothic
cant to his spirit, which, under its warm spell, turned warlike. Once,
having sat late at dinner--this was in that seminary town in France
where he attended school--he bestrode a certain iron lion, the same
strange to him and guarding the portals of a public building. Being thus
happily placed, he drew two huge American six-shooters, whereof his
possession was wrapped in mystery even to himself, and blazed vacuously,
yet ferociously, at the moon. Spoken to by the constabulary who came
flying to the spot, Richard replied with acrimony.

"If you interfere with me," remarked Richard on that explosive occasion,
addressing the French constables, "I'll buy your town and burn it." The
last with a splendid disdain of limitations that was congenital.

Exploits similar to the above taught Richard the futility of alcoholic
things, and thereupon he cultivated a Puritan sobriety upon coffee and
tobacco.

Richard cast the half-burned cigar into the fire. Stepping to the
mantel, he took from it a small metal casket, builded to hold jewels.
What should be those gems of price which the metal box protected?
Richard did not strike one as the man to nurse a weakness for barbaric
adornment. A bathrobe is not a costume calculated to teach one the
wearer's fineness. To say best, a bathrobe is but a savage thing. It is
the garb most likely to obscure and set backward even a Walpole or a
Chesterfield in any impression of gentility. In spite of this primitive
regalia, however, Richard gave forth an idea of elevation, and as though
his ancestors in their civilization had long ago climbed above a level
where men put on gold to embellish their worth. What, then, did that
casket of carved bronze contain?

Richard took from its velvet interior the heel of a woman's shoe and
kissed it. It was a little kissable heel, elegant in fashion; one could
tell how it belonged aforetime to the footwear of a beautiful girl.
Perhaps this thought was aided by the reverent preoccupation of Richard
as he regarded it, for he set the boot-heel on the table and hung over
it in a rapt way that had the outward features of idolatry. It was right
that he should; the little heel spoke of Richard's first strong passion.

You will retrace the year to the 10th of June. Richard, after roving the
Eastern earth for a decade, had just returned to his own land, which he
hardly knew. Throughout those ten years of long idling from one European
city to another, had Richard met the woman he might love, he would have
laid siege to her, conquered her, and brought her home as his wife. But
his instinct was too tribal, too American. Whether it were Naples or
Paris or Vienna or St. Petersburg or Berlin, those women whom he met
might have pleased him in everything save wedlock. In London, and for a
moment, Richard saw a girl he looked at twice. But she straightway drank
beer with the gusto of a barge-man, and the vision passed.

It was the evening after his return, and Richard at the Waldorf sat
amusing himself with those tides of vulgar humanity that ebb and flow in
a stretch of garish corridor known as Peacock Lane. Surely it was a
hopeless place wherein to seek a wife, and Richard had no such thought.
But who shall tell how and when and where his fate will overtake him?
Who is to know when Satan--or a more benevolent spirit--will be hiding
behind the hedge to play good folk a marriage trick? And Richard had
been warned. Once, in Calcutta, price one rupee, a necromancer after
fullest reading of the signs informed him that when he met the woman who
should make a wife to him, she would come upon him suddenly. Wherefore,
he should have kept a brighter watch, expecting the unexpected.

Richard's gaze went following two rustical people--clearly bride and
groom. In a cloudy way he loathed the groom, and was foggily wondering
why. His second thought would have told him that the male of his
species--such is his sublime egotism--feels cheated with every wedding
not his own, and, for an earliest impulse on beholding a woman with
another man, would tear her from that other one by force. Thus did his
skinclad ancestors when time was.

However, Richard had but scanty space wherein either to enjoy his blunt
hatred of that bridegroom or theorize as to its roots. His ear caught a
muffled scream, and then down the wide staircase in front of him a
winsome girl came tumbling.

With a dexterity born of a youth more or less replete of football,
Richard sprang forward and caught the girl in his arms. He caught and
held her as though she were feather-light; and that feat of a brutal
strength, even through her fright, worked upon the saved one, who,
remembering her one hundred and thirty pounds, did not think herself
down of thistles.

"Are you hurt?" asked Richard, still holding her lightly close.

Richard looked at the girl; black hair, white skin, lashes of ink, eyes
of blue, rose-leaf lips, teeth white as rice, a spot of red in her
cheeks--the last the fruit of fright, no doubt. He had never seen aught
so beautiful! Even while she was in his arms, the face fitted into his
heart like a picture into its frame, and Richard thought on that prophet
of Calicut.

"Are you injured?" he asked again.

"Thanks to you--no," said the girl.

With a kind of modest energy, she took herself out of his arms, for
Richard had held to her stoutly, and might have been holding her until
now had she not come to her own rescue. For all that, she had leisure to
admire the steel-like grasp and the deep, even voice. Her own words as
she replied came in gasps.

"No," she repeated, "I'm not injured. Help me to a seat."

The beautiful rescued one limped, and Richard turned white.

"Your ankle!" he exclaimed.

"No; my heel," she retorted with a little flutter of a laugh. "My French
heel caught on the stair; it was torn away. No wonder I limp!"

Then came the girl's mother and called her "Dorothy."

Richard, who was not without presence of mind, climbed six steps and
secretly made prize of the baby boot-heel. Perhaps you will think he did
this on the argument by which an Indian takes a scalp. Whatever the
argument, he placed the sweet trophy over that heart which held the
picture of the girl; once there, the boot-heel showed bulgingly foolish
through his coat.

Richard returned to the mother and daughter; the latter had regained her
poise. He introduced himself: "Mr. Richard Storms." The mother gave him
her card: "Mrs. John Harley." She added:

"My name is Hanway-Harley, and this is my daughter, Dorothy Harley.
Hanway is my own family name; I always use it." Then she thanked Richard
for his saving interference in her child's destinies. "Just to think!"
she concluded, and a curdling horror gathered in her tones. "Dorothy,
you might have broken your nose!"

Richard ran a glance over Mrs. Hanway-Harley. She was not coarse, but
was superficial--a woman of inferior ideals. He marveled how a being so
fine as the daughter could have had a no more silken source, and hugged
the boot-heel. The daughter was a flower, the mother a weed. He decided
that the superiority of Dorothy was due to the father, and gave that
absent gentleman a world of credit without waiting to make his
acquaintance.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley said that she lived in Washington. Where did Mr.
Storms live?

"My home has been nowhere for ten years," returned Richard. Then, as he
looked at Dorothy, while his heart took a firmer grip on the picture:
"But I shall live in Washington in a few months."

Dorothy, the saved, beneath whose boot-heel beat Richard's heart, looked
up, and in the blue depths--so Richard thought--shone pleasure at the
news. He could not be certain, for when the blue eyes met the gray ones,
they fell to a furtive consideration of the floor.

"You are to take a house in Washington," said Richard to Mr. Gwynn an
hour later.

Mr. Gwynn bowed.

You who read will now come back to that snow-filled day in November.
Richard relocked his dear boot-heel in the casket; eleven and Matzai had
entered the room together. Matzai laid out Richard's clothes, down to
pin and puff tie. Richard shook off his bathrobe skin and shone forth in
a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of those cotton trousers, cut short
above the knee, which dramatic usage ascribes to fishermen and
buccaneers.

As Richard stood erect, shoulders wide as a viking's, chest arched like
the deck of a whale-back, he might have been a model for the Farnese
Hercules, if that demigod were slimmed down by training and ten years
off his age. He of Farnese should be about forty, if one may go by
looks, while Richard was but thirty. Also, Richard's arms, muscled to
the wrists and as long as a Pict's, would have been out of drawing from
standpoints of ancient art. One must rescue Richard's head; it was not
that nubbin of a head which goes with the Farnese one. Moreover, it
showed wisest balance from base to brow; with the face free of beard and
mustache, while the yellow hair owned no taint of curl--altogether an
American head on Farnese shoulders refined.

Richard made no speed with his dressing. What with refusing several
waistcoats--a fastidiousness which opened the slant eyes of Matzai,
being unusual--and what with pausing to smoke a brooding cigar, it stood
roundly twelve before he was ready for the street. One need not call
Richard lazy. He was no one to retire or to rise with the birds; why
should he? "Early to bed and early to rise" is a tradition of the
copybooks. It did well when candlelight was cheap at a dollar the dozen,
but should not belong to a day of electricity no dearer than the sun.

Before going out, Richard crossed to a writing cabinet and pressed a
button, the white disk whereof showed in its mahogany side. It was not
the bell he used for the wheat-hued Matzai, and owned a note peculiar to
itself. As though in response came Mr. Gwynn, irreproachable, austere.

Upon the advent of Mr. Gwynn, one might have observed sundry amazing
phenomena, innocent at that. Mr. Gwynn did not sit down, but stood in
the middle of the room. On the careless other hand, Richard did not
arise from the chair into which he had flung himself, but sat with his
hat on, puffing blue wreaths and tapping his foot with a rattan.

"Mr. Gwynn," quoth Richard, "you will catch the four-o'clock limited to
New York. Talon & Trehawke, Attorneys, Temple Court, have on sale a
majority of the stock of the _Daily Tory_. Buy it; notify those in
present charge of the editorial and business departments of the new
proprietorship. There will be no changes in the personnel of the paper
so far as refers to New York. You are to say, however, that you will
give me charge in Washington. Talon & Trehawke can put you in control,
and forty-eight hours should be enough to carry out my plans. The
balance of the stock you will buy up at your leisure. This is Tuesday;
have the bureau here ready for me by Thursday evening."

Mr. Gwynn inclined his head.

"Can you give me, sir, some notion of what Talon & Trehawke are to
have?" asked Mr. Gwynn.

"Their letter addressed to you--here it is--says that sixty per cent. of
the stock can be had for two millions eight hundred thousand."

"Very good, sir," and Mr. Gwynn bowed deeply.

Richard pulled on his gloves to depart, whereat Mr. Pickwick yelped
frantically from his cushion. Richard tapped Mr. Pickwick with the
lacquered rattan.

"Old man," said Richard, "I am going to take a look at the lady I love."
Mr. Pickwick moaned querulously, while Richard sought the street.

Richard, the day before, dispatched a note and a card to Mrs.
Hanway-Harley and had been told in reply that he might call to-day at
three. Richard decided to repair to the club, and wait for three
o'clock.

Richard, during his week in Washington, had found a deserted corner in
the club and pre-empted it. At those times when he honored the club with
his presence, he occupied this vantage point. From it he was given both
a view of the street and a fair survey of the apartment itself. No one
approached him; his atmosphere was repellant; beyond civil nods,
curtailed to the last limit of civility, his intercourse with his
fellows had not advanced.

On this afternoon as Richard smoked a solitary cigar and reviewed the
thin procession of foot passengers trudging through the snow beneath his
window, he was attracted by the loud talk of a coterie about a table.
The center of the group was Count Storri--a giant Russ. This Storri did
not belong to the Russian legation, did not indeed reside in town, and
had been vouched into the club by one of his countrymen. He had onyx
eyes, with blue-black beard and mustaches which half covered his face,
and hair as raven as his beard. Also he valued himself for that a
favorite dish with him was raw meat chopped fine with peppers and oil.

Storri's education--which was wide--did not suffice to cover up in him
the barbarian, videlicet, the Tartar--which was wider; and when a trifle
uplifted of drink, it was his habit to brag profoundly in purring,
snarling, half-challenging tones. Storri boasted most of his thews,
which would not have disgraced Goliath. He was at the moment telling a
knot of gaping youngsters of monstrous deeds of strength. Storri had
crushed horseshoes in his hand; he had rolled silver pieces into bullets
between thumb and finger.

"See, you children, I will show what a Russian can do!" cried Storri.

Storri came over to the fireplace, the rest at his heels. Taking up the
poker--a round half-inch rod of wrought iron--he seized it firmly by one
end with his left hand and with the right wound it twice about his left
arm. The black spiral reached from hand to elbow; when he withdrew his
arm the club poker was a Brobdingnagian corkscrew.

The youngsters stared wonder-bitten. Then a mighty chatter of
compliments broke forth, and Storri swelled with the savage glory of his
achievement.

Richard, the somber, who did not like noise, shrugged his shoulders.
Storri, by the fireplace, caught the shrug and found it offensive. He
made towards Richard, and offered the right hand, his white teeth
gleaming in a sinister way through the fastnesses of his beard.

"Will you try grips with me?" cried Storri loudly. "Will you shake hands
Russian fashion?"

"No," retorted Richard, all ice and unconcern. "I will not shake your
hand Russian fashion."

Storri broke into an evil grin that made him look like a black panther.

"Some day you must put your fingers into that trap," said he, opening
and closing his broad hand.

Richard making no return, Storri and the others went back to their
decanters.

Richard might have said, and would have believed, that he did not like
Storri because of a Siberian rudeness and want of breeding. It is to be
thought, however, that his antipathy arose rather from having heard the
day before Storri's name coupled with that of Dorothy Harley. The Russ
was a caller at the Harley house, it seemed, and rumor gave it that he
and Mr. Harley were together in speculations. At that Richard hated
Storri with the dull integrity of a healthy, normal animal, just as he
would have hated any man who raised his eyes to Dorothy Harley; for you
are to know that Richard was in a last analysis even more savage than
was Storri himself, and withal as jealously hot as a coal of fire.
Presently Storri departed, and Richard forgot him in a reverie of smoke.

It stood the quarter of three, and Richard took up his walk to the
Harleys'. It was no mighty journey, being but two blocks.

In the Harley drawing room whom should Richard meet but Storri. The Russ
was on the brink of departure. At that meeting Richard's face clouded.
Dorothy was alone with Storri; her mother had been called temporarily
from the room. At sight of Dorothy's flower-like hand in Storri's hairy
paw, Richard's eyes turned jade.

"Mr. Storms," said Dorothy, as Richard paused in the door, "permit me to
present Count Storri."

"Ah!" whispered Storri, beneath his breath, "see now how my word comes
true!"

With that he put out his hand like a threat.

Storri's exultation fell frost-nipped in greenest bud. It was as though
some implacable destiny had seized his hand. In vain did Storri put
forth his last resource of strength--he who crushed horseshoes and
twisted pokers! Like things of steel Richard's fingers closed grimly and
invincibly upon those of Storri. The Russian strove to recover his hand;
against the awful force that held him his boasted strength was as the
strength of children.

Storri looked into Richard's eyes; they were less ferocious, but
infinitely more relentless than his own. There was that, too, in the
other's look which appalled the Tartar soul of Storri--something in the
drawn brow, the eye like agate, the jaw as iron as the hand! And ever
more and a little more that fearful grip came grinding. The onyx eyes
glared in terror; the tortured forehead, white as paper, became spangled
with drops of sweat.

There arose a smothered feline screech as from a tiger whose back is
broken in a deadfall. Richard gave his wrist the shadow of a twist, and
Storri fell on one knee. Then, as though it were some foul thing,
Richard tossed aside Storri's hand, from the nails of which blood came
oozing in black drops as large as grapes.

"What was it?" gasped Dorothy, who had stood throughout the duel like
one planet-struck; "what was it you did?"

"Storri on his knee?" asked Richard with a kind of vicious sweetness.
There was something arctic, something remorselessly glacial, in the man.
It caught and held Dorothy, entrancing while it froze. "Storri on his
knee?" repeated Richard, looking where his adversary was staining a
handkerchief with Tartar blood. "It was nothing. It is a way in which
Russians honor me--that is, Russians whom I do not like!"




CHAPTER II

HOW A PRESIDENT IS BRED


Mr. Patrick Henry Hanway, a Senator of the United States, had the
countenance of a prelate and the conscience of a buccaneer. His
grandfather--it was at this old gentleman, for lack of information, he
was compelled to stop his ancestral count--was a farmer in his day.
Also, personally, he had been the soul of ignorance and religion, and of
a narrowness touching Scriptural things that oft got him into trouble.

Grandfather Hanway read his Bible and believed it. He held that the
earth was flat; that it had four corners; and that the sun went around
the earth. He replied to a neighbor who assured him that the earth
revolved, by placing a pan of water on his gate-post. Not a drop was
spilled, not a spoonful missing, in the morning. He showed this to the
astronomical neighbor as refutatory of that theory of revolution.

"For," said Grandfather Hanway, with a logical directness which among
the world's greatest has more than once found parallel, "if the y'earth
had turned over in the night like you allow, that water would have done
run out."

When the astronomical one undertook a counter argument, Grandfather
Hanway fell upon him with the blind, unreasoning fury of a holy war and
beat him beyond expression. After that Grandfather Hanway was left
undisturbed in his beliefs and their demonstrations, and tilled his sour
acres and begat a son.

The son, Hiram Hanway, was sly and lazy, and not wanting in a gift for
making money that was rather the fruit of avarice than any general
length and breadth and depth of native wit. Having occasion to visit, as
a young man, the little humdrum capital of his State, he stayed there,
and engaged in the trade of lobbyist before the name was coined. He,
too, married, and had children--Patrick Henry Hanway and Barbara Hanway.
These his offspring were given a peculiar albeit not always a sumptuous
bringing up.

When Patrick Henry Hanway was about the age of Oliver Twist at the time
Bill Sykes shoved him through the window, Hiram Hanway caused him to be
appointed page in the State Senate. There, for eight years, he lived in
the midst of all that treason and mendacity and cowardice and rapacity
and dishonor which as raw materials are ground together to produce laws
for a commonwealth. He learned early that the ten commandments have no
bearing on politics and legislation, and was taught that part of valor
which, basing itself on greed and cunning and fear, is called
discretion, and consists in first running from an enemy and then hiding
from pursuit. Altogether, those eight years might have been less
pernicious in their influence had Patrick Henry Hanway passed them with
the chain gang, and he emerged therefrom, to cast his first vote,
treacherous and plausible and boneless and false--as voracious as a pike
and as much without a principle.

Patrick Henry Hanway did not follow in the precise footsteps of his
sire. He resolved to make his money by pulling and hauling at
legislation; but the methods should be changed. He would improve upon
his father, and instead of pulling and hauling from the lobby, he would
pull and haul from within. The returns were surer; also it was easier to
knead and mold and bake one's loaf of legislation as a member, with a
seat in Senate or Assembly, than as some unassigned John Smith, who,
with a handful of bribes and a heart full of cheap intrigue, must do his
work from the corridor. A legislative seat was a two-edged sword to cut
both ways. You could trade with it, using it as a bribe, bartering vote
for vote; that was one edge. Or you could threaten with it, promising
nay for nay, and thus compel some member to save your bill to save his
own; that was the other edge. A mere bribe from the lobby owned but the
one edge; it was like a cavalry saber; you might make the one slash at a
required vote, with as many chances of missing as of cutting it down.
Every argument, therefore, pointed to a seat; whereat Patrick Henry
Hanway bent himself to its acquirement, and at the age of twenty-six he
was sworn to uphold the law and the Constitution and told to vote in the
Assembly. In that body he flourished for ten years, while his manhood
mildewed and his pockets filled.

The native State of Patrick Henry Hanway was a moss-grown member of the
republic and had been one of the original thirteen. It possessed with
other _impedimenta_ a moss-grown aristocracy that borrowed money,
devoured canvasbacks, drank burgundy, wore spotless tow in summer, clung
to the duello, and talked of days of greatness which had been before the
war. It carried moss-grown laws upon its statute books which arranged
for the capture of witches, the flogging of Quakers at a cart's tail,
the boring of Presbyterian tongues with red-hot irons, and the
punishment of masters who oppressed their hapless slaves with terrapin
oftener than three times a week. However, these measures, excellent
doubtless in their hour, together with the aristocracy referred to, had
fallen to decay.

The moss-grown aristocracy were aware in a lifeless, lofty way of
Patrick Henry Hanway, and tolerating while they despised him as one
without an origin, permitted him his place in the legislature. Somebody
must go, and why not Patrick Henry Hanway? They, the aristocracy, would
there command his services in what legislation touching game, and
oysterbeds, and the foreclosure of mortgages they required, and that was
all their need. The supple Patrick Henry Hanway thanked the aristocracy
for the honor, took the place, and carried out their wishes for
patrolling oysterbeds, protecting canvasbacks, and preventing
foreclosures.

While these conditions of mutual helpfulness subsisted, and Patrick
Henry Hanway kept his hat off in the presence of his patrons, nothing
could be finer than that peace which was. But time went on, and storms
of change came brewing. Patrick Henry Hanway, expanding beyond the
pent-up Utica of a State Capitol, decided upon a political migration to
the Senate of the United States.

When this news was understood by men, the shocked aristocracy let their
canvasbacks grow cold and their burgundy stand untasted. With horrified
voice they commanded "No!" The United States Senate had been ever
reserved for gentlemen, and Patrick Henry Hanway was a clod. The fiat
went forth; Patrick Henry Hanway should not go to the Senate; a
wide-eyed patrician wonder was abroad that he should have had the
insolent temerity to harbor such a dream--he who was of the social
reptilia and could not show an ancestor who had owned a slave!

This purple opposition did not surprise the astute Patrick Henry Hanway;
it had been foreseen, and he met it with prompt money. He had made his
alliances with divers railway corporations and other big companies, and
set in to overturn that feudalism in politics which had theretofore been
dominant. The aristocrats felt the attack upon their caste; they came
forth for that issue and the war wagged.

But the war was unequal. The aristocrats, who, like the Bourbons, had
learned nothing, forgotten nothing, plodded with horseback saddle-bag
politics. Patrick Henry Hanway met them with modern methods of telegraph
and steam. Right and left he sowed his gold among the peasantry. In the
end he went over his noble enemies like a train of cars and his
legislature sent him into Washington by a vote of three to one. He had
been there now twelve years and was just entering upon his third term.
Moreover, he had fortified his position; his enemies were now powerless
to do him harm; and at the time this story finds him he had constructed
a machine which rendered his hold upon his State as unshakable as
Gibraltar's famous rock. Patrick Henry Hanway might now be Senator for
what space he pleased, and nothing left for that opposing nobility but
to glare in helpless rancor and digest its spleen.

When Patrick Henry Hanway came to Washington he was unhampered of even a
shadow of concern for any public good. His sole thought was himself; his
patriotism, if he ever possessed any, had perished long before. Some
said that its feeble wick went flickering out in those earlier hours of
civil war. Patrick Henry Hanway, rather from a blind impression of
possible pillage than any eagerness to uphold a Union which seemed
toppling to its fall, enlisted for ninety days. As he plowed through
rain and mud on the painful occasion of a night march, he addressed the
man on his right in these remarkable words:

"Bill, this is the last d----d time I'll ever love a country!"

And it was.

The expletive, however, marked how deep dwelt the determination of
Patrick Henry Hanway; for even as a young man he had taught himself a
suave and cautious conversation, avoiding profanity as of those lingual
vices that never made and sometimes lost a dollar.

The Senate of this republic, at the time when Patrick Henry Hanway was
given his seat therein, was a thing of granite and ice to all newcomers.
The oldsters took no more notice of the novice in their midst than if he
had not been, and it was Senate tradition that a member must hold his
seat a year before he could speak and three before he would be listened
to. If a man were cast away on a desert island, the local savage could
be relied upon to meet him on the beach and welcome him with either a
square meal or club. Not so in the cold customs of the Senate. The
wanderer thrown upon its arctic shores might starve or freeze or perish
in what way he would; never an oldster of them all would make a sign.
Each sat in mighty state, like some ancient walrus on his cake of ice,
and made the new one feel his littleness. If through ignorance or worse
the new one sought to be heard, the old walruses goggle-eyed him
ferociously. If the new one persisted, they slipped from their cakes of
ice and swam to the seclusion of the cloakrooms, leaving the new one
talking to himself. This snub was commonly enough to cause the collapse
of the new one, after which the old walruses would return to their cakes
of ice.

Senator Hanway--one should give him his title when now he has earned
it--was not inclined to abide by those gag traditions that ruled the
Senate beaches. He was supple, smooth, apologetic, deprecatory, and his
nature was one which would sooner run a mile than fight a moment. For
all that he was wise in his generation, fearing no one who could not
reach him for his injury. He did not, for instance, fear the Senate
walruses, goggle-eying him from their ice cakes. They could do him no
harm; he did not take his seat by their permission. Upon deliberate
plan, therefore, Senator Hanway had not been in his place a fortnight
before he got the floor on an appropriation, and began to voice his
views. The walruses at first goggle-eyed him in wrathful amazement; but
he kept on. Then, as was their habit, they set sail for the cloakrooms,
waving condemnatory flippers.

[Illustration: One of the Most Reverend of the Senate Walruses]

Senator Hanway had thought of this, and the cloakroom move did not
disconcert him. He seized on one of the most reverend of the Senate
walruses, one festooned with the very seaweed of Senate tradition, and,
casting him, as it were, on the coals of his hot rhetoric, proceeded to
roast him exhaustively. The cloakroom walruses smelled the odor of
burning blubber and returned eagerly to their cakes of ice, for there is
nothing so pleasing to your true walrus as the spectacle of a brother
walrus being grilled. It was in time understood that if the walruses
placed an affront upon Senator Hanway he would assail them singly or in
the drove. Then the walruses made their peace with him and admitted him
to fellowship before his time; for your walrus cannot carry on a war and
is only terrible in appearance.

Now, when the seal of silence was taken from Senator Hanway and he found
himself consented to as a full-grown walrus possessed of every right of
the Senate beaches, he became deferential to his fellow Senators. He
curried their favor by pretending to consult with them, personally and
privately, on every Senate question that arose. He could be a great
courtier when he pleased and had a genius for flattery, and now that his
right to go without a gag was no longer disputed he devoted himself to
healing what wounds he had dealt the vanity of the oldsters. By this he
grew both popular and powerful; as a finale no man oftener had his
Senate way.

Senator Hanway, modestly and unobtrusively, did sundry Senate things
that stamped him a leader of men. He bore the labor of a staggering
filibuster, and more than any other prevented a measure that was meant
for his party's destruction. In the lists of that filibuster he met the
champion of the opposition--a Senator of pouter-pigeon characteristics,
more formidable to look upon than to face--and, forensically speaking,
beat him like a carpet.

On another day when one of his party associates was to be unseated by so
close a vote that a single member of the Committee on Privileges and
Elections would determine the business either way, it was Senator
Hanway, no one knew how, who in manner secret captured that member from
the enemy. The captured one voted sheepishly in committee and continued
thus sheepish on the open Senate floor, although a beautiful woman
smiled and beamed upon him from the gallery as women smile and beam when
granted favors.

It was during Senator Hanway's second term, however, that he
accomplished the work which placed him at his party's fore and confirmed
him as its chief. The Senate, following a certain national election,
fell to be a tie. The party of Senator Hanway still had control of the
committees and generally of the Senate organization; but that election
had sent to be the Senate's presiding officer a Vice-President who
belonged with the opposition. On a tie, Senator Hanway's party would
find defeat by the vote of that new Vice-President.

It was then the pouter-pigeon chieftain moved that the Senate
organization be given over to him and his fellows. The motion would seem
to settle it. The vote on the floor would be equal, and the sagacious
pouter-pigeon reckoned on the new Vice-President to decide for him and
his. The party colleagues of Senator Hanway, many of them four terms old
in Senate mysteries, were eaten of despair; they saw no gateway of
escape. The pouter-pigeon would take possession, remake the committees,
and, practically speaking, thereby remake the legislation of that
Congress.

At this crisis, Senator Hanway took down the Constitution and showed by
that venerable document how the power of the Vice-President went no
farther than deciding ties on legislative questions; that when the
business at bay was a matter of Senate organization, he had no more to
say than had the last appointed messenger on the gallery doors. The
situation, in short, did not present a tie, for the settlement of which
the Vice-Presidential decision was possible; therefore, Senate things
must remain as they then were.

Senator Hanway's reading of Vice-Presidential powers was right, as even
the opposition confessed; he saved the Senate and thereby the nation to
his party, and his rule was established unchallenged over his people,
his least opinion becoming their cloud and their pillar of fire to guide
them day and night. He was made far and away the dominant figure of the
Senate.

Finding himself thus loftily situated and his hands so clothed with
power, Senator Hanway, looking over the plains of national politics,
conceived the hour ripe for another and a last step upward. For twelve
years a White House had been his dream; now he resolved to seek its
realization. From the Senate he would move to a Presidency; a double
term should close his career where Washington and Jefferson and Jackson
and other great ones of the past closed theirs.

True, Senator Hanway must win his party's nomination; and it was here he
took counsel with his Senate colleagues. Being consulted, the word of
those grave ones proved the very climax of flattery. Senators Vice and
Price and Dice and Ice, and Stuff and Bluff and Gruff and Muff, and Loot
and Coot and Hoot and Toot, and Wink and Blink and Drink and
Kink--statesmen all and of snow-capped eminence in the topography of
party--endorsed Senator Hanway's ambition without a wrinkle of distrust
to mar their brows or a moment lost in weighing the proposal. The Senate
became a Hanway propaganda. Even the opposition, so far as slightly lay
with them, were pleasantly willing to help the work along, and Senator
Hanway blushed to find himself a Senate idol. By the encouragement which
his colleagues gave him, and the generous light of it, Senator Hanway
saw the way clear to become the choice of his party's national
convention. But he must work.

It was in that prior day when Senator Hanway served his State in the
legislature that he wedded Dorothy Harley. It is to be assumed that he
loved her dearly; for twelve years later when she died his grief was
like a storm, and for the rest of his days he would as soon think of a
top hat without a crown as without a mourning band.

When Senator Hanway married Dorothy Harley, her brother, John Harley,
married Barbara Hanway. Whether this exchange of sisters by the two was
meant for retort or for compliment lived a point of dispute--without
being settled--among the friends of the high contracting parties for
many, many months.

Not that anyone suffered by these double nuptials; the families owned
equal social standing, having none at all, and were evenly balanced in
fortune, since neither had a dollar. Both Senator Hanway and John Harley
had their fortunes to make when, each with the other's sister on his
arm, they called in the preacher that day; and after the wedding they
set about the accumulation of those fortunes.

In a half-sense the two became partners; for while a lawmaker can be
highly useful to a man of energy outside the halls of legislation, the
converse is every inch as true. They must be folk of course who know and
trust one another; and, aside from marrying sisters--a fact calculated
to quickly teach two gentlemen the worst and the best about each
other--John Harley and Senator Hanway had been as Damon and Pythias for
a decade. Not that either would have died for the other, but he would
have lied and plotted and defrauded and stopped at nothing short of
murder for him, which, considering the money appetites of the pair and
those schemes they had for feeding them, should be vastly more
important.

When Senator Hanway came to Washington, John Harley and his wife,
Barbara Hanway-Harley as she preferred to style herself, came with him.
Senator Hanway made his home with the Harleys, when now he was a
widower; and the trio, with the daughter, Dorothy--named for the
Senator's wife--who lost her boot heel when Richard lost his heart, made
up a family of four, and took their place in Capital annals.

John Harley had a red and jovial face that promised conviviality. It was
the custom with John Harley to slap a new acquaintance on the shoulder
and hail him as "Old Man." He was long of body, short of leg, apoplectic
as to neck--a girthy, thick, explosive, boisterous gentleman, who could
order a good dinner and could eat one. He could find you a fair bottle
of wine, and then assist in emptying it. He aimed at the open and frank
and generous, and was willing you should think him of high temper, one
who would on provocation deal a knock-down blow.

Senator Hanway was his opposite, being of no more color than a monk and
of manners as precisely soft as a lady's. He never raised his voice,
never lost his temper; he strove for an accurate gentility--to give the
lie to noble foes at home--and far from owning any ferocities of fist,
retorted to a heated person who charged him with flat falsehood by a
mere shrug of the shoulders and a simple:

"I refuse to discuss it, sir!"

And all with a high air that left his opponent gasping and helpless and
floundering with the feeling that he had been somehow most severely and
completely, not to say most righteously, rebuked.

There you have vague charcoal sketches of Senator Hanway and John
Harley; you may note as wide a difference between the two as lies
between warclubs and poisons. And yet they fitted with each other like
the halves of a shell. Also they were masters of intrigue; only John
Harley intrigued like a Wolsey and Senator Hanway like a Richelieu.

John Harley played the business man, and was rough and plain and
blunt--a man of no genius and with loads of common sense. He made a
specialty of unpalatable truths and discarded sentiment. Indeed, he was
so good a business man that he got possession of a rotund interest in a
group of coal mines without the outlay of a dollar, and later became the
owner of sundry sheaves of railway stocks on the same surprising terms.

Not that the coal and the railway companies lost by John Harley. When it
was known that he possessed an interest in the mines, certain armor
plate mills and shipbuilding concerns, as well as nineteen steamboat
lines, came forward to buy the coal. As for the railway, whereas prior
to John Harley's introduction as shareholder and director it could get
no consideration in the way of freights from those giant corporations
which have to do with beef and sugar and oil--it being both slow and
crooked as a railroad--thereafter it was given all it could haul at
rates even with the best, and its prosperity became such that fifty-five
points were added to the quoted value of its stock.

It is possible that John Harley's nearness to Senator Hanway had
something to do with founding for him a railway and a coal-mine
popularity. The vote of a Senator may be important to armor plate and
shipbuilding concerns; as much might be said of companies that deal in
beef and sugar and oil. The action of a Senator may even become of
moment to a steamship line. The last was evidenced on a day when those
nineteen suddenly refused to purchase further coal from the Harley
mines. They were buying five millions of tons a year, those five
millions finding their way to the sea over the railway of which John
Harley was a director and in which he owned those sheaves of stocks, and
a fortune rose or fell by that refusal. The steamboats said they would
have no more Harley coal; it was stones and slates, they said.

Senator Hanway at once introduced a bill, with every chance of its
passage, which provided for a tariff reduction of ten per cent. _ad
valorem_ on goods brought to this country in American ships. Since the
recalcitrant nineteen were, to the last rebellionist among them, foreign
ships, flying alien flags, this threatened preference of American ships
took away their breath. The owners of those lines went black with rage;
however, their anger did not so obscure them but what they saw their
penitent way to readopt the Harley coal, and with that the mining and
carriage and sale of those annual five millions went forward as before.
The Hanway bill, which promised such American advantages, perished in
the pigeon holes of the committee; but not before the press of the
country had time to ring with the patriotism of Senator Hanway, and
praise that long-headed statesmanship which was about to build up a
Yankee merchant marine without committing the crime of subsidy.

John Harley and Senator Hanway at the time when Dorothy suffered that
momentous mishap of the heel, were both enrolled by popular opinion
among the country's millionaires. Each had been the frequent subject of
articles in the magazines, recounting his achievements and offering him
to the youth of America as a "Self-Made Man," whose example it would be
wise to steer by. In the Presidential plans of Senator Hanway, John
Harley nourished a flaming interest. With his pale brother-in-law in the
White House, what should better match the genius of John Harley than the
rôle of Warwick. He would pose as a President-maker. When the President
was made, and the world was saying "President Hanway," that man should
be dull indeed who did not look upon John Harley as the power behind the
curtain. He would control the backstairs; he would wear a White House
pass-key as a watch-charm! John Harley as well as Senator Hanway had his
dreams.

Both Dorothy and her mother were profound partisans of Senator Hanway.
Dorothy loved her "Uncle Pat" as much as she loved her father. Dorothy,
who could weigh a woman,--being of the sex,--might have felt occasional
misgivings as to her mother. She might now and again observe an
insufficiency that was almost the deficient. But of her father and
"Uncle Pat" she never possessed a doubt; the one was the best and the
other the greatest of men.

Dorothy was so far justified of her affection that to both John Harley
and Senator Hanway she stood for the model of all that was good and
beautiful in life. Hard and keen and never honest with the world at
large, the love of those two for the girl Dorothy was gold itself.
Neither said "No" to Dorothy; and neither made a dollar without thinking
how one day it would go to her. She was the joint darling; they would
divide her between them as the recipient of their loves while they lived
and their fortunes when they died. And many thought Dorothy lucky with
two such fathers to cherish her, two such men to conquer wealth
wherewith to feather-line her future.

John Harley made no secret of Senator Hanway's Presidential prospects,
and if he did not talk them over with his helpmeet, he listened while
she talked them over with him. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, who insisted more
vigorously than ever upon the hyphenation, would of necessity preside
over the White House. She saw and said this herself. The Harley family
would move to the White House. Anything short of that would be
preposterous.

Under such conditions and facing such a future, the tremendous
responsibilities of which already cast their shadow on her, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley was driven to take an interest in her brother's canvass;
and she took it. She gave her husband, John Harley, all sorts of advice,
and however much it might fail in quality, no one would have said that
in the matter of quantity Mrs. Hanway-Harley did not heap the measure
high. Senator Hanway himself she was not so ready to approach. He never
mentioned the question of his Presidential hopes and fears, holding to
the position of one who is sought. Under the circumstances, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley felt that it would be gross and forward to force the
subject with her brother, although she was certain that her silence
meant unmeasured loss to him. Mrs. Hanway-Harley was one of those
excellent women whereof it is the good fortune of the world to have such
store, who cherish the knowledge, not always shared by others, that
whatever they touch they benefit and wherever they advise they improve.

"Barbara," said Senator Hanway, on the morning of that day when Richard
meddled so crushingly with Storri's hand, "Barbara, there is a matter in
which you might please me very much."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley looked across the table at her brother, for the four
were at breakfast.

"I promise in advance," said she.

"There is a gentleman," went on Senator Hanway, "I met him for a
moment--a Mr. Gwynn. You ladies know how to arrange these things. I want
to have him--not too large a party, you know--have him meet Gruff and
Stuff and two or three of my Senate friends. He is vastly rich, with
tremendous railway connections. I need not explain; but conditions may
arise that would make Mr. Gywnn prodigiously important--extremely so. I
don't know how you'll manage; he is exceedingly conventional--one of
your highbred English who must be approached just so or they take
alarm. But I'm sure, Barbara, you'll bring the matter about; and I leave
it to you with confidence."




CHAPTER III

HOW MR. GWYNN DINED WITH THE HARLEYS


Any man who says that he is a gentleman is not a gentleman. A gentleman
no more tells you that he is a gentleman than a brave man tells you he
is brave. Gentility is a quality which the possessor never seeks to
establish as his own by word of mouth; he leaves it to inference and the
rule has no exception. This brilliant speechlessness arises not through
modesty, but ignorance. However clearly gentility reveals itself to
others, he who possesses it has no more knowledge on that faultless
point than have your hills of the yellow gold they hold within their
breasts.

Storri was one who went far and frequently out of his conversational way
to assure you that he was a gentleman. Though he did no more than just
recount how he gave his seat to a woman in a car, or passed the salt at
dinner, or made a morning call, somewhere in the narrative you were sure
to hear that he was "a gentleman," or "a Russian gentleman," commonly
the latter; and he always accompanied the news with a straightening of
his heavy shoulders and a threatening pull at his mustache as though he
expected to find his word disputed and planned a terrible return.

It could not be called Storri's fault that it was not three hundred
years since his forebears wore sheepskins, carried clubs, and made a
fire by judiciously rubbing one stick against another. None the less,
this nearness to a stone age left him barbarous in his heart; and the
layer of civilization that was upon him was not a layer, but a polish--a
sheen, and neither so thick nor so tangible as moonshine on a lake. The
savageries of Richard were quite as vivid as Storri's, perhaps; but at
least they had been advantageously hidden beneath a top-dressing of
eleven civilizing centuries instead of three; and those eight extra
centuries made all the difference in life. They gave Richard steadiness
and self-control; for the first separation between civilization and
barbarism lies in this, that a civilized man is more readily quieted
after a stampede than is your barbarous one. Also he is not so wide open
to original surprise.

Wherefore, when Richard and Storri stood glaring at one another after
the episode of the hands, Richard had vastly the better of Storri, who
fell into a three-ply mood of amazement, fright, and rage. Finally,
Storri seemed to mutter threats while he retreated; and at the last got
himself out of the Harley front door in rather an incoherent way. It was
understood that he mumbled "Good-afternoon!" to Dorothy; and that "he
would talk with him again," to Richard; and all as he found his hat with
his left hand, the right meanwhile wrapped in a handkerchief which was a
smudge of blood. It could not be described as a graceful exit and had
many of the features of a rout; but it was effective, and took Storri
successfully into the street. Dorothy, still transfixed, turned with
round eyes to Richard:

"What was it you did?" she asked again.

"It was nothing," replied Richard with a shrug. "Or if anything, then a
piece of primitive sarcasm. Really, I'm sorry, since you were here; but
I had no choice."

"Will there be a duel?" gurgled Dorothy, catching her breath.

Dorothy, among other valuable ideas derived from novels, had gained a
middle-age impression that made flashing blades and gaping wounds a
romantic probability.

"Storri is not so self-sacrificing," returned Richard with a grin, "and
I am much too modern." Then in a bantering tone: "How much better was
the old day when men might differ nobly foot to foot, with the fair lady
to the victor and a funeral to the vanquished as the natural upshot. It
is too bad! In the name of progress we have come too far and thrown away
too much!"

It was among the marvels how Richard changed. As he talked with Dorothy
those eyes, late flint, became tender and laughingly honest in a fashion
good to see. He appeared younger by half, for anger is ancient and piles
on the years.

"Really, Miss Harley," continued Richard, with a heroic determination to
change the subject, "I haven't as yet paid my respects to you. Your
mother said I might call. She was very kind!" And here Richard pressed
the little hand in that one which had so discouraged Storri, while Mrs.
Hanway-Harley suddenly swept into the room as if "Mother" were her cue.

"Mamma," cried Dorothy, presenting Richard, "this is Mr. Storms. You
remember; he saved my--my nose."

Certainly Mrs. Hanway-Harley remembered. She recalled the event in a
manner superbly amiable and condescending.

"And you told us then," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley, "that you would
presently dwell in Washington. Is it your plan to make the town your
permanent residence?"

"My plans depend on the plans of others, madam. I have become chained to
their chariot and cannot call myself free." Here Richard looked
audaciously sly at Dorothy, who interested herself with certain flowers
that stood in the window.

"Ah! I see," returned Mrs. Hanway-Harley, who did not see at all. "You
mean Mr. Gwynn." She had heard of Mr. Gwynn, so far as the town knew
that personage, from her husband. "But you said 'others'?"

"Yes, madam; besides Mr. Gwynn, there are Matzai and Mr. Pickwick."
Then, responding to Mrs. Hanway-Harley's inquiring brows, Richard went
forward with explanations. "Matzai is my valet, while Mr. Pickwick is a
terrier torn by an implacable hatred of rats; which latter is the more
strange, madam, for I give you my word Mr. Pickwick never saw a rat in
his life."

"What an extraordinary young man!" ruminated Mrs. Hanway-Harley, and she
bestowed upon Richard a searching glance to see if by any miracle of
impertinence he was poking fun at her.

That well-balanced gentleman realized the peril, and faced it with a
countenance as blankly, not to say as blandly vacuous as the wrong side
of a tombstone. He ran the less risk; for the lady could not conceive
how anyone dare take so gross a liberty with a Hanway-Harley; one, too,
whose future held tremendous chances of a White House. Being satisfied
of Richard's seriousness, and concluding privily that he was only a
dullard whom the honor of her notice had confused, she said:

"Umph! Matzai and Mr. Pickwick! Yes; certainly!"

Then Mrs. Hanway-Harley set herself to ask questions, the bald
aggressiveness whereof gave the daughter a red brow. Richard answered
readily, as though glad of the chance, and did not notice the crimson
that painted Dorothy's face.

The latter young lady was as much puzzled by their caller as was her
mother, without accounting for his oddities on any argument of dullness.
Indeed, she could see how he played with them: that there flowed an
undercurrent of irony in his replies. Moreover, while by his manner he
had pedestaled and prayed to her as to a goddess, when they were alone
and before her mother came, Dorothy now observed that Richard carried
himself in a manner easy and masterful, and as one who knows much in the
presence of ones who know little. This air of the ineffably invincible
made Dorothy forget the adoration which had aforetime glowed in his
eyes, and she longed to box his ears.

"Is Mr. Gwynn your relative?" asked the cool, though somewhat careless,
Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

"No, madam; no relative." There drifted about the corners of Richard's
mouth the shadow of a smile. "He is all English; I am all American."

"I'm sure I'm sorry," remarked the lady musingly. Then without saying
upon what her sorrow was hinged, she proceeded. "Mr. Gwynn, I hear--I
don't know him personally, but hope soon to have that pleasure--is a
gentleman of highest breeding. My brother assures me that he has most
delightful manners. I know I shall adore him. If there's anything I
wholly admire it is an old-school English gentleman--they have so much
refinement, so much elevation!"

"It might not become me," returned Richard, in what Mrs. Hanway-Harley
took to be a spirit of diffidence, "to laud the deportment of Mr. Gwynn.
But what should you expect in one who all his life has had about him the
best society of England?"

"Ah! I can see you like him--venerate him!" This with ardor.

"I won't answer for the veneration," returned Richard. "I like him well
enough--as Mr. Gwynn."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley stared in matronly reproof.

"You don't appear over grateful to your benefactor."

"No;" and Richard shook his head. "I'm quite the churl, I know; but I
can't help it."

Richard found a chance to say to Dorothy,

"I see that you love flowers."

This was when Dorothy had taken refuge among those blossoms.

"I worship flowers," returned Dorothy.

"Now I don't wonder," exclaimed Richard. "You and they have so much in
common."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley was for the moment preoccupied with thoughts of Mr.
Gwynn, and plans for the small Senate dinner at which that austere
gentleman would find himself in the place of honor. However, she caught
some flash of Richard's remark. For the fraction of an instant it bred a
doubt of his dullness. What if he should come philandering after
Dorothy? Mrs. Hanway-Harley's feathers began to rise. No beggar fed by
charity need hope for her daughter's hand; she was firm-set as to that.
Perhaps Mr. Gwynn intended to make him rich by his will. At this Mrs.
Hanway-Harley's feathers showed less excitement. Mr. Gwynn should be
sounded on the subject of bequests. Why not put the question to Mr.
Storms? It would at least lead to the development of that equivocal
gentleman's expectations.

"Has Mr. Gwynn any family in England?" asked Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

"A nephew or two, I believe; possibly a brother."

"But he will make you his heir."

"Me?" Richard gave a negative shake of the head. "The old fellow
wouldn't leave me a shilling. Why should he? Nor would I accept it if he
did." Richard's sidelong look at Mrs. Hanway-Harley was full of
amusement. "No, the old rogue hates me, if he would but tell the
truth--which he won't--and if it were worth my while and compatible with
my self-respect, I've no doubt I'd hate him."

This sentiment was delivered with the blasé air of weariness worn out,
that should belong with him who has seen and heard and known a world's
multitude; which manner is everywhere recognized as the very flower of
good breeding.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley sat tongue-tied with astonishment. In the end she
recalled herself. Mrs. Hanway-Harley scented nothing perilous in the
situation. In any event, Dorothy would wed whomsoever she decreed; Mrs.
Hanway-Harley was deservedly certain of that. While this came to her
mind, Richard the enterprising went laying plans for the daily
desolation of an entire greenhouse.

"Dorothy," observed Mrs. Hanway-Harley, after Richard had gone his way,
"there you have a young man remarkable for two things: his dullness and
his effrontery. Did you hear how he spoke of his benefactor? The wretch!
After all that good, poor Mr. Gwynn has done for him!"

"How do you know what Mr. Gwynn has done for him?"

Dorothy, while she confessed the justice of her mother's strictures,
felt uncommonly inclined to defend the absent one. Her memory of those
tender glances was coming back.

"Why, it is all over town! Mr. Storms is dependent on Mr. Gwynn. By the
way, I hope Count Storri did not meet him?" This was given in the rising
inflection of a query.

"Only for a moment," returned Dorothy, breaking into a little crow of
laughter. "The Count did not seem to like him." Dorothy thought of that
combat of the hands, and how Storri was beaten to his knee, and how
fiercely glorious Richard looked at that instant.

"What should you expect?" observed Mrs. Hanway-Harley. "The Count is a
nobleman. And that reminds me: Dorothy, he appears a bit smitten. What
if it were to prove serious?"

"You wouldn't have me marry him, mamma?"

"What! Not marry a Count!" Mrs. Hanway-Harley was shocked as only an
American mother could have been shocked. She appealed to the ceiling
with her horrified hands. "Oh! the callousness of children!" she cried.
Following this outburst of despair, Mrs. Hanway-Harley composed herself.
"We need not consider that now; it will be soon enough when the Count
offers us his hand." Mrs. Hanway-Harley sank back in her chair with
closed eyes and saw a vision of herself at the Court of the Czar. Then
she continued her thoughts aloud. "It's more than likely, my dear, that
the Czar would appoint Count Storri Ambassador to Washington."

"It would be extremely intelligent of the Czar, I'm sure," returned
Dorothy with a twinkle.

The next morning a colored youth clad in the garish livery of an Avenue
florist made his appearance on the Harley premises bearing aloft an
armful of flowers as large as a sheaf of wheat. By the card they were
for "Miss Harley." The morning following, and every morning, came the
colored youth bearing an odorous armful. Who were they from? The card
told nothing; it was the handwriting of the florist.

"Don't you think it might be Count Storri?" said Dorothy demurely,
taking her pretty nose--the nose Richard saved--out of the flowers.
"Those Russians are so extravagant, so eccentric!"

"Suppose I thank him for them," observed Mrs. Hanway-Harley; "that would
bring him out!"

"No, no," exclaimed Dorothy hastily; "it might embarrass the Count."

"Pshaw! I'll ask the florist."

"No; that would offend the Count. You see, mamma, he thinks that we will
know without asking. He would hardly regard our ignorance as a
compliment," and Dorothy pouted. "You'd spoil everything."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley saw the force of this and yielded, though it cost her
curiosity a pang.

Dorothy's dearest friend was with them--a tall, undulating blonde, who
was sometimes like a willow and sometimes like a cat. When Mrs.
Hanway-Harley had left the room, and Miss Marklin and Dorothy were
alone, the former said firmly:

"Dorothy, who sent them?"

"Now, how should I know, Bess? You read the card."

"When a woman receives flowers, she always knows from whom," returned
this wise virgin oracularly.

"Well, then," said Dorothy resignedly, drawing the golden head of the
pythoness down until the small, pink ear was level with her lips, "if
you must know, let me whisper."

There are people who hold that everybody they do not understand is a
fool. There be others who hold that everybody who doesn't understand
them is a fool. Mrs. Hanway-Harley belonged to the former class, and not
making Richard out, she marked him "fool," and so informed Mr. Harley as
she penned the dinner invitation to Mr. Gwynn.

"Of course, we shall not ask this Mr. Storms to the dinner. He would be
misplaced by his years for one thing. Besides, I'm sure Mr. Gwynn
wouldn't like it. I saw enough of Mr. Storms to doubt if, in their own
house, he dines at the same table with Mr. Gwynn."

"At any rate," remarked the cautious Mr. Harley, "it's safe to leave him
out this time. We'll establish his proper level, socially, by talking
with Mr. Gwynn."

Mr. Gwynn came back from New York on Thursday afternoon. His traffic
with Talon & Trehawke was successful, and he had bought the _Daily
Tory_.

Richard was put in charge of the Washington correspondence. He was given
a brace of assistants to protect, as he said, the subscribers; for be it
known that Richard of the many blemishes knew no more of newspaper work
than he did of navigation.

Mr. Gwynn found Mrs. Hanway-Harley's dinner invitation awaiting him; it
was for the next evening. He brought it to Richard.

"You will go, Mr. Gwynn," said that gentleman. "I will consider; and
to-morrow I will tell you what you are to say."

Richard has been referred to as a soul of many blemishes. The chief of
these was his cynicism, although that cynicism had a cause if not a
reason. With other traits, the same either virtues or vices according to
the occasion and the way they were turned, Richard was sensitive. He was
as thin-skinned as a woman and as greedy of approval. And yet his
sensitiveness, with nerves all on the surface, worked to its own defeat.
It rendered Richard fearful of jar and jolt; with that he turned
brusque, repelled folk, and shrunk away from having them too near.

For a crowning disaster, throughout his years of manhood, Richard had
had nothing to do. He had been idle with no work and no object to work
for. You can suffer from brain famine and from hand famine. You may
starve your brain and your hand with idleness as readily as you starve
your stomach with no food. And Richard's nature, without his knowing,
had pined for lack of work.

There had been other setbacks. Richard lost his mother before he could
remember, and his father when he was twelve. He was an only child, and
his father, as well as his mother, had been an only child. Richard stood
as utterly without a family as did the first man. He grew up with
schoolmasters and tutors, looked after by guardians who, infected of a
fashion, held that the best place to rear an American was Europe. These
maniacs kept Richard abroad for fairly the fifteen years next before he
meets you in these pages. The guardians were honest men; they watched
the dollars of their ward with all the jealous eyes of Argus. His mind
they left to chance-blown influences, all alien; and to teachers,
equally alien, and as equally the selection of chance. And so it came
that Richard grew up and continued without an attachment or a friendship
or a purpose; and with a distrust of men in the gross promoted to
feather-edge. Altogether he should be called as loveless, not to say as,
unlovable, a character as any you might encounter, and search throughout
a summer's day.

Most of all, Richard had been spoiled by an admiration for Democritus,
which Thracian's acquaintance he picked up at school. He saw, or thought
he saw, much in the ease of the Abderite to remind him of his own; and
to imitate him he traveled, professed a chuckling indifference to both
the good and the ill in life, and, heedful to laugh at whatever turned
up, humored himself with the notion that he was a philosopher.
Democritus was Richard's affectation: being only an affectation
Democritus did not carry him to the extreme of putting out his own eyes
as a help to thought.

Richard, to reach his thirtieth year, had traveled far by many a
twisting road. And for all the good his wanderings overtook, he would
have come as well off standing still. But a change was risping at the
door. In Dorothy Richard had found one to love. Now in his sudden rôle
of working journalist, he had found work to do. Richard caught his bosom
swelling with sensations never before known, as he loafed over a cigar
in his rooms. Love and ambition both were busy at his heart's roots. He
would win Dorothy; he would become a writer.

Richard, his cynicism touching the elbow of his dream, caught himself
sourly smiling. He shook himself free, however, and was surprised to see
how that ice of cynicism gave way before a little heat of hope. It was
as if his nature were coming out of winter into spring; whereat Richard
was cheered.

"Who knows?" quoth Richard, staring about the room in defiance of what
cynic imps were present. "I may yet become a husband and an author
before a twelvemonth."

Richard later took counsel with the gray Nestor of the press gallery--a
past master at his craft of ink.

"Write new things in an old way," said this finished one whose name was
known in two hemispheres; "write new things in an old way or old things
in a new way or new things in a new way. Do not write old things in an
old way; it will be as though you strove to build a fire with ashes."

"And is that all?" asked Richard.

"It is the whole of letters," said the finished one. With that Richard,
nursing a stout heart, began his grind.

Every writer, not a mere bricklayer of words, has what for want of
better epithet is called a style. There be writers whose style is broad
and deep and lucid like a lake. It shimmers bravely as some ray of fancy
touches it, or it tosses in billows with some stormy stress of feeling.
And yet, you who read must spread some personal sail and bring some gale
of favoring interest all your own, to carry you across. There be writers
whose style is swift and flashing like a river, and has a current to
whirl you along. The style seizes on you and takes you down the page,
showing the right and the left of the subject as a river shows its
banks. You are swept round some unexpected bend of incident, and given
new impressions in new lights. Addison was the king of those who wrote
like a lake; Macaulay of those who wrote like a river. The latter is the
better style, giving more and carrying further and tiring less.

Richard belonged by native gift to the Macaulay school. He tasted the
incense of his occupation when, having sent his first story, the night
manager wired:

"Great! Keep it up."

Richard read and re-read the four words, and it must be confessed felt
somewhat ashamed at the good they did him--being the first words of
encomium that had ever come his way. They confirmed his ambition; he had
found a pleasant, unexpected window from which to reconsider existence.

It was seven o'clock and Richard sat turning over a pile of papers which
related to the purchase of the _Daily Tory_; they had been left by Mr.
Gwynn. These he compared with a letter or two that had just come in.

"What a fool and old rogue it is!" cried Richard disgustedly. Then he
pushed the button that summoned Mr. Gwynn.

That severe Briton appeared in flawless evening dress. It was the
occasion of the Harley dinner, and Mr. Gwynn had ordered his carriage
for half after seven.

"Mr. Gwynn," said Richard, "the Harley purpose is the Presidential hopes
of Senator Hanway. You will offer aid in all of Senator Hanway's plans.
Particularly, you are to let him know that the _Daily Tory_ is at his
service. Say that I, as its correspondent, shall make it my first duty
to wait upon him."

"Very good, sir," said Mr. Gwynn.

"Another moment, Mr. Gwynn," said Richard, as the other was about to go.
"Give me your personal check for eleven thousand six hundred and forty
dollars."

Mr. Gywnn's face twitched; he hesitated, rocking a little on his feet.
Richard had turned to scribble something; with that, repressing whatever
had been upon his lips, Mr. Gwynn withdrew. He was instantly back with a
strip of paper fluttering in his fingers. Richard placed it in his desk.
Taking a similar strip from his writing pad he gave it to Mr. Gwynn.

"My own check for eleven thousand six hundred and forty dollars, Mr.
Gwynn," said Richard. "I make you a present of it. That is to save your
credit. Hereafter, when you see a chance to play the scoundrel, before
you embrace it, please measure the probable pillage and let me know. I
will then give you the amount. In that way you will have the profits of
every act of villainy you might commit, while missing the mud and mire
of its accomplishment. Remember, Mr. Gwynn; I will not tolerate a
rascal."

"You are extremely good, sir," said the frozen Mr. Gwynn.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley placed Mr. Gwynn on her right hand, a distinction
which that personage bore with a petrified grace most beautiful to look
upon. Senator Hanway was on the other side of Mr. Gwynn. The party was
not large--eight in all--and, besides the trio named and Mr. Harley,
counted such partisans of Senator Hanway as Senators Gruff and Kink and
Wink and Loot and Price. Mr. Gwynn was delighted to meet so much good
company, and intimated it in a manner decorously conventional.

"Isn't he utterly English, and therefore utterly admirable?" whispered
Mrs. Hanway-Harley to Senator Loot.

That statesman agreed to this as well as he could with a mouth at work
on fish.

"Mr. Gwynn," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley affably, "I shall make the most of
you while I may. You know I only intend to see you gentlemen safely
launched, and then I shall retire."

Mr. Gwynn bowed gravely. Mr. Gwynn's strength lay in bowing. He was also
remarkable for the unflagging attention which he paid to whatever was
said to him. On such occasions his unblinking stare, wholly receptive
like an underling taking orders, and never a glimmer of either
contradiction or agreement or even intelligence to show therein, was
almost disconcerting. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, however, declared that this
receptive, inane stare was the hall-mark of exclusive English circles.
Mr. Gwynn gave another proof of culture; he pitched upon the best wine
and stuck to it, tasting and relishing with educated palate. This set
him up with Mr. Harley.

"Yes, I shall make the most of you, Mr. Gwynn," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

By way of making the most of Mr. Gwynn, Mrs. Hanway-Harley spoke of
meeting Mr. Storms. In her opinion that young man did not appreciate the
goodness of Mr. Gwynn, and was far from grateful for those benefits
which the latter showered upon him. At this intelligence, Mr. Gywnn was
taken so aback that Mrs. Hanway-Harley stopped abruptly and shifted the
conversation. Mrs. Hanway-Harley was one of those who have half-tact;
they know enough to back out and not enough to keep out of a blunder.

The dinner was neither long nor formal. Mrs. Hanway-Harley at last
removed the restraint of her presence, and thereupon Mr. Harley drank
twice as much wine to help him bear her absence. Mr. Gwynn's health was
proposed by Mr. Harley, and Mr. Gwynn bowed his thanks. It should be
understood that Mr. Gwynn bowed like a Mandarin from beginning to end of
the feast. There were no speeches; no man can make a speech to an
audience of six. Cicero himself would have been dumb under such meager
conditions.

When Mr. Harley drank Mr. Gwynn's health for the tenth time, and
attempted, assisted by Senators Gruff and Price, to sing a song in his
honor, Senator Hanway adroitly brought the dinner to a close. He was the
more stirred to this as the plaster of Paris countenance of Mr. Gwynn,
when Mr. Harley began to sing, betrayed manifest alarm.

After dinner Senator Hanway got Mr. Gwynn into a corner. Thereupon, in a
manner creditable to himself, Mr. Gwynn gave Senator Hanway to know that
he was his friend. The _Daily Tory_ should be his; Richard should be
his; Mr. Gwynn and all he called his own should be his; Senator Hanway
was to make whatever use of Richard and the _Daily Tory_ and Mr. Gwynn
his experience and his interests might suggest. Indeed, Mr. Gwynn talked
very well in private and in whispers; and Senator Hanway said later to
Senator Kink that he was the deepest man he had ever met.

"And," said Senator Hanway, squeezing Mr. Gwynn's hand as that gentleman
made ready for home, "tell your young man that I shall be glad to see
him. There are certain contingencies touching the next Speakership of
the House which should interest his paper. I shall see you to-morrow,
Mr. Gwynn--with your permission. You can and should play a most
important part in selecting that same Speaker. Your measureless
interests in the great Anaconda Airline warrant me in the assertion."




CHAPTER IV

HOW A SPEAKERSHIP WAS FOUGHT FOR


Fate now and then turns jester in a bitter way, and stoops to ironies
and grinning sarcasm. Often it gives with the right hand only to take
with the left, and blinded ones are set to chop and saw and plane those
trees which in the end make gallows for their hopes. The story of the
world shows many an inadvertent Frankenstein and deeply justifies the
grewsome Mrs. Shelley.

Something less than two years prior to that evening when Senator Hanway
took the congealed Mr. Gwynn into a corner and told him how, with his
great Anaconda Airline, he should cut a figure in the selection of a
next Speaker for the House of Representatives, it had been that
statesman's fortune to so reconstruct a tariff that it gave unusual
riches and thereby unusual comfort to the dominant ones of a certain
manufacturing Northeastern State. This commonwealth at the time was
politically in the hands of the party opposed to Senator Hanway.
Mollified by the friendly tariff and anxious to mark their gratitude,
those dominant ones arose and in the following autumn elected to be
Governor of said State a middle-aged individual, eminent for obstinacy
and a kind of bovine integrity that nothing might corrupt or turn aside.
The Obstinate One of course belonged with the party of Senator Hanway.

At this pinch a vile chance befell. No sooner was the Obstinate One
given the Governorship of a State doubtful and accounted the enemy's
country, than straightway he was looked upon as White House timber by
sundry architects of politics, and thereafter his name went more or less
linked with a possible Presidency. The situation stirred the spleen of
Senator Hanway. It was discouraging to have those identical tariff
triumphs, which had been intended as an argument favorable to himself,
give birth to a rival; one also who, for his geography and the
popularity which those personal obstinacies and thick-skulled
integrities invoked, might work a grave disturbance in his plans. To
make bad worse, the Obstinate One possessed a sinister luck of his own
and with closed eyes backed into a fight on the right side and won it
against a pack of lobby wolves who were yelping and snapping about the
State Treasury. This, although the Obstinate One of all men least
appreciated what he had done, confirmed him as a valuable asset of
party; pending further honors the public to reward him gave him the
title of Governor Obstinate.

In his white, still, rippleless way, Senator Hanway hated in his soul's
soul the name of Governor Obstinate. Night and day he carried that dull,
fortunate gentleman on his swell of thought and never ceased to consider
how he might deal him a blow or withstand him in any Presidential
stepping forward. And yet at no time had Senator Hanway--and himself the
master of every art of cord and creese in politics--felt more helpless.
If Governor Obstinate had been no more than just a finished politician,
a mere Crillon of political fence, Senator Hanway might have flashed his
ready point between his ribs. But the other's very crudities defended
him. He was primitive to the verge of despair. Even his strength was
primitive, inasmuch as it dwelt among the people rather than with the
machinists of party. Senator Hanway's monkish brow went often puckered
of a most uncanonical frown as he thought upon that sardonic Destiny
which had thrust this Governor Obstinate forward to become a stumbling
block in his way. In his angry contempt he could compare him to nothing
save a grizzly bear.

Whatever the justice of this last shaggy simile, even Senator Hanway
could not deny its formidable side. A grizzly, whether in fact or in
hyperbole, is no one good to meet. There is a supremacy of the
primitive; when the natural and the artificial have collided the latter
has more than once come limping off. Our soldiers cannot make the
Indians fight their fashion; the Indians make the soldiers fight _their_
fashion. If the soldiers were dense enough to insist upon their
formation, the Indians--fighting all over the field and each red warrior
for himself--would fill them as full of holes as a colander. When,
therefore, Senator Hanway called Governor Obstinate a grizzly, it was a
name of respect. The usual methods would not prevail in his stubborn
case. Most of all, money could not be employed to overthrow him; for his
foundations, like the foundations of any other grizzly, were original
and beyond the touch of money.

Now all this served to palsy the strength of Senator Hanway. In one
shape or another, and whether by promise or actual present production,
money was his one great tool; and where the tool has lost its power the
artisan is also powerless. It is not to Senator Hanway's discredit that
he would fail where money failed; Richelieu, wanting money, would have
been a turtle on its back. Wherefore, let it be rewritten that Senator
Hanway in the face of those clumsy, uncouth, half-seeing yet tremendous
potentialities of his enemy was seized of a helplessness never before
felt. To oppose the other with only those narrow means of money was like
trying to put down a Sioux uprising with a resolution of the Board of
Trade. Still, he must do his best; he must hold this Governor Obstinate
as much as he might in check, trusting to the chapter of accidents,
which in politics is a very lair of surprises, to suggest final ways and
means to baffle his advance.

For the business of making him President, the complaisant Senate had
become the workshop of Senator Hanway. Now, on the brink of a new
Congress, one which would be in session when the nominating convention
of his party was called to order and therefore might be supposed to own
power over its action and the Presidential ticket it would put up,
Senator Hanway resolved to add the House of Representatives to his
machine. He would elect its Speaker, and make the House an annex to his
workshop of a Senate. He would hook up House and Senate as a coachman
hooks up his team, and driving them tandem or abreast as the exigencies
of the hour suggested, see how far two such powerful agencies might take
him on his White House road.

It was on the side of Senator Hanway a brilliant thought and a daring
one, this plan to seize a Speakership and apply it to his personal
fortunes; for your Speakership is that office second only to a
Presidency, and comes often to be the latter's superior in practical
force. Those wise ones who designed the government intended the House of
Representatives to be a republic. Through its own groveling abjections,
however, it long ago sunk to an autocracy with the Speaker in the rôle
of autocrat. It sold its birthright for no one knows what mess of
pottage to pass its slavish days beneath a tyranny of the gavel. The
Speaker settles all things. No measure is proposed, no bill passes, no
member speaks except by the Speaker's will. He constructs the committees
and selects their chairmen and lays out their work. With a dozen
members, every one of whom votes and acts beneath his thumb, the Speaker
transacts the story of the House. So far as the other three hundred and
forty odd members are concerned, the folk who sent them might as well
have written a letter. They live as much without art or part or lot in
planning and executing House affairs as do the caged menagerie animals
in the planning and execution of the affairs of what show they happen to
exist as the attractions. These caged ones of the House are never
regarded and but seldom heard. The best that one of them may gain is
"Leave to print"; which is a kind of consent to be fraudulent, and
permits a member to pretend through the Congressional Record that he
made a speech (which he never made) and was overwhelmed by applause
(which he did not receive) which swept down in thunderous peals (during
moments utterly silent) from crowded galleries (as empty as a church).

Senator Hanway, when he decided to pick out a House Speaker favorable to
his hopes, had plenty of time wherein to lay his plans. The personnel of
a coming House is known for over a year; the members are elected nearly
thirteen months before they take their seats. These thirteen months of
grace are granted the new member by the Constitution on a hopeful theory
that he will devote them to a study of his country's needs. In this
instance, as in many another, theory and practice wander wide apart; the
new member gives those thirteen months to a profound study of his own
needs, and concerns himself no more over the nation's than over
wine-pressing in far-away Bordeaux. It is the glaring fault of every
scheme of government, your own being no exception to the rule, that it
seems meant for man as he should be rather than for man as he is.

Every member of the coming House, among matters of personal moment to
himself, had given no little thought to what committees he would be
placed upon; and this, in the nature of House things, likewise compelled
him to a consideration of the Speakership and who should fill it. It was
by remembering those committee hopes and fears of members, and adroitly
fomenting them, that Senator Hanway expected to control the Speakership
election.

But he must go warily to work. Coming from the Senate end of the
Capitol, Senator Hanway, in his proposed interference in the
organization of the House, must maintain himself discreetly in the dark.
It was not a task to accomplish blowing a bugle. The House had
surrendered its powers to the Speaker; but it had retained its vanity,
and like all weak animals it was the more vain for being weak. The
members, were it once known and parcel of the common gossip how they
inclined to Senator Hanway's manipulation, would be compelled to rebel.
They would be driven to oppose him as a method of preserving what they
called their self-respect. Aware of this, Senator Hanway never came into
the open, never appeared upon the surface. He secretly pitched upon a
candidate among the older ones of the House and made his deal with him,
working the wires of his diplomacy from below.

There was peculiar demand for effort on Senator Hanway's part. His man,
when now he had selected him, would not find himself uninterrupted or
unopposed in his march for that Speakership. There was another, and if
native popularity were to count a stronger hand stretched forth to seize
the gavel prize. Had it lain in the cards, Senator Hanway, who always
sought his ends on lines of least resistance, would himself have pitched
upon this stronger one. But such was beyond the question. The strong one
claimed to be of that party clan which pushed the offensive Governor
Obstinate for the Presidency; and this not only offered a perfect reason
why Senator Hanway should make no alliance with him, but it multiplied
the necessity for his defeat.

That member upon whom Senator Hanway settled for Speaker owned the
biting name of Frost; it was an instance, however, when there was
nothing in a name. Mr. Frost was a round, genial personage and only
biting with occasional sarcasms; then, it is true, his sentences cut
like a rawhide. He was big, breezy, careless, quick, and coming of an
aquatic ancestry, oceanic in his sort; even his walk reminded one of a
ground swell. And yet he was defective as a candidate. The House members
liked him well, despite those verbal acridities which shaved the surface
of debate as lawns are shaven by a scythe; but with the last word there
existed no recognized House or party reason, whether of the past, the
present or the future, why he should be made Speaker. In the lay of
House topography he was on the wrong side of the river from the
Speakership, and to land him within stretch of the gavel required that
Senator Hanway either ferry or pontoon him across. This the latter
gentleman set himself to accomplish by a series of intrigues and
stratagems that would have brightened the fame of a Talleyrand.

The statesman opposed to Mr. Frost for the Speakership was a personage
named Hawke. He stood possessed of honesty, intelligence, and energy;
also he had been for long the leader of his party in the House, and
given his name to a tariff measure. Without one gleam of humor, he was
of a temper hot as that of any Hecla, and like his fellow volcano, being
often in a state of eruption, he offered many reasons for being admired
and none for being loved.

This should be a key to the man.

He had been a brave soldier during the Civil War, and when his men, most
of whom were armed with shotguns--it being in the early hours of that
strife and these men arming themselves--complained that their weapons
were no match for the Enfields of the foe, rebuked them fiercely.

"General," said the spokesman of the soldiers; "these yere shotguns
ain't no even break for them rifles the Yanks are shootin'!"

"They are a match for them," retorted the furious Mr. Hawke, "if you
will only go close enough."

For all his soberness of humor and choleric upheavals, Mr. Hawke,
because of his record as a House leader and a tariff maker--he had
tinkered together that identical bill which, when Senator Hanway later
revamped it in the Senate, produced the Obstinate One as a Governor--was
the legitimate heir to the Speakership; and in the House, where
tradition is something sacred and custom itself the strongest of
arguments, his defeat for the place was thereby rendered well-nigh
impossible. Senator Hanway had undertaken no child's task when he went
about the gavel elevation of the popular, yet--by House usage--the
illegitimate Mr. Frost.

Months before ever Senator Hanway was granted the honor of knowing Mr.
Gwynn, he had been burrowingly busy about the Speakership. As a primary
step he was obliged to suppress his ebullient brother-in-law. Mr.
Harley, the moment a conquest of the House in the interests of Senator
Hanway was proposed, waxed threateningly exuberant. He was for issuing
forth to vociferate and slap members upon their backs and jovially
arrange committeeships on the giffgaff principle of give us the
Speakership and you shall become a Chairman. The optimistic Mr. Harley,
whose methods were somewhat coarse and who did most things with an ax,
was precisely of that hopeful sort who would advertise an auction of the
lion's hide while it was yet upon the beast. Senator Hanway, with
instincts safer and more upon the order of the mole's, forbade such
campaigns of noise.

"You must keep silent, John," said he, "and never let men know what we
are about. You are inclined, apparently, to regard a Speakership as you
might a swarm of bees; you think one has only to beat a tin pan long
enough or blow a tin horn loud enough in order to hive it according to
one's wish. The Speakership, however, so far from being a swarm of bees
is more like a flock of blackbirds, and the system to which you incline
would prove the readiest means of frightening away our every chance. In
short, you must work by my orders and meet no one, say nothing, except
as I direct."

Then Senator Hanway sent Mr. Harley, much modified of his vigor, with a
secret invitation to Mr. Frost; when that personage was brought to the
privacy of the Harley house, he laid open to his ambition those gavel
prospects which he, Senator Hanway, had already constructed in his
thoughts.

There was no conflict of argument with Mr. Frost; he rose to the
suggestion like a bass to a fly. Knowing himself to be of a genius too
openly bluff and frank, and no one to conquer those elements which his
campaign would require, he put himself in the hollow of Senator Hanway's
hand to be controlled by him with shut eyes. This voluntary prompt
submission on the part of Mr. Frost had a further subduing effect upon
Mr. Harley. In imitation thereof he, too, began to speak in whispers and
step with care, and ask his eminent relative for orders in all he went
about.

Now when Senator Hanway had trained his partner and his candidate to
come to heel he began to unravel his diplomacy. By his suggestion, Mr.
Frost took into confidence two of his party colleagues in the House.
These would on every occasion act as his agents or lieutenants. Senator
Hanway and Mr. Harley were not to appear too obviously.

Senator Hanway, lying back in the dark, looked over the field and sent
those two lieutenants variously to a score of members. These were
sounded on the engaging topic of committee chairmanships, and one by one
such coigns of congressional, not to say personal, advantage as the
heads of Ways and Means, the Appropriations, the Foreign Affairs, the
Naval, the Military and a number of other great sub-bodies were disposed
of--bartered away on the contingency always of Mr. Frost's selection to
be the Speaker. The entire House was laid off into lots like real estate
and sold, the purchaser promising his vote and influence in the party
caucus, taking therefor a verbal contract to give him the committee
place he preferred.

This labor of an advance partition of the spoils and the linking of
every possible faction with the campaign of Mr. Frost, was concluded
about a fortnight prior to Mrs. Harley's dinner to Mr. Gwynn. As Senator
Hanway ran his experienced eye over the list and counted the noses of
Mr. Frost's array, he saw that it was not enough. The pontoon would not
reach; there was still a wide expanse of water between his candidate and
the coveted Speakership. As matters rested, and every morsel of House
patronage disposed of to this hungry one or that, the enemy, Mr.
Hawke--being doubly the enemy for that he was become an open supporter
of Governor Obstinate and made no secret that his candidacy for the
Speakership was meant to be a step towards making that gentleman
President--would still rise victorious in caucus by full forty votes.

Senator Hanway's anxious wits were driven hard. He had drawn to Mr.
Frost every splinter of power he could command by barter, and thrown in
his own State delegation in the House by sheer stress of that machine
which he had upreared for his own defense at home. It was not enough;
even the subtraction of two State delegations from the standards of the
foe, by the adroit scheme, applied to each delegation, of dragging one
of its members forward to be a candidate for Speaker, was not enough.
After ten months of labor, Senator Hanway went over the result and could
read nothing therein save failure. And it was like an icicle through his
heart; for aside from what advantage the control of the House might give
his own ambitions, he knew beyond question that with the gavel in the
fingers of a professed partisan of Governor Obstinate, the latter thick,
yet fortunate, individual would occur as the next Presidential candidate
of his party so surely as the sun came up on a convention morning.

Senator Hanway was in this valley of gloom when he heard of Mr. Gwynn.
It was Mr. Harley, ever brisk in railway matters, who told him of that
gentleman as the Colossus of the Anaconda Airline.

"He holds no offices in the management of the company," explained Mr.
Harley, "but, being millions upon millions a majority shareholder his
least word is Anaconda Airline law."

Senator Hanway did not have to be told of the influence of railways in
the destinies of his country. He glanced up at a map on the wall; there
he could see the nation caught like some great clumsy fish in a very
seine of railways. He traced the black, thread-like flight, from
seaboard to seaboard, of the Anaconda Airline. Then he made a
calculation. The Anaconda Airline was the political backbone, first one
State and then another, of forty House members, twenty-three of whom
being of his own complexion of politics, would have a caucus vote. Of
the twenty-three, luck upon good luck! twenty belonged to Mr. Hawke. If
Senator Hanway might only get the Anaconda Airline to crack the thong of
its authority over these recalcitrants, they could be whipped into the
Frost traces. Not one would dare defy an Anaconda order; it would be
political hari-kari. At this point our wily Senator Hanway began laying
plans to bring Mr. Gwynn within his reach; it was in deference to those
plans that our solemn capitalist found himself upon Mrs. Hanway-Harley's
hospitable right hand on that evening of the dinner, with his severe
legs outstretched beneath the Harley mahogany.

"I will see you to-morrow--with your permission," observed Senator
Hanway, as he parted with Mr. Gwynn.

When Mr. Gwynn returned from Mrs. Hanway-Harley's he stood in the middle
of the floor, and told Richard, word for word, all that had taken place.
The latter young gentleman was in a prodigious good humor. For the first
time in his life he had done a day's work, being the twenty-five hundred
word story written and dispatched to the _Daily Tory_, and that was one
reason for joy. Besides, there was the manager's wire of praise--and
Richard thought it marked a weakness in him--that, too, had warmed the
cockles of his heart. Being in good humor, he listened without
interrupting comment to the rasping, parrot tones of Mr. Gwynn while
that gentleman, without inflection or emphasis or slightest shade of
personal interest, told the tale of the night's adventures, from Mrs.
Hanway-Harley's flattery and Mr. Harley's song, to Senator Hanway's last
handclasp and that parting promise of a call.

"And that is all, sir," said Mr. Gwynn, at the close, coughing
apologetically behind his palm as though fearful of criticism.

"You did well," was Richard's response. "When Senator Hanway calls
to-morrow, introduce me to him at once. After that, I shall talk and you
will acquiesce. You may go."

"Thank you, sir. Very good, sir!" said Mr. Gwynn.

Mr. Gwynn received Senator Hanway in his library; Richard was present,
considering the world at large from a window.

"And first of all," said Mr. Gwynn, after greeting Senator Hanway, "and
first of all, let me introduce to your notice Mr. Storms. I may say to
you, sir, I have confidence in Mr. Storms; I act much by his advice."
And here Mr. Gwynn looked at Richard as though appealing for
corroboration.

Senator Hanway, from whose nimble faculties nothing escaped, noted this
appeal. He thought the less of it, since Mr. Harley had given him some
glint of the measureless millions of Mr. Gwynn, and he deduced from this
stiff turning towards Richard, this brittle deference, nothing save a
theory that Mr. Gwynn, by virtue of his tremendous riches, had grown too
great to do his own listening and thinking. It was as plain, as it was
proper, that he should hire them done, precisely as he hired a groom for
his horses or a valet to superintend his clothes. Senator Hanway,
himself, was at bottom impressed by nothing so much as money, and was
quite prepared to believe that one of the world's wealthiest men--for
such he understood to be the case of Mr. Gwynn--would prove in word and
deed and thought a being wholly different from everyone about him.
Wherefore, his heaped millions accounted in Mr. Gwynn for what otherwise
might have been considered by Senator Hanway as queernesses.

To add to this, Mr. Gwynn was of a certain select circle of English
exclusives; Senator Hanway had learned that much from his sister, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley. It was to be expected then that he would have someone
about him to furnish brains for his deliberations, and to make up his
mind as a laundress makes up shirts. Senator Hanway, knowing these
things of Mr. Gwynn, was in no wise surprised that he possessed in his
service one who was hearer, talker, and decider, just as ancient kings
kept folk about whose business was to make witty retorts for them and
conduct sparkling conversations in their stead, they themselves being
too royal for anything so much beneath that level of exalted inanity,
which as all men know is the only proper mark of princely minds.
Something of this raced hit or miss through Senator Hanway's thoughts,
as Mr. Gwynn presented Richard and then relapsed--hinge by hinge as
though his joints were rusty with much aristocratic unbending--into a
chair.

Richard gave him no space to dwell upon the phenomenon. He came forward
with a little atmosphere of deference; for Richard had his own deep
designs. Then, too, Senator Hanway was white of hair and twice his age,
to say nothing of being a certain young lady's uncle.

"Mr. Gwynn has told me of you," said he. Then pushing straight for the
point after methods of his own, he continued: "What is it the Anaconda
Airline can do? Mr. Gwynn is quite convinced, from what he has been told
of those positions you have from time to time assumed in the Senate,
that his own interest with that of every railway owner lies in following
your leadership. Indeed, I think he has decided to adopt whatever
suggestion you may make." Richard glanced towards Mr. Gwynn, and that
great man gave his mandarin bow.

Senator Hanway, while smitten of vague amazement at Mr. Gwynn's
acquiescent spirit, accepted it without pause. However marvelous it
might be, at least he himself ran no risk. More than that, on second
thought it did not occur to him as so peculiarly unusual; a Senator in a
measure becomes inured to the wondrous.

Senator Hanway did not reply directly to Richard's query. Direct replies
were not the habit of this practiced one. He made a speech full of
flattering generalities. He spoke of Richard's connection with the
_Daily Tory_, and expanded upon the weight and influence of that
journal. Also, with a beaming albeit delicate patronage which Richard
stomached for reasons of his own, he intimated complimentary things of
Richard himself and seemed to congratulate the _Daily Tory_ on the
services of one so keen, so sure, so graphic; which last was the more
kind, since Senator Hanway could have known no single reason for
assuming anything of the sort. He told Richard that he hoped to see him
personally every day. Here Richard broke in on the Senatorial flow to
ask if he might wait upon Senator Hanway every morning at eleven.

"For I am warned by Mr. Gwynn," explained Richard, with an alert
mendacity which would have done honor, to Senator Hanway himself, "that
he will hold anything short of calling upon you once a day as barefaced
neglect of his interests."

"Certainly, sir; most barefaced!" creaked Mr. Gwynn, giving the mandarin
bow.

Senator Hanway would be graciously pleased to see Richard every morning
at eleven. Also, he would aid him, as far as was proper, with a recount
of what gusts and windy currents of news were moving in the upper ethers
of government.

Then, having been polite, Senator Hanway got down to business and stated
that Mr. Frost, if Speaker, would favor a certain pooling bill, much
desired by railways, and particularly dear to the Anaconda Airline. On
the obdurate other hand, Mr. Hawke was an enemy to pooling bills and
railways. Mr. Gwynn's interest was plainly with Mr. Frost.

"Not that I care personally for the success of Mr. Frost," remarked
Senator Hanway, "but I know how the railways desire that pooling bill,
and how that pooling bill is a darling measure with Mr. Frost."

"Which brings us back," observed Richard, who never took his eye off a
question, once put, until he saw it mated with an answer, "to Mr.
Gwynn's first interrogatory: What can the Anaconda Airline do?"

Senator Hanway explained. The Anaconda Airline could press down the
weights of its influence upon those twenty-three members. The Anaconda
influence might better be exerted through its President and General
Attorney, and perhaps what special attorneys were local to the
congressional districts of those twenty-three.

"Mr. Gwynn," observed Richard, "anticipated something of the kind, and I
think is prepared to request those officers you name to come to
Washington."

"They shall be requested, sir; certainly, sir," rasped Mr. Gwynn.
Richard's words seemed ever to reverberate in Mr. Gwynn's noble interior
as in a cavern, and thereafter to issue forth by way of his mouth in the
manner of an echo. "Certainly, sir; they shall be requested," repeated
the cavernous Mr. Gwynn.

"Now this is highly gratifying," said Senator Hanway. "And you will have
them call upon me, too, I've no doubt. You should wire them at once; the
caucus, you know, isn't ten days away; Congress convenes on the first
Monday of next month."

Senator Hanway, being of a quick intelligence, had by this time found
his rightful line. He divided himself fairly; for he gave his entire
conversation to Richard while he conferred upon Mr. Gwynn his whole
respect. In good truth, the less Mr. Gwynn said and the less he seemed
to hear and understand, the more Senator Hanway did him honor in his
heart. The rigid witlessness of Mr. Gwynn fairly came over him as the
token and sign of an indubitable nobility, and it was with a feeling
treading upon reverence for that wonderful man that Senator Hanway arose
to go.

"I am much refreshed by this interview," said he, taking Mr. Gwynn's
hand and shaking it pump-handlewise. "Your help should insure Mr.
Frost's success. With Mr. Frost Speaker, railway interests will be
safe-guarded. And," continued Senator Hanway, quoting from one of his
Senate speeches, lifting his voice the while, and falling into a fine
declamatory pose, "he who safeguards the railroads, safeguards his
country. Patriotism cannot count the debt the nation owes the railroads.
Had it not been for the knitting together of the country by the
railroads, bringing into closer touch with one another the West and the
East, the South and the North--the wiping out of sectionalism--the
annihilation of special interests by making all interests general--all
done by the railroads, sir!--this country, broken across the knee of
mountain ranges and sawed into regions by great rivers, would ere this
have been frittered into fragments; and where we have now the glorious
United States--a free and unified people--Europe, who envies as well as
fears us, would be gratified by the spectacle of four and perhaps a half
dozen different and differing countries, each alien and, doubtless, each
hostile to the others." Senator Hanway had reached the door. "And that
this condition of disseverment does not exist," cried he, as he bowed
with final grace to Mr. Gwynn, who approved stonily, "is due to you,
sir; and to gentlemen like you; and to those railways which, like the
Anaconda Airline, form the ties that bind us safe against such
dismembering possibilities and give us, for war or for peace, absolute
coherency as a commonwealth."




CHAPTER V

HOW RICHARD WAS TAUGHT MANY THINGS


Richard went every day at eleven for a brief conference with Senator
Hanway. The latter was no wise backward in his use of the columns of the
_Daily Tory_. There are so many things concerning both men and measures
that statesmen want said, and which, because of their modesty, they
themselves hesitate to say, that Senator Hanway, when now through
Richard he might tell this story of politics or declare that proposal of
state, and still keep his own name under cover, discovered in the _Daily
Tory_ a source of relief. So much, in truth, did Senator Hanway, by way
of Richard and the _Daily Tory_, contribute to the gayety of the times,
that the editor-in-chief was duly scandalized. He aroused himself on the
third evening, killed Richard's dispatch, and rebuked that earnest
journalist with the following:

"Send news; nothing but news. No one wants your notion of the motives of
representatives in fight over Speakership."

This led to a word or two between Richard and Mr. Gwynn, the upcome
being a wire from Mr. Gwynn to the editor desiring him on all occasions
and without alteration or addition to print Richard's dispatches. The
editor in retort reminded Mr. Gwynn that the _Daily Tory_ had a
reputation and a policy: also there were laws of libel. Mr. Gwynn
declined to be moved by these high considerations, and reiterated his
first command. After that Richard in each issue gave way to an unchecked
column letter, which was run sullenly by the editor and never a word
displaced.

This daily letter, signed "R. S.," brought Richard mighty comfort; he
read it fresh and new each morning with mounting satisfaction. Richard,
like other authors, found no literature so good to his palate as his
own; and while his stories looked well enough when he wrote them, the
types never failed in uncovering charms that had escaped his ken. These
were complacent days for Richard the defective; ones to nourish his
self-love.

Being his first work, and performed under his own tolerant mastery,
with none to molest him or make him editorially afraid, it stood
scant wonder that he went about the subject of his own sleepless
self-congratulations. What Richard needed--and never knew it--was
dismissal in rapid succession from at least four newspapers; such a
course of journalistic sprouts would have set his feet in proper paths.
Under the circumstances, however, this improving experience was
impossible; missing the benefits thereof, Richard must struggle on as
best he might without a bridle.

It was fortunate, when one remembers his blinded ignorance, a condition
aggravated by his own acute approval of himself, that Richard had a no
more radical guide than was the cautious Senator Hanway. While that
designing gentleman--the _Daily Tory_ turning the stone--grinded many a
personal ax--_note bene_, never once without exciting the sophisticated
wrath of the editor-in-chief--he was no such headlong temper of a man as
to invite the paper into foolish extravagancies, whether of statement or
of style. As the bug under the chip of the _Daily Tory's_ Washington
correspondence, Senator Hanway was neither a vindictive nor yet a
reckless bug; and the paper, while it became the organ of his ambitions,
made some reputational profit by the very melody of those guarded tunes
he ground.

Richard, you are not to suppose, went unaware of those employments to
which Senator Hanway put him in the vineyard of his policies. He
realized the situation and walked therein with wide and willing eyes. It
served his tender purpose; it would take him to the Harley house and
throw him, perchance, into the society of Dorothy without that dulcet
privilege being identified as the true purpose of his call.

One cannot but marvel that Richard should be at the trouble of so much
difficult chicane. It is strange that he should so entangle what might
have been the simplest of love stories; for you may as well know here as
further on that, had Richard laid bare the truth of himself, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley, far from fencing her daughter against him and his
addresses, would have taken the door off its hinges to let him in. But
Richard, as was heretofore suggested, had been most ignorantly brought
up, or rather had been granted no bringing up at all. Moreover, in the
sensitive cynicism of his nature, which made a laugh its armor and was
harsh for fear of being hurt, our young Democritus had long ago bound
himself with vows that he would accept no friendship, win no love, that
did not come to him upon his mere and unsupported merits as a man. In
his own fashion, so far from being the philosopher he thought, Richard
was a knight errant--one as mad and as romantic as the most
feather-headed Amadis that ever came out of Gaul; and so he is to make
himself a deal of trouble and have himself much laughed at before ever
he succeeds in slipping through the fingers of this history to seek
obscurity with Dorothy by his side. For all that, it is Richard's due to
say that his "R. S." letters attracted polite as well as political
attention, and got him much respected and condemned. Also they lodged
him high in the esteem of Senator Hanway, who discovered daily new
excellencies in him; and this came somewhat to the rescue of Richard one
day.

Senator Hanway had a room in a wing of the Harley house which Mrs.
Hanway-Harley called his study. It was a sumptuous apartment, furnished
in mahogany and leather, and a bookcase, filled with Congressional
Records which nobody ever looked at, stood against the wall. Here it was
that Senator Hanway held his conferences; it was here he laid his plans
and brooded them. When Senator Hanway desired to meet a gentleman and
preferred to keep the meeting dark, this study was the scene of that
secrecy. In such event, the blinds were drawn to baffle what prying or
casual eye might come marching up the street; for in Washington, to see
two men conversing, is to know nine times in ten precisely what the
conversation is about. Commonly, however, the blinds were thrown wide,
as though the study's pure proprietor courted a world's scrutiny.

It was in this study that Richard was received by Senator Hanway. There
was an outside door; a caller might be admitted from the veranda without
troubling the main portals of the Harley house. To save the patience of
that journalist, Senator Hanway called Richard's attention to the
veranda door, and commissioned him to make use of it. Senator Hanway
said that he did not wish to subject one whom he valued so highly, and
who was on such near terms with his good friend, Mr. Gwynn, to the slow
ceremony which attended a regular invasion of the premises.

Richard thanked Senator Hanway, although he could have liked it better
had he been less thoughtfully polite. Richard would have preferred the
main floor, with whatever delay and formal clatter such entrance made
imperative. The more delay and the more clatter, the more chance of
seeing Dorothy. It struck him with a dubious chill when Senator Hanway
suddenly distinguished him with the freedom of that veranda door--a
franchise upon which your statesman laid flattering emphasis, saying
that not ten others had been granted it.

This episode of the veranda door befell upon the earliest visit which
Richard made in his quality of correspondent of the _Daily Tory_. On
that day, being admitted by way of the Harley front door, Richard had
the felicity of coming in with the before-mentioned daily sheaf of
roses. Richard and the blossom-bearing colored youth entered together,
the door making the one opening to admit both; and by this fortunate
chance--which Richard the wily had waited around the corner to
secure--he was given the joy of seeing and hearing the beautiful Dorothy
gurgle over the flowers.

"And to think," cried Dorothy, her nose in the bosom of a rose, "no one
knows from whom they come! Mamma thinks Count Storri sends them. It's so
good of him, if he does!"

Dorothy's head was bowed over the flowers. As she spoke, however, her
blue eye, full of mischief, watched Richard through a silken lock of
hair that had fallen forward.

"But you don't think it's Storri?" cried Richard dolorously.

"Oh, no!" returned Dorothy, shaking her head with wise decision, "I
don't think it's Count Storri. But of course I wouldn't tell mamma so;
she doesn't like to be contradicted. Still," and here Dorothy looked
quite wistful, "I wish I knew who did send them."

Before Richard could take up the delicate question of the roses and
their origin, there arrived the word of Senator Hanway that he be shown
into the study.

"Now that I'm a working journalist, Miss Harley," said Richard, "I shall
be obliged to see your uncle every day."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Dorothy, with a fine sympathy; "how hard they
drive you poor newspaper people!"

"Still, we go not without our rewards," returned Richard.

Then observing that Senator Hanway's messenger--who had not those
reasons for loitering which made slow the feet of Richard--was already
halfway down the hall, Richard took Dorothy's small hand in his, and,
before she knew her peril or might make an effort to avoid it,
rapturously kissed the fingers, not once, not twice, but five times. The
very fingers themselves burned with the scandal of it! Following this
deed of rapine, Richard went his vandal way; Dorothy's face turned a
twin red with the roses.

Dorothy said nothing in rebuke of Richard, and it is to be assumed that,
so flagrant an outrage left her without breath to voice her
condemnation. That she was disturbed to the heart is sure, for she went
instantly to her friend, the sibyl of the golden locks, for conference,
confidence, and consolation.

"Wasn't he wretchedly bold, Bess?" said Dorothy in an awe-stricken
whisper.

"Absolutely abandoned!" said Bess.

Then the two sat in silence for ten impressive seconds.

"Bess," remarked Dorothy tentatively, "suppose mamma were to forbid me
loving one whom I loved----" Here she broke down, aghast.

"My dear Dorothy," cried the other, surprised into deepest concern,
"your mother didn't see him kissing your fingers, did she?"

"Oh, no, Bess," said Dorothy hurriedly, "we were quite alone."

"You foolish girl," returned Bess. "You alarmed me!"

"But really, Bess," persisted Dorothy, "to put it this way: if your
mamma insisted, would you give way and marry a man you didn't love?"

"You mean Count Storri," replied Bess. "Now, Dorothy, listen to me. In
the first place, you are an arrant hypocrite. You pretend to be soft and
powerless and yielding, and to appeal to me for counsel. And all the
time you are twice as obstinate as I am, and much less likely to accept
a man you don't love, or give up one whom you love."

"Well, Bess," said Dorothy defensively, a bit stricken of these truths,
"really, I want your opinions on marriage."

"Oh, that is it! Then snap your fingers in the teeth of command, and
marry no man whom you do not love!"

"But the man you love might not want you!" sighed Dorothy.

"The man you love will always want you," declared Bess with firmness.

"How sweet you are!"

"And as for parents making matches for their daughters," continued Bess,
unmoved of the tribute, and speaking as one who for long had made a
study of the world's domestic affairs, "it is sure to lead to trouble
and divorce."

"Is it?" asked Dorothy, appalled.

"It is!" returned Bess with a sepulchral air, as though pronouncing
doom. Then, mocking Dorothy's serious face with a little tumult of
laughter, she went on: "There; it's all decided now the way you wished.
You are to refuse Count Storri and marry Mr. Storms without bestowing
either care or thought on what Mamma Harley or Papa Harley or Uncle Pat
may say or do about it."

"Really, Bess, how much better you have made me feel. After all, there's
nobody like a wise, dear, true friend!"

"The value of such a friend is beyond conjecture," returned the mocking
Bess, reassuming her tones of the oracle.

The memory of Richard's kisses on her fingers never left Dorothy all
that day and all that night. Those fortunate little fingers seemed
translated into something rosily better and apart from herself. And brow
and ears and eyes and cheeks and lips went envying those lucky fingers;
and in the end the lips crept upon them and kissed them for having been
kissed; perhaps with vague thoughts of robbing them of some portion of
the blissful wealth wherewith they had been invested. Richard, being
male, for his part thought the less about it, and went simply meditating
future sweet aggressions. And that shows the difference between a man
and a maid.

Richard, feeding his love with thoughts of Dorothy and his vanity with
ink, and thereby gaining two mighty reasons for living, began to keep
earlier hours. He turned out at nine o'clock instead of eleven and
twelve, hours which had formerly matched his languid fancy. These
energetic doings bred alarm in both Matzai and Mr. Pickwick, evoking
snappish protests from the latter, who, being of a nocturnal turn, held
that the day was meant for sleep. On the morning after he had been
honored with the privilege of the veranda door, Richard was borne upon
by something akin to gloom. This feeling went with him from bed to bath,
and from bath to breakfast, and finally walked with him all the way to
the Harley house. He was willing to sacrifice the _Daily Tory_ and yoke
himself personally to the mills of Senator Hanway's designs; but he must
see Dorothy. That brightness was the bribe, unspoken and unknown to all
save himself, that had brought him into Washington and these sundry and
divers plots and counterplots of state. And now to be cheated through
the polite blunderings of a gentleman who was so engaged in considering
himself that he had neither time nor eyes for any other! Richard swore
roundly in mental fashion at his contrary fate. And yet he saw no way to
better the situation; and perforce, for this morning at least, he was
driven to push the bell of the veranda door. He might have gone about
the ceremony with more cheer had he known how he was to gain an ally in
his troubles; one, moreover, whose aid was sure to prove effective.

As Senator Hanway's black messenger ushered Richard into that
statesman's study, the radiant Dorothy, perched at the end of Senator
Hanway's table, was the picture that greeted his eyes. Our radiant one
sought to stifle her effulgence beneath a look severe and practical.
This expression of practical severity was a failure, and served to
render her more dazzling.

"I have made up my mind," quoth Dorothy, the moment Richard was inside
the door, and speaking in the loud, dead-level monotone which she
conceived to be the voice for business conversations as against the
giggling, gurgling ups and downs of conversations purely social, "I have
made up my mind to come in every morning and help Uncle Pat. I'm tired
of being a useless encumbrance."

Delivering which, Dorothy wore the resolved manner of a new Joan of Arc
who had come seeking fields of politics rather than those of war.

"And I have been of use to you, haven't I, Uncle Pat?" demanded Dorothy.

"Of measureless use, dear," said Senator Hanway. Then, turning to his
secretary, who had taken a score of letters shorthand and was about to
seek his own quarters and run them off upon the typewriter: "Have those
copied by three o'clock and bring them here for signature."

Senator Hanway had no more than given Richard good-morning when Senator
Loot was announced.

"He won't stay long," said Senator Hanway; "but while he's here, dear,
won't you take Mr. Storms into the library?" This request was preferred
to Dorothy.

"Yes," began Dorothy, when she and Richard found themselves in the
library, and nothing to interrupt them but the distant slumbrous rumble
of Senator Loot. "Yes, I'm going to help Uncle Pat. And I'm going to
learn how to be a newspaper woman, too. I think every girl should be
capable of earning her own living. Not that I expect to be obliged to do
so; but it is best to be prepared." Dorothy's face was funereal, as
though disasters, clawed and fanged, were roaming the thickets of the
future to spring upon her. "So I shall learn the newspaper trade; go in
and be a writer as you are--only not so brilliant--and then, if it were
necessary, I could earn my own way."

Now Richard knew these industrious resolutions to be the veriest webs of
subterfuge. Their duplicity was apparent, and they were spun for him.
Dorothy owned no thought of missing his morning calls, and had met
Senator Hanway's courtesies of the veranda door with a move in flank.
The news cocked up the spirits of Richard excessively, and gave to his
Farnese shoulders an insolent swing as he strutted up and down the
library. He had expected Dorothy to reproach him for the soft violence
done her fingers; but she made no mention of it. Whereupon--in such
manner do unchecked iniquities multiply upon themselves--Richard turned
towards her with a purpose of again outraging those little fingers with
the burden of a fresh caress. The little fingers, grown wary, however,
were in discreet retirement behind Dorothy, as, with her back to the
window, she stood facing him. Defeated in his campaign against the
fingers before it had begun, Richard was driven to discuss Dorothy's
work-a-day resolves.

"Newspaper work? Do society, I suppose?"

Richard had gotten hold of the idioms of the craft, and spoke of "doing
society" as though reared among the types.

"No, not society," and Dorothy shook her head. "I'd pick 'em to pieces,
the minxes; and the papers don't want that. No, I'm going to learn about
politics with Uncle Pat. I shall write politics. You must teach me."

Richard said he would.

"Only you should know," said he, "that I need a deal of teaching
myself."

"But you can write!" cried Dorothy, her hands emerging from their
retreat to clasp each other in a glow of admiration. "I've read your
letters. They remind me of Carlyle's 'French Revolution.'"

This staggered Richard; was his idol laughing at him? A glance into her
eyes showed only a darkened enthusiasm; whereat Richard puffed and
swelled. Perhaps his _Daily Tory_ letters did have the rhetorical tread
of the Scotchman's masterpiece. In any event it was pleasant to have
Dorothy think so. Before he could frame his modesty to fit reply, the
cumbrous retreat of Senator Loot was overheard.

"Now we must go back," said Dorothy.

"May I have a rose?" asked Richard, pointing to his blushing consignment
of that day, where they luxuriated in a giant vase.

"Don't touch my hands!" cried Dorothy fiercely, whipping them behind
her.

Richard gave his humble parole that he would not touch her hands. Being
reassured, Dorothy pinned a bud in his lapel. The little fingers were so
fondly confident of safety that they made no haste in these labors of
the bud. Their confidence went unabused; Richard adhered to his parole
and never touched them.

"I'm glad you can keep your promise!" said Dorothy, pouting from pure
delight.

Later, the pair made love to one another with their eyes across the
dignified desk of Senator Hanway, while that statesman told Richard
matters to the detriment of Mr. Hawke's canvass for a Speakership and
Governor Obstinate's claims upon a Presidency, of which, through the
medium of the _Daily Tory_, he believed the public should be informed.

"My dear Dorothy," observed the sibyl of the golden locks, when the
other related how faithfully Richard had kept his compact concerning her
fingers, "you ought never to make a man promise the thing you do not
want. They are such dullards; besides, they have a passion for keeping
their word."

The President and General Attorney and thirty-two underling attorneys of
the Anaconda Airline, in accord with Mr. Gwynn's request, descended upon
Washington. The thirty-two underling attorneys, coming to town by twos
and threes, were amazed when they found a gathering of the Anaconda
Airline clans. They collected in groups and clots at the Shorcham, the
Arlington, and Willard's to discuss their amazement.

The President and General Attorney, if they were smitten of wonder,
concealed it, and within the hour after their arrival rang the doorbell
of Mr. Gwynn. They were ushered into a room the tamed splendors of which
told the thorough taste that had conceived it. Then their cards went up
to Mr. Gwynn.

Word came back that Mr. Gwynn was deeply engaged. Would the President
and the General Attorney of the Anaconda Airline call again in an hour?
The President and General Attorney had for long harbored a theory that
Mr. Gwynn was the greatest man on earth. Now they knew it; the fact was
displayed beyond dispute by his failure to instantly see them. The
President and General Attorney withdrew, silent in their awe, and Mr.
Gwynn dispatched Matzai to find Richard.

On the hour's even stroke, the President and General Attorney were again
at Mr. Gwynn's. That personage was still unable to meet them; however,
he sent Richard with written excuses for his absence and the suggestion
that Richard, speaking in his place, would put them in possession of his
wishes.

"Mr. Gwynn desired to say," observed Richard, "that Anaconda Airline
interests deeply depend upon Mr. Frost for Speaker."

"What we've said from the beginning!" remarked the President to the
General Attorney.

"Precisely what we've said!" observed the General Attorney.

They had said nothing on that point; but they were too well drilled in
their own interests to fail of complete coincidence with a gentleman who
could call a special shareholders' meeting, elect a new directory, and
revise the entire official family of the Anaconda Airline within any
given thirty days.

"Mr. Gwynn asks you, then," said Richard, "since you and he agree on the
propriety of Mr. Frost for Speaker, to consult with Senator Hanway."

And now the Anaconda Airline was in the war for the House gavel. Under
the supervision of Senator Hanway, it brought its whole smothering
weight to bear upon the Hawke twenty of those twenty-three whose
districts it dominated. The Hawke twenty wriggled and writhed, but in
the end gave way--all save a rock-ribbed quartette. They must stay by
the standards of Mr. Hawke.

"Our constituents will destroy us if we don't," said they.

"The Anaconda will destroy you if you do," was the blunt retort of the
General Attorney.

The four stood firm, and were blacklisted for slaughter at the polls a
year away, at which time they were faithfully knocked on the head.
Sixteen of the twenty went over to Mr. Frost; the President of the
Anaconda Airline came out in an interview in the _Daily Tory_ and said
that the shift of the excellent sixteen was a popular victory.

It was two days before the caucus. The line-up of forces, Frost against
Hawke, Hanway against Obstinate, under able captains went vigorously
forward. It pleased Senator Hanway to hear that the Frost fortunes were
being unexpectedly served by the volcanic Mr. Hawke himself. That
gentleman had fallen into a state of indignant eruption; his best
friends could not approach him because of the smoke and flame and lava
which his rage cast up.

"The most scoundrel thing I ever saw in Washington is that I am made to
fight for the Speakership!" cried the eruptive Mr. Hawke; and this
fashion of outburst does not help any man's cause.

To steal a simile from a dead gentleman who stole from others in his
day, Mr. Hawke went into the final battle of the caucus much after the
manner wherewith a horse approaches a drum, that is, with a deal of
prance and but little progress, and, for the most part, wrong end
foremost. Even then the count of Senator Hanway--a cold-blooded
computation--gave that gavel to the violent Mr. Hawke. So much for being
a House leader, a tariff monger, and a friend of Governor Obstinate.

On the afternoon before the caucus, Senator Hanway took a last look at
the array. Besides Mr. Hawke and Mr. Frost, there were two other
candidates, Mr. Patch and Mr. Swinger. These latter had been sent into
the lists by the diplomacy of Senator Hanway to hold the delegations
from their States, a majority whereof, if released, would fly to Mr.
Hawke. With all four names before the caucus, Mr. Frost would lead Mr.
Hawke by two, without having a majority. Eliminate Mr. Patch and Mr.
Swinger, however, and Mr. Hawke would be chosen by a majority of seven.
And, while the battle might be made to stagger on through forty ballots,
in the end Mr. Patch and Mr. Swinger must perforce withdraw. They could
give no excuse for holding on forever in a fight shown to be hopeless.
Some method must be devised to break the Hawke alignment or in a last
solution of the situation Mr. Frost would lose.

Senator Hanway made ready to play his last card--a card to which nothing
short of the desperate turn of events would have caused him to resort.
He made a list of eighteen of Mr. Hawke's supporters; he picked them out
because they were nervous, hysterical souls whom one might hope to
stampede. Senator Hanway then got the names, with the home addresses, of
a score of the principal constituents of each of these aspen, hysterical
gentlemen.

A telegraph operator, one close-mouthed and of a virtuous taciturnity,
sat up all night with Senator Hanway in his study--the night before the
caucus. There was none present but Senator Hanway and the wordless
telegraphic one; the former, deeming the occasion one proper for that
cautious rite, drew the blinds closely.

At Senator Hanway's dictation, the taciturn one who had been so
forethoughtful as to bring with him envelopes and blanks, wrote
messages to each of the hysterical eighteen, about twenty to a man,
signing them with the names of those influential constituents. The
messages were letter-perfect; in each instance, the message for
signature bore the name of one upon whom the member who would receive it
leaned in his destinies of politics. No two were worded alike, albeit
each commanded and demanded the Speakership for Mr. Frost. When they
were done, nearly four hundred of them, the taciturn one endowed them
with those quirleyques and symbols and hieroglyphics which belong with
genuine messages, and finished by sealing each in an envelope properly
numbered and addressed. Then the taciturn one made a delivery book to
match the messages.

"There!" exclaimed Senator Hanway, when at four in the morning the
taciturn one tossed the last forged message upon the pile and said that
all were done; "that's finished. Now at two o'clock put on a messenger's
uniform and come to the Capitol. It's 4 a. m. now, and this is Saturday;
the caucus convenes at two o'clock sharp. It will be held in the House
chamber. There will be ten ballots; I have arranged for that, and Patch
and Swinger will not withdraw before. The ten ballots will consume two
hours and a half--fifteen minutes to a roll call. After they have gone
through four roll calls, begin to send in these messages; the caucus
officer on the door will sign for them. Send first one to each member;
then two; then four; then five; then all you have. Give about fifteen
minutes between consignments. Have you got my plan?"

The taciturn one nodded.

"Here is a one-hundred-dollar bill," observed Senator Hanway, "for your
night's work. Four more wait for you when Mr. Frost is declared the
caucus nominee."

Saturday afternoon; and the caucus met behind locked doors. It was a
mighty struggle; now and then some waifword reached the outside world of
what Titan deeds were being done. There were speeches, and roll calls;
men lost their heads and then their reputations. The sixteen threatened
of the Anaconda Airline, with the fear of political death upon them,
voted for Mr. Frost. Messrs. Patch and Swinger held fast through ballot
after ballot, keeping their delegations together, while the Hawke
captains pleaded and begged and promised and threatened in their efforts
to make them withdraw and release their followings to the main battle.
Through roll call after roll call the tally never varied. With two
hundred and ten members voting, the count stood: Frost, ninety-two;
Hawke, ninety; Swinger, fifteen; Patch, thirteen. Of the twenty-eight
who voted for Messrs. Patch and Swinger, it was understood that Mr.
Hawke would take three-fourths upon a breakaway. For this reason the
Hawke captains labored and moiled with Messrs. Patch and Swinger to
withdraw and cast those twenty-eight votes into the general caldron.

[Illustration: At the Door of the Caucus Room]

On the touch of three, and while the fourth roll-call was in progress,
the first of Senator Hanway's prepared messages were received and signed
for at the caucus door. Ten minutes later, and something like forty more
were given entrance. During the sixth roll-call sixty messages came in,
and a rickety little representative, with a beard like a goat and terror
tugging at his heart, arose and changed his vote to Mr. Frost. The
rickety little man had been for Mr. Hawke, and this sudden turning of
his coat provoked a tempest of cheers from the Frosts and maledictions
from the Hawkes. A dozen men of both factions crowded about the little
rickety man, some to hold him for Mr. Frost and others to drag him back
to Mr. Hawke. The rickety little man was well-nigh torn in two. Kingdoms
and thrones were being gambled for and the players were in earnest.

In the height of the uproar over the rickety little man, two more of the
flock of Hawke arose, and with faltering lip stated that, by the demands
of constituents whom they were there to represent and whose wishes they
dared not disregard, they would also change their votes to Mr. Frost.
The cheers of the Frosts and the curses of the Hawkes were redoubled;
but the Frosts drowned the Hawkes, since it is one of the admirable
arrangements of Providence that men can cheer louder than they can
curse.

And now a bevy of full one hundred of the Hanway messages came through
the door. The stampede which started with the rickety, goat-bearded
little man, to include the duo chronicled, upon a seventh roll call
swept five more Hawkes from their perches and gave them over to Mr.
Frost. More messages, more changes; and all to finish in a pandemonium
in which Messrs. Patch and Swinger were withdrawn, and Mr. Frost was
landed Speaker by the meager fringe of three. Speaker Frost it was; and
everyone conceded that a staggering blow had been dealt the Presidential
hopes of Governor Obstinate. Senator Hanway, waiting at the Senate end
for news, sighed victoriously when word was brought him. It would be
Speaker Frost; and now, with House and Senate his, he for the first time
felt himself within sure and striking distance of a White House.




CHAPTER VI

HOW STORRI HAD A VIVID IMAGINATION


Storri had no more of moral nature than has a tiger or a kite. He was
founded upon no integrity, would keep faith with no one save himself.
Storri was not a moral lunatic, for that would suppose some original
morality and its subversion to insane aims; rather he was the moral
idiot. At that, his imbecility paused with his morals; in what a world
calls business he was notably bright and forward.

Storri was of education, had traveled wide and far, as ones of his
predatory stamp are prone to do, and with a Russian facility for tongues
spoke English, German, French, and half the languages of Europe. The
instinctive purpose of Storri's existence was to make money. To him,
money was a prey, and stood as do deer to wolves; and yet, making a fine
distinction, he was rapacious, not avaricious. Avarice includes some
idea of a storekeeping commerce that amasses by buying for one dollar
and selling for two. Storri would have failed at that. He was rapacious
as the pirate is rapacious, and with a gambler's love for the uncertain,
he balked at anything whereof the possible profits were cut and dried.
He wanted to win, but he was willing to lose if he must; and above all
he distasted the notion of a limit. Like every wild thing, Storri shied
at a fence and loved the wilderness. While Storri knew nothing of
honesty, he preferred his gold on legitimate lines. This leaning towards
the lawful came not from any bias of probity; Storri simply wanted to be
safe, having a horror of chains and bolts and cages and striped
garments.

When Storri arrived in Washington, he came from Canada by way of New
York. The year before he had been in Paris, and was something--not for
long--of a figure on the Bourse. He had been in every capital of Asia
and Europe, and all the while his restless eye sleepless in its search
for money.

Gifted with an imagination, Storri evolved a scheme. Starting in
moderation, it grew with his wanderings until, link upon link, it became
endless and belted the earth. Storri's imagination was like a tar
barrel; accident might set fire to it, but once in the least of flame it
must burn on and on, with no power of self-extinguishment, until it
burned itself out. Or it was like him who, given a halter, straightway
takes a horse.

It is the theory of Europe that Americans are maniacs of money. European
conservatism draws a money-line beyond which it will not pass. When any
man of Europe has a proposal of business too big for the European
mouth--wearing its self-imposed half-muzzle of conservatism--that
promoter and his proposal head for America. It was this which gained
Washington the advantage of a visit from Storri; his stop in
Canada--being a six-months' stay in Ottawa--was only preliminary to his
coming here.

While his own people of Russia drew back from those enterprises which
Storri's agile imagination had in train, the government at St.
Petersburg, in what was perhaps a natural hope that he might find
Americans more reckless, endowed him as he came away with a guarded pat
on the back. The St. Petersburg government advised its representatives
in America to introduce without indorsing Storri.

Storri was by no means wise after the manner of a Franklin or a Humboldt
or a Herschel; but he did possess the deep sapiency of the serpent or
the fox. He owned inborn traits to steal and creep upon his prey of
money. Being in Washington, and looking up and down, he was quick to
note the strategic propriety of an alliance with Mr. Harley. Mr. Harley
had connections with American millionaires; most of all, he was the
_alter ego_ of a powerful congressional figure. Storri could talk with
Mr. Harley; Mr. Harley could talk with Senator Hanway. Since Congress
would be required for the success of Storri's plans, this last was to be
of prime importance.

Because Mr. Harley made it his affectation to be boisterously frank and
friendly upon short acquaintance, Storri met no vexatious delays in
coming to an understanding with him. You are not to assume that Mr.
Harley was truthful because he was boisterous or his frankness went
freighted of no guile. It is commonest error to believe your frankest
talker, your greatest teller of truth; whereas, in a majority of
instances, the delusive garrulity is a mask or a feint, meant only to
cover facts and screen designs of which the victim's first notice is,
snap! when they pin him like a steel-trap. Still, Storri entertained no
risks when he broke into confidences with Mr. Harley. It was Mr. Harley
who listened and Storri who talked; besides, Storri, in any conflicting
tug of interest, could be as loquacious as Mr. Harley, and as false. It
was diamond cutting diamond and Greek meeting Greek. Only, since Storri
was a Count, and Mr. Harley one upon whom a title went not without
blinding effect, Storri had a fractional advantage.

Storri and Mr. Harley enjoyed several casual talks; that is, Mr. Harley
thought them casual, although every one was planned by Storri. In none
did Storri unpack his enterprises; these talks were feelers, and he was
studying Mr. Harley. Storri was gratified to find Mr. Harley, by native
trend, as rapacious and as much the gambler as himself. Also, he
observed the licking satisfaction wherewith Mr. Harley listened to every
noble reference; with that, Storri contrived--for his conversation--a
fashion of little personal Kingdom on the Caspian, tossed himself up a
castle, and entertained therein from time to time about half the royal
blood of Europe; all to the marvelous delight of Mr. Harley, whom Storri
never failed to wish had been a guest on those purple occasions.

At this seductive rate, it was no more than a matter of ten days before
Mr. Harley went quoting his friend Storri; he had that titled Slav to
dinner, when the latter became as much the favorite with Mrs.
Hanway-Harley as he was with her ruder spouse.

Storri saw Dorothy; and was set burning with a love for her that, if the
flame were less pure, was as instant and as devouring as the love to
sweep over Richard upon the boot-heel evening when he caught her in his
arms. Storri forgot himself across table, and his onyx eyes were riveted
upon Dorothy as though their owner were enthralled.

Dorothy felt at once flattered and repelled. She was interested, even
while she shuddered; it was as though she had been made the object of
the sudden, if venomous, admiration of a king-cobra.

"My friend," purred Storri, one afternoon when he and Mr. Harley were
alone, "my good friend, I will no longer refrain from taking you into my
confidence; and when I say that, you are to understand, also, into the
confidence of my Czar."

Storri rested his head in his hand a moment, and seemed to ponder the
propriety of what he was about. Mr. Harley said nothing, but sat
a-fidget with curiosity. It is not given every American to be taken, via
a Count with estates on the Caspian, into the confidence of a Czar.

"Yes, into the confidence of my Czar," repeated Storri. "See now, my
friend, I will lay bare my soul to you. I am resolved you shall be with
me in my vast adventure. With you--who are practical--who have business
genius--my dreams will become realities. Without you, I--who am a mere
poet of finance--an artist of commerce--would fail. I have genius to
conceive; I cannot carry out. But you--you, my dear friend, are what you
call executive."

Mr. Harley felt profoundly flattered, and showed it; Storri pushed on,
watching the other with the tail of his eye. The slant survey was
satisfactory; Mr. Harley showed half upon his guard and wholly
interested.

"I have conceived projects so gigantic they will stagger belief. And yet
they are feasible; you will make them so. You will take them and girdle
the earth with them as Saturn is girdled by his rings. Observe now!
These, my designs, have the good wishes of my Czar; and next to him you
are that one to whom they are first told. Why do I come so far with my
dreams? I will tell you; it was by command of my Czar.

"'Storri, you must go to America,' were his words. 'You would only stun
Europe; you would not gain her aid. Go to America. There, and there
only, will you find what you require. They, and they of all men, have
the courage, the brains, the money, the enterprise, and--shall I
say?--the honor!'"

Having quoted his Czar in these good opinions of Americans, Storri
rapidly and in clearest sequence laid out his programmes. Before he was
half finished, Mr. Harley went following every word with all his senses.
Storri was lucid; Storri was hypnotic; Storri had his projects so
faultlessly in hand that, as he piled up words, he piled up conviction
in the breast of Mr. Harley.

Storri began with China. Being equipped for the conversation--which had
not been so much the result of romantic chance as Mr. Harley might have
supposed--he laid upon the table a square of yellow silk. It was written
over with Chinese characters which, for all Mr. Harley knew, might have
been inscriptions copied from a tea chest. As a matter of truth, they
were genuine. The silk was the record of a concession by the Chinese
Government. It gave Storri, or what company he might form, the privilege
of building a railway across China from east to west. He might select
his port on the Pacific, build his road, and break into Russia on the
west and north at what point best matched the enterprise. Also, it
granted a right to buy land wherever it became necessary, and to own
what wharf and water rights were required. Incidentally, so Storri said,
it permitted gold digging.

"You shall take it to the Chinese legation!" exclaimed Storri. "They
shall translate for you. Yes; it gives gold rights. Gold? There is so
much gold in China that your own California becomes laughable by
comparison. See there," and Storri placed a little leathern pouch on the
table. "There are three ounces. Do you know how they were obtained? I
spread a blanket in the bed of a little stream, and weighted it with
stones so that it lay flat. Then I took a stick, and tossed up the mud
and the sand of that little stream, just above. The muddy water, thick
as paint, flowed over the blanket. In thirty minutes I took my blanket
ashore, and washed from the sediment it had caught and held this
gold--three ounces! Bah! Gold? China is the home of gold! But China and
these concessions are only the beginning."

Storri sketched a steamship line to connect his Chinese railway with
Puget Sound. For this they ought to have a subsidy from the United
States. From Puget they must have a railway to Duluth. On the Great
Lakes, Storri would have a line of steamships.

"Only, we will improve upon those lakes!" cried Storri. "It was that to
carry me to Ottawa."

Then Storri unrolled maps and reports from Canadian engineers which
vouched the plausibility of a ship canal from a deep-water point on that
eastern arm of Lake Huron called Georgian Bay to Toronto on Lake
Ontario.

"It shall be two hundred feet wide," explained Storri, "and thirty feet
deep. The distance is less than one hundred miles, and the fall less
than one hundred feet. To dig it will be child's play; you may read the
reports of the engineers; they show how advantage may be had of a Lake
Simcoe, and of a little river. Here also are letters and guarantees from
eminent men of Canada that their parliament will permit and protect the
canal. Less than one hundred miles long; and yet that canal will cut off
seven hundred."

Once in Lake Ontario at Toronto, Storri's boats, by way of the St.
Lawrence--which might have to be dredged in places--were to make a
straight wake for St. Petersburg, touching at English, French, and
German ports. The ships were to clear in Duluth for St. Petersburg; and
in St. Petersburg for Duluth. They were to fly the American flag; that,
too, should mean a subsidy. Besides, there must be an American
commission to confer with a Canadian commission touching the canal.

Once in St. Petersburg, Storri would have the aid of his own country in
whatever might be necessary to carry him to the western terminus of his
Chinese railway. He had writings in French from the Czar's government
which set this forth. Only, the Russian assurances were made contingent
upon a standing army of "Ifs." "If" Storri _should_ throw a railway
across China; and "if" he _should_ launch a line of steamships across
the Pacific--the same fostered by the Washington Government with a
subsidy--and "if" all and singular the railway from Puget to Duluth, the
Canadian Canal, and the line of steamships from Duluth to St.
Petersburg--also with a subsidy--_were_ once extant and in operation,
then the Czar would step graciously in and see what might be done in
forging those final Russian railway links required to unite the ends of
this interesting chain.

"And you are to know," went on Storri, "that my government, the St.
Petersburg Government, is paternal. It will give whatever, in the way of
land rights and loans, is demanded by the exigencies of the project.

"And there," cried Storri in conclusion, as he shoved maps, papers, and
concessions, Russian, Canadian, and Chinese, across to Mr. Harley, "is
an idea the magnificence of which the ages cannot parallel! It is
simple, it is great! We shall have three-score small companies--that is,
small compared with the grand one I am to name. We shall have land and
banking and lumber and mining and railway and steamship and canal
companies. We shall have companies owning elevators and factories and
stores and mills. Each will employ a capital of from two to two hundred
millions of dollars. Over all, and to own the stock of those smaller
ones, we must throw a giant company. Do you know what it will require?
Do you realize what its capital must be? It will call for the cost price
of an empire, my friend; it will demand full thirty billions! Think of
the president of such a company! He will have rank by himself; he will
tower above kings. What shall we call it? Name it for that mighty
Portuguese who was first to send his ship around the globe; name it
Credit Magellan!"

Mr. Harley wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was a day in October,
one reasonably cool, and yet, when Storri ended with his Credit Magellan
and came to a full stop, Mr. Harley was in a perspiration. It was those
thirty billions that did it. Mr. Harley was no stoic to sit unmoved in
the presence of such wealth, and the graphic Storri made those billions
real.

When Storri had done, Mr. Harley gulped and gasped a bit, and then asked
if he might retain the armful of papers for further consideration. He
would like to go over them carefully; particularly those Canadian
reports and assurances that related to the canal.

"My dear, good friend," cried Storri, with a magnificent wave of the
hand, "you may do what you will!"

There are men, reckoned shrewd in business, whose shrewdness can be
overcome by ciphers. It is as though they were wise up to seven figures.
Mr. Harley was of these; he had his boundaries. His instincts were
solvent, his policies sound, his suspicions full of life and courage, so
that you went no higher than nine millions. Burdened beyond that, his
imagination would break down; and since his instincts, his policies, and
his suspicions rested wholly upon his imagination, when the latter fell
the others must of need go with it. There is a depth to money just as
there is to a lake; when you led Mr. Harley in beyond the
nine-million-dollar mark he began to drown. When Storri--Pelion upon
Ossa--piled steamship on railway, and canal on steamship, and banking
and lumber and mining and twenty other companies on top of these, Mr.
Harley was dazed and benumbed. When Storri concluded and capped all with
his Credit Magellan, capital thirty billions, it was, so far as Mr.
Harley is to be considered, like taking a child to sea. In the haze and
the blur of it, Mr. Harley could see nothing, say nothing; his impulse
was to be alone and collect himself. He felt as might one who has been
staring at the sun. Storri's picture of an enterprise so vast that it
proposed to set out the world like a mighty pan of milk, and skim the
cream from two hemispheres, dazzled him and caused his wits to lose
their way.

At the end of three days Mr. Harley had begun to get his bearings; he
was still fascinated, but the fog was lifting. Step by step he went over
Storri's grand proposals; and, while he had now his eyes, each step
seemed only to take him more deeply into a wilderness of admiration.
That very admiration filled him with a sense of dull alarm. He resolved
to have other counsel than his own. Were he and Storri to embark upon
this world-girdling enterprise, they must have money-help. He would take
the project to certain money-loving souls; he would get their opinions
by asking their aid.

Mr. Harley went to New York and called about him a quintette of
gentlemen, each of whom had been with him and Senator Hanway in more
than one affair of shady profit. Mankind does not change, its methods
change, and trade has still its Kidds and Blackbeards. Present commerce
has its pirates and its piracies; only the buccaneers of now do not
launch ships, but stock companies, while Wall and Broad Streets are
their Spanish Main. They do not, like Francis Drake, lay off and on at
the Isthmus to stop plate ships; they seek their galleons in the Stock
Exchange. Those five to gather at the call of Mr. Harley were of our
modern Drakes. He told them, under seal of secrecy, Storri's programme,
and put before them the documents, Russian, Canadian, and Chinese.

Mr. Harley felt somewhat justified of his own enthusiasm when he
observed the serious glow in the eyes of those five. They sent to Mott
Street, and brought back a learned Oriental to translate the Chinese
silk. The Mott Street one, himself a substantial merchant and a Mongol
of high caste, appeared wrapped in rustling brocades and an odor of
opium. When he beheld the yellow silk he bent himself, and smote the
floor three times with his forehead. More than anything told by Mr.
Harley did this profound obeisance of the Mott Street Oriental leave its
impress upon the five. They, themselves, bowed to nothing save gold; the
silken document must record a franchise of gravity and money-moment to
thus set their visitor to beating the carpet with his head! Having done
due honor to the Emperor's signature, the Mott Street one gave Mr.
Harley and his friends the silken document's purport in English. It
granted every right, railway, wharf, and gold, asserted by Storri. Then
Mr. Harley wired that nobleman to join them in New York.

Storri had not been informed of Mr. Harley's New York visit. But he had
counted on it, and the summons in no wise smote him with surprise. Once
with Mr. Harley and the adventurous five, Storri again went over his
project, beginning at the Chinese railway and closing with Credit
Magellan, capital thirty billions. Not one who heard went unconvinced;
not one but was willing to commence in practical fashion the carrying
out of this high financial dream.

It was the romance--for money-making has its romances--and the
adventurous uncertainty of the thing, the pushing into the unknown,
which formed the lure. Have you ever considered that nine of ten among
those who went with De Soto and Balboa and Coronado and Cortez and
Pizarro, if asked by some quiet neighbor, would have refused him the
loan of one hundred dollars unless secured by fivefold the value? And
yet the last man jack would peril life and fortune blindly in a voyage
to worlds unknown, for profits guessed at, against dangers neither to be
counted nor foreseen. Be not too much stricken of amazement, therefore,
when now these cold ones, who would not have bought an American railroad
without counting the cross-ties and weighing every spike and fish-plate,
were ready to send millions adrift on a sightless invasion of Asia ten
thousand miles away. Besides, as the five with Mr. Harley laid out their
campaign, any question of Oriental danger was for the present put aside.

"The way to commence," said one of the five--one grown gray in first
looting companies and then scuttling them--"the way to commence is by
getting possession of Northern Consolidated. Once in control of the
railroad, we have linked the Pacific with the Great Lakes; after that we
can turn to the matter of subsidies for the two steamship lines, and the
appointment of those commissions to consider the Canadian Canal." Then,
turning to Mr. Harley: "You, of course, speak for Senator Hanway?"

Mr. Harley gave assurance that Senator Hanway, for what might be
demanded congressionally, would be with him. Then they laid their
plotting heads together over a conquest of Northern Consolidated.

Under the experienced counsel of the old gray scuttler of innocent
companies, this procedure was resolved upon. Northern Consolidated was
selling at forty-three. At that figure, over forty millions of dollars
would be required to buy the road. There was little or no chance of its
reaching a higher quotation during the coming ninety days; and ninety
days would bring them into February with Congress in session over two
months.

No, it was not the purpose of the pool to buy Northern Consolidated at
forty-three; those gifted stock ospreys knew a better plan. They would
begin with a "bear" movement against the stock. It was their belief, if
the market were properly undermined, that Northern Consolidated could be
sold down below twenty, possibly as low as fifteen. When it had reached
lowest levels they would make their swoop. The pool would have enough
profit from the "bear" movement to pay for the road. If they succeeded
in selling Northern Consolidated off twenty points--and they believed,
by going cautiously and intelligently to work, the feat was easy--the
profits would equal the purchase sum required.

In "bearing" the stock and breaking it down to a point where the pool
might seize upon the road without risk or outlay on its own intriguing
part, the potent Senator Hanway would come in. At the beginning of
Congress he must offer a Senate resolution for a special committee of
three to investigate certain claims and charges against Northern
Consolidated. That corporation had long owed the government, no one knew
how much. It had stolen timber and stripped mountain ranges with its
larcenies; also it had laid rapacious paw upon vast stretches of the
public domain. It was within the power of any committee, acting
honestly, to report Northern Consolidated as in default to the
government for what number of millions its indignant imagination might
fix upon. Who was to measure the road's lumber robberies, or those
thefts of land? Moreover, the vandal aggressions of Northern
Consolidated made a reason for rescinding divers public grants--the
present values whereof were almost too high for estimation, and without
which the road could not exist--that, in its inception as a railroad,
had been made it by Congress.

Senator Hanway, under Senate courtesies, would be named chairman of the
special committees. He would conduct the investigation and write the
report. It was reasonable to assume, under the public as well as the
private conditions named, that Senator Hanway's findings, and the Senate
action he must urge and bring about, would knock the bottom out of
Northern Consolidated. It must fall to twenty by every rule of
speculation. Facing collection by the government of those claims for
lands ravished and pine trees swept away, to say naught of losing
original grants which were as its life-blood to Northern Consolidated,
the value of the stock--to speak most hopefully in its favor--would be
diminished by one-half.

The conspirators grew in confidence as they talked, and at the end
looked upon Northern Consolidated as already in their talons. They named
the old gray buccaneer to manage for the pool. The amount to be paid in
by each of the eight members--for they counted Senator Hanway--was
settled at five hundred thousand dollars. Four millions would be
required to start the ball rolling; the "bear" movement in the beginning
would demand margins. Once under headway, it would take care of itself.
It would succeed like a barrel downhill.

Storri did not protest the suggestion of the old gray buccaneer that
four millions be contributed to form a working capital for the pool. His
share of a half-million meant fifty thousand more dollars than Storri at
the time possessed, but he did not propose to have the others discover
the fact. Somehow he would scrape together those fifty thousand; his
note might do. Being, like every savage, a congenital gambler, Storri
went into the pool with zest as well as confidence, and rejoiced in
speculation that offered chances wide enough to employ his last dollar
in the stake. Moreover, those four millions would not be asked for
before the first of January. Other speculations might intervene, and
provide those lacking fifty thousand.

Mr. Harley laid the Storri project, and the plans of the pool to seize
Northern Consolidated, before Senator Hanway. That candidate for a
Presidency knitted his brows and pondered the business. As with Mr.
Harley and the pirate five, the mad grandeur of the idea charmed him.
One element seemed plain: there could come no loss from the raid on
Northern Consolidated. He might go that far with safety, and a certainty
of profit; for in the Senate committee of investigation he, himself,
would play the controlling card.

"The proposal," said Senator Hanway, when he and Mr. Harley conferred,
"while gigantic in its unfoldment, seems a reasonable one. After all, it
is the amount involved that staggers rather than what obstacles must be
overcome. Taken piecemeal, I do not say that the entire scheme, even
Credit Magellan, with its thirty billions, may not work through. The
resolution naming a committee to look into the claims and charges
against Northern Securities ought to help my Presidential canvass. It
cannot avoid telling in my favor with thoughtful men. They will see that
I am one who is jealously guarding public interests."

"And the resolution," suggested Mr. Harley, "appointing a commission for
the Canadian Canal, and inviting the Ottawa government to do the same,
ought also to speak in your favor. Consider what an impetus such a
waterway would give our Northwestern commerce."

"Yes," replied Senator Hanway, "I think you are right. It will knock a
third off freight rates on much of the trade between the oceans, and
save heavily in time. Those subsidies, however, must go over until next
session. Subsidies are not popular, and these must be left until after
next November's elections. Then, of course, they may be safely taken
up."

The various conferences over Storri's enterprise, and the consequent
coming together of Storri and Mr. Harley, took place a few weeks prior
to Richard's appearance in this chronicle. Both Storri and Mr. Harley
were fond of stocks in their ups and downs, and now, being much
together, they were in and out as partners in a dozen different deals.
Mr. Harley attended to most of these; and Storri learned certain
peculiarities belonging to that gentleman. Mr. Harley, for one solvent
matter, was penurious to the point of dimes; also, Mr. Harley took no
risks. Mr. Harley was willing to book a joint deal in both Storri's name
and his own; or in his own for the common good of Storri and himself.
But Mr. Harley would not give a joint order solely in Storri's name.
Evidently, Mr. Harley would not trust Storri to divide profits with him
where the case rested only upon that Russian's honor. No more would he
draw his own check for Storri's margins; and one day our nobleman lost
money because of Mr. Harley's cautious delicacy in that behalf. The
market went the wrong way, and Storri could not be found when additional
margins were called for. Whereupon Mr. Harley closed out his friend at a
loss of seven thousand dollars.

Storri knitted his brows when he knew, but offered no comment. In fact,
he treated the affair so lightly that Mr. Harley felt relieved; that
latter speculator had been somewhat disturbed in his mind concerning
Storri's opinion of what, to give it a best description, evinced niggard
distrust of Storri, and cast in negative fashion a slur upon that
gentleman.

Mr. Harley was too ready with his belief in Storri's indifference; that
the latter, for all his surface stoicism, took a serious, not to say a
revengeful, view of the business, found indication on a later painful
day. The experience taught Storri that he might expect neither favor nor
generosity from Mr. Harley; and this, considering how in all they must
adventure in Credit Magellan Mr. Harley would have him in his power,
filled Storri with an angry uneasiness. He decided that for his own
security, if nothing more, he might better bestir himself to gain a
counter-grip upon Mr. Harley. And thereupon Storri began to lie in
ambush for Mr. Harley; and at a lurking, sprawling warfare that sets
gins and dead-falls, and bases itself on surprise, your savage makes a
formidable soldier.

Storri, wisely and without price, had one day aided a sugar company in
securing Russian foothold in Odessa. That aid was ground-bait meant to
lure the sugar favor. This sugar company made more profit on its stocks
than on its sugar. It was in the habit, with one device or another, of
sending the quotations of its shares up and down like an elevator. In
requital of that Odessa good, the president of the sugar company, the
week after, gave Storri a private hint to sell sugar stock. Storri
responded by placing an order selling ten thousand shares.

Storri took no one into his confidence touching sugar. Going the other
way, he urged Mr. Harley to buy on their mutual account two thousand
shares, assuring him that he had been given word, from sources
absolutely sure, of a coming "bull" movement in the stock.

Mr. Harley, who knew of that Odessa favor, believed. Storri, as further
evidence of faith, gave Mr. Harley a check covering what initial margins
would be required for his half of the purchase; and then to make all
secure, he placed in Mr. Harley's hands two hundred shares of a French
company worth that day fifteen thousand dollars.

"I don't want any argument to exist," laughed Storri, as he gave Mr.
Harley the French securities, "for closing me out should a squall strike
the market. Now I shall go to the club."

Mr. Harley also laughed, and took the French stock; acceptance always
came easy with Mr. Harley.

Mr. Harley bought those two thousand sugar shares at eleven o'clock. Two
hours later an extra was being cried about the streets. The sugar
company had ordered half its refineries closed; some alleged loose screw
in sugar trade was given as the reason.

With the order closing down the refineries, the stock began to tumble.
Within thirty minutes it had slumped off six points. There came a call
for further margins, and Mr. Harley offered Storri's French stock.

The security was undeniable, but a technicality got in the way to trip
Mr. Harley. The French securities were original shares, issued in
Storri's name. On the back, however, there was no Storri signature
making the usual assignment in blank. The shares, in their present
shape, would not be received. Mr. Harley flew to a nearby telephone and
called up Storri.

"There is not time for me to get there!" cried that designing gentleman
excitedly. He was a half-mile away. "Don't hesitate; clap my name on the
backs of the certificates yourself. They don't know my signature; and no
one will think of questioning it, coming through your hands."

There was no other way; thereupon Mr. Harley, in a ferment with tumbling
prices, picked up a pen, and, with the best intentions in life, forged
Storri's name. Then he hurried to the broker's and got up the margins.

It was not a squall, it was a storm, and sugar was broken off at the
roots, falling twenty points. Storri, on his private deal, made two
hundred thousand, while Messrs. Harley and Storri, on their joint
account, lost forty thousand dollars--twenty thousand for each. In the
clean-up, Storri paid his losses and got back his French shares. He
smiled an evil smile as he contemplated Mr. Harley's attempts to mock
his signature.

"He loses twenty thousand," commented Storri, "and that should more than
offset those seven thousand lost by me when he refused to protect my
deals. As for these," and here Storri ran a dark, exultant glance over
his imitated signatures, "every one of them makes a reason why my good
friend, Mr. Harley, must now please me and obey me in everything he
does. After all, is it a destiny beneath his jowlish fat deserts, that
an American pig should become slave to a Russian noble?"




CHAPTER VII

HOW RICHARD GAINED IN KNOWLEDGE


Congress came together at noon upon the first Monday in December, and
obedient to the mandate of the caucus Mr. Frost was made Speaker Frost.
The eruptive Mr. Hawke wore an injured air, and when the drawing for
seats took place, selected one in a far back row, as though retiring
from public life. Mr. Hawke subsequently refused to serve as chairman of
the triangular committee named to notify the President that the House
had convened, and his declination was accepted by Speaker Frost, who
calmly filled the place with a member whom Mr. Hawke despised. Then the
House swung into the channel, and went plowing ahead upon the business
of the session, and in forty-eight hours, Mr. Hawke, forgotten, had
ceased to be important to any save himself. The whole of that first
Monday night Speaker Frost put in with Senator Hanway, in the latter's
study, revising committee lists and settling chairmanships with the
purpose of advancing the White House chances of Senator Hanway and
destroying those of Governor Obstinate.

Although Congress had begun its session, no change was made in those
morning calls of Richard, who came religiously at eleven to listen to
Senator Hanway and look at Dorothy. The latter young lady was never
absent from these interviews; she had conceived a wonderful interest in
politics, and gave her "Uncle Pat" no peace. Richard's call commonly
lasted but a half-hour, for Senator Hanway must be in the Senate chamber
at noon. Thirty heavenly minutes they were; Dorothy and Richard promised
and again promised undying love to one another with their eyes. Senator
Hanway never suspected this love-making, never intercepted one soft
glance; for your politician is like a horse wearing blinders, seeing
only the road before him, thinking of nothing but himself. One morning
after Senator Hanway had departed, Dorothy took Richard across to meet
the blonde pythoness. Dorothy said she wanted Richard to see Bess. This
was fiction; she wanted Bess to see Richard, of whom she was privily
proud.

The Marklins lived across the street from the Harley house. Mother
Marklin was an invalid and seldom out of her own room. Father Marklin
was dead, and had been these five years. When the situation promoted her
to be the head of the Marklin household, Bess had taken on a quiet,
grave atmosphere of authority that was ten years older than her age.

The Marklins were fair rich. Father Marklin had been a physician whose
patients were women of fashion; and that makes a practice wherein your
doctor may know less medicine and make more money than in any other walk
of drugs. A woman likes big bills from a physician if the malady be her
own; she draws importance from the size of the bills. When one reflects
that there is nothing to some women except their aches and their
ailments, it all seems rational enough. These be dangerous digressions;
one might better return to the drug-dealing parent of Bess, who visited
the fair sufferers in a Brewster brougham and measured out his calls by
minutes, watch in hand. He heaped up a fortune for Bess and her mother,
and then at one and the same moment quit both his practice and the
world.

When Dorothy came in with Richard, they found Bess entertaining a
caller. The caller was a helpless person named Mr. Fopling.

"Mr. Storms, permit me to make you acquainted with Mr. Fopling,"
observed Bess, after Dorothy had presented Richard.

When Bess named Richard to Mr. Fopling, she did so with a
master-of-ceremony flourish that was protecting and mannish. Richard
grinned in friendship upon Mr. Fopling, who shook hands flabbily and
seemed uncertain of his mental direction. Richard said nothing through
fear of overwhelming Mr. Fopling. Mr. Fopling was equally silent through
fear of overwhelming himself. Released from Richard, Mr. Fopling found
refuge in the chair he had quitted, and maintained himself without sound
or motion, bolt upright, staring straight ahead. Mr. Fopling had a
vacant expression, and his face was not an advantageous face. It was
round, pudgy, weak, with shadows of petulance about the mouth, and the
forehead sloped away at an angle which house-builders, speaking of
roofs, call a quarter-pitch. His chin, acting on the hint offered by the
forehead, was likewise in full retreat. Altogether, one might have said
of Mr. Fopling that if he were not a delightful, at worst he would never
become a dangerous companion. Richard surveyed him with a deal of
curiosity; then he questioned Dorothy with a glance.

"Bess is to marry him," whispered Dorothy.

"What for?" whispered Richard, off his guard. Then, pulling himself
together in confusion: "Of course, he loves her, I dare say. Your friend
Bess is a beautiful girl!"

Richard brought forth the last with hurried unction. It was a cunning
remark to make; it drew Dorothy's attention off Mr. Fopling, whom she
was preparing to defend with spirit, and centered it upon herself. At
Richard's observation, so flattering to Bess, she tossed her head.

"Is she?" said Dorothy, with a falling inflection, vastly severe.

The two were near a window and quite alone, for Bess had stepped into
the hall to give directions to a servant. Mr. Fopling sat the length of
the room away, wrapped in meditation. Richard looked tenderly
apologetic, and Dorothy, after sparkling for a jealous moment, softened
to be in sympathy with Richard.

And the strange thing was that neither had ever said one word of love to
the other. They had begun to love at sight, taking each other for
granted, worshiping frankly, sweetly, with the candid, innocent
informality of barbarians to whom the conventional was the unknown.
After all, why not? Isn't word of eye as sacred as word of mouth?

Bess returned to them from the hall.

"I say, Bess!" bleated Mr. Fopling anxiously.

"In a moment, child!" returned Bess, in maternal tones.

Mr. Fopling relapsed, while Richard was amused. Some corner of Richard's
amusement must have stuck out to attract the notice of Bess. She met it
finely, undisturbed.

"Some day, Mr. Storms," beamed Bess, as though replying to a question,
"I shall talk to you on marriage and husbands."

"Why not on marriage and wives?"

"Because I would not speak of the philosopher and the experiment, but of
the experiment and the result. Marriage is a cause; the husband an
effect. Husbands are artificial and made by marriage. Wives, like poets,
are born, not made. I shall talk to you on marriage and husbands; I have
some original ideas, I assure you."

"Now I can well believe that!" declared Richard, much tumbled about in
his mind. Bess's harangue left him wondering whether she might not be
possessed of a mild mania on wedlock and husbands.

"You need have no misgivings," returned Bess, as though reading his
thoughts; "you will find me sane to the verge of commonplace."

Richard's stare was the mate to Mr. Fopling's; he could not decide just
how to lay hold on the sibyl of the golden locks. Perceiving him
wandering in his wits, Dorothy took him up warmly.

"Can't you see Bess is laughing at you?" she cried.

"You know her so much better than I," argued Richard, in extenuation of
his dullness. "Some day I hope to be so well acquainted with Miss
Marklin as to know when she laughs."

"You are to know her as well as I do," returned Dorothy, with decision,
"for Bess is my dearest friend."

"And that, I'm sure," observed Richard, craftily measuring forth a
two-edged compliment, "is the highest possible word that could be spoken
of either."

At this speech Dorothy was visibly disarmed; whereat Richard
congratulated himself.

"To be earnest with you, Mr. Storms," said Bess, with just a flash of
teasing wickedness towards Dorothy, "I go about, even now, carrying the
impression of knowing you extremely well. Dorothy reads me your letters
from the _Daily Tory_; she has elevated literary tastes, you know. No,
it is not what you write, it is the way you write it, that charms her;
and, that I may the better appreciate, she obligingly accompanies her
readings with remarks descriptive of the author."

"Bess, do you think that fair?" and Dorothy's face put on a reproachful
red.

"At least it's true," returned Bess composedly.

That morning Richard had been flattered with a letter from the editor of
a magazine, asking for a five-thousand word article on a leading
personality of the Cabinet. This helped him bear the raillery of Bess;
and the raillery, per incident, told him how much and deeply he was in
the thoughts of Dorothy, which information made the world extremely
beautiful. Richard had waited until his thirtieth year to begin to live!
He was brought back from a dream of Dorothy by the unexpected projection
of Mr. Fopling into the conversation.

"The _Daily Tory_!" repeated Mr. Fopling, in feeble disgust. "I hate
newspapahs; they inflame the mawsses."

"Inflame what?" asked Richard.

"Inflame the mawsses! the common fellahs!"

Mr. Fopling was emphatic; and when Mr. Fopling was emphatic he squeaked.
Mr. Fopling's father had been a beef contractor. Likewise he had seen
trouble with investigating committees, being convicted of bad beef. This
may or may not have had to do with the younger Fopling's aversion to the
press.

"Certainly," coincided Bess, again assuming the maternal, "the
newspapers are exceedingly inflammatory."

"Your friend Bess," said Richard to Dorothy, later, "is a bit of a
blue-stocking, isn't she?--one of those girls who give themselves to the
dangerous practice of thinking?"

"I love her from my heart!" returned Dorothy, with a splendid
irrelevance wholly feminine; "she is a girl of gold!"

"Mr. Fopling: he's of gold, too, I take it."

"Mr. Fopling is very wealthy."

"Well, I'm glad he's something," observed Richard.

"You hate him because he spoke ill of newspapers," said Dorothy
teasingly.

"Naturally, when a giant hand is stretched forth against the tree by
which one lives, one's alarm runs away into hate," laughed Richard.

Richard, now that the _Daily Tory_ letters were winning praise, that is
to say, were being greatly applauded and condemned, began to have in
them a mightier pride than ever. Educated those years abroad, he felt
the want of an American knowledge, and started in to study government at
pointblank range. Nights he read history, mostly political, and days he
went about like a Diogenes without the lamp. He put himself in the way
of Cabinet men; and talked with Senators and Representatives concerning
congressional movements of the day.

Being quick, he made discoveries; some of them personal to himself. As
correspondent of a New York daily, those Cabinet folk and men of
Congress encountered him affably; when he was not present they spoke
ferociously of him and his craft, as convicts curse a guard behind his
back, and for much a convict's reason.

It was the same at the club without the affability. Present or absent,
there they turned unsparing back upon him. Richard's status as a
newspaper man had been explained and fixed, and they of the club liked
him less than before. The Fopling feeling towards the press predominated
at the club, and although Richard was never openly snubbed--his
shoulders were too wide for that--besides, some sigh of those hand-grips
with Storri had gone about--the feeling was manifest. This cool distance
pleased Richard rather than otherwise, and he went often to the club to
enjoy it. It was parcel of his affected cynicism to like an enemy.

When Richard came to Washington it is more than a chance that he was a
patriot. But as he went about he saw much to blunt the sentiment. A
statesman is one who helps his country; a politician is one who helps
himself. Richard found shoals of the latter and none of the other class.
One day he asked Speaker Frost, whom he met in Senator Hanway's study,
his definition of a statesman.

"A statesman," said that epigrammatist, "is a dead politician."

Richard frequented House and Senate galleries; it was interesting to
watch the notables transacting their fame. The debates were a cross-fire
of deceit. Not a member gave his true reasons for the votes he cast; he
gave what he wanted the world to think were his reasons. Finance was on
the carpet in that hour, and bimetallism and monometallism, silver
versus gold, were in everyone's mouth. Richard saw that the goldbugs
hailed from money--lending constituencies, while the silverbugs were
invariably from either money-borrowing constituencies or constituencies
that had silver to sell. And every man legislated for his district and
never for the country; which Richard regarded as an extremely narrow
course. Every man talked of the people's interest; every man was
thinking of his own interest and striving only to locate the butter on
his political bread.

There was a third class, made up of those who were neither goldbugs nor
silverbugs; they were straddlebugs, and, like the two sides of the
shield, would be gold when looked at by one contingent and silver when
viewed by the other. Senator Hanway, whose monk's face seemed to mark
him as private secretary of the Genius of Patriotism, was an eminent
straddlebug. He was thinking on those delegations that would make up the
convention and choose a candidate for the Presidency. The prudent
Senator Hanway would be in line with all opinions, and occupied both
sides of the money question without becoming the open champion of
either.

Not alone did Richard, gazing from the galleries, lose faith in the
patriotism of House and Senate men, but he began to doubt the verity of
their partisanship. Considering what they did, rather than what they
said, he discovered that the true difference between the two great
political parties was the difference between cat owls and horned owls,
and lay mainly in the noises they made. When it came to deeds, both
killed chickens, and both appeared equally ready to pillage the hen
roosts of government. As for government--that is to say, the thing
controlling and not the thing controlled: it was made up of the
President, the Speaker, and a dozen more in Cabinet and Congress; and
that was government.

The picture nourished Richard's failing of cynicism, and served to dull
that edge of native patriotism which it was assumed he owned when first
he came. He got an impression of government that left him nothing to
fight and bleed and die for should the thick mutter of the war-drums
call folk to the field. Good politics, as the term is practiced, means
bad patriotism, and Washington was a nest of politics and nothing else
besides. It made decisively a situation, so Richard was driven to
conclude, wherein that man should be the best patriot who knew least of
his own government; he should fight harder and suffer more cheerfully
and die more blithely in its defense in exact proportion to his
ignorance of whom and what he was fighting and suffering and dying for.
It was a sullen conclusion surely; but, forced home upon Richard, it
taught him a vitriolic harshness that, getting into his letters to
flavor all he wrote, gave him national vogue, and added to that mixture
of hatred and admiration with which official Washington was already
beginning to regard him.

Neither did he escape forming certain estimates of Senator Hanway, and
the white purity of what motives underlay his public career. For all
that, Richard was quite as sedulous as ever to advance our statesman's
fortunes; loyalty is abstract, love concrete, and in a last analysis
Richard was thinking on Dorothy and not upon the country. Richard, you
may have observed, was no whit better, no less selfish, than were those
about him; and it is as well to know our faulty young gentleman for what
he really was.

Richard not only considered the politics of men, but he studied men
themselves. The narrowest of these came from parts of the country where
region was important, and where you would have been more thought of for
the deeds of your grandfather than for anything that you yourself might
do. This was peculiarly true of men from New England, whose intelligence
as well as interest seemed continually walking a tight-rope. The New
Englander was always and ever the sublimation of a blind, ineffable
vanity that went about proposing him as an example to the race. And so
consciously self-perfect was he that, while coming to opinions touching
others, generally to their disadvantage, he never once bethought him
that others might be forming opinions of him. Another New England
weakness was to believe in the measure more than in the man, and there
was not one from that section who did not think that if you but
introduced among negroes or Indians the New England town meeting, those
negroes or Indians, thus blessed, would all and instantly become
Yankees.

Another sublime provincial whom Richard uncovered was the Southern man.
He, like the New Englander, was so busy thinking on and revering a past
that was dead, that he owned little space for anything else. There was,
however, one characteristic, common to Southern men, which was wanting
in folk from other corners of the country. Richard never met a Southern
man who remembered, assuming such to be his official station, that he
was in Cabinet or Congress, while he never met a Northern or a Western
or a New England man who for a moment forgot it.

This amiable democracy on the Southern part, like other good things, has
its explanation. Your Southern man, like a squab pigeon, is biggest when
he is born. The one first great fact of his nativity is an honor beyond
any other which the world can confer. It is as though he were cradled on
a peak; and thereafter, wherever his wanderings may take him, and
whether into Congress, Cabinet, or White House, he travels always
downhill. It is this to account for that benignant urbanity, the
inevitable mark of a Southern man, which teaches him faith in you as
corollary of completest confidence in himself. It is a beautiful, even
though an unreasonable trait, and as such the admiration of Richard
recorded it.

Those others, not Southern, educated to a notion of office as a
pedestal, were inclined to play the turkey cock and spread their tails a
trifle. Since that sort of self-conceit never fails to transact itself
at the expense of the spectator, Richard looked upon it with no favor,
and it drew from him opinions, not of compliment, concerning those by
whom it was exhibited. It set him to comparisons which ran much in
Southern favor.

After Congressmen and Cabinet men, Richard studied Washington itself.
The common condition--speaking now of residents, and not of those who
were mere sojourners within the city's walls--he found to be one of
idleness, the common trait an insatiable bent for gossip. Government was
the sole product of the place, the one grist ground at those mills. No
one was made to labor more than six hours of the twenty-four. And the
term labor meant no more than one-tenth its definition in any other
town. Wherefore, even those most engaged of the citizenry had leisure to
settle the world's most perplexing concerns, and they generously devoted
it to that purpose.

Nor were they abashed by any insignificance of their personal estate.
Familiarity does not breed contempt, it breeds conceit. Those who dwell
close to the hub of government, even though they build departmental
fires, sweep departmental floors, and empty departmental waste baskets,
from nearness of contact and a daily perusal of your truly great, come
at last to look upon themselves as beings of tremendous importance--and
all after the self-gratulatory example of the thoughtful fly on the
chariot wheel in the fable. The least of them beholds a picture of the
government in every looking-glass into which he peers.

Storri talked with Mr. Harley; Mr. Harley talked with Senator Hanway.
These conferences were of Credit Magellan; in particular they had
concern with the overthrow of Northern Consolidated. Congress had been
in session ten days when Senator Hanway, one morning, asked Richard to
call that evening at nine.

"There is something which your paper should print," said Senator Hanway.

Richard was with Senator Hanway in the latter's study sharp upon the
hour set. Dorothy was not there; her mother had carried her and the
yellow-haired sorceress, Bess, to the theater. It is to be doubted, even
if she were free, whether Dorothy's interest in her political studies
would have carried her through a night session. Besides, the preoccupied
Senator Hanway had begun to observe that Richard looked at Dorothy more
than he listened to him, and while he suffered no disturbance by virtue
of this discovery, the present was an occasion when he wanted Richard's
undivided attention. Once seated, Senator Hanway went to the heart of
the affair; he made himself clear, for years of debate had educated him
to lucidity. What he desired was a plain, sequential rehearsal in the
_Daily Tory_ of those claims and charges against Northern Consolidated.

"Nor will I," observed Senator Hanway, flatteringly confidential,
"conceal my reasons. In the first place the charges have been made, and
their effect is to injure Northern Consolidated. You will not state that
you know these charges to be true; you will say--if you will be so
good--that they are of common report. Once in print, I can make them the
basis of an investigation. I've no doubt--though you will please say
nothing on that point--but what an investigation will disclose how
groundless the charges are."

"You are an owner in Northern Consolidated?" asked Richard.

Richard felt no interest beyond a willingness to be of service to
Senator Hanway, and only put the question to show attention to his
eminent friend.

"No, no owner," replied Senator Hanway; "but to be frank, since I know
my confidence is safe, it will assist me in a certain political matter
the name of which I think you can guess."

Senator Hanway's smooth face wore a smile which he intended should prove
that he looked upon Richard as one possessing a rightful as well as an
intimate knowledge of those White House plans which he cherished.
Richard did not require the assurance; he was ready without it to come
to the aid of Senator Hanway, whom he liked if he did not revere.

The next evening Richard's letter carried the story against Northern
Consolidated. The afternoon of the day on which it was published,
Senator Hanway arose in his place and requested that the article be read
by the clerk. That done, he said he was pained and surprised by the
publication of such a story, and asked for a committee of three to look
into the truth of what was set forth.

"For," observed Senator Hanway, after paying a tribute to Richard and
the _Daily Tory_, in which he extolled the honesty and intelligent
conservatism of both the paper and its correspondent, "for it is only
justice that the charges be sifted. The _Daily Tory_ does not make them
on its own behalf; it finds them in the mouths of others. They should be
taken up and weighed. If there be aught due the government, we have a
right to know and measure it. If the charges are without support--and I
have reason to believe that such is the situation--then Northern
Consolidated is entitled to the refutation of a calumny that, whispered
in some quarters and talked aloud in others, has borne heavily upon its
interests."

No one opposed, and Senator Hanway, with Senators Price and Loot, were
selected to be a special committee. They were to send for men and
papers, be open or secret in their sessions, and report to the Senate
whenever they finished the inquiry. The affair excited no comment, and
was forgotten within the hour by all except Storri and Mr. Harley and
those others of the osprey pool.

After Richard left Senator Hanway upon the Northern Consolidated
evening, he ran plump upon an incident that was to have a last profound
effect upon this history. No one not a prophet would have guessed this
from the incident's character, for on its ignoble face it was nothing
better than just a drunken clash between a Caucasian, and an African
triumvirate that had locked horns with him in the street. The Caucasian,
moved of liquor and pride of skin, had demanded the entire sidewalk. He
enforced his demands by shoving the obstructing Africans into the
gutter. The latter, recalling amendments to the organic law of the land
favorable to folk of color, objected. In the war that ensued, owing to
an inequality of forces, the Caucasian--albeit a gallant soul--was given
the bitter side of the argument. Richard came upon them as he rounded a
corner; the quartette at the time made a struggling, scrambling, cursing
tangle, rolling about the sidewalk.

Being one in whom the race instinct ran powerfully, and who was not
untainted of antipathies to red men and yellow men and black men and all
men not wholly white, Richard did not pause to inquire the rights and
the wrongs of the altercation. He seized upon the topmost person of
color and pitched him into the street. Then he pitched another after
him. The third, getting some alarming notions of what was going on,
arose and fled. None of the three came back; for discretion is not
absent from the African, and those whom Richard personally disposed of
felt as might ones who had escaped from some malignant providence which
they did not think it wise or fitting to further tempt. As for number
three, he was pleased to find himself a block away, and did all he might
to add to it, like a miser to his hoard.

Negroes gone, Richard set the white man on his feet, and asked him how
he fared. That gentleman shook himself and announced that he was
uninjured. Then he said that he was drunk, which was an unnecessary
confidence. It developed that he followed the trade of printer; also
that he had just come to town. He had no money, he had no place to
sleep; and, what was wonderful to Richard, he appeared in no whit cast
down by his bankrupt and bedless state. He had had money; but like many
pleasant optimistic members of his mystery of types, he had preferred to
spend it in liquor, leaving humdrum questions, such as bed and board, to
solve themselves.

"For," said the bedless one, "I'm a tramp printer!" And he flung forth
the adjective as though it were a title of respect.

Having invested some little exertion in the affairs of the stranger,
Richard thought he might as well go forward and invest a little money.
With that he went out of his way to lead the drunken one to a cheap
hotel, where the porter took him in charge under contract to put him to
bed. The consideration for the latter attention was a quarter paid in
hand to the porter; with the proprietor Richard left ten dollars, and
orders to give the devious one the change in the morning after deducting
for his entertainment.

The rescued printer, clothed and in his right mind, called upon Richard
the next afternoon to thank him for his generosity and say that his name
was Sands. Mr. Sands, being sober and shaven, with clothes brushed, was
in no sense a spectacle of shame. Indeed, there were worse-looking
people passing laws for the nation. Richard was pleased, and said so.

"If I had a job, I'd go to work," said Mr. Sands, having had, as he
expressed it, "his drunk out."

The habit of charity grows upon one like the liquor habit; moreover, if
once you help a man, you ever after feel compelled to help him to the
end of time. Richard was no exception to these philanthropic laws, and
when Mr. Sands declared an eagerness to go to work, brought him to
Senator Hanway, who promptly berthed him upon the Government printing
office, where he was given a "case," and commenced tossing up types
after the manner of a master.

If Senator Hanway had been able to probe the future, instead of setting
Mr. Sands to work that December afternoon, he would have paid his way to
London, had a trans-Atlantic trip been made the price of being rid of
him. But a Senator is not a soothsayer, and no impression of the kind
once touched him. He got Mr. Sands his billet, and said it gave him
pleasure to comply with the request of his young friend, Mr. Storms. To
Richard, the hereafter was as opaque as it was to Senator Hanway, and,
having seen his protégé installed, he walked away unconscious of a morn
to dawn when Mr. Sands would recur as an instance of that bread upon the
waters which returns after many days.




CHAPTER VIII

HOW STORRI WOOED MRS. HANWAY-HARLEY


Storri was a sensualist to his fingers' ends. Being a sensualist, he was
perforce an egotist, and the smallest of his desires became the star by
which he laid his course. Through stress of appetites, as powerful as
they were gross, he had grown sharp to calculate, and quick to see. He
was controlled and hurried down by currents of a turbid selfishness; nor
would he have stopped at any cruelty, balked at any crime, when prompted
of what brute hungers kept his soul awake. He might have wept over
failure, never from remorse. And Storri had set his savage heart on
Dorothy.

Dorothy felt an aversion to Storri, and she could not have told you why.
The mystery of it, however, put no question to her; she yielded with
folded hands, passive to its influence. She did not hate Storri, she
shrunk from him; his nearness chilled her like the nearness of a
reptile. Kipling, the matchless, tells how a Russian does not become
alarming until he tucks in his shirt, and insists upon himself as the
most Eastern of Western peoples instead of the most Western of Eastern
peoples. There is truth to sit at the bottom of this. Dorothy would have
met Storri with indifference had that nobleman seen fit to catalogue
himself, socially, as a Kalmuck Tartar, not of her strain and tribe; she
was set a-shudder when made to meet him under conditions which admitted
the propriety of marriage between them, should she and he agree. As it
stood, Dorothy was alive for flight the moment Storri stepped into her
presence; she knew by intuition the foulness of his fiber, and shivered
at any threat of contact therewith.

Storri was aware of Dorothy's dislike, since aversion is the one
sentiment a woman cannot conceal. The discovery only made him laugh. He
was too much the conqueror of women to look for failure here. Should he,
Storri, who had been sighed for by the fairest of a dozen stately
courts, receive defeat from a little American? Bah! he would have her at
his ease, win her at his pleasure! Dorothy's efforts to avoid him gave
pursuit a piquancy!

While Storri noted Dorothy's distaste of him, he did not get slightest
slant of her tender preference for Richard. As far as he might, Storri
had taught himself contempt for Richard. This was not the simplest task;
it is hard to despise one whom your heart fears, and before whose glance
your own eyes waver and give way. Still, Storri got on with his contempt
beyond what one might have imagined. He considered all Americans beneath
him, and Richard was an American. There he had an advantage at the
start. Also, Richard was of the newspapers. Even those Americans about
him, with their own sneers and shoulder-shrugs, showed him how such folk
were unworthy genteel countenance. They looked down upon Richard, Storri
looked down upon them; the greater included the less, and deductions
were easy. Storri arrived at a most happy contempt of Richard as a
mathematician gets to the solution of a problem, and, being mercurial,
not thoughtful, arranged with himself that Richard was below
consideration.

Richard and Storri made no sign of social recognition when their paths
crossed by chance. At such times the latter held an attitude of staring
superiority--the fellow, perhaps, to that which belonged with Captain
Cook when first he saw the Sandwich Islanders. Had Storri been of
reflective turn he might have remembered that, as a gustatory finale,
those serene islanders roasted the mariner, and made their dinner off
him.

Mr. Harley was a busy man, and yet he had no office rooms. This was not
his fault; he had once set out to establish himself with such a theater
of effort, but Senator Hanway put down his foot.

"No; no office, John!" said that statesman.

Then Senator Hanway, who was as furtive as a mink, called Mr. Harley's
attention to the explanation which a narrow world would give. Those
office rooms would be pointed to as the market-place where corporations
might trade for his, Senator Hanway's, services.

"If you please, we'll have no such argument going about," observed
Senator Hanway.

This want of a business headquarters, while it may have been an
inconvenience to Mr. Harley, now arose to dovetail with the desires of
Storri. It gave him a pretext for calling at the Harley house; with Mr.
Harley as excuse, and making a pretense of having business with him, he
could break in at all manner of queer hours.

Storri made a study of the Harley household. About four of the afternoon
it was Mrs. Hanway-Harley's habit to retire and refresh herself with a
nap, against the demands of dinner and what social gayeties might
follow. Mr. Harley, himself, was apt to be hovering about the Senate
corridors. Or he would be holding pow-wow with men of importance, that
is to say, money, at one of the hotels. Dorothy, who was not interested
in dark-lantern legislation, and required no restoring naps, would be
alone. Wherefore, it became the practice of Storri to appear of an
afternoon at the Harley house, and ask for Mr. Harley. Not finding that
business man, Storri, who did not insist that his errand was desperate,
would idle an hour with Dorothy.

Storri thought himself one to fascinate a woman, and had a fine
confidence in his powers to charm. He had studied conquest as an art.
When he beleagured a girl's heart, his first approaches were modeled on
the free and jovial. During these afternoon calls he talked much,
laughed loudly, and by his manner would have it that Dorothy and he were
on cheeriest terms. Storri made no headway; Dorothy met his laughter
with a cool reserve that baffled while it left him furious.

Storri essayed the sentimental, and came worn with homesickness. He was
near to tears as he related the imaginary sickness of a mother whom he
had invented for the purpose. Dorothy's cool reserve continued. She
sympathized, conversationally, and hoped that Storri would hurry to his
expiring parent's side.

Storri, like Richard, craved a rose and got it; but he fastened it upon
his lapel himself.

On Storri's fourth call Bess Marklin came in. Being there, Bess took
Storri to herself. She betrayed a surprising interest in statistics--the
populations of cities, crops, politics, and every other form of European
what-not--and kept Storri answering questions like a school-boy.
Thereafter, Storri was no sooner in the Harley house when, presto! from
over the way our pythoness sweeps in. Bess was there before the servant
had taken Storri's hat. This disturbing fortune depressed him; he
attributed it to ill luck, never once observing that the instant he
appeared, Dorothy's black maid skipped across to summon Bess.

"Really, Bess," pleaded Dorothy, following Storri's fourth call--she had
gone to the Marklins' just after her admirer left--"really, Bess, if you
love me, rescue me. There was never such a bore! Positively, the
creature will send me to my grave! And, besides,"--with a little
shiver,--"I have a horror of the man!"

And so the good Bess came each time, and faithfully refused to budge for
the whole of Storri's visit. With that, the latter saw less and less
reason to confer with Mr. Harley of an afternoon; also he resolved upon
a change of tactics in his siege of Dorothy.

Thus far Storri had failed, and the failure set him on fire. The savage
in him was stirred. His vanity found itself defied; and the onyx eyes
would burn, and the mustaches twist like snakes, as he reflected on how
he had been foiled and put aside. Had he known that Richard was in
Dorothy's thought, that it was he to hold her heart against him, Storri
would have choked. But he had gathered no such knowledge; nor was he
posted as to those morning love trysts at which Senator Hanway
unconsciously presided.

Storri still visited the Harley house, but his visits were now to Mrs.
Hanway-Harley. And he would pour compliments for that shallow lady,
which said compliments our shallow one drank in like water from the
well. Mrs. Hanway-Harley had never known a more finished gentleman; and
so she told her friends.

"It is a pity," cried Storri one day, "that Europe has none such as
yourself to set examples of refinement! Now if your beautiful daughter
would but make some nobleman happy as his wife! You would come to
Europe, no?" and Storri spread his hands in rapture over so much
possible good fortune. "Yes, if your lovely daughter would but
condescend!" Storri paused, and sighed a sigh of power.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley thought this exceeding fine; the treacle of coarse
compliment sweetened it to her lips. Some would have laughed at such
fustian. Mrs. Hanway-Harley was none of these; the compliment she
laughed at must emanate from someone not a Count. None the less, she
could see that something was at the back of it all. There was Storri's
sigh as though a heart had broken. Had Storri made some soft advance,
and had Dorothy repulsed him? Mrs. Hanway-Harley could have shaken the
girl!

Storri read all this in Mrs. Hanway-Harley's face as though it had been
written upon paper. He saw that the mother would be his ally; Mrs.
Hanway-Harley was ready to enlist upon his side. Thereupon, Storri drew
himself together with dignity.

"In my own land, madam," said Storri, conveying the impression of a
limitless deference for Mrs. Hanway-Harley, "it is not permitted that a
gentleman pay his addresses to the daughter until he has her mother's
consent. I adore your daughter--who could help!--but I cannot tell her
unless you approve. And so, madam," with a deepest of bows, "I, who am a
Russian gentleman, come to you."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley was not so sinuously adroit as her brother, Senator
Hanway, but she was capable of every conventional art. If Storri's
declaration stirred her pride, she never showed it; if her soul exulted
at a title in her family and a probable presentation of herself to
royalty, she concealed it. True, she was inclined to tilt her nose a
vulgar bit; but she did not let Storri perceive it, reserving the
nose-tilting for ladies of her acquaintance, when the betrothal of
Dorothy and Storri should be announced. Indeed, her conduct, on the
honorable occasion of Storri's request, could not have been more
graceful nor more guarded. She said that she was honored by Storri's
proposal, and touched by his delicacy in first coming to her. She could
do no more, however, than grant him the permission craved, and secure to
him her best wishes.

"For, much as I love my daughter," explained Mrs. Hanway-Harley,
mounting a maternal pedestal and posing, "I could not think of coercing
her choice. She will marry where she loves." A sigh at this period. "I
can only say that, should she love where you desire, it cannot fail to
engage my full approval."

Storri pressed his lips to Mrs. Hanway-Harley's hand as well as he could
for the interfering crust of diamonds, and said she had made him happy.

"It will be bliss, madam, to call myself your daughter's husband," said
Storri; "but it will be highest honor to find myself your son."

Storri did not tell Mrs. Hanway-Harley of those afternoon calls, and the
blight of Bess to fall upon them with her eternal crops and politics and
populations. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, while she grievously suspected from
Storri's sigh--which little whisper of despair still sounded in her
ears--that he had met reverses, would not voice her surmise. She would
treat the affair as commencing with Storri's request. But she would
watch Dorothy; and if she detected symptoms of failure to appreciate
Storri as a nobleman possessing wealth and station,--in short, if
Dorothy betrayed an intention to refuse his exalted hand,--then she,
Mrs. Hanway-Harley, would interfere. She would take Dorothy in solemn
charge, and compel that obtuse maiden to what redounded to her good.
Mrs. Hanway-Harley doubted neither the propriety nor the feasibility of
establishing a censorship over Dorothy's heart, should the young lady
evince a blinded inability to see her own welfare.

"That is what a mother is for," she ruminated.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley had forcibly administered paregoric in Dorothy's
babyhood; she was ready to forcibly administer a husband now Dorothy was
grown up. The cases were in precise parallel, and never the ray of
distrust entered Mrs. Hanway-Harley's mind. Dorothy was not to escape
good fortune merely because, through some perversity of girlish
ignorance, she might choose to waive it aside.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley had Mr. Harley ask Storri to dinner on an average
twice a week; she made these slender banquets wholly informal, and quite
as though Storri were an intimate family friend. Storri commended the
absence of stilts, this abandonment of the conventional.

"It is what I like!" cried he; "it is the compliment I shall most speak
of when I am back with my Czar."

Following dinner, Mrs. Hanway-Harley would have Storri to the library in
engagingly familiar fashion.

Senator Hanway went always to his study after dinner, to receive
visitors through that veranda door, and prune and train the vine of his
Presidential hopes with confabs and new plans, into which he and those
visitors--who were folk of power in their home States--unreservedly
plunged. Mr. Harley, who was not domestic and feared nothing so much as
an evening at home, would give an excuse more or less feeble and go
abroad into the town. This left Mrs. Hanway-Harley, Dorothy, and Storri
to themselves; and the maternal ally saw to it that the noble lover was
granted a chance to press his suit. That is to say, Mrs. Hanway-Harley
gave Storri a chance so far as lay in her accommodating power; for she
developed an inexhaustible roll of reasons for leaving the room, and in
her kind sagacity never failed to stay away at least five minutes. And a
world and all of love may be made in five minutes, when both parties set
their hearts and souls to the dulcet enterprise.

Storri was ardent, and Mrs. Hanway-Harley was discreet, and both
displayed talents for intrigue and execution that, on other days, in
other fields, might well have saved a state. And yet there was no
blushing progress to the love-making! Dorothy's behavior was
unaccountable. The first evening she sat in marble silence, like an
image. The next, she would not come down to dinner, saying she was sick
and could not eat. The invalid put in a most successful evening in her
room, thinking of Richard, and gorging on miscellaneous dishes which her
sable maid abstracted from below. She would have been ill the third
time, but her mother set her face like flint against such excuse. Mrs.
Hanway-Harley declared that Dorothy's desertion was disgraceful at a
moment when she, her mother, needed her help to entertain their visitor.
With that, Dorothy's indisposition yielded, and she so far recovered as
to play her part at table with commendable spirit, eating quite as much
as her mother, who was no one to dine like a bird. But Dorothy took her
revenge; she talked of nothing but Richard, and the conversations on
politics which he and "Uncle Pat" indulged in during those
eleven-o'clock calls.

Storri glowered; more, he became aware of Richard as the daily comrade
of Dorothy. Mrs. Hanway-Harley herself was struck by some shadow of the
truth; but she got no more than what Scotchmen call a "glisk," and she
gave the matter no sufficient weight. Later, she clothed it with more
importance.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley, however, was moved to reprove Dorothy from out the
wealth of her experiences.

"Child," said she, when Storri was gone, "you should never try to
entertain one gentleman by telling him about another; it only makes him
furious."

"I didn't, mamma," said Dorothy, her eyes innocently round.

"You did, only you failed to notice it," returned Mrs. Hanway-Harley.
"After this, be more upon your guard."

"I will, mamma," replied Dorothy demurely; but she was too sly to say
against what she should guard.

On the next Storri evening, Dorothy returned to the old ruse. She set a
lamp in her chamber window, the effect of the beacon being that Bess
came across from her house, as the clock scored eight and one-half, and
joined the Harley party. It was nothing out of common for Bess to do
this; she and Dorothy had been bosom friends since days when the two
wore their hair in pigtails and their frocks to their knees. Bess came
not only that evening, but every Storri evening; and whether or no she
were a welcome, at least she was a pertinacious visitor, for she stayed
unrelentingly until Storri, losing courage, went his way.

Storri bit his angry lip over Bess, for he now began to read the
argument of her advent. It was Dorothy's defense against him, and in its
kind an insult. Mrs. Hanway-Harley also became more and more instructed
in this love-match so near her heart, and those difficulties which the
capricious coldness of Dorothy arranged for its discouragement. The
placidity of Mrs. Hanway-Harley was becoming ruffled; the hour was
drawing on apace when she would make clear her position. She would issue
those commands which were to fix the attitude of Dorothy towards the
sighing Storri and his love.

Dorothy called Bess her guardian angel. The G. A. accepted the position
and its duties with that admirable composure which you have already
observed was among her characteristics. The fair Bess was one of those
whom their friends, without intending offense, describe as mildly
eccentric. That is to say, Bess had peculiarities which were in part
native and in part the work of an environment. She was an only child,
and that was bad; she was a doctor's child, and that was worse. Not that
her father had been so recklessly dense as to try his drugs on her; he
knew too much for that. But your doctor's children oft get an unusual
bringing up, and the chances in favor of the extraordinary in that
behalf are doubled where there is only one child.

Mother Marklin had been an invalid from the babyhood of Bess. Father
Marklin, in those intervals when his brougham was not racing from one
languid, dyspeptic, dance-tired, dinner-weary, rout-exhausted woman to
another at ten dollars a drooping head, looked after Bess in that spirit
of argus-eyed solicitude with which a government looks after its crown
jewels. Bess was herded, not to say hived, and her childish days were
days of captivity. She was prisoner to her father's loving
apprehensions, he being afraid to have her out of sight.

Then came her father's death, and the Marklin household devolved upon
Bess's hands when the hands were new and small and weak; and the load
served to emphasize Bess in divers ways. When not waiting upon the
invalid Mother Marklin, Bess broke into her father's bookshelves, and
read the owlish authors such as Bacon and Dr. Johnson, with side-flights
into Montaigne, Voltaire, Amiel, and others of hectic kidney. She
discovered, moreover, a sympathy with those women of strong minds who
have a quarrel with Providence for that they were not made men. Bess
believed in the equality of the sexes, without pausing to ask in what
they were unequal, and stood stoutly for the Rights of Woman, knowing
not wherein She was wronged or in what manner and to what extent She had
been given the worst of life's bargain. Bess was not a blue-stocking, as
Richard would have had it, and made no literary pretenses; but she
suffered from opinions concerning topics such as husband and wife, that
so far had had nothing better than theory to rest upon. All the same,
her friends were deeply satisfied with Bess; which helped that young
lady to a sense of satisfaction with herself and with them.

As head of the Marklins, Bess was made to decide things for herself. At
that, she decided in favor of nothing terrifying. She drank tea between
three and six each afternoon; she kept a cat named Ajax; and she
resolved to marry Mr. Fopling.

The latter young gentleman Bess called to her side when she pleased,
dismissed when he wearied her, and in all respects controlled his
conclusions, his conversations, and his whereabouts, as Heaven meant she
should. Bess preferred that Mr. Fopling call during the afternoon; she
required the morning for her household duties, and, when not screening
Dorothy from Storri, saved the evening for her books.

Ajax was a grave and formal cat, and, in his way, a personage. He was
decorous to a degree, unbended in no confidences with strangers, and
hated Mr. Fopling, whom he regarded as either a graceless profligate or
a domestic animal of unsettled species who, through no merit and by rank
favoritism, had been granted a place in the household superior to his
own. At sight of Mr. Fopling, Ajax would bottle-brush his tail, arch his
back, and explode into that ejaculation peculiar to cats. Mr. Fopling
feared Ajax, holding him to be rabid and not knowing when he would do
those rending deeds of tooth and claw upon him, of which the
ejaculation, the arched back, and the bottle-brush were signs and
portents.

It was the afternoon of the day following one of those Harley dinners
whereat Storri had been the sole and honored guest, and Bess was sipping
her tea. Her two favorites, Ajax and Mr. Fopling, were sitting in their
respective chairs, regarding each other with their usual suspicion and
distrust. Mr. Fopling, by command of Bess and so far as he might control
himself, was paying no attention to Ajax. Ajax, for his part, was
surveying Mr. Fopling with a sour stare, as though he found much in that
young gentleman's appearance to criticise. At intervals, he made
growling comments upon Mr. Fopling.

"Unless you and Ajax can agree," observed Bess soberly, "one or the
other might better go into the library."

Mr. Fopling made no demur; he was glad to go. When he was out of the
room, Ajax came and rubbed about his mistress as though claiming credit
for ousting Mr. Fopling, of whom he was certain Bess thought as badly as
did he.

Bess was sitting where she commanded a prospect of the street. Who
should come swinging up the way but Richard? It was the habit of that
rising journalist to make one or two daily excursions past the Harley
house. Richard was none of your moon-mad ones who would strum a midnight
lute beneath a fair maid's window. Still, he liked to walk by the Harley
house; the temporary nearness of Dorothy did his soul good. Besides, he
now and then caught a glimpse of her through the window.

Richard was on the Marklin side of the street, and as he was for going
by--back to Bess and eyes on the Harley house--Bess rapped on the pane
and beckoned him.

Richard lifted his hat and obeyed directly. He had already met Bess
several times when Dorothy and he, with a purpose to spin out their
eleven-o'clock interview, had seized on Bess as a method. They could not
remain staring at one another in Senator Hanway's study; even that
preoccupied publicist would have been struck by the strangeness of such
a maneuver. The best, because the only, thing was to make a pretext of
Bess and transfer their love-glances to her premises. This was the
earliest time, however, that Richard had been asked to visit Bess alone,
and he confessed to a feeling of curiosity, as he climbed the steps,
concerning the purpose of the summons.

Bess some time before had had that threatened talk with Richard
concerning marriage and husbands.

"Wedlock," declared Bess, on that edifying occasion, while Richard
grinned and Dorothy rebuked him with a frown, "wedlock results always in
the owner and the owned--a slave and a despot. That is by the wife's
decree. The husband is slave and she despot, or he the despot and she
the slave, as best matches with her strength or weakness. Some women
desire slavery; they would be unhappy without a tyrant to obey."

"And you--are you of those?" asked Richard, half mocking Bess.

"No; I prefer the rôle of despot. It is the reason why I shall marry Mr.
Fopling."

"And yet Mr. Fopling might turn out a perfect Caligula," said Richard,
with a vast pretense of warning. Mr. Fopling was not there to hear
himself ill-used.

"Mr. Fopling," observed Bess, in tones of lofty conviction, "has no
ambitions, no energies, no thoughts; and he has money. In brief, he is
beset by none of those causes that excite and drive men into politics or
literature or trade. He will have nothing to consider in his life but
me."

"But," said Richard, "Mr. Fopling might turn out in the end a veritable
Vesuvius. Mr. Fopling has often struck me as volcanic; who shall say
that he will not some day erupt?"

Bess was not to be frightened.

"Mr. Fopling will do and say and think as I direct; and we shall be
very, very happy."

Richard gave Dorothy a comical look of simulated dismay; and shook his
head as though counseling against such heresies.

"Of course," Bess continued, "what I propose for Mr. Fopling would not
do for you. Were you and I to marry"--Dorothy started--"it would result
in civil war. I've no doubt that you will be given a wife worthy your
tyrannical deserts. She will find her happiness in sitting at your feet,
while her love will make you its trellis to climb and clamber on."

The conversation was not so foolishly serious as it sounds, and for the
most part Bess and Richard were indulging in just no more than so much
verbal sparring. Dorothy took no side; those questions of marriages and
wives and husbands would ever find her tongue-tied if Richard were
around.

"Will you have some tea?" asked Bess, when Richard, in response to the
rapped window, made his way into her presence.

No, Richard would not have tea.

"Then you may smoke," said Bess. "That proves me your friend, doesn't
it?" as Richard started a grateful cloud. "Now, to repay my friendship,
I want to ask a question and a favor."

"You shall!" cried Richard magniloquently. Bess and he were on amiable
terms, and he was secretly assured that the blonde pythoness approved
him. "What am I to answer? What am I to do? Has the cherished Fopling
gone astray? Say but the word, and I shall hale him to your feet."

"Mr. Fopling is in the library," replied Bess. "He and Ajax could not
get along without quarreling, and I separated them. The question and the
favor refer to Dorothy."

Richard colored.

"What is the question?" said he, his voice turning deep and soft.

"Do you love her?" This staggered Richard. Bess came to his aid. "I know
you do," said she; "I'll answer the query for you. The real question I
wanted to ask is, Have you told her? And that I'll answer: You have
not."

"What does this lead to?" broke in Richard. A half-score of daunting
surmises had come up to shake him.

"Don't you think you might better tell her?" continued Bess, not heeding
the question.

"She knows," returned Richard, drawing a breath. "Dorothy knows. I've
seen the knowledge in her eyes. And she loves me!"

"I've no doubt you've seen marvelous things in one another's eyes,"
retorted Bess in a matter-of-fact way; "but I say again: Wouldn't it be
wise to tell her?"

"Frankly, yes," replied Richard, driven desperate. "I have been on the
threshold of it, but somehow I couldn't lay hands on just the words.
Dorothy knows I love her!" he repeated as though to himself. "It would
be only a formality."

"There is the very point," observed Bess. "It is the formality that has
become important. Do you think I would break in upon your dreams, else?
A formality is a fence. If you owned a bed of flowers, would you build a
fence about it? Then fence in your Dorothy with a formal offer of your
love."

"I shall not rest until I've done so!" cried Richard, catching fire.

"And then you will have done the wise and safe and just and loving
thing! Who taught you to ignore formalities? They are one's evidence of
title. Build your fence. It will be like saying to Storri: So far shalt
thou come and no farther."

Bess looked curiously at Richard. She had mentioned Storri in a mood of
mischief, as one spurs a gamesome horse to stir its mettle. Richard's
brow was a thundercloud.

"Why do you name Storri with Dorothy?--a serpent and a dove!" he said,
in tones very slow and full.

"Dorothy will tell you," replied Bess. "She will turn marvelously
loquacious, once she finds herself behind her fence."

"How shall I go to her?" exclaimed Richard. "My heart will be sick until
I've told her."

"You will not have long to wait," said Bess laughingly. "She should have
been here ten minutes ago. I can't see what detains her."

Richard looked bewildered and a little shocked. "Surely," he began,
"Dorothy didn't----"

"No, no; you are not the victim of a plot, Sir Suspicious One!" cried
Bess. "It is a wonder that you are not, for your dullness surpasses
belief. Do you imagine Dorothy doesn't see you every time you walk this
street? that she hasn't seen you to-day? that she didn't see you come
in? that she won't invent some pretext for running over? Oh, foolish,
foolish bridegroom! You may guess how foolish by peeping from the
window, for here your Dorothy comes."

At this, the benignant Bess, having questioned, advised, admonished,
and, in a measure, berated Richard, gave him her hand, as if she would
give him courage; and Richard, with the praiseworthy purpose of getting
all the courage he could, lifted it to his lips. That was the blasting
tableau at the moment Dorothy stood in the door.

"Oh!" cried Dorothy. Then her brow crimsoned, and her eyes began to
shine like angry stars.




CHAPTER IX

HOW STORRI MADE AN OFFER OF HIS LOVE


At the brow of red and those angry eyes like stars, Bess smiled
superior, in beaming toleration and affection. Bess could afford these
benevolences, being now engaged in that most delightful of all Christian
tasks to a woman, viz., superintending the love-romance of another
woman. She swept sweetly down on Dorothy; and even Richard, albeit full
to blindness of his own great passion, could not help but see that she
was as graceful as a goddess.

Bess placed a hand on each of Dorothy's shoulders, and kissed her brow
where the angry red, already in doubt as to the propriety of its
presence, was trying to steal away unnoticed.

"What have I done?" said Bess, as though repeating a query put by
Dorothy. "Now I no more than found a wanderer, who loves you almost as
dearly as you love him, and who would not see the way to go straight to
you with his offer of a heart. He was for traveling miles and miles
around, no one knows how many, by all kinds of hesitating roads. I
stopped him and pointed cross-lots to you. That is my whole offense; and
when you arrived, the wanderer, in a spirit of gratitude I entirely
commend, was very properly mumbling over my hands."

Bess drew Dorothy into the room.

"There!" cried she, "I have done my utmost best for both. I shall now
look after Mr. Fopling. Poor child, he has already been neglected too
long!"

Bess, departing, left behind her two young people wondrously
embarrassed. Richard had been plunged into a most craven condition;
while Dorothy, head drooping like a flower gone to sleep, the flush
creeping from her brow to her cheek, began to cry gently. Two large,
round, woeful tears came slowly into the corners of her eyes, paused a
moment as though to survey the world, and then ran timidly down, one on
each side of her nose.

At this piteous sight, Richard became a hero. Being an extremist in all
things, Richard, roused, caught Dorothy to his bosom--the first embrace
since that blessed boot-heel evening in the Waldorf! He folded her in
those Pict arms in most radical fashion, and kissed her--they were like
unto glimpses of heaven, those kisses!--kissed her eyes, and her hair,
and at last her lips, measuring one kiss from another with words of
rapturous endearment, of which "heart's love" and "darling" were the
most prudently cool. Richard refused to free Dorothy from out his arms,
not that she struggled bitterly, and continued for full ten minutes in
the utmost bliss and incoherency.

At these unexpected pictures of Paradise before the Fall, Ajax, sole
spectator, felt profound dismay. He bottle-brushed and arched and
exploded; and then, the wretched exhibition continuing, fled.

At last Richard listened to Dorothy, and released her to an armchair; he
took another, fastened his eyes upon her like visual leeches, and drank
her in.

"Who so blooming, who so lovely, who so glorious as Dorothy?" thought
Richard, on whom her beauty grew with ever-increasing witchery, like a
deep, clear night of stars.

And yet, the dough-like Fopling, at that moment in the library with
Bess, would have fought Richard to the death on a simple issue that Bess
was Dorothy's beauteous superior; which, so far from proving that love
is blind, shows it to have the eyes of Argus.

Richard and Dorothy said a thousand loving things, and meant them; they
made a thousand loving compacts, and kept them all.

Suddenly Richard burst forth as though a momentous and usual ceremony
had been overlooked.

"Oh, ho!" cried he, "you haven't asked how I am to support a wife."

"And do you suppose I have been thinking of that?" returned Dorothy,
beginning to bridle. "For that matter, I know you are poor."

"And how did you dig that up?"

"Dig!" This with the utmost resentment, as though repelling a slander.
"Why, you told mamma and me yourself. It was the day she was rude and
asked if Mr. Gwynn would make you his heir."

"Surely," said Richard, grinning cheerfully, as if a puzzle had been
made plain, "so I did."

"Sweetheart, I loved you from that moment!" cried Dorothy; and with a
half-sob to be company for the caress, she drifted about Richard's neck.

"Now I should call poverty worth while!" said Richard, manfully kissing
Dorothy all over again, since she had come within his clutch. Then,
replacing her in her chair, the more readily because he reflected that
he might easily repossess himself of her, he continued: "And the
prospect of being a poor man's wife does not alarm you, darling?"

"Oh, Richard!" Then, looking him squarely in the eyes: "No, dear, it
does not alarm me."

Dorothy spoke truth. The prospect of being a poor man's wife alarms no
woman--before marriage.

Richard was in a whirl when he left the Marklin door. Bess fairly drove
him forth, or he might not have departed at all. The first shadows of
night were falling, but the whole world seemed bright as noonday. He was
stricken of vague surprise to observe a man running by him, torch in
hand, lighting the street lamps. Controlling his astonishment, Richard
greeted the man as though they were old friends. They were not old
friends, and the effect of Richard's greeting was to lead the man of
lamps to think him drunk.

"Got his load early!" quoth the one of lamps. He tippled himself, and
was versed in cup proprieties, which forbade drunkenness prior to ten
o'clock.

Richard continued down the street. It was as if he were translated, and
had quitted earth to walk the clouds. And to think that not two hours
before he had come swinging along this identical thoroughfare, never
dreaming of the heaven of those loving arms into which he was walking!
Blessed be Bess! He should never forget that sorceress, who to his
weakness added her strength, and to his ignorance her wisdom. It was
such an extraordinary thing, now that Richard had time to think of it,
that Dorothy should love him! And more amazing that she should press her
cheek to his and tell him of it! Oh, he could still feel that round,
warm, velvet cheek against his own! It was such joy to remember, too,
that it was merely the beginning of an eternity of those soft
endearments! it remade the world; and all things, even those most
week-a-day and commonplace, came upon him in colors so new and strange
and rich and sweet--touched as they were with this transforming light of
Dorothy's love! Richard plowed through the winter evening in a most
ridiculous frame of mind, midway between transports and imbecility.

"You will see me to-morrow?" pleaded Dorothy, as he came away.

Whereat Richard averred doughtily that he should.

Neither of the two having the practical wit to settle hour or place,
Bess, who the moment before had returned to them from Mr. Fopling with
intelligence coolly unimpaired, said:

"Four o'clock, then; and, if I may make a suggestion, you might better
meet here."

It was among the miracles how the high beatitude consequent upon that
wonderful event of Dorothy's love put Richard in a vaguely belligerent
mood. It was an amiable ferocity at that, and showed in nothing more
dire than just an eye of overt challenge to all the world. Also, he
dilated and swelled in sheer masculine pride of himself, and no longer
walked the streets, but stalked. Naturalists will not be surprised by
these revelations, having observed kindred phenomena in the males among
other species of animals.

In this lofty spirit, and by a fashion of instinct, Richard headed for
the club. At the club, by the best of fortune, as he would have said in
his then temper, he located Storri; and thereupon he bent upon said
patrician such an iron stare of confident insolence that the object of
it was appreciably worried, turning white, then red, then white, and in
the finish leaving the room, unable to sustain himself in the face of so
much triumph and truculence.

In the midst of this splendor of the soul, and just as Richard had begun
to feel a catholic pity for all mankind to think not one beyond himself
was loved by Dorothy, a message was thrust between his fingers. It ran
thus:

     R. Storms,
     Washington, D. C.

     What's the matter? Where is your letter to-night?

     _Daily Tory_.

It was like a cupful of cold water, souse! in Richard's face; it brought
him back to earth. In his successful bright estate of love he had
forgotten about that letter. There was no help for it; Richard got pen
and blank, and wired:

     _Daily Tory_,
     New York City.

     Mr. Storms is ill; no letter to-night.

     L. Gwynn.

When this was thirty minutes on its way, Richard had a further lucid
interval. With the power of prophecy upon him, he dispatched the
following:

     _Daily Tory_,
     New York City.

     Mr. Storms will be ill a week.

     L. Gwynn.

It gave Richard a pang to put aside those engaging letters, even for a
week. Under the circumstances, however, and with a promise to see
Dorothy the next day at four, and a purpose to see her every day at four
if she permitted him, he deemed it prudent to send the second message.
Besides, should his reason return before the week's end, he could
recover from that illness and take up the letters again.

Being something sobered now, Richard lighted a cigar and strolled off
through a fall of snow that had set in, thinking on Dorothy. Arriving at
his home, he sat an hour in rose-colored reveries. He dived at last into
the bronze casket, and brought out the little boot-heel which was the
beginning of all First Causes.

"If I could but find the cheating bungler," thought Richard, "who
slighted that little shoe in making, I'd pile fortune upon him for the
balance of his life. And to think I owe my Dorothy to the cobbling
scoundrel!"

At three o'clock, with the soft fingers of the snow drumming drowsily
against the pane, Richard went to sleep and dreamed of angels, all of
whom were blue-eyed replicas of Dorothy.

Richard, still in a glorified trance, was up betimes. Mr. Pickwick, who
came to fawn upon him, the same being his doggish custom of a morning,
found Richard tolerant but abstracted. Hurt by a lack of notice, Mr.
Pickwick retired, and Matzai brought in breakfast. Richard could not
avoid a feeling of distrustful contempt for himself when he discovered
that he ate like a hod-carrier. It seemed treason to Dorothy to harbor
so rude an appetite.

While Richard had laid aside those _Daily Tory_ letters for a week, he
would still call on Senator Hanway at eleven. He considered what an
exquisite thrill would go over him as he sat gazing on Dorothy--that new
and beautiful possession of his heart!

Rather to Richard's dismay, Dorothy was not with them that morning in
Senator Hanway's study. Had her love of politics gone cooling? Senator
Hanway was there, however, and uppermost in his mind was something that
would again require countenance of the Anaconda Airline.

It was the subtile policy of Senator Hanway, in his move towards a
Presidency, to seem to be standing still. His attitude was feminine; the
nomination must abduct him; he must be dragged to the altar and wedded
into the White House by force. In short, Senator Hanway was for giving
the country a noble exhibition of the office seeking the man.

This attitude of holding delicately aloof did not prevent him in the
privacy of his study--out of which no secrets escaped--from unbuckling
confidentially with ones who, like Richard, were close about his counsel
board. It was not that he required that young journalist's advice; but
he needed his help, and so gave him his confidence because he couldn't
avoid it.

Richard wore the honors of these confidences easily. Scores of times,
Senator Hanway had gone into the detail of his arrangements to trap
delegates, wherefore it bred no surprise in him when, upon this morning,
that statesman took up the question of an Anaconda influence, and the
extent to which it might be exercised. Senator Hanway showed Richard a
list of fourteen States, all subject to the Anaconda's system of roads.

"In my opinion," said Senator Hanway, "the Anaconda could select the
national delegations in these States. There is no doubt that the
fourteen, acting together,--for the list includes three of the largest
States in the country,--would decide the nomination. The query is, Would
Mr. Gwynn be so amiably disposed as to move in the affair? I may say
that I should not prove insensible to so great a favor."

"Mr. Gwynn," returned Richard, "has repeatedly instructed me that you
were to regard the Anaconda as yours, and the _Daily Tory_ as yours, for
everything that either or both of them can do in your interest. It will
not be necessary to see him unless you prefer an interview."

Senator Hanway never preferred an interview with anybody, where that
formality was not demanded by the situation. He held to the doctrine
that no one, not a fool, would talk beyond what was necessary to carry
his projects to success. His present word to Richard, however, did not
include this belief. He put it in this fashion:

"I do not feel at liberty," said he, "to disturb Mr. Gwynn with what are
no more than just my personal concerns. He has much more weighty matters
of his own to consider; and he ought not to be loaded down with those of
other men. Besides, in this instance, his magnificent generosity has
anticipated me. He tells you that I am to have the assistance of the
Anaconda?"

"In what form and to what extent you choose," returned Richard. "He even
said that, should you be set to head your party's ticket, the campaign
might count upon the Anaconda for a contribution of no less than a
half-million."

Senator Hanway's pale face flushed, not with gratitude, but exultation.

"I cannot tell you," said he, "which affects me most; Mr. Gwynn's
immense kindness or his even greater condescension."

Then getting to things practical, Senator Hanway asked Richard if the
President and General Attorney of the Anaconda might not again be
brought to Washington.

"They shall come," replied Richard confidently. "You have only to fix
the date."

"Any time between the second and tenth of January," suggested Senator
Hanway. And that was settled.

Richard, not so much because of an interest,--if truth were told his
thoughts went running away to Dorothy, and must be continually yanked
back by the ear to topics common and earthly,--but for the sake of
something to say, asked Senator Hanway about the committee of three
selected to investigate Northern Consolidated.

"You know, the business came up because of my letters in the _Daily
Tory_," observed Richard, by way of excuse for his curiosity.

The investigation was progressing slowly. It was secret; no part of the
evidence could be given out. It would not join with senatorial propriety
to let anything be known for publication.

"In a semi-judicial inquiry of this sort," explained Senator Hanway, in
tones of patronizing dignity, "one of your discernment will recognize
the impropriety, as well as the absolute injustice, of foreshadowing in
any degree the finding of the committee. For yourself, however, I don't
mind saying that the evidence, so far, is all in favor of Northern
Consolidated. The company will emerge with a clean bill of health--clean
as a whistle! The committee's finding," concluded Senator Hanway
musingly, "will be like a new coat of paint to the road. It should help
it immensely--help the stock; for these charges have hung over Northern
Consolidated values like a shadow."

"And when should the committee report?" queried Richard.

"Those things come along very leisurely; the report ought to be public,
I should think, about the middle of February. We may give it to the road
for a valentine," and Senator Hanway smiled in congratulation of himself
for something light and fluffy, something to mark in him a pliancy of
sentiment.

Senator Hanway--such is the weakness of the really great--had his vanity
as well as Richard, and would have been pleased had folk thought him of
a fancy that, on occasion, could break away from those more sodden
commodities of politics and law-building. Cæsar and Napoleon were both
unhappy until they had written books, and Alexander cared more for
Aristotle's good opinion than for conquest.

Just when Richard, who had been expecting with every moment his Dorothy
to come rustling in, was beginning to despair, Dorothy's black maid
appeared, and, under pretense of asking Senator Hanway on behalf of his
devoted niece whether or no said niece might count on his escort to the
White House reception New Year's Day, craftily slipped Richard a note.

"Why, she knows she may!"

Senator Hanway was somewhat astonished at Dorothy's forethoughtfulness;
the more since the reception was a week and more away.

"Miss Dory wants to have Miss Bess, from 'cross d' street, go 'long,"
vouchsafed the maid.

"Oh, that's it!" said Senator Hanway, who mistook this for an
explanation.

Richard was on nettles to get at Dorothy's note. Anxiety sharpened his
faculties, and he took from his pocket a clipping, being indeed a _Daily
Tory_ editorial wherein was set forth what should be a proper tariff
policy, and gravely besought Senator Hanway for his views thereon. While
that statesman was donning glasses and running over the excerpt, Richard
made furtive shift to read his note from Dorothy. It said:

     Dear:

     I am with Bess. Something awful has happened. Don't wait a moment,
     but come. D.

Senator Hanway was not a little amazed when, just as he found himself
midstream in those tariff studies to which Richard had invited him, that
volatile individual arose in the utmost excitement and said that he must
go.

"The truth is," said Richard, blundering about for the explanation which
the questioning eye of Senator Hanway appeared to ask, "I forgot a
matter of Mr. Gwynn's."

Senator Hanway waved his satisfied hand in a manner that meant "Say no
more!" Senator Hanway did not doubt that the business was important. Any
business of Mr. Gwynn's must be important. The sheer fact that it was
Mr. Gwynn's business made it important. It bordered dangerously upon the
criminal that Richard should have neglected it. The state of affairs
described accounted most satisfactorily for Richard's breathless haste.
Senator Hanway, when he recalled the assurance of Mr. Harley, made with
bated breath but the evening before, that Mr. Gwynn's income was over
twelve hundred thousand dollars a month, sympathized with Richard's
zeal. Under similar circumstances, Senator Hanway's excitement would
have mounted as high. It is such a privilege to serve the very rich!

Richard found Dorothy in that apartment which was but yesterday the
theater of his great happiness. She was alone; for Bess must play the
housewife, and was at that moment addressing a slattern maid upon the
sin of dust in some far-off, lofty corridor of the premises. Richard
swept Dorothy with a gray glance like a flashlight. Her face was
troubled, but full of fortitude, and she was very white about the mouth.
At sight of Richard, however, Dorothy's fortitude gave way, and went
whirling down-stream in a tempest of tears and sobs. With her poor hands
outstretched as if for protection, she felt her way blindly into the
shelter of those arms; and Richard drew her close and closer, holding
her to his heart as though she were a child. He asked no question, said
no word, sure only as granite that, whatever the trouble, it should not
take her from him. These rock-founded natures, self-reliant,
world-defying, made all of love and iron, are a mighty comfort to weak
ones; and so thought Dorothy as she lay crying in Richard's embrace.

And now, since you have seen Dorothy safe across the harbor-bar of her
griefs, and she lies landlocked in the sure haven of the Pict arms, you
might cross the way for a space, and learn what abode at the foot of all
this disturbance of true lovers.

It was while Richard was closeted with Senator Hanway that the storm
broke. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, after reflection, had decided to speak to her
daughter upon the subject of Storri and that noble Russian's suit. To
this end, Mrs. Hanway-Harley called Dorothy into a little parlor which
opened off her bedchamber. It was that particular apartment where Mrs.
Hanway-Harley took her naps, and afterward donned war-paint and feathers
wherewith to burst upon society.

Dorothy came reluctantly, haunted with a forebode of impending griefs.
The room was a fashion of torture chamber to Dorothy. Mrs. Hanway-Harley
had summoned her to this room for admonition and reproach and punishment
since ever she was ten years of age. Wherefore, there was little in her
mother's call to engage Dorothy pleasantly; and she hung back, and
answered slowly, with soles of lead.

When Dorothy at last came in, Mrs. Hanway-Harley lost no time in
skirmishing, but at once opened the main battle.

"My child," said she, with a look that she meant should be ineffably
affectionate, and which was not, "Count Storri has been talking of you."

"Yes?" queried Dorothy, with sinking heart, but making a gallant effort
at childish innocence.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley lost patience. She observed and resented the childish
innocence, rebuking it smartly.

"Rub that baby look out of your face, instantly! You are not a child!"

Dorothy stiffened like a grenadier. She remembered Richard; her mother
was right; she was not a child, she was a woman, and so the world should
find her. Dorothy's eyes began to gleam dangerously, and if Mrs.
Hanway-Harley had owned any gift to read faces, she might have hesitated
at this pinch.

"What would you have?" said Dorothy, and her tones were as brittle and
as devoid of sentimental softness as Mrs. Hanway-Harley's.

"Marriage."

"Marriage with Storri?"

"Dorothy," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley with a sigh, softly returning to the
lines she had originally laid out, "Count Storri, in the most delicate
way, like the gentleman and nobleman he is, has asked for your hand."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley had read something like this in a magazine, and now
reeled it off with tender majesty. When she spoke of Storri she had
quite the empress air.

"For my hand!" said Dorothy, beginning to pant.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley looked up; there was a hardness in Dorothy's tone
that was not only new, but unpleasant. Down deep in her nature, Dorothy
hid those stubborn traits that distinguished her religious ancestor of
the gate-post and the water-pan.

"For your hand," repeated Mrs. Hanway-Harley uneasily.

Dorothy making no return, Mrs. Hanway-Harley, after waiting a moment,
gave herself to a recount of those glowing advantages promised by such a
marriage. Was a nobleman, wealthy, young, handsome, on terms of
comradeship with his Czar, to be refused? Half the women in Washington
were wild for such an offer. It would place the Harleys on a footing by
themselves.

"But I don't love him!" urged Dorothy, as though that had to do with the
question.

At this foolishly unfortunate objection, Mrs. Hanway-Harley was rendered
speechless. Then, as notice of Dorothy's white, cold obstinacy began to
dawn upon her, she went suddenly into lamentations. To think her child,
her only child, should deal her such a blow! Mrs. Hanway-Harley called
herself the most ill-treated of parents. She said her best and dearest
feelings had been trampled upon. In a shower of tears, and a cataract of
complaint, she bemoaned her dark, ungrateful destiny. At this, Dorothy's
tears began to flow, and the interview became hysterical.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley was the earlier to recover her balance. Drying her
eyes, she said:

"Disobedient child!"--this was also from the magazine--"since you will
not listen to the voice of love, since you will not listen to the voice
of reason, you shall listen to the voice of command."

Then, striking a pose that was almost tragic, Mrs. Hanway-Harley told
Dorothy she _must_ marry Storri.

"As your mother, I command it!" said Mrs. Hanway-Harley, lifting her
jeweled hand finely, as though the thing were settled and the conference
at an end.

"And I tell you," said Dorothy, catching her breath and speaking with
bitter slowness, "that I shall not marry him!"

"This to me!--your mother!--in my own house!"

"You shall not drive me!" cried Dorothy passionately, her eyes roving
savagely, like the eyes of a badgered animal. "Am I to have no voice in
disposal of myself? I tell you I shall marry whom I please! And since he
makes his proffer through you, tell the creature Storri that I loathe
him!"

"Have a care, child!"

This last was also from the magazine, and Mrs. Hanway-Harley got it off
superbly. It missed fire, so far as Dorothy was concerned--Dorothy,
strung like a bow, and now in full rebellion.

"It is you to have a care!" retorted Dorothy. "Papa and Uncle Pat shall
hear of this!"

"They will say as I say!" observed Mrs. Hanway-Harley, who believed it.

"And if they should," cried Dorothy, "I have still a resource!"

"Flight?" said Mrs. Hanway-Harley, not without contempt.

"Marriage!" replied Dorothy, now as dry of eye as she was defiant. Bess
Marklin was assuredly right in her estimate of formalities, and their
saving and securing worth.

"Marriage!" repeated Dorothy, and her voice rang out in a composite note
of love and triumph as she thought of Richard.

"Marriage!" Mrs. Hanway-Harley was staggered. Here was a pathway of
escape she had not counted on. "Whom would you marry?"

"You shall not know," said Dorothy.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley saw truth in Dorothy's red cheek--she had been snow
till now--saw it in her swimming eye and heaving bosom. Before she could
phrase further question Dorothy had left the room, and Mrs.
Hanway-Harley was beaten.

Somewhere in the unknown dark behind Dorothy's stubborn will stood a
man; and that man loved Dorothy. She would draw on his love and his
loyalty and his courage to make her war! Mrs. Hanway-Harley felt her
defeat, and sighed to think how she had walked upon it blindfold. But
she was not without military fairness; she must make her report.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley wrote Storri a note, saying that, for reasons not to
be overcome, the honor of his hand must be denied her house. While Mrs.
Hanway-Harley was writing Storri, Dorothy the baited was writing her
note to Richard. And now you know why Dorothy sobbed her troubled,
hunted, harassed way into Richard's arms.

After ten minutes of love and peace, Dorothy was so much renewed that,
word for word, she gave Richard the entire story.

"What shall I do?" said Dorothy at the close. "Tell me, dear, what am I
to do?"

"You are in no danger," said Richard, in a manner of grim tenderness,
and folding her tight. "Before I'd see you marry Storri, I would kill
him in the church--kill him at the altar rail!"

"You must not kill him!" whispered Dorothy, at once horrified and
flattered.

"There's no chance," said Richard, with a quaver of comic regret. "Our
civilization has so narrowed the times that murder is inexpressibly
inconvenient. One thing I might do, however."

"What is that?"

"I might carry you off."

"Oh, that would never do!" said Dorothy, as, with a great sigh, she
crept more and more into Richard's arms, thinking all the time it would
do, and do nicely.




CHAPTER X

HOW STORRI PLOTTED A VENGEANCE


Richard asked Dorothy if she had told Bess. No, Dorothy had not told
Bess.

"Do you think, dear heart, I would tell anyone before I had told you?"

As the most fitting reply to this question, Richard kissed Dorothy all
over again as though for the first time, and with a fervor that told how
his soul was in the work.

Bess was called in as a consulting engineer of hearts. That blonde
tactician glanced over the situation with the eye of a field-marshal.
This was the result of her survey. There must be no clandestine
marriage, no elopement. Dorothy was in no peril; it was not a drawbridge
day of moated castlewicks and donjon keeps. Damsels were no longer
gagged and bound and carried to the altar, and there wedded perforce to
dreadful ogres. Wherefore, a runaway match was not necessary. Moreover,
it would be vulgar; and nothing could justify vulgarity. Dorothy and
Richard should remain as they were. They must continue to love; they
must learn to wait, and to take what advantage the flow of events
provided.

"My wisdom," quoth Bess, pausing as if for congratulations, "my wisdom
is, doubtless, so much beyond my years as to seem unearthly. It's due to
the fact that, although young, I've been for long the responsible head
of a family."

Bess mentioned this latter dignified condition with complacency. It left
her exempt from those troubles, like a bramble patch, into which Dorothy
was plunged.

Both Dorothy and Richard were inclined to agree with their monitress.
Richard was too wholly of the battle-ax breed to favor stealth and
creeping about. It was in his heart to marry Dorothy defiantly, and at
noon. Dorothy's reasons were less robust; she was thinking on her father
and "Uncle Pat," and all their kindnesses. She could not make up her
loyal heart to any step that smacked of treachery to them.

"And yet," observed Richard, "here we are where we started." Then
turning to Bess: "You have told us what we should not do, and told us
extremely well. Now bend your sage brows to the question of what we
ought to do. Or, to phrase it this fashion, What ought I to do?"

"Go to Mrs. Hanway-Harley and ask for her daughter."

Richard winced and made a wry face.

"I'd sooner go to Storri. The rascal might give me a reason for
thrashing him."

"You are on no account to mention Dorothy's name to Storri."

"No?" somewhat ruefully.

"And you are to beat him only should he mention Dorothy's name to you."

"I shall;" and Richard brightened.

"Storri asked Mrs. Hanway-Harley for her daughter. I should think you
might summon up an equal courage."

"But I haven't the advantage of being a Russian nobleman," returned
Richard, with one of his cynical grins.

"Still you must ask Mrs. Hanway-Harley for Dorothy; and no later, mind
you, than to-morrow night." Bess tossed her head as though a fiat had
gone forth.

"Well," said Richard, drawing a deep breath, "if you have any such junk
as a Joss about the house, I'd take it friendly if you would burn a
handful of prayer-sticks in my interest." Then, with all love's
softness, to Dorothy: "Your mother will say No; she will not entertain
your views on poverty, little one."

Dorothy came behind Richard's chair and pressed her cheek to his.

"Whatever she may say, whatever anyone may say, you, and only you,
dearest, shall have me," and Dorothy signed the promise after the
fashion popular with lovers.

Storri came that evening to see Mrs. Hanway-Harley. Both parties were
acting, Storri affecting melancholy while he was on fire with passionate
rage, and Mrs. Hanway-Harley assuming the rôle of the mother who,
although she regrets, is still tenderly unwilling to control those
wrongly headstrong courses upon which her child is bent. There was a
world of polite fencing between Mrs. Hanway-Harley and Storri, in which
each bore testimony to the esteem in which the other was held. It was
decided that Storri should continue those dinners with the Harleys;
Dorothy might discover a final wisdom.

Storri told Mrs. Hanway-Harley that he feared Dorothy had given her
heart to Richard. This admission was gall and wormwood to the self-love
of Storri. He made it, however, and recalled Mrs. Hanway-Harley to
Dorothy's chatter concerning the morning talks between Richard and
Senator Hanway.

"That odious printer," said Storri, who called all newspaper people
printers, "comes each day to get his budget of news from your
illustrious brother, madam; and, believe me, your daughter makes some
sly pretext for being with them--with him, the odious printer! Bah! I
wish we were in Russia; I would blow out the rogue's life like a candle!
Why, my Czar would laugh were so mean a being to succeed in obstructing
the love of his Storri!"

Mrs. Hanway-Harley was struck by the suggestion that Richard was
Dorothy's lover in the dark. She remembered Dorothy's teasing praises of
Richard, and her talk of how sapiently he discoursed with "Uncle Pat."
The praises occurred on that evening when, from her wisdom, she, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley, had warned her innocent child against the error of
entertaining one gentleman with the merits of another. Mrs.
Hanway-Harley even brought to mind the replies made by her innocent
child to those warnings; and her own wrath began to stir as the
suspicion grew that her innocent child had been secretly laughing at
her. Like all shallow folk, Mrs. Hanway-Harley prided herself upon being
as deep as the sea, and it did her self-esteem no good to think that she
had been sounded, not to say charted, by her own daughter, who had gone
steering in and out, keeping always the channel of her credulity, and
never once running aground. Little lamps of anger lighted their evil
wicks in Mrs. Hanway-Harley's eyes as she thus reflected.

And that morning armful of roses? No, Storri was not the moving cause of
their fragrant appearance upon the Harley premises. Storri regretted
that he had not once bethought him of this delicate attention. Mrs.
Hanway-Harley wrung her hands. It was Dorothy who first planted in her
the belief that the flowers were from Storri. Oh, the artful jade! That
was the cause of her timorous objections when Mrs. Hanway-Harley, with
the fond yet honorable curiosity of a mother, spoke of mentioning those
flowers to Storri. The perjured Dorothy was aware of their felon origin;
doubtless, she even then encouraged the miserable Richard in his love.

As these lights burst one after the other upon Mrs. Hanway-Harley, she
could have punished her own dullness by beating her head against the
wall. However, she restrained herself, and closed by inviting Storri to
dinner on the next day but one. Storri, still keeping up his tender
melancholy, thanked Mrs. Hanway-Harley, accepted, and with many bows,
and many sighs to impress upon Mrs. Hanway-Harley his stricken heart,
backed himself out into the night.

When Storri was gone, Mrs. Hanway-Harley resolved on an instant talk
with Dorothy--no more the innocent, but the artful one. She would make a
last attempt to wring from her the name of that lover of the shadows.
Should it be Richard--and she was sure of it--that aspiring journalist
must never again cross the Harley threshold.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley, who had the merit of expedition, repaired at once to
Dorothy's room. That obdurate beauty was half undressed, and her maid
had just finished arranging her hair in two raven braids--thick as a
ship's cable, they were. As Mrs. Hanway-Harley entered, Dorothy glanced
up with half-wistful eye. Poor child! she was hoping her mother might
have softened from that granite attitude of the morning! But no, there
was nothing tender in the selfish, austere gaze; at that, the spirit of
the old astronomical ancestor who, with his water-pans and gate-posts,
knew the earth was flat, began to chafe within Dorothy's girlish bosom.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley came to a dignified halt in the middle of the room.

"Cora, you may go," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

The black maid gave a parting touch to the braids, in which she
contrived to mingle sympathy and affection, for with the wisdom of her
caste she knew of Dorothy's love and gave it her approval.

"Dorothy," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley, when they were alone, and speaking
in a high, superior vein, "I have come for the name of that man."

"Mr. Storms," returned Dorothy, in tones which for steadiness matched
Mrs. Hanway-Harley's.

It was not the name so much as the relentless frankness that furnished
it, which overcame Mrs. Hanway-Harley. She sat down with an emphasis so
sudden that it was as though her knees were glass and the blow had
broken them. Once in the chair, she waggled her head dolorously, and
moaned out against upstart vulgarians who, without a name or a shilling,
insinuated themselves like vipers into households of honor, and, coiling
themselves upon the very hearthstones, dealt death to fondest hopes.

Dorothy, who, for all the selfish shallowness of that relative, loved
her mother, tried to take her hand. At a shadow of sympathy she would
have laid before Mrs. Hanway-Harley the last secret her bosom hid. There
was no sympathy, nothing of mother's love; Mrs. Hanway-Harley, in the
narrowness of her egotism, could consider no feelings not her own.

"Don't; don't touch me!" she cried. "Don't add hypocrisy to your
ingratitude!" Then, in tones that seemed to pillory Dorothy as reprobate
and lost, she cried: "You have disgraced me--disgraced your father, your
uncle, and me!"

"Another word," cried Dorothy, moving with a resentful swoop towards the
bell, "and I'll call Uncle Pat to judge between us! Yes; he is in his
study. Uncle Pat shall hear you!"

Mrs. Hanway-Harley, glass knees and all, got between Dorothy and the
bell. Dorothy's uncle and Dorothy's father should know; but not then.
She had hoped that with reason she might rescue her daughter from a step
so fatal as marriage with a hopeless beggar who could not live without
the charity of his patron. These things and much more spake Mrs.
Hanway-Harley; but she might as well have remonstrated with a storm. The
gate-post grandsire had charge of Dorothy.

"And what is to be the end of this intrigue?" asked Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

"It is no more an intrigue," protested Dorothy, her eyes flashing, "than
was your marriage to papa, or the marriage of Aunt Dorothy with Uncle
Pat. Oh, mamma," she cried appealingly, "can't you see we love each
other!"

Mrs. Hanway-Harley was a trifle touched, but it was her maternal duty to
conceal it. She steadied herself to a severe sobriety, and, with the
manner of one injured to the verge of martyrdom, said with a sigh:

"I shall see this person; I shall send for this Mr. Storms."

"It will be unnecessary," replied Dorothy, turning frigid; "Mr. Storms
will call upon you to-morrow night."

"And does the puppy think that I'll give my consent?" demanded Mrs.
Hanway-Harley, angrily aghast at the insolence of Richard.

"Now I don't know what the 'puppy' thinks," returned Dorothy, from whom
the anger of her mother struck sympathetic sparks, "but I told him I
would marry him without it."

In a whirl of indignation, Mrs. Hanway-Harley burst in upon Senator
Hanway. That ambitious gentleman was employed in abstruse calculations
as to tariff schedules, and how far they might be expected to bear upon
his chances in the coming National Convention. Senator Hanway was
somewhat impressed by Mrs. Hanway-Harley's visit; his study had never
been that lady's favorite lounge. Moreover, her face proclaimed her
errand no common one.

"Why, I thought you were all in bed, Barbara," said Senator Hanway, by
way of opening conversation.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley, as calmly as she might, told of Dorothy's "mad
infatuation." She held back nothing except what portions of the tangle
referred to Storri. That nobleman's proposals she did not touch on. She
spoke of Richard, and the disaster, not to say the disgrace, to the
Harley name should he and Dorothy wed. Mrs. Hanway-Harley flowed on,
sometimes eloquent, always severe, and closed in with a thunder-gust of
tears.

Senator Hanway listened, first with wonder, then alarm; when she
finished he sat with an air of helplessness. After rubbing his nose
irresolutely with a pen-holder, he said:

"What can I do?"

"You can advise me."

"Well, then," observed Senator Hanway, looking right and left, being no
one to face an angry woman, "why don't you let them marry?"

"Brother!"

Mrs. Hanway-Harley strove to bury Senator Hanway beneath a mountain of
reproach with that one word.

"What can you do?" asked Senator Hanway defensively. "You say that
Dorothy declares she will marry young Storms in the teeth of every
opposition."

"Are we to permit the foolish girl to throw herself away?"

"But how will you restrain her?"

"One thing," exclaimed Mrs. Hanway-Harley, getting up to go; "that
person, after to-morrow, shall never enter these doors! I shall have but
one word; I shall warn him not to repeat his visits to this house."

The change that came over Senator Hanway struck Mrs. Hanway-Harley with
dumb dismay. His eye, which had been prying about for an easiest way out
of the dilemma, now filled with threatening interest.

"Barbara, sit down!" commanded Senator Hanway.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley sat down; she was, with the last word, in awe of her
eminent brother. Senator Hanway arose and towered above her with
forbidding brow. The threat to bar the Harley doors to Richard had set
him agog with angry apprehensions. What! should his best agent of
politics, one who was at once the correspondent of that powerful
influence the _Daily Tory_ and the authorized mouthpiece of the
potential Mr. Gwynn who owned the Anaconda, nay, was the Anaconda, be
insulted, and arrayed against him? And for what? Because of the baby
heart of a girl scarce grown! Was a White House to be lost by such
tawdry argument? Forbidding Richard the door might of itself appear a
meager matter, but who was to say what results might not spring from it?
Senator Hanway had seen the gravest catastrophies grow from reasons
small as mustard seed! A city is burned, and the conflagration has its
start in a cow and a candle! Mrs. Hanway-Harley shall not put his hopes
to jeopardy in squabbles over Dorothy and her truant love. Senator
Hanway felt the hot anxiety of one who, bearing a priceless vase through
the streets, is jostled by the inconsiderate crowd. Domestic politics
and national politics had come to a clash.

Senator Hanway stood staring at Mrs. Hanway-Harley. He required time to
gather control of himself and lay out a verbal line of march. He decided
for the lucid, icy style; it was his favorite manner in the Senate.

"Barbara," said he, "give careful ear to what I shall say. I do not
request, I do not command, I tell you what _must_ be done. I do not
interfere between you and Dorothy; I interfere only between you and Mr.
Storms. That young man is necessary to my plans. He is to come to this
study, freely and without interference. Nor are you, on any occasion, or
for any cause, to affront him or treat him otherwise than with respect."

"But, brother," urged Mrs. Hanway-Harley, "he has trapped Dorothy into a
promise of marriage."

"Why do you object to him?"

"He has no fortune; the man's a beggar!"

"He has his money from the _Daily Tory_, say five thousand a year. That
is as much as I am paid for being Senator."

"There is no parallel! Your salary may be five thousand; but you make
twenty-fold that sum," which was quite true.

"Barbara," remarked Senator Hanway reprovingly, returning to the
original bone of dispute, "why should you insist on this young man
owning millions before he can think of Dorothy? You had nothing, John
had nothing, when you married. You should remember these things."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley refused to remember. There was no reason why she
should. Dorothy was the present issue; and Dorothy was--or would
be--rich.

"I won't go into the business any further," retorted Senator Hanway at
last, with a gesture of irritation and disgust. "I simply tell you that
Mr. Storms is neither to be affronted nor driven away. Should you
disregard my wishes, Barbara, I say to you plainly that I myself will
bring the young people together, send for a preacher, and marry them in
this very study. I am not to lose a Presidency because you choose to
play the fool."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley, illustrious in all her diamonds, upon the next
evening received Richard in vast state. She proposed to impress him with
her splendors. Dorothy, in anticipation of the meeting between mother
and lover, had gone across to Bess; her nervousness must have support.

Richard, whose diplomacy was barbaric and proceeded on straight lines,
told Mrs. Hanway-Harley of his love for Dorothy. As his handsome face
lighted up, even Mrs. Hanway-Harley was not unswept of admiration. She
could look into Richard's eyes, and see for herself those gray beauties
of tenderness and truth that had won Dorothy to his side. They might
have won even Mrs. Hanway-Harley had she not been a mother. What if he
were tender, what if he were true? He had no fortune, no place; even the
Admirable Crichton, wanting social station and the riches whereon to
base it, would have been impossible.

When Richard had ended his love-tale--which, considering that for all
his outward fortitude he was inwardly quaking, he told full
eloquently--Mrs. Hanway-Harley composed herself for reply. She hardly
required those warnings of Senator Hanway; there was no wish now to
insult or humble him. In truth, Mrs. Hanway-Harley was in the best
possible temper to carry forward her side of the conference in manner
most creditable to herself and most helpful for her purposes. More than
ever, since she had heard him, she knew the perilous sway this man must
own over her daughter. While he talked, the deep, true tones were like a
spell; the great, tender, persistent will of a man in loving earnest
seemed as with a thousand soft, resistless hands to draw her whither it
would. Even she, Mrs. Hanway-Harley, selfish, guarded, worldly, cold,
was shaken and all but conquered beneath the natural hypnotic power of
the male when speaking, thinking, feeling, moving from the heart. Oh,
she would warrant her daughter loved this wizard! She, herself, was
driven to fence against his pleadings to keep from granting all he
asked. But fence she did; Mrs. Hanway-Harley remembered that she was a
mother, an American mother whose daughter had been asked in wedlock by a
Count. She must protect that daughter from the wizard who would only
love to blight.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley never spoke to more advantage. She did not doubt Mr.
Storms's honesty, she did not distrust his love; but woman could not
live by love alone, and she had her duty as a mother. Dorothy had been
lapped in luxury; it was neither right nor safe that her daughter should
marry downhill. Mrs. Hanway-Harley's voice was smoothly even. Mr. Storms
must forgive a question. Something of the kind had been asked before,
but changes might have intervened. Had Mr. Storms any expectations from
Mr. Gwynn?

"Madam," replied Richard, while a queer smile played about his mouth, a
smile whereof the reason was by no means clear to Mrs. Hanway-Harley,
"madam, I shall be wholly honest. Living or dead, gift or will, I shall
never have a shilling from Mr. Gwynn."

"Then, Mr. Storms," returned Mrs. Hanway-Harley, "I ask you whether I
would be justified in wedding my daughter to poverty?"

"But is money, that is, much money, so important?" pleaded Richard. "I
have education, health, brains--in moderation--and love to prompt all
three. That should not mean beggary, even though it may not mean
prodigious wealth."

"Every lover has talked the same," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley, not
unkindly. "Believe me, Mr. Storms: no man should ask a woman in marriage
unless he can care for her as she was cared for in her father's house."

"But the father's fortune is not sure," remonstrated Richard. "The
father's riches, or the lover's poverty, may vanish in a night."

"We must deal with the present," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

Richard pondered the several perplexities of the case.

"If I had a fortune equal to Mr. Harley's, you would not object, madam?"

"It is the only bar I urge," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley suavely.

"Then I am to understand that, should a day come when I can measure
wealth with Mr. Harley, I may claim Dorothy as my own?"

Mrs. Hanway-Harley bowed.

"My daughter, however, must not be bound by any promise."

"Your daughter, madam," returned Richard, with a color of pride, "shall
never be bound by me. Though I held a score of promises, I would have no
wife who did not come to me of her free choice. I do not look on love as
a business proposition."

"Older people do," responded Mrs. Hanway-Harley dryly.

"Madam," said Richard, "I have only one more question to ask. What is to
be my attitude towards your daughter, while I am searching for that
fortune?"

It was here that Mrs. Hanway-Harley made her greatest stroke; she
reached Richard where he had no defense.

"Your attitude, Mr. Storms, towards my daughter, I shall leave to you
for adjustment as a man of honor."

Richard crossed the street to Dorothy and told her what had passed.
Dorothy kissed him, and cried over him, and made a wail against their
darkling fate.

"How I wish papa was poor!" cried Dorothy. "I wish he didn't have a
dollar!" Then, conscience-stricken: "No, I don't! Poor pop; he doesn't
hate money, if I do."

Richard took Dorothy's sweet face between his hands, and looked into her
eyes.

"You will believe me, darling?"

"Yes!"

"Then don't weep, don't worry! I promise that within the year you shall
be my wife. I'll find the way to find the money."

"And hear me promise," returned Dorothy. "Money or no money, I'll become
your wife what day you will."

Of course, after such a speech, there befell a sweet world and all of
foolish tenderness; but, since the scandalized Ajax would not stay to
witness it, neither shall you.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley said nothing to Dorothy of her interview with
Richard; she appeared to believe that Richard had saved her that labor.
There was a kind of sneer in this. Feeling the sneer, Dorothy put no
questions; she was willing, in her resentment, to have it understood
that Richard had told her. Why should he not?--she who was to be his
wife! Dorothy would have been proud to proclaim her troth from the
house-tops.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley had Storri to dinner. Dorothy, when he was announced,
sought her room. A moment later, Mrs. Hanway-Harley was at the door. She
came in cool, collected, no trace of anger. Why did not Dorothy come
down to dinner? Dorothy did not come down to dinner because Dorothy did
not choose.

"You do not ask Mr. Storms to dinner," said Dorothy, her color coming
and her eyes beginning to glow. "I will not meet your Storri."

"Mr. Storms is not in our set, dear," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley coldly.

"He is in my heart," returned Dorothy.

The self-willed one seated herself stoutly, and never another word could
Mrs. Hanway-Harley draw from her.

Storri received the excuses for Dorothy's vacant place at table which
Mrs. Hanway-Harley offered; for all that he read the reason of her
absence, and his pride fretted under it as under a lash.

New Year's Day; and the diplomatic reception at the White House. The
President stood in line with his Cabinet people, and the others filed
by. Richard, being utterly the democrat, was, of course, utterly the
aristocrat, since these be extremes that never fail to meet. Wherefore,
Richard did not take his place in the procession and waver painfully
forward, at a snail's pace, to shake the Presidential hand. It was a
foolish ceremony at which Richard's self-respect rebelled. There was no
hand, no masculine hand, at least, which Richard would wait in line to
grasp.

Richard, while declining to become part of the pageant, looked on. It
was worth while as a study in human nature. The President peculiarly
claimed his notice; by every sign it was this man who would oppose
Senator Hanway, if the latter gentleman achieved his ambition and was
put forward to lead his party's ticket. Richard compared the present
handshaking President with Senator Hanway, the latter being thereby
advanced. The President was a smooth, smug personage, of an appetite
rather than an ambition for office. Ambition is a captain, appetite a
camp-follower; for which reason the President was one who would never
lead, never oppose a movement. Essentially, he was of the candidate
class. Indeed, he had, as an individual, the best characteristics of a
canal. He was narrow, even, currentless, with a mental fall of two feet
in the mile. He lived conservatively between his banks, and went never
so foolishly lucid as to show you how shallow he was. Just a trifle
thick, he seemed to the eye as deep as the skies were high; any six-foot
question, however, would have sounded him.

And yet he was in his day much lauded as a safe executive. There may
have been truth in that. Your man of timid, slim, and shallow
mediocrities, comparable to a canal, is not to be despised. He will not
be the Mississippi, truly; he will sweep away no bridges, overflow no
regions roundabout; no navies will battle on his bosom; the world in its
giant commerces will not make of him a thoroughfare. But he will mean
safety and profit for a horde of little special selfish interests, and
that is the sort of President a day dominated of Money demands. In the
far Southwest the cattle barons knock the horns off cattle; a hornless
steer comes to the slaughter pen more quietly and with less of threat to
those who handle him. In a day when Money rules as King, its first care
is to knock the horns off originality and brains. Money wants no great
horned mental forces roaming the world; they might become a threat.
Richard thought on these matters as he considered this conservative,
careful White House one, whose pains had ever been to think nothing that
hadn't been thought, say nothing that hadn't been said, do nothing that
hadn't been done.

"He is like a bucket of spring water," thought Richard, as he turned
away, "cool, pure, tasteless. But there isn't enough of him to put out a
fire, or swim a boat, or turn the wheel of any mill of moment."

Richard went into the Green Drawing-room, where the younger, gayer
spirits were "receiving behind the line." There he saw Dorothy and Bess.
Before he could go to them, he caught the snarling accents of Storri. He
turned; that Russ was almost at his elbow. Storri, as though for
Richard's ear, was saying to a vapid young man whom Richard had seen at
the club:

"Oh! that is Miss Harley;--the one with the blue eyes and black hair.
Bad combination, believe me! I, who am a gentleman--a Russian
gentleman--give you my word that blue eyes and black hair mean treason
to a lover. No, I can't take you to her; she has shown a preference for
me, and I do not care to distinguish her by too much notice until I have
thought her over. On my soul, yes; I must think her over!"

Richard's hand fell heavy and rude on Storri's shoulder.

"Come with me," said he.

Storri had not counted on this; those sacred White House walls should
have protected him. He looked appealingly at his friend.

"Your friend will pardon you," said Richard coolly, "and, for this time,
you shall come back safe."

Richard drew Storri to a window, where they were by themselves.

"Pay heed to what I shall say," gritted Richard, and his eyes gave forth
a gray glimmer, like a saber suddenly unsheathed: "You must never take
Miss Harley's name upon your lips. Should you do so, I shall twist your
neck as once I twisted your fingers."

Storri began a spluttering stammer of protest and reproach.

"Don't hector me!" whispered Richard, with a sharp fervor of ferocity
that made Storri start, "or, when next we meet in the street, I'll take
my cane and beat you like a dog!"

Storri turned and tried to hide the fear that fed upon him with a tinge
of swagger. This in the White House--the palace of their President!
Storri was more and more convinced that the Americans were a rabble and
not a people!

"Remember!" said Richard, and the tones were like a threat of death.

That evening, early, Richard met Dorothy at Bess Marklin's. He made no
revelations touching his colloquy with Storri. There was a thick
down-come of snow, and the new flakes covered the street like feathers
to a fluffy depth of two inches. As Dorothy and Richard reached the
sidewalk on Dorothy's return to the Harley house, Richard, with the
abrupt remark: "I'll save you from the snow, my dear!" caught Dorothy in
those Pict arms and strode across.

Dorothy was so amazed by this gallant attention that she was over before
she spoke a word. As Richard landed her, light as a leaf, within her
father's portals, she said in remonstrance:

"What made you do it? Did you not see that odious Storri coming?"

"It was for Storri I did it. I wanted to emphasize some remarks I had
the honor to make to him this afternoon."

Dorothy fluttered to her room to prepare for the seven-o'clock dinner,
while her unconventional loved one turned with a hope of meeting Storri.
The fierce truth was, Richard, who, as you have been told, was at bottom
full as savage as the Russian, had gone hungering for hostilities with
that nobleman. Storri's comments on Dorothy had exploded all the hateful
powder in Richard's composition.

Storri may have had some glint of Richard's feeling; sure it was that,
although bent upon dining at the Harley house when he was so
unexpectedly treated by Richard and Dorothy to that picture of Paul and
Virginia modernized, he wheeled upon his heel and disappeared. Richard,
search as he might, met never the shadow nor the ghost of Storri.

Storri went direct to his rooms. All the wolves of anger and jealousy
and hate were tearing at his soul. Richard's threats; and he too craven
to make reply! Dorothy in Richard's arms; and he powerless to interfere!
The day had been a day of fire for him! He must make a plan; he must
have revenge.

Full of a black resolve, Storri tore open his desk. He took out those
French shares and fluttered the little package of papers between his
angry fingers as though the feel of them could give him consolation. He
looked at those poor forgeries of his name by Mr. Harley. Then he wrote
a note to that gentleman and urged him, by every name of business, to
call without delay. Mr. Harley must come at once. The note in the hands
of a messenger, Storri commenced to rove the floor like some
rage-frenzied beast.

"We shall see!" he cried, tossing his hands. "I have the father in my
fingers--aye! in these fingers! I can pull him to pieces like a toasted
lark--yes, limb from pinion, I, Storri, shall tear him asunder! I can
torture, I can crush! He is mine to destroy! My power over him shall be
my power over her! The stubborn Dorothy shall come to me on her
knees--to me, Storri, whom she has affronted! She shall beg my favor for
her father! What should be the ransom? Who shall measure my demands when
I have conquered? I, who am to have my neck twisted!--I, who am to be
beaten like a dog!--I shall name to her the terms. They shall be
ruin--ruin for her, ruin for him, ruin for all who have put their
slights upon me! The proud Dorothy must give me herself to buy her
father's safety! Her pride shall creep, her face lie in the dust! She
shall be Storri's! When her beauty fades--in a year--in two years--I
will cast her aside; I, Storri, whom these feeble people have defied!"

In the midst of the ravings of the hate-racked Storri, there came a tap.
A card was thrust in. Storri's onyx eyes gloated as he read the name.

"Harley!" said Storri. Then to the one at the door: "Have him up!" His
voice sunk to an exultant whisper as he heard Mr. Harley's step in the
hall. "Now is my vengeance to begin the feast! They shall know, these
feeble ones, what it is to brave a Russian!"




CHAPTER XI

HOW MR. HARLEY FOUND HIMSELF A FORGER


In the economy of the Harleys, the gray mare was the better horse, at
least the gray mare thought so. Mrs. Hanway-Harley put no faith in Mr.
Harley. He was an acquiescent if not an obedient husband, and, rather
than bicker, would submit to be moderately henpecked. When the
henpecking was carried to excess, Mr. Harley did not peck back; he
clapped on his hat, bolted for the door, and escaped. These measures,
while effective in so far that they carried Mr. Harley beyond the
immediate range of Mrs. Hanway-Harley's guns, left that wife and mother
with a depleted opinion of Mr. Harley. She could not respect one who
failed to give her battle, being offered proper provocation; and in that
Mrs. Hanway-Harley was one with all the world. To fight is now and then
an obligation.

Thinking thus lightly of Mr. Harley, and remembering, too, that Dorothy
could coil him round her finger, quell him with a tear, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley did not take him into her confidence as to those love
proffers of Storri, and Dorothy's rebellion. What would have been the
good? Mr. Harley's advice was nothing, while his countenance, as far as
it went, would be given to Dorothy the disobedient. Also, he would go to
Senator Hanway with the tangle. Such a course might bring her brother
actively upon the field; and Mrs. Hanway-Harley had gleaned enough from
her talk with Senator Hanway to know that, should he assume a part, it
would not be in support of her interest. These considerations came and
went in Mrs. Hanway-Harley's mind, with the result that she decided to
say nothing to Mr. Harley.

Dorothy, for argument of modesty and a girl's reserve, emulated her
mother's example of silence. For one thing, she felt herself in no
danger. As against the demands of Mrs. Hanway-Harley, Dorothy, thus far,
had held the high ground. Moreover, she was confident of final victory.
No one could compel her either to receive Storri's addresses or cease to
think of Richard. Dorothy added to this the knowledge that, should she
draw Mr. Harley into her troubles by even so much as a word of their
existence, Mrs. Hanway-Harley might be relied upon from that moment to
charge him with being the author of every disappointment she underwent.
Thus it came to pass that, as Mr. Harley complacently sat down to dinner
that particular New Year's evening, he had not been given a murmur of
those loves and hates and commands and defiances and promises and
intermediations which made busy the closing days of the recent year for
Dorothy, Richard, Bess, Storri, and Mrs. Hanway-Harley. Mr. Harley
possessed an excellent appetite that New Year's evening; it might have
been diminished of edge had his ignorance been less.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley looked for Storri to drop in, but since the promise
of his coming was known only to herself--she did not care to furnish the
news of it to Dorothy the rebellious--the failure of that nobleman to
appear bred no general dismay. The dinner went soberly forward, and Mr.
Harley especially derived great benefit therefrom.

Mr. Harley had just finished his final glass of wine, and was saying
something fictional about a gentleman at the Arlington upon whom he
ought to call, and what a bore calling upon the fictional gentleman
would be, when Storri's note came into his hands. He glanced it over,
and then seized upon it as the very thing to furnish a look of integrity
to his story of the mythical one. He gave the note a petulant slap with
the back of his fingers, and remarked:

"I declare! Here he is writing me to come at once."

Mr. Harley got into his hat and coat, and then got into the street,
observing as he did so that he feared the business in hand might keep
him far into the morning.

The guilty truth was this: Mr. Harley concealed a private purpose to
play cards with a select circle of statesmen who owned a taste to begin
the year with draw poker at Chamberlin's. However, there existed in the
destinies of Mr. Harley not the faintest call for all this elaboration
of deceit. Mrs. Hanway-Harley would not have uttered a whisper of
objection had he openly declared for an absence of a fortnight, with the
design of playing poker, nothing but poker, every moment of the time.
But it is the vain fancy of some men to believe themselves and their
company those things most longed for at home, when the precise converse
of such condition of longing is the one which exists, and this fancy was
among the weaknesses of Mr. Harley. Besides, he revered the truth so
much that, like his Sunday coat, he employed it only on rare occasions,
and when advantage could be arrived at in no other way. Truth was a
pearl, and Mr. Harley felt strongly against casting it before the swine
of every common occurrence, when mendacity would do as well or better.
Wherefore, and to keep his hand in, Mr. Harley invariably romanced in
whatever he vouchsafed of himself or his habits to Mrs. Hanway-Harley.
Nor was this so unjust as at a first blink it might seem. If Mr. Harley
misled Mrs. Hanway-Harley as to his personal movements, she in return
told him nothing at all of her own, the result, to wit, total darkness,
being the same for both. However, they were perfectly satisfied, rightly
esteeming the situation one wherein, if ignorance were not bliss, at
least it was folly to be wise.

The winter evening, still, not cold, was clear and crisp, with the snow
squeaking cheerfully under foot, and Mr. Harley waddled on his way
towards Storri's door in that blandness of mood which comes to one whose
wine and dinner and stomach are in comfortable accord. Waddled is the
word; for with his short legs, and that profundity of belt proper to
gentlemen who have reached the thither side of middle age, and given
years to good eating and drinking, Mr. Harley had long since ceased to
walk.

Mr. Harley was not surprised by the urgent character of Storri's
summons. Doubtless, the business related to Credit Magellan, and what
steps in Wall Street and the Senate were being taken for a conquest of
Northern Consolidated. Affairs in those theaters of commercial effort
were as they should be. Things were moving slowly, they must of
necessity move slowly, and Storri had grown impatient. The Russian's
warmth was expected; Mr. Harley had read him long since like a primer
book. Storri was excitable, volatile, full of fever and impulse, prone
to go off at tangents. In some stress of nerves he had sent for Mr.
Harley to urge expedition or ask for explanations. The thing had chanced
before. Mr. Harley would cool him into calmness with a dozen words.
Storri's poise restored, Mr. Harley would seek those speculative
statesmen, lusting for draw-poker. He should be with them by ten
o'clock--a ripe hour for cards. Mr. Harley would oppose poker in its
usual form and argue for table-stakes--five thousand dollars a corner.
Two of the speculative statesmen were not worth five thousand dollars.
So much the better; in case he were fortunate, Mr. Harley would accept
their paper. The last was to be preferred to money. Mr. Harley had many
irons of legislation in the congressional fires; a statesman's note of
hand should operate to pave the way when his influence and his vote were
to be asked for. Should Mr. Harley lose at poker, his losses would be
charged against that railroad and those coal companies whose interests
about Congress it was Mr. Harley's mission to conserve. There was no
doubt of the propriety of such charges; they belonged in any account
which was intended to register the cost of legislation. If you but stop
and think, you must see the truth of the above. Thus cantered the
cogitations of Mr. Harley until, fetching up at his journey's end, he
sent in his card to Storri.

At Mr. Harley's appearance, Storri's arm-tossing and raving ended
abruptly. He became oily and purringly suave, and bid Mr. Harley light a
cigar which he tendered. A cat will play with a mouse before coming to
the final kill; and there was a broad streak of the feline in Storri.
Now that his victim was within spring, he would play with him as
preliminary to the supreme joy of that last lethal crunch.

Following the usual salutations, Mr. Harley sat in peace and favor with
himself, waiting for Storri to begin. He would let Storri vent his
excitement, blow off steam, as Mr. Harley expressed it; and then he
would go about those calmative steps of explanation and assurance
suggested of the case.

Storri strode up and down, eying Mr. Harley with a mixed expression of
cruelty and triumph which, had Mr. Harley caught the picture of it,
might have made him feel uneasy. However, Mr. Harley was not looking at
Storri. He was thinking on ending the interview as quickly and
conveniently as he might, and hurrying posthaste to those speculative
ones.

"Why did I bring you here to-night?" asked Storri at last.

"Northern Consolidated, I suppose," said Mr. Harley, looking up.

Storri laughed, and a white flash of his teeth showed in a tigerish way.

"Come!" cried Storri, smiting his hands in a kind of rapture of cruelty;
"I will not, what you call it, beat about the bush. It is not Credit
Magellan; it is not Northern Consolidated; no, it is not business at
all. What! shall Storri be forever at some grind of business? Shall he
never pause for love? My Czar would tell you another tale. Listen, my
friend. I have done you the honor--I, Storri, a Russian nobleman, have
done you the honor to adore your daughter."

Mr. Harley gaped and stared; he could not have been more impressed had
the statue of Liberty which topped the Capitol dome stepped down for a
stroll in the Capitol grounds. And yet he was not shocked; if Dorothy
had decided on Storri for her husband, well and good; he was too
indulgent a father to quarrel with her.

"I have spoken to Mrs. Hanway-Harley of my passion," continued Storri,
still pacing to and fro. "She is so charming as to encourage it."

"Why, then," broke in Mr. Harley, in evident relief, "you have gone the
right way about the matter. If my wife favors you, assuredly you may
count upon my consent."

"Bah!" returned Storri, snapping his fingers. "Mrs. Hanway-Harley
consents; you consent; I am flattered! The fastidious Miss Dorothy,
however, refuses my love--puts it aside! Storri is not the man! On my
soul! Storri is declined by a little American who draws her blood from
peasants!" and Storri threw his hands palm upward, expressing
self-contempt in view of the insult thus put upon him.

"Does my daughter decline your love?"

"It is not that." Storri could not for his vanity's sake, even after he
himself had used them, accept those terms. "Her heart has--what shall we
say?--a tenant. Your daughter has gone among her own kind with her love.
It is that fellow Storms--it is he whom your daughter's taste prefers."

"Dorothy loves Mr. Storms," said Mr. Harley, speaking slowly, as men
will on the receipt of surprising news. "And she does not love you."
After a thoughtful pause, Mr. Harley concluded: "It is a subject about
which I should hesitate to counsel my daughter."

"I do not ask you to counsel her; you shall compel her."

"Why, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Harley, starting up and growing apoplectic
with anger, "do you imagine that I'll force my child into your arms? If
you were that Czar whom you are so fond of quoting, I would not do it!"

This came off in a great burst, and Mr. Harley in his turn began to pace
the floor. The two passed and repassed each other as they walked up and
down, Mr. Harley puffing and swelling, Storri surveying him with leering
superiority.

"Sit down!" cried Storri suddenly, after a minute spent in marching and
countermarching. "I will show you that you are in my hand."

Storri had become calm and business-like; his new manner mystified Mr.
Harley and worked upon him. He dropped into the chair to which Storri
motioned him. From his pocket, Storri took out those French shares.

"Do you see where you forged my name?" said he. "Can you tell me the
punishment for forgery?"

"Forgery!" panted Mr. Harley, in a whirl of rage and wonder. "Did you
not tell me to write your name? Was it not to sustain your deal in
sugar?"

"Come--you Harley--you John Harley," returned Storri, his cruelty
beginning to bubble into exultation, "how small a thing you are when
opposed to Storri! See, now; it begins when you sacrifice for me those
seven thousand dollars. It was then I set a trap for you--you, the
cunning Mr. Harley! It was so simple; I need only give you a chance to
forge my name and you forge it. From that moment you have had but the
one alternative. You must follow my commands, or you must take the
common course of criminals, and go to prison. And now--you Harley--you
John Harley--you, who pride yourself for your respectability, for your
place in the world, for your illustrious relative Senator Hanway--hear
me: You are to be my slave--my dog to fetch and carry. You are to do my
will; or I swear by my Czar and by the heart in the breast of my Czar
that I'll drag you before the world as a felon."

Storri delivered this menace with a ruthless energy that sent it home
like a javelin. It struck the color from the ruddy countenance of Mr.
Harley, and left him white as linen three times bleached.

"Yes," went on the vindictive Storri in an exultant crow, "did you
little people believe you were to laugh at Storri and pass unpunished?
Did you think to insult him and escape his vengeance? Bah! the
super-fine Dorothy is to spurn Storri for a varlet like this Storms! She
is to laugh at Storri's love, and tell how she refused a nobleman!
Excellent; we shall see her laugh when her father--Mr. Harley--Mr. John
Harley--the great Mr. John Harley--brother-by-law of the still greater
Senator Hanway--stands in the dock as a forger. Will not our Dorothy
laugh? John Harley, forger; why not!"

Mr. Harley sat ghastly and still, while Storri rambled on for the mere
pleasure of torture. He did not leave Mr. Harley a hope wherewith to
prop himself. The deal in sugar had been in Mr. Harley's sole name--an
individual deal. There was not the flourish of a pen to prove Storri's
interest. Storri would even show how, for that very sugar stock, in that
very market, he was dealing the other way, selling ten thousand shares.

"But you paid your half of the losses in the deal in my name." Mr.
Harley's voice, commonly rich and full, was huskily dry. "That, when I
show it, will prove your interest."

"And how are you to show it?" cried Storri. "I paid in money; I did not
give you a check. There's not an exculpatory scrap at bank or broker's
in your defense. You make a deal; you are crowded for margins; you have
my French shares in your pocket as my agent in another transaction; you
offer them; the broker will not accept, they do not have my signature;
you are back in five minutes with a forgery, and obtain the money you
require. The thing is complete; I tell you, Harley--Mr. John Harley--you
are trapped. There is no escape; I have my knee on your neck."

Mr. Harley, still white, was beginning to regain his mental feet. He saw
the apparent hold that Storri had upon him. It was enough. To be merely
charged as a forger--to be apprehended as a criminal, would be ruin,
utter ruin, even if the affair were there to end. It would mean the
downfall of Senator Hanway's hopes of a White House. The simple
arrest--it would go like wildfire throughout the press--meant
destruction for Senator Hanway, for Dorothy, for Mrs. Hanway-Harley, for
all.

White and stricken, Mr. Harley pondered these questions, while Storri
watched him. Storri himself did not care to push for extremes. In his
vain egotism, which was like a madness, he would not have scrupled to
brand Mr. Harley as a forger had he been defied. But such a step was not
what Storri aimed at. It was his own possession of Dorothy rather than a
vengeance upon Mr. Harley that he sought to compass. Therefore, as
Storri made plain his power and threatened its exercise, he considered
Mr. Harley with the narrow intentness of a lynx. He was striving to
measure the other's resistance. He noted the horror of Mr. Harley at the
term forger; he observed Mr. Harley's growing sense of helplessness as
he, Storri, set forth how Mr. Harley lay in the toils. Now, when Mr.
Harley was prostrate beneath the harrow of every alarm, Storri, sure of
success, went off on an easier tack--that is, easier for Mr. Harley.

"But why do we lose our self-control?" cried Storri, voice and manner
changed from black to white, clouds to sunshine; "we are men, not angry
children! See, now, I want nothing a gentleman of honor might not grant.
I love your daughter--good! a Russian nobleman loves your daughter! Is
that disgrace? You approve; your wife approves! The daughter is young;
she must be wooed before she is won. What then: Is Storri to despair?
The lady would put Storri's love to the test. She says: 'You must court
me before you shall wed me. You are not to have me without a struggle,
lest you think me of small worth.' The lady has pride; the lady has
discretion; the lady sets a value upon herself. Why should she not? It
compels me, Storri, to appreciate her charms still more and more. There;
I have painted the state of affairs. I have now but two requests; I will
not call those requests commands," and Storri rustled the French shares
suggestively. "No, I am to call them requests. Can you not exercise a
paternal authority to have your daughter receive my respectful visits?
Also, can you not exercise it to put an end, absolutely an end, to her
interviews with this Mr. Storms?"

"How can I compel her?"

"You must do it!" roared Storri, his anger taking renewed edge. "You
must, you shall! What! am I to be thwarted, affronted, undone by a girl?
Two things I demand: she is to see me; and she is not to see that
Storms. Do I ask much? It is little for a child to pay for a father's
safety; little for a man to pay for his own. What forger or what
forger's daughter has made such terms? Bah!"

The insult scarcely roused Mr. Harley; he was stunned, his face was
clammy with sweat. It was like a dream of horror! Look where he would,
there showed but the one door of escape. Storri was to see Dorothy;
Dorothy was not to see Richard!

After all, it did not present unbearable conditions. Moreover, time
would bring about its shifts. In a week, in a month, in six months, Mr.
Harley might have Storri helpless as Storri now had him. It was a case
for delay; Mr. Harley must have breathing space.

"That is all you require?" said Mr. Harley, his voice the same dry,
husky croak. "You are to see my daughter? and Mr. Storms is not to see
her?"

"Do that, and I will answer for the balance!" cried Storri. "Do that,
and she will love me--she will be my wife!"

"And no more talk of--of forgeries?"

"My dear Mr. Harley!" exclaimed Storri, "I am a gentleman--a Russian
gentleman. I ask you, in candor, does a gentleman arrest his wife's
father on a charge of forgery? Come; let us have confidence in one
another. We are friends, are we not?--we, who are to be in closer
alliance when your daughter becomes my Countess wife. Bah! who shall
talk of forgeries then?"

The evening was still young--nine o'clock--when Mr. Harley found himself
again in the street, bending his slow step homeward. He was wholly
adrift now from any thought of those speculative ones at Chamberlin's.
What Storri had said engrossed him miserably. He entertained no doubt
but what Storri would carry into execution those threats of arrest,
should his desires concerning Dorothy meet with opposition. The fear of
his own disgrace appalled Mr. Harley. He did not lack for courage, but
his interview with Storri had buried him beneath a spell of terror.

It was peculiarly a condition to frighten Mr. Harley to the core. He was
proud in a coarse way of the fortune he had gathered. He had based
himself on his position as a business, not to say a legislative, force,
and used it to patronize, not always delicately, those among his fellows
who had not climbed so high. In exacting what was a money due, he had
ever proceeded with but little scruple. He had measured his right by
measuring his strength, and had not failed to take his pound of flesh.
In brief, Mr. Harley, possessing, like many another fat gentleman, those
numerous porcine traits of brutal selfishness and a lack of sentiment or
sympathy, had considered always his own interests, following them though
they took him roughshod over another's dearest hopes. For which good
reasons Mr. Harley had foes, and knew it; there would be no absence of
rejoicing over his downfall.

But what could Mr. Harley offer for defense? What, beyond mere
compliance with Storri's wishes, might avert those calamities that
seemed swinging in the air above him? He considered everything, and
devised nothing; he was like a man without eyes or as one shut in by
night. In his desperation, a flighty thought of taking Storri's life
appealed to him for one murderous moment. It was only for a moment, and
then he thrust it aside with a shudder; not from any morality, but his
instant common sense showed how insane it would be as a method of
escape, and with that he shrunk back from it as from a precipice. And
yet there was to be no standing still; he must push on in some
direction.

Mr. Harley, being himself a business soul, did not omit to consider how
far Storri might be held at bay by showing him the certain destruction
of Credit Magellan, should he persist to the bitter length of forgery
charges and open war. Mr. Harley might be disgraced, destroyed; but what
then? Storri's plans would assuredly be trampled flat; millions, about
to come into his hands, would be swept away.

These, as arguments to be addressed to Storri, no sooner entered the
mind of Mr. Harley than he dismissed them as offering no solution of his
perils. He had felt, rather than seen, the barbarism of Storri beneath
the tissue of what that nobleman would have styled his elegant
refinement. Storri was a coward, and therefore Storri was malignant; he
had shown, as he went promising disgrace to Mr. Harley, that petulance
of evil which is remarked in savages and cruel children. Storri was
dominated of a passion for revenge; under sway of that passion no chance
of money-loss would stay him; he would sacrifice all and begin his
schemes anew before he would deny himself those vainglorious triumphs
upon which he had set his heart. He hated Richard; he hungered for
Dorothy; and Mr. Harley knew how he would go to every extravagant extent
in feeding those two sentiments.

Mr. Harley sighed dismally as he reviewed these conclusions; he could do
nothing, and must serve, or seem to serve, the villain humor of Storri.
What were those two demands? Storri must meet Dorothy; and Richard must
not. There was no help; Mr. Harley, in his present stress, would see
Dorothy and beg her co-operation. He could not tell the whole story; but
he would say that he was borne upon by trouble, and ask her to acquiesce
in Storri's conditions. He would promise that those conditions were not
to live forever.

Deciding thus, Mr. Harley went forward on his homeward course; he must
see Dorothy without delay, for he would be upon the rack until the
painful conference was over. The night was chill as New Year's nights
have a right to be, and yet Mr. Harley was fain to mop his forehead as
though it were the Dog days. As he neared his own door, his reluctant
pace became as slow as sick men find the flight of time.

There had come no one to the Harley house this New Year's evening to
engage the polite attentions of Mrs. Hanway-Harley, and that lady, being
armored to the teeth, in the name of comfort had retired to her own
apartments with a purpose to unloose what buttons and remove what pins
and untie what strings stood between her and a great bodily relief.
Dorothy was of neither the size nor the years at which women torture
themselves, and, having no quarrel with her buttons and pins and
strings, sat alone in the library. She was deep in a novel that reeled
with ardent love, and had fallen to despising the lover because he did
not resemble Richard.

It was in the library that Mr. Harley came seeking Dorothy. When he
found her, he stood stock-still, unable to speak one word of all that
tide of talk which would be necessary to bring before her his dangerous
perplexities and the one manner of their possible relief.

Dorothy at his step looked up, pleased to have him home so early. She
was about to say as much, but at sight of him the words perished on her
tongue. It was as though her heart were touched with ice. Mr. Harley's
countenance had been of that quasi claret hue called rubicund. It was
now turned gray and pasty, and his cheeks, as firmly round as those of a
trumpeter, were pouched and fallen as with the palsy of age. He looked
ten years worse than when he went forth two hours before.

Dorothy sprang up in alarm; she feared that he was ill.

"Let me call mamma!" she cried; "let me call Uncle Pat! You are sick."

"No; call nobody!" said Mr. Harley feebly, and speaking with difficulty.
"I'm not ill; I'll be right in a moment." Then he had Dorothy back into
her chair, gazing upon her the while in a stricken way, as though she
were hangman or headsman, and he before her for execution. Mr. Harley
was held between terror of Storri and shame for what he must say to
Dorothy. Wondering what fearful blow had fallen upon them, Dorothy sat
facing her father the color of death.

"Tell me, papa," she whispered, with a terror in her tones, "tell me
what has happened."

Despair brought a sickly calmness to Mr. Harley; he cleared his mind
with a struggle and controlled himself to speak. He would say all at
once, and leave the rest with Dorothy.

"Dorothy," he began, the iron effort he was making being plainly
apparent, "Dorothy, I have had a talk with that scoundrel without a
conscience, Count Storri. I do not pretend that I come willingly to you
from him. I tell you, however, that I am fearfully within that villain's
power, and cannot help myself. No, I've done no crime; but none the less
he has it in his hands to cover me with disgrace--destroy me, and every
sign of me, from the midst of respectable men. It would avail nothing
should I show you how he spread a snare for my feet, and how blindly I
walked into it. I can only say again that he has me helpless, hand and
foot; I am his to make or break in all that a man of honor or station
holds dearest. He can cover me with infamy at will; he can unloose upon
me an avalanche of disgrace, and with the one blow crush us all. I keep
back nothing, exaggerate nothing, I merely lay bare to you what is. Once
the stroke falls, I shall never again hold up my head. Indeed, I shall
not live to see it fall, for when I know it is inevitable I shall take
my own life."

Mr. Harley paused a moment to recall his coolness, while Dorothy, her
little hands crushed between her knees, sat panting like a spent hare.

"I have given you my precise position," continued Mr. Harley, with a
sort of hopelessness. "I shall now tell you the conditions upon which my
safety depends. They rest with you; I stand or fall as you decide."
Dorothy tried to speak, but her voice died on her lips. "If you receive
Count Storri, not as a lover, but as an acquaintance, or, if you will, a
friend; and if you have no further meeting--that is, for a month--or
perhaps two--or at the most three--have no further interviews, I
say"--Mr. Harley blundered a trifle as he saw Dorothy's face whitening
with the sorrows he was laying upon her--"have no further interviews
with Mr. Storms, I am saved. Forgive me--forgive your father who has so
failed of his duty that, instead of protecting you, he comes to you for
protection. There is no more: You have my fortune, my good repute, my
life in your charge. If you meet Count Storri in friendship, if you
refuse Mr. Storms, I am secure. Should you fail of either, then, by
heart and soul! I think it is my end!"




CHAPTER XII

HOW MR. FOPLING WAS INSPIRED


Next to Richard, Dorothy worshiped her father. Women never weigh men
closely; with them it is the kindness of men that counts, and all her
life no one could have been more generously affectionate than was Mr.
Harley to Dorothy. And now her estimate of him became her memory of his
unflagging goodness; and this kept her from harsh judgment as he told
what heartbreaking sacrifices she must make. Nor did she distrust a
syllable; nor would she ask for explanation. The latter she would avoid;
it was enough that Storri held her father at his horrid mercy. As
against the setting forth in detail of Storri's cruel power she
instinctively closed her ears as she would have shut her eyes against a
fearsome sight. Dorothy had never a question; and when Mr. Harley was
done she seemed simply to bow to the will of events too strong for her
to cope with.

"But you must never ask me to marry that man!" cried Dorothy. There went
a tremor through her words that marked how deep of root was the feeling
that prompted them. "I couldn't, wouldn't marry him! Before that, I
would die--yes, and die again! You must not ask it!" and she lifted up
her face, all wrung with pain and anxious terror.

"I shall never ask it!" declared Mr. Harley; and he spoke stoutly, for
the worst was over and his heart was coming back. This gave Dorothy a
better confidence, and she began to hope that things in the end might
come fairer than they threatened. "No," repeated Mr. Harley with even
greater courage, and smoothing her black, thick hair in a fatherly way,
"you shall never be asked to marry the scoundrel. That I promise; and
let him do his worst."

And now, when both were measurably recovered from the shame and the
shock of it, Mr. Harley began to elaborate. He went no further, however,
than just to point out how nothing was really required of Dorothy beyond
those common courtesies good women exhibit to what men the respectable
chances of existence bring into their society. He said nothing, asked
nothing concerning her love for Richard: he appeared to consider that
love admitted, and found no fault with it. What he impressed upon
Dorothy was the present danger of her love's display, and how his safety
rested upon her not meeting with Richard for a space. Surely that might
be borne; it would not be for long. Given room wherein to work, he, Mr.
Harley, would find some pathway out. Also, it would be unwise to say
aught of what had taken place to Dorothy's mother. Mr. Harley and
Dorothy would keep it secret from both Mrs. Hanway-Harley and Senator
Hanway. Storri would not broach the subject to Mrs. Hanway-Harley; he
could not without revealing more than he desired known.

"Nor will the rascal do more," observed Mr. Harley, with the hope of
adding to the fortitude of Dorothy, "than come here now and then to dine
or sit an hour. That is all he will count upon; and before he seeks
anything nearer I'll have him under my foot as now he has me under his.
When that hour comes," concluded Mr. Harley, rapping out a sudden great
oath that made Dorothy start in her frock, "there will be no saving
limits in his favor. I'll apply the torch, and burn him like so much
refuse off the earth."

When Mrs. Hanway-Harley endeavored to break Dorothy to the yoke of her
ambitions concerning Storri, Dorothy sparkled and blazed and wept and
did those divers warlike things that ladies do when engaged in conflict
with each other. Dorothy, down in her heart, attached no more than a
surface importance to the efforts of Mrs. Hanway-Harley; and that was
the reason why on those fierce occasions she only sparkled and blazed
and wept. Now, be it known, what Mr. Harley told her seared like hot
iron; what he asked of kindness to Storri and cruelty to Richard cut
like a knife; and yet there was never tear nor spark to show throughout.
She waited cold and white and steady. Dorothy was convinced of her
father's danger without knowing its cause or what form it might take;
and she filled up with a resolution to do whatever she could, saving
only the acceptance of Storri and his love, to buckler him against it.
Nor was this difference which Dorothy made between Mrs. Hanway-Harley
and Mr. Harley to be marveled at; for just as a mother exerts more
influence over a son than would his father, so will a father have weight
with a daughter beyond any that her mother might possess.

While Dorothy remained firm and brave as Mr. Harley revealed his
troubles and their remedy, she broke down later when she found herself
in her own room. She did not call her maid; she must be alone. What had
transpired began to come over her in such slow fashion that she was
given time to fully feel the ignoble position into which she had fallen.
She must not see the man whom she adored; she must meet--with politeness
even if she could not with grace--the man whom she loathed. To one of
Dorothy's spirit and fineness there dwelt in this an infamy, a baseness,
of which Mr. Harley with his lucky coarseness of fiber escaped all
notice.

Throwing herself on the bed, Dorothy burrowed her face in the pillow and
gave her tears their way. It was the happiest impulse she could have
had; when the tears were dried, and in the calm of that relief which was
their afterglow, she considered what she had to do. Oh! if only she
might have sought her mother with her sorrow! Dorothy shivered; her
mother was the ally of her enemy. How Dorothy hated and feared that
black and savage man! What fiend's power must he possess to thus gain a
fearful mastery over her father! What could be his secret tipped with
terror? Dorothy again buried her face as though she would hide herself
from any blasting chance of its discovery.

When Dorothy was with Mr. Harley she had been in a maze, a whirl.
Wrapped in a cloud of fear, she had reached out blindly through the
awful fog of it and seized upon the dear fact of Richard. By Richard she
held on; by Richard she sustained herself. She entertained no quaking
doubts as to his loyalty; loyal herself, as ever was flower to sun, to
distrust Richard was to doubt the ground beneath her little feet. In her
innocence, she felt that sublime confidence which is the fruit, the
sweet purpose, of a young girl's earliest love. Dorothy must write
Richard a letter; she must tell him of the sad gap in their happiness.
Yes; she would put him in possession of the entire story so far as it
was known to her. He owned a right to hear it. Must his heart be broken,
and he not learn the secret or know the author of the blow?

When Dorothy was again mistress of herself, between sobs and tender
showers she blotted down those words which were to warn Richard from her
side. His love, like her own, would go on; there was to be no final
breaking away. It was faith in a dear day that should find them reunited
which upheld Dorothy through the ordeal of her letter; her prayer was
that the day might be close at hand.

Her letter finished, Dorothy, late as was the hour, sent for Bess; she
must have someone's love, someone's sympathy to lean upon. Bess came;
and, saying no more than she was driven to reveal of her father's
helplessness and Storri's baleful strength, Dorothy told Bess what
dolorous fate had overtaken her.

"I've written Richard to go to you, Bess," whispered Dorothy at the
woeful close. "Have him write me a letter every day; I shall write one
to him. I didn't promise not to write, you know, only not to see him.
But you must not let Richard go to Storri, that above all. Poor Richard!
he is very fierce; and if he were to arouse Storri's anger it would
provoke him to some awful step."

There was a man of robust curiosity who once suggested that it would
prove entertaining if one were to lift the roofs off a city as one might
the upper crust off a pie, and then, looking down into the very bowels
of life, observe what plots and counterplots, defeats and triumphs,
loves and hates, pains and pleasures, losses and gains, hopes and
despairs, honors and disgraces belonged with the struggles of everyday
humanity. It is by no means sure the survey would repay the cost of
making it, and the chances run heavily that the student would gather
more of grief than good from the lesson. Proceeding, however, by the
hint of contradiction furnished above, had one, at the moment when
Storri was binding Mr. Harley by fetters wrought from the metal of Mr.
Harley's own fearful apprehensions, glanced in upon Richard, he would
have found that worthy young gentleman seated by his fireside, soothing
himself with tobacco smoke, and reveling in thoughts of Dorothy. And the
cogitations of Richard, if written down in words, would have read like
this:

"Why should I defer a dénouement that will rejoice them all? Dorothy
loves me--loves me for myself, and for nothing but myself. Who could
have offered deeper proof of it? She has come to me in the face of her
mother, in the face of poverty; she is willing to abandon everything to
become my wife. And if her mother objects--as she does object--why not
cure the objection with a trifle of truth? I am not seeking to make a
conquest of Mrs. Hanway-Harley; that tremendous ambition does not claim
me. I am not to marry her. What she thinks, or why she thinks it, should
not be so important. It is Dorothy whom I love, Dorothy who is to be my
wife--none but Dorothy. No, I'll end a farce which no longer can defend
its own existence. To-morrow I'll seek out my intended mother-in-law,
and make her happy in the only way I may. I trust the good news may not
kill her!" and Richard put on one of those grins of cynicism.

In this frame, Richard retired to bed and dreamed of Dorothy. His heart
was enjoying a prodigious calm; he would no longer play at Democritus;
he would fill Mrs. Hanway-Harley's soul with radiance, restrain to what
extent he might his contempt for that radiance and the reason of it, and
with Dorothy on his arm march away to bliss forever after. No, he would
not have Dorothy to the altar within the moment following the
enthronement of Mrs. Hanway-Harley in the midst of that splendid
happiness he plotted for her. He was not so precipitate. Dorothy should
have a voice and a will in fixing her marriage day; most young women
had. But he would advise expedition--nay, he would pray for speed in the
matter of that wedlock; for every hour that barred him from his loved
one's arms would seem an age.

Thus dreamed Richard. And in the irony of fate, even while Richard was
coming to these sage, not to say delicious, decisions and giving himself
to these dreams, Storri was raving, Mr. Harley was cowering, and Dorothy
was weeping and writing that they must not meet.

When Richard arose in the morning, the first object his fond eye caught
was that dear hand-write sprawling all across the envelope: "Mr. Richard
Storms." He tore it open, and this is what he read:

     Dear One:

     As I write, my heart is breaking for us both. If I knew how, I
     would soften what I must say. Storri has gained some fearful
     ascendency over papa. Never have I seen papa look so gray and worn
     and old as when he came to me. He tells me that his safety, his
     life, depend on me. I am not to see you for a while. He says that
     if we meet it will mean his disgrace--his destruction. I can't
     explain; I have only my love for you, sweetheart, and you must not
     fail me now. It will all come right, I feel sure of that; only you
     must write me every day how dear I am to you, so that I shall have
     something to help my courage with. Go to Bess, and believe me yours
     with all my heart's love.

     D.

Richard read and re-read Dorothy's note. He did not ramp off into a
temper; the first effects of it were to drive the color out of his face
and steal away his appetite. His eye grew moody, and in the end angry.
Some flame of wrath was kindled against poor Dorothy, who was so
ready--that is the way he put it to himself--to sacrifice him in defense
of her father. But the flame went out, and never attained either height
or intensity as a flame of repute and standing among flames. Richard was
too normal, too healthy, too much in love. Besides, Dorothy's note was
warped and polka-dotted with small round scars where her poor tears had
fallen as she wrote; and with that the flame of anger was quenched by
the mere sight of those tear-scars; and Richard kissed them one by
one--the tear-scars--and found, when he had kissed the last one and then
kissed it again for love and for luck, that he worshiped Dorothy the
more for being in trouble. And now Richard felt a vast yearning over her
as though she were a child. Had she not fought a gallant war with her
mother for love of him? Richard was all but swept away on a very tide of
tenderness. He would comply with Dorothy's requests; he would not press
to see her; he would write her every day; he would love her more
passionately than before. Incidentally, he would go questing Bess.

Richard did not permit himself to dwell upon Storri. He knew him for the
source of all this poison in his cup. In his then temper, he put Storri
out of his thought. He feared that if he considered that Russian too
long he would be drawn into some indiscretion that, while curing
nothing, might pull down upon Mr. Harley, and in that way upon Dorothy,
the catastrophe that hung over their heads. There could be no doubt of
the black measure of that catastrophe, whatever it might be. Richard,
while no mighty admirer of Mr. Harley, had been enough in that
gentleman's company to realize that it was more than a common
apprehension which had sent him, limp and fear-shaken, to Dorothy
begging for defense. The longer Richard pondered, the clearer the truth
grew that some deadly chance was pending against Mr. Harley, and that
Storri held the key which might unlock that chance against him. Until he
understood the trend of affairs, a hostile collision with Storri would
be the likeliest method by which disaster might be invoked. He must
avoid Storri. This prudence on Richard's part went tremendously against
the grain, for he was full of stalwart, primitive impulses that moved
him to find Storri by every shortest cut and beat him to rags. He must
keep away from Storri. Also, he would defer those revelations to Mrs.
Hanway-Harley which were to have filled her soul with that radiance and
made her as ready for Dorothy's marriage with Richard as was Richard
himself. Those confidences could not aid now when it was Storri, not
Mrs. Hanway-Harley, who stood in the way. And they might even work a
harm. Richard went on his road to Bess, while these thoughts came flying
thick as twilight bats.

Richard found the blonde sorceress bending above a flower, and doing
something to the flower's advantage with a pair of scissors. As Bess
hung over the leafy object of her solicitude, with her yellow wealth of
hair coiled round and round, she herself looked not unlike a graceful,
gaudy chrysanthemum. This poetic reflection, which would have been
creditable to Mr. Fopling, never occurred to Richard; he was too full of
Dorothy to have room for Bess. However, the good Bess found no fault
with his loving preoccupation; she, too, was pensively thinking on poor
Dorothy, and at once abandoned the invalid flower to console and counsel
Richard.

"For you see," quoth Bess, as though a call had been made for the reason
of her interest in another's love troubles, "I feel responsible for
Dorothy. It was I who told you to love her."

This was not quite true, and gave too much blame or credit--whichever
you will--to Bess; but Richard made no objections, and permitted Bess to
define her position as best pleased her.

Bess laid out Richard's programme as though she were his mother or his
guardian; she told him what his conduct should be. He must write Dorothy
a daily letter; there ought to be a world of love in it, Bess thought,
in view of those conditions of present distress which surrounded
Dorothy.

"Her lot," observed Bess, "is much harder than yours, you know!"

Richard, being selfish, did not know; but he was for no dispute with
Bess and kept his want of knowledge to himself. Yes; Richard was to
write Dorothy every day; and she, for her sweet part, was likewise to
write Richard every day. The good Bess, like an angel turned postman,
would manage the exchange of tender missives.

Bess said nothing about Storri's coming visits to the Harley house or
that he would insist on seeing Dorothy. She and Dorothy had been of one
mind on that point of ticklish diplomacy. The bare notion of Storri
meeting Dorothy would send the fiery lover into a fury whereof the end
could be only feared, not guessed. Richard was to be told nothing beyond
the present impossibility of meeting Dorothy.

"And most of all," said Bess to Richard warningly, "you are not to
involve yourself with Storri. Remember, should you and he have
differences upon which the gossips can take hold, there will be a
perfect scandal, and Dorothy the central figure."

Richard was horrified at Bess's picture.

"And so," concluded Bess, "you must do exactly as Dorothy requests. Have
a little patience and a deal of love, and the cloud, be sure, will pass
away."

"While I am having patience and love, I would give my left hand if I
might bring that cobra Storri to account," said Richard.

What was written concerning the mouths of babes and sucklings? Mr.
Fopling sat with Bess and Richard while they considered those
above-related ways and means of interrupted love. Mr. Fopling was
experiencing an uncommon elevation of spirits; for he had stared Ajax
out of countenance--a notable feat--and sent the rival favorite growling
and bristling from the room. Usually Mr. Fopling took no part in what
conversations raged around him; it was the reason of some surprise,
therefore, to both Bess and Richard when, at the mention of Storri's
name, Mr. Fopling's ears pricked up a flicker of interest and he
betrayed symptoms of being about to speak.

"Stow-wy!" exclaimed Mr. Fopling thoughtfully, as though identifying
that nobleman, while Bess and Richard looked on as do folk who behold a
miracle, "Stow-wy! I say, Stawms, why don't you go into Wall Stweet and
bweak the beggah? He's always gambling, don't y' know! Bweak him; that's
the way to punish such a fellah."

"Why! what a malicious soul you have grown!" cried Bess in astonishment.
"Really, Algy,"--Mr. Fopling's name was Algernon,--"if you burst on us
in this guise often, I for one shall stand in terror of you!"

"But, weally," protested Mr. Fopling, "if you want to get even with a
fellah, Bess, just bweak him! It's simply awful, they say, for a chap to
be bwoke. As for this Stow-wy, if Stawms hasn't got the money to go
aftah him, I'll let him have some of mine. You see, Bess," concluded Mr.
Fopling, with a broad candor that proved his love, "I hate this cweature
Stow-wy."

"Why?" asked Richard, somewhat interested in his unexpected ally.

"He spoke dewisively of me," and with that Mr. Fopling lapsed.

Richard went slowly homeward, his chin on his chest, not in
discouragement, but thought. The counsel of the vacuous Mr. Fopling
followed him to ring in his ears like words of guidance.

"Bweak him!" squeaked Mr. Fopling, feebly vicious.

Since Mr. Fopling had never been known to think anything or say anything
anterior to this singular outburst, the conclusion forced itself upon
Richard that Mr. Fopling was inspired. Nor could Richard put Mr. Fopling
and his violent advice out of his head.

"Money is the villain's heart's-blood!" thought Richard. "I'm inclined
to conclude that Fopling is right. If I take his money from him, he is
helpless--a viper without its fangs, a bear with its back broken!"

Richard put in that evening in his own apartments. Had you been there to
watch his face, you would have been struck by the capacity for hate and
love and thought displayed in the lowering brow and brooding eye.
Richard smoked and considered; at eight o'clock he rang for Mr. Gwynn.

That precise gentleman of stiffness and English immobility appeared,
clothed in extreme evening dress, and established himself, ramrod-like,
in a customary spot in the center of the floor. There was a figure on
the Persian rug whereon Mr. Gwynn never failed to take position. Once in
place, eye as expressionless as the eye of a fish, Mr. Gwynn would wait
in dead silence for Richard to speak.

Mr. Gwynn had occupied his wonted spot on the rug two minutes before
Richard came out of his reverie. Turning to Mr. Gwynn, he addressed him
through murky wreaths.

"I shall go to New York to-morrow."

"Very good, sir," said Mr. Gwynn, and his back creaked in just the
specter of a bow.

"When are the President and General Attorney of the Anaconda to be
here?"

"Tuesday, sir; the eighth of the month."

"I shall return before that time."

"Very good, sir!" and Mr. Gwynn again approved the utterances of Richard
with a creaky mandarin inclination of the head and shoulders.

"They will arrive on the eighth. Say to them that they must remain until
the fifteenth, one week. On Thursday--the tenth--you will give a dinner
in honor of Senator Hanway; it is to be fifty covers. The Anaconda
people will come. I'll furnish you the completed list of guests when I
get back."

"Very good, sir."

"You may go."

"Yes, sir; you are very kind, sir;" and the austere Mr. Gwynn creaked
himself out.

Richard was left with his thoughts, while the silent Matzai, who had
heard the word New York, began packing what trunks were needed for the
journey.

Storri was ruthlessly eager to get some taste of his great triumph, and
came that same evening to the Harley house. Senator Hanway had been
detained by a night session, and the quartette--Dorothy, Mr. Harley,
Mrs. Hanway-Harley, and Storri--sat together at dinner. Dorothy, pale
and still and chill, was like a girlish image made of snow. There was a
queer look of fright and shame and horror all in one about her virgin
eyes. How she got through the dinner she could not have told, and only
her love for her father held her up.

Mr. Harley was in no livelier case; and, albeit he drank much more than
usual, the wine put no color in his muddy cheek nor did it cure its
flabbiness. To sit at his own table and tremble before his own guest
might have wasted the spirits of even a hardier man than Mr. Harley.

Dorothy was in agony--a kind of despair of shame, eating nothing, saying
less, and this attracted the shallow attention of Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

"What makes you so gloomy, Dorothy?" she asked. Mrs. Hanway-Harley was
in most cheerful feather. A nobleman at her table, and though for the
fortieth time, was ever fresh and delightful to Mrs. Hanway-Harley. "You
are not ill?" Then, with arch politeness to Storri: "She has been out of
sorts all day, Count, and given us all the blues. I was delighted when
you came in to cheer us up."

"It is to my great honor, madam," responded Storri, smiling and fixing
Dorothy with that beady glance which serpents keep for what linnets they
mean to fascinate and swallow, "it is to my great honor, madam, that you
say so. I shall tell my Czar of your charming goodness to his Storri. If
I might only think that the bewitching Miss Dorothy was also glad, I
should be in heaven! Truly, it would make a paradise; ah, yes, why not!"

As Storri threw off this languishing speech, Dorothy could feel his eyes
like points of hateful fire piercing her satirically. It taught her
vaguely, even through the torture her soul was undergoing, that
composite sentiment of passion and cruelty felt for her by this Tartar
in evening dress who mixed sneer with compliment in all he said. Dorothy
could have shrieked out in the mere torment of it, and only the sight of
Mr. Harley, broken and hopeless and helpless and old, gave her strength
and courage to refrain.

Storri departed on the heels of dinner to the profound regret of Mrs.
Hanway-Harley, who pressed him to remain. The Russian was wise; he must
not attempt too much. Dorothy should have respite for a week. In seven
days he would again take dinner with the Harleys. Dorothy would have
employed those seven days in thinking on the perils to her father which
he, Storri, could launch; she would have considered how he, Storri, must
be courted and flattered and finally loved to insure her father's
safety. It was victory as it stood. Was he not compelling the proud
Dorothy to receive his compliments, his glances, his sighs, his love?
Was not Richard, the detestable, excluded, and the Harley door closed
fast in his face? Ah! Storri would impress upon these little people the
terrors of him whom they had affronted! He would cause them to mourn in
bitterness the day they heard first his name!

Storri, in midswing of all these comforting ruminations, felt a light
hand on his arm. He was sauntering leisurely along the street at the
time, and had not journeyed a block from the Harley house.

Storri started at the touch, and wheeled.

"What!" he exclaimed, "is it you, my San Reve? And what fetched you out
so cold an evening?"

Storri attempted a manner of light and confident assurance. Somehow, he
did not altogether attain it; a sharp ear would have caught the false
note in his tones which told of an uneasiness he was trying to conceal.

That one whom Storri addressed as San Reve and who, following the touch
that startled Storri, had taken his arm, was a woman. In the dark of the
winter evening, nothing could be known of her save that she was above a
middle height.

"Yes; it is I, Sara," said the woman, in a pure contralto. "Come with me
to-night, Storri; I have not seen you for four days."

"We are pleasantly met!" cried Storri, still affecting an acquiescent
gayety. "And is it not strange? I was on my way to your fond, sweet
presence, my San Reve. Yes, your Storri was flying to you even now!"

All of which were lies, being leaf and stalk of that uneasiness which
rang so falsely in his voice and manner. Still, if Mademoiselle San Reve
took notice of his insincerity, she kept the fact to herself. Storri
drew her hand further within his arm, and the two walked slowly onward,
while the street lamps as they passed merged and separated and again
merged and separated their shadows as though the pair were agreeing and
disagreeing in endless alternation.

Richard, the next day, departed for New York as he had planned. Sending
Matzai and his luggage to the hotel, Richard on his arrival drove
straight from the station to Thirty, Broad. He glanced at a card as he
entered the elevator.

"Tenth floor!" was his word to the resplendent functionary in gold and
blue who presided in the elevator.

"Tenth floor!" cried the resplendent functionary in the sing-song of a
seaman taking soundings and calling the marks, and the elevator came to
a kind of bouncing stop.

"Mr. Bayard?" inquired Richard.

"Second floor to th' left," sang the blue and golden one; then the iron
door clashed and the cage flew on.

Richard entered a reception room, and from this outer harbor, like a
newly arrived ship sending up a signal, he dispatched his card to Mr.
Bayard. Under "Mr. Richard Storms" he wrote the words, "son of the late
Mr. Dudley Storms."

The stealthy, whispering individual, who spoke with a hiss and
scrutinized Richard as he took his card with a jealous intensity which
might have distinguished a hawk in a state of half alarm and whole
suspicion, presently returned. His air was altered to one of confidence.

"You are to come in, please!" he hissed like a respectful snake.

It was two hours later, five o'clock, when Richard emerged from that
private room of Mr. Bayard's. Taking the carriage which had waited, he
returned to the station and caught a train for Washington. A message
went to Matzai notifying that Mongol of what changes had been determined
on in the destinies of himself and the luggage.

It was the following morning at the hour of eight. Richard called for
Mr. Gwynn. When that severe personage had taken his proper station on
the rug, he rolled his piscatorial eye on Richard as though inviting
notice. The latter young gentleman was improving himself with coffee,
now and then pausing to thoughtfully glance over a roll of names.

"What were the last quotations on Anaconda stock?" demanded Richard,
still contemplating the names.

"Common, two hundred and eleven; preferred, two hundred and seventeen,
sir," and Mr. Gwynn creaked by way of ending the sentence.

"Here are the keys to my boxes in the Colonial Trust. Here also are the
names of fifty New York banks. Please establish a credit of two millions
in each of them--one hundred millions of dollars in all. Use Anaconda
stock. Bring me certified checks for the one hundred millions, with a
statement from each bank showing what Anaconda shares it holds as
security. I think you understand. I want one hundred millions instantly
available. You will go to New York at once and make the arrangements.
Day after to-morrow meet me in Mr. Bayard's rooms, Thirty, Broad, at
three o'clock P. M., with everything as I have outlined."

"Very good, sir; you are very kind, sir," creaked Mr. Gwynn.




CHAPTER XIII

HOW THE SAN REVE GAVE STORRI WARNING


Had you, at the time Richard visited that gentleman, written Mr. Bayard
a letter, you would have addressed it to Mr. Robert Lance Bayard, and
anyone who saw you do it would have gazed in wonder and respect to think
you were upon terms of personal correspondence with that blinding meteor
of speculation. Mr. Bayard sat in his rooms at Thirty, Broad, like an
astrologer in his tower cell; he considered the stars and cast the
horoscopes of companies. That done, he took profitable advantage of his
prescience.

In the kingdom of stocks Mr. Bayard's position was unique. He, like
Napoleon, was without a model and without a shadow. He constructed no
corporations, shoved no companies from shore; he stood at the ticker and
took his money off the tape. Whenever he won a dollar he had risked a
dollar.

In person Mr. Bayard was slim, elegant, thoroughbred, with blood as red
and pure of strain as the blood of a racing horse. To see him was to
realize the silk and steel whereof he was compounded. There was a vanity
about him, too; but it was a regal vanity, as though a king were vain.
His brow was full and grave, his face dignified, his eye thoughtful, and
he knew men in the dark by feel of bark, as woodmen know a tree. He
stepped about with a high carriage of the head, as might one who has
prides well founded. His health was even, his nerves were true; he owned
a military courage that remained cool with victory, steady with defeat.
It was these which rendered Mr. Bayard the Bourse-force men accounted
him, and compelled consideration even from folk most powerful whenever
they would float an enterprise or foray a field of stocks. Did Oil or
Sugar or Steel come into the Street with purpose of revenge or profit,
its first care was a peace-treaty with Mr. Bayard. That was not because
Oil or Steel or Sugar loved, but because it feared him. The King might
not hunt in Sherwood without permission of Robin Hood, nor Montrose walk
in Glenfruin wanting the MacGregor's consent.

In his youth--that is to say, almost a third of a century away--Mr.
Bayard had been of open, frank, and generous impulse. He believed in
humanity and relied upon his friends. Mr. Bayard at sixty was changed
from that pose of thirty years before. He was cold and distant and
serene in a cloud-capped way of ice. He trusted no one but himself, took
no man's word save his own, was self-reliant to the point of bitterness,
and rife of proud suspicions. Also, he had carried concealment to the
plane of Art, and those who knew him best were most in the dark
concerning him. And yet Mr. Bayard made a specialty of verbal truth, and
his word was a word of gold.

It was not that Mr. Bayard deceived men, he allowed them to deceive
themselves. They watched and they listened; and in the last they
learned, commonly at the cost of a gaping wound in their bank balances,
that what they thought they saw they did not see, and what they were
sure they heard they did not hear; that from the beginning they had been
the victims of self-constructed delusions, and were cast away by errors
all their own. Once burned, twice wise; and the paradox crept upon Wall
and Broad Streets, as mosses creep upon stones, that the more one knew
of Mr. Bayard the less one was aware of. The feeling was expressed by a
gentleman rich in Exchange experiences when he said:

"If I were to meet him in Broadway, I wouldn't believe it."

And that experienced one spoke well. For as the tiger, striped black and
gold, is made to match and blend with the sun-slashed shadows of the
jungle through which he hunts his prey, so was Mr. Bayard invisible in
that speculation whereof he crouched a most formidable factor, with this
to add to the long-toothed peril of it, that, although always in sight,
he was never more unseen than at the moment of his spring.

The change from faith and friendship and a genial warmth that had taken
place in Mr. Bayard and left him their rock-bound opposites, had its
origin in the treachery of a friend. Mr. Bayard those years before was,
in his stock sailing, beaten upon by a sudden squall of treason and
lying ingratitude; his nature was capsized, and those softer and more
generous graces were spilled out. They went to the bottom, as things
golden will; and they never came up. Mr. Bayard was betrayed by one who
had taken his hand in friendship not the hour before--one who was his
partner in business and had risen through his favor. Struck in the dark,
Mr. Bayard stood at the ticker and watched his fortune of eight millions
bleed away; when he dropped the tape he was two millions worse than
bankrupt. It was that case-hardening experience which had worked the
callous metamorphosis.

"It has taught me caution," was all he said as the quotations chattered
off the loss of his last dollar.

From that hour of night and wormwood, Mr. Bayard was another individual.
He gave men his acquaintance, but not his faith; he listened and never
believed; he had allies, not friends, and the limits of his confidence
in a man were the limits of that man's interest.

And yet in this arctic hardness there remained one generous spot. There
was one name to retain a sweetness and a perfume for Mr. Bayard that one
finds in flowers, and the perishing years had not withered it on the
hillsides of his regard. When Mr. Bayard went down on that day of storm
and the dark waters of defeat and bankruptcy closed above him, there had
been stretched one hand to save. Dudley Storms was hardly known to Mr.
Bayard, for the former was of your silent, retiring men whom no one
discovers until the time of need. His sort was evidenced on this
occasion. He did not send to Mr. Bayard, he came. He told him by
shortest possible sentences that his fortune was at his, Mr. Bayard's,
disposal to put him again upon his feet. And Mr. Bayard availed himself
of the aid thus proffered; he regained his feet; he paid off his
bankruptcy of two millions; he repaid Dudley Storms; and then he went
on--and no more slips or treason-founded setbacks--to pile up new
millions for himself.

Following that one visit of succor from Dudley Storms, he and Mr. Bayard
were no oftener in one another's company than before. The former
retreated into his native reticence and the fastnesses of his own
multitudinous affairs, coming no more to Mr. Bayard, who did not require
help. Dudley Storms was a lake of fire in a rim of ice, as somebody
somewhere once said of someone else, and labored under peculiarities of
temperament and trait-contradictions which you may have observed in
Richard. For his side, Mr. Bayard, proudly sensitive, while he never
forgot, never failed to feel in the edge of that saving favor done him
by Dudley Storms the edge of a sword; and this served to hold him aloof
from one who any hour might have had his life and fortune, without a
question, to do with as he would.

Richard had never met Mr. Bayard, nor did he know aught of that
gentleman's long-ago disasters, for they occurred in the year of
Richard's birth. But he had heard his father speak of Mr. Bayard in
terms of glowing praise; wherefore, when it became Richard's turn to
know somewhat the ins and outs of Wall Street, a dark interior
trade-region of which his ignorance for depth was like unto the depth of
the ocean, and as wide, our young gentleman went instantly in search of
him. Had he beheld the softened eye of Mr. Bayard when that war-lord of
the Street first read his card, had he heard his voice as he repeated
the line "son of the late Mr. Dudley Storms," he might have been
encouraged in a notion that he had not rapped at the wrong door. But
Richard, in the anteroom awaiting the return of that person of the
serpent hiss, did not witness these phenomena. When he was shown into
the presence of Mr. Bayard, he saw only one who for dignity and
courteous poise seemed the superior brother of the best-finished
gentleman he had ever met.

"So you are the son of Dudley Storms," said Mr. Bayard, running his eye
over the visitor as though looking for a confirmatory resemblance. Then,
having concluded his scrutiny: "You are like him. Have a chair; tell me
what I can do to serve you."

Richard was taken with Mr. Bayard's words, for that gentleman managed to
put into them a reassuring emphasis that was from nowhere save the
heart. Thus led, Richard began by asking Mr. Bayard if he knew aught of
Storri.

"Storri? He is the Russian who helped the sugar people get their hold in
Odessa. The oil interests have some thought of employing him in their
affairs. What of Storri?"

Richard explained the propriety of destroying Storri; this he did with
an ingenuous ferocity that caused Mr. Bayard to smile.

"The man," observed Richard in conclusion, "is no more than so much
vermin. He is a menace to my friends; he has intrigued villainously
against me. I have no option; I must destroy him out of my path as I
would any footpad or any brigand."

Being primal in his instincts, as every great man is, Mr. Bayard, at
this hostile declaration, could not avoid a quick side-glance at
Richard's door-wide shoulders, Pict arms, and panther build. Richard
caught the look.

"Oh, if it might have been settled in that way," cried he, "I should
have had his head wrung round ere this!"

"You will readily conceive," observed Mr. Bayard, after musing a bit,
"that I keep myself posted concerning the least movement of the least
man who comes speculating into stocks. You may take it for granted that
I know a trifle or so of your Count Storri. To be frank, he and Mr.
Harley, with Senator Hanway and five others, are preparing for some
movement in Northern Consolidated. I don't know whether it is to be a
'bull' or a 'bear' movement, or when they will begin. Those are matters
which rest heavily on the finding of that special committee of which
Senator Hanway is the chief. Do you know when the finding may be looked
for? Can you tell me what the committee will report?"

Richard could not bring himself to speak of Senator Hanway's
confidential assurances of a white report for Northern Consolidated.
From those assurances he was sure that the pool meditated a "bull"
campaign, but he did not say so since he could not give his reasons.

Mr. Bayard came to the protection of his anxieties.

"Senator Hanway," went on Mr. Bayard, "has privately told a number of
people that the report will favor the road."

Richard was struck by the cool fullness of Mr. Bayard's information. It
was likewise impressive to learn that he was not the only one in Senator
Hanway's confidence. On top of Richard's wonder Mr. Bayard piled another
marvel. He declared that he did not believe the word of Senator Hanway.

"He is a fox for caution," quoth Mr. Bayard, "and I cannot think he told
the truth. Believe me, the committee's report will tear Northern
Consolidated to pieces. The market has been exceedingly strong since the
beginning of the year. He will watch, and plump in that adverse report
the moment general prices show a weakness."

Richard, while taken by the reasoning of Mr. Bayard, was not convinced.
However, he asked Mr. Bayard what might be done.

"Remembering always," said Richard, "that the one purpose I have in view
is the overthrow of Storri."

"Every member of that pool," returned Mr. Bayard, "has made himself fair
game. A pool is like a declaration of war against the world; the pool
itself would tell you so. And speaking of the pool, you understand that
the eight are bound together like a fagot. You can't break one without
breaking all; if Storri fall, Mr. Harley, Senator Hanway, and the others
fall."

Richard could not forbear a smile as he recalled how Mrs. Hanway-Harley
had said that her only objection to him was his lack of riches, and how,
should his fortune one day mend and measure up with Mr. Harley's,
Dorothy and he might wed. The peculiar humor of those possibilities
which the situation offered began to address itself to Richard. Was not
here a chance to remove Mrs. Hanway-Harley's objection?

"Since they are open game," said Richard, "I see no reason why the whole
octagonal combination should not be wiped out. Indeed, there might be a
distinct advantage in it," he concluded, thinking on Dorothy.

"There would be a distinct advantage of several millions in it,"
returned Mr. Bayard, who was thinking on dollars and cents. Then, as
might one who, having decided, takes the first step in a great
enterprise: "Where, by the way, are those millions that were left by
Dudley Storms?"

"They are where you may put your hand upon them," returned Richard, "in
any hunting of this vermin Storri."

The eyes of Mr. Bayard began to glitter and light up like the windows of
a palace on the evening of a ball.

"I fancy," said he, "that I shall go with you for this Storri's
destruction."

"I shall put the matter wholly into your hands. It is a game of which I
know nothing but the name."

"The game is not difficult; it is mere purse-matching."

"How much of a fund will you require?"

"At the least, fifty millions. We must lie concealed until the pool
develop its purpose. It will make but little difference, once it be
developed; 'bull' or 'bear,' we meet them either way. Fifty millions
should do. If that sum crowd you, we must recollect that I, myself, am
not without a handful of millions that can never have better employment
than fighting the battles of a son of Dudley Storms."

"Fifty millions would be no strain," replied Richard quickly. "To be
safe, let us call those fifty millions one hundred. Still, I am deeply
obliged for your proffer."

"One hundred millions be it," quoth Mr. Bayard. "We'll organize
ourselves, and we'll wait and watch. When they move, we meet them.
Should they sell, we buy; should they buy,--which they won't,--we sell;
in either event we buy or sell them to a standstill. Should they connive
a 'bear' raid, they'll sell their way into as formidable a corner as
ever 'bear' was squeezed in."

This befell upon that first visit of Richard to Mr. Bayard. Two days
later, Richard returned. Mr. Gwynn met him, brisk upon the hour, in one
of the numerous private rooms of Mr. Bayard, and turned over one hundred
millions in certified checks upon those fifty banks. Richard dismissed
Mr. Gwynn and went in to Mr. Bayard.

"I shall deposit these," said Mr. Bayard, "in ten banks, twenty millions
in the City Bank and the balance scattered among the other nine. You may
leave the details of our enterprise to me; I have been through many of
similar color. I need not suggest the value of silence. Meanwhile, and I
can't emphasize this too much, if you would busy yourself to advantage
make what discoveries you may touching the pending report on Northern
Consolidated."

On that evening when they came together outside the Harley house, Storri
and the San Reve continued slowly on their way, turning now east, now
south, until after ten minutes of walking they entered a narrow
thoroughfare to which the street lamp on the corner gave the name of
Grant Place. The houses were sober and reputable. Up the steps of one of
the soberest went Storri and the San Reve; the latter let them in with a
latch-key. Storri consigned his overcoat and hat to the rack in the hall
as though his surroundings were familiar, and he with the San Reve
passed into what in the original plan of the house had been meant for a
drawing-room.

The house was occupied by a stirring lady named Warmdollar, who served
her country as head scrubwoman in one of the big departments--a place
of fatter salary than its menial name implies. There was a Mr.
Warmdollar, who in an earlier hour had held through two terms a seat in
Congress. This was years before. Failing of a second re-election, and
having become fixed in the habit of officeholding, which habit seizes
upon certain natures like a taste for opium, Mr. Warmdollar urged his
claims for some appointive place. The Senators from his home-State
felt compelled to moderately bestir themselves, the result of their
joint efforts being that Mr. Warmdollar was tendered a position
as guard about the congressional cemetery, said last resting-place of
greatness-gone-to-sleep being a wild, weird tract in a semi-farmerish
region on the fringe of town. Mr. Warmdollar objected to the place, and
the gloomy kind of its duties; but since this was before Mrs. Warmdollar
had begun to earn a salary as scrubwoman, he was driven to accept.

"Take it until something better turns up," urged one of the Senators,
who had grown tired of having Mr. Warmdollar on his hands.

It was a blustering night of rain when Mr. Warmdollar entered upon his
initial vigil as a guardian of the dead. Wet, weary, disgusted, Mr.
Warmdollar sought refuge in a coop of a sentry-box, which stood upon the
crest of a hill through which the road that bounded one side of the
burying ground had been cut. The sentry-box was waterproof and to that
extent a comfort, being designed for deluges of the sort then soaking
Mr. Warmdollar.

Had there been nothing but a downpour, Mr. Warmdollar might have borne
it until his watch was relieved; he might have even continued to perform
the duties and draw the emoluments of his place indefinitely. But the
winds rose; and they blew down Mr. Warmdollar's sentry-box. Toppling
into the road, it rolled merrily down a steep and then lay upon its
front, door downward, in the mud. Mr. Warmdollar could not get out;
being discouraged by what he had undergone, he broke into yells and
cries like a soul weltering in torment.

The yells and cries engaged the heated admiration of a farmer's dog that
dwelt hard by, and the dog descended upon the sentry-box and Mr.
Warmdollar, attacking both with an impartiality which showed him no one
to split hairs. Then the farmer came to his door, arrayed in a shirt and
a shotgun, and emptied both barrels of the latter at Mr. Warmdollar and
his sentry-box--the agriculturist not understanding the case, as
sometimes happens to agriculturists, notably in politics.

Following his baptism of dog and fire, Mr. Warmdollar crawled back to
town and worked no more. Mrs. Warmdollar was named scrubwoman, while her
disheartened spouse devoted himself to strong drink, as though to color
one's nose and fuddle one's wits were the great purposes of existence.
Being eager of gain, Mrs. Warmdollar had sub-rented her parlor floor to
the San Reve; and since Mrs. Warmdollar was a lady in whom curiosity had
had its day and died, she asked no questions the answers to which might
prove embarrassing.

The San Reve, like Mrs. Warmdollar, worked in a department, being a
draughtswoman in the Treasury Building, and attached to the staff of the
supervising architect. The place had been granted the San Reve at the
request of Senator Hanway, who was urged thereunto by Mr. Harley, to
whom Storri explained the San Reve's skill in plates and plans and the
propriety of work.

The San Reve's apartments were comfortable with chairs, lounges, and
ottomans; a piano occupied one corner, while two or three good pictures
hung upon the walls. In the bow-window was a window-seat piled high with
cushions, from which by daylight one might have surveyed the passing
show--dull enough in Grant Place.

"Have you no kiss for your Storri, my San Reve?" cried Storri
plaintively, but still sticking to the lightly confident.

The San Reve accepted Storri's gallant attention as though thinking on
other things than kisses. Then she threw aside her hat and wraps, and
glanced at herself in the glass.

She was a striking figure, the San Reve, with brick-colored hair and
eyes more green than gray. Her skin showed white as ivory; her nose and
mouth and chin, heavy for a woman, told of a dangerous energy when
aroused. The eyebrows, too, had a lowering falcon trick that touched the
face with fierceness. The forehead gave proof of brains, and yet the San
Reve was one more apt to act than think, particularly if she felt
herself aggrieved. If you must pry into a matter so delicate, the San
Reve was twenty-eight; standing straight as a spear, with small hands
and feet, she displayed that ripeness of outline which sculptors give
their Phrynes.

"Storri," said the San Reve, with a chill bluntness that promised the
disagreeable while it lost no time, "why do you visit that house--the
Harley house?"

Storri was in an easy-chair, puffing a cigar as though at home. The San
Reve, half lying, half sitting, reclined upon a sofa. They looked at
each other; Storri trying to seem brave, the San Reve with staring
courage, open and more real.

"You know, my San Reve, I have business with Mr. Harley. Let me tell
you: Mr. Harley, through his relative, Senator Hanway----"

"You go to see the girl," interrupted the San Reve, and the sullen
contralto was vibrant of danger. "You go to see Miss Harley, not her
father."

"And if I do?"

Storri put his query blusteringly.

"You will marry her," went on the San Reve, who appeared to care as
little for Storri's bluster as his kiss.

"I never promised to marry you."

"I do not ask you to marry me. I want neither your name nor your title.
But you promised me your love; I want that." The San Reve's tones were
unruffled. They did not lift or mount, and told only of passionate
resolution. "Storri, why did you bring me from Ottawa?"

"If it come to that," retorted Storri spitefully, "why did you leave
Ottawa?"

"I left Ottawa for love," the San Reve replied, as though considering
with herself. "I left Ottawa for love of you, just as four years before
I came to Ottawa for love of another."

"You have had adventures," remarked Storri sarcastically. "I have never
heard your story, my San Reve; go on, I beseech you!"

"I will tell you one thing," said the San Reve, "from which you may
wring a warning. My father was a showman--a tamer of lions and leopards.
When I was twelve, I went into the den with him to hold a hoop while he
lashed those big cats through it. Yes, Storri," cried the San Reve, a
sudden flame to burst forth in her voice like an oral brightness, and as
apparent as a fire in a forest, "when to fear was to die, I have held
aloft my little hoop to the lions and the leopards! And for all their
snarls they jumped tamely; for all their threats they did nothing. I, as
a child, was not afraid of a lion under the lash; am I now to fear a
bear, a Russian bear, I, who am a woman?"

"Why, my San Reve," protested Storri, "and what has stirred your anger?"

Storri was startled by the San Reve's fury rather than her revelations.
Having a politic mind to soothe her, he sought to take her hand.

"Keep your attentions to yourself!" cried the San Reve; "I am in no
temper for tenderness."

"Ah, as to that," said Storri, turning proud, "I, who am a Russian
gentleman, yes, a Russian nobleman, shall not offend. Yes," yawning and
giving himself an air, "I am relieved by your cold attitude. That is the
folly of being noble! One cannot be attentive to those beneath one save
at a loss of self-respect. Bah! my Czar, could he but see, would call
his Storri disgraced by the mere nearness of such as you."

"And you name your Czar to me!" returned the San Reve, now sneering
calm, her cool contralto restored; "to me, a French woman! And your
nobility, too--that thing of Caspian mud! Storri, the San Reves were
soldiers with Napoleon; your noble kind ran from them like hares. The
San Reves stabled their horses in the audience chambers of your Czars."

The San Reve rippled off these periods in quiet, invincible scorn.
Storri, beaten, frightened, began to whine. His bluster, his bombast,
his nobility, his affected elevations, were alike broken down. He
professed love; he said that he had wronged his San Reve. His San Reve
was a goddess, a flower, a star! Would she make her Storri
desolate?--her Storri who would die for love of her!

The San Reve became sensibly composed; her falcon brow relaxed, her
spirit took on a tranquil frame, her anger was cooled by the cooing
contrition of Storri. The San Reve permitted herself to be soothed.

"Let us go no more in that direction," said the San Reve. "Such
tauntings are but a childish barter of words."

The San Reve delivered this sentiment in a serene, high way that brought
her honor. Then she lighted a cigarette and blew peaceful rings. Storri,
encouraged in his soul by the return of his San Reve to reason, solaced
himself with a fresh cigar. The two smoked in silent truce.

"It was a love quarrel, my San Reve!" said Storri.

"Only a love quarrel!" assented San Reve.

Silence and smoke; with Storri timid, shrinking from fresh offense and
further outbreak.

Storri, fearing all who had no fear of him, feared the San Reve. Nor
were his apprehensions void of warrant; the San Reve was of that hot and
blinded strain which loves and slays.

"Your father dead," said Storri, pretending a perking interest, "your
father dead, my San Reve, what then became of you?"

"I fell into the hands of a doting old architect of Paris. He was good
to me; it was with him I learned my trade. No, I did not love him; but I
was grateful. He died, and I came to Ottawa as a draughtswoman for the
young engineer, Balue. I did not love Balue; he was tame. And then
Ottawa, with those sodden Canadians, their Scotch whiskey, and narrow
lives framed in with snow--how I loathed them! What a weariness of the
heart they were, those frozen people! Then came you--Storri!"

The San Reve's gray-green eyes burned with white fire. She got up from
the couch where she had lain curled like a tawny lioness.

"Yes; you came!" purred the San Reve, and she stooped and kissed Storri
with her fierce lips. "Then for the first time I loved."

The San Reve recurled herself on the couch. Storri, who had met her kiss
valorously, considered whether he might not please her by solicitude in
a new direction.

"There is one thing, my San Reve," he observed, a show of feeling in his
words. "Why do you tie yourself to that draughting? It grieves your
Storri! Am I a pauper that my San Reve should work? Is Storri so miserly
that the idol of his heart must be a slave?"

The San Reve shook her head.

"I must have something to do," she explained, a half-smile parting her
rose-red lips. "I am like those poor rats of which my father told me who
must gnaw and gnaw and forever gnaw to wear away their teeth, which
otherwise would grow and kill them. No, I like my work; let me alone
with it."

Storri tossed his hand and shrugged his shoulders in mute resignation
and reproof. His San Reve would work; he consented, while he deprecated
her so mad resolve.

"Let us return to our first concern," said the San Reve.

Storri quaked; he could follow her trail of thought by mental smell as
the hound follows the fox.

"Storri, tell me; do you love this Miss Harley?"

"My San Reve, how can you ask? Look in the mirror! No, I do not love
Miss Harley."

The San Reve toyed with her cigarette. Storri, thinking on escape, arose
to go. He stepped into the hallway for his coat and hat. Then he
returned, and, giving his hand to the reclining San Reve, drew her to
her feet. Storri, about to go, was beaming; the kiss he printed lightly
on the San Reve's lips spoke of a heart relieved. The San Reve herself
was amiably placid; her anger apparently had died with her doubts.

"And you do not love Miss Harley?"

"No; I swear by my mother's grave!"

"By your mother's grave!" Then, voice deep as the mellow pipe of an
organ: "Storri, you lie!"

Storri, aghast, was surprised into his usual defense of bluster. He
started to bully; the San Reve raised her shapely hand.

"Storri, let me show you." The San Reve took from the drawer of a
cabinet a beautiful pistol. She partly raised the hammer and buzzed the
liberated cylinder. It gave forth clear, musical clicks. "Do you see?"
said the San Reve half wistfully. "I have this!"

"You would not kill Miss Harley!" exclaimed Storri nervously.

"No! Storri, no!"

"Whom then?" and Storri moistened his dry lips. His San Reve was such a
heathen! The thought parched him. "Whom would you kill, my San Reve?"
This came off pleadingly.

"Whom would I kill?" the San Reve repeated tenderly, stretching for a
kiss. "I would kill you! No, not now, my Storri; but some time. My
resolution is only born; it is not yet grown. Storri, you must beware! I
come of the race that kill! I have now only the tiny root of that blood
resolution. Do not let us nourish it! We must destroy it--blight it with
much love! I speak for you, for me!" The San Reve began to cry
convulsively. "I speak against a dark day! I feel, I know it! It is you,
you whom I shall kill! And then myself--oh, yes, my Storri, you cannot
go alone!"

The San Reve threw herself weeping upon the couch; her gusty nature
seemed torn by whirlwinds of passion and jealous love. Storri hung in
the door, and the white of his cravat was not so white as his face. He
could neither go nor stay, neither speak nor do; craven to the heart, he
quailed before the stormy San Reve. An artist might have painted him as
the Genius of Cowardice.

"Good-night, my Storri," said the San Reve, her voice mournfully sweet.




CHAPTER XIV

HOW THEY TALKED POLITICS AT MR. GWYNN's


In accord with the requests of Mr. Gwynn, which with them had those
graver aspects the requests of royalty possess for London shopkeepers,
the President and General Attorney of the Anaconda Airline came to
Washington. The Anaconda president was a short, corpulent man, with dark
skin, eyes black as beads, round, alert face, and a nose like the ace of
clubs. The General Attorney was no taller than his superior officer, but
differed from him in a figure so spare and starved that it snapped its
fingers at description. As though to make amends for a niggardliness of
the physical, Providence had conferred upon our legal one a prodigious
head. A facetious opponent once said that he had a seven and a half hat
and a six and a half belt, being, as steamboat folk would put it,
over-engined for his beam. Both the President and the General Attorney
were devoted to their company, and neither would have scrupled to loot
an orphanage or burn a church had such drastic measure been demanded by
Anaconda interests. Once in town, these excellent officers lost no time
in presenting themselves at Mr. Gwynn's. To their joy that unbending
personage was so good as to grant them a personal audience. Richard was
present--such, as you have discovered, being the invariable usage with
Mr. Gwynn. After the latter had shaken each visitor by the hand, a shake
of mighty formality, he sat in state while Richard did the talking.

Mr. Gwynn was a spectacle of gravity when posed in a chair. He
established himself on the edge of that piece of furniture, and for all
the employment he gave its back it might as well have been a stool. Mr.
Gwynn maintained himself bolt-upright, chin pointed high, with a general
rigidity of attitude that made one fear he had swallowed the poker as a
preliminary to the interview, and was bearing himself in accordance with
the unyielding fact. The result was highly effective, and gave Mr. Gwynn
a kingly air not likely to be wasted on impressionable ones such as the
President and General Attorney. When the four were seated, Richard,
using the potential name of Mr. Gwynn, proceeded to speak, while Mr.
Gwynn at measured intervals creaked concurrence.

It had been decided by Mr. Gwynn, so Richard laid bare, that the future
of the Anaconda would be advanced by the nomination of Senator Hanway
for the Presidency. It would pleasure Mr. Gwynn were he to hear that the
President and General Attorney shared this conclusion. If such were the
flattering case, Mr. Gwynn would be delighted to have the President and
General Attorney call upon Senator Hanway, and consider what might be
done towards the practical furtherance of his hopes. In short, the
situation, word and argument, was precisely the same as when the
visitors came on in the affair of Speaker Frost. Incidentally, Mr. Gwynn
was to give a dinner in honor of Senator Hanway. It was understood that
certain of that statesman's friends would take advantage of the occasion
to announce his candidacy. The President and General Attorney were to be
invited to the dinner. Mr. Gwynn would esteem it an honor if they found
it convenient to be present and lend countenance to the movement in
Senator Hanway's favor.

Throughout this setting forth, the President and General Attorney took
advantage of pauses and periods to bow and murmur agreement with Mr.
Gwynn's opinions and desires as Richard reeled them off; the murmurs and
nods were as "Amens," and must have been gratifying to Mr. Gwynn.
Nothing could give the President and General Attorney so much
satisfaction as the elevation of Senator Hanway to the White House. They
were a unit with Mr. Gwynn; they believed that not alone the future of
the Anaconda but the prosperity of the nation, not to say the round
advantage of the world at large, would be subserved thereby. They would
confer with Senator Hanway as Mr. Gwynn suggested.

So hot were they that the President and General Attorney, with Richard,
at once sought Senator Hanway; since it was no later than eleven in the
morning they caught that great statesman before he started for the
Senate. He greeted them with dignified warmth, and, aided by Richard,
who conversationally went ahead to break the ice, the trio quickly came
to an understanding.

Senator Hanway talked with a freedom that was of itself a compliment,
when one remembers how it had ever been his common strategy in this
business of President-catching to appear both ignorant and indifferent.
Senator Hanway explained that the thing just then was the nomination. It
would be necessary to control the coming National Convention. Governor
Obstinate was a formidable figure; he was popular with the people; and,
although Governor Obstinate was a man who would prove most perilous if
armed with those thunderbolts of veto and patronage wherewith the
position of chief executive would clothe his hand, Senator Hanway was
sorry to say there were many among the leading spirits of party who
cared so little for the public welfare and so much for their own that
they would push Governor Obstinate's fortunes as a method of making
personal capital in their home regions with the ignorant herd. Senator
Hanway would not go into the details of what in his opinion might be
accomplished by the President and General Attorney and the great railway
system they controlled. It would be wiser, and perhaps in better
taste,--here Senator Hanway smiled with becoming modesty,--if others
were permitted to do that. If his good friends of the Anaconda who had
come so far in his honor--a mark of regard which he, Senator Hanway,
could never forget nor underestimate--gave him their company to the
Capitol, he would be proud to make them acquainted with Senators Gruff
and Loot and Toot and Drink and Dice and others of his friends, and
those gentlemen would go more deeply into the affair. The President and
General Attorney, he was sure, could so exert the Anaconda influence
that the delegations from those States through which it ran might be
selected and controlled.

Senator Hanway and the President and General Attorney departed in high
good feeling to meet with those statesmen named, while Richard sought
Bess to hear word of his Dorothy and receive that letter which was
already the particular ray of sunshine in days which were cloudy and
dark.

It would do mankind no service to break in at this place with wideflung
descriptions of Mr. Gwynn's dinner. It is among things strange that the
world in the matter of proposing a candidate for public favor or
celebrating a victory has made little or no advance from earliest ages.
It has been immemorial custom when one had a candidate on his hands and
desired to obtain for him the countenance of men, to give a dinner for
those who were reckoned leaders of sentiment and, first filling them
with meat and wine, make them stirring speeches to bring them to the
candidate's support. From the initial dinner sub-dinners would radiate,
and others be born of these, until a whole population might be
considered fed and filled with food and speeches, and the candidate
dined, not to say dinned, into the popular heart, or, what is the same
thing, the popular stomach--in either case the popular regard. In
celebrations the procedure was equally archaic. Did some admiral win a
sea fight or some general a land fight or some candidate a ballot fight,
instantly one-half the population marched in the middle of the street
while the other half banked the curbs in screaming, kerchief-waving
lines of admiration. And thus has it ever been since that far-distant
morning of Eternity, when Time with his scythe let down the bars and
went upon his mowing of the meadows of men's existences. Mr. Gwynn, you
may be sure, has nothing novel to propose; wherefore at this crisis he
gives a dinner, as doubtless did Nero and Moses and Noah and Adam and
others of the mighty dead on similar occasions in their day.

Mr. Gwynn's dinner began with Senator Gruff. This wise man, with the
sanction of Senator Hanway, intimated to Richard the uses of such a
festival. Mr. Gwynn was not in politics; his dinner table would be
neutral ground. When therefore some fiery orator, carefully primed and
cocked, suddenly exploded into eloquent demands that Senator Hanway
offer himself for the White House, subject of course, as the phrase is,
to the action of his party's convention thereafter to assemble, it would
have a look of spontaneity that was of prime importance. No other could
do this so well as Mr. Gwynn; no other table would so escape that charge
of personal interest which the friends of Governor Obstinate might be
expected to make. The very fact of Mr. Gwynn being an Englishman would
defend it. Mr. Gwynn, at the word of Richard, was willing to serve the
views of Senator Gruff, and the dinner was arranged.

There were full sixty present, including Speaker Frost and those high
officials of the Anaconda. Mr. Gwynn had also dispatched an invitation
to Mr. Bayard, and Richard inclosed therewith a personal note which had
for its result the bringing of that astrologer of stocks, albeit dinners
political were not precisely his habit.

"Who is your friend Gwynn?" asked Mr. Bayard, the afternoon before the
dinner.

"I'll explain Mr. Gwynn later," replied Richard. "He is quite devoted to
my interests, I assure you, and to nothing else."

"I can well believe so," returned Mr. Bayard, who had already half
solved the enigma of Mr. Gwynn. "I begin to fear that you are a
quixotic, not to say an eccentric, not to add a most egotistical young
man. At that I'm not prepared to say you are wrong. One is justified in
extreme concealments to avoid those animals the snobs."

Mr. Gwynn, the picture of all that was imperial, sat at the table's
head, with Senator Hanway on his right. At the foot was Senator Gruff,
who, if not the founder, might be called the architect of the feast,
since, with the exception of Mr. Bayard, he had pricked off the list of
guests. Mr. Harley, sad and worn with thoughts of Storri, sat next to
Senator Gruff, while Mr. Bayard and Richard occupied inconspicuous
places midway of the board.

When in the procession of courses the dinner attained to birds, a famous
editor of the Middle West, who had been consuming wine with diligence to
the end that he be fluent, addressed the table's head. He recited the
public interests; then, paying a tribute to their party as the guardian
of those interests, he wound up in words of fire with the declaration
that Senator Hanway must be the next standard-bearer of that party. The
cheering was tremendous, considering the small numbers to furnish it.

When the joyful sounds subsided, Senator Hanway, in a few placid, gentle
sentences, explained his flattered amazement, and how helplessly he was
in the hands of his friends, who would do with him as they deemed best
for party welfare and for public good. He had not sought this honor, he
did not look for the nomination; his own small estimate of his powers
and importance, an estimate which gentlemen who heard him must be aware
of, was proof of it. But no man might set his inclinations against a
popular demand. Private preferences must yield, private plans must be
abandoned. The country was entitled to the services of every citizen,
the party was at liberty to command the name of every member. Believing
these things, and owing what he did to both public and party, Senator
Hanway must acquiesce. He thanked his friends for thus distinguishing
him; he gave himself passively to their will. There was a second tempest
of approbation when Senator Hanway was through.

Senator Gruff proposed the health of the President of the Anaconda. That
potentate of railways made a short, jerky oration. He gave his hearty
concurrence to the proposal of Senator Hanway to be President. He did
this as a patriot and not as the head of a great railway. The Anaconda
would take no part in politics; it never did. The Anaconda was a
business, not a political, concern; it would do nothing unbecoming a
corporation of discretion and repute. However, he, the President, was
more or less acquainted with sentiment in those regions threaded by the
Anaconda. He made no doubt, nay, he could squarely promise, that the
delegations from those States, as he knew and read their people's
feeling, would go to the next convention instructed for Senator Hanway.
More applause, and a buzz of congratulatory whispers. The powerful
Anaconda, that political dictator of a region so vast that it was washed
by two oceans, was to champion Senator Hanway.

Senator Coot, whose home-State was shaky beneath his Senate feet, and
who was therefore anxiously afraid lest he himself be committed to a
position on the perilous subject of finance that might provoke his
destruction, now addressed the table. He yielded to no one in his
admiration for Senator Hanway. In view of what had been proposed,
however, he, Senator Coot, would like to ask Senator Hanway to define
his position in that controversy of Silver versus Gold.

No one was looking for this, no such baleful curiosity had been
anticipated. It was Senator Gruff that came to the rescue, and Richard,
to whom the scene was new and full of interest, could not admire too
deeply the dexterity wherewith he held the shield of his humor between
Senator Hanway and the shaft of that interrogatory.

Senator Gruff thought the question premature. The convention was months
away; sentiment had been known to shift in a day like the bed of a river
and seek new channels with its currents. Senator Gruff distrusted the
wisdom of binding anybody at that time to a hard and fast declaration
whether for silver or gold or both. He was sure that on soberer thought
his friend Senator Coot would see the impropriety of his question.

Senator Coot declined to see the impropriety to which Senator Gruff had
adverted. To commit himself to any gentleman's canvass was to commit
himself to that gentleman's opinions. Those opinions might not be
consistent with ones held by his, Senator Coot's, constituents, to whom
he must in all things adhere. He, Senator Coot, was no one to buy pigs
in pokes--if Senator Hanway would forgive a homely expression which was
not intended as personal to himself. Senator Coot must insist upon his
question.

Senator Gruff still came forward in defense. He said he had heard that
Senator Coot's native State of Indiana was originally settled by people
who had started for the West but lost their nerve. In view of the
timidity and weak irresolution of his Senate brother, he, Senator Gruff,
was inclined to credit the tradition. He must protest against
question-asking at this time. Senator Gruff must even warn his friend
Senator Coot that to ask a question now might result in later disaster
to himself.

On that point of question-putting, might he, Senator Gruff, impart a
word of counsel? A question was often a trap to catch the questioner.
One should step warily with a question. A man who puts a question should
never fail to know the answer in advance. When he pulls the trigger of a
question, as when he pulls the trigger of a gun, he must look out for
the kick. Many a perfect situation had been destroyed by the wrong
question asked in the dark. Senator Gruff begged permission to tell a
story.

"Once a good and optimistic dominie," said Senator Gruff, "was being
shown through Sing Sing Prison. In his company went a pessimist who took
darkling views of humanity in the lump, and particularly what fractions
of the lump had gotten themselves locked up. The pessimist could see no
good in them.

"'But you are wrong,' argued the dominie. 'There's good in the worst
among them all. Stay; I'll prove it.' Then, turning to the guard: 'Sir,
please bring us to the very worst character who is prisoner here.' On
their way to the abandoned one, the dominie observed to the pessimist:
'I'll guarantee, by a few adroit questions, to so develop the good side
of this fallen creature that you will be driven to confess its
existence.'

"They traveled the corridors, and finally the guard threw open a cell
wherein was a man whose face was so utterly brutal that its softest
expression was a breach of the peace. The man, who was in for life, had
committed an atrocious murder.

"The only thing in the cell besides the man was a rat, which--wheel
within wheel--was confined in a little cage. This rat was the prisoner's
darling; the guard said that he would draw blood from his arm to feed
it. The good dominie--who knew his business--instantly seized upon the
rat for his cue.

"'And you love the rat?' he said to the prisoner.

"'I love it better than my life!' cried the prisoner. 'There isn't
anything I wouldn't sacrifice for that rat.'

"'There,' said the good dominie, wheeling on the pessimist, who was
visibly subdued by the poor prisoner's love for his humble pet, 'there,
you see! Here is a captive wretch whose estate is hopeless. He wears the
brand of a felon and is doomed to stone-caged solitude throughout his
life. And yet, without friends or light or liberty, with everything to
sour and harden and promote the worst that's in him, he finds it in his
heart to love! From those white seed which were planted by Providence in
the beginning that beautiful love springs up to blossom in a dreary
prison, and, for want of a nobler object, waste its tender fragrance on
a rat. It touches me to the heart!' and the good dominie watered the
floor of the cell with his tears.

"The pessimist had no more to say; he murmured his contrition and
declared that he had received a lesson. He would never again distrust or
contradict the existence of that spark of divine goodness which, at the
bottom of every nature like a diamond at the bottom of a pit, would live
quenchless through the ages to save the soul at last.

"The good dominie and the reformed pessimist were retiring, when the
dominie paused, like Senator Coot, to ask one question--the only one he
couldn't have answered in advance.

"'Why, my poor man, do you love that rat?'

"The prisoner's face became more brutal with the light of a diabolical
joy.

"'Why do I love him?' he cried. Then, with a chuckle of fiendish
exultation: 'Because he bit the warden.'"

The adroit Senator Gruff might have found it hard to show the
application of his story. That, however, was not going to worry the
sagacious Senator Gruff. He reckoned only upon raising a laugh at the
anxious Senator Coot's expense which would silence that question-asking
personage, who was more afraid of present ridicule, being sensitive,
than of future condemnation by his constituents. The yarn succeeded in
winning peals of laughter, and without giving Senator Coot a chance to
reply or repeat his poking about to discover the position of Senator
Hanway upon the issue of finance, Senator Gruff proposed the health of
Mr. Bayard.

"And perhaps," remarked Senator Gruff, "that eminent authority on
markets, and therefore upon finance, will favor us with his views on
money. I do not hesitate," concluded Senator Gruff, turning to Mr.
Bayard, "to cast you into the breach, because, of all who are here, you
are the one best qualified and, I might add, least afraid to be heard.
You have no constituents to be either shocked at your opinions or to
punish their expression."

Senator Coot's curiosity touching Senator Hanway's money position, a
fatal curiosity that had it not been smothered might have spread, was
overwhelmed in a general desire to hear Mr. Bayard. The great speculator
was known to every statesman about the table, and the whisper of
conversation became hushed.

"As said the gentleman who has so honored me,"--here Mr. Bayard bowed to
Senator Gruff, who complimented him by lifting his glass,--"there are no
reasons why I should not give you my beliefs of money. I will tell you
what I would and would not do for a currency, if I were business manager
of a country. I would not coin silver money, because the low intrinsic
value of such currency would make it a cumbrous one. I would not coin
both silver and gold, because of the impossibility of maintaining an
equality of values between the two coins. I would coin gold and nothing
but gold, because it offers those qualities, important above others in a
money metal, of high value and high durability."

"But is there gold enough to furnish all the money required?" asked
Senator Coot, who was nervously interested.

"For centuries," replied Mr. Bayard, who began to feel a warmer interest
than he had in any situation or any topic for over thirty years, "for
centuries production has been filling the annual lap of the world with
millions upon millions of gold. No part of it has been lost, none
destroyed. For every possible appropriation there exists a plenty, even
a plethora, of gold. And let me say this: there is a deal of claptrap
talked and written and printed and practiced concerning this business of
a currency, a subject which when given a right survey presents no
difficulty. Mankind has been taught that in the essence of things fiscal
your question of currency is as intricate and involved as was the
labyrinth of Minos. And then, to add ill-doing to ill-teaching, our own
crazy-patch system of finance has been in every one of its patches cut
and basted and stitched with an interest of politics or of private gain
to guide the shears and needle of what money-tailor was at work. A
country, if it would, could have a circulating medium, and all coined
yellow gold, of two hundred dollars, or five hundred dollars, or one
thousand dollars per capita for population, and, beyond the expense of
the mint, without costing that country a shilling. One, being business
manager of the nation, as fast as the mints would work could pour forth
an unbroken stream of gold money, half-eagles, eagles, and double
eagles, to what breadth and depth for a whole circulation one would, and
never spend a shilling beyond the working of the mints.

"Observe, now; as a nation we have a business manager. He holds in his
fingers five twenty-dollar gold pieces. He buys one hundred dollars'
worth of gold bullion with them. The public, if it would, might buy gold
as freely as does any private individual. Our business manager gets the
bullion, while the other, a gold miner perhaps, takes the gold coin.
Then our business manager stamps the bullion he has bought--one hundred
dollars' worth--into five new twenty-dollar gold pieces.

"With these in his palm he is ready for another bargain with the gold
miner. Again the miner gets the gold pieces, and again our business
manager gets one hundred dollars' worth of yellow bullion. This he
coins; and being thereby re-equipped with five more new twenty-dollar
pieces he returns to the experiment.

"This barter and this coinage might go on while a grain of the world's
gold remained uncoined. At the finish, our business manager would have
only one hundred yellow dollars in his fist; but there would be billions
coined and stamped and in circulation. And the country would be neither
in nor out a dollar. I am talking of coinage, not taxation, remember.

"Once in circulation the law would protect the money from being clipped
or mutilated or melted down. Once money, always money, and he who alters
its money status we lock up as a felon. There is no legal reason and no
moral reason and no market reason to militate against what I have
outlined as a policy. Finance as a science is simpler than the science
of soap-boiling, although the money-changers in the temple for their own
selfish advantage prefer you to think otherwise."

"Your wholesale consumption of gold," interrupted Senator Coot, "would
raise the price of gold beyond measure."

"Wherein would lie the harm? So that it did not disturb the comparative
prices of soap and pork and sugar and flour and lumber and on through
the list of a world's commodities--and it would not--no one would
experience either jolt or squeeze. With wheat at a dollar a bushel, a
reduction to ten cents a bushel would work no injury if at the same time
every other commodity in its price fell ninety per cent. To merely
multiply the 'price' of gold, a metal which when it isn't money is
jewelry, would cut no more important figure in the economy of life than
would the making of one thousand marks upon a thermometer where now we
make one hundred. Suppose, instead of one hundred degrees, we scratched
off one thousand degrees on a thermometer in the same space: would it
make the weather any hotter? I grant you a cautious business manager
would not walk in among the gold-sellers and purchase ten billion
dollars' worth of gold in a day; and for the same reason that a cautious
cowboy wouldn't ride in among a bunch of cattle and flap a blanket. Not
because there lurks inherent peril in so doing, but for that in the
timid ignorance of the herd it would produce a stampede."

"But don't you see," objected Senator Coot, who was learned in the cant
of currency and believed it, "don't you see that what you propose, by
putting up the price of gold and putting down the price of everything
else, would multiply riches in the hands of the creditor class? Wouldn't
it work injustice to the debtors of the land?"

"Without pausing to guess," said Mr. Bayard, "for that is all one might
do, whether the extravagant coinage of gold would promote its 'price,' I
will submit that such contention should be disregarded. It is too
general, and too incessant. If such were permitted the rank of argument,
it would trip up every tariff, every appropriation, every governmental
thing.

"Also, one must not put a too narrow limit upon the term 'creditor
class.' Every man with a dollar in his pocket, or who owns a farm or a
horse or a bolt of cloth or one hundred bushels of wheat, belongs to the
extent of that dollar or farm or horse or bolt of cloth or one hundred
bushels of wheat to the creditor class. The world is his debtor, and he
has it in pawn and pledge to him for the value of that dollar or farm or
horse or cloth or wheat. Now, a tariff law can be and frequently is
framed so as to lift or lower the 'prices' of all or any of these. If
your argument be good it should be just as potent to prevent a tariff
law that augments riches in one hand or detracts from riches in another,
as to prevent a coinage law that does the same.

"Properly speaking, there can be no separation of mankind into creditor
and debtor classes, since, as we have seen, every man with a dollar's
worth of property is in the creditor class to the extent of that dollar,
while the world is in the debtor class and owes him therefor. There can
be but two classes: those who own something, and those who don't. There
lies the sole natural division; and not a law is framed, whether it be
for a tariff or an appropriation or an army or a navy or a coinage or a
bond issue or what you will, that does not, in lesser or greater degree,
add to or take from the riches of some man or men. No government can go
its clumsy necessary way without stepping on somebody's toes, and if one
cannot have a currency because to have it will help this individual or
hurt that one, by the same token one cannot have a government at all.

"However," concluded Mr. Bayard, "I think your talked-of advance in a
gold 'price' born of coined billions might prove in the test to be
imaginary rather than real. There has been ever a gold-ghost to frighten
folk. There was once a time when men talked of resuming specie payment,
and the public hung away from it, fearful and trembling, like an
elephant about to cross a bridge. Horace Greeley cried, 'The way to
resume is to resume!' and every dollar-dullard called him crazy. And
yet, as the simple sequel demonstrated, the elephant need not have
shivered, the bridge was wholly safe, and Horace Greeley was right."

Senator Gruff, whom Mr. Gwynn had privately requested to assume control
so far as speeches and toasts and sentiments to be expressed were
involved, now held forth in terms of flowery compliment concerning Mr.
Bayard. He thanked that able gentleman for his theory of finance.
Senator Gruff would not discuss its soundness; this was not the time nor
yet the place. He would say, however, that it was unique and
interesting.

Referring to what Mr. Bayard had called our "crazy-patch" system of
currency, he, Senator Gruff, was willing to make this statement. The
greenbacks, as all knew, were exempt from taxation. To discover how far
greenbacks and their exemption had been made to affect the whole taxes
of the several States, he, Senator Gruff, the year before had addressed
a letter to every county tax-gatherer in the country. He had asked each
to state the amount of greenbacks returned that year for his particular
county as exempt.

"I received a reply," said Senator Gruff, "from every county auditor
between Eastport and San Diego, Vancouver's and the Florida Keys. The
aggregate of greenbacks returned exempt for that one year was over
thirteen billions of dollars, while, as we know, the entire amount of
greenbacks extant in the country is but a shadow above two hundred and
forty millions. I shall make no comment on the miracle, and cite it only
as an incidental expression of one element of our money system."

Senator Gruff, continuing, recurred to the pushing forward of Senator
Hanway as a Presidential candidate. It was, while unexpected by him, a
movement so full of righteous politics that he confessed heartfelt
gratification thereat. Senator Gruff would suggest that one and only one
gentleman among those present be selected to furnish the story to the
press.

"In that way," explained Senator Gruff, "we will escape the confusion
sure to be the consequence should a half-dozen of us answer inquiries."

Senator Gruff, by common acclaim, was pitched upon as the one to deal
with the papers.

"Why, then," returned Senator Gruff, with a quizzical eye, "I foresaw
this honorable occasion and prepared for it. I shall give what we have
done to the _Daily Tory_, whose intelligent representative is with us as
a guest." And thereupon Senator Gruff, while a smile went round at this
evidence of fullest preparation for the unexpected, a smile which he met
with a merry face, drew from his pocket a document and passed it over to
Richard. In another moment a messenger was called; the story went on the
wire, and the candidacy of Senator Hanway was formally declared.

Senator Hanway, as the dinner neared its close, proposed the health of
Mr. Gwynn. In response, that remarkable man filled a goblet to the brim,
arose, and bowed with gravity and condescension to Senator Hanway.
Everybody stood up, and Mr. Gwynn's health was drunk with proper
solemnity.

The highbred conduct of Mr. Gwynn from the beginning had been worthy of
him as an old-school English gentleman. He said nothing; but he took
wine with a decorous persistency that was almost pious and seemed like a
religious rite. It should be observed that while he drank twice as much
as did any other gentleman, not excepting Mr. Harley himself, it in no
whit altered the stony propriety of his visage. There came no color to
his cheek; nor did the piscatorial eye blaze up, but abode as pikelike
as before. Also, with every bumper Mr. Gwynn became more rigid, and more
rigid still, as though instead of wine he quaffed libations of starch.
Of those who experienced Mr. Gwynn's kingly hospitality that night there
departed none who failed to carry with him a multiplied respect for his
host--a respect which with the President and General Attorney of the
Anaconda fair mounted to veneration. Altogether, from the standpoint of
everyone except the alarmed Senator Coot, the affair was not a dinner,
but a victory.

It was ten o'clock the morning after, and Richard had just reached the
street. From across the way came a gentleman who apparently had been
waiting for him to appear. It was none other than Mr. Sands, that
warlike printer whom Richard rescued from the Africans and set to work.
Richard had not had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Sands since bestowing
those benefits upon him.

"There was nothing to come for," explained Mr. Sands when Richard
mentioned that deprivation. "I wouldn't bother you now, only, being in
the business, I've naturally a nose for news. I thought I might put you
onto a scoop for the _Daily Tory_. Would a complete copy, verbatim, of
the coming report of Senator Hanway's committee on Northern Consolidated
be of any service to you?"




CHAPTER XV

HOW RICHARD MET INSPECTOR VAL


When, prior to the hour of Mr. Gwynn's dinner, Richard talked with Mr.
Bayard, the burden of their conversation was Northern Consolidated, and
what manner of report might be expected from Senator Hanway's committee.
Mr. Bayard was sure the members of the osprey pool designed a "bear"
campaign. For all that, he could not overstate the importance of getting
possession of the Hanway report the moment it was prepared. Mr. Bayard's
belief in a "bear" movement to occur was only a deduction; it was not
information--he did not know. There was no such thing as being positive
until the written report was in Mr. Bayard's hands. He would then have
absolute knowledge of the pool's intentions. Once clear in that behalf,
he would be able to meet and defeat them.

"Our start," quoth Mr. Bayard, "will be the Hanway report. Nor can we
come by that report too soon. It may lie buried for weeks before Senator
Hanway produces it in open Senate. Its production will take place the
day before the pool's activities begin. It will be deferred until the
market in its strength or weakness favors their aims. Wherefore, my
young friend," concluded Mr. Bayard, clapping a slim hand on Richard's
shoulder, "to work! That report is the key. Every day we have it in our
hands before it is read in the Senate means a million dollars."

Mr. Bayard forced upon Richard the mighty propriety of getting hold of
Senator Hanway's report; and Richard--to whom the report meant Dorothy
the peerless, not paltry millions--was carried to the impolite length of
bringing up the topic of Northern Consolidated at Mr. Gwynn's dinner.
Richard asked Senator Hanway the plump question of the committee's
labors, and what time its report would appear.

"The sessions," said Senator Hanway, who, being about his departure, was
getting into his Inverness at the time, "are still in progress. It will
be several weeks before the close of the hearings. Then there must be
time for deliberation; and finally a day or more for writing the report.
You may be sure, however," concluded Senator Hanway, "that the _Daily
Tory_ shall have it before the other papers. It shall be an exclusive
story; I promise you that."

And the next day comes the veracious Mr. Sands asking whether a verbatim
copy of that report would be of service to him!

No marvel Richard stared.

"Because," observed Mr. Sands, puffing an extremely repulsive cigar,
"I've got it here."

"Do you mean the report of Senator Hanway's committee that is
investigating Northern Consolidated?" cried Richard.

Mr. Sands tilted his derby over a confident left eye, blew a devastating
cloud, and said he did.

"It was only last night," observed Richard, still bitten of doubt, "that
Senator Hanway told me the committee had not ended its hearings."

Mr. Sands of the malignant cigar was not discouraged. Senator Hanway had
lied. All Senators lied, according to Mr. Sands. No man could be a
Senator unless he were a liar any more than a man could be a runner
without first being able to walk. The committee was through with the
inquiry; the report had come into the Government printing office the day
before in the handwriting of the truthless Senator Hanway himself. It
was now set up in types, and the forethoughtful Mr. Sands had abstracted
a copy.

"As I said," explained that enterprising printer, "I've got a nose for
news. I thought it might do for a scoop, d'ye see, so I swiped it for
you."

"Let me look at it," said Richard, whose pulses were beginning to beat a
quickstep. He was remembering the value of the report as explained by
Mr. Bayard. "Let me see it, please."

Mr. Sands took from his pocket two strips of paper. Richard looked at
one and then the other; they were white as snow, guiltless of mark or
sign of ink.

"There's nothing here," said Richard, the thing beginning to be
mysterious.

For a moment Richard feared that Mr. Sands might be again immersed in
his cups. That follower of Franklin reassured him.

"The report is there all right," he observed, "only we can't read it out
here in the light. Now if we could find a dark room, one with a window,
I'd show you what I mean."

Richard returned to Mr. Gwynn's. Before they entered he gave Mr. Sands a
perfecto. The latter, who knew a good cigar from smoking many bad ones,
threw away the devastator and lighted Richard's. He rolled it from one
corner of his mouth to the other, sucked it tentatively, then passed the
fire end beneath his nose after the manner of a connoisseur. His
experiments exhausted, he pronounced it a "corker."

Richard conveyed Mr. Sands to his own apartments. The front window was
what Mr. Sands required. He pinned the slips to the top of the lower
sash. As the depended slips were brought with their backs to the light,
Mr. Sands showed Richard how they were in the nature of stencils, the
white light showing through in printed words. Richard was dumb; it was a
kind of prodigy. He read the stencils, beginning at the top of the one
which Mr. Sands said was the "lead."

[Illustration: It was a Kind of Prodigy]

"The report is set in minion," explained Mr. Sands, "and with this light
you can read it plain as ink."

Richard discovered the truth of what Mr. Sands averred; here indeed was
Senator Hanway's Northern Consolidated report, and as readily made out
as though printed in a book.

"This is the idea," vouchsafed Mr. Sands, who saw that Richard was warm
for explanations. "The boss gave out the report in little 'takes' of
about fifty words each. That was because it must be kept secret. Fifty
printers set it up; then the boss locked the galleys in the strong room.
No one except the boss himself had had a glimpse of it. Of course, that
made me the more eager to nail it; anything a fellow wants to hide is
bound to be big news, d'ye see. Now I'm the man who takes the proofs,
and this morning the boss tells me that Senator Hanway wants a copy--one
proof, no more. The boss goes to the strong room and brings the galleys
to the proof-press. I'm ready for him; I've dampened two sheets of
proof-paper and pasted them together. I spread both of them on the
types. After I've sent the roller over them, I peel the sheets apart and
throw the white one, the one that was on top, on the floor. The bottom
one that has the ink-impression on it I pass to the boss. He sees me
peel the top sheet off, and it rouses his suspicions.

"'What's that for?' he asks.

"I'm filling my pipe as calm as duck-ponds, and explain that the
proof-press in which the galley lies is too deep. It takes two
thicknesses to force the sheet down on the face of the types and get a
good impression. The boss is only a politician, not a printer, so this
explanation does him. While he's locking up the galleys again, I get
away with these. You see, with two thicknesses of paper, the types cut
through; it makes a stencil of it. With a little light behind, the
stencil shows up as well as a regular proof. After I'd got organized, I
took a day off, clapped a 'sub' on my stool, and headed for you. As I've
said, it struck me like a big piece of news."

"It's bigger than you know, Mr. Sands," observed Richard, giving that
worthy's hand a squeeze that made him flinch. "If you don't mind, I'll
not use it as news. You will not mention the fact, but there's a deal on
in Wall Street; I can do better with it there. I cannot thank you too
much for what you've done."

Mr. Sands was pleased, and departed for the nearest rum counter, his
face expressing complacency. He had partly evened up, he said, for what
Richard did the night that he, Mr. Sands, became entangled with the
Hottentots. He, Mr. Sands, would lie in ambush for further scoops; he
could promise Richard everything in the Government printing office which
any statesman was trying to conceal.

Richard drew his desk before the window and, reading the stencils line
by line, made a perfect copy. As his pen swept across the paper he
reflected on the deceitfulness of Senator Hanway, who, with the report
written out in full, was for having him think that the committee would
not conclude its labors for weeks.

"What a mendacious ingrate it is!" thought Richard.

Mr. Bayard had taken the ten-o'clock limited for New York that identical
morning. Richard caught a train a trifle after one, wiring Mr. Bayard to
meet him at the hotel. They would have dinner together. To make sure of
Mr. Bayard, Richard's message read:

"I have that report. You were right."

Mr. Bayard pored over the Hanway findings, and the further he read the
more his satisfaction stood on tiptoe. Conceive a gallery hung round
with paintings that would baffle a Rubens and set a Murillo to biting
the nail of envy! Have an orchestra polished to the last touch of
execution, discoursing the divinest work of some highest priest of
music. Sentinel the scene with marbles that would have doubled the fame
of a Praxiteles. Now, with your stage set, invite to its sumptuous midst
some amateur of all the arts whose senses were born for the beautiful.
Do what you will to endow your artist with contentment in perfection.
Fill his pockets with gold, give him wine of his fancy, have the woman
he loves by his side, so surround him that the eye, the ear, the
stomach, the heart, the pocket, or whatever is the soul of his soul may
be appealed to and enthralled--this artist, with whom love is a
religion, wine a cult, music a passion, and pictures are as dreams! When
you have him thus fortunately established, this artist of yours--for you
are not to forget he is none of mine--peruse his face. You should find
it expressing ecstasy in sublimation--you should discover it wearing the
twin to that look which mounted the brow of Mr. Bayard as he devoured
the Hanway report.

"Beautiful!" he whispered when he had finished.

Then he fell silent, prisoner to himself, walled in with his own
thoughts. A moment passed and the clouds rolled away; the delight faded,
and this artist among gamblers for whom speculation possessed harmony
and color and form, and whose life had been an Odyssey of Stocks,
recovered the practical.

"It is as I surmised," he said, with a sigh of content. "They will fall
upon Northern Consolidated bear-fashion--all claw and tooth. This report
finds the road to be a thief for millions; and a debtor for millions
upon that. The Attorney General must collect. The road must be taken by
a receiver until the public is repaid--the public indeed! Then those
priceless grants are to be repealed. Northern Consolidated is to be
stabbed with a score of knives at once. Beautiful! What a trap they have
set for themselves!"

Richard, not knowing what reply might be expected, smiled to fetch his
countenance into sympathy with Mr. Bayard's, and retreated to his usual
refuge of a cigar.

"Now," went on Mr. Bayard briskly, "I can give you the rougher outlines
of what will occur. This report, as I told you, may be weeks in finding
its way into the Senate. Stocks opened the year very strong; the markets
are upon an upgrade. While the boom continues, the pool will do
nothing. The moment prices show a weakness our friends will act. Given
three days of falling prices, this report will come out. The Senate will
be invoked to an attack upon Northern Consolidated. The pool will spring
upon the market, right and left, selling thousands upon thousands of
shares. They will try for a stampede. They look to drop Northern
Consolidated twenty-five points, as woodmen fell a tree."

"And what is to be our course?" asked Richard.

"We shall buy every share of Northern Consolidated as fast as it is
offered; go with them to the end. They will find themselves in their own
net.

"Since our first talk," Mr. Bayard continued, "I have been gathering
information. Of the one million shares which form the stock of Northern
Consolidated, over six hundred thousand are held in England, France,
Belgium, Holland, Germany, Denmark, and even a bundle or two in Sweden.
I shall keep the cables warm to-morrow. The day following, our agents
will be quietly buying those European shares at private sale in London,
Paris, Brussels, Berlin, Copenhagen, Hamburg, Stockholm, wherever they
are to be found. Should they give us a week, we shall have so narrowed
the field of operations for our 'bears' that their first day's sales
will land them in a corner. Once we have them penned, we may take our
time. They will be as helpless as so many caged animals."

When Storri on that jealous evening left the San Reve, his nerves were
somewhat tossed and shaken. It was not over-late; he would stroll to the
club by roundabout paths, the walk and cold night air might steady him.

That roundabout route led Storri past the Treasury Building, and, as he
slowly paced the pavement bordering one side of the massive structure,
he was brought to sudden stop by a heavy timber platform six feet square
and lifted a foot and a half from the ground, which cumbered the
sidewalk nearest the curb. Storri surveyed the platform in a lack-luster
way. It had, from its appearance, been there years; it was strange he
had never noticed it before.

An old man, one of the night guards of the Treasury, buttoned to the
chin, was standing in a narrowish basement door-way of the great building
not fifteen feet away. The old man took his pipe out of his mouth, and
seeing Storri survey the obstructing platform, observed:

"If I had a sack or two of the billions of gold that's been dumped on
that platform, I wouldn't be smokin' my pipe 'round here to-night."

Gold as a term never failed to attract the Storri ear. He opened
converse with the old man of the pipe. It was to this heavy platform the
treasure-wagons backed up when they brought bullion to the Treasury.
Storri learned another thing that gave him the sort of thrill that
setters feel when in the near vicinity of a covey of grouse. The vault
that held the gold reserve was within sixty feet of him as he stood in
the street. Just inside those thick, hopeless walls they lay--millions
of piled-up yellow treasure. Storri stared hard at the impassive granite
and licked his lips. The nearness of those millions pleased him like
music.

"Sixty feet!" exclaimed Storri unctuously. "That doesn't sound far, but
before a robber pierced such a wall as that he would fancy it far
enough."

"Oh, a robber wouldn't try the wall," said the old man, turning to look
at it. "I've often wondered though that no one ever thought of the sewer
out there;" and the old man marked a line in the air with his pipe-stem
as though tracing the direction of the great street drain that ran
beneath the pavement.

Storri kept on his journey to the club, but the notion of those
millions, almost within hand's touch of the open street, continued to
haunt him pleasantly. The sewer, too! Would a tunnel reach this
treasure? The question used to come back upon Storri. Also he got into
the habit, as he went about the streets, of walking by the Treasury.
This was not offspring of any purpose; Storri had none. It was only that
he took an instinctive satisfaction in the nearness of that heaped-up
gold. He could feel its close neighborhood, and the feeling was as wine
to his imagination.

Storri was not permitted respite by the San Reve concerning the Harleys.
The jealous one of the green-gray eyes insisted upon seeing Storri
often; and he, putting on a best face, pretended that he loved the San
Reve the better for her jealousy. To keep the peace, he was wont to drop
round to Grant Place three or four times a week.

These concessions to the San Reve and her rather too fervid love would
not get in the way of Storri's dinners at the Harleys'. For a time he
should go there but once a week. When despair had chilled Dorothy to
tameness he would go oftener. Just then he must give her terrors
opportunity to do their freezing work.

Storri could not have told whether he loved or hated Dorothy; he was
only conscious of a fire-fed passion that consumed him. He must possess
her; or, if not that, then he must grind her into the earth. He would
torture her as he was tortured; he would blacken her by blackening Mr.
Harley; with her pride in the dirt, with disgrace upon her, where then
was that man who would wed her? The daughter of a forger--she would
stain the name of wife! Richard might have her then; Storri would give
her to him for a revenge! These were the mutterings of Storri as he went
preyed upon by love and hate at once.

"If you do not love Miss Harley," said the flushed but logical San Reve,
"why do you go there? You say, 'Once a week!' Why once a week? Why once
a month? Why at any time? Storri, you do love her! And you come to me
with lies!" This was on the evening following the scene that gave Storri
such disquiet.

Storri, being spurred, and resolute to silence the San Reve, took that
pertinacious beauty into his confidence, lying wherever it was
inconvenient to tell the truth, and bragging always like a Cheyenne.
Storri strode about the San Reve's rooms and told his tale grandly. His
San Reve must listen; he would show her how a Russian gentleman avenged
himself. He, Storri, hated the Harleys. Mr. Harley had cheated him;
Dorothy had laughed at him; her lover, that Richard, bah! he had even
threatened Storri. Chastise him? Could a nobleman chastise a toad--a
reptile? No; there was a debt due his caste.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley?--a vapid fool! Storri despised her. He despised them
all and hated them all. They had affronted him. And for those injuries
done his pride he would punish and spare not. He, Storri, would bring
sorrow and shame to them; he would mark their lives with black.

Being launched, Storri drew great joy from the rehearsal of what griefs
he had devised against the Harleys. To prove his own superior
cleverness, Storri told the San Reve how he trapped Mr. Harley into
forging his name to the French shares.

"There is my weapon!" cried the triumphant Storri. "With that I may
smite them when I choose! To-morrow, within the hour, I could have this
scoundrel Harley in a criminal's cell! Some day I shall do that.
Meanwhile, he knows; the proud girl knows. It is for vengeance I go to
the Harleys', my San Reve, not love. I sit at their table, I eat their
food, I drink their wine; and I laugh and I gloat over them--these
little people! Yes, my San Reve, the hand of the coward Harley shakes as
he lifts his glass; the fair, proud Dorothy shows me my triumph in her
whitened cheek and frightened eye. And best of all, the empty chatter of
the magpie Mrs. Hanway-Harley--who knows nothing, being a fool! It is
that magpie chatter to be poison in the ears of the others! Oh, you
should behold them, my San Reve! You should witness how they writhe and
how they tremble in the presence of your Storri!"

The San Reve listened, but the gloom hung low on her brow. She did not
believe her Storri who said he ate a weekly dinner for revenge. Yes, he
had obtained a mastery over Mr. Harley; he had forced his way into the
company of Dorothy and shut the door on Richard! The San Reve shook her
jealous head; that was not vengeance, that was love.

And Storri would succeed, too! This Dorothy would come to love him as
she, the San Reve, loved. Dorothy was a woman; and what woman could
resist Storri? This Dorothy loved him even now; her coldness was an
attitude, a fiction. It was meant to be a lure to Storri and whet his
eagerness!

These were the thoughts like living coals which the San Reve hid in her
heart. But while her head whirled, and her sight was blurred, and her
pulses set a-throb with the jealous storms that swept her, it was
wonderful to note how the San Reve's office-trained mind seized upon and
registered those French shares. It was those shares that constituted
Storri's hold upon the Harleys. Could she break the hold? Those shares
were the locks of her Samson. Oh, if she might but shear the locks! Then
she would have her Storri again--in his weakness she would have him. The
San Reve knitted her brows.

       *       *       *       *       *

These days of separation were more easily borne by Richard than by
Dorothy. Richard was rich in a dogged fortitude common enough with men.
Moreover, he had his work, and he went into it more deeply than before.
Eleven o'clock still found him in the study with Senator Hanway, albeit
Dorothy was no longer there to make a lovely third. Perhaps for that
reason more politics and news of legislation were discussed by Richard
and Senator Hanway.

The latter gentleman, these days, was in the best of tempers. Nothing
could be more smoothly hopeful than the outlook for that nomination.
Senator Gruff, who was indefatigable for Senator Hanway, told him that
Speaker Frost reported his own State delegation as already in line. Also
the President of the Anaconda, from whom Senator Gruff had letters every
week, described the Hanway sentiment in Anaconda regions as invincible.
The National Convention, in the interests of Senator Hanway and over the
objection of the friends of Governor Obstinate, had been fixed for the
last of May. This was a help; Senator Hanway's forces were organized and
Governor Obstinate's were not. The less space permitted that candidate
and his henchmen, the better for Senator Hanway. As Senator Gruff and
Richard sat together in Senator Hanway's study one morning, the Senator
pointed out on the map a sufficient number of States, and each certain
to send a Hanway delegation, to carry the nomination.

"If the convention were held to-morrow," observed Senator Gruff, "we
would win. The effort now must be to head off encroachments by Governor
Obstinate."

The above came on an occasion when Senator Gruff was in a confidential
mood. Commonly, as a chief Hanway manager, he lay as blandly close and
noncommittal as a clam.

There was the issue of finance, Senator Gruff explained, and that was a
growing source of trouble to Senator Hanway. The latter gentleman's
endeavor had always been to say nothing upon finance, but silence was
becoming difficult. Governor Obstinate was openly and offensively for
gold in a sod-pawing, horn-lowering, threatening way, and just as a
buffalo bull might have been for gold. This settled the standing of
Governor Obstinate in silver communities; they would have none of him.
Those same silver people, however, demanded all the more that Senator
Hanway define his position in the money war. They gave tongue to those
pig-and-poke objections voiced by Senator Coot. It was clamors such as
these, so Senator Gruff told Richard, that made silence a work of
weariness.

"Now I thought," observed Richard, "that Mr. Bayard talked wisely upon
silver and gold the evening of the dinner. Why wouldn't it be well to
talk to the people in the same manner even if one did not adopt the
theories expressed? Let Senator Hanway clearly announce his views and
give his reasons. The latter should defend him with thinking men."

"Thinking men," retorted Senator Gruff with an experienced smile, "are
in a hopeless minority. Talk reason to the public? One might as well
talk reason to the winds. Politics, as a science, is not addressed to
the intelligence but to the ignorance of men."

Senator Hanway, after sundry conferences with Senator Gruff and others,
offered the resolution asking for a committee to meet with the Ottawa
government on the matter of that Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal. The
majority opinion of those consulted was that the resolution ought to
strengthen Senator Hanway. Certain railways might object; there were
influences infinitely larger, however, that would applaud. Besides, the
resolution had a big look and sounded like statesmanship. It could not
do otherwise than dignify Senator Hanway in public estimation. Senator
Hanway gave Richard for the _Daily Tory_ an interview of depth and power
in which he urged the international value of such a waterway America
and Canada should dig and own it together; it would be a bond to unite
them. It would promote friendship, and what was better than friendship
between countries? Senator Hanway said nothing about Credit Magellan,
nor did he intimate any relationship between his Georgian Bay-Ontario
Canal and the investigation of Northern Consolidated.

       *       *       *       *       *

Storri had become very fond of the company of Mr. Harley. He would find
him in the Marble Room in the rear of the Senate Chamber, or he might
cross his path at Chamberlin's. Washington is a small town; there it is
not difficult to keep a man in sight. Storri kept Mr. Harley excessively
in sight; and it wore visibly on Mr. Harley, whose health was breaking
down. Storri liked the pain his presence gave Mr. Harley; and besides,
he argued that to see him frequently strengthened his hold upon that
unhappy man. When they were together, Storri's manner was hideously
cheerful; he would talk Credit Magellan and consider Northern
Consolidated as though nothing were awry. This was the refinement of
cruelty, as when a cat pretends to let the mouse escape.

One day, when Storri and Mr. Harley were together, the former's face was
purposely dark. Mr. Harley grew uneasy; his courage had all slipped from
him by now, and he waited in terror upon the looks of Storri.

"Harley," cried Storri, having sufficiently enjoyed the effect of his
scowls, "you John Harley, I have ever your credit at heart. Yes, Harley,
I have kept a guard, what you call a spy, about your house to see if the
vile Storms would enter when you were not there to repel him. He goes
each day, I find, to see the honorable Senator Hanway. It does not
please me, who am a Russian gentleman and a nobleman, that so low a
being, although he does not personally meet her, should yet come beneath
the same roof with your lovely daughter who is to become my Countess
wife. You will correct this; eh, you Harley--you John Harley?"

Mr. Harley had not named Storri to Dorothy since that awful New Year's
night. However, so worn to abject thinness was now his spirit on the
constant wheel of fear that he carried Storri's latest word to her
without apology. Richard must not visit Senator Hanway in his study. Mr.
Harley could not go to Senator Hanway, he could not go to Richard; he
could come only to her.

Dorothy, whose trembling concern was her father, and who felt ever more
and more like some fly caught fast in a spider's web, made no reply.
There was nothing to say--nothing save obedience. She wrote Richard that
Storri had set a spy upon the house, and asked him to forego his calls
upon Senator Hanway. The close of the letter was a hysteria of love and
grief.

Richard sought Bess; he saw much of the pythoness now. Dorothy, for her
part, never crossed the street lest she meet him, and bring down
Storri's wrath upon her father. Richard knew what Bess would say, but he
must have someone to converse with. Bess took the course anticipated: he
must obey Dorothy in this as in the rest.

"It comes to little either way, the calling upon Senator Hanway," was
Bess's comment.

"It comes to this," cried Richard, "that we are the slaves of Storri!
I'd give ten years off my life if he and I might settle this together."

"The real settlement would be made by Mr. Harley--by Dorothy. You must
not go near Storri. But isn't there a hint in this?" Bess considered.
"Would it not be wise to imitate the gentleman and set a spy to dogging
him? Perhaps something worth while might be discovered."

The thought found favor with Richard, who, under usual circumstances,
would have been against the proposal. Yes, he would have Storri shadowed
day and night. It would be a retort for that spy about the Harley house.

Richard sent a message to Mr. Bayard, reciting his determination and
asking advice. He desired to do nothing that might work an interference
in Mr. Bayard's arrangements concerning Northern Consolidated.

Mr. Bayard replied that he thought a better knowledge of Storri could do
no harm; news of the enemy was ever a good thing. Mr. Bayard went a step
beyond, and said that he would send a man to Richard whom he could trust
for the work.

The morning following the receipt of Mr. Bayard's message, a foppish,
slender young gentleman accosted Richard.

"Mr. Storms, I believe?" remarked the foppish stranger, lifting his hat.

"Yes, sir; Mr. Storms," said Richard.

"Mr. Bayard asked me to say that I am Inspector Val of the Central
Office, New York, with two months' leave of absence at your service."




CHAPTER XVI

HOW RICHARD RECEIVED A LETTER


Inspector Val did not resemble the detective officer of literature. His
foppishness arose from an over-elegance of costume rather than any
violence of color. The famous thief-taker might have stood for what was
latest in fashionable dress, with every detail of hat and glove and
cravat and boot worked out. There befell no touch of vulgarity; the
effect was as retiringly genteel as though the taste providing it
belonged to a Howard or a Vere de Vere and based itself upon ten
unstained centuries of patricianism. When he lifted his hat, one might
see that the dark hair, speciously waved, was as accurately parted in
the middle as though the line had been run by an engineer. The voice of
Inspector Val, low and lazy, fell on the ear as plausibly soft as the
ripple of a brook. His eyes wore a sleepy, intolerant expression, as if
tired with much seeing and inclined to resent the infliction of further
spectacles. The nose was thin and high, and jaw and cheek bones were
thin and high to be in sympathy.

There were two impressions furnished the student of faces by Inspector
Val. Glanced at carelessly, one would have called him not more than
twenty-five; a second and a sharper survey showed him fifteen years
older. Also, there came now and then a look, quiet at once and quick,
which was calculated to arrest the trained attention. What one thought
following that second sharp canvass was in exact opposition to what one
thought after the glance earlier and more upon the casual.

Inspector Val baffled Richard's conception of the man concerning whom
all who read papers had heard so much. Was this indolent individual that
inveterate man-hunter who, with courage of berserk and strength of
steel, had pulled down his quarry in the midst of desperate criminals,
and then, victim in clutch, cleared his path through? Something of this
may have glimmered in Richard's eye; if so, Inspector Val assumed to
have no hint of it, and busied himself in a more precise adjustment of
his boutonnière, which floral adornment had become disarranged. The
longer Richard contemplated Inspector Val the more he felt his whalebone
sort. The slim form and sleepy eyes began to suggest that activity and
ferocious genius for pursuit which are the first qualities of a ferret.

"If we could be more private," suggested Inspector Val, casting a tired
glance about the big public room at Willard's where the two had met.

"We will go to my house," replied Richard.

"And if you don't mind, we'll ride." This with the rising inflection of
a request. "There are carriages at the door."

"My own," said Richard, "should be across the way. I seldom require it;
but I might, and so it follows me about."

Richard and Inspector Val stepped to the Fourteenth Street door. At
Richard's lifted hand an olive-tinted brougham, coachman and footman
liveried to match, drawn by a pair of restless bay horses, came plunging
to the curb. The footman swung down in three motions, like a soldier
about some point of drill.

"Home!" said Richard.

The footman in three motions regained his perch; the whip cracked and
the brougham went plunging off for Mr. Gwynn's.

Richard came to the common-sense conclusion to lay the complete story of
his perplexities before Inspector Val. A detective was so much like a
doctor that frankness would be worth while. One was called to cure the
health, the other to cure a situation; the more one told either
scientist the faster and better he could work. Acting on this thought,
Richard related all there was to tell of himself, Dorothy, Mr. Harley,
and Storri, being full as to his exclusion from the Harley house and the
manner in which it was brought about. When he had finished, he waited
for Inspector Val.

[Illustration: That Artist of Pursuit]

That artist of pursuit did not speak at once, and asked permission to
smoke a cigarette. Richard offered no objection, although he privily
condemned cigarettes as implying the effeminate. Inspector Val lighted
one, and blew the smoke thoughtfully through the thin, high nose.
Suddenly he threw the cigarette away half smoked; it had served the
purpose of its appearance. Inspector Val had smoked himself into a
conclusion.

"This is the way the thing strikes me," began Inspector Val. "Storri, as
you say, has a hold on Mr. Harley--has him frightened. There are three
ways to frighten a man; you can threaten him physically, or with
disgrace, or with the loss of money. Storri, by your report, is a coward
with not half the courage of Mr. Harley; besides, in this case, a
physical threat is out of the question. So is a threat of money loss; it
is preposterous to suppose that this half-baked Russian has got the
upper hand in a business way of a shrewd one like Mr. Harley, or that
the latter would permit him to drive him about like a dog if he had. No,
Storri has caught Mr. Harley in some wrong-doing, or, what is as bad,
the appearance of it--something that looks like crime. Doubtless it
refers to money, as from Mr. Harley's sort it isn't likely to include a
woman."

Inspector Val was here interrupted by Matzai, who said in excuse that
the note he bore was marked "important."

"Open it," observed Inspector Val. "Once in one thousand times a letter
marked 'important' is important."

Richard cut the envelope with a paper knife and, after silently running
the missive up and down, remarked:

"This note works into our conversation as though timed to find us
together. I'll read it to you. It's in French, and if you aren't
familiar with that language I'll translate."

Inspector Val said that he preferred a translation, and Richard gave him
the following. The address and the entire note were in typewriting:

     Mr. Storms:

     Count Storri's hold on Mr. Harley consists in this: Mr. Harley
     wrote Count Storri's name on five stock certificates aggregating
     two hundred shares of the Company Provence of Paris, France. It was
     done to borrow money, but with honest intentions and at Count
     Storri's request. Now Count Storri, who has the shares in his
     possession, threatens Mr. Harley with a charge of forgery. In that
     way he compels him to do his bidding. The man who writes you this
     does not do it for your interest, but for

     His Own.

"This did not come through the mails," said Inspector Val. "Ask your man
who handed it in."

Matzai said that the note was not handed in, but thrust beneath the
door. The bell had been rung; when the door was opened no one appeared.
The note was lying in the entry.

"Will you mind," said Inspector Val, "if I call a man from across the
street?"

"Certainly not," replied Richard, somewhat astonished.

Inspector Val stepped to the window. Over the way a man was sauntering,
for all the world like a sightseer from out of town. He was admiring the
stately residences, and seemed interested particularly in Mr. Gwynn's.
Inspector Val made a slight signal, and the sightseer came over and rang
Mr. Gwynn's bell.

"Have him up," said Inspector Val to Richard. Then, as the sightseer was
marshaled into the room by Matzai: "Mr. Storms, this is Mr. England."

Mr. England's eye was bright and quick like a bird's; with that
exception he was commonplace. Inspector Val, without wasting time, began
to ask questions:

"Who shoved this note under the door?"

"A colored man, sir. He sneaked up and tucked it beneath the door as
though trying not to be caught at it. Then he pushed the bell and
skipped. The thing looked queer, and Mr. Duff thought he'd follow him.
He'll be back, Mr. Duff will, presently."

"That will do," said Inspector Val. "When Mr. Duff returns, tell him to
come in."

Mr. England withdrew, and recommenced his sightseeing on the opposite
side of the street.

"Mr. England and Mr. Duff," explained Inspector Val, "came down with me.
I shall use them to shadow Storri, as that kind of work is their
specialty. It is difficult work, too, and demands a man who has talents
for seeing without being seen. Also, he must be sharp to think and act,
and full of enterprise. To keep at the heels of a gentleman who may take
a cab, or a street-car, or enter a building by one door for the purpose
of leaving it by another, is no simple task; so I brought with me the
best in the business."

"How did your men come to be outside the door?" asked Richard, whose
curiosity concerning metropolitan detective methods had been sensibly
aroused.

"To save delay," returned Inspector Val, "which is the great rule in
detective work. They were within ten feet of us when I met you; they saw
us drive away, called a coupé, and followed. I should have given them a
jacketing if they hadn't."

Inspector Val asked Richard to slowly translate the note, while he made
a copy in English. This Richard did; at the close, being interested in
the workings of the man-hunting mind, he asked Inspector Val for his
theory of its truth and origin.

"Why, then," observed Inspector Val, pausing over Richard's translation
as he had written it down, "this would be my surmise. The note tells the
truth. It was written by a Frenchwoman who probably came from Ottawa.
She is in love with Storri, and jealous of Miss Harley, whom she thinks
Storri aims to marry. You said nothing about Storri seeing Miss Harley,
but he does. Miss Marklin was afraid to tell you and Miss Harley was
afraid to write you that feature of the situation, fearing you would
pitch in rough. It shows they have sense."

This was the first time Richard had heard how Storri enjoyed the
privilege of Dorothy's society while he was warned from the door. The
thought was fire. He sprang to his feet, growling an oath under his
breath.

"Take it easy," said Inspector Val, with a manner full of warning.
"Don't spoil a game just as the cards begin to run your way. After we
get our hands upon those French shares you may raise what row you like.
But take it easy now; try another cigar."

The prudent sagacity of Inspector Val was not thrown away, and Richard
saw the force of that gentleman's arguments.

"Tell me how you arrive at those beliefs about the note," said Richard.

"That's not so simple," returned Inspector Val. "It's like asking a
pointer to tell you how he scents a partridge. My argument takes
somewhat this route: I think the note tells the truth, as there's no
reason why it should lie. Moreover, it is a reasonable explanation of
Storri's command over Mr. Harley. I know a woman wrote it because she's
at such pains to call herself a man. Another thing, a man wouldn't have
marked this note 'Important!' It's important, but it gains no advantage
from being labeled. A woman, who acts from feeling, marks it 'important'
because she feels its importance. Now a man might feel its importance,
but he acts from reason rather than feeling, and in that respect is the
antithesis of a woman. It would never occur to a man to mark the note
'important,' because it would never occur to him that by so doing
anything would be gained. Then a man would have sent this through the
post office. A man is more cunning than a woman. The mails would have
served as well, and a messenger might be recognized and followed. To
send messengers is essentially a trick of the feminine. Your District
Messenger Service will tell you that nine-tenths of its calls are from
women."

"You have read Edgar Allan Poe, I take it," observed Richard, smiling
over the processes of Inspector Val.

"I've read Poe, Gaboriau, and Conan Doyle," returned Inspector Val; "all
detectives have. They are amusing if not instructive. But to resume:
There is another reason why I'm certain a woman wrote this note. All the
writer knows the writer got from Storri. It's a long yarn; it must cover
in its transaction a dozen interviews between Storri and Mr. Harley. And
they were not interviews at which a third party was present. You will
see the truth of that the instant I mention it. No; Storri told the
whole tale to the writer of the note. Mr. Harley wouldn't tell it for
obvious reasons. Neither would he write it to you or anybody else; it is
the publication of it that he fears. Storri was the only one besides Mr.
Harley who knew of those French shares; or of Mr. Harley's imitation of
Storri's signature and the threats of arrest for forgery which Storri
made. It's as plain as the stars at night that Storri furnished the
information upon which this letter is based. Now whom would he tell? Not
a man; there would be nothing to gain and much to risk in that. A woman,
then? Sure; this fellow has been strutting and bragging to a woman. It
is the commonest weakness of the congenital criminal. It is his way of
swaggering and seeming powerful. But mark you: he never takes a woman
into dangerous confidences unless he thinks she loves him. Do you
follow? Storri has told this to a woman in whose love he believes."

"You reason well, at any rate," observed Richard.

"Yes, sir, I reason well," returned Inspector Val. "I have reasoned like
this a thousand times, and a thousand times I was right. To go on: I
agree with Storri; the woman does love him. Why does she write this
letter? Because she wants to break Storri's grip on Mr. Harley. On Mr.
Harley's account? No, she cares nothing for Mr. Harley. In a clash
between the two her sympathies would be with Storri, whom she loves. Now
the woman in telling a lie--the only one in the letter--has also told an
important truth. It is in her last sentence. She was thinking to throw
you off as to her sex, and went out of her way to do it. She was hunting
a chance to write 'man' and 'his' and at the same time not advise you of
her purpose. The 'man' and the 'his' were to be by way of incident. With
her mind on fooling you as to her sex, she was so wholly engaged that
she told an unwitting truth; she did write this letter in her own
service. One step further: The object of the lady, as I've said, is to
break Storri's hold on Mr. Harley. Now how could the lady who writes you
benefit by that? What could there be about Storri's ascendency over Mr.
Harley to which a woman who loves Storri would object? I will tell you.
That ascendency gives him not only a hold on Mr. Harley, but a hold
through him on some woman whom the writer fears as a rival. And there
you are; I've brought the argument to Miss Harley. Storri threatens Mr.
Harley. What does he demand? That you be excluded from the Harley house.
Why? Because you see Miss Harley. Why should Storri object to that?
Because he desires to court the lady himself, and would do away with
dangerous competition. His simple hatred of you, and nothing more, would
not set Storri to talking forgery charges to Mr. Harley; that would
sound too much like burning a barn to boil an egg."

Richard growled an acquiescence.

"Very well; the woman who wrote the note would have you get possession
of those French shares. Storri has described you to her as Miss Harley's
lover; that sets her to writing you--you who have an interest as strong
as her own. Storri has never told her that he loves Miss Harley. She has
guessed it and accused him of it, being jealous; and he in reply and
denial has laid especial emphasis upon you as Miss Harley's lover. It's
more than a chance he told her the whole story as part of a jealous row.
As to the woman being French, I infer that from the note. She couldn't
trust her English or she would not have written in French. That note,
being in French, would narrow any search for its author; and that, too,
whether the author were English or French. Certainly there are fewer
people in Washington who can write French than English. You see the
point?"

"But you said a Frenchwoman from Ottawa."

"The note is on paper that was made and sold in Ottawa, as you see by
the raised mark in the corner. We've no trade with Canada for
note-paper; besides, our stores wouldn't handle such as this. It's not
of fashionable shape and size as Americans understand fashions in
note-paper. It's scented, too; and that's vulgar from American
standpoints. Also, it's feminine. No, my word for it, the woman who
wrote that note bought the paper in Ottawa and brought it here. She did
the typewriting herself, which was but natural; and she is not an adept,
as anyone may tell by the clumsy, irregular way in which she begins her
lines. Now take----"

Matzai came in and announced Mr. Duff.

"Bring him up," said Inspector Val, and then, turning apologetically to
Richard, he added: "Pardon the liberty of giving commands in your house.
I'm so eager to hear whether Mr. Duff's investigation corroborates my
theory that for a moment I thought I was back in Mulberry Street. Well,
Mr. Duff," as that worthy was ushered in, "what did you learn? This
gentleman is Mr. Storms."

Mr. Duff seemed to know all about Richard; probably his partner
sightseeing over the way had told him. He nodded blandly as Inspector
Val gave his name, and then proceeded to answer that superior officer.

"The man is a laborer in the Treasury Department. He went to the
Treasury Building from here, and made a straight wake for a woman who
works at drawing plans and that sort of thing in the office of the
Supervising Architect. He whispered something to her, and she nodded.
When he got about ten feet away, he turned like a man who has overlooked
a point, and said: 'I rang the bell; they'll get it right off.' Then he
went away. The woman's name is San Reve--Sara San Reve. She's a
Frenchwoman, and came from Ottawa. She has had her place only a short
time, and was appointed on the recommendation of a member of the
Senate--Senator Hanway."

"Senator Hanway!" repeated Inspector Val, looking dubiously at Richard.
"He's a brother-in-law, you say, of Mr. Harley?"

"Your deductions were none the less right," returned Richard, who saw
the doubts which the name of Hanway bred in the other's mind. "I'd wager
my life on it. I never heard of this Miss San Reve, but she is from
Ottawa, Mr. Duff says. I ought to have told you that Storri came to
Washington from Ottawa."

"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Inspector Val, his brow clearing. "Storri came
from Ottawa, and brought his sweetheart. Storri worked Senator Hanway
through our friend Mr. Harley, and Senator Hanway found her a place."

"Yes," returned Richard, "I think you've hit it off. The next thing is
to get hold of those French shares."

"Right there," said Inspector Val, "let me say a word. I'll first go and
put my people on the track of Storri; they'll run him, turn and turn
about, until further orders, and report each morning. That done, you and
I will take the Limited, and run over and talk with Mr. Bayard. It will
require his help to get those French shares. I'll meet you at the
station then at four."

"I shall be there," responded Richard. "Before you go, let me give you
this by way of anticipated expense," and Richard tendered Inspector Val
a check for one thousand dollars.

"That wasn't necessary," said Inspector Val, as he calmly pocketed the
check.

When Richard arrived at the station he found Inspector Val already
there. "I've taken a drawing-room," said the latter. "It may be a
weakness, but my inclination runs heavily towards concealment. I have a
horror of being seen."

"I have horrors of much the same color," returned Richard.

Richard showed Mr. Bayard the note he had received, and told of its
appearance, and the construction of the note as given by Inspector Val.

"And the question is," concluded Richard, "can we by any chance get hold
of those French shares?"

"Can we get those French shares?" repeated Mr. Bayard, as though
revolving the question in his thoughts. "I should say we might; yes, I'm
quite sure. I think it will offer no more of difficulty than just
finding out where this Storri negotiates his loans. I know where to go
for the information and, if I ask it in person, it will be forthcoming."
While Mr. Bayard spoke, his wits were working like a flashlight,
displaying for his consideration every possibility presented by the
situation. His confidence must have been strengthened by the survey, for
he closed with emphasis, saying: "I am a false prophet if I do not place
those French shares in your hands, your own property and bought with
your own money, within a fortnight."

"Within a fortnight!" exclaimed Richard, his face brightening with the
satisfaction the promise gave him.

There was that in Mr. Bayard's manner which invested his utterance with
all the credit granted his signature at the banks. Richard felt as
though the French certificates, which meant so much to Dorothy and to
him, were as good as in his hands.

"When I say a fortnight," observed Mr. Bayard, "I ought to add my
reasons. The source of my news is unimportant, but you may accept it as
settled that Tuesday next has been secretly pitched upon by our worthy
President for divers warlike declarations, founded on the Monroe
Doctrine, and pointed at Germany, whose cruisers are just now nosing
about on a debt-collecting errand against one of the South American
states. The President will resent the nosing, call German attention to
our Monroe Doctrine as the line fence between the hemispheres, and then
mount guard over the sacred rails of that venerated barrier with a gun.
All of which might excite but little interest were it not, as a
demonstration, sure to send the market tumbling like a shot pigeon. I'm
not certain that the whole affair hasn't some such commercial purpose.
Be that as it may, the day following that valorous manifesto will be a
time of panic, and the bottom will fall out of stocks. You remember what
I told you as to the plans of our friends to 'bear' Northern
Consolidated? This will bring their opportunity. When the markets begin
to toss and heave and fall with those White House antics touching
Germany and the Monroe Doctrine, Senator Hanway's report will be sprung
in the Senate. He will give it to the press the night before, so that
the morning papers may ring an alarm to the 'bulls.' This will be the
procession of affairs: The President will threaten Germany on Tuesday;
Senator Hanway's report will be in the papers and the Senate on
Wednesday; by Wednesday night our 'bear' pool will have been clamorously
selling Northern Consolidated all day. Per incident, we will have been
buying Northern Consolidated all day. By Friday evening--I give them
three selling days in which to work their ruin--I shall wire you that
they are caught in the trap by all their feet at once. It is then I
shall mail you those French shares."

"No letter will ever mean so much to me, be sure," said Richard.

"You shall receive it," returned Mr. Bayard. "By the way, we are
prepared to the last detail for that raid. I've bought more than five
hundred thousand shares of Northern Consolidated in Europe at an average
of forty-two. In order that our raiders may have what rope they require
to thoroughly hang themselves, I've brought more than two hundred
thousand of those shares to this country. It is placed where they may
reach it for the purpose of borrowing stock for delivery. In fact, our
arrangements are perfect; they make as complete a deadfall as ever
waited for its prey."

Richard and Inspector Val returned to Washington, Richard to write
Dorothy a letter freighted of promise and hope and love. In it he told
her that soon he would have canceled the last element of Storri's power,
removed the last fear of Mr. Harley, and, in loving brief, destroyed the
last bar which separated them and kept them apart.

Dorothy read the letter again and again, and then kissed it pending the
advent of something more kissable. Richard's promise was like the smell
of flowers to refresh her jaded, fear-wearied heart. The one regret was,
since Richard had forbidden it, that she could not share the blessed
promise with her father.

Richard wrote nothing of the note of warning; nor did he speak of
Inspector Val and his deductions as to Storri's visits to the Harley
house. His only thought had been to cheer the drooping soul of Dorothy
with the glad nearness of happier days. The word of comfort came in good
time, for the shameful weight of the situation was crushing Dorothy.

Mr. Harley these days walked in troubles as deep as those of Dorothy,
but not the same. Mr. Harley was not borne upon by the shame of the
thing; that did not depress him any more than the knowledge that he was
guiltless of wrong upheld him. A man of finer nature would have been
strengthened by his innocence. To such a man his self-respect would have
been important; while he retained that support he could have summoned up
a fortitude to bear the worst that lay in Storri's hands. But Mr. Harley
was no such one of fineness, upon whom he would have looked down as a
visionary and a sentimentalist. There arose the less cause why he should
be, perhaps, since Mr. Harley was sure of being popular with himself in
spite of any conduct that could be his. His ideals were not lofty, his
moral senses not keen, and what original decent point the latter might
have once possessed had long been dulled away. True, Mr. Harley was
shaken of an ague of fear; but his tremblings were born of the
practical. He was agitated by thoughts of what havoc, in his own and in
Senator Hanway's affairs of politics and business, naming him formally
as a forger would work. Such a disaster would be tangible; he could
appreciate, and, appreciating, shrink from it.

One thing to feather the wing of his apprehensions and set them soaring
was his uncertainty concerning Storri. He could not gauge Storri; he
would have felt safer had that nobleman been an American or an
Englishman. Storri was so loaded of alarming contradictions; he could so
snarl and purr, threaten and promise, beam and glower, smile and frown,
and all in the one moment of time! Mr. Harley could not read a spirit so
perverse and in such perpetual head-on collision with itself! Nor could
he, being fear-blind, see that in most, if not all of these, Storri was
acting. If Mr. Harley had realized what a joy it was to Storri to
frighten him, the knowledge might have made for his peace of mind. As it
was, he looked upon Storri as at the best half mad, and capable, in some
beckoning moment of caprice, of any lunatic move that should level the
worst against him.

Mr. Harley had one hope, and that rested with Northern Consolidated. If
he could stand off disaster until the raid on Northern Consolidated had
been made, and the profits, namely the road, were in their hands, he
might then arrange a permanent truce. In this he reckoned on Storri's
rapacity, to which a million of dollars was as a mouthful. Given a
foretaste of what riches should dwell therein, Storri would desire with
triple intensity to push forward in his earth-girdling dream of Credit
Magellan. The conquest of Northern Consolidated would teach him to look
upon the rest as sure. Being in this frame, Mr. Harley argued that
Storri, feeling his inability to go forward without him, might be
softened to the touch of reason. Under these pleasant new conditions,
with Credit Magellan hopefully launched, Storri could be treated with.
Mr. Harley would then feel his way to some safe compromise; he would
invent an offer for those French shares which should present both peril
and profit. He would threaten to go no further with Credit Magellan
unless Storri put those French shares in his hands; and he would give
him twenty-fold their value if he did. Mr. Harley harbored the thought
that Storri would yield; and yield all the more readily since his
passion for Dorothy and his appetite for revenge against Mr. Harley
would have had time to cool. Thus reasoning, and thus hoping, and, one
had almost said, thus fearing, Mr. Harley gave himself to the task in
two parts of keeping Storri in paths of peace, and praying for a break
in the market so that the attack on Northern Consolidated might begin.

You are not to suppose those changes in Mr. Harley and Dorothy went
uncounted by Mrs. Hanway-Harley; that would be claiming too much against
the lady's vigilance. In her double rôle of wife and mother, it was her
duty to observe the haggard face of Mr. Harley and the woe that settled
about Dorothy's young eyes; and Mrs. Hanway-Harley, as wife and mother,
observed them. And this is how that perspicacious matron read those
signs. She translated Mr. Harley's haggard looks at a glance; he was
losing money. Legislation, or stocks, or both, were going the wrong way;
but in legislation, or stocks, or both, or the way they went, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley refused to have an interest. If Mr. Harley had lost money,
Mr. Harley must make some more; that was all.

In divining Dorothy's griefs, Mrs. Hanway-Harley showed even greater
ingenuity. Dorothy and Richard had quarreled; Mrs. Hanway-Harley was
sharp to note that now she neither saw nor heard of Richard. Also,
Dorothy came to the dinner table when Storri was there, and neither fled
to her room nor called Bess to her shoulder on hearing that nobleman's
name announced. Mrs. Hanway-Harley saw how the land lay; Dorothy took a
more lenient view of Storri when now her fancy for Richard was wearing
dim. After all, it had been only a fancy; it asked just a trifle of
care, and the happy dénouement would be as Mrs. Hanway-Harley wished.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley began now to play her game exceeding deep. She would
say nothing of Richard; to name him would serve to keep him in Dorothy's
memory. She would say nothing of Storri; to speak of him would heat
Dorothy's obstinacy, and Mrs. Hanway-Harley had learned not to desire
that. No, she would be wisely, forbearingly diplomatic; the present
arrangement was perfect for the ends in view. Storri came to the house;
Richard stayed away; the conclusion was natural and solitary, and
Dorothy would marry Storri. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, fully understanding the
currents of events and the flowing thereof, became serenely joyful, and
the charm of her manner gained accent from those clouds so visibly
resting upon Mr. Harley and Dorothy. Yes, indeed; it must not be written
that the sun did not shine for Mrs. Hanway-Harley, whose conversation
the satirical Storri told the San Reve was as the conversation of a
magpie.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tuesday came, and the President of this republic shook a pugnacious fist
beneath the German nose. Some impression of the weird suddenness of the
maneuver might have been gathered from the comment of Senator Gruff.
Speaking for the Senate, that sagacious man remarked:

"It came down upon us like a pan of milk from a top shelf!"

In Wall Street the effect was all that Mr. Bayard foretold. Prices began
to melt and dwindle like ice in August. Panic prevailed; three brokerage
firms fell, a dozen more were rocking on their foundations.

In the midst of the hubbub, Senator Hanway sent for Richard. Our
statesman's smile was bland, his brow untroubled.

"You see I do not forget," said Senator Hanway sweetly. "I promised that
I'd give you an exclusive story when the committee on Northern
Consolidated was ready to report. Here is the report, it was finished
last evening; I have added a brief interview to explain it."

Richard's impulse was to ask a dozen questions; he restrained himself
and asked none. Richard was not so fond of fiction as to invite it. He
sent the report and interview to the _Daily Tory_, and dispatched a
private message to Mr. Bayard, giving him the news and congratulating
him on his unerring gifts as a seer.




CHAPTER XVII

HOW NORTHERN CONSOLIDATED WAS SOLD


When the President of these United States so dauntlessly flourished the
Monroe Doctrine in the German face, and shook the Presidential fist
beneath the German nose, the flourishing and fist-shaking were
accomplished through the medium of a special message to Congress
which--a clap of thunder from a cloudless sky--made its appearance in
House and Senate upon a certain Tuesday afternoon at four of the
congressional clock. The hour of four had been settled upon to diminish
as much as might be, so the President said, the chances of an earthquake
in the New York stock market, which closed at three. In San Francisco,
which is three hours younger than New York, the winds of disastrous
speculation blew a hurricane that afternoon; but no one east of the
Mississippi cares what happens in San Francisco. Besides, the New York
hurricane was only deferred.

Tuesday afternoon, after word of that Presidential fist-shaking had
soaked into the souls of men, speculative New York went nervous to the
frontiers of hysteria. Tuesday night, speculative New York couldn't
sleep; it sat up till morning, for, like cattle, it could smell in the
breeze the coming storm. Wednesday heard the crash; and the crashing
continued unabated throughout Thursday and Friday. The papers of that
hour in attempting to describe stock conditions drew exhaustively on
such terms as "tornado," "blizzard," "simoon," "maelstrom," "cyclone,"
"landslide," "avalanche," and whatever else in the English language
means death and devastation. No one found fault of those similes, which
were justified of the hopeless truth. Values were beaten as flat as a
field of turnips. The best feature was that no banks failed; two or
three of the weaker sisters wavered, but the big, burly concerns gave
them the arm of their aid and led them through.

Days before the smash, that osprey pool had perfected the last fragment
of its arrangements. The old gray buccaneer, who had charge of the
pool's interests, was as ready for action as was Mr. Bayard. The latter
stock-King was perhaps the only one in the Street who possessed a
foreknowledge of what daring deeds our White House meditated. To Mr.
Bayard the secrets of Courts and Cabinets were told, for he had an agent
at the elbow of every possibility. The old gray buccaneer was not so
well provided; none the less, with decks cleared, guns shotted,
cutlasses ground to razor-edge, he was prompt on the instant to put
forth against Northern Consolidated now when the tempest which lashed
the market favored his pirate purposes.

Those four millions which had been decided upon as the fund of the
osprey pool were banked ready to the hand of the old gray buccaneer.
Storri, who had been losing money, exhausted himself in providing the
five hundred thousand which made up his one-eighth of the four millions.
By squeezing out his last drop of credit, he succeeded in gathering
those thousands; once gathered, he tossed them into the pool's fund as
carelessly as though they had been nothing more than the common
furniture of his pocket, without which he would not think of beginning
the day. Storri at least was a magnificent actor.

In collecting those five hundred thousand dollars, Storri, among other
securities, put up the French shares. He thought nothing of that, since
following victory over Northern Consolidated they would be back in his
hands again. Incidentally, a gratifying thing happened, something in the
nature of a compliment or a concession, which he attributed to the
snobbish eagerness of Americans to pay homage to his nobility. Fatuous
Storri; he should never have looked for compliment or concession or
snobbish adulation in a plain lend-and-borrow traffic of dollars and
cents! Men will buy a coat of arms; but they will not take a coat of
arms in pawn. No; Storri, instead of feeling flattered, should have
grown suspicious when the gentleman from whom he borrowed those five
hundred thousand proposed to let him have the full value of his
securities if in return he were given the right to confiscate should the
loans not be repaid on the nail. Why not? The new arrangement meant no
real risk; the security might always be sold in case of default. And
under the arrangement offered, Storri's credit would be enlarged by
twenty per cent. He agreed, and had immediate advantage of the fact.
Drawing to the last dollar, he made his share of the pool's four
millions good.

When the storm descended Wednesday morning, the old gray buccaneer was
instantly in the middle of it doing all he might to encourage the storm.
As the stock world went to its sleepless bed on Tuesday night, it knew
about the Presidential defiance of Germany. That news was enough to keep
the stock world shivering till morning. When it arose and read the
_Daily Tory_, its chills were multiplied by two. As if trouble with
Germany were not sufficient invitation to general ruin, here came the
Hanway report driving a knife to the heart of Northern Consolidated! At
sight of that, the stock world's last hope abandoned it, and the work of
slaughter commenced. The old gray buccaneer grinned with happiness that
awful morning as he looked across the field of coming war.

Andrew Jackson, being half Scotch and half Irish, was wont before a
battle to think and plan with the prudent sagacity of a Bailey Jarvie.
Once the battle began, he ceased to be Scotch and became wholly Irish;
he quit thinking and devoted himself desperately to execution. The old
gray buccaneer of stocks was like Andrew Jackson. His plan, thoroughly
cautious and Scotch, had been laid to sell and sell and sell Northern
Consolidated until the stock was beaten down to twenty. He would sell
savagely, relentlessly, sell with his eyes shut, until the twenty point
was reached. And if necessary, he would sell four hundred thousand
shares.

The old gray buccaneer, under the conditions existing, did not think it
would require a sale of four hundred thousand shares before the market
broke to the figure he had fixed his heart upon. The general
conflagration raging must of necessity smoke out thousands and thousands
of innocent Northern Consolidated shares. These, blind and frenzied,
would rush plungingly into the flames like horses at a fire. The old
gray buccaneer felt sure that while he was selling four hundred thousand
shares, full two hundred thousand, mayhap three hundred thousand, shares
in addition would be offered. What stock could support itself against
such a flood as that? When the bottom was reached, and the time was
ripe, the pool would gather in the harvest. It was a beautiful plan; the
more beautiful because of its simplicity!

Instantly on the morning of that black Wednesday the sale of Northern
Consolidated began. Thousands of shares in two thousand, five thousand,
and even ten thousand lots were thrown upon the market by the old gray
buccaneer. In the roar and tumult of that disastrous day, what would
have been in calmer moments a spectacle of astonishment passed much
unnoticed. The stock world was busy saving itself out of the teeth of
destruction, and the smashing and slugging in Northern Consolidated
attracted the less attention.

Northern Consolidated merited admiring attention; against that desperate
hammering, it stood like a wall of granite. Ten, twenty, forty, eighty,
over one hundred thousand shares were sold that Wednesday; and yet,
marvel of marvels, Northern Consolidated at the day's close had fallen
off no more than six points. It retreated sullenly, slowly, step by step
and eighth by eighth; ever and anon it would make a stand and hold a
price an hour. Other stocks lost twice and threefold the ground; the
stubbornness of Northern Consolidated began to engage the notice of men.
More than one poor "bull" when sore beset that day took fresh heart from
the obstinacy of Northern Consolidated; his own foothold was steadied
and made the stronger for it.

But the old gray buccaneer refused to be denied; he had quit thinking
and begun to act; he would break the back of Northern Consolidated if it
took the last share of those four hundred thousand! His courage never
wavered; he would charge and keep charging; in the end his cavalry work
must tell and the lines of Northern Consolidated crumple up like paper.
All it required was dash and confidence, with an underlying grim
determination to win or die, and Northern Consolidated must yield.

The war was renewed upon Thursday, and staggered fiercely on throughout
the day. Then Friday followed, a roaring, tottering, crashing, smashing
fellow of the two days gone before. Millionaires became beggars and
beggars millionaires between breakfast and lunch.

As on Wednesday, so also on Thursday and Friday the stock which best
sustained itself was Northern Consolidated. And yet no other stock was
so bitterly sold! As against this it should be added that no other was
so bitterly bought! Every offer to sell was closed with at the very
moment of its birth.

At last the end came; the old gray buccaneer could go no further. He had
already oversold his self-fixed limit, having parted with four hundred
and eleven thousand shares. The sales were made in the names of the
various members of the pool, each selling one-eighth of the whole.
Senator Hanway's interest, as well as that of Mr. Harley, being
fifty-one thousand three hundred and fifty shares for each, for reasons
that do not require exhibition, was handled in the name of an agent.
Full one hundred and fifty thousand innocent shares, smoked into the
open market as the old gray buccaneer had anticipated, were also sold,
making the round total of five hundred and sixty-one thousand shares of
Northern Consolidated offered and snapped up during those three days of
fire. It was the greatest "bear" raid in the annals of the Stock
Exchange, so graybeards said; and what peculiarly marked it for the
admiration of mankind was that it had had the least success. In three
days, with five hundred and sixty-one thousand shares sold, the stock
had fallen only eleven points. The raid was over and the "bears" had
growlingly retreated thirty minutes before the close on Friday. Within
ten minutes after the last offer to sell, and when it was plain the
"bears" had quit the field, under a cross-fire of bids that fell as
briskly thick as hail, Northern Consolidated was bid up thirteen points.
It had stood forty-one at Tuesday's close; it was forty-three when,
"bears" routed, the market was over Friday afternoon. And thus
disastrously fared the osprey pool.

"We're ruined, gentlemen," coolly remarked the old gray buccaneer when,
with the exception of Senator Hanway, the members of the pool gathered
themselves together Friday evening. "We're in a corner; we're
gone--hook, line, and sinker!"

"What can we do?" asked Mr. Harley, his face the hue of putty.

"Nothing!" said the old gray buccaneer, lighting a Spartan cigar. "We're
penned up; whoever has us cornered may now come round and knock us on
the head whenever he finds it convenient."

"The market is still weak," observed one, "for all it lived through the
panic. Suppose we creep in to-morrow and cover our shorts. The shares are
forty-three; I for one think it might be wise to close the deal and take
our losses, even if we go as high as fifty."

"For myself," remarked the old gray buccaneer, with a half-sneer at what
he regarded as a most childish suggestion, "I'd be pleased to settle at
sixty-five or even seventy." Then, turning to him who was for softly
buying his way out: "Do you imagine that what has happened was accident?
I tell you there's a shark swimming in these waters--a shark so big that
by comparison Port Royal Tom would seem like a dolphin. And, gentlemen,
that shark is after us. He's been after us from the beginning; he's got
between us and the shore, and he'll pull us under when the spirit moves
him. If you think differently, go into the market to-morrow and try to
buy Northern Consolidated. An attempt to buy five hundred shares will
put it up ten points."

The next day, Saturday, the pool sent quietly into the Exchange to buy
one thousand shares; that, by way of feeler. The old gray buccaneer was
right; Northern Consolidated climbed fifteen points with the vivacity of
a squirrel, and rested mockingly at fifty-eight. Following this
disheartening experiment, which resulted in nothing more hopeful than a
demand for further margins from the pool's brokers, there were no more
efforts to "buy." The pool was marked for death; but that, while
discouraging, offered no argument in favor of self-destruction.

When the markets opened upon that storm-swept Wednesday, there were
forty brokers on the floor of the Exchange to execute the orders of Mr.
Bayard. Not one of the forty knew of the other thirty-nine; not one was
aware of Mr. Bayard in the business of the day. Thirty as a maximum had
been commissioned to buy--each man twenty thousand shares--six hundred
thousand shares of Northern Consolidated. The orders had come through
banks in the city, and from banks and brokerages in London, Paris,
Berlin, and a dozen points in Europe. They ran from five hundred to as
high as twelve thousand shares the order. Each broker was given a
certain limit below which he might buy, and the orders of no two were in
conflict. Each for his orders would have the unobstructed market to
himself.

Mr. Bayard arranged for that fall of eleven points; the "bear" raid must
seem to have effect to encourage the pool. To thus foster the pool in
its hopes, ten of the forty were to "sell" Northern Consolidated in
limited lots; these sales should augment "bear" enthusiasm.

In each instance the stock thus offered was taken by one of Mr. Bayard's
brokers, who little imagined that both he and the broker selling drew
their inspirations from the same source. As demonstrating the finesse of
Mr. Bayard, if one had collected from the forty those orders which they
brought upon the floor that Wednesday morning, and spread them on a
table, they would have exhibited a perfect picture of speculation. One
would have fitted with another, and each in its proper place, until the
whole was like a mosaic of defense. The "bear" pool was met on the
threshold; it was permitted to press forward eighth by eighth according
to a plan; one Bayard broker having made his purchases, another took his
place; it was like clockwork. The whole five hundred and sixty-one
thousand shares were bought and sold; and from first to last there came
never a glimpse of Mr. Bayard.

It had been Mr. Bayard's earlier thought to let Northern Consolidated
fall as low as twenty-five. For the sake of poor men in peril from that
defiance of all things German, Mr. Bayard in the last hours of his
preparations decided to support the market. To hold Northern
Consolidated above thirty against the double pressure of a falling
market and a "bear" raid would be to the general stock list as a prop to
a leaning wall. It would save hundreds from annihilation, and Mr. Bayard
resolved for their rescue. It would cost him nothing, lose him nothing;
once cornered, the question whether that osprey pool were cornered at
twenty or at thirty or at forty was unimportant. The corner complete,
Mr. Bayard with a breath could put Northern Consolidated to fifty, to
one hundred, to five hundred, to one thousand! The measure of his
triumph would be the measure of the mercy of Mr. Bayard. _Væ Victis!_
Our Brennus of the Stocks might demand from the members of the
vanquished pool their final shilling. He might strip them as he was
stripped those thirty years before, and turn them forth naked. For thus
read the iron statutes of the Stock Exchange where quarter is unknown.

It was Mr. Bayard who caused Northern Consolidated to climb,
squirrel-wise, to forty-three as the market closed on Friday, and later
to fifty-eight. It had the effect desired; there came the call for
margins. Storri, who had put his last dollar to the hazard, went down,
exhausted, destroyed, and under foot, and, as parcel of the spoils of
that Russian's overthrow, those French shares were sent to Mr. Bayard.
Within ten minutes after he received them they were on their way to
Richard, with a letter telling how complete had been the osprey pool's
defeat. For all his dignity and his gray crown of sixty years, Mr.
Bayard's eyes were shining like the eyes of a child with a new toy. What
battle was to that Scriptural hero's warhorse so was the strife of
stocks as breath in the nostrils of Mr. Bayard. Richard's eyes were as
bright as those of Mr. Bayard when he received the French shares, but it
was a softer brightness born of thoughts of Dorothy, and in no wise to
be confounded with that battle-glitter which shone in the eyes of the
other. Thus ran the note of Mr. Bayard:

     Dear Mr. Storms:

     Our bears are safely in the pit which we digged for them. The New
     York five are taking it in a temper of stolid philosophy, being
     bruins of experience. We may keep them in the pit what time you
     will before we begin the butchery--one week, one month, one year.
     They cannot escape, since my agents on the floor of the Exchange
     will be always on the watch to see that they don't climb out. The
     first time an offer to buy or sell a share of Northern Consolidated
     is made, I shall put the price to three hundred. Our bears,
     however, know this, and will make no attempt to get away, realizing
     its hopelessness. The Storri bear is already dead; that first call
     for margins killed him, and I send you a specimen of his pelt, to
     wit, the French shares, with this. As for the others, whenever you
     are ready we will call on them for their fur and their grease and
     what else is valuable about a bear. Believe me your friend, as was
     your father the friend of

     Robert Lance Bayard.

Richard, now he had possession of those fateful securities, was somewhat
put about as to the best manner of getting them into the hands of Mr.
Harley. He, Richard, could not personally appear in the transaction. He
thought of using the excellent Mr. Gwynn; but that course offered
objections, since it would be assumed hereafter by Mr. Harley that
Richard, because of his confidential relations with Mr. Gwynn, must know
the history of those shares. Richard did not care to have such a thought
take hold on Mr. Harley; it might later embarrass both Mr. Harley and
Richard when the latter called at the Harley house, as he meant shortly
to do. Finally he hit upon an idea; he would employ the worthy name of
Mr. Fopling. The secret would be safe with one who, like Mr. Fopling,
could never be brought to understand it.

Being decided as to a path, Richard inclosed those dangerous shares with
a typewritten note to Mr. Harley. The note, speaking in the third
person, presented Mr. Fopling's compliments, explained that Mr. Fopling
was given to understand that Mr. Harley would purchase those particular
shares, stated their value as fifteen thousand dollars, and said that
Mr. Harley might send his check to Mr. Fopling.

This missive and those shares being safely on their road to Mr. Harley,
Richard made speed to hunt up Mr. Fopling. He found the sinless one at
the house of his beloved. Fortune favored Richard; Bess was not there,
being across with Dorothy, and, save for the company of Ajax, Mr.
Fopling was alone. Mr. Fopling was in the Marklin library, glaring
ferociously at Ajax, who was blinking disdainful yellow eyes at Mr.
Fopling by way of retort.

Richard explained to Mr. Fopling that through certain deals in stocks he
had become possessed of two hundred shares of one of Mr. Harley's pet
stocks. Mr. Harley would give anything to regain them. Richard desired
to return them to Mr. Harley without being known in the business. Would
Mr. Fopling permit him the favor of his name? He would employ Mr.
Fopling's name most guardedly. Richard did not tell Mr. Fopling that his
sacred name was already in the harness of the affair.

The benumbed Mr. Fopling, by listening attentively, succeeded in getting
an impression that Richard through lucky dexterity and sleight had
obtained some strange hold in stocks on Mr. Harley, and now in a foolish
leniency was about to let him go. This excited Mr. Fopling hugely; he
put in a most vigorous protest.

"Weally, Stawms," he squeaked, "if you've twapped the old curmudgeon you
must stwip him for his last dime, don't y' know! I wemembah a song my
governor used to sing; he said it was his motto. The song wan like this:

    "'When you catch a black cat, skin it, skin it!
     When you catch a black cat, skin it to the tail!'

"Yes, Stawms, use my name as fweely as you please; but I pwotest against
letting up on this old cweature Harley."

"But, my dear boy," observed Richard, "you must consider! Mr. Harley is
to be my father-in-law, he's Dorothy's father."

Mr. Fopling declined to consider what he called a "technicality." Mr.
Harley must be squeezed.

"Weally, Stawms," said Mr. Fopling, "it's the wules of the game, don't
y' know."

After no little argument, Mr. Fopling yielded his point. Mr. Fopling,
however, bethought him of troubles of his own, and made condition that
Richard stand his friend with Bess as against his enemy, Ajax.

"Bees always sides with Ajax," explained Mr. Fopling plaintively, "and
it ain't wight!"

Richard gave Mr. Fopling a fraternal grip with his mighty hand. He would
be to Mr. Fopling as was Jonathan to David. It should be back to back
and heel to heel with them against Ajax, Bess, and all the world! The
violent loyalty of Richard alarmed Mr. Fopling; he threw in a word of
caution.

"You mustn't be weckless, Stawms."

Bess came back from the Harley house, and found Richard with Mr.
Fopling. Bess reported Dorothy's spirits as improved; those rays of
comfort emanating from Richard's promises had put a color in her cheek.

"The promises have been redeemed," observed Richard, "and I came to tell
you first of all--you who have been our truest friend," and here, to the
utter outrage of Mr. Fopling's sensibilities, Richard kissed Bess's
yellow hair.

"Oh, I say, Stawms!" squeaked Mr. Fopling reproachfully.

"Mistake, I assure you!" said Richard, again giving Mr. Fopling his
hand.

"Well, please don't wepeat it!" returned Mr. Fopling a bit sulkily. "It
gives me a most beastly sensation, don't y' know, to see a chap
cawessing Bess; it does, weally!"

"Hush, child!" said Bess; "you excite yourself about nothing."

Bess was for having Dorothy over on the strength of the good news, but
Richard was against it, proudly.

"No," said he. "With Storri's hold upon him, Mr. Harley asked me to stay
away from his house. Now Storri's hold is broken, I shall give him a
chance to ask me to return."

"Oh, I see," replied Bess teasingly. "Sir Launcelot having done a
knightly deed and rescued a fair damsel, and the fair damsel's family,
from a dragon, will give his vanity an outing."

"Only till to-morrow evening!" protested Richard, humbled from the high
horse. "If Mr. Harley doesn't invite me by that time, I'll invite
myself."

"If Mr. Harley doesn't invite you by that time," returned Bess, "I will
interfere. Those who can't see their duty must be shown their duty, Mr.
Harley among the rest. On the whole, I think you take a very proper
stand."

       *       *       *       *       *

Storri, without a dollar, lay in his rooms like a wounded wolf. He did
not go to the San Reve; he would see no one until he had worn down his
anguish and regained control of himself. Hurt to the death, Storri was
too cunning to furnish word of it to mankind. No one must know; it was
the instinct of self-preservation. The wounded wolf, while his wounds
are fresh, avoids the pack lest the pack destroy him. And so with
Storri; he would hide until he could command that old-time manner of
unclouded ease. He would stifle every surmise, deny every rumor if rumor
blew about, of the blow he had received. A few days, and Storri would be
himself again. As for immediate money, Storri would extort that from Mr.
Harley, who, in his dull-head ignorance or worse, had been the author of
his losses. Who first spoke of Northern Consolidated? Who suggested the
"bear" raid? Was it not Mr. Harley? The affair had been his; the loss
should be his; Mr. Harley must repay, or face the wrath of Storri.

"Face the wrath of Storri!" exclaimed that furious nobleman with an
oath. "He would face nobody--nothing! Bah! that Harley; he is a dog and
the coward son of a dog! Yes, he shall come here; he shall crawl and
crouch! I, Storri, will give him the treatment due a dog!"

Storri wrote a blunt word to Mr. Harley and dispatched it to that
shattered capitalist.

"Come to-night at nine, you Harley," said the note, "and do not presume
to fail, or my next communication will be through one of your officers
of police."

Storri was aware that the French shares were gone from him, but he
counted on easily tracking them and buying them back. He would force Mr.
Harley to give him the very money that was to buy them. The thought
lighted up his cruel face like a red ray from the pit; it would be such
a joke--such a triumph over the pig American! Meanwhile he would bully
Mr. Harley, who did not know but what the shares were in his pocket.

If Storri had been informed of how, through the deep arrangements of
that strategist of stocks, he had borrowed every dollar of those five
hundred thousand from Mr. Bayard, as well as every share of Northern
Consolidated delivered to perfect those sales that had brought him down
in ruin--in short, if he had been told the whole romance, from Mr.
Fopling's exhortation to "Bweak him!" to the close of the market on that
crashing Friday afternoon, he might have been less sure of recapturing
those French shares. But he was ignorant of those truths; and, with
confidence bred of ignorance, he summoned Mr. Harley. He, Storri, would
browbeat and bleed him; he would teach the caitiff Harley to be more
careful of the favor, not to say the fortune, of a Russian nobleman.

Mr. Harley, with the defeat of the "bear" attack on Northern
Consolidated, was left in forlornest case. He was aware that it spelled
money-ruin for both him and Senator Hanway; but the picture of the rage
of Storri, and what that savage might do in his bitterness, so filled up
his thoughts that he scarcely heeded anything beyond. Mr. Harley was
stricken sick by his own fears, and, after returning from New York on
the evening of that fearful Friday, never moved from his room. To the
anxious tap of Dorothy, he sent word that he was not ill, but very busy;
he must not be disturbed. Like Storri, only more a-droop, Mr. Harley
owned no wish for company.

Mr. Harley was thus broken to the ground when Storri's message found
him. The threat at the tail, like the sting at the tail of a scorpion,
stunned Mr. Harley past thinking. He could neither do nor plan; he could
only utter his despair in groans.

Two hours later, and while he lay writhing, Richard's inclosure of the
French shares arrived by post. Mr. Harley at sight of them came as near
fainting as any gentleman coarsely grained and hearty ever comes. Ten
minutes went by in stupid gazing, and in handling and feeling those
certificates that were to him as is the reprieve that comes to one who
else would die within the hour.

There is such a thing as compensation, and the very coarseness of which
you have now and again complained made most for the rescue of Mr. Harley
at this crisis. By dint of that valuable coarseness, Mr. Harley,
discovering that he could trust his eyes,--he at one time doubted those
visual organs,--recovered such strength, not to say composure, that he
ordered up a quart of burgundy and drank it by the goblet. Under this
wise treatment, and with the reassuring shares in his clutch, Mr. Harley
became a new man.

The first evidence of this newness given to the world was when at eight
o'clock Mr. Harley, faultlessly caparisoned and in full evening dress,
descended upon Mrs. Hanway-Harley and Dorothy. The ladies were together
in the back drawing-room as the restored Mr. Harley, with brow of Jove
and warlike eye, strode into their startled midst. Establishing himself
in mighty state before the fireplace, rear to the blaze, he gazed with
fondness, but as though from towering altitudes, on Dorothy.

"Come and kiss me, child!" said Mr. Harley.

Dorothy obeyed without daring to guess the cause of this abrupt
affection.

"You act strangely, Mr. Harley!" commented Mrs. Hanway-Harley, with a
tinge of severity. "I hope you will compose yourself. It is quite
possible that Count Storri will drop in!"

"Madam," shouted Mr. Harley explosively, "I shall shoot that scoundrel
Storri if he puts hand to my front gate!"

"John!" screamed Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

"Madam, I shall shoot him like a rat!"

Mr. Harley got this off with such fury that it struck Mrs. Hanway-Harley
speechless. She was the more amazed, since she knew nothing of either
Mr. Harley's wrongs or his burgundy. After surveying her with the utmost
majesty for a moment, Mr. Harley came back to Dorothy.

"There's a gentleman named Mr. Storms?"

"Yes, papa!" (timidly).

"You love him?"

"Yes, papa!" (feebly).

"You shall marry him!"

"Yes, papa!" (blushingly).

"John!" (with horror).

"Invite him to dinner to-morrow."

"Yes, papa!" (rapturously).

"And every other evening you choose!"

"Yes, papa!" (more rapturously).

"John!" (with a gasp).

"And now, madam," observed Mr. Harley, wheeling on Mrs. Hanway-Harley
with politeness sudden and vast, "I am ready to attend to you. Let me
commence by mentioning that I am master of this house, and shall give
dinners when I will to whomsoever I please."

"But you said marriage, John, and Mr. Storms is a pauper! Think what you
do!"

"It may entertain you, madam," returned Mr. Harley, in a manner of grim
triumph, "to hear that you also are a pauper. Yes, madam, you, I, Pat
Hanway--we are all paupers. Now I shall go to your scoundrel Storri and
tell him what I have told you. Oh! I shall not murder the villain,
madam; though I give you my word, if there were no one to think of but
Jack Harley, I'd return to you blood to my elbows; yes, madam, to my
elbows!" and Mr. Harley pulled up his coatsleeves very high to give
force to his words.

Lighting a cigar, which he set between his teeth so that it projected
outward and upward at an angle of defiance, Mr. Harley got into his hat
and greatcoat, and made for the door. As he threw it open preparatory to
issuing forth, there floated back with a puff of cigar smoke these
words, delivered presumably for the good of Mrs. Hanway-Harley:

"Yes, madam; blood to my elbows!"

"Your father is insane!" groaned Mrs. Hanway-Harley to Dorothy, when the
door had slammed and Mr. Harley was on his way to Storri, "absolutely
insane!"

Then Mrs. Hanway-Harley, with many an ejaculation of self-pity over a
fate that had made her helpmeet to a lunatic, called her maid to aid
her in creeping to her room. As for Dorothy, she danced about as light
as air; in the finale she danced across the way to Bess to tell that
sorceress what wonders had befallen.

"Eh! you Harley--you John Harley, is it you?" jeered Storri, as Mr.
Harley was shown in.

"Yes, you black villain and thief, it is I!" roared Mr. Harley, planting
himself in front of Storri, who had not taken the polite trouble to get
up from the sofa where he reclined. "Yes, you world's scoundrel, who but
I!"

"Scoundrel?" repeated Storri with a screech, springing to his feet.

"Sit down!" thundered Mr. Harley, a pistol coming from his pocket like a
flash.

[Illustration: "Sit Down!" Thundered Mr. Harley]

Mr. Harley was from a region where pistols were regarded in the light of
arguments, and gentlemen gravely debating therewith at ten paces had the
approving countenance of the public. This may explain the ready grace
with which Mr. Harley produced a specimen of that species of artillery
when Storri seemed to threaten violence.

"Sit down!" thundered Mr. Harley, and Storri, with terror twitching at
his lips, obeyed. Mr. Harley replaced the pistol in his pocket, and
surveyed Storri with a look so sinister it alarmed that nobleman to the
heart. "I have come," continued Mr. Harley, taking a chair and
maintaining the while a dangerous eye on Storri, "I have come to return
your insults, you blackmailing rogue, in the room where I received
them."




CHAPTER XVIII

HOW STORRI EXPLORED FOR GOLD


Should it ever be your fancy to witness on the part of any gentleman an
exhibition of ferocity unrestrained, that you may have him at his best
for your experiment, it would be wise to commence by subjecting him to a
tremendous fright. Being first frightened and then relieved from his
terror, and particularly if his nature be a trifle rough, he will if
brought suddenly into the presence of one who has injured him furnish
all you could desire in a picture of the sort adverted to. And thus was
it with Mr. Harley that evening when he called on Storri--now no longer
terrible.

The offensive utmost that one gentleman might say to another, Mr. Harley
said to his aforetime noble friend. He crushed Storri beneath fourfold
what bulk of insolence and contumelious remark he himself had received,
for at that fashion of conversation Mr. Harley was Storri's superior.
Mr. Harley rendered Storri such shameful accounts of himself that the
latter was well-nigh consumed with what inward fires were ignited.
Storri burned the more because his own cowardly alarms tied his hands
and gagged retort upon his tongue. Mr. Harley, who had been frightened
to the brink of collapse in the only manner that Storri might have
frightened him, now refreshed himself unchecked and fed retaliation to
the full.

Storri, craven to the roots, must fain submit. The murderous facility
wherewith Mr. Harley in the beginning invested the conversation with
that pistol had not been lost upon Storri, and he shivered lest the
interview conclude with his own murder. Mr. Harley, having exhausted
expletive and opprobrious term, might empty the six chambers of his
dreadful weapon into Storri. Thus spake Storri's fears, and he cowered
while Mr. Harley raged. Indeed, the tables had been turned, and Mr.
Harley was taking virulent advantage of the reversal. Among other
matters, he taunted Storri with his, Mr. Harley's, possession of those
French shares, and gave him to know that the happy transfer had been the
fruit of his, Mr. Harley's, own superior wit.

"For," said Mr. Harley, with no more noble purpose than to augment
Storri's pangs, "did you think that one of my depth was for long to be
held at the mercy of such a dolt as yourself?"

"Then it was you," moaned Storri, who made the mistake of believing what
Mr. Harley said, "then it was you who bought Northern Consolidated--you,
and your confederates to whom you betrayed us?"

Mr. Harley smiled loftily, and was silent as though disdaining reply. He
was willing to have Storri think his overthrow due to him and him alone.
It would please him should Storri believe that he, Mr. Harley, had
conquered not only the possession of those shares, but of the five
hundred thousand dollars which were so painfully collected as Storri's
contribution to the pool's four millions. It would promote Mr. Harley's
satisfaction to the superlative; it would make Storri's humiliation
complete. By all means teach Storri that he, Mr. Harley, constructed the
ambush into which the pool had sold its blindfold way. Wherefore, Mr.
Harley with shrug and sneer consented to Storri's charges of betrayal,
and intimated his own profitable joy of that treason. After thirty
minutes of triumph, Mr. Harley, mightily restored in his own graces,
arose to depart.

"And for a last word, you scoundrel," quoth the loud Mr. Harley, "I told
Mrs. Hanway-Harley I would shoot you if you so much as laid hand to my
front gate. You might do well to remember that promise; I have been
known on occasion to tell Mrs. Hanway-Harley the truth."

After the last gloomy notice Mr. Harley went his defiant way, while
Storri sank back a more deeply wounded wolf than ever.

Mr. Harley drew his check and dispatched it to Mr. Fopling, and Richard
in due course received a check from the latter. Mr. Harley did not
allude to the transaction on those few and distant occasions when he and
Mr. Fopling met; and Mr. Fopling, burdened of his feuds with Ajax, soon
forgot the affair in matters more important.

Mr. Harley, when emancipated from the thraldom of Storri, was as
dollarless so far as immediate cash was concerned as was the stripped
Storri himself. But in the rebound of spirit which followed, Mr.
Harley's genius regained its old-time elasticity. A member of the House
with whom he was in touch, being one of that speculative party who
opened the New Year at Chamberlin's with cards, was so conveniently
good-natured as to offer a measure putting coal on the free list. This,
if passed, would be a woundy blow to the Harley mines; also to that
railway whereof Mr. Harley was a director, since it hauled the Harley
coal to the seaboard. With coal on the free list, Nova Scotia could
undersell the Harley mines in every Atlantic port; likewise the Harley
road would lose two millions in annual freight. Under these threatening
conditions, Mr. Harley was instantly given one hundred thousand dollars
by the mines and the railroad to kill the iniquitous bill, and convert
to a right opinion any and all who talked of coal and free lists in one
and the same breath. Those one hundred thousand dollars relieved the
pressing needs of Mr. Harley, and the bill that threatened coal and
railroads was heard of no more.

When, following Mr. Harley's gracious words concerning Richard and Mrs.
Hanway-Harley's disconsolate departure for her own room, Dorothy danced
across to Bess, the yellow-haired sorceress rose grandly to the
opportunity. She sent Mr. Fopling to find Richard; and since Mr.
Fopling's weakness was not of the legs--he being a very Mercury, with
feet as fleet as his wits were slow--Dorothy and Bess had no more than
finished giving and receiving congratulations, _i. e._, kisses, when
Richard appeared and took Bess's labor of congratulation off her
hands--or should one say her lips? Bess was of those excellent folk
whose fine friendships know when to go as well as when to stay, and,
Richard arriving, she conveyed Mr. Fopling and Ajax from the room,
leaving the restored lovers to themselves.

Of what worth now to tell you those sweetheart things that Richard and
his angel said and did? How would it advantage a world to hear that he
took her in his arms and held her close? You, who have loved and have
been loved, who were lost and have been found again, well know the
blissful routine. Richard said that no woman was ever loved as he loved
Dorothy. Dorothy the beloved replied that no man was ever loved as she
loved Richard. Both believed both statements as they did the Word. And
yet Adam said the same thing when, wandering in Eden, he first met
lovely Eve, and every lover has said the same thing ever since. Every
fire boasts itself the hottest, every lover does the same. It is the
virtue of love that this is so, and none will object while Dorothy and
Richard work out their tinted destiny on lines of paradise. They had
been held apart; they were now together; rely upon it they said and
looked those softly tender, foolish, happy, precedental things which
have been best among the best lessons of the ages.

[Illustration: He Held Her Close]

Mr. Harley was pompous and patronizing the next evening when he met
Richard at dinner; but Mr. Harley was no less kind. Richard submitted
himself to Mr. Harley's patronage, for in it he recognized the
inalienable right of a father-in-law. Mrs. Hanway-Harley on that dinner
occasion did not pretend to the rugged, high good humor of her spouse,
and cultivated a manner at once blighted and resigned. But she was civil
even as she sighed, and he would have been a carper who complained.
Dorothy was beset of many shynesses now that she was brought with her
beloved into the presence of ones who were aware of her secret without
possessing sympathy therewith. Bess was there; but Bess did not weigh
upon her, since Bess applauded her love. Senator Hanway was there; but
"Uncle Pat" did not confuse her, since he cared nothing about her love.
It was Mr. Harley who permitted, and Mrs. Hanway-Harley who tolerated,
her heart's choice that set her cheeks aflame. Still it was good to see
Richard sitting across in the serpent stead of Storri--to see one whom
she worshiped where one whom she feared and loathed had been before! It
was twice good to think the present was immortal while the past was
dead. As Dorothy thought these things and sweetly blushed to think them,
you would have been reminded of a rose, if her blue eyes had not made
you remember violets, or by their clear, true, tranquil depths led you
away to muse on summer skies.

Richard bore the ordeal of that dinner manfully; ordeal it was, for he
felt himself on exhibition. He was rigorous to seem unruffled, and
defended his calmness by talking general politics with Senator Hanway.
Nor did he fall into the error of speaking of tempests in the stock
market; and as for the recreant Storri, no one named him. Bess might
have brought Mr. Fopling, for he was asked, could she have trusted that
young gentleman on this point of Storri. But Mr. Fopling was prone to
bring up the one subject which others were trying to forget; and,
realizing his tenacious aptitude for crime of that character, Bess sent
him home and came alone.

Richard, like Storri before him, only with a better conscience, did not
crowd good fortune to the wall; he left early. As he made ready to go,
Mr. Harley invited him not only to another dinner, but to a multitude of
such refections. Mr. Harley, having been thus hospitable, swept Mrs.
Hanway-Harley with arrogant eye as who should say:

"There lies my glove, madam! We shall see who lifts it!"

Altogether, Richard's coming to the Harley house in the rôle of suitor
for Dorothy's small hand went off well; and Dorothy was thinking that
life seemed very beautiful and very bright when four hours later she
fell asleep, and rosy dreams relieved her thoughts from further duty
about her pillow for that night.

Senator Hanway and Mr. Harley, being veterans of the tape, were not
ignorant of the hopeless state into which the failure of that "bear"
raid on Northern Consolidated had plunged them. They could not name him
who had worked the "corner" against them and the other members of the
osprey pool, the hand that defeated them had been played from behind a
curtain. Time, however, would develop the identity of their conqueror;
nor was his identity of first importance, since the great thing was that
they were caught. The best they might do was quietly await destruction
in its coming. It would surely come; "corners" were not made in vain,
and a day would dawn when he who held them captive would disclose
himself. That disclosure would mean for them, financially, the beginning
of the end.

Mr. Harley and Senator Hanway might have repudiated the deal, and so
saved their fortunes at the sacrifice of their names. Indeed they
thought of it; and then they shook their heads. Such a step would ruin
Senator Hanway's hopes of a Presidency; those hard years of political
labor would be canceled; his chances, now the fairest, would be swept
away not only for the present but for time. The discovery of Senator
Hanway--he who wrote the report against Northern Consolidated--as a
partner in that "bear" raid, would strike his name forever from the roll
of Presidential possibilities. It might even result in his expulsion
from the Senate, for conspiracy is no good charge to face when true. Of
those who were "bears" against Northern Consolidated, from Storri to the
old gray buccaneer, the ones who must submit without a cry to being
flayed were Mr. Harley and Senator Hanway, for with them to be
discovered was to be destroyed.

After fullest conference, Mr. Harley went again to New York. It was
settled that the old gray buccaneer should continue in command. When he
who had beaten them unmasked himself, the old gray buccaneer was to
treat for generous terms. With the bankrupt Storri out, there remained
but seven to consider; the old gray buccaneer was to offer a round
ransom of seven millions of dollars, or one million for each. In similar
fashion beaten knights compounded in the dusty lists of Ashby eight
hundred years ago; the amount of ransom that Ashby day was less, but the
principle throughout the centuries has remained unshaken and unchanged.

After four days of wound-nursing, Storri went to the San Reve. He found
that lady of the gray-green eyes sitting sullen and silent, wrapped in
resentful anger like a witch's cloak. One thing in his favor; the San
Reve had not heard of his return, and supposed him just back from New
York.

Storri did his best to be on cheerful terms with the San Reve; he said
his business was now accomplished and he would see her every day. Storri
strove all he knew to soften the San Reve and turn her frowns to smiles.
He failed; nothing would unlock that flinty, hard reserve.

"About the Harleys," said the jealous San Reve at last. "How do you
stand with the Harleys? You still go there?"

The San Reve shot a sharp, inquiring glance at Storri from her
sea-green, sea-gray eyes.

Storri, being feline, was as has been written no one hard to rout, and
could be readily driven from an enterprise. With the loss of those
French shares, his designs on Mr. Harley and his power over Dorothy had
fallen to the ground. He was left with nothing more potent than his
naked hatred. He was more hungry than before for harm against the
Harleys, but the new conditions baffled him as might some bridgeless
gulf. He could see no open way through which he might find his enemies
and overcome them.

But Storri had his miserable prides, and would perish where he stood
rather than tell the San Reve this. With her he must pretend to power;
he must swagger and boast more loudly than before. This was the vanity
and the strategy of the man. He would have thrust his hand into the fire
sooner than confess himself beaten by Mr. Harley to the San Reve. She
must continue to wonder at and worship him; it was the incense demanded
by the nostrils of his self-love.

"How do I stand with those Harleys, my San Reve?" Storri's tone was
supercilious and tired, as though he had been forced to remember ones
who wearied him by vulgarest dint of their inconsequence. "I do not
stand with the Harleys, I stand upon them. Where should such crawling,
footless creatures be?" and Storri pointed to his own somewhat ample
foundations as indicating the groveling whereabouts of the Harleys.

"But you go there?" remarked the San Reve, flintily suspicious.

"No, my San Reve," yawned Storri. "Pardon my grossness;--a yawn in the
presence of a lady, and I a Russian gentleman! I took the habit from
these pig Americans! You should know, my dear San Reve, that the very
name of Harley bores me. No, I shall no more go to those Harleys. They
send, they beg; I do not go. Why should I so honor them? Bah! let them
come to me! Is a Russian--is a nobleman to be at the beck of such vile
little people? No, they must come to me, your Storri, my San Reve; and
when they arrive, bah! I shall not see them. I shall tell them they must
come again!" And Storri lifted his hand grandly, as though the Harleys
were now disposed of and their trivial status fixed.

Storri threw this off with a lazy insolence that, all things considered,
did him credit. And yet he was not wise. He might not have told the San
Reve that he had ended his visits to the Harleys, but her bold brow and
thoughtful face misled him. He regarded her as deeper than she was; he
considered that she would soon discover how he no longer was a guest at
the Harley table, and thought to save himself from an inference by a
proclamation. He would take the initiative and seem to cast the Harleys
into the outer darkness of his disregard. It would make for his standing
with the San Reve; more, it would soothe her jealousies.

Storri might have been justified of his reasonings had there existed no
flaw in his premises. The San Reve was far from being gifted with that
cold, incisive wisdom which he ascribed to her. Given a situation
wherein the San Reve had no concern, and she would be sound enough; her
speculations would defend themselves, her advice be worth a following.
Endow the San Reve with a personal interest, the more if that interest
were one mixed of love and jealousy, and her reason, if that be its
name, would go blind and deaf and lapse into the merest frenzy of
insanity. She would hasten to believe the worst and disbelieve the best.
Under spell of jealousy, the San Reve would accept nothing that told in
her own favor; and just now, despite an outward serenity--for, though
sullen, she was serene--the San Reve was afire with jealousy like a
torch.

The San Reve listened to Storri and said nothing; she could see how
matters stood. Storri still dominated the Harleys; he went there; he saw
Miss Harley; his suit was advancing; that was what had sent him to her,
the San Reve, with a lie on his lips about having quit his calls at the
Harleys'; he was seeking to blind her to what was passing. But she, the
San Reve, would be cunning; she would fathom the traitor Storri. Even
then she could foretell the end. In a week, or mayhap a month, the news
would reach her of the wedding of Storri and Miss Harley. What else
could come? Storri was a Count. Were not Americans mad after Counts? And
such a nobleman! Wealthy, handsome, brilliant, bold--who could refuse
his love? Not the Harleys--not Miss Harley! No, the transparent sureness
of it set sneeringly a-curl the San Reve's mouth. Soon or late, Storri
would lead Miss Harley to the altar. The bells would ring, the organ
swell, the people gape and comment. And then Storri and his bride would
ride away; while she, the San Reve--she, the disgraced--she, the
daughter of a man who tamed lions--she would be left alone with her
despised heart!

All this wild driftwood of conjecture came riding down on the swift,
tumbling currents of the San Reve's thoughts, and to her these mad
conclusions were as prophecy. What should she do--she and her poor love?
She must not lose her idol--her Storri! What should she do? She had
written this Mr. Storms of the French shares and nothing had come of
that! Should she disclose herself to Miss Harley? Of what avail? What
woman was ever withheld from wedding a man by the word of that man's
mistress? The San Reve could have scorned herself for a fool! She was
handless to interfere; the San Reve clenched her white, strong teeth to
find herself so much at bay.

Stop; there was one chance of defeating fate--a sure chance; the thought
had come before! And now the San Reve looked strangely at Storri; her
teeth showed pearl against the coral of her parted lips while her
nostrils dilated like the nostrils of an animal.

The little world you have been considering through the medium of this
veracious chronicle began now to adjust itself to the changes that have
been recorded. Mr. Harley and Senator Hanway, for their parts, gave
themselves wholly to that winning of a White House; their ardor, if it
were possible, had been promoted by the reverse in Northern
Consolidated, and Senator Hanway's anxiety to be President appeared to
brighten as his money-fortunes dimmed. And, as though Fate meditated
amends for those disasters of stocks, from every angle of politics there
came flattering reports. Senator Hanway was sure, so said the reports,
to write himself "President Hanway"; politicians were shouldering one
another to secure seats in the bandwagon of that statesman's prospects.
True, for all their preoccupation, Mr. Harley and Senator Hanway would
now and then glance up from those details of practical politics over
which they were employed, to wonder why the hidden one of that "corner"
did not close the transaction by peeling off their fiscal pelts. So far
there had come neither word nor sign of him.

The old gray buccaneer exhorted them in no wise to be uneasy.

"You needn't fret," said the old gray buccaneer; "he's got us as fast as
two and two make four. For us to be wondering why he doesn't come around
is as though a coop full of turkeys went wondering why the poulterer
didn't come around. No; I can't tell you why he--whoever he is--so
leaves us in protracted peace. Perhaps he's fattening us," and the old
gray buccaneer cheered the conversation with a laugh as strident as
saw-filing.

Richard and Dorothy, following the selfish fashion of lovers, thought on
nothing but themselves. Our young journalist's contributions to the
_Daily Tory_ fell away in both quantity and quality, and the editor
commented thereon sarcastically, saying they were becoming "baggy at the
knee." Richard did not resent the criticism; he cheered himself with the
theory that when he had recovered from his happiness he would do better.
Meanwhile, he and Dorothy privily appointed their nuptials for the first
of June, taking Bess into the secret.

Dorothy asked Richard how he had rescued her father from beneath the
hand of Storri; which natural inquisition Richard avoided in right
man-fashion by kissing the questioning lips and saying that Dorothy
wouldn't understand.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley was different from Dorothy. With a wifely experience
of many years to guide her, she did not ask Mr. Harley why he had gone
to furious war with Storri. Mrs. Hanway-Harley would not put the query
for two reasons: Mr. Harley would prevaricate; besides, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley knew. It was as obvious as a pikestaff to that sagacious
gentlewoman; Mr. Harley and Storri had quarreled over stocks. Mr. Harley
had been detected in some effort to swindle Storri; or he had detected
Storri in some effort to swindle him; men were always swindling and
quarreling, according to Mrs. Hanway-Harley. She put no question to Mr.
Harley, and only marveled at a thickness that would sacrifice the
family's chance of possessing a Count over a low, trifling matter of
dollars and cents.

Inspector Val, when the capture of the French shares had removed the
reason of his appearance in Storri's destinies, told Richard that he
would, with his permission, still continue on the trail of that
nobleman.

"Unless my judgment be at fault," explained Inspector Val, "there's
something coming off that I wouldn't miss for anything you can name."

Richard, held fast with sweeter problems, cared not at all for Storri
nor Inspector Val's pursuit of him. If it jumped with the humor of that
scientist of stealth, Inspector Val might follow Storri to the grave.
Richard would be pleased to have him do so, and to pay the costs thereof
as rapidly as they accrued.

Inspector Val, whose trade it was to read men, smiled upon Richard at
this and went his satisfied way. He would stick to Storri; and he would
notify Richard should aught unusual either promise or occur. Inspector
Val saw that in Richard's present mood of beatific imbecility a
conference with him would mean no more than would a conference with the
Monument.

Storri, while easily beaten from any specific enterprise, was ever ready
with a fresh one. During those days when, like a convalescing wolf, he
lay hiding with his wounds from the sight and search of men, his
disorderly and, one might say, his criminal, imagination busied itself
in sketching a giant scheme. It was as unique as had been the fallen
Credit Magellan without owning to a shadow of Credit Magellan's
legitimacy. This time Storri would have no partners; there would be no
Mr. Harleys and no osprey pools to sell him out. Before all was done he
might require men; but of the sort one controls like slaves.

There was one need that must be supplied, however; Storri must have
money. Stimulated with the necessities that pricked him, Storri
bethought himself of the Chinese Concession. That precious document was
in his possession; the osprey pool had not been granted its custody.
Storri carried the saffron silk to a rich and avaricious man; he asked
the loan of fifty thousand dollars, and offered interest steeple-high.
The man of wealth and avarice was deeply affected; he, like the others,
sent for the brocaded, poppy-scented Mongol. The poppy Mongol came,
salaamed, translated, and went his way. Then the one of gold and avarice
counted down the fifty thousand, and locked up the yellow silk with
Storri's note for ninety days in his safe.

Being strengthened with those fifty thousand dollars, Storri sought an
ancient surveyor. Did the ancient one possess an accurate map of
Washington?--a map that showed every public building and park and
street-railway and water-main and sewer, all done to the final fraction
of an inch? Storri's Czar has asked for such;--his Czar who so admired
the Americans and their beautiful Capital!

The ancient one of chains and levels had such a map. Being a man to whom
a unit was like a human being and every fraction as a child, the map was
accurate in its measurements to the thickness of a hair. Storri bought
the map; it showed the line of that drain which ran so temptingly close
to the Treasury gold, and Storri's eye glistened as he followed it to
the river's edge.

Storri collected photographs of the Capitol, the White House, and other
public structures as a blind to conceal his purpose and lend luster of
truth to those tales of his Czar's interest in things American. One
evening Storri related to the San Reve his Czar's desires touching maps
and plans and pictures, and showed her, among others, a picture of the
Treasury.

Ah, that reminded Storri! His San Reve worked in the office of the
supervising architect! Could his San Reve procure him a ground-plan of
the Treasury Building? His Czar had laid especial stress upon such a
drawing!

Yes, Storri's San Reve could get the desired ground-plan without
difficulty. It would show everything foundational, with a cross-section
displaying the depth of the walls below street grades.

The San Reve accepted as genuine Storri's eagerness to serve his Czar.
Nor did she doubt Storri's description of the Czar's American curiosity;
from what she had heard of that potentate, the San Reve believed him to
be as crazy as a woman's watch. Certainly, if Storri wished to send the
imperial lunatic a cartload of plans, the San Reve would contribute what
lay in her power.

The next day Storri received from the San Reve a ground-plan of the
Treasury Building. It exhibited in red ink the vault that held the gold
reserve. Storri gazed upon that oblong smudge of red and studied its
location with the devotion of a poet.

And now what was to be more expected than that the curious Czar would
ask questions of Storri, when that illustrious Russian returned to St.
Petersburg, concerning those many superiorities which the American
buildings possessed? The thought set the indefatigable Storri to
visiting the public buildings. He made a tour of the State War and Navy
Building, the Corcoran Gallery, the Capitol, and finally the Treasury
Building. Who should escort him through that latter grim, gray edifice
but an Assistant Secretary? The affable A. S. had met Storri at the
club; certainly he could do no less than give him the polite credit of
his countenance for his instructive rambles. Under such distinguished
patronage Storri went from roof to basement; even the vault that guarded
the nation's gold was thrown open for his regard.

This gold vault was of particular moment to Storri; his Czar had laid
weight upon that vault. Yes; he, Storri, could see how it was
constructed--thick walls of masonry--an inner lining of chilled steel
that would laugh at drills and almost break the teeth of nitric
acid--the steel ceiling and sides bolted to the masonry--the floor,
steel slabs two feet in width, laid side by side but not bolted, and
bedded upon masonry that rested on the ground! Surely, nothing could be
more solid or more secure! The door and the complicated machinery that
locked it were wonders, marvels! Nowhere had he, Storri, beheld such a
door or such a lock, and he had peeped into the strong rooms of a dozen
kings. The gold, too, one hundred and ninety-three millions in all,
packed five thousand dollars to a sack in little canvas sacks like bags
of birdshot, and each sack weighing twenty pounds--Storri saw it all!

"And yet," quoth Storri, giving the polite Assistant Secretary a kind of
leer, "do not that door and lock remind you of the chains and locks upon
your leathern letterbags?--a leathern bag which the most ignorant of men
would slash wide open with a penknife in an instant and never worry
chains and locks?"

Storri traced that drain in its course to the river. It ran south past
the corner of the Treasury Building for the matter of a hundred yards or
more, and then broke south and west across the White Lot between the
White House and the Monument. In the end it abandoned this diagonal
flight and soberly took to the center of a street that lay to the west
of the White House, and followed it to the Potomac.

Storri, hands in pocket and puffing an easy cigar, sauntered to the
water front and took a look at the drain where it finished. The
inspection gratified him; the drain was like a great tunnel; one might
have driven a horse and wagon into it. Storri was especially struck by
the fact that a considerable stream of water gushed from the drain's
mouth; the stream had a fair current, four miles an hour at least, and
showed a depth of full six inches. This was a discovery that set
Storri's wits in motion; the drain boxed in a living brook.

It was eleven o'clock that night when Storri returned to the mouth of
the drain; he was wrapped in a greatcoat and wore high boots. There
were no houses about; as for loiterers, the region was deserted after
dark. Storri looked out on the broad bosom of the river; he noticed that
even at low tide a boat drawing no more than eighteen inches might push
within a dozen feet of the drain.

Satisfied that no one observed him, Storri stepped to the mouth of the
drain and disappeared. He splashed along in the running water with his
heavy boots for something like a rod; then he stopped and lighted a
bicycle lantern which he took from his greatcoat pocket. The lantern
threw a bright flare after the manner of the headlight of a locomotive,
and Storri could hear the scurrying splash of the rats as it sent an
alarming ray ahead like a little searchlight. Being lighted on his way,
Storri kept steadily forward until, turning the corner where the drain
broke to the right across the White Lot, he was lost to sight.

As Storri disappeared, two men far behind him at the mouth of the drain
stood watching. They had thus far followed Storri dimly with their eyes
by the light he carried.

"What's become of him, Inspector?" whispered Mr. Duff, the shorter of
the men. "He hasn't doused his glim, has he?"

"No," replied Inspector Val, "there's a bend at that point."

"What's next?" asked Mr. Duff; "do we follow him in and collar him? or
do we just wait here?"

"Collar him!" repeated Inspector Val disgustedly. "I'd like to catch you
collaring him! Is this a time to talk of collaring, and we no further
than the threshold of the job? Let him alone; he's only laying out the
work to-night."




CHAPTER XIX

HOW LONDON BILL TOOK A PAL


Perhaps the golden rule of all detective work is, Never let the detected
one detect. Inspector Val was alive to this ordinance of his craft, and
an hour later, when Storri cautiously emerged from the drain, he met
neither sign nor sound of Inspector Val and Mr. Duff. Feeling sure that
his exploration had not been observed, Storri wended homeward to his
rooms, his chin sunk in meditation.

Storri the next day went to New York, and immediately on arrival at that
hotel which he designed to honor with his custom he sprang into a
hansom, and within ten minutes was at a private-detective agency, being
the one whereat he aforetime procured those spies to set about the
Harley house--spies long since withdrawn. The head of this detective
bureau was a coarse-visaged, brandy-blotched man named Slater.

"And so," observed Mr. Slater, following a statement of Storri's errand,
"you want to be put next to a 'peter-man, what we call a box-worker?"

"I would like to meet the best in the business," said Storri; "one also
who is acquainted with others in his line, and who can be relied upon to
the death."

"You want something desperate, eh?" said Mr. Slater, in a tone of
suspicion. "Might I ask whether you have a safe to blow or a crib to
crack on your own private account? I'm a cautious man, myself," he
concluded, with a harsh chuckle, "and like to know what I'm getting
mixed up with."

"Your caution is to be commended," returned Storri, "and I'll answer
freely. No, I've no one to rob, no safe to break open. The truth is, I
want to prosecute a search for a certain criminal, and I think a man of
the stamp I wish to meet could help me more than a regular detective
whose person is known and who would be instantly suspected. I'm not
looking to arrest, but only to find a certain man. I shall pay him to
whom you send me for his trouble, and you for putting me in touch with
him."

"It's an irregular thing to do," remarked Mr. Slater, "but I see no
harm."

Mr. Slater rang a bell and asked for Mr. Norris.

"Norris," said Mr. Slater, "this party wants to be put next to London
Bill--wants to be made solid with Bill. That's as far as you go."

"All right," said Mr. Norris. Then addressing Storri: "If you come now,
I think I can locate your man in fifteen minutes."

Storri and Mr. Norris drove to a doggery near the East River, in the
vicinity of James Slip. It was called the Albion House. The lower floor
was a bar-room, and two or three sinister-looking characters lounged
about the room. Mr. Norris ordered beer; then he leaned across to the
barman and whispered a question.

"Why, yes," returned the barman, looking hard at Mr. Norris as though to
read his errand, "Bill's been here. But it's on the square; he ain't
doin' nothin'. I don't think he's seein' company neither."

"This is on the level, Dan," said Mr. Norris, who appeared to be on
terms of acquaintance with the barman. "Let me make you known to Mr.
Brown," he continued, introducing Storri. "Now here's all there is to
it. Mr. Brown thinks Bill can put him wise to a party he's got business
with. There's no pinch goes with it, and Mr. Brown's willing to do the
handsome."

"Well," replied the barman doubtfully, "if Bill's about, I'll see what
he thinks himself." With this, the barman, who was a brutal specimen
with lumpy shoulders and a nose that had seen better days, called one of
the loungers to preside in his stead, and retired through a door to the
rear. He returned in a moment saying that Bill would see the caller, and
jerked his stubby thumb in the direction of a back room.

"This is a boozing ken for hold-up people," explained Mr. Norris in a
whisper, as he and Storri obeyed the hint tendered by the barman's
thumb. "That bar-keep, Dan, used to be a strong-arm man himself; but
since he's got this joint, he doesn't do any work, and has turned
fall-guy for a fleet that operates along the Bowery."

Storri knew nothing of "strong-arm men," and "fall-guys," and "fleets,"
but he put no questions, and only seemed intent on meeting London Bill.

In the rear room that formidable outlaw was discovered seated at a
table. He was alone, and evidently had just come from upstairs, as a
door leading to the stairway was ajar. Mr. Norris presented Storri to
London Bill, and, this social ceremony over, made few words of it before
withdrawing altogether, leaving Storri and his new friend to themselves.

"Suppose we drink something," said London Bill, in noncommittal tones.

Storri ordered beer in a bottle, cork untouched; Storri had heard of
knockout mixtures, and did not care to make his advent into upper
criminal circles in the rôle of victim. London Bill grinned in a wise
way, but made no comment, calling for gin himself.

"What is it?" said London Bill, after the gin had appeared and
disappeared; "what's the argument you want to hand me?"

"I don't care to talk here," observed Storri, glancing suspiciously at
the walls within touch of his hand. "Let us go outside."

"That's it," observed London Bill; "now if we was to go plantin'
ourselves in Union Square, or any little open-air place like that, it's
ten to one some Bull from the Central Office would come along an' spot
us. They're onto my mug; got it in the gallery in fact."

"We can't talk here," said Storri decidedly.

"Wait a minute," suggested London Bill, who it was clear had grown
curious as to Storri's errand, "I think I can fix the thing." He stepped
into the bar and returned with a key. "Come on," said he; "there's an
empty hall upstairs that ought to do us. It's as big as a rink."

London Bill led the way up the foul, creaking stairs, and opened a door
on the top floor. It was a room the bigness of the building, and had
been used for dancing. Drawing a couple of wooden chairs to a front
window, Storri's guide motioned him to a seat.

"Here we be," he said; "now what's it all about?"

Storri, nothing backward when assured that no one was playing
eavesdropper, began to talk, carefully avoiding his usual jerky Russian
mannerisms. You have been told of Storri's graphic clearness of
statement, once he had fully perfected the outlines of some enterprise.
In fifteen minutes, but only in vaguest way, he laid his proposal before
London Bill; the proposal was so framed that the 'peter-man understood
no more than that a bank of unusual richness was to be broken into, and
his aid was sought.

"Your share alone," whispered Storri, "will foot up for a million."

London Bill's little black eyes twinkled like those of a rat. He didn't
make reply at once, but looked out of the grimy, cobwebby pane at the
sky. The face of London Bill was rough, but not unpleasant, and, though
he had killed his man and was a desperate individual if cornered, the
only trait expressed was a patient capacity for enterprises that might
require days or even weeks in their carrying out.

"Don't you think now you're a bit of a come-on?" observed London Bill,
swinging around to Storri from his survey of the distant heavens.

"Why?" asked Storri, as cool as the other.

"This is why," returned London Bill. "Here you butt in, a dead stranger,
and make a proposition. Suppose I was to rap?"

"I'd declare that you lied," replied Storri cheerfully, "and no one with
sense would believe you. They would say that if I intended to ask your
help in such work as I have described, I wouldn't seek an introduction
through a detective agency."

"Something in that," said London Bill, a gleam of admiration in his
beady gimlet eye. "Well, I never squeal, an' only put the question to
try you out. Go on, an' tell me what it is an' where it is; whether I go
into the job or not, at least you've nothin' to be leary of in me."

Storri, who had been studying London Bill as hard as ever that cracksman
was studying him, re-began in earnest. He now laid bare the proposal in
its every corner, and showed London Bill the plans and maps, including
the valuable cross-section drawing that displayed the relation of the
Treasury Building to street levels. London Bill, who appeared to have
gifts as an engineer, bent over the maps and drawings, considering and
measuring distances.

"What sort of ground is this?" said London Bill, laying a finger on the
cross-section drawing, where it was painted dove-color as showing the
earth beneath the street; "is it clay or sand?"

"Gray clay," returned Storri, "and fairly hard and dry."

"Good," remarked London Bill; "no fear of caving." Recurring to the
drawings, London Bill proceeded: "It'll take two months to dig that
tunnel. I'll have to dip as I go in, in order to creep beneath the
footstones of the sidewall; then I'll bring the tunnel up on a long
slant. The tunnel should be four feet high and about three wide; the
earth I'd throw into the sewer, the water would wash it away. There's no
risk in digging the tunnel, as no one would get an inkling of what's
afoot until the last shove, when we made direct for the money. On that
point let me ask: How long can we count on being undisturbed after we've
got to the gold? Now if it was a bank, we'd time the play for Saturday
afternoon after closing hours; that would give us until Monday morning
at nine before they'd tumble."

[Illustration: "It'll Take Two Months to Dig that Tunnel."]

"We can do better than that," returned Storri. "Saturday, May
twenty-eighth, is the anniversary of the death of a former Secretary of
the Treasury, and a special holiday has been already declared for that
day. Monday, May thirtieth, is Decoration Day, a general holiday. We
should have, you see, from Friday at four o'clock until Tuesday at ten;
time enough to carry out several fortunes in twenty-pound packages worth
five thousand dollars each."

"How do you expect to get away with the swag?" asked London Bill.

"Steam yacht," replied Storri sententiously. "I shall carry it from the
mouth of the drain to the yacht with a launch. It's as silent as a bird
flying, is that launch. Oh, I've thought everything out in full; I can
get the yacht and the launch. The latter will freight an even ton every
trip. Do you know how much gold money it takes to make a ton?"

"Half a million dollars," said London Bill, with his professional grin.
"You see, partner, I've had to do a deal of studyin' along the same line
as yourself."

"Precisely," returned Storri, disregarding the compliment implied by the
epithet partner; "five hundred thousand dollars. We shall have seven
hours a night for three nights, in which to freight the gold from the
mouth of the drain to the yacht."

"Four nights," said London Bill correctively; "Friday, Saturday, Sunday,
and Monday nights. I can carry that tunnel to a place within two hours
of the stuff, with the Treasury full of people; no one would catch on.
Take my word for it, you can begin getting out the gold the moment it
turns dark on Friday night. Let's pray for a storm for those four
nights."

"Your argument is right," observed Storri, "but there's a point you
overlook. We shall have but three nights; Monday and Monday night will
be required to take the yacht down the river, and into the open ocean.
The instant the loss is discovered, they'll know the business was
managed with the yacht; they will recall her as having been in the river
the three or four days before. I mean to repaint her from black to
white, the moment we're out of sight from the shore. I shall change her
name, and have papers ready to match the change. Oh, my friend, you will
see that I"--here Storri, who had studiously refrained from his usual
bragging, exultant, staccato style of speech, and aped the plain and
commonplace, almost forget himself; he was on the brink of giving his
name, which thus far had been withheld. He checked himself in time, and
ended soberly by saying: "You will see that I have left nothing
unconsidered."

"Seven hours a night," ruminated London Bill, "and three nights: In
considering everything, as you say, have you figured on how many trips
your launch, bearing five hundred thousand dollars a trip, can make
between shore an' ship?"

"The launch can make as many as twenty-one trips a night. In three
nights she ought to put more than thirty millions of dollars aboard the
yacht. That region around the drain's mouth is wholly deserted. By
working without lights there isn't a chance of being detected."

"Thirty millions!" repeated London Bill, grinning cynically, "and all in
five-thousand-dollar sacks! Did it ever occur to you that it will take
some time to carry the gold down to the drain's mouth? It's close by
three-quarters of a mile, that trip is."

"My friend," retorted Storri, with just a tinge of patronage, "leave
that to me. I'll find a way to send the gold to the drain's mouth
without breeding any backaches. All you are to do is dig the tunnel, and
dig it so we can reach the gold."

"That's simple," observed London Bill. "I shall dig so as to undermine
an end of one of those steel slabs that make the vault's floor, running
my tunnel for the rear end of the vault. The weight of the gold will
force down the slab when undermined. I'll open that vault like lifting
the cover of a chest, only the cover will drop from the bottom instead
of lifting from the top. The minute that slab of steel drops six inches,
the sacks of gold will begin sliding into our tunnel of their own
accord. You needn't worry about my part of the job; I can take thirty
millions out of the vault if you can get them to the mouth of the
drain."

"I can get them to the mouth of the drain," responded Storri
confidently, "and another thirty with them. The real limit to our
operations is the yacht itself. The one I have in mind will only carry
one hundred tons, and thirty millions in gold makes sixty tons, to say
nothing of ship's stores and coal."

"What place will you head the boat for when the job's done?"

"That," said Storri, "I shall leave to be settled in the open Atlantic.
The question now is: Are you going with me? I've told you that your
share is to be a million."

"One thirtieth?" said London Bill, with the ring of complaint in his
voice.

"One thirtieth," returned Storri with emphasis. "Where else can you get
one million for ten weeks' digging and a six-months' cruise in a yacht?
Besides, there will be a dozen others to share; to say nothing of the
yacht, and what it costs to coal her and buy her stores. Come now; do
you go with me?"

London Bill put out a small, hairy hand, and gave Storri a squeeze of
acquiescence that was almost a mate for the grip bestowed upon our
nobleman by Richard that snow-freighted day in November.

"I'm with you, live or die," said London Bill; "an' I never weaken, an'
never split on a pal."

Storri and London Bill put in an hour discussing plans. There were to be
no more men brought into the affair until late in May. London Bill would
come to Washington and commence his tunnel work at once. It would be a
slow employment and require care; it was best to have plenty of time.

"Because," explained London Bill, "if these maps an' drawings ain't
accurate to the splinter of an inch, it may throw me abroad in my
digging. In that case I'd need an extra week or so to find myself."

Storri coincided with the view, but added that the yacht would have to
be manned as early as the middle of May.

"The men needn't know the purpose," said Storri, "till the last moment.
When it comes to selecting them, I shall ask your advice."

"I can give you that to-day," said London Bill, "better than in May.
I'll be busy in my tunnel in May, and won't have time to come out.
Here's what I'll do: I'll call up Dan right now. Dan's an old sailor, as
well as a first-class gun and hold-up man--the gang calls him Steamboat
Dan. I'll call Dan, an' put him into the play. Then when the time comes,
Dan will get you the men, an' of the right proper sort. There won't be
one of 'em who hasn't done a stretch."

"But," remonstrated Storri uneasily, "are you sure of this Steamboat
Dan?"

"I wouldn't be lushin' gin in his crib else," responded London Bill.
"No, Dan's as sure as death. Besides, I'm not goin' to put him wise; I
shall only tell him to do whatever you ask, whenever you show up."

London Bill called Dan, and the trio broadened their confidence in each
other with further gin and beer. Dan gave his word for whatever was
required; Storri had but to appear and issue his orders.

"You'll be in at the finish, Dan," said London Bill; "an' for the
others, pick out a dozen of the flossiest coves you can find. You'll be
bringin' them to where I'm workin', d'ye see; an' the job will be ripe."

"Will it be much of a play?" asked Dan.

"Biggest ever," said London Bill; "an' yet, no harder than prickin' a
blister."

Storri jumped into the cab, which had waited for him at the door, and
rattled swiftly away. Within five minutes thereafter, a ragged gamin
strutted into the Albion bar.

"Be you Steamboat Dan?" chirped the gamin, fixing the eye of a sparrow
upon that tapster.

"Well, s'ppose I be?" said Dan, not too well pleased with the
sparrow-eyed.

"Then this is for you," quoth the gamin, thrusting a note across the
bar.

Dan glanced at the note; next he smote the bar, accompanying the smiting
with soft curses.

"What's the row?" asked one of the loungers.

"Nothin'," said Dan, his face clearing into a look of easy craft.
"Here's a pal of mine gets himself run over an' fractured by the cable
cars, an' is took to the hospital. You hold down the bar, Jimmy, while I
go look him over."

The person addressed as Jimmy had no objection to an arrangement that
meant free drinks, and once he was installed Dan put on his hat and
moved rapidly up the street. A turn or two and a brisk walk of ten
minutes found him in Mulberry Bend. Dan walked more slowly, and was
rewarded by the sight of Inspector Val sauntering along half a block
ahead. The great thief-taker rounded a corner, and albeit Dan made no
effort to overtake him, he was scrupulous to make the same turn. As he
came into the cross-street he glanced about for Inspector Val; that
personage was nowhere to be seen. Dan kept on his way, and before he had
journeyed another block Inspector Val caught up with him from the rear,
and passed him. Two doors further and Inspector Val entered an Italian
restaurant; Dan, after going fifty yards beyond and returning, stepped
into the same place. As he laid his hand on the restaurant's door, he
shot a swift look up and down the street. There was no one in view whom
he knew, and Dan brought a breath of relief.

"This bein' a stool ain't no hit with me," sighed Dan, "but will any
sport show me how to sidestep it?"

As no sport was there to hear the plaint of Dan, the latter must have
despaired of a reply before he put the question. Once more he cheerfully
greeted Inspector Val, and the two withdrew to a private room.

"Dan," said Inspector Val, when they were seated at a table with a flask
of chianti between them, "I needn't tell you that you're still wanted
for that trick you turned in Chicago, or remind you of the many little
things I've overlooked in your case in New York."

"No, Inspector," replied Dan, sorrowfully tasting his chianti, "I'm dead
onto 'em all. What is it? Give it a name."

"Do you know what that black-bearded man wanted in your place?"

"No," said Dan, "I don't."

"He came to meet London Bill, and you floor-managed the play."

"But I don't know what he wanted of Bill," said Dan, a bit staggered.

"Well, I know what he wanted of Bill. And I know what he will want of
you. I'll tell you what you are to do; and if you cross me, or fall
down, it will mean several spaces in Joliet, so have a care. I'll put
you easy on one point. Neither you, nor London Bill, nor any of the pals
you'll put into this game about the middle of May, will get the collar.
You have my word for that."

"Your word goes with me, Inspector," interjected Dan, plainly relieved,
and bending to his chianti as though after all it might not be red
poison.

"Good; my word goes with you--which is fortunate for you. These are your
orders: You're to say never a word; and you're to proceed with this as
though nothing queer was in the wind. As fast as you know anything, you
will find that I'll call for it. Do whatever this black-bearded party
asks; go with him as far as he wants to go, and go with your eyes shut.
I'll step in and get him when the time comes; he's the one I'm after.
Now you understand: say nothing, do whatever the black-beard desires;
and when I want to see you I'll send. And be careful about London Bill;
he's foxy. That was why I let you go by me a moment ago; I didn't know
but Bill was fly enough to tail you here. He'll be gone, however, in a
day, or at the most two, and then you'll have no more risk with Bill."

"How did you know Bill was goin' to-morrow? It wasn't settled thirty
minutes ago."

"I know it just as I know that you, about May fifteenth, will pick up a
dozen or more pals who are whole crooks and half sailors; that you will
then leave on a boat, probably a steam yacht, May twenty-sixth, bound
for Washington; and that the job of bin-cracking you will engage in is
to be pulled off May twenty-seventh to twenty-ninth inclusive."

"You know more'n me, Inspector," observed Dan, with wonder undisguised.

"If I didn't I wouldn't be telling you what to do. That's all, Dan; have
you got your orders straight?"

"Straight as a gun," declared Dan, wiping the last drops of the chianti
from his mouth.

"Screw out then," commanded Inspector Val, "and come only when I send
for you."

Two days later, a laborer, clean-shaven and of rather superior exterior,
fastened a tape measure to the iron cover of a manhole that opened into
the drain that ran by the side of the Treasury Building. Tape fastened,
the laborer unwound its length along the asphalt for perhaps one hundred
feet. Then he began to re-wind the tape into its circular box. As he
followed the incoming tape towards the end that was fastened to the
manhole cover, winding as he went, he paused for the ghost of a second
squarely opposite the little basement door-way in the Treasury Building,
where the old watchman stood smoking his pipe on the evening that Storri
was told of the gold inside. The old watchman, being on day duty now,
was standing in that same door-way, smoking the self-same pipe, and had
his ignorant eye listlessly fixed upon the laborer, busy with his
measurements. As the laborer paused abreast of the door, he glanced down
at the tape.

"The even seventy feet from the center of that manhole," he murmured, as
though he thus registered the figures in his mind.

And the old watchman, and the pedestrians hurrying along the pavement,
thought the laborer busy with his measurements from the manhole to the
little Treasury door had been at work for the public.

That night, had it not been for the moonless dark of it, you might have
seen the same laborer who had been so concerned with tape-measures and
distances near the Treasury Building, a long shallow basket stoutly
woven of willow on his arm, making secretly for the mouth of the drain
that once witnessed the investigations of Storri. The basket concealed a
short pickax of the sort that miners use, a little spade such as
children play with on the seashore, but very strong, and a pinch-bar, or
"jimmy," about two feet long. Besides these suspicious implements, there
were food, a flask of whisky, another of coffee, and a bicycle lamp, to
make up the basket's furniture.

The laborer entered the drain's mouth, and when beyond chance of
observation from without, he paused as aforetime had Storri to light his
lamp. As the match illuminated his face, you would have identified the
features of London Bill, celebrated safe-blower, box-worker, and
'peter-man, presently about to begin his first night's work on that
thirty-million-dollar job over which he and Storri had shaken hands.
Having lighted his lamp, London Bill journeyed on his way until the same
bend in the great drain that had hidden Storri shut him out from view.

London Bill splashingly proceeded to the second turn in the drain; from
that point he counted the manholes until he stood beneath the one from
which you saw him measuring with the tape. As nearly as he might, London
Bill, going northward in the drain, slowly paced off seventy feet from
the manhole; then he halted and drove two large spikes between the
bricks that formed the walls, using the pinch-bar to do the driving. On
these nails he hung his basket and fixed his lamp, the latter so as to
light the opposite wall. Being disencumbered of the basket, London Bill
took the tape and again made his measurements, this time more accurately
than might be done by pacing.

London Bill got to work, breast-high and where the lamplight fell, on
the wall of the drain nearest the Treasury, and with the point of the
pinch-bar began taking out the bricks. Our cracksman worked slowly and
surely, laying the bricks in the bottom of the drain so as to form a
floor on which to stand. In this way he soon found himself above the
water, which thereafter muttered about the bricks instead of his boots,
as was the former uncomfortable condition.

After three hours of toil, the last brick was removed; a circular hole
four feet in diameter showed in the wall of the drain. Beyond was the
earth--gray clay, as Storri had said. Seizing the little spade, London
Bill threw a handful into the water; it was instantly dissolved and
washed away.

"There's current enough," said London Bill, in a satisfied whisper, "to
clear away the dirt as fast as I dig it, which is a chunk of luck my
way."

London Bill, being fairly launched upon his great work, crept into the
drain every night and crept forth every morning, and the hours of his
creeping were respectively eleven and four. Through the day he lay in
convenient, non-inquisitive lodgings, which he cared for himself. London
Bill did not go about the town, having no wish for company, being of the
bloodhound inveterate breed that, once embarked upon an enterprise, does
nothing, thinks nothing, save said enterprise until it is accomplished.
It was this dogged, single-hearted persistency, coupled with his cunning
and his desperate courage, that made London Bill the foremost figure of
his old but criminal guild of 'peter-men.

There was a rich man's son who infested the club; and, being a snob with
a liking for noble nearnesses, Croesus Jr. had wormed himself into
Storri's regards as far as Storri would permit. Croesus Jr., fond of
display, bought a little steam yacht--one hundred tons. After two costly
months of yachting, Croesus Jr., waxing thrifty and bewailing expense,
laid up the yacht in a shipyard on the Harlem River. The yacht's name
was _Zulu Queen_. The _Zulu Queen_ measured one hundred and ten feet
over all, and since she was of unusual beam, her draught was light. In a
beam sea the _Zulu Queen_ would all but roll her stacks overboard; in a
head sea she pounded until one feared for her safety; in smooth water,
full steam ahead, she could snap off seventeen knots. She had a
twenty-foot launch, equal to fourteen knots, that made no more noise
than a sewing machine. Altogether there were worse as well as better
boats upon the sea than was the _Zulu Queen_.

Croesus Jr., disliking expense as noted, did not care to keep the _Zulu
Queen_ in commission. And yet the rust of retirement was eating into her
value! A yacht, a horse, and a woman, to keep at their best, should be
constantly in commission. Croesus Jr. offered the _Zulu Queen_ to Storri
for the spring and summer, Storri to foot the bills. This was a
sagacious move on the part of Croesus Jr. and meant to kill a brace of
birds with one stone. He would keep the _Zulu Queen_ steamed up at
another's cost, thereby avoiding the wharf rent as well as the rust of
her banishment; also he would please a nobleman. Storri accepted the
disinterested offer of the _Zulu Queen_ from Croesus Jr.; that was just
before he met London Bill.

After meeting that eminent bandit, Storri drove to Harlem, and gave
orders for overhauling the _Zulu Queen_, as well as for storing and
coaling her to the limit of her lockers and bunkers. She was to be made
ready for the crew and cruise by May first. Storri was armed with the
written order of Croesus Jr., and the shipyard people offered no demur;
since they charged all bills in true maritime fashion to the _Zulu
Queen_, and neither to Storri nor yet Croesus Jr., the latter provident
young person must finally face the expense--a financial disaster which
Croesus Jr. never foresaw, albeit Storri was not so blind. As London
Bill plies darksome spade and pick and pinch-bar, the Harlem shipmen are
furnishing and coaling and storing the _Zulu Queen_.

Storri said nothing of London Bill and the _Zulu Queen_ to the San Reve.
He had well-nigh given up the club, being willing to postpone all chance
of meeting either Mr. Harley or Richard, and was, therefore, a more
frequent visitor to Grant Place--a social situation that pleased the San
Reve vastly.

The San Reve used to dog Storri when he left her; and, inasmuch as she
never once traced him to the Harley house or its vicinity, her jealousy
began to sleep. But the San Reve, while she haunted the steps of Storri,
could not always follow his thoughts, and they went often to the
Harleys. Storri had the Harleys ever on his mind; each day served to
intensify his hatred for Mr. Harley, and to render more sultry that
passion for Dorothy which was both love and hate. Little by little his
lawless imagination suggested methods by which he might have revenge on
Mr. Harley and gain possession of Dorothy; and the methods so suggested,
like the ingenious cogs of a wheel, mashed into that other enterprise of
gold which had enlisted the _Zulu Queen_ and London Bill. The thought of
revenge on Mr. Harley, and a physical conquest of Dorothy the beautiful,
grew and broadened and extended itself like some plant of evil in
Storri's heart. It worked itself out into leaf and twig and bud of
sinful detail until the execution thereof seemed the thing feasible;
with that the face of Storri began to wear a look of criminal triumph in
anticipation.

The San Reve observed this latter phenomenon and read it for a good
sign, holding it to be evidence of the contentment born of their happier
relations, and also of clearing skies of stocks. It spoke of fair
weather in both love and business, and the San Reve was at considerable
care not to disturb Storri with either query or comment.

To show how wrong was the San Reve, glance at this fragment of the
thought of Storri.

"What should be better," mused Storri, with that leer which Satan gave
him, "than to carry away the gold of these pig Americans, and the
daughter of one of them, on the same night? We should be off the coast
of Africa in a fortnight, and were I to tire of her I could sell her to
the Moors. Who would hear of her after that?"

Thus did Storri rear his sinful castles in the air; and as he brooded
his black designs, smoking his cigars and tossing off his brandy in
silence, the San Reve sat drinking him in with adoring gray-green eyes,
pleasing herself by conjecturing his meditations, and going miles to
leeward of the truth. Had the San Reve but guessed them, there might
have descended an interruption, and Storri's purposes suffered a
postponement at once grisly and grim.

Richard, about this time, troubled the club with his presence no oftener
than did Storri--and that was natural enough. He must see so much of
Dorothy at either her own house or Bess Marklin's, he was left scanty
time for clubs. It is wonderful how love will engage the hours and
occupy the faculties of a man.

One evening as Richard was coming from the Harley house he met Inspector
Val. Richard, wrapped in visions whereof the constituent elements were
roses and music with starlight over all, was careless of routes, and
Inspector Val led him past the Treasury Building, across the White Lot
between the Monument and the White House, until they stood at the
drain's mouth, of which you have heard so much. The stream was rushing
forth a clayey gray.

"Do you see?" asked Inspector Val, pointing to the stream.

"See what?" said Richard, waxing impatient, as a man will when roused
from loving dreams to consider a question of sewage.

"The color," replied Inspector Val. "That shows our man to be
industriously at his task. No, no explanation now; on the twenty-seventh
of May we'll come again, and the drain itself shall furnish a solution
to the puzzle."




CHAPTER XX

HOW STORRI FOOLISHLY WROTE A MESSAGE


Governor Obstinate being stubbornly and openly for gold, party opinion,
disliking concealment and skulking mystery, began to burn the grass of
imperious inquiry about the feet of Senator Hanway. Men could understand
a gold-bug or a silver-bug, and either embrace or tolerate him according
to the color of their convictions. But that monstrous insect of finance,
the straddlebug, pleased no one; and since Senator Hanway, whose
patriotism was self-interest and who possessed no principle beyond the
principle of personal aggrandizement, was on every issue a straddlebug,
finance first of all, our sinuous statesman commenced to taste troublous
days.

Senator Gruff urged him to declare for gold.

"You will have two-thirds of the better element with you," said Senator
Gruff, "and by that I mean the richer element."

Senator Hanway submitted that while the richer or managing element was
for gold, the masses might be for silver. If he were nominated following
a gold declaration, a silver public might defeat him at the polls.

"But the public," explained Senator Gruff, disagreeing, "are as sheep;
the managers of party are the wolves. The howl of one wolf in politics
is of graver moment than the bleating of many sheep."

"But the sheep are the more numerous," laughed Senator Hanway, who was
amused by what he termed the zoölogical figures of Senator Gruff.

"What matters that?" said Senator Gruff. "Wasn't it Virgil who wrote
'What cares the wolf how many the sheep be'? The wolves, I tell you,
win."

Senator Hanway, full of inborn furtivities, still hung in the wind of
doubt.

"Would it not be as wise," he argued, "to claim the public's attention
with some new unusual proposition? Might not the public, being wholly
engaged thereby, forget finance?"

Senator Gruff thought this among things possible; at least it might be
tried. Something surely must be done, or Senator Hanway would be
compelled to disclose his attitude on Silver versus Gold.

It was the decision of Senators Hanway and Gruff that the former should
bring up for Senate discussion the resolution concerning that Georgian
Bay-Ontario Canal. Credit Magellan was dead and gone, and had been since
the "bear" failure against Northern Consolidated. But no one in the
Senate, no one indeed not of the osprey pool, had heard of Credit
Magellan. Therefore, Senator Hanway could handle the Canal resolution as
a thing by itself. It could be offered as a measure important, not alone
nationally but internationally, and to all the world. Senator Hanway
would force no vote; but he would be heard, and his Senate friends and
allies would be heard. There should arise such a din of statesmanship
that the dullest ear in the country must be impressed with the Canal as
a subject of tremendous consequence. The public intelligence might thus
be made to center upon the Canal. The latter would subtract from, even
if it did not wholly swallow up in the common regard, that dangerous
query of finance.

"You may be right," observed Senator Gruff. He said this dubiously, for
he wasn't as sure as was Senator Hanway of either a public interest or
its direction touching the Canal. "It will be a novelty; and the public
is as readily caught by novelty as any rustic at a fair. But you might
better get to it at once. I had word from the Anaconda people yesterday;
they urge definite utterance on the money question. They say that either
silver or gold will do as a position; but they must know which it is to
be in order to select timber for the delegations. It won't do to name
silver delegates if you mean in the eleventh hour to declare for gold."

Senator Hanway brought up his Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal and talked a
profound hour. Other Senators followed, and the Canal held the carpet of
debate for three full days. Then it was sent back to the Foreign
Committee without a vote.

But the object of the discussion had been reached. Canal took the place
of Money in the people's mouth, and Senator Hanway, his name gaining
favorable place in every paper, particularly in the _Daily Tory_, became
a prodigious personality by acclamation. The most besotted of Governor
Obstinate's adherents now conceded the superior strength of Senator
Hanway, and two or three States which held their conventions about this
time instructed their delegates to vote for him as a unit. Mr. Harley
and Senator Gruff, being nearest to Senator Hanway, were jubilant; they
complimented and extolled the acumen that substituted Canal for Finance
as a popular shout.

"You've got it," ejaculated Senator Gruff, slapping Senator Hanway on
the shoulder with a freedom cherished by statesmen among themselves;
"the ticket is as good as made, with Hanway at the head. Put Frost on
for Vice President, and it will be all over but the fireworks."

Senator Hanway was of one mind with Senator Gruff; he could discover no
gap in his fences through which defeat might crowd.

"It's as it should be, John," observed Senator Hanway, when one evening
he and Mr. Harley were alone in his study. Richard had just left,
bearing an elaborate interview with Senator Hanway in which the Georgian
Bay-Ontario Canal was displayed as the question paramount and
precedental to all others, the interview being intended for the next
issue of the _Daily Tory_. "It would be hard, indeed," continued Senator
Hanway, "to be wiped out in politics just as we were wiped out in
stocks. I can look on present pauperism calmly enough, if it is to be
followed by the White House for four years. It would be our turn then to
issue German defiances, and use Monroe to milk the Market."

"Yes," assented Mr. Harley, a greedy twinkle in his eye, "a White House
should place us on high ground."

Mr. Harley, being thus reminded of the osprey pool, remarked that he
received a line that afternoon saying the mysterious builder of the
corner in Northern Consolidated had been discovered in Robert Lance
Bayard. The old gray buccaneer would at once learn the terms upon which
they might ransom themselves.

"If it be so much as three millions for our share," said Senator Hanway,
"it will cut us both off at the roots. Three millions would take the
last bond and the last share of stock in our boxes."

"The offer will be made for a million a man," said Mr. Harley; "but
should Mr. Bayard refuse, there's no help. He holds us at his mercy."

"Absolutely!" assented Senator Hanway, with a sigh. Then in livelier
manner: "Still, as I observed, we must console ourselves with a
Presidency. That Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal was a fortunate thought. My
nomination is certain; and the success of the ticket with the people
seems quite as sure. We must offset a loss in stocks by this mighty
profit in politics.

"Changing the subject," continued Senator Hanway, "young Storms seems to
be the accepted lover of Dorothy. I'm gratified by it; he has no money,
but Mr. Gwynn will act the generous part. What surprises me is the
submission of Barbara; she was decidedly tragic in her objections one
evening."

"Yes," said Mr. Harley, soberly exultant, his conquest of Mrs.
Hanway-Harley in the matter of that matrimony being the only battle he
had ever won from his domestic Boadicea, "yes, Barbara did object; put
it on the ground that Storms was a beggar. Thereupon I expounded her own
bankruptcy to her, showed her how it was the pot calling the kettle
black, and Barbara, feeling that she hadn't a leg to stand on,
surrendered."

Mr. Harley said nothing of that Storri secret between Dorothy and
himself.

"When will you appoint the wedding?" asked Senator Hanway.

"Dorothy will attend to that, I take it. Should she come for my advice,
I shall vote for expedition. Marriage is so much like shooting a rifle
that one ought not to hang too long on one's aim."

Richard received a wire from Mr. Bayard calling him to New York. The
next day he was closeted with the ticker-King at Thirty, Broad.

"We have never," said Mr. Bayard, "declared our respective shares in the
corner in Northern Consolidated."

Richard insisted on leaving the naming of interests to Mr. Bayard.

"I should say even interests then--half and half," returned Mr. Bayard.

Richard acquiesced.

"Then," said Mr. Bayard, "I must tell you that I'm offered seven
millions for the seven members of the pool as it now exists. You
remember your friend Storri perished on the first call for margins; we
have already taken a half-million from him."

"You won't mind," said Richard diffidently, "if I make an amended
proposition?"

"Let me hear it," returned Mr. Bayard, mildly curious; "I'm quite sure I
shall prefer your proposal to my own."

"As preliminary then," said Richard, "permit me to give you an informal
invitation to my wedding with Miss Harley; it is set for June first."

"I shall be present," said Mr. Bayard, smilingly elevating his brows.
"And Miss Harley: who is she?"

"She's Mr. Harley's daughter, and Senator Hanway's niece. Between us, I
hardly feel like reducing my sweetheart's family to bankruptcy on the
eve of our nuptials."

"I've known it done, however," returned Mr. Bayard, beating down a
chuckle.

"I've no doubt," observed Richard. "For all that I'd like to miss the
experience. This is my idea: suppose we divide men and not money. Give
me Senator Hanway, Mr. Harley, and Storri, and you take the five."

"It shall be as you desire," said Mr. Bayard, "for I see what you would
be at. This was not a speculation but a love affair; Miss Harley is your
profit."

Richard confessed to Mr. Bayard's reading of the riddle; Dorothy with
him had been the prize, and she was won. As for Mr. Harley and Senator
Hanway, Richard would have them released without loss; they were to be
restored, plack and bawbee, to what had been theirs on that tumultuous
Wednesday when the osprey pool made its initial swoop.

"Adjust the business with them June second," explained Richard. "My
wife"--he said "my wife" with a dignity that was visible--"and I will be
then on our way to the Mediterranean. Present yourself as the only one
in the affair, please; my name is a cat that I don't want let out of the
bag."

"And now, my romantic young friend," remarked Mr. Bayard, "you forget
Storri. What shall I do with the half-million taken from him?"

"Give one-half to Inspector Val; and with the other purchase an annuity
for a gentleman named Sands. I'll send Mr. Sands to you. I want to be
out of the country, however, before you arrange any of these matters."

"That's right," declared Mr. Bayard; "I know of nothing more grinding
than gratitude. By the way, how old is this Mr. Sands?"

"About thirty."

"He should have at least fifteen thousand dollars a year."

"He has so keen an approval of whisky," explained Richard, "that I don't
care to give him the money outright."

Mr. Bayard stated that he would send word to the old gray buccaneer,
fixing June second for the settlement and accepting the pool's offer of
seven millions.

"And when the day arrives," observed Mr. Bayard, "I'll carry out your
financial forgiveness of Senator Hanway and Mr. Harley."

"Not forgetting to hide my name?"

"Not forgetting to hide your name. But Inspector Val and Mr. Sands will
have to know."

"It will make the less difference; by that time I'll be three hundred
miles off-shore."

"And having," said Mr. Bayard, "so pleasantly adjusted our business,
suppose we smoke in confirmation of the adjustment. Also, if you will,
please explain the humbug of Mr. Gywnn. Why are you, who are among the
world's five wealthiest men, so anxious to pretend poverty and hide your
money-light beneath a bushel?"

"Mr. Gwynn is no humbug," returned Richard; "under my thumb, he acts for
me in business. I am saved a deal of bother at slight expense and
slighter risk. Now and then, of course, I find him absorbing some sly
hundreds. When he bought the _Daily Tory_, he substituted a pretended
agent between himself and Talon & Trehawke, and in that way sequestered
over eleven thousand dollars behind the mask of commissions. But I
always discover and rectify these discrepancies. And I forgive them,
too; for Mr. Gwynn was educated to a theory of perquisites, and such
little lapses as those _Daily Tory_ commissions are but the outcrop of
old habits too deeply rooted to be eradicated."

"But you present him as your patron--as the head of your house."

"There you're in the wrong," laughed Richard. "When I returned from
Europe bringing Mr. Gwynn, society seized upon him for its own. Society
went wild over Mr. Gwynn; it discovered in him treasures of patricianism
and a well-bred elegance. Since society insisted upon the enthronement
of Mr. Gwynn, it would have been impolite, nay narrow, on my part to
object. Besides, I recognized in it the essence of democracy and as an
American rejoiced. 'By all means,' said I, 'society shall have its
excellent way. I can give it little, but I can give it Mr. Gwynn.'"

Richard's old cynicism was for the moment restored, and the laughing
philosopher--who is only a laughing hyena in trousers and cutaway--shone
out in all a former Abderitish glory. In the brittle case of Mr. Bayard
the laughing cynic did not laugh alone; that gray eagle of the tape saw
much in Mr. Gwynn and his polite adventures to delight him. He declared
the situation to be a most justifiable sarcasm addressed, not against an
individual, but an age.

"It was," said Mr. Bayard, "a splendid vengeance upon the snobs. But
that doesn't explain," he continued, "why you were sedulous to hide your
millions from others--from Miss Harley, for a sample."

Richard braced himself and made a clean breast. He had been educated by
musty professors, visionaries, rusty creatures of theories and alcoves;
he had come to be as morbid as the atmosphere he was reared in on that
subject of his gold. It would corrupt whomsoever approached him. He,
Richard, would never know love or friendship--nothing better than a
world's greed would he know. Announce his millions, and he would have no
existence, no identity, no name; all would be merged in those millions.
He would never be given a friendship; he must purchase it. He would
never be given a woman's love; he must buy her love!

"Thus was I demon-haunted of my own gold," said Richard. "It seemed to
stand between me and all my heart went hungry for. That was my feeling;
I was galled of money. I determined to hide my wealth; I would discover
what friendships I might inspire, what loves I could attract, with only
the meager capital of my merit."

"Well," said Mr. Bayard dryly, "every man at some period must play the
fool. All's well that ends well; I shall follow your wishes concerning
Messrs. Harley, Hanway, Val, and Sands, attend your wedding, extend
congratulations, and salute the bride."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley, Mr. Harley, and Senator Hanway were duly informed of
those orange blossoms meditated by Dorothy for June. Bess, who still
retained her place as managing angel, pointed out the propriety of such
information. Bess said that Richard ought to break the news to the
Harleys and to Senator Hanway. But Richard's heart was weak; he
confessed his cowardice squarely. In his own defense he pleaded the
memory of his former interview with Mrs. Hanway-Harley; it was yet heavy
upon him, and he could summon no courage for another. Then Dorothy
became the heroine; she would inform Mrs. Hanway-Harley with her own
young lips. This she did, bearing herself the while with much love and
firmness, since Richard--quaking inwardly, but concealing his craven
condition from Dorothy--supported her throughout.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley surprised everybody with the moderate spirit in which
she received the word. True, her manner could not have been called
boisterously joyful, and indeed she made no pretense of the kind. She
kissed Dorothy; she would have kissed Richard had not that gentleman
plainly lacked the fortitude required for so embarrassing a ceremony.
Having pressed her maternal lips to Dorothy's forehead, Mrs.
Hanway-Harley remarked that it was good of the young lovers to bring
their plans to her. She realized, however, that it was no more than a
polite formality, for the affair long before had been taken out of her
hands. Her consent to their wedding would sound hollow, even ludicrous,
under the circumstances; still, such as it was, she freely granted it.
Her objection had been the poverty of Mr. Storms, and that objection was
disregarded. Mrs. Hanway-Harley could do no more; they would wed, and in
later years, while being ground in the mills of a dollarless experience,
they might justify the wisdom of her objection. In this gracious fashion
did Mrs. Hanway-Harley sanction the union of her only daughter Dorothy
with Mr. Richard Storms; after which she folded her matronly hands in
resignation, bearing meanwhile the manner of one who will face the worst
bravely and hopes that others are prepared to do the same.

Dorothy was quite affected, and hung round the neck of Mrs.
Hanway-Harley, shedding copious tears. Richard, who felt decidedly
foolish and could not shake off the impression that Mrs. Hanway-Harley
was somehow the victim of his happiness,--such was the serious effect of
that lady's acting,--confessed himself delighted when the interview was
over. When Dorothy and he were by themselves, Richard drew a deep
breath, and confided to Dorothy that Mrs. Hanway-Harley was a load off
his mind, whatever that should mean.

The formalities above recorded having been disposed of, Dorothy, nobly
abetted by Bess and extravagantly encouraged by Mr. Harley, plunged into
the business of her trousseau with the utmost fury. She became the
center of a bevy of dressmakers and milliners, and these artists got
vastly in the way of Richard when he called. Richard, being excluded,
put in hours in the harmless society of Mr. Fopling, who looked upon
Richard, now his wedding day was fixed, in fearful admiration, and said
that some day he supposed he must come to it himself. Mr. Fopling spoke
of marriage as though it were a desperate creature of citadels and mines
and scaling ladders and smoke-filled breaches, to face which would call
for the soul of a paladin.

As Dorothy's gown-buying and hat-trimming expanded into a riot of
ribbons and flounces and all decorative things, Mrs. Hanway-Harley,
attracted by a bustle dear to the feminine heart, was drawn more and
more from out her shell of martyrdom until finally she stood in the
fore-front of the mêlée, giving directions. She never omitted, however,
to maintain a melancholy, and comported herself at all times as should a
mother who only bows to the dread inevitable and but dresses her child
for the sacrifice.

Storri about this time was excessively and secretly the busy man. He
went often to New York, and held conferences with Steamboat Dan. The
latter, at Storri's suggestion, began picking up his people; all were
criminal, all aquatic, and two were capable, respectively, of
discharging the duties of a sailing master and an engineer.

Whenever Storri visited New York, Inspector Val was never far to find;
now and then he sent for Steamboat Dan to hear how the plans of Storri
moved. Steamboat Dan failed not to respond; for he was stricken of a
wholesome fear of Inspector Val. And well he might be. There was that
prison cell in Joliet all vacant for his coming; and he must protect the
shady peace of the Albion House near James Slip. Altogether, there was
no help for it; Steamboat Dan must yield to his destiny of stool pigeon
or pay the penalty in stripes. Wherefore he appeared faithfully when
called, and told Inspector Val of Storri's preparations. The _Zulu
Queen_, rich in stores, her bunkers choked with coal, waited only to be
fired up; those men who were to sail her had been secured; her papers
and her captain's papers as well as those of her engineer were ready.
The one thing now was Storri's signal; and with that all hands would go
aboard, get up steam, and point the sable cutwater of the _Zulu Queen_
for Washington.

Steamboat Dan informed Inspector Val of nothing which the thief-taker's
sagacity or vigilance had not anticipated. But Inspector Val clung to
the safe theory that, whether for his facts or deductions, he could not
have too much confirmatory proof; wherefore he was prone to put
Steamboat Dan to frequent question. One day, however, the stool pigeon
gave Inspector Val a surprising piece of information. It related to a
talk which he had had with Storri the evening before.

"It was at the heel of the hunt like," explained Steamboat Dan, "an'
just as he's about to go, he ups an' makes it known that he's goin' to
need a benziner--need a firebug."

"And of course you promised to find one," said Inspector Val.

"I had him ready; one of the gang is Benzine Bob, an' you know as well
as I do that when it comes to touchin' a match to a crib, an' then
collectin' the insurance, there's nobody nearer bein' the goods than
Benzine Bob."

"Yes, I regard Bob as a most gifted incendiary," said Inspector Val.

"Sure; he could teach it. But what do you figger this Russian's goin' to
burn?"

"We'll learn in good time. You must have Bob agree to everything this
party asks."

"No trouble on that score; settin' fire to things is Benzine Bob's
religion. He says his prayers to an oiled rag, and a box of matches is
his Bible."

Storri, taking dark and stormy nights for the visits, twice splashed up
the drain to see how London Bill came on. Storri was heedful to give the
signals agreed upon by rapping on the walls of the drain. He had no
desire to be killed in the dark by London Bill upon a theory that he,
Storri, was the enemy, and so rapped out the signals handsomely, with a
little hammer he had by him for the purpose, while still ten rods from
the scene of operations.

London Bill was slowly, yet surely, boring forward with his tunnel. The
clay as it was dug must be dragged to the mouth of the tunnel in the
willow basket, and cast into the stream; that was a process to require
time. However, time there was and plenty; London Bill would have his
work in perfect trim against the Friday evening for which the final and
decisive attack on the gold was scheduled. The tunnel, as London Bill
had said it must be, was about four feet high and three in width, and
Storri found that he went in and out very readily by traveling on hands
and knees. Storri would have come oftener to observe how London Bill
fared with his work, but the cracksman discountenanced the thought.

"There's no sense in comin'," explained London Bill. "You can't do any
good, an' you get in the way. Besides, there's the chance of being piped
off; some party might see you and catch on."

One day Inspector Val brought Richard a contrivance made of thin rubber.
It was circular, and eighteen inches in diameter. If the rubber
contrivance resembled anything, it was one of those hot-water bags
common in the trade of hospitals. It was hollow, and had a metal mouth
shaped like the mouth of a bottle; instead of water, however, the bag
was intended to hold air. Pumped full of air, the rubber bag, or rather
cushion, exhibited a thickness of about six inches. It looked a little
like a life preserver; the more since there was a hole in the center,
albeit the hole was no wider than an inch across. The rubber bag or
cushion was extremely light, the material being twice the weight of that
employed in the making of toy balloons. Inflated and considered as a
raft, the rubber cushion would support a weight of twenty pounds, and
draw no more than three inches of water in so doing.

"Storri bought four thousand of these from the Goodyear Company,"
vouchsafed Inspector Val; "had them made after patterns of his own. A
mighty tidy invention, take my word for it!" and the eye of Inspector
Val glanced approval of the circular rubber raft. Then he showed Richard
how the cushion could be inflated in a few seconds with an air-pump; and
how, being inflated, an automatic valve closed and kept the air
prisoner. "A tidy arrangement, take my word, and does that Russian party
credit!"

"What will he do with it?" asked Richard.

"Put the question later," responded Inspector Val, who was a slave to
the dramatic and never turned loose his climaxes prematurely.

The San Reve was of a nature too easily the prey of somber suspicions to
ever find perfect happiness. Besides she had been saddened, if not
soured, by the rougher, harder visitations of life. As nearly as she
might be, however, these days the San Reve was happy. And peace came to
her more and more as spring deepened into May. Storri was every day to
see her; and the most patient investigation only served to make it sure
that he had ended his relations with the Harleys. Storri went no more to
the Harley house, and if there had existed a least of chance that he
would wed Miss Harley, the peril was passed by. The San Reve began to
doubt if such a plan had ever been in Storri's mind; she was inclined to
think herself a jealous fool for entertaining the belief. She had
wronged her Storri; it was as he told her from the first; his relations,
those of business, had been solely with Mr. Harley. At this view, so
flattering to the loyal truth of Storri, the San Reve's bosom welled
with a great love for that nobleman. The gray-green eyes became quietly
serene; the strong beauty of her face gathered effulgence in the
sunshine of love's confidence renewed.

It was an evening in the early days of May. Storri was saying that he
had been commanded, through the Russian Embassy, to report to "His
Czar"; he must be in St. Petersburg June fifteenth. The San Reve had
begun to believe in the Czar as a close intimate of her Storri.

"Yes, he has called me home, my San Reve," cried Storri. "There is much
that he would know about these pig Americans, and who can tell him
better than his Storri. When I go, which will be about June first, you
shall go with me."

The San Reve's heavy face was in a glow. Russia? yes; and she would see
France again! Storri read the pleasure in her glance. Observing that it
made the San Reve more beautiful, he was taken of a natural wish to add
to it.

"Yes, you shall accompany me; I would not, no not even for my Czar, be
separated from you, my San Reve."

Storri was as fond of fiction as Mr. Harley, and of a far livelier
imagination. Once started on an untruth, he would pursue it hither and
yon as a greyhound courses a hare. Like every artist of the mendacious,
he was quick for those little deeds that would give his lies a look of
righteous integrity. Thus it befell on the occasion in hand.

"Behold now," cried Storri, as though the idea had just occurred to him,
"I will, while the thought is fresh with me, telegraph a friend in New
York to select our staterooms for the next ship after June first."

Storri wrote his message; the San Reve watching him, her heart a-brim
with love and the happiness of returning home. She would see France, see
Paris--see them with the man whom she adored! Storri whirred the
telegraph call that was fixed in the hall; presently a gray-coat lad
appeared and bore away the message. Then Storri beamed affably upon the
San Reve, who took his hand and put it to her grateful lips.

Storri beamed because he was in a right royal humor. The episode had
been unpremeditated, and yet it dove-tailed to the advantage of his
designs. The maneuver, he could see, had extinguished the final sparks
of the San Reve's jealous suspicions; extinguished them at a time, too,
when it was of consequence to lull the San Reve into fullest assurance
of his faith. And at that he had not thrown away his wire. Storri had
remembered that he must send a word to Steamboat Dan in the morning. He
decided to forestall the morning; he would dispatch the message at once.
Being one of those who suck joy from deceit, it gave Storri a thrill of
supremest satisfaction to transact the duplicity of which she was to be
one of the victims, in the unsuspecting presence of the San Reve. The
Storri vanity owned an appetite for two-faced triumphs of that feather.

Storri had departed; and the San Reve was thinking on her love for him,
and how they would return together to the France she was sick to see.
The bell rang; it was the messenger lad in need of light. The message
did not specify the city; the lad had been told to return and have the
omission supplied.

The San Reve took the message with the purpose of writing in "New York."
She ran her gray-green eye over it. The message read:

     Daniel Loughlin,
     Albion House, James Slip.

     Get the men together at your place; I will meet them Friday. They
     must go aboard at once, and take the yacht to Fortress Monroe. We
     shall then be sure of having it in Washington when we want it. B.

The San Reve read and re-read until she had every word by heart. Then
remembering the boy, she wrote in "New York," and sent him on his way.
Boy gone, the San Reve, doubts revived and all her jealous suspicions
restored to sharpest life, gave herself to groping out the meaning of
that message by the light of those lies wherewith Storri had solemnized
its production.




CHAPTER XXI

HOW THE GOLD CAME DOWN


Richard, ever modest and in this instance something timid, was for
having the wedding celebrated in Senator Hanway's study. He sought to
give the preference an atmosphere of sentiment by saying it was there he
first declared his love for Dorothy with his eyes. Bess protested
against the study, and insisted upon St. John's Church. Richard was not
to wed the most beautiful girl in the world, and then run away with her,
making the affair a secret, as though he had stolen a sheep. What! did
Richard imagine that Dorothy had been weeks over a trousseau to have it
extinguished in the narrow compass of Senator Hanway's study? The
marriage must be in St. John's where all mankind, or rather womankind,
might witness and criticise. Bess would be bridesmaid, sustained
thereunto by four damsels. Mr. Fopling should have his part as best man;
it would be good practice for Mr. Fopling, and serve to prepare him for
his own wedding, an event which Bess, under the exhilarating influence
of Dorothy's approaching nuptials, had determined upon for October.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley joined with Bess for the church. Mrs. Hanway-Harley
cast her vote delicately, saying she would have it expressly understood
that she only gave it as a view. She hoped no one would feel in any
sense bound thereby; she had not been, speaking strictly, a party to
this marriage, nothing in truth but a looker-on, and therefore it did
not become her to assume an attitude of authority. Mrs. Hanway-Harley
would only say that churches were the conventional thing and studies
were not.

Richard capitulated; indeed he gave way instantly and at the earliest
suggestion of "church." His surrender, made with the utmost humility,
did not prevent both Bess and Mrs. Hanway-Harley from demonstrating
their position in full.

"When all is said," declared Richard, "the main thing is the wedding."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley would like to know what plans had been laid for the
honeymoon. To what regions would the happy pair migrate, and for what
space? Mrs. Hanway-Harley wore a look of reserved sadness as though she
asked what cemetery had been selected as the destination of the funeral
cortège, following services of final sorrow at the house.

Richard explained that, guided by Dorothy, Italy and its mountains had
been pitched upon. They would go from Italy to France; then to England.
The length of their stay abroad was to be always in the hands of
Dorothy, who would bring them home to America whenever she chose.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley sighed economically, and suggested that Richard's
happiness ought not to blind him to the subject of expense. It would
cost a pot of money to make the journey intimated. In a sudden gush of
hardihood Richard kissed Mrs. Hanway-Harley, and assured her that in all
his life, a life remarkable for an utter carelessness of money, he had
never felt less like reckoning a cost. From beginning to end he meant to
close his eyes to that subject of expense. There the business ended, for
Mrs. Hanway-Harley was too much overcome by the kiss to proceed.

Richard went home and, being full of that honeymoon the possible expense
of which had alarmed the economies of Mrs. Hanway-Harley, summoned Mr.
Gwynn. That austere man assumed his place on the rug in frigid waiting.

"Mr. Gwynn, you will go to London, and from there to Paris, and lastly
to Naples, and at each place prepare for our reception. You will meet us
in Naples somewhere from the middle to the last of June. I say last of
June, for before we reach Naples we may idle away a fortnight in the
Mediterranean. Have everything in perfect order."

"Very good, sir," said Mr. Gwynn.

Richard made a slight dismissive motion with his hand, as showing Mr.
Gwynn that he might retire. Mr. Gwynn creaked apologetically, but stood
his ground.

"What is it?" said Richard.

"If you please, sir," observed Mr. Gwynn, a gleam in the piscatorial
eye, "if you please, sir, before I leave for Europe have I your
permission to take out my first papers and declare my intention to
become a citizen of this country?"

"May I ask what has moved you to propose this compliment for the United
States?"

"Why, sir, should you be so good as to sanction it, I have a little
plan, sir."

"Indeed; and what may be the plan which results so much to the advantage
of this country?"

"I have a plan, sir," said Mr. Gwynn, with a hesitating creak, "always
of course, sir, with your consent, to become a Senator, sir."

"Ah, I see," observed Richard with a fine gravity, "your acquaintance
with Senators Gruff and Dice and Loot and others, and your study of
those statesmen, have encouraged an ambition to make yourself one of
them."

"Yes, sir, if you please, sir."

"And what State do you intend to honor as its Senator?"

"That I shall leave entirely to you, sir. I think you will agree, sir,
that there are several States where the word of the Anaconda should
accomplish what I desire, sir."

"Well," observed Richard, schooling his face to a difficult seriousness,
"there has been much in your recent experiences, Mr. Gwynn, to justify
the thought. It will do no harm were you to take the steps you suggest
towards becoming a citizen, even if it should not end in a seat in the
Senate, a place for which I cannot deny you possess many qualifying
attributes. However, the great thing now is to get across to Europe with
every possible dispatch and have all ready for our coming. We shall be
abroad several months; on our return we may again take up this business
of making you a Senator."

"Thank you, sir; very good, sir!"

Richard became ingenious; pursuing a bright idea, he took occasion to
explain to Mr. Sands that the Hanway report on Northern Consolidated,
which he, Mr. Sands, had been so intelligent as to purloin, having
resulted in certain Wall Street advantages to Mr. Bayard and others, it
was now determined that an annuity should be purchased in his, Mr.
Sands', favor.

"The matter," said Richard, "will receive the attention of Mr. Bayard on
June second. I am told it will provide you an annual income of full
fifteen thousand dollars for the balance of your life."

Mr. Sands did not give way to the least excitement, but said that he was
glad. He would hereafter avoid labor, and devote himself to the
elevation of the workingman as represented in the union of printers. It
is perhaps as well to set forth in this place that Mr. Sands adhered
most nobly to his resolution. In the years that followed he flourished
the terror of publishers and master-printers, advising many strikes for
shorter hours and a longer wage, never failing from his personal fisc to
furnish what halls and beer the exigencies of each strike made
necessary, and wanting which no great industrial movement can survive.

Word of the coming wedding got about, and the gossipy murmur of it
reached the ears of Storri. The news stirred his savage nature to the
dregs.

"June, the first!" sneered Storri, as he paced his apartment in furious
soliloquy. "Now we shall see! Yes, you little people must first settle
with Storri! A Russian nobleman is not to be disposed of so cheaply!
What if he were to steal away your bride? The caitiff Storms must then
wait, eh?"

Storri snapped his fingers in vicious derision. He pictured the father
and mother and bridegroom, when they arose on the wedding morning to
find that the bride had been spirited away. Storri programmed a crime,
the black audacity of which went far beyond that dark-lantern enterprise
of Treasury gold upon which London Bill was so patiently employed. The
design possessed the simplicity, too, which is a ruling feature of your
staggering atrocity. The gold would be going aboard the _Zulu Queen_ on
Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. With the first blue streaks of dawn
on Monday, May thirtieth, say at four o'clock, the _Zulu Queen_,
thinking on escape, must up anchor and go steaming down the Potomac. Now
what should be less complex than to have Benzine Bob set fire to the
Harley house an hour before the time to sail? A bundle of combustibles
soaked in kerosene could be introduced into Senator Hanway's study; the
details might be safely left with Benzine Bob, to whom opening a window
or taking out a pane of glass offered few deterring difficulties. The
Harley house would be instantly filled with fire and smoke. Storri and
Benzine Bob, under pretense of saving life, would burst in the door.
Storri would seize on Dorothy, who, if she were not already in a
convenient fainting fit, might be stifled by muffling her in blankets.
Steamboat Dan would be in the street with a cab, himself on the box as
driver. Presto! Storri with his sweet prize would whirl away to the
river front. The launch would be waiting; the fair Dorothy should find
herself safe prisoner aboard the _Zulu Queen_ before she knew what had
taken place. True, there would be a crowd; the fire people, and what
others were abroad at that hour, would rush to the burning house. And
yet who would think of questioning Storri, so heroically rescuing life?
Who would dream of stopping him who was only taking the rescued fainting
one to safe shelter and medical help? In the bustle and alarm, Storri
was bound to succeed; there was no least chance of interference.

If Storri could have read the jealous breast of the San Reve, in which
kindly soil a wildest suspicion was never two hours old before it had
grown to the granite dignity of things certain, his criminal hopes might
not have soared so high! Had he known how his every step was shadowed by
the sleepless Inspector Val, and that what the latter did not surmise
was invariably told him by Steamboat Dan, his horrid confidence would
have been less insolent in its anticipations!

Mayhap there be those among you who have "punched" the casual cow, and
whose beef-wanderings included the drear wide-stretching waste yclept
the Texas Panhandle. If so you have noted, studded hither and yon about
the scene, certain conical hillocks or mountainettes of sand. Those
dwarf sand-mountains were born of the labor of the winds, which in those
distant regions are famous for persistent, not to say pernicious
industry. Given a right direction, the wind in its sand-drifting will
build you one of those sand-cones almost while you wait. The sand-cone
will grow as a stocking grows beneath the clicking needles of some
ancient dame. Again, the wind, reversing in the dance, will unravel the
sand-cone and carry it off to powder it about the plain. The sand-cone
will vanish in a night, as it came in a night, and what was its site
will be swept as flatly clean as any threshing floor.

Thus was it with Senator Hanway on a certain fateful day in May, and
less than a fortnight before the coming together of the convention which
should pass on the business of a Presidential candidate. Compared with
that other sand-cone of politics, to wit, Governor Obstinate, Senator
Hanway outtopped him as a tree outtops a shrub. In a moment the
situation, so flattering to Senator Hanway, was changed disastrously.
Those winds which builded him into the most imposing sand-cone of all
that dotted the plains of party had shifted, and with mournful effect.
Senator Hanway, beneath their erosive influence, shrunk from a certainty
to a probability, from a probability to a possibility, and then wholly
disappeared. And this disheartening miracle was worked before the eyes
of Senator Hanway, and before the eyes of his friends; and yet no one
might stay the calamity in its fulfillment. The amazing story, avoiding
simile and figure, may be laid open in a handful of sentences.

On that dread day, which you are to keep in memory, nothing could have
been brighter than the prospects of Senator Hanway. The national
delegates, some nine hundred odd, had been selected--each State naming
its quota--and waited only the appointed hour to come together and frame
the party's ticket. By count of friend and foe alike, Senator Hanway was
certain of convention fortune; he was the sure prognostication for the
White House of all the prophets.

And because the last is ever the first in the memory of a forgetful age,
and therefore the most important, that which particularly contributed to
the strength of Senator Hanway was his project of a Georgian Bay-Ontario
Canal. There arose but one opinion, and that of highest favor, touching
this gigantic waterway and the farsighted statesmanship which conceived
it; that is, but one opinion if you except the murmurs of a few railway
companies who trembled over freight rates, and whose complaints were
lost in the general roar of Canal approval.

At this juncture, so fraught with happy promise for Senator Hanway, what
should come waddling into the equation to spoil all, but a purblind,
klabber-witted journal of Toronto, just then busy beating the beauties
of the Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal into the dull Canadian skull. This
imprint, as a reason for Kanuck acquiescence in the great waterway,
proceeded to show how its effect would be to strengthen Canada in case
of war between England and the United States. Batteries could be planted
to defend the entrances of the canal, which might then be employed in
quickly sending a Canadian fleet from the upper lakes into Ontario and
vice versa. Twenty Canadian war boats, with the canal to aid them, could
threaten New York in the morning and Michigan in the afternoon, and keep
threefold their number of American vessels jumping sidewise to guard
against their ravages. If for no reason other than a reason of defensive
and offensive war, Canada should have the Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal.
Thus spake this valuable authority of Toronto.

It was Mr. Hawke, among the adherents of Governor Obstinate, who saw the
weapon that might be fashioned against Senator Hanway from the Canadian
suggestion. Mr. Hawke had long been aware of Senator Hanway's
interference against himself in the Speakership fight, and in favor of
Mr. Frost. True, he did not know of those four hundred terrifying
telegrams that so shook from his support the hysterical little
goat-bearded one and his equally hysterical fellows; but Mr. Hawke had
learned enough to ascribe his defeat to Senator Hanway, and that was
sufficient to edge him with double readiness to do said statesman what
injury he could. Besides, there was the native eagerness of Mr. Hawke to
move everything for the good of Governor Obstinate.

Mr. Hawke came out in a well-considered interview concerning the
Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal, in which he quoted in full the Toronto
paper. Mr. Hawke agreed with the Toronto paper; in addition he solemnly
gave it as his belief that Senator Hanway's real purpose had ever been
to arm England against this country. Mr. Hawke became denunciatory, and
called Senator Hanway a traitor working for English preference and
English gold. He said that Senator Hanway was a greater reprobate than
Benedict Arnold. Mr. Hawke rehearsed the British armament in the Western
Hemisphere, and counted the guns in Halifax, Montreal, Quebec,
Esquimalt, to say nothing of the Bermudas, the Bahamas, and the British
West Indies. He pointed out that England already possessed a fighting
fleet on the Great Lakes which wanted nothing but the guns--and those
could be mounted in a day--to make them capable of burning a fringe ten
miles wide along the whole lake coast of the United States. Buffalo,
Detroit, Chicago, every city on the lakes was at the mercy of England;
and now her agent, Senator Hanway, to make the awful certainty threefold
surer, was traitorously proposing his Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal. Mr.
Hawke, being a Southern man, and because no Southern man can complete an
interview without, like Silas Wegg, dropping into verse, quoted from
Byron where he stole from Waller for his lines on White:

    "So the struck eagle stretched upon the plain,
     No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
     Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart
     And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart."

Mr. Hawke closed in with a burst of eloquence, but metaphors sadly
mixed, by picturing this country as a "struck eagle," expiring at the
feet of England. It then might find, cried Mr. Hawke, how it had winged
the murderous shaft that stole its life away with the Georgian
Bay-Ontario Canal. Senator Hanway was given his share in the picture as
the paid traitor who had furnished that feather from the American
Eagle's wing which so fatally aided the enemy in his archery.

To one unacquainted with the tinderous quality of political
popularities, what ensued would be hard to imagine. Mr. Hawke's
interview was as a torch to tow. A tiny responsive flame burst forth in
one paper, then in ten, then in two hundred; in a moment the country was
afire like a sundry prairie. Senator Hanway, lately adored, was
execrated and burned in effigy. In short there occurred an uprising of
the peasantry, and Senator Hanway found himself denounced from ocean to
ocean as one guilty of studied treason. It was as much as one's
political life was worth to be on terms of friendship with him.

Speaker Frost called, and explained to Senator Hanway that he could no
longer hold the delegation from his State in his, Senator Hanway's,
interest; it would vote solidly against him in the coming convention.
Senator Gruff came under cloud of night, as though to hold conference
with a felon, and said that he had received advices from the Anaconda
President to the effect that nothing, not even the mighty Anaconda,
could stem the tide then setting and raging in Anaconda regions against
Senator Hanway. It was the Anaconda President's suggestion that Senator
Hanway withdraw himself from present thoughts of a White House. The
several States whose conventions had instructed for Senator Hanway,
through special meetings of their central committees, rescinded those
instructions. Throughout the country every vestige of a Hanway
enthusiasm was smothered, every scrap of Hanway hope was made to
disappear; that statesman was left in no more generous peril of becoming
President than of becoming Pope. And all through the gorgeous
proposition of a Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal, and the adroit use which
the malevolent Mr. Hawke had made of it! The passing of Senator Hanway
was the wonder of politics!

And yet that indomitable publicist bore these reverses grandly, for he
was capable of stoicism. Moreover, he was of that hopeful incessant
brood, like ants or wasps, the members whereof begin instantly in the
wake of the storm to rebuild their destroyed domiciles. And from the
first he lulled himself with no false hopes. As one after the other
Senator Hanway found his prospects ablaze, the knowledge broke on him,
and he accepted it, that the immediate future held for him no
Presidency. It would be party madness to put him up; the party rank and
file were in ferocious arms against him.

Senator Hanway drew one deep breath of regret and that was the limit of
his lamentation. He was young, when one thinks of a White House; there
still remained room in his life for three more shoots at that alluring
target; he would withdraw and re-prepare for four years or eight years
or--if Fate should so order the postponement of his ambition--twelve
years away. The public memory was short; within a year his fatal
Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal would be forgot. Meanwhile, what was there he
might save from the situation as it stood?

Senator Hanway exerted his diplomacy, and as fruit thereof was visited
by an eye-glassed gentleman--a foremost national figure, and the chief
of Governor Obstinate's management. Senator Hanway showed the
eye-glassed Mazarin of party how, upon his own withdrawal, he, Senator
Hanway, might put Speaker Frost in his place and endow him with the
major share of what had been his own elements of strength. Was there any
reason why he, Senator Hanway, should refrain from such a step?

The eye-glassed Mazarin thereupon represented that it would be much
better if Speaker Frost were to remain undisturbed in his House
autocracy. It was over-late for Speaker Frost and the convention only
days away. The die was already cast; Governor Obstinate would be
nominated and elected. Once inaugurated, the eye-glassed Mazarin
understood that it would be Governor Obstinate's earliest care to invite
Senator Hanway into his Cabinet as Secretary of the Treasury. The
scandal of the Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal would have blown itself out;
also no one--against a President whose hands were full of offices--would
dare lift up his voice in criticism of any Cabinet selection.

Senator Hanway was impressed by the hint of the eye-glassed Mazarin. The
Treasury portfolio stood within ready throw of a Presidential
nomination; he, Senator Hanway, might step from it the successor of
Governor Obstinate whenever that gentleman's tenancy of the White House
should come to an end. Likewise, the Treasury portfolio was as a
thirteen-inch gun within pointblank range of the stock market.

Senator Hanway took a week to consider; he conferred with Senators Gruff
and Price and Loot and lastly with Mr. Harley. Then he struck hands with
the eye-glassed Mazarin, and published an interview in the _Daily Tory_
saying that he, Senator Hanway, was not and had never been a candidate
for the Presidency; that he was and had ever been of the opinion that
the needs of both a public and a party hour imperatively demanded
Governor Obstinate at the Nation's helm. He, Senator Hanway, being a
patriot, was diligently working for the nomination and election of
Governor Obstinate, and all who called him friend would do the same.
Following this pronunciamento, Senator Hanway began laying personal
pipes for four years away with pristine ardor.

Friday, the twenty-seventh of May, was dark and lowering, with a slow
storm blackly gathering in the southwest. It was four in the afternoon
when the _Zulu Queen_ came up the river, and under quarter speed crept
in and anchored within one thousand feet of the mouth of Storri's drain.
Perhaps, of all the folk in Washington, no more than three remarked the
advent of the _Zulu Queen_; one of these was Storri, one the San Reve,
and one Inspector Val. Storri saw neither of the others; the San Reve
saw only Storri; Inspector Val, whose trade was eyes, saw both Storri
and the San Reve. Four of Steamboat Dan's men came into town the day
before by rail, and for twelve hours prior to the advent of the _Zulu
Queen_, and under the lead of Steamboat Dan, had been in the drain
giving aid and comfort to Cracksman London Bill in his efforts to reduce
the gold reserve.

When Storri observed that the _Zulu Queen_ was safely a-swing on her
rope at the very spot he had specified, he turned and moved rapidly
away. The San Reve, who had seen what she came to see, was already upon
her return journey to Grant Place, bearing in her bosom a heart desolate
and heavy with no hope. The coming of the _Zulu Queen_ had confirmed to
her the treachery of Storri. Yes, she the San Reve could see it all!
Storri might have quarreled with Mr. Harley; but the loving
understanding between himself and Miss Harley was still complete!

Nor was the poor jealous San Reve wholly without a reason, as she beheld
events, for her conclusion. Within the past few days, Storri had been
several times to and fro in the vicinity of the Harley house. Only the
afternoon before he had cautiously studied the premises in company with
a couple of suspicious-looking characters, being indeed no other than
Steamboat Dan and Benzine Bob. The San Reve kept secret pace with Storri
in these reconnoiterings. But she made the mistake of construing
preparations to abduct as arrangements to elope. As the San Reve read
the portents, Storri planned to meet Miss Harley that very night; they
would fly together, the _Zulu Queen_ offering a sure means of baffling
pursuit.

The San Reve, biased of her jealous fears, had foreseen in the message
to Steamboat Dan some such end as this. It was all so plain and sure to
the angry, heart-broken San Reve. The false Storri had done what he
might to cover his intentions by daily lies as to how and when he, with
the San Reve, should sail for France and Russia! Ah, yes; the San Reve
saw through those lies! While she listened to his purring mendacities
she must struggle to refrain from casting his untruths in his teeth.
Bridle herself she did; but she watched and reflected and resolved the
wrongful more. Now with the coming of the _Zulu Queen_, the one thing
certain was that she, the despised San Reve, would be cast off,
abandoned. Those love-lies of Storri were intended to blind her into
foolish security; he did not wish the elopement designed by him and Miss
Harley to encounter obstruction. Thus did the San Reve solve the
problem: while Storri would be for misleading her, Miss Harley was
hood-winking the Harleys. For a moment the San Reve thought of notifying
the Harleys. Then in her desperation she put the impulse aside. Of what
avail would be a call upon the Harleys? It might defer; it could not
prevent. No, she must adopt the single course by which both her love and
her vengeance would be made secure forever. She would take Storri from
Miss Harley; and, taking him, she the San Reve would keep him for
herself throughout eternity! The present life was the prey of
separations, of lies, of loves grown cold; she, with Storri in her arms,
would seek another!

At ten o'clock Steamboat Dan was to show a momentary light in the mouth
of the drain. This would be the signal for the _Zulu Queen_ to send her
launch ashore and begin taking the gold aboard. Storri programmed his
own appearance at the drain for sharp ten. As he left the water-front,
following the appearance of the _Zulu Queen_, he cast his eye hopefully
upward at the threatening clouds; a down-pouring storm would be the
thing most prayed for.

Until it was time to start for the drain to oversee the transfer of the
gold, Storri would remain with the San Reve. He was none too confident
of the San Reve; of late she had been too silent, too sad, too much
wrapped in thought. And this was the night of nights upon which Storri
must be sure. In favor of his own security, Storri must know to a verity
both the temper and the whereabouts of the San Reve.

Five minutes before Storri reached Grant Place, the rain fell in a
deluge. The San Reve, more fortunately swift, was home in advance of the
rain and came in bone-dry. When Storri arrived, his garments streaming
water, she wore the look of one who had not been out of the house for an
afternoon. Only, if Storri had observed the San Reve's eyes, and added
their expression, so strangely reckless yet so resolved, to the set
mouth and that marble pallor of her brow, the result might have sickened
his assurance.

Having in mind his soaked condition, Storri called for whisky. The San
Reve was good enough to pour him a stiff glass, which he drank raw with
the harsh appetite of a Russian. There was the ghost of an odor of sleep
about that whisky; but the sleep-specter did not appeal to Storri, who
tossed off his drink and followed one dram with another, suspecting
nothing. Five minutes later he was drowsing stertorously on a lounge.

The San Reve, white, and wild in a manner passive and still, had spoken
no word; she attended Storri's wants in silence. When that sudden
weariness came to claim him and he cast himself in slumber upon the
couch, the San Reve, from where she stood statue-like in the center of
the room, bent upon him her gray-green eyes. She stood thus for a space,
then the slow tears began to stain her cheeks. She threw herself down
beside Storri, kissed him and drew his head to her bosom, crying
hopelessly.

Richard had been requested by Inspector Val to meet him at the south
front of the Treasury Building at ten o'clock.

"Do you remember," asked Inspector Val, "how several weeks ago we
visited the drain?"

Yes; Richard recalled it.

"Come with me to-night," said Inspector Val; "the drain shall explain
the mystery of that muddy water, and why I said our man was hard at
work."

When Richard and Inspector Val, water-proofed to the chins, reached the
mouth of the drain the storm was at furious height. The rain descended
in sheets; the lightning made flashing leaps from cloud to cloud and the
ceaseless thunders were as a dozen batteries of big guns in fullest
play. As Richard and Inspector Val came to a halt, they were joined by
three men. Richard, aided by the lightning flashes, recognized Mr. Duff
and Mr. England; the third, being Steamboat Dan, was strange to him.

"Is the Russian inside?" asked Inspector Val of Steamboat Dan.

"I don't know," returned Steamboat Dan. "I've been aboard the yacht
since eight o'clock until twenty minutes ago. I came ashore in that
skiff. Sure, he ought to be in the drain; they've been sending down the
stuff for hours."

"I don't find any of it about?"

"I threw a crowbar across the stream one hundred yards up, and halted
the procession. The plan, d'ye see, is for me, the coast being clear, to
signal the launch to come ashore for its first cargo any time after
ten--which is about now."

"We'll omit the launch," returned Inspector Val. "Go into the drain and
give the boys the tip to skip. After that, it's up to all of you to look
out for yourselves."

"Remember, Inspector," pleaded Steamboat Dan, "you gave your word that
me an' Bill an' the gang ain't to be collared."

"Don't fear; the only one I'm after is the Russian. Jump sharp now, and
give them the office to screw."

Steamboat Dan entered the drain while Inspector Val, Richard, Mr. Duff,
and Mr. England withdrew to a little distance.

"Everybody goes free except the Russian," was Inspector Val's command to
Mr. Duff and Mr. England; "he's to be nailed."

From the drain came booming the smothered report of a pistol.

"That's the signal," said Inspector Val; "the noise of a gun will travel
miles in a tunnel. They'll be coming out now."

As he spoke, Steamboat Dan issued from the drain and fled like a shadow.
A rattle of anchor chains was heard aboard the _Zulu Queen_; she also
had taken fright.

"The others won't be here for a while," said Inspector Val. "They've got
a good ways to come, and a pitch-dark drain isn't the Bowery."

Something like ten minutes passed; suddenly, cursing and stumbling and
splashing, five men rushed from the drain's mouth and made off into the
darkness.

"Close up now," cried Inspector Val; "our party should be hard on their
heels."

Inspector Val was wrong; ten minutes, twenty minutes elapsed, and no one
to emerge from the drain. Inspector Val, placing his two aids on guard,
said that he and Richard would investigate. Bearing a dark lantern, he
took the lead and Richard followed. About twenty rods up the drain,
Inspector Val stumbled and all but pitched upon his face.

"Look out!" he cried, by way of warning.

The next moment Richard set his foot on something soft and yielding,
which exploded with a great noise.

"One of those rubber propositions," explained Inspector Val.

By the light of the lamp, and as far up the drain as his eye would
reach, Richard beheld a seemingly endless file of circular rubber
air-cushions, mates of the one Inspector Val had brought him. On the
six-inch depth of water which raced along the cushions were floating
light as corks; in the center of each reposed a canvas sack of gold. As
Steamboat Dan explained, this long line of argosies had been brought to
a standstill by laying an iron bar across so as to detain the little
rubber-rafts while the stream ran on. Inspector Val had tripped over
this bar. Remove the detaining iron bar, and the released flotilla would
sail downward to the mouth of the drain and deliver its yellow freight
of gold to whomsoever waited to receive it.

Richard and Inspector Val continued up the drain, the latter wary and
ready for Storri, whom he every moment hoped to meet. There appeared no
Storri; the two explorers at last reached London Bill's tunnel, finding
nothing during their march but a solid procession of richly freighted
rubber rafts--three-quarters of a mile of gold!

"There's four millions of dollars between here and the river," said
Inspector Val.

Richard and his guide paused where London Bill's tunnel opened into the
drain. Flashing his lamp about, Inspector Val showed Richard where
London Bill had built a platform on which to store the rubber rafts
before inflating and launching them down-stream, each with its
five-thousand-dollar cargo of gold.

"Did you ever see sweeter arrangements!" whispered Inspector Val, in an
ecstasy of admiration.

Bidding Richard remain where he was, Inspector Val, revolver in one
hand, dark-lantern in the other, bent low his head and disappeared in
London Bill's tunnel. He was gone an age as it seemed to Richard. Then
he reappeared, and soberly brushed the clay from his garments.

"No Storri," was the sententious remark of Inspector Val; "not a sign of
him. But I've thought it out. Do you know why we don't find Storri? The
reason is the best in the world; the man's dead."




CHAPTER XXII

HOW THE SAN REVE KEPT HER STORRI


Richard was of a temperament singularly cool and steady. His curiosity
had been trained to wait, and he put questions only as a last resort.
Throughout the strange happenings of the night--the tryst with Inspector
Val--the meeting with Mr. Duff and Mr. England at the drain's mouth--the
presence of Steamboat Dan--the colloquy between that unworthy and
Inspector Val--the signal pistol shot--the flight of the robbers--he had
not spoken a word. While his astonishment was kept to an upgrade, there
had not been elicited a syllable of inquiry from Richard. He threaded
the drain, encountered the long fleet of little rubber argosies, and
finally brought up at London Bill's tunnel, and never an interrogation.
This was not acting nor affectation; Richard knew that he might with
better intelligence invite an explanation from Inspector Val after
having seen and understood his utmost. Moreover, what with the storm and
the splashing journey up the drain, there had been scanty opportunity
for conversation. Also, when he saw how Inspector Val looked forward to
the capture of Storri in the midst of crime, the strain of expectation
made silence the natural thing. It took Inspector Val's sudden yet
decisive assertion that Storri was dead, to provoke the first word.
Storri's death instantly overshadowed all else in the thoughts of
Richard.

"Storri dead!" he exclaimed, making as though he would enter London
Bill's tunnel, from which Inspector Val had crawled to make his grim
announcement.

"Dead as Nero!" returned Inspector Val. "But not there--not in the
tunnel!"

"Where then?" asked Richard.

"In Grant Place. You recall the San Reve?--she who wrote the letter
about those French shares? Both Storri and she are dead in Grant Place,
or I'm not an Inspector of Police."

Richard was for going to Grant Place, but Inspector Val detained him.

"There's no hurry," he said. "Any discoveries to be made in Grant Place
will wait. On second thought the death of the Russian is the best
solution. But there's no hurry. Besides," continued Inspector Val, his
tones betraying that sublime appreciation of art at its utmost which an
amateur of bronzes might have felt in the presence of Cellini's Perseus,
"besides, I want you to take a look over this job of London Bill! You'll
never again see its equal--never such perfection of plan and execution!"

Richard was glad of the darkness that hid the half-smile which the
delight of Inspector Val called forth. Protest would be of no avail; it
was one of those cases where to yield is the only way of saving time.

Inspector Val re-entered London Bill's tunnel and invited Richard to
follow. He showed Richard how truthfully, like the work of a best
engineer, the tunnel--begun high above water-mark on the side of the
drain--sloped downward until it dipped beneath the Treasury walls. Then
it began to climb, heading as unerringly for the gold as though London
Bill had brought clairvoyant powers to direct his digging. The tunnel
ran to the rear of the vault, and about six feet beneath its floor. Then
it went straight upward; and next, the supporting earth and masonry
having been removed, the gold, pressing with its vast weight, had forced
down two of the floor slabs of steel on one side, precisely as London
Bill designed from the beginning. Those five-thousand-dollar sacks
spilled themselves into the tunnel of their own motion--a very cataract
of gold! As fast as they were carried away, more came tumbling--a flow
of riches, ceaseless! Inspector Val flashed his lantern here and there
in disclosure of the wonderful beauties of the work. As he did so,
Richard heard him sigh in a positive contentment of admiration.

"The most scientific job in the history of the police!" whispered
Inspector Val. "London Bill is certainly entitled to his rank as the
world's foremost box-worker! It's this sort of a thing that makes you
respect a man!"

Richard was driven to smile again as he recalled the sleepy, intolerant
exquisite, gloved and boutonnièred, whom he met in Willard's, and
compared him with the thief-hunting enthusiast who, dark-lantern in hand
and crouching under the low clay roof of the tunnel, was so rapturously
expounding the genius of the great burglar.

"But greater still," continued Inspector Val, "greater than London Bill,
was that Russian party Storri. And to think this was his first--that he
was only a beginner! I used to wonder how he was going to bring out the
gold; and I'm free to admit I couldn't answer the question. Sometimes,
I'd even think he had blundered; I'd figure on him as the amateur who
had only considered the business of going to the gold, without
remembering that getting away with it was bound to be the hardest part
of the trick. You can see yourself," and here Inspector Val appealed to
Richard, "and you no crook at all, that if it ever became a case of
lugging out this gold by hand, it would take the gang a week to get away
with a half-million. It was when Storri ordered those circular rubber
rafts that I fell to it all; it was then I took off my hat to him!"

When Richard and Inspector Val were again at the mouth of the drain, the
lashing storm had worn itself out. The night was silently serene; the
clouds were breaking, and two or three big stars peered down. There was
a moon, and having advantage of a rift in the clouds, a ray struck white
on Arlington. Over across, one might make out the tall dark Maryland
hills. Far away on the river burned the lights of the _Zulu Queen_; she
was holding her best speed down-stream, having reason to think her
recent anchorage a perilous one.

"Their hearts will be in their mouths until they clear Point Comfort,"
said Inspector Val, pointing to the retreating _Zulu Queen_. Then
turning to Mr. Duff, who, with Mr. England, had faithfully met him and
Richard when they emerged from the drain, and giving him a pasteboard
from his case, he continued: "Mr. Duff, present my card to the Chief of
the Secret Service, and tell him with my compliments that he and what
men lie handy to his call are wanted at this drain. Should he be a bit
slow, say that a big slice of the gold reserve has fallen into the
drain, and the situation doesn't do him credit. You, Mr. England, will
remain on guard until the Secret Service people get here. London Bill
might regain confidence, and come back for a sack of that gold."

"Where now?" asked Richard as Inspector Val, taking him by the arm, bent
his steps towards the center of town.

"Grant Place," replied Inspector Val. "And on that point, if I may
advise you, I'd not go to Grant Place; one of us will be enough. You'd
see something disagreeable; besides, this killing may get into the
coroner's office, and from there into the courts and the newspapers.
Considering that you are to be married in a few days, I should say that
you don't want to have your name mixed up with it. No, the wise thing is
for me to go alone."

"It's the question of publicity," responded Richard, "that I was
revolving in my mind. Here's this bald attempt to rob the Treasury----"

"It was magnificent!" interjected Inspector Val, unable to restrain his
tribute.

"And if your surmise be correct," continued Richard, disregarding the
interruption, "now come the deaths of Storri and the woman San Reve to
cap the robbery. What, may I ask, do you call your duty in the
premises?"

"Duty?" repeated Inspector Val. "I've no duty; that is, no official
duty. Washington is off my beat. My course, however, must depend upon
circumstances. As far as I may, I shall smother every mention of
to-night's work. If the papers get hold of one end of it, and begin to
haul it ashore, they will bring in yourself and Mr. Harley and Senator
Hanway in a manner not desired at this time. Besides, the Secret Service
people, goaded by publicity, might pinch Steamboat Dan and his gang. Now
I'm not going to lose my best stool pigeon to please these somnambulists
of the Secret Service. Also, I've given my promise to Dan, and I never
break my word."

"I'm quite anxious, as you may imagine," said Richard, "to bury what
we've seen and heard to-night. But how can it be done? You've sent word
to the Secret Service Chief."

"The men of the Secret Service will never mention the business unless
they have to; it's not to their glory. The danger lies with those dead
folk waiting in Grant Place. If there were nothing to hide but the gold
in the drain, and the hole under the Treasury wall, it would prove easy
enough."

"But are you sure that Storri is dead? It's simply your deduction, you
know. You may yet find him very much alive."

"He's dead," reiterated Inspector Val, with deepest conviction. "If he
were alive, we would have found him at the drain. That gold would have
drawn him there in his sleep. Besides, I saw it coming. I've an idea,
however, that the Russian legation people possess as many motives for
holding Storri's death a secret as do the Secret Service men for keeping
dark the fact that the Treasury has been tapped. Yes, the Russians, with
the State Department to help them, will find a way. Everything goes by
pull, you know," concluded Inspector Val, confidently, "and it will be
queer if the State Department and the Russians, working together, can't
call Storri's blinking out by some name that won't attract attention."

Inspector Val related how, step by step, he had kept abreast of Storri.

"When he came out of retirement," explained Inspector Val, "following
the loss of his money in Northern Consolidated, I kept close tabs on
him. These half-civilized people are only half sane, and some crazy
crime would have come natural to this Russian at that time. So, as I
tell you, I stayed close to his heels. I could see by his face that he
had some big purpose. He began buying maps and visiting the department
buildings. I knew then we were getting to the heart of the affair, and,
while I couldn't guess the shoot he would take, I had only to follow to
find out. The moment he put foot in the Treasury Building, I turned
wise. Those visits to the other buildings had been mere 'stalls.' As I
followed him through the Treasury I could see that now he was in
earnest.

"When the Assistant Secretary showed him the vault that held the gold
reserve, I learned all I wanted to learn. His design and the crime he
plotted were written on his face. Of course as soon as ever I realized
that he meant to try his teeth on the Treasury, I had only to run my eye
over the year's calendar to tell when. There was a Sunday followed by
Decoration Day--two holidays, and no one on guard worth considering; it
was sure that Storri would hit upon those days to make the play. When I
saw how the Saturday before was set apart for a special holiday, the
thing was surer than ever. It did not require any deep intelligence to
determine when Storri would act. Next I followed him up the drain; and
later to Steamboat Dan's. That visit to Dan's so reduced the business
that nothing was left but the question of when to make the collar."

"What yacht was that?" asked Richard.

"It belongs to a fat-witted rich young fellow from whom Storri borrowed
it. Steamboat Dan is aboard; he went out in the skiff he spoke of. When
he's tied her up and his gang's ashore, I'll wire the fat-witted one to
come and claim his boat."

Inspector Val never breathed a hint concerning Storri's ebon purpose of
abduction, and how he meant to fire the Harley house and then kidnap
Dorothy in the confusion certain to be an incident of flames and smoke
at four o'clock in the morning. This reticence arose from the delicacy
of Inspector Val. The relation could not fail to leave a most unpleasant
impression upon Richard, and Inspector Val decided to suppress it for
the nonce.

"I'll keep it a year and a day," thought Inspector Val; "then I'll tell
him."

Richard adopted the counsel of Inspector Val, and did not accompany that
gentleman of secrets to Grant Place. It was the half hour after midnight
when Inspector Val climbed the Warmdollar steps, and strenuously pulled
the bell. The latter appurtenance was one of those old-fashioned
knob-and-wire tocsins, and its clangorous voice was calculated to
arouse, not only the house whereof it was a fixture, but the
neighborhood round about. Inspector Val's second pull at this ancient
engine brought Mr. Warmdollar, something bleary and stupid to be sure,
but wide awake for Mr. Warmdollar. Once inside the hallway, Inspector
Val told Mr. Warmdollar that he was a police agent, showed that
ex-representative the gold badge glimmering beneath his coat, and
concluded by informing him that all might not be well in the San Reve's
room. Inspector Val did what he could to frighten Mr. Warmdollar. It was
necessary to tame that householder to docility, and what should achieve
this sooner than a great fright? At the fearful hints of Inspector
Val--they were in his manner more than in his words--the purple nose of
Mr. Warmdollar became a disastrous gray. Beholding this encouraging
symptom, Inspector Val delayed no longer, but bid him beat upon the San
Reve's door. This Mr. Warmdollar, nervous and shaken, did with
earnestness, not once but twice. Nobody responded; after each visitation
of the panel the silence that prevailed was sinister.

"There's no one in," faltered Mr. Warmdollar.

Inspector Val pointed ominously to the hall-rack on which were hanging
Storri's hat and waterproof coat. Mr. Warmdollar wrung his hands; his
imagination, fretted into fever by the remoteness of his latest whisky
toddy,--whisky toddy being Mr. Warmdollar's favorite tipple,--began to
give him pictures of what dread things lay hidden in the silence beyond
that unresponsive door.

Inspector Val took from his pocket three pieces of steel, each about the
size of a lead pencil, and began screwing them together, end for end.
The instrument produced was a foot in length and looked like a
screwdriver. As a matter of burglarious fact it was a jimmy of fineness
and finish. It had been the property of a gentlemanly "flat-worker," who
made rich hauls before he fell into the fingers of Inspector Val and
went to Sing Sing. Inspector Val applied the absent gentleman's jimmy to
the San Reve's door, squarely over the lock. He gave it a twitch and the
door flew inward, the bolt tearing out a mouthful of the casing.

"Stand back!" said Inspector Val to Mr. Warmdollar, who having already
retired to the lower step of the stair, where he sat with his face
buried in his hands, hardly required the warning.

One gas jet was burning in the San Reve's room; being turned down to
lowest ebb, it was about as illuminative as a glow-worm. Inspector Val
stretched forth his hand and instantly the room was flooded of light.
Inspector Val was neither shocked nor surprised at the spectacle before
him; he was case-hardened by a multitude of professional experiences,
and besides, for full a fortnight he had read murder in the San Reve's
face.

Storri was lying upon the lounge, dead--stone-dead. A trifling hole in
the back of the head showed where the bullet entered in search of his
life. There was a minimum of blood; the few dried drops upon a curling
lock of the black hair were all there was to tell how death came. Storri
had been dead for hours; the small thirty-two caliber revolver--being
that one which Storri had seen on a memorable night in mid-winter--lay
on the floor where it fell from the San Reve's jealous fingers. It was a
diminutive machine, blue steel and mother of pearl, more like a
plaything than a pistol.

The San Reve was on her knees beside the dead Storri, her left arm
beneath his head and her face buried in the silken cushion that served
as pillow. There was a looseness of attitude that instantly struck
Inspector Val; he stepped to the San Reve and lifted the free hand which
hung by her side. The hand was clammy and cold as ice. The San Reve had
died when Storri died, but there was none of the rigidity of death, the
body was relaxed and limp. Inspector Val sniffed the air inquisitively,
and got just the faintest odor of bitter almonds. That, and the relaxed
limbs, enlightened him.

"Prussic acid," said he.

As Inspector Val replaced the San Reve's hand by her side, a tiny
vial--that with a prayer-book--was dislodged from a fold of her dress.
The vial showed a few drops of a yellow-green fluid in the bottom.
Inspector Val picked it up, and the bitter breath of the almond was more
pronounced than ever.

"Exactly!" murmured Inspector Val; "prussic acid! She died as though by
lightning;--which is a proper way to die if one's mind is made up. Now
why couldn't she have sent Storri by the same route? A drop of
this"--here he surveyed the tiny vial with interest, almost with
approval--"a drop of this in the corner of his eye, or on his lip, would
have beaten the pistol. Ah, yes, the pistol!" mused Inspector Val,
taking the baby weapon in his hand; "I suppose the storm drowned the
report. Well, they're gone! Storri was asleep, and never knew what hit
him; which, considering his record,--and I'm something of a judge,--was
an easier fate than he had earned."

Inspector Val made a close examination of the room, rather from habit
than any thought more deep, and straightway discovered the sleepy
whisky. He put it to his nose as he had the tiny vial.

"Laudanum!" he muttered; "she had mapped it out in every detail. It was
the sight of the _Zulu Queen_; she saw that he was about to desert her."

Inspector Val heaved a half-sigh, as even men most like chilled steel
will when in the near company of death, and then, stiffening
professionally, he called in Mr. Warmdollar, still weeping drunken tears
at the stair's foot.

"I want, for your own sake," explained Inspector Val, "to impress upon
you the propriety of silence. These deaths will produce a sensation in
both the State Department and the Russian legation. If word get abroad
through you, it might be resented in the quarters I've named. I shall
give the Russians notice, and you must not let a word creep into the
papers until after they have been here. If news of this leak out, it may
cost Mrs. Warmdollar her situation."

Inspector Val was aware that in Washington the hinted loss of one's
position as the penalty of loquacity has ever been the way of ways to
lock fast the garrulous tongue. Mr. Warmdollar became a prodigal of
promises; neither sign nor sound should escape him of the tragedy. Mrs.
Warmdollar, as head scrubwoman, must not be put in jeopardy!

Inspector Val visited the Secret Service Chief, and the two were as
brothers of one mind. To lapse into the rustic figures of the farms, on
that subject of secrecy they fell together like a shock of oats. Why
should the world know of the splendid gopher work of London Bill? The
gold had been saved; to publish the dangers it had grazed might inspire
other bandits. No, secrecy was the word; that question Inspector Val and
the Secret Service Chief answered as one man. And so no word crept
forth. When the vault must be restored, it was said that those tons upon
tons of gold it sheltered had broken down the steel floor. As bricks by
the wagon load went into the drain through the manhole nearest the scene
of London Bill's exploits, a pavement idler asked their purpose. They
were to repair the drain where the water had eaten into and undermined
the walls. Yes, it was a secret stubbornly protected; the tunnel was
stopped up, the vault restored to what had been a former strength or
weakness, and never a dozen souls to hear the tale.

With the Russians, Inspector Val met views which ran counter to his own.
An attaché of the Bear accompanied Inspector Val to the San Reve's rooms
in Grant Place. The Attaché was for sending Storri's body to St.
Petersburg. Inspector Val objected.

"Why should you care?" said the Attaché to Inspector Val. "I do not
understand your interest."

"She cares," returned Inspector Val, pointing to the dead San Reve. "I
have made her interest mine. She died to keep this Storri by her side; I
will not see her cheated."

The Attaché looked curiously at Inspector Val; a sentimental lunatic was
not a common sight. The Attaché, however, was no one to yield. Storri's
remains must go to Russia.

"Will you send home then the body of a thief overtaken in the crime?"
asked Inspector Val. "This Storri schemed to rob the Treasury. I do not
think the representatives of the Czar should oppose me in my whim."

"Who are you?" asked the Attaché. Inspector Val's disclosures were
alarming; trained in caution, he did not care to defy them until he was
sure of his foothold of fact. "The news you brought so affected me that
I failed of politeness and never asked your name."

"I am Inspector Val of the New York police."

"And you declare Count Storri a thief engaged in robbing your Treasury?"

"I say it word for word. More; he had it in train to burn a house and
abduct a girl."

The Attaché surveyed Inspector Val with his sharp black eyes. Clearly,
here was a man whom it would not be wise--for the honor of the Bear--to
oppose!

"And this poor woman loved Count Storri," said the Attaché, shifting his
glance to the dead San Reve. "She died, you say, to keep him by her.
Yes, you are right; they should not be parted now."

The San Reve, no longer jealous, and Storri, no longer false, were given
one grave, and the Attaché of the Czar and Inspector Val alone attended,
as though representing rival interests. The San Reve's prayer of passion
had been granted; her Storri would be her own and hers alone throughout
eternity.




CHAPTER XXIII

HOW RICHARD AND DOROTHY SAILED AWAY


There came but the one name before the convention, and Governor
Obstinate was nominated for the Presidency by acclamation. Senator
Hanway wired his warm congratulations, and to such earnest length did
they extend themselves that it reduced the book of franks conferred upon
Senator Hanway by the telegraph company by five stamps. Governor
Obstinate thanked Senator Hanway through the eye-glassed Mazarin, who
seized upon the occasion to say that Governor Obstinate was more than
ever resolved in event of his election--which was among things sure--to
avail himself of Senator Hanway's known abilities touching public
finance in the rôle of Secretary of the Treasury.

Senator Hanway and Mr. Harley, the Georgian Bay-Ontario Canal still
rankling in the popular regard, did not attend the convention. This
permitted those gentlemen to be present at the nuptials of Dorothy and
Richard, a negative advantage which otherwise might have been denied.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley, basing it on grounds of duty, assumed formal charge
of the marriage arrangements in the later hours. She asked Richard to
name those among his friends whom he desired as guests at the wedding.
Richard gave her Mr. Bayard, Mr. Sands, and Inspector Val. Mrs.
Hanway-Harley pursed her lips. Mr. Bayard? yes; but why ask Mr. Sands,
printer, and Inspector Val of the police?

"They are my friends," said Richard.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley shook her head in proud dejection as she meditated on
the strangeness of things. Her daughter's wedding; and a detective and a
journeyman printer among the honored guests! The homely disgrace of it
quite bowed the heart of Mrs. Hanway-Harley. She was taken doubly aback
when she learned that Mr. Gwynn was on his way to England, and therefore
not to attend.

"It would have pleased me," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley mournfully, "had Mr.
Gwynn been present. His absence is peculiarly a blow."

"I'm sure," said Richard, putting on a look of innocent slyness, like a
lamb engaged in intrigue, "had I known that you might feel Mr. Gwynn's
going away, I would have kept him with us."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley elevated her polite brows. Richard would have kept
Mr. Gwynn with them! What manner of mystery was this?

Richard's present to Dorothy was a superb, nay a matchless set of
rubies, the like of which did not dwell in the caskets of Queen or
Empress. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, herself no apprentice in the art of gems,
could not estimate their value. They lay in her hands like red
fire--jewels above price! Mrs. Hanway-Harley could only gaze and gaze,
while Richard's look of slyness gained in lamblike intensity.

Mr. Bayard came down from New York the day before; he must have a
business talk with Richard. It would be impossible, in releasing Mr.
Harley and Senator Hanway from their obligations as members of the
osprey pool, to avoid an explanation. In running over the affair in his
mind, Mr. Bayard was convinced that the reprieved pair must be told the
truth of their capture and release.

Richard, whose powers of original judgment had diminished in exact
proportion as he neared the wedding day, and who now, with the ceremony
only hours away, owned no judgment at all, gave Mr. Bayard leave to do
as he would. He was to tell Mr. Harley and Senator Hanway, Mr. Sands and
Inspector Val, as much or as little as he chose. Richard drew relief
from the reflection that, whatever the disclosures, he, Richard, at the
time they were made would be safe on the wide Atlantic.

The wedding offered a rich study in expression. Richard was pale but
firm, and if his knees shook the aspen disgrace of it didn't show in his
face. Dorothy was radiantly happy--beautiful and unabashed. Somehow, a
wedding never fails to bring out the strength of your true woman. Bess
was splendidly responsible; she showed plainly that she considered the
wedding the work of her hands, and was bound to see justice done it. Her
supporting damsels, taking their cue from certain bridesmaids who had
adorned a recent wedding of mark, wept bitterly. Mr. Bayard was
interested in a courteous way; Mr. Harley was patronizing, Senator
Hanway benign. Inspector Val, ineffable as to garb, was distinguished by
that sleepy, well-bred stare which was his common expression when off
duty. Only once did he rouse, and that was when Mrs. Hanway-Harley,
deluded by his elegant reserve, over which was thrown just an aroma of
the military, addressed him as Captain Burleigh of the English legation.
Mr. Sands of all who were there was probably the one most coolly
composed; being in profound contrast to Mr. Fopling, whose eye was
glassy and whose cheek was ashes.

"Stawms," whispered Mr. Fopling, tremulous with agitation, "if I'm as
weak as this at your wedding, what do you weckon I'll be at my own? 'Pon
my word, I think I'll have to be bwought to church in an invalid's
chair; I do, weally!"

"Bless you, my boy, bless you!" exclaimed Mr. Harley, grasping Richard's
hand. Mr. Harley had absorbed the impression, probably from the
theaters, that this was the phrase for him. "And you, my child; God
bless you! Be happy!" continued Mr. Harley, kissing Dorothy and exuding
a burgundian tear.

"I am sorry," said Richard, as Senator Hanway bid him and Dorothy an
affectionate farewell, "I am sorry the event of the convention
disappointed us."

"It is as one who wishes his party and his country well would have it,"
returned Senator Hanway, with Roman elevation. "Governor Obstinate is a
patriot, and an able man. He will call to his Cabinet safe men--true
advisers. The nation could not be in purer hands."

Bess made Dorothy promise to have Richard back for her own wedding in
October; Mr. Fopling gave Richard a pleading glance as though he himself
would require support on that occasion.

"Stawms, don't fail me," said Mr. Fopling. "Weally, I shall need all the
couwage my fwiends can give me. And you know, Stawms, I stood by you."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley supposed the happy ones were to take the B. & O. for
New York; Richard explained that they would have a boat.

"In fact," said Richard, "the captain has just sent me word that the
yacht is anchored off the Navy Yard, awaiting our going aboard."

"Yacht?" said Mrs. Hanway-Harley. "Oh, I see; Mr. Gwynn's."

"No, not Mr. Gwynn's. Ours."--And Richard looked more lamblike than
ever.

Mrs. Hanway-Harley became sorely puzzled. The truth was slowly soaking
into her not over-porous comprehension.

As the launch, with the wedding party, rounded the yacht's stern to
reach her gangway on the off-shore side, Mrs. Hanway-Harley read in
letters of raised gilt: _Dorothy Storms_. She called Dorothy's attention
to the phenomenon in a misty way. Mrs. Hanway-Harley, once aboard, went
over the _Dorothy Storms_, forward and aft, speaking no word. The yacht,
Clyde-built, was a swift ocean-going vessel of twelve hundred tons. Her
fittings were the fittings of a palace. Mrs. Hanway-Harley cornered
Richard on the after-deck.

"Richard," said Mrs. Hanway-Harley, "what took Mr. Gwynn abroad?"

"Why," responded Richard, with a cheerful manner of innocence, "you see
there's a deal for Mr. Gwynn to do. There's the country house in Berks,
and the house in London; then there's the Paris house and the villa at
Nice, and lastly the place in the mountains back of Naples;--Mr. Gwynn
will have to put them in order. The one near Naples--a kind of old
castle, it is--has been in bad hands; there will be plenty of work in
that quarter for Mr. Gwynn, I fancy. You know, mother,"--and Richard
donned an air of filial confidence,--"since this is Dorothy's first look
at them, I'm more than commonly anxious she should be given a happy----"

Where the wretched Richard would have maundered to will never be known,
for he was broken in upon by Mrs. Hanway-Harley.

"Richard, who is Mr. Gwynn?" This with a severe if agitated gravity.
"Who is Mr. Gwynn?"

"Who is Mr. Gwynn?" repeated Richard, blandly. "Well, really, I suppose
he might be called my major-domo; or perhaps butler would describe him."

"You told me that Mr. Gwynn had had about him the best society of
England."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley's manner bordered upon the tragic, for it bore upon
her that she had given a dinner of honor to Mr. Gwynn.

"Why, my dear mother, and so he has had. I can't remember all their
noble names, but one time and another Mr. Gwynn has been butler for the
Duke of This and the Earl of That--really Mr. Gwynn's recommendations
read like a leaf from 'Burke's Peerage.' I myself had him from the Baron
Sudley."

Mrs. Hanway-Harley was for the moment dumb. Dorothy and Bess appeared,
having completed a ransack of staterooms and cabins. The sight of her
daughter restored to Mrs. Hanway-Harley the power of speech.

"Dorothy," she cried, raising her hands limply, "Dorothy, I believe our
Richard's rich!" And Mrs. Hanway-Harley wept.

"I shall always love him, whatever he is!" exclaimed Dorothy, all
tenderness and fresh alarm.

Dorothy did not understand.

It was ten o'clock; the Potomac lay between its soft banks like a river
of silver. There was the throb of the engines, and the talk of the water
against her bows, as the _Dorothy Storms_ with her two passengers, they
and their love, swept onward through the moonlight. Dorothy, her head on
Richard's shoulder, and thinking on her mother and Bess and all she had
left behind, watched the V-shaped wake as it spread away in ripples to
either bank. Now and then a shore-light slipped by, to snuff out astern
as distance or a bend in the river extinguished it. Dorothy crept more
and more into the Pict arms.

"Dear, when did you name the _Dorothy Storms_?"

"The day after you precipitated yourself into my arms--and my heart."

"I think you were shamefully confident," whispered Dorothy, with a
delicious sigh.

Richard the brazen replied to the attack as became a lover and
gentleman.

And so they sailed away.


THE END



      *       *       *       *       *



By the same Author


THE BOSS

A Story of the Inner Life of New York

"The most complete and remarkable exposition that has yet been
produced."--_New York Times._

"Is not only a book to read, it is a book that every man who has
an interest in his country--and in himself for that matter--must
read."--_Chicago Evening Post._





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