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Title: The Plunderers: A Novel

Author: Edwin Lefevre

Illustrator: M. Leone Bracker

Release date: May 2, 2016 [eBook #51970]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generously
        provided by the Internet Archive


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLUNDERERS: A NOVEL ***




Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive







THE PLUNDERERS

A Novel

By Edwin Lefevre

Harper & Brothers Publishers

New York And London

1915

[Illustration: 0012]

[Illustration: 0013]




THE PLUNDERERS




I--THE PEARLS OF THE PRINCESS PATRICIA

ON the day before Christmas a man of middle age, middle height, and
middle weight, smooth-shaven, dressed in black and wearing black gloves,
walked into the business office of the New York _Herald_. He approached
the first "Advertisements" window, looked at the clerk a moment, opened
his mouth, and said several words-at least, so the clerk judged from the
motion of the man's lips.

"I didn't hear that, Cap," said the clerk, Ralph Carroll.

The stranger thereupon made another effort.

"You'll have to come again," Carroll told him, kindly, at the same time
leaning over the counter and presenting his left ear to the voiceless
talker. He heard:

"How much to print this ad under Male Help Wanted, in big type, so it
will make about two inches?"


I


He handed a slip to the clerk, which the clerk read, counting the words
from sheer force of habit:

Wanted-A Man With St. Vitus's Dance and an Introspective Turn of Mind.
High Wages to Right Party. Apply Saturday Morning, Room 888, St. Iago
Building.

"Four-sixty-four," said the clerk.

The man raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Four dollars and sixty-four cents," repeated Carroll.

The man took out a wallet and tried to pull out a bank-note, but could
not because of his gloved hands. He took off the right glove, fished
out one five-dollar bill and gave it to the clerk, who handed him
back thirty-six cents. As the man took the change the clerk distinctly
noticed that he had a big ivory-colored scar which ran from the knuckles
to the wrist and disappeared under the cuff. He remembered it by reason
of the freak ad and the man's voice.

The advertisement appeared in the _Herald_ on the next day. Being
Christmas, the one day of nonreading in America, few people saw it.
Nevertheless, at nine on Saturday morning, ten men with spasmodically
twitching necks or limbs waited for the advertiser to open the door of
Room 888, on which they saw in gilt letters:


ACME VIBRATOR COMPANY

W. W. LOVELL, MANAGER


The elevator man was heard to tell an inquirer, "Here's Lovell!" And
presently the voiceless man, dressed as usual in black, with black
gloves, stepped from the elevator, nodded to the waiting men in the
hall, and opened the door of 888. At first they thought he was a mute,
but realized later that he was merely saving his bronchial tubes, just
as asking men to come Saturday forenoon--pay-day and pay-hours--would
save effort by bringing only men without employment.

Lovell and the afflicted entered. The outer office had half a dozen
chairs, and a table, on which were some medical magazines. Lovell
scrutinized the ten applicants keenly, and finally beckoned to a tall,
well-built chap with a blond mustache, whose unfortunate ailment was not
so extreme as the others, to follow him into the inner office. The
man did so. There were a desk, three chairs, a table, and a dozen
polished-oak boxes that looked as though they might contain vibrators.
Lovell closed the door, sat down at the desk, motioned to the blond man
to approach, and whispered:

"What's your name?"

"Lewis J. Wright."

"Age?"

"Thirty-six."

"Working?"

"Not steadily."

"Profession?"

"Cabinet-maker."

"Family?"

"No."

"Do you object to traveling?"

"No; like it."

"We pay sixty dollars a week, all traveling and living expenses. Will
you go to London, England?"

"To do what?"

"Nothing!"

"What?"

"Nothing!" again whispered the manager, very earnestly. He seemed
anxious to convince Mr. Wright of his good intentions. "Nothing at all!
Sixty a week and expenses!"

"I don't understand," said Mr. Lewis J. Wright, with an uneasy smile.
His excitement aggravated the malady and his neck jerked and twitched
almost constantly.

"I want a man with St. Vitus's dance."

"That's me," said L. J. Wright, and proved it.

"And with an introspective turn of mind. Understand?"

"Not quite," confessed the cabinet-maker.

"A man who likes to think about himself."

"I guess I can fill the bill all right," asserted L. J. Wright,
confidently. Sixty a week, all expenses, and a trip to London began to
look very attractive.

"Then you're engaged." The manager nodded.

"I don't know yet what I'm to do," ventured Wright.

"Nothing, I tell you."

"Well, I'll do it, then!" And L. J. Wright smiled tentatively; but the
manager of the Acme Vibrator Company looked at him seriously--almost
reprovingly--and whispered so hoarsely that Wright felt like going after
cough-lozenges for him:

"Listen, Wright. You will go to London with a letter to Dr. Cephas W.
Atterbury, 23, Abbey Road, St. John's Wood, N. W. Every day you will sit
down in a comfortable chair in the doctor's anteroom, where the patients
wait, from nine to eleven a.m. and five to seven p.m. You will think of
your St. Vitus's dance. For doing this you will get sixty dollars a week
from us and your hotel bill will be paid by the doctor. You may not have
to sail for a month, but your salary begins on Monday. Come here every
Saturday and get twenty-five dollars on account. When you sail you will
get all that's owing to you besides four weeks' salary in advance, and a
round-trip ticket, first-class."

"But if I get stranded in London--"

"How can you, with three or four hundred dollars in your pocket, a
return-trip ticket, and no need to spend except for clothes, which are
very cheap there? Come next Saturday, but leave your name and address in
case we need you. Can we depend on you?" He looked searchingly into the
grayish-blue eyes of Lewis J. Wright, and seemed comforted when Lewis J.
Wright answered:

"Yes. I'll go on a minute's notice." He wrote his name and address on a
slip, gave it to the manager, and went out. Lovell followed him to
the outer office and, beckoning to the afflicted nine to draw near,
whispered:

"I've hired a man, but I shall need more soon. Write your names and
addresses and leave them here. Don't come unless I send for you," and he
distributed printed blanks on which each applicant wrote out his name,
address, and answers to the questions:

1--Do you object to traveling alone?

2--Do you object to sitting in comfortable chairs?

3--Do you object to people making remarks about you?

4--Do you object to minding your own business or earning your wages?

One of the applicants spoke:

"Mr. Lovell, I'd like to know--"

Lovell, however, cut him short with a hoarse but peremptory "Don't
talk! Can't answer!" pointed to his throat, and disappeared in the inner
office, the door of which he closed.

Whereupon the disappointed applicants, expressing their feelings in a
series of heartrending jerks, twitches, tremors, and grimaces, trooped
out into the hall. There they cross-examined Wright and arrived at the
conclusion that they were to be used as living advertisements for the
Acme Vibrator. Doctors were employed to boom it and the company supplied
dummies or "property" patients.



II

To the same clerk in the _Herald_ office, a fortnight later, came the
same man in black, and whispered something. The clerk recognized him,
leaned over, and asked, pleasantly:

"What is it this time?" He had a good memory. He afterward remembered
thinking that the hoarseness was chronic.

"How much for one inch in Help Wanted, Male?"

"Pica caps?"

The man nodded eagerly, half a dozen times.

"Two dollars and thirty-two cents."

The stranger, in trying to take the exact amount from his pocket,
dropped a dime on the floor and had much difficulty in picking it up by
reason of his black gloves. This naturally made the clerk remember
about the scar, which the man evidently desired to conceal. Carroll, the
clerk, alert-minded and imaginative--as are all American Celts--caught
a glimpse of the scar between the end of the glove and the beginning of
the cuff.

On the next day, the unemployed males of New York read this in the
_Herald_:

_Wanted--A Brave Man. Wages One Hundred Dollars a Day. No Questions
Answered. Apply Room 888, St. Iago Building._

There are many brave men in New York. When W. W. Lovell stepped from the
elevator at the eighth floor he had almost to force his way through a
crowd of men of all kinds--brutes and dreamers; sturdy animals, and boys
with romance in their eyes; fierce-visaged, roughly dressed men, and
fashionably attired chaps, with high-bred, impassive faces; young men
seeking adventure and old men seeking bread. Lovell was darting keen
glances at the men. He let his gaze linger on a man neither short nor
tall, of about forty, who suggested determination rather than reckless
courage. He was shabby with the shabbiness of a man who not only has
worn the clothes a long time, but has slept in them. Lovell approached
him and whispered:

"Come about _Herald_ ad?"

"Yes." Others drew near and listened.

"Are you really brave?" He looked anxiously into the man's face. The
man, at the question and at the grins of his fellow-applicants, turned a
brick-red.

"Try me!" he answered, defiantly.

"Before all these men?" There was a challenge in the hoarse whisper.

"If you want to," answered the man, with quick anger. He clenched his
fists and braced his body, as for a shock.

"Come in!" and W. W. Lovell opened the door of 888.

"I'm braver than that guy!" interjected a youth, extremely
broad-shouldered and thick-necked.

Mr. Lovell looked at him coldly, steadily, inquisitively, as though he
would read the man's soul. He stared fully a minute and a half before
the thick-set youngster dropped his gaze, whereupon Mr. Lovell pushed
in the man he had picked out, followed him, and slammed the door in the
faces of the others. They tried the door-knob in vain. It was a spring
lock.

Mr. Lovell sat down at his desk, motioned to the man to draw near, and
said, sternly:

"No questions answered!"

"I'll ask none."

Lovell gazed at him intently. He nodded to himself with satisfaction,
and proceeded, in a painful whisper:

"Your name is W. W. Lowry."

The man hesitated. Lovell frowned and, leaning forward, said:

"One hundred dollars a day!"

"My name," said the man, determinedly, "is now W. W. Lowry."

"Do you know anything about travelers' checks used by the American
Express Company?"

"Yes."

"Ever used any yourself?"

"No."

"Ever in Paris?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When I was--er--years ago."

"How many years?"

"Ten; no--eleven!" The man's face twitched. Remembrance was evidently
not pleasant.

"I'll pay you one thousand dollars for eight days' work in Paris."

"I'll take it."

"Listen carefully."

"Go ahead." The man looked alert.

"You will get a first-class ticket from New York to Paris and return,
and hotel coupons for ten days in the Hotel Beraud, in Paris. You will
leave, in all probability, on February first, arrive on the eighth. On
the ninth you will go to the American Express office and cash some of
your checks. They will serve to identify you. Do it again on February
tenth. At exactly eleven minutes past eleven on the eleventh you will
whisper to the mail clerk: 'It is eleven-eleven, to-day the eleventh.
Give me the eleven letters for W. W. Lowry.' If you do not receive
eleven letters, don't take any, but return the next day at precisely the
same hour, and say exactly the same words. What was it I said you should
say to the correspondence clerk?"

"It is eleven-eleven, to-day the eleventh. Give me the eleven letters
for W. W. Lowry," repeated the man.

"Right! When you get the eleven letters you will bring them unopened to
me--here. Now go to Mrs. Brady's boarding-house, 299 East Seventy-third
Street; tell her you are Mr. Lowry. Your room and board are paid for.
Make it a point to be at the house every day at eleven in the morning
until after luncheon and at six p.m. You must not go out evenings under
any circumstances. I'll allow you eleven dollars a week for tobacco
and will bring you some clothes. Come back Wednesday at eleven-thirty.
Here's this week's eleven dollars. That will be all."

"That's all right, my friend; but--" began the man.

Lovell frowned and interrupted sharply:

"No questions answered."

"I wasn't going to ask; I was going to remark that you would have to
show me that one thousand dollars for the week's work."

"Next Wednesday I'll take you to the American Express Company. I'll give
you one thousand dollars and you will buy the checks yourself and sign
them. I'll keep them until sailing-day and I'll give them to you on the
steamer. Forging," he went on with a sneer, "is signing another man's
name with intent to defraud. You will sign your own name--your own
signature--on travelers' checks that you yourself have paid for. See? A
thousand dollars for asking for eleven letters and bringing them to me,
unopened, is good graft, friend. If you make good I'll keep you busy."

"You are on!" said W. W. Lowry.

"No drinking. Above all things, no talking! I may be crazy, my friend;
but what would you be if you gave up a job worth a thousand dollars a
week and all expenses paid? Remember our motto: No questions answered!"

"Damned good rule!" agreed W. W. Lowry, with conviction.

"Look out for reporters and for men who say they are reporters!" warned
W. W. Lovell. "When you go out, close the door quickly behind you and
hang this sign on the door-knob. I don't want to see anybody."

W. W. Lowry obeyed. The sign said:

POSITION FILLED



III


A particularly beautiful limousine stopped before the door of Welch,
Boon & Shaw, the renowned jewelers, on Fifth Avenue. There alighted from
it, on this cold but bright January day, a tall, well-built man, erect,
square-shouldered, head held high. He wore a fur-lined overcoat with
a beautiful mink collar, and a mink cap. He was one of those
blond-mustached, ruddy-complexioned, daily-cold-plunge British officers
you sometimes see in Ottawa. He walked quickly into the shop and spoke
to the first clerk he saw.

"Where's the proprietor?"

"Who?"

"The proprietor of the shop!" He spoke with a pronounced English accent.
His eyes were gray and cold. They looked a trifle close together, but
that may have been from the frown--said frown impressing even a casual
observer as a chronic affair. His appearance, even without the frown,
was aristocratic.

"Do you wish," said the clerk, politely, "to see Mr. Boon or Mr. Shaw?"

"I wish to see the man who owns this shop; the--ah--boss, I think you
call it here."

"Well, Mr. Boon--" began the clerk, about to explain.

"I don't care if it's Mr. Loon or Mr. Coon. Be quick, please!" he said,
peremptorily.

The clerk, now resenting the stranger's words, tone, manner, attitude,
nationality, and ancestry, turned to a floor-walker person and called:

"Mr. Smith, this--ahem--gentleman wishes to see one of the firm."

Mr. Smith came forward, smiling suavely.

"You wish to see one of the firm, sir?" He bowed in advance.

"Yes. That's the third time I've said what I wish. I have no time to
lose and not much patience, either!" He twitched his neck and twisted
his head as though his collar were too tight. It was a habit, and it
became more pronounced with his annoyance. All the clerks noticed it.

Mr. Smith bit his lip and said, very politely: "Yes, sir. It happens
that none of them is in at present. If you will tell me what you wish to
see them about I may suggest--"

The fur-coated man turned on his heel, his face dark red with annoyance,
and started to leave the shop.

"Good-by, old Jerk-Neck!" muttered the offended clerk.

Mr. Boon entered at that very moment.

"Here's Mr. Boon, our senior partner," said Mr. Smith, with an
irritation in his voice that he could not conceal, and that now gave Mr.
Boon his cue.

"You wish to see me?" Mr. Boon asked it very coldly, ready to say no.

"You have an annoying set of clerks here," said the fur-coated stranger.
"I wished to see one of the firm and--"

"You see him now," interrupted Mr. Boon, letting the words drop out with
an effect of broken icicles. "I am Mr. Boon."

"My good man, I came after some pearl necklaces and a few rings, and
trinkets. Do make haste! I am Colonel Lowther."

"Indeed! Well, what if you are Colonel Lowther?"

In Mr. Boon's eyes was a look that made all the clerks in the store
busy themselves with their own affairs. Explosions scatter dangerous
fragments that may injure lookers-on. The fur-coated Englishman stared
at the sizzling jeweler in amazement.

"Damme!" he sputtered. "Do you mean to say--Oh--I see! Yes! I am
the secretary of the Duke of Connaught. The jewels are for his Royal
Highness."

The change was instantaneous and magical. They all understood now,
and forgave. There wasn't a clerk in the store who did not stare
with unchecked interest at the fur-coated member of the royal party,
concerning which the newspapers were printing columns and columns.

The man opened his coat, took a card from a Russia-leather case, which
he gave to Mr. Boon.

"Colonel the Honorable H. C. Lowther, K.C.B.," it read, "Private
Secretary to H. R. H. the Duke of Connaught."

"Colonel Lowther," said Mr. Boon, in a voice from which all the icicles
had melted and turned into warm honey, "I regret exceedingly that
you have had to wait. Had I known you were here, or if you had only
mentioned who you were--"

"Exactly so. Yes! And now I'll have a few words with you in private,
Boon."

The colonel could not know that Mr. Boon was not a misterless Bond
Street tradesman, but a millionaire expert in gems and human vanity. So
Boon forgave the omission of "Mr." and magnanimously said, "This way,
Colonel Lowther, please!"

In the office Mr. Boon opened a box of his good cigars--and they were
very good, indeed--and held it toward the colonel, who took one with his
gloved hands, lit it at the flame of the match which Mr. Boon himself
held for him, and puffed away, with never a "Thank you."

Again Mr. Boon was magnanimous.

Colonel Lowther wiggled his neck as if his collar were uncomfortably
tight, and then shot his head forward with a motion that made the chin
go up six inches--a nervous affliction that Mr. Boon politely ignored by
looking exaggeratedly attentive.

"His Royal Highness wishes to leave some remembrances to gentlemen he
has met, you know--chairmen of committees and presidents of clubs, and
others who have been very nice to him. At home he would have given them
snuff-boxes or cigarette-cases, with his arms on them; but there won't
be time to engrave them, so he will give scarf-pins." He paused, puffed
at his cigar, and cleared his neck of the constricting collar.

"I understand," Mr. Boon assured him, deferentially.

"And the duchess will give rings
and--ah--lorgnette-chains--trinkets--ah--you know. Everybody in New
York has been so kind to the party. 'Pon my honor, Boon, I really think
Americans are keener for royalty than the British. I do! What?"

"Blood," observed Mr. Boon, with the impressive sententiousness of a man
inventing a proverb, "is thicker than water!"

"Eh? What? Oh! I see! Yes! Quite so!"

"Our people," pursued the encouraged Mr. Boon, "have always thought a
great deal of the English--er--British royal family."

"Oh, indeed! Now, Boon, I didn't think you showed great affection for
George III! What?"

Mr. Boon blushed to think of Bunker Hill. His daughter was a D. A. R.,
too! He hastened to change the subject.

"You mentioned," he said, as though he were reading aloud from one of
the sacred books, "some pearl necklaces. At least, I think you did." He
put on the tradesman's listening look in advance. It is the look that
courtiers assume when they listen to his Majesty excitedly telling how
once, on a hunting-trip, he almost dressed himself.

"Oh yes! The pearls are for the Princess Patricia. A necklace to cost
not over ten thousand. You see, the duke is not one of your Pittsburg
millionaires. He's not what you'd call rich, in America!" He smiled,
democratically, as a man always does when he is pleased with his own
wit. Mr. Boon smiled uncertainly.

"You can't, of course," he said, regretfully, "do much with ten thousand
dollars."

"Not dollars--pounds! Perhaps we may go up to fifteen thousand; but his
Highness would prefer to keep at about ten thousand pounds. That's fifty
thousand dollars."

"I am sure we can please his Highness," said Mr. Boon, with impressive
confidence. There fleeted across his mind the vision of the tremendous
value of the advertisement which the royal patronage would give him. The
papers were full of the doings of the distinguished visitors. He himself
on his way to the office had been guilty of the pardonable curiosity
which the lower classes call rubber-necking; and he had even
discussed--in common with 89,999,999 fellow-Americans--the personal
pulchritude of the royal ladies. Usually democracy is enabled to
apologize to itself for its undemocratic interest in feminine royalty
by saying, "She isn't at all goodlooking." That excuse, however, did not
serve in this instance. The Princess Patricia was the most popular girl
in New York--with the classes because she was the princess, and with the
masses because she was so pretty! And to think of selling pearls to her!

He closed his eyes and ecstatically read what the papers would print
about the sale! He heard himself saying to Mrs. Carmpick, of Pittsburg:
"This necklace is handsomer than the one we sold to Princess Patricia!"
He heard the rattle in the throats of Johnson & Pierce, of J. Storrs'
Sons, of the sixteen partners of Goffony's, dying from apoplexy
superinduced by envy, or from starvation following the loss of all the
swell customers!

"Ah, you realize, of course, Boon, that his Royal Highness's patronage
is worth many thousands to your firm. What?"

The colonel's eyes, Mr. Boon thought, were cold and greedy, as befitted
a common grafter. Mr. Boon resented this, having himself been caught
red-handed getting something for nothing. If he had to pay a
commission--"We appreciate the honor, of course, Colonel Lowther," he
said, deferentially--and non-committally.

"Quite so! You ought to, considering how the newspapers will mention
your shop."

"I may suggest, Colonel Lowther, that our firm's reputation--"

"I know its reputation. That's why I am here"--the colonel's voice
seemed colder than a Canadian cold spell--"but it is no better than your
competitors'--Goffony, Johnson & Pierce, or J. Storrs' Sons. I figured
that the duke's patronage should be worth thousands to Welch, Boon &
Shaw; so you must make me a special price."

"We have but one--"

"I've heard all that, Boon," the colonel interrupted, angrily. "If you
are going to talk like a bally ass I'll waste no more time here. Bring
in the pearls. I can't take over a half-hour to this."

Mr. Boon's hard sense and knowledge of advertising values triumphed over
his injured dignity. He excused himself, and presently returned with a
tray full of pearl necklaces.

"I say, Boon, on second thought, you must not reduce your prices. It's a
bad principle."

"Yes, it is," agreed Boon, cordially.

"Therefore, my good fellow, name me one price--the lowest possible after
considering how much the duke's patronage is worth to your house. The
very lowest! Put it in plain figures on new price-tags. The duke is
accustomed to the prices across the pond, you know; so don't frighten
him. Now that one?"

He picked up at once the most beautiful necklace--and also the most
valuable, though by no means the most showy. Mr. Boon's respect jumped.
He looked at the colonel, whose neck and head were twitching and
twisting violently.

"This one--" he began. The colonel interrupted him:

"Now, Boon, think carefully--the very lowest price," he said, sternly.
"If you name a really reasonable figure I'll pledge you my word to
recommend its purchase and not visit the other shops. Take your time!"

Thus placed on the rack, Mr. Boon figured and cut and restored and
reduced again until he was angry at the torturer and at the opportunity
for a glorious advertisement. Finally he said, vindictively:

"This I'll sell for sixty-five thousand dollars!" Immediately he
regretted it. Perhaps he was overestimating the advertising value of the
Princess Patricia's beautiful neck to exhibit his pearls on. The price
was exactly thirty-five thousand dollars less than he had expected to
get for it during the next steel boom.

"Oh, come now, I say," remonstrated Colonel Lowther, impatiently.
"That's thirteen thousand pounds. It's too much, you know."

"Colonel Lowther," said Boon, pale but determined, "I am losing
considerable money on this, which I am charging to advertising account
and may never get back. If the price is not satisfactory, I'm sorry;
and I can only suggest that you'd better go to the other firms you've
mentioned. They are all," he finished quietly, "very good firms."

Colonel Lowther, who had not taken his keen eyes off the jeweler's face
during the speech, appeared impressed by Mr. Boon's earnestness. His
neck jerked spasmodically half a dozen times before he said:

"I believe you. I'll take it. But first mark it--in pounds; thirteen
thousand pounds." And he looked on, eagle-eyed, while Mr. Boon himself
wrote out a new price-tag. Evidently he would take no chances with
sleight-of-hand substitutions. "Put it here," he said, "beside me."

It made Mr. Boon say, half angry, half amused: "We won't change it for
an imitation string. We are really a reputable firm, Colonel Lowther."

"Oh! Ah! Really, I--ah!" stammered the colonel, "I wasn't thinking of
such a thing!" He looked so absurdly guilty, however, that Mr. Boon
forgave him. "I think you'd better show me others--ah!--cheaper, you
know, in case the duke should not wish to go above ten thousand pounds.
Say, that one--and this!--and this!"

He had selected the three next best; but Boon figured very closely and
in all instances named a price below cost: fifty-seven thousand five
hundred dollars, fifty thousand dollars, and forty-five thousand
dollars.

"Put them here also with the first one," said Colonel Lowther..

"Don't you wish us to put them in boxes?" asked Mr. Boon.

"Ah--ah!--I say, bring the boxes in and I'll put them in. We'll do it
more quickly," he finished, lamely.

There flashed across Mr. Boon's mind the possibility of crookedness.
Colonel Lowther did not trust them--perhaps because he hoped to avert
suspicions by that same attitude of distrust! Mr. Boon determined to
watch closely. He asked a clerk to bring some cases for the necklaces.

"You fix them, Boon," said Colonel Lowther, who was watching the
jeweler's hands as children watch the hands of a prestidigitator.

It actually eased Boon's mind to be taken for a crook. He arranged the
necklaces, each in its own Russia-leather case, and then gratefully
helped Colonel Lowther to select two dozen scarf-pins, amounting in
value to eighteen thousand dollars, a score of rings worth in all a
little over twenty-five thousand dollars, and a few lorgnette-chains
and other trinkets. Once all these were duly price-tagged, packed, and
placed beside the necklaces, Colonel Lowther, after a series of mild
cervical convulsions, said, calmly:

"Now, Boon, you and I must settle a personal matter. You know, of
course, the royal party never pays cash."

"Then," said the impetuous Mr. Boon, "the deal is off!"

"Silly ass! The royal family of England always pays. You know very
well that the jewels bought by King George for gifts for his coronation
guests have not been paid for yet. It's all a matter of red tape. The
money is as safe as the Bank of England! Any banker here would be glad
to guarantee the account--only that would never do, of course. Now you
know I can't take any commission. I've made you give me the lowest
prices for the duke, haven't I? What?"

"Yes, you have; and therefore I can't--"

"If I were a bally Russian I'd have made you name a price twice the
usual figure and I'd have taken the difference as a commission. It's
what you Americans call graft, I believe. What?"

"Of course," said Boon, coldly, disgusted with the venal aristocracy,
"we'd never have done such a--"

"Tut, tut! It's done everywhere; but not to me!" Colonel Lowther said,
so sternly that Mr. Boon considered himself accused of unnamed crimes.
He resented this, but, being unable to fix the exact accusation,
contented himself with remarking, diplomatically:

"Of course not! But at the same time--"

"Yes, yes," rudely broke in the colonel, with a silencing wave of his
gloved hand. "Now I can myself pay you in cash for whatever the duke
buys--say, up to twenty thousand or twenty-five thousand pounds. For
advancing this money, which will not be paid to me for months, I ask
you to allow me a half-year's interest. That," finished Colonel Lowther,
impressively, "is banking. What?"

"At what rate?"

"Oh, eight or ten per cent."

"Impossible!"

"Then, Mr. Welch, Boon, or whatever your name is, I wish you a very good
morning!"

"But we'll allow you interest at the rate of six per cent, a year."

"But I myself have to pay five for the use--ah!--that is--er--"
floundered the Englishman. Mr. Boon perceived instantly that the colonel
borrowed the money from Canadian bankers at five per cent, and got ten
per cent. It was not a bad scheme for high-class aristocratic graft!
Even a jeweler could philosophize about wilful self-delusion, the point
of view, custom, and so on. "Make it seven per cent. What?"

Mr. Boon could not help admiring the persistency of the Englishman in
coating his graft-pills with the sugar of legitimacy. Doubtless the
colonel had really convinced himself this was not graft!

"Very well," said Mr. Boon, with a smile. "I'll take three and a half
per cent, off for cash."

"But we agreed on seven!" remonstrated the Englishman.

"Well, three and a half per cent, of the whole is the same as six months
at seven per cent."

"Oh!" The colonel began to figure in his mind. His cervical contortions,
twitchings, and jerkings were painful to behold. Mr. Boon thought it was
a mild form of St. Vitus's dance. It would enable him to recognize the
colonel in a crowd of ten thousand.

"Quite so! Yes--three and a half per cent, of the total bill. It will
be at least twenty thousand pounds--that's one hundred thousand dollars.
Not half bad! What?"

"Do you mean your commission will be one hundred thousand dollars? I'm
delighted to hear it!" Mr. Boon was so pleased that he jested. He would
play up the royal patronage to the limit.

"Oh no! I meant the total amount, you know," corrected the colonel,
earnestly. He saw that Boon was smiling, and gradually it dawned on him
that the jeweler was an American humorist. "Oh! Ah! Yes! Very funny!
Quite so! I wish it were! How many millions would the bill have to be
for the cash discount to be twenty thousand pounds? What?
Right-O! Well, now bring the pearls and the other things to the motor.
I shall show them to his Royal Highness at once. I can let you know in a
half-hour which he will keep." And he rose.

"Ah!--er--Colonel, you know we don't like to--ah!--there's over two
hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels, worth four hundred thousand
dollars in any other place in New York; and if anything happened--"

"Nothing will happen," said the colonel, with assurance.

"And then, it will take a long time to prepare the memorandum of--"

"Why do you need a memorandum?" inquired the colonel, coldly. He looked
as if he began to suspect that Mr. Boon distrusted a member of the suite
of his Royal Highness, Prince Arthur William Patrick Albert, K.G., K.T.,
K.P., P.C., G.M.B., G.3. S.I., G.C.M.G., G.C.I.E., G.C.V.O., Duke of
Connaught and Stratheam, Earl of Sussex, Prince of Coburg and Gotha,
Governor-General of Canada, and potential customer of the world-renowned
firm of Welch, Boon & Shaw.

Reading the emotions on the colonel's face and not desiring to offend,
but at the same time determined not to deliver two hundred thousand
dollars' worth of goods to a stranger, who might be the duke's
secretary, but might not be a reliable man financially, for all that,
Mr. Boon groped for an excuse. But Colonel Lowther pursued, frigidly:

"Why should you need a memorandum if you yourself will bring the jewels?
Did you think I was a bally clerk to sell your jewels for you? You do
the talking--and don't change the prices!"

So profoundly relieved as not to resent the last insult, Mr. Boon smiled
pleasantly and said, "I must take a man to carry them."

"Take a regiment if you wish; but there's room for only three in the
motor," said the Englishman, his neck twitching and twisting and jerking
quite violently. Anger seemed to aggravate his nervous malady. Wherefore
Mr. Boon hastily gathered up the packages, put them into a jeweler's
strong valise, and followed the colonel, accompanied by Terry Donnelly,
the store's private policeman, who carried the precious satchel in one
hand, and in the other--in his overcoat pocket--an automatic pistol of
the latest model.

One of the clerks must have told of the affair, for there was an eager
crowd on the sidewalk. They had heard that the Duke of Connaught's
secretary was in the store, buying diamonds. By the time it had passed
seven mouths it was the duke himself. Mr. Boon heard: "There he comes!"
and, "Is the princess with him?" and, "Which is the duke?" And he had
pleasant visions of free reading-notices and renewed popularity among
the ultra-fashionable. One of the traffic squad was trying to make the
crowd move on--in vain.

The colonel good-naturedly forced his way through the mob to the motor,
followed by the jeweler and the store policeman, who saw on the door of
the limousine the letters "W. R." And both of them concluded that this
stood for the well-known initials of the duke's host.

A short woman, with red hair and a self-assertive bust, stared boldly at
the colonel and said, "He don't look like his pictures."

"Say, are you the duke?" asked a messenger-boy.

However, the colonel merely said "Home!" and entered the motor, followed
by Mr. Boon and T. Donnelly. The store footman closed the door as if it
were made of priceless cut-glass. The traffic policeman touched his cap
and the motor went up the Avenue.

The colonel picked up a newspaper from the seat and turned to Mr. Boon.

"See!" he said, "our pictures. Your reporters are--ah!--very
enterprising and clever. But the photographers are worse!" He laughed
and went on: "The pictures don't look like me, d'ye think?"

"I recognize the coat and the fur cap," laughed Mr. Boon.

"Oh, do you?" said the colonel, seriously. He looked at it and
said: "But it might be my other fur cap, you know. What?" He looked
challengingly at the jeweler.

"It might be," admitted Mr. Boon, diplomatically confessing his error.

"Quite so!" said the owner of the fur cap, triumphantly.

Mr. Boon, finding himself nearer the house of the duke's host, began to
feel more confident of putting through the epoch-making deal. It is not
often that a New York jeweler sells pearls to an uncle of the King of
England, to be used by the king's most beautiful cousin! He would have
the princess's photograph in his window. It should show the famous
necklace!

The motor took its place last in the long string of automobiles and
carriages that were creeping toward the door of the house which his
Royal Highness was honoring.

"Democracy meekly leaving its card at the house of royalty," laughed the
colonel, pointing to the twoscore vehicles ahead of theirs.

"Americans paying their respects to an Englishman who is honored even in
his own country," said Mr. Boon.

"Oh, now, I say, Boon, that's uncommonly neat, you know. What? But
perhaps we'd better get out and walk; otherwise it may be a half-hour
before--"

A footman in livery came up to their motor, touched his hat with a
respect that entitled him to a bank president's wages, and said to the
colonel:

"I beg pardon, sir, but 'is Royal 'ighness 'as gone to Mr. Walton's,
sir, at number 899 Fifth Avenue. I was hinstructed to tell you to go
there, sir."

"Tell the chauffeur where to go," said the colonel, briefly.

"Yes, sir--very good, sir." The man touched his hat and told the
chauffeur.

Their motor pulled out of the line and turned to the west.

"Mr. Walton was at Eton with the duke," explained the colonel to Mr.
Boon.

"J. G. Walton?" asked Mr. Boon.

"Yes."

"I didn't know he was educated in England," said Mr. Boon in a tone that
implied he knew Mr. Walton well.

"Didn't you?" said the colonel, more sharply than the occasion
warranted.

"But then, we never discussed the subject," apologized the jeweler.

"Do you know the house?"

"Yes. I've been in it several times. I understood Mr. Walton was in
Florida and had rented his residence for the winter."

"I don't know a bally thing about his private affairs," said the
colonel, coldly; "but I do know the duke intended to visit him, and I've
been told to go there."

It occurred to the store detective that if the Englishman was rude to
Mr. Boon it was altogether likely the duke treated his private secretary
as a servant. It gave the detective pleasure to imagine this, for
whenever the colonel had looked at Mr. Donnelly it was with the casual
indifference with which men look at chairs or cobblestones. This made
T. Donnelly feel that he was not alive, and he disliked the aristocratic
undertaker.

The motor turned into Fifth Avenue, sped northward, and halted before a
house. Mr. Boon recognized Mr. Walton's residence.

The colonel alighted quickly and said "Come with me!" in the tone
foreigners use to menials, and didn't even turn his head to see if he
was followed, but walked up to the door and rang the bell.

A man in livery opened the door.

"I am Colonel Lowther!"

"Yes, sir. His Royal Highness said you were to wait in the drawing-room
unless there was somebody with you; in which case you were to be taken
to him, sir."

"Come on!" said the colonel to Mr. Boon and the private policeman. The
footman preceded them to a door at the back of the foyer hall, opened
it, drew back heavy portières, and announced, solemnly:

"Colonel Lowther!"

The colonel entered. So did Mr. Boon and Donnelly. A man stood gazing
out of a window. His back was toward them. For the first time Mr.
Boon--so he said later--felt that something was wrong. Yet he made no
effort to protect himself.

"Your Highness, here are the pearls."

The duke turned round. He had a kindly face, had white hair and
mustaches.

"Let me have them!" said his Royal Highness, in the husky whisper of a
man suffering from acute laryngitis or partial paralysis of the vocal
cords.

"I know that voice!" shouted Donnelly, and the jeweler knew he might
fear the worst; but, before they could put their hands in their pockets
for their revolvers, strong fingers took strangle-holds on their
throats, a spray of ammonia had been squirted into their nostrils and
eyes, and they were helpless. In a jiffy their wrists were handcuffed
behind their backs, their feet were fastened with leg-irons, their
mouths pried open with a bowie-knife blade that made them cease
struggling. Pear-gags were inserted into their mouths. Donnelly squirmed
and carried on like a frightened child--but at the same time kept
unfrightened eyes on the duke. Not so Boon, who was as pale as ivory.

The duke turned his back on his captives and put on a black cloth mask,
but the watchful Donnelly noticed that he put into his pocket what
looked like false mustaches. He also donned a pair of black gloves, but
not before the policeman had seen a long, white scar, beginning at the
knuckles and disappearing up the wrist into the cuff. Donnelly recalled
having heard or read a description of a professional crook that tallied
with what he had seen. It would make the work of capture easier.

The masked duke picked up the precious valise and said, "Take them to
the others."

The four men who had nearly strangled the jeweler and the policeman were
dressed in overalls and jumpers, had on black masks, and wore gloves.
They carried the helpless victims into what seemed to be the servants'
dining-room.

Propped up in high-backed chairs, Mr. Jesse L. Boon, of Welch, Boon
& Shaw, saw Mr. Wilfred Gaylord, president of Goffony's, Mr. Percival
Pierce, of Johnson & Pierce, Mr. J. Sumner Storrs, of J. Storrs' Sons,
and five of their clerks. Beside Mr. Pierce was an empty chair. Mr. Boon
was placed on it. The detective was dumped on one near Goffony's clerk.

"Tie 'em in couples," whispered the duke. Each man was tied to the back
of his chair--and the chairs themselves were tied back to back.

"That," explained the colonel, "will prevent you from hurting yourselves
by toppling over in regrettable efforts to reach the door. We wish no
harm to befall you. What?"

The masked men in overalls left the room like perfectly trained
servants.

"You are a damned fool!" whispered the duke, angrily.

"Why?" amiably asked the Englishman.

"The only people that don't talk are those that can't."

"I know--but murder will out! Never knew it to fail. We have--ah!--you
might say--ah!--borrowed a few trinkets from these gentlemen. They may
get them back, possibly; but you can't ever bring back the breath of
life if you decapitate them. What?"

"I tell you I will not leave them here to blab!" hissed the duke;
and Boon could not help thinking of the anger of a rattlesnake with
laryngitis. "A slight nick in the jugular and they'll bleed away
painlessly. Just before the end they will begin to dream. By------, I'll
do it! Right now!"

The duke pulled out a barber's razor, opened it, and approached Boon.

Something about his manner told the jeweler that this creature was about
to cut their throats as much for the pleasure of it as because of
the supposed safety. It was confirmed when the masked fiend wheezed,
malignantly:

"It's sterilized!"

Mr. Boon was suddenly conscious of an extreme cold, as if he had been
thrown naked into an ice-cave. On Pierce's face, grown gray, the sweat
stood in a microscopic dew. Gaylord's florid face was livid and tense;
J. Sumner Storrs had closed his eyes and seemed asleep, but the breath
whistled unpleasantly through his nostrils.

"Stop!" said the colonel so sharply that the duke turned like a
flash--to look into the barrel of a blue-steel automatic.

"Drop the razor, old chap! I can't let you kill the beggars in cold
blood. Upon my soul, I can't, you know!" His head was jerking and
twisting at a furious rate, but the revolver was as steady as a rock.

"It's our only chance. It won't hurt them. They won't feel it any more
than a feather--it's so sharp," whispered the black-masked devil.

"Drop it, I say!" said the colonel, peremptorily. They heard a gritting
of teeth from behind the mask as the duke closed the razor and dropped
it on the floor. Still covering his accomplice, the colonel put his foot
on the weapon. "Thanks, old chap!" he said, pleasantly. At that very
moment he could have capitalized the gratitude of the ten prisoners at
many thousands.

"Fool!" came in a husky whisper.

"Oh, now! I say!"

"What's the difference between twenty years in the pen and twenty
seconds in the electric chair? I myself prefer the chair. But I'd rather
cut their throats and keep out of danger. I tell you, it's tempting
Providence to leave these men--"

"Is it as much as twenty years, old fellow?" queried the colonel,
obviously perturbed.

The duke nodded.

"I say, gentlemen, I don't want to stay twenty years indoors, you know.
Really, it's not a pleasant thought. What? If I give you your lives you
must not take away my liberty. So I will go out now and leave you here
with my friend, unless you promise not to tell the police anything that
will serve as a clue and yourselves do nothing to harm us. If you
will act like gentlemen I'll undertake to prevent my friend here from
severing your respective jugulars. Nod for 'Yes' and shake your heads
for 'No.' Promise not to talk?"

Ten heads nodded vehemently.

"Come, old chap; you must take their words. Gentlemen, you will be
released this evening without fail. We must have time to leave New York.
Avoid the reporters as you would the plague. It would not be wise to
publish the facts! Think of it--the heads of the great firms! In parting
from you, gentlemen, I wish to thank you in behalf of the Plunder
Recovery Syndicate, to the success of whose operations you have in this
instance so generously contributed. Gratitude surely is not incompatible
with business methods. Gentleman, again I say, Thank you kindly, and--
why not?--_au revoir!_"

And that was the last the captives saw of the man who, on behalf of
the Plunder Recovery Syndicate, had reduced the holdings of pearls and
trinkets of New York's most famous jewelers by a trifle over one million
dollars' worth.

It was nearly closing-time--midnight--that night when two men entered P.
T. Ayres's corner drugstore. One of them wore a fur overcoat and a silk
hat. The other was dressed in black, had a mourning-band about his hat,
and wore black gloves. He carried a bag on which the sleepy lady cashier
saw the "L" and the cabin tags of a transatlantic line. The man in black
said to her:

"May this gentleman telephone for me, miss? My throat is in pretty bad
shape, and I don't want to use it."

It was in bad shape, indeed. She could hardly hear him.

"But, I say, dear chap--" remonstrated the fur-coated man, whose collar
was so tight that he wiggled his head violently as if in search of
comfort.

"This is as good a place as any," whispered the man in black,
impatiently. "Call 'em up! I say, miss, have you got any slippery elm or
some kind of troches good for laryngitis?"

She remembered afterward that when she said she would call the
proprietor he kept her from it by engaging her in conversation, which
likewise prevented her from trying to hear what his companion was
saying.

The fur-coated man had called up Spring 3100, which is police
headquarters.

"Are you there? I say, are you there? Yes, I know this is not London.
You know Mr. Pierce and Mr. Storrs and Mr. Boon and Mr. Gaylord? Well,
tell your men they are in a residence on Fifth Avenue, in the servants'
dining-room. It's Colonel Walton's house. Right-O! That's not your
business. Go to the devil!" He came out of the booth with an angry face.
"Confound their impudence! Where is my friend?"

"He's gone," said the cashier. "Here--come back and pay for that call;
five cents!"

The telephone clerk at police headquarters promptly told the news of
the whereabouts of the missing jewelers--for whom the star men had been
searching six hours diligently and secretly--and then tried, through the
telephone Central, to get in touch with the pay station from which
the "tip" had come, but couldn't, as they would not answer. The reason
Ayres's drug-store wouldn't answer was that the Englishman in his
ignorance had disarranged the connection without betraying that fact.
The detectives said it showed a technical knowledge of telephones and
their construction.

The news was kept from the newspapers, in the first place, because the
jewelers requested it of the Police Department; and, secondly, because
it was deemed wise by the sleuths to fight mystery with mystery. As
a matter of fact, the detectives were confident of apprehending the
miscreants shortly--for had they not left a trail as broad as Fifth
Avenue?

The jewelers went back on their words to the colonel, who saved their
lives. From their descriptions and the information given by Ayres and
the fair cashier, they knew the husky-voiced man with the scar on the
back of his hand must be Whispering Willie, a clever all-round crook.
The Englishman, they thought, was an amateur. The police communicated
with the _Ruritania_ by wireless, and asked the purser if among the
passengers were a man of middle height, smooth-shaven, about forty years
of age, with paralyzed vocal cords that made him talk as if he had acute
laryngitis, and a tall, well-built, blue-eyed, blond Englishman with a
nervous affliction of the neck like a mild form of St. Vitus's dance.
Within twenty-four hours the purser had sent the reply: "St. Vitus
here, under name of Lewis J. Wright. No trace of Laryngitis."

So headquarters cabled to Scotland Yard to hold the tall blond afflicted
with St. Vitus's dance, who was thought to have sailed under the name of
Lewis J. Wright, until the detective sergeant and one of the jeweler's
clerks could arrive with extradition papers. And that's how Mr. L. J.
Wright was arrested in Liverpool, less on account of New York's request
than by reason of the absurd yarn he told. There was no such Dr. Cephas
W. Atterbury as Wright declared he was going to see. The letter of
introduction to the doctor, moreover, was a blank sheet of paper. The
New York police learned about W. W. Lovell in this way and knew they
were on the right trail.

Ten days later there was arrested in Paris, at the office of the
American Express Company, a man answering the description of Whispering
Willie, who had presented some checks signed by W. W. Lowry. The Paris
police reported that W. W. Lowry was probably one of a band, because the
scar on his hand vanished when washed with alcohol. And his voice grew
normal when questioned by the prefect of police. He told an absurd story
of having been hired at the rate of one thousand dollars a week to ask
in a whisper for eleven letters at the American Express Company's office
on February 11th, at 11.11 a.m., and declared that when his employer
bade him good-by on the steamer he painted a scar on the back of his
hand and told him always to wear black gloves. The employer answered the
description of Whispering Willie and also of W. W. Lovell. The police
found that the whisperer's trail led a second time to the _Herald_
office. The clerk, Carroll, remembered the mysterious advertiser very
well indeed. Messrs. Reese & Silliman, real-estate agents, told the
police they had rented Colonel Walton's house for the winter to a Mr.
J. C. Atkinson, an Englishman who had given as references a firm of
international bankers on whom his letter of credit for five thousand
pounds was drawn. The bankers knew nothing about him personally or
socially. Mr. Atkinson had drawn the entire five thousand pounds. He had
occupied the house two months, paid his rent promptly, and had given
a satisfactory deposit against possible damage happening to any of the
furniture.

The police had lost four weeks of valuable time in following clues
that merely led back to the St. Iago Building and to the man with the
paralyzed vocal cords and the scar on the back of his hand, calling
himself W. W. Lovell, who was probably William W. Long, alias William W.
Longworth, alias W. W. Latshay, alias Whispering Willie. The Englishman
was not known to any member of the New York police force, but
fortunately he had a nervous affliction which would betray him without
recourse to the third degree.

Exactly one month after the departure of the real Duke of Connaught from
New York Messrs. Jesse L. Boon, Percival Pierce, J. Sumner Storrs,
and Wilfred Gaylord each received a copy of the following letter,
typewritten on note-paper of the Ritz-Carlton:

_Having disposed of the pearls of the Princess Patricia at a price only
eight per cent, below that at which you offered them to H. R. H. the
Duke of Connaught, we beg to suggest that it is a waste of money for you
to encourage the detectives and downright dishonesty for the detectives
to encourage you. You have caused to be arrested unfortunate men
suffering from chorea in Liverpool, Bremen, Genoa, Buenos Ayres, and
Panama, as well as Mr. W. W. Lowry in Paris and W. W. Longman in the
City of Mexico. For the last eleven months Whispering Willie has been
in the Missouri State Penitentiary, where he is Number 317. Our Colonel
Lowther has not St. Vitus's dance, is not an Englishman, and has not
left New York! The Duke of Connaught, otherwise W. W. Lovell, of the
Acme Vibrator Company, has a fine, strong barytone voice, has no scar on
the back of his right hand, is too young to have gray hair, and his nose
is not what it was when he was known as Mr. Lovell. We needed time to
move about unwatched in New York, hence the elaborate false clues. We
always plan our deals carefully and we are uniformly successful. We may
inform you, in selfdefense, that we operate only on the rich enemies
of society. Pearls and diamonds have ruined as many women as drink has
ruined men or Wall Street has destroyed souls! We regard them as plunder
to be recovered. You may be interested to know that we propose to
induce one of our most famous high financiers to contribute a couple of
millions to our surplus this month. At the proper time we shall supply
the name and the particulars, in order that you may compare notes with
the other patrons of_

_Yours truly,_

_The Plunderers._

The jewelers were inclined to regard the letter as a jest in very bad
taste perpetrated by one of their number. But all denied it, and the
communication was turned over to the police. The detective sergeant who
was in charge of the case also thought the letter was a joke--until
Mr. Boon told him he didn't see anything funny in the loss of a million
dollars' worth of gems and a score of false arrests. He wondered, like
the rest, whether there really was a syndicate, and presently found
himself waiting for the news of the second exploit. "He fooled _me_"
Boon confided to Donnelly. But what he really meant was that the man who
impersonated the private secretary of the Duke of Connaught could fool
anybody.




II-THE PANIC OF THE LION



I

A MAN walked into the office of Richards & Tuttle, bankers and
brokers, members of the New York Stock Exchange. All he could see was
a ground-glass partition, with little windows only a trifle larger than
peepholes, over which he read, "deliveries," "comparisons," "telegrams,"
and "cashier." If you had business to transact you knew at which window
to knock. If you had not you should not disturb the unseen clerks by
asking questions that took valuable time to answer. It was a typical,
non-communicative, non-confiding Wall Street office.

The man approached the "cashier" window because it was open. He was
tall and well built, with unmyopic eyes that looked through
tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. The brim of his high hat, the cut of his
coat, the hang of his trousers, the hue of his necktie and the gray,
waxed, needle-pointed mustaches proclaimed him unmistakably Parisian.

"I wish to see Mr. Richards," he said, in a nasal voice, so like the
twang of a stage Yankee that the cashier frowned and twisted his neck to
see if some down-easter were not hiding behind the Frenchman.

"You what?" asked the cashier, and looked watchful.

"I wish to see," repeated the stranger, with a formal precision meant,
to be rebuking, "Mr. George B. Richards, senior member, I believe, of
this firm."

The cashier, with a frown that belied the courtesy of his words, said:

"Would you be kind enough to tell me the nature of your business, sir?"

Gourley, the cashier, insanely hated book agents, and his one pleasure
in life consisted of violently ejecting them from the office. When a man
clearly established his innocence Gourley never forgave him for cheating
him out of the kicking.

The stranger said, very slowly:

"The nature of my business with Mr. Richards is private, personal, and
urgent!"

The stranger might, be a customer, and customers make brokers rich and
give wages to cashiers.

"Mr. Richards is very busy just now, sir, with an important conference.
It would be a favor if you could let me have your name."

"He doesn't know me and he has never heard my name."

"Would any one else do?"

The stranger shook his head. Then:

"Say to Mr. Richards that a gentleman from Paris wishes to give to
him--personally--ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one
life secret." The man's gaze was fixed frowningly on Gourley.

"Ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one life secret!"
repeated Gourley, dazedly. "Here, Otto. Hold the fort. I'll go myself."

The cashier's place was promptly occupied by a moon-faced Teuton.
Presently Gourley, whose misanthropy had in this instance merely made
an office-boy of him, returned to the window and said, in the insolent
tones of a puglistic _agent provocateur_:

"He says to send in the letters of introduction."

"My friend," said the stranger, so impressively that the cashier was
made uneasy, "are you sure Mr. Richards said that?"

"Well--ah--he said," stammered Gourley, "to ask you--er--would you
please send in the letters. He will read them, and as soon as possible
he will--ah--see you."

"H'm!" muttered the stranger, skeptically. Then, as a man rids himself
of angry thoughts, he shook his head and, without another word, went
out.

"Ha! I knew it all along," said Gourley, triumphantly, to his assistant,
Otto. "It beats the Dutch what schemes these damned book agents get up
to see people during business hours. But I called his bluff that time!"

Less than ten minutes later the French-looking man with the down-east
voice opened the door, tapped at the cashier's window, and told Gourley,
sternly:

"Here are the ten letters and the one card. They are very important!
I'll be obliged, sir, if you will yourself give them into Mr. Richards's
own hands. The life secret I, of course, will impart to him myself. Make
haste, please. I have only five business days and three hours left."

Gourley laid the letters on Mr. Richards's desk and said, in the
accusing tone old employees use when they are in the wrong: "Here are
the letters of introduction from the book agent I spoke to you about. He
acts damned impudent to me, but I didn't want to make any mistake."

Richards, a man of fifty, fastidiously dressed, but relieved from even
the implication of foppishness by a look in his eyes at once shrewd and
humorous, said, with a smile, "Well, he certainly has enough letters to
be anything, even a rich man."

"Funny letters of introduction," said the cashier--"all sealed and--"
His jaw dropped. That made him cease talking.

Mr. Richards had taken from the first envelope not a letter, but a
ten-thousand-dollar gold certificate!

The cashier closed his mouth with a click. "What the--!" he muttered.

"Next!" said George B. Richards, cheerfully. He opened envelope number
two and pulled out another ten-thousand-dollar bill. One after another
he opened the letters until he had laid in a neat pile on his desk ten
ten-thousand-dollar notes.

"The letters of introduction are from the Treasury Department," said
Richards, laughing. "Now let us see whom the card is from."

"I don't care whom the card is from. I know the man is crazy,"
said Gourley, in the defiant tone of one who expects not logic, but
contradiction. "It is as plain as the nose on your face."

"Maybe they are counterfeit," teased Richards; he knew they were not.

The cashier snatched one from the desk, looked at the vignette of
Jackson, and examined the back. "It's good," he said, gloomily.

Richards opened the eleventh envelope and took out a card.

"From Amos Kidder, of the Evening Planet," he told Gourley, and read
aloud:

_Dear George,--The bearer, Mr. James B. Robison, of Paris, France, a
friend of Smiley, our correspondent there, asked me to recommend some
highly intelligent stock-brokers. I, of course, at once thought of you.
Deal with him as you do with_

_Yours,_

_Amos F. Kidder._

"Maybe it's a set of those French books that are awful until you've
signed the contract and Volume I. comes, and they are not awful at all.
Those fellows," said the cashier, indignantly, "will do anything to get
your money."

"You forget I've got his," suggested Richards.

"That's a new one on me, I admit," said the cashier; "but I'll bet a
ten-spot--"

"I'll have no gambling in this office! Send in Mr. Robison; and if
Kidder should happen in, tell him I'd like to see him."

The waxed-mustached man, preceded by Otto, the moon-faced clerk, entered
the private office of Mr. George B. Richards, who rose and smiled
pleasantly even as his keen eyes quickly inventoried Mr. Robison.

"Mr. Richards?" twanged the stranger. That Yankee voice issuing from
between those unmistakably French mustaches made Richards start; and yet
the vague atmosphere of disquietude and suspicion that the ten letters
of introduction had created seemed to be dispelled by the man's Yankee
twang. It was so genuinely down-east that it humanized Mr. Robison and
made his eccentricity less eccentric. Also, the eyes gleamed not with
the fire of insanity, but with a great earnestness.

"Yes. And this is Mr. Robison?"

"Yes, sir!" Mr. Robison bowed very low, like a man who has lived abroad
many years.

"Won't you be seated, sir?"

"Thank you, sir." There was another bow of gratitude, and Mr. Robison
sat down by Richards's flat-topped desk.

"What can we do for you, Mr. Robison?" asked Richards, amiably polite.
His course of action would be determined by the stranger's own words.

"You can help me if you will." Mr. Robison spoke very earnestly, after
the manner of strong, self-reliant men when they ask for favors.

"We shall be glad to if you will tell me how."

"By being patient. That's how."

Richards laughed uncertainly. Mr. Robison held up a hand as if to check
unseemly merriment and said, very seriously:

"I have lived alone too long to be politic or diplomatic or evasive. I
wish to ask you a question."

"Ask ahead," said Richards, with an encouraging recklessness.

"Tell me, Mr. Richards--what is the most difficult thing in the world?"

Mr. Robison was looking intently at the broker's face, as if he
particularly desired to detect any change in expression. This intentness
disconcerted Richards, who had at first intended to answer jocularly. He
now said, distinctly apologetic:

"There are so many very difficult things!"

"Yes, there are--a great many indeed. But of all things, which is by far
the most difficult?" His eyes held Richards's.

"I shall have to think a little before I can answer that question."

"Take all the time you wish!" and Mr. Robison leaned back in his chair,
his attitude somehow suggesting a Gibraltar-like ability to withstand a
three years' siege.

It made Richards do much thinking very quickly: Here was a man who was
not crazy; who had lying on the desk a hundred thousand dollars in cash
to which he had not even casually referred; who probably intended to do
business that would prove a source of profit to the firm of Richards &
Tuttle. He might be a crank or a crook, but against either contingency
the firm could and would protect itself. It was just as well to humor
this man until he proved himself unworthy of humoring. The problem of
the moment, therefore, became how to raise the siege politely.

"I suppose," began Richards, trying to look philosophical, "that telling
the truth always and every-, where is about as difficult a thing as--"

"It isn't a question," interrupted Robison, with a polite regret, "of as
difficult a thing as any, but of the most difficult of all!"

"I am afraid I'll have to ask you to tell me what you consider the most
difficult thing in the world."

Brokers have to earn their money in more complicated ways than by
shouting "Sold!" or "Take it!" on the floor of the Stock Exchange. They
have to listen to potential customers.

"The most difficult thing in the world, Mr. George B. Richards, is for
a man to give money--in cash--to a woman who is not his wife or his
mistress or a blood-relation or a pauper!"

"That _is_ difficult!" acquiesced the broker.

"It is what I have to do. That is why I am here."

"You mean you wish us to give this money--"

"No--no! How can you, pray, give money to a lady any better than I?"

"I wondered," said Richards, patiently. He was beginning to fear that
Robison might be one of those mysterious people out of whom no money is
to be made.

"Would you mind hearing my story?" Mr. Robison looked at Richards
pleadingly.

"Not at all," politely lied the broker.

"There is a lady in New York--to be explicit, an old sweetheart--" Mr.
Robison paused, bit his lip, looked away, bit his lip again and cleared
his throat loudly. He did all these things so untheatrically that they
thrilled the keen-eyed Wall Street man. Presently Mr. Robison went on
in that Yankee nasal voice of his that somehow sounded like the extreme
antithesis of sentiment: "The only woman I ever loved! I have never
married! She did--unfortunately; and now, this girl, this woman,
accustomed to every comfort and every refinement, has to earn her own
living! She has five children and she is earning her living!" He rose
and walked up and down the office like a caged wild animal. Then he
sat down again and said, determinedly, "Of course I simply have to do
something for her!"

"I appreciate your position," said Richards, tenderly. He was a very
good stock-broker.

"Thank you. You cannot imagine what she was to me! I came to America to
find her. I have found her. I wish to give her money or securities that
will insure a comfortable income, and I have to do it circuitously. I'd
give half a million to anybody who killed her damned husband! Yes, I
would!" He looked at Richards with a wild hope in his eyes. He calmed
himself with an obvious effort and proceeded: "Knowing her as I do, and
because of--of certain circumstances of our early affair, I know she
will never accept any help directly from me. Last night I was calling
on her. Other friends of hers were present, among them a man who called
himself a lawyer. His name is W. Bailey Jackson. Know him?"

"No, I don't. I think I've heard of him, though." Richards lied from
sheer force of professional habit.

"Well, I led the conversation round to Wall Street and incidentally said
I didn't know which was easier for a man, to be a fool or to make money
in the stock-market. I, myself, I hastened to add, had always found
folly extremely easy--but successful stock speculation infinitely
easier. That, I may remark to you in passing, sir, is gospel truth."

"You are right," agreed Richards, heartily. It did not behoove a
stock-broker to point out the difficulty of making money in Wall Street.
Moreover, Mr. Robison showed so quiet a confidence that Richards had
lightning flashes of memory, and recollected every story he had ever
heard about queer characters who had taken millions out of the Street.

"This Mr. W. Bailey Jackson jeered and sneered, however, until I said I
would bet him fifty dollars to fifty cents that I could double a sum
of money in the Street in one week, in a reputable broker's office,
operating on the New York Stock Exchange in a reputable and active
stock--no bucket-shop, no mining-stock, and no pool manipulation. But
I made this point: The trick was so easy that it was not interesting.
I didn't wish to do it to make money, but if Mrs.--if my friend would
accept the profits, I would prove that I knew what I was talking about;
and, besides, would keep the children in candy for a month. And, of
course, everybody laughed and urged her to consent--especially the
Jackson person. In the end she gave in, doubtless thinking I'd win a few
dollars--if I won at all. Also my offer was accepted in the presence and
by the advice of men and women who could stop Mrs. Grundy's mouth."

"Very clever!" said Richards, with the enthusiasm of a man who sees
commissions coming his way.

"It was love that made me so ingenious," explained. Mr. Robison, very
simply. "I've got her written acceptance in my pocket as well as that
damned W. Bailey Jackson's bet, duly witnessed by the two gossipiest
women there. And in this envelope you will find instructions for your
guidance in case of my sudden death. So I now wish to double the money."

He looked inquiringly at Richards, who thereupon felt the pangs of
disappointment. Neither crank nor crook, decided the broker, but simply
_Suckerius Americanus; genus_ D. F.

Mr. Robison evidently was going to ask Richards & Tuttle to take the
one hundred thousand dollars and double it for him, which meant that Mr.
Richards would have to inform Mr. Robison that the firm was not in the
miracle business; and that would make Mr. Robison go away mad. Total--no
commissions!

"Well," Richards said, just a trifle coldly, "did you come to us to ask
us to double your money for you?"

"No, indeed," answered Robison; "I came here to do it."

"When?"

"In one week--or, rather, in five days and two hours."

"How are you going to do it?" The broker's curiosity was not feigned.

"I propose to study the Menagerie."

Richards said nothing, but looked "Lunatic!"

"That way inevitably suggests the combinations to you." Mr. Robison
nodded to himself.

Richards, to be on the safe side, did likewise and muttered, absently,
"That's so!"

"Do you care to come with me?" asked Mr. Robison, with a politeness that
betrayed effort. "Thank you, no. I am very busy, and--"

"And you didn't cut me short!" said Robison, his voice ringing with
remorse. "I'll come in tomorrow morning. Good afternoon--and please
forgive my theft of your time, Mr. Richards."

"One moment. Do you wish this money--"

"I'll get the receipt to-morrow. I am going to see Kidder now. I didn't
mean to take up so much of your time." And before the banker could stop
him Mr. James B. Robison was out of the inner office and out of the
outer office and out of the building and out of the financial district.

Shortly afterward Amos F. Kidder, financial editor of the _Evening
Planet_, west into Richards's office. He was thirty-five years old, a
trifle under six feet, had light-brown hair and the eyes of a man who
is a cynic by force of experience and an optimist by reason of a perfect
liver--the kind of man who is fooled by strangers never and by intimate
friends always. If what he had seen of Wall Street gave him a low
opinion of men's motives he had the defect of steadfast loyalty. Having
imagination and a profound respect for statistics, he wrote what might
be called skilful articles on finance.

"Your friend Robison was here to-day. What do you know about him?" asked
Richards. He would not take a stranger's account, but he did not relish
losing an account he already had.

Kidder took a letter from his pocket, gave it to the stock-broker, and
said:

"Smiley gave him a letter to me and in addition sent me that one by
mail."

Richards read:

The New York Planet, 5 Rue de Provence.

Paris, February 18, 1912.

_Dear Kidder,--I've given a letter of introduction to a Mr. James B.
Robison, who comes originally from some manufacturing town in
Massachusetts, like Lynn or Lowell--I've forgotten which. He is well
liked by the colony here and, I am told, has been kind to poor art
students and other self-deluded compatriots. He is queer; is suspected
of being rich--which he must be because he never borrows, lives well,
and says moneymaking is too easy to merit discussion when men can
discuss the eternal feminine or the revival of cosmetics. His trip to
New York is prompted, he tells me, by the receipt of a letter from an
old flame of his whom he warned against marrying her present husband.
She would not listen to Robison, accused him in choice Bostonian of
being a short sport, and now after long years she writes him, asking for
forgiveness, being at last convinced that her husband is all that
Robison said--and then some. He is off to try to find her; she is
somewhere in New York. Put him in touch with some private detective who
won't rob him too ruthlessly._

_I don't think he'll want to borrow money, as I know he is taking a
letter of credit on Towne, Ripley & Co. for fifty thousand pounds; and
they told me at his bankers'--Madison & Co.--that he owns slathers of
gilt-edged bonds and that they cash the coupons for him. They also tell
me he carries more cash about him than is prudent. You might suggest
to him that the New York banks are safe enough. You'll find him a
character--odd but charitable. Knowing your fondness for fiction in real
life I commend Mr. Robison to you. Regards to the boys. Why don't you
make a million and come over to spend it in the company of Yours as
ever,_

Lurton P. Smiley.

Richards handed the letter back. "He came here with ten
ten-thousand-dollar gold certificates."

"Yes; he got 'em from Towne, Ripley & Co. I went with him. They had
instructions to pay any amount he might call for, and they did. He asked
for large bills."

"He got 'em!" said Richards, greatly relieved at seeing no necessity why
he should refuse Robison's account.

"What's he going to do?" asked Kidder.

"I don't know. He told me he had found his old sweetheart and that he is
going to give her all he makes in Wall Street. He expects to double the
one hundred thousand dollars in a week."

"For Heaven's sake, George, find out his secret! Half a million will do
for me," laughed Kidder.

"He gave me an envelope," said Richards, taking it from his desk. On it
was written:


PROPERTY OF JAMES B. ROBISON

To be Opened by Richards & Tuttle In Case of Sudden Death


"What do you think?" asked Richards.

"You really mean do I advise you to open it, don't you?" asked Kidder..

"Not exactly; but--"

"Of course," said the newspaper man, "it does not say it is _not_ to
be opened in case of _living_. That is sufficient excuse--that and your
curiosity."

"I don't like to open it," said Richards, doubtfully.

"Don't!"

"Still, I'd like to know what's inside."

"Then open it."

"I don't think I have a right to."

"Don't, then!"

"Oh, shut up! I won't open it! I don't know whether to take the account.
You don't know anything about this man--"

"You broker fellows make me tired--posing as careful business men. All
Robison has to do is to go to any of your branch offices or anybody's
branch office, say his name is W. Jones and that he keeps a cigar-store
in Hackensack or Flatbush, and your branch manager will never let him
get away. And afore-mentioned manager will swear, if you should be
so mean as to ask who W. Jones is, that he and W. J. went to school
together--known him for years!"

"After all," said Richards, a trifle defiantly, "there is no reason why
I shouldn't do business for Robison that you know of?"

"Not that I know of--but if he buncoes you out of a big wad don't blame
me."

"He is welcome to anything he can make out of us," smiled Richards,
grimly, and Kidder laughed so heartily that the broker looked pleased
with himself and his witticism. He rang for the cashier, gave him the
one hundred thousand dollars, and had the amount credited to James B.
Robison, address unknown.



II

After leaving the office of Richards & Tuttle Mr. James B. Robison
went to the Subway station at Wall Street, rode up-town as far as
Forty-second Street, walked to Sixth Avenue, took a surface car, jumped
off at Forty-eighth, walked to Forty-ninth, waited there for the next
car, and, being certain he was not shadowed, rode on to Fifty-sixth
Street. He got off, walked north on the avenue and, half-way up the
block, paused at the entrance of the employment agency of "_Jno.
Sniffens, Established 1858_." On the big slate by the door he read that
there was wanted a coachman--careful driver; elderly man preferred.

He walked up-stairs one flight and accosted the agent.

"Good morning, Sniffens."

"Good morning, Mr. Maynard," answered Sniffens, son of the original
Jno., very obsequiously.

"Are they here?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many?"

"Seven."

"I've seen fifty-six so far--haven't I?"

"No, sir," contradicted Sniffens with the air of a man who will tell the
truth even if death should resuit. "Fifty-five. You forget you saw the
Swede twice."

"That is true, Sniffens. You are an honest man! Here!" And he gave ten
dollars to the agent. "Send in the men."

He sat down in the inner office and Sniffens went out, presently to
return with an elderly man. "This is Wilkinson--worked twenty-nine
years--"

"Sorry. Won't do. Here, my man! Take this two-dollar bill for your
trouble. Next!"

Much the same thing happened with the next four applicants. The fifth
man, however, made Robison listen patiently while Sniffens finished his
elaborately biographical introduction. The man's name was Thomas Gray;
age fifty-eight; worked twelve years for General James Morris and
fourteen for Stuyvesant R. Morris. Very careful. Excellent references.
Morris family went abroad to live. Gray had not done anything for five
years, but was willing and anxious to work.

Robison, who had been studying Gray keenly, said sharply, and not at all
nasally:

"Height and weight?"

"Five foot eleven and a half inches; one hundred and seventy pounds,
sir."

"Deaf?"

"No, sir."

"No?"

"No, sir; but I don't hear as well as I did."

"Can you hear this?" And Robison whispered, "Constantinople!"

"Beg pardon, sir!" Gray looked at Mr. Robison's face intently, but
Robison shook his head and said:

"No fair looking! That isn't hearing, but lipreading. Close your eyes
and listen!" And he whispered, "Bab-el-Mandeb!" No one could have heard
him three feet away and Gray was across the room. Robison raised his
voice and said, "Did you hear that?"

There showed in Gray's blue eyes a pathetic struggle between telling the
truth and getting the job. "I--I only heard a faint murmur, sir."

"Try again. Listen!" Mr. Robison moved his lips soundlessly and asked,
"What did I say, Gray?" The old man drew in a deep breath. It was not so
much the money, for the Morris family gave him a pension; but he wished
to feel that he was not yet useless, that he was still worth his keep.
However, he shook his head and said, determinedly:

"I heard nothing."

"Open your eyes! You get the job, Gray," said Mr. Robison. "Come here!"

As Gray approached his new employer Sniffens left the room.

"You are not to tell any one for whom you are working, or where, or why,
or for how long, or for what wages. There will be no night work. Are you
very careful?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll have to take some children to school every day--poor children to
a public school in the morning. You are not to ask their names. Do what
you are told, no matter how queer it seems to you, so long as you are
not asked to break the law of the land or the rules of the road."

"Very good, sir."

"I shall send people to ask you questions, and I warn you that I'm going
to put you to various tests. I want a man who is honest enough to trust
with valuables, wise enough to mind his own business, and faithful
enough to do what his employer tells him."

"Yes, sir."

"Until you prove you are the man I want you will be paid by the
day--five dollars. You will feed yourself and sleep home. I supply
the livery and a second man. If after one month's trial you are found
satisfactory you will get your wages by the month. It's big wages, but I
want an honest man!" He looked at Gray sternly.

"Yes, sir. I'm careful and honest, sir. I think you will find that to be
true, sir."

"I trust so. The stable is on Thirty-first Street, near Avenue B. Here
is the number." He gave a card to Gray. "Be there at eight sharp. You
will drive a coupé; quiet horse; New York City."

"Yes, sir. I'll be there, sir."

"Here's five dollars for you. You don't have to pay any fee to Sniffens.
I've paid him."

"Thank you, sir. Good day, sir."

At seven-thirty the next morning Gray was at the stable. It was not
a very good-looking place. He rang the bell, feeling vaguely
uncomfortable. No one answered. He rang a second and a third time, and
still there was no answer. He listened, his ear close to the door. He
heard the muffled sound of a horse pounding in a well-littered stall.

At eight o'clock--Gray heard a clock within chime the hour--the door
opened. Gray entered. A man was hitching up a dark bay horse to a coupé.
Mr. Robison was sitting in a sumptuous green-plush armchair in the
carriage-room. Behind him, on a mahogany table, was a small valise,
opened.

"Good morning, Gray," said Robison.

"Good morning, Mr. Maynard," said Gray, respectfully.

Robison took a clean white-linen handkerchief from his pocket and said:

"See that brick over there?" He pointed to a common red brick on a
little shelf near the street door.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, wrap it up in this handkerchief--here on this table. No--don't
dust it. Just as it is!" He watched Gray's face keenly. The old man's
countenance remained English and impassive.

"Put it in the valise."

"Yes, sir."

"In yonder box you'll find some tenpenny nails. Fetch three and wrap
them up in the sheet of paper you'll find in the valise. Then lay them
on top of the brick."

Gray did as he was bid. If he thought his employer was crazy he did not
look it.

Robison then took from his pocket a sealed envelope, threw it into the
valise, and closed the valise.

"You will find your livery in the dressing-room--door to your left. Put
it on. Then drive so as to be before 197 West Thirty-eighth Street at
exactly nine minutes after nine. Compare your watch with that clock.
Wait there--Thirty-eighth Street--until a footman in dark-green livery
comes out alone. If he asks you, 'James, did Ben win?' you will say
to him, 'The answer is inside. Take it!' You will then return to this
stable, fasten the horse to that chain, put on your street clothes, go
home, and return to-morrow at eight sharp. But--" He paused.

"Yes, sir."

"Pay attention, Gray! If, instead of the servant alone, the servant
comes out of, 197 West Thirty-eighth Street accompanied by a gentleman
who gets in, you will drive him to my office."

"Where, sir?"

"This is my office--here. You will drive back here quickly and disregard
everything your passenger may say or whatever orders he may give you.
You understand? These are your orders that I now give you. They are not
to be changed under any circumstances, no matter what happens. Have you
understood?"

"Yes, sir. I'll follow orders, Mr. Maynard."

"See that you do." And Mr. Robison walked out of the stable.

At nine-nine sharp Gray stood in front of 197 West Thirty-eighth Street.
At nine-fifteen a footman in dark-green livery came out of the house.
He was followed by Mr. Robison himself. The man opened the door of the
carriage and Gray's employer got in.

"Will you go to the office, sir?" asked the footman. Gray heard him.

"No! Metropolitan Museum!" answered their master, distinctly.

"Metropolitan Museum!" said the footman to the coachman.

Gray was torn by doubt, anger, and fear. Should he drive to the
Metropolitan or back to the stable?

He decided to go back to the stable. If he were discharged he would not
regret losing so unsatisfactory a job. If, on the other hand, driving
back should prove to be the right thing he would greatly strengthen his
position.

He arrived at the stable, fastened the horse to the chain, and went to
change his clothes. He heard Mr. Robison tap on the glass of the door
and saw him beckon to him and then heard him shout, "Open the door!" But
Gray went to the dressing-room and changed his clothes. As soon as he
was done the second man came in, showed him two envelopes, and said:

"You win! You get the ten dollars! I get the five-spot. That's how
he pays. You obeyed orders. You are the first man that's succeeded in
holding the job over one day. The Lord only knows what test Mr. Maynard
will prepare for you to-morrow! It may be the children's lunch stunt or
the runaway lunatic. Run out! Mr. Maynard won't like you to be here when
he comes in. You can go out into the street by that door without going
through the carriage-room."

Gray put the ten dollars in his pocket and walked out. "Rum go, that!"
he muttered. It was indeed. He nodded his head with a sad sort of
triumph to show that though he had not solved the mystery he had at all
events grasped the situation and was, moreover, ten dollars to the good.



III

It was after the opening of the stock-market and most of the early
orders had been executed. The rush had given place to the calm
efficiency of a well-organized broker's office. Mr. Robison walked into
the Customers' Room, approached Gilbert Witherspoon, a valued customer,
touched his hat-brim with two fingers in the French military fashion,
and said:

"Please, where's Mr. Richards?" His nasal twang and his Parisian
appearance produced the usual impression of striking incongruity upon
all men within hearing distance. Everybody frankly listened.

"That's his private office," answered Witherspoon, non-committally,
pointing his finger at a door.

"Thank you very much!" said Robison and bowed. Then he knocked, heard a
peremptory "Come in!" and disappeared within.

Witherspoon, who cultivated a reputation as a wit--there is a buffoon in
every stock-broker's office--shrugged his shoulders Frenchily, and, in a
nasal voice obviously in imitation of Robison, said:

"Another world-beater!"

"You never can tell," retorted Dan McCormack, oracularly. He was fat,
always played "mysteries" in the market--traded in those stocks
the movements in which were unaccounted for--and he did not like
Witherspoon.

Inside Mr. Robison had said "_Bon jour!"_ and bowed so very low that Mr.
Richards immediately thought of the language of a fashionable bill of
fare.

"_Wie geht's?_" retorted Richards, jocularly. Then, nicely serious,
"How are you this morning?"

"Don't I look it?" said Mr. Robison. "I am, of course, perplexed."

"What's the trouble?"

"The usual trouble when I try to beat the stock-market--_embarras de
richesses_."

"It is an embarrassment that most people would welcome."

"Tut! The more elaborate the menu is in a good restaurant the greater
your indecision as to which particular dish you will order! Well, I went
through the Menagerie!" There was a catarrhal despair in his voice.

"Yes?"

"And I am undecided between four."

Robison looked anxiously at the broker, and Richards felt such an
annoyance as a man might feel if compelled at the point of a pistol to
listen to the reading of one hundred pages of the city directory. But he
smiled tolerantly, for he had the professional amiability indispensable
to men whose business consists of making money and of consoling clients
for losing money.

"Four what?" he asked.

"Four sure ways."

"Which four?" asked Richards. He managed to convey both that he was
dying to listen and that the rest of the world did not exist for him.

"The Ant, the Spider, the Beaver, and the Lion. Out of the nineteen
combinations in the Menagerie I've narrowed my choice to these four. You
know conditions better than I and probably have seen the Cribbage Board.
Have you a choice?" He looked at Richards so eagerly, and withal so
shrewdly and sanely, that in self-defense the broker said:

"I can't say that I have. Of course I am bullish--"

"Of course. But the question is: Which--in a week?"

Richards had no idea what was meant by this man with the sane eyes who
said crazy things through his nose--a man who had one hundred thousand
dollars to his credit with the firm. Perplexed to the verge of
exasperation, Richards was stock-broker enough--when in doubt,
bluff!--to say, with a frown, "Yes, that's the question: Which--in a
week?" He shook his head as though he were trying to pick out the best
for his beloved Robison.

"I never was so puzzled in my life, and I want you to know that I've
made money even in Rumanian bonds!"

"I'm afraid I can't help you much."

"What does the I. S. Board say?"

"Mr. Robison, exactly what do you mean by the I. S. Board?"

"What? You don't know the International Syndicate Cribbage Board! Then
how in Hades do you pick your combinations?"

"We buy and sell stocks on our judgment of basic conditions or for
special reasons."

"Ah, yes--like the public. You base your trades on gas and guess. Well,
_I_ don't! I'd play the Ant, but I don't see the Granary full in a week.
Jay Gould had a perfect mania for it; it was an obsession with him. And
yet he seldom won commensurately with his risks. In the Northwest corner
he was tied up over a year and lost more than a million. I guess we'll
dispense with the Ant, though it looks so safe for the Granger group."

Robison seemed to be thinking aloud rather than asking for advice. But
Richards, who was a Wall Street man to his finger-tips, said, gravely,
"I think you are right."

Robison nodded, to show he had heard, and went on: "The situation in the
Pacific Coast, of course, suggests the Beaver at once. I can see the
Dam in Union Pacific; but I don't like to try it so soon after the
Rothschilds worked it so openly in Berlin over the Agadir excuse. Too
many people who have access to the Menagerie remember it. I realize all
this, but," he finished, with profound regret, "it _is_ such a cinch!"

"Yes. But--" Richards shook his head in sympathy. He felt that he ought
to humor this man; moreover, business was quiet, and this man was
saying incomprehensible things that would be repeated by Richards, with
sensational success, at luncheons and dinners for weeks.

"Of course, the Spider is the oldest stand-by. Personally I never liked
it. In the Governor Flower boom and, indeed, up to the Northern Pacific
panic, its popularity was due to John W. Gates. But do you know, Mr.
Richards, I have always believed that in the first two Steel and Wire
coups and in the Louisville & Nashville affair, Gates hit upon it by
accident. Else," pursued Mr. Robison, controversially, "why was he
pinched so badly in 1901 and again in 1907? He hit upon it, after he got
out of Federal Steel, by accident, I tell you! He was a man of genius
and courage, but it was all instinct with him. He was no student,
sir--no student!"

"I've always said," observed Mr. George B. Richards, "that Gates was not
a student!" He glared, thereby successfully defying contradiction.

"It leaves the Lion!" muttered Robison. "Should I try it? And which
Peg?"

"I'd try it!" counseled Richards, who was not only intelligent, but had
a sense of humor.

"Would you, really?"

"Yes, I certainly would!" And the broker looked as if he certainly meant
it.

"It's the Dutch favorite," said Robison, musingly. "And they are a very
clever people. You know Van Vollenhoven in his book says that once a
year, for thirteen consecutive years, the great Cornelius Roelofs, of
Amsterdam, made a million gulden in London by the Lion--the most hopeful
pessimist in the history of stock speculation! It comes easy to the
phlegmatic Hollanders, but Americans are too nervous to take kindly to
it. I once begged the late Addison Cammack to join me in a Lion deal,
but he didn't. He was not very well at the time. Anyhow, he was too
American."

"Did you know him?"

"Like a book! Dangerous man to follow! Cynicism sounds impressive, but
is wind. You don't win in the stock-market with catch phrases, but with
combinations."

"Do you use charts?"

"A stock speculator is not a navigator, but all commission-houses should
have a chart. With some customers, after you have exhausted every other
invitation, you can use the chart to get them trading. But not for us,
Mr. George B. Richards. I think you will soon realize that I am in this
affair not to lose money, but to make it. I shall, therefore, either
buy Dock Island, sell Middle Pacific, buy National Smelting, or sell
Consolidated Steel. I'll have a pad of special order-slips made so you
will not mistake my orders for those of any one else. You will execute
for me no order that is not written and signed by me on such a slip.
I'll keep up my margin. We'll operate on a ten-per-cent, basis; and
I hereby authorize you to sell me out when my margin is down to six
points. That gives you ample safety. It is really unnecessary, as I
never lose; but I always protect the broker. The sudden death by heart
disease of Baron Lespinasse in 1883 sent into bankruptcy the great
firms of La Croissade et Cie. and Mayer, Dreyfus et Cie., of Paris,
Ver-brugghe Frères, of Brussels, and about a dozen smaller houses. Mine,
to be sure, is a trifling operation, designed to supply a modest income
to an old flame. But I may--who knows?--decide to take a few millions
back with me. And your firm, Mr. Richards, will be my principal
brokers."

Mr. Robison said this so impressively, so much as though he had made the
firm of Richards & Tuttle rich beyond the dreams of avarice, that George
B. found it easy to look grateful as he said, "Thank you, Mr. Robison."
It would be worth while watching this mysterious man, to see, first, if
he made money; and if he did, how!

"I'll write it here and now. If my margins are down to six points at any
time close me out, for I shall have been mistaken, which is a sign I've
gone crazy; or I shall be dead, in which case protect yourself!"

Mr. Robison wrote out the instructions, signed them, and gave them
to Mr. Richards. He must have noticed a look of uncertainty or
dissatisfaction on the broker's face, for he said:

"I have no desire to pose before you as an unfailing winner, though I
assure you I seldom lose. It is not brains, but carefulness. If you
know nothing about the International Syndicate's information collecting
machinery, why, just take my word for it that there are people in this
world who don't work on the hit-or-miss plan. We don't eliminate all
possibilities of failure; we merely reduce them to a negligible minimum.
We cannot prevent all accidents, but we can and do foresee some of them.
This sounds crazy to you, I know--no, don't deny it!--but all I can say
is that your natural suspicions don't affect your kindness and courtesy,
and I am more grateful than I can say. Of course, my own operations
here will be conducted with your approval, in strict accordance with the
rules of the New York Stock Exchange."

"Oh, I am sure I haven't doubted your sanity," said the broker, who had
been much reassured by Mr. Robison's look of frankness and earnestness
as he spoke. "I have merely suspected the depths of my own ignorance."

"Your retort is both kind and clever. I thank you. I shall have to
borrow one of your clerks or office-boys between nine-forty and ten a.
m., to whom I may give my orders to bring to this office, and also ask
you to recommend to me some young man who is intelligent but honest,
wide awake but deaf to the ticker."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I shall need a young man who can watch certain developments and at the
crucial moment will hasten to me without stopping on the way to take
advantage in the stock-market of what he has learned while working for
me."

"I shall let you have one of my own clerks. He'll do as he is told."

"That is not always to be taken as praise--but I thank you. There will
be some telegrams come for me. Will you kindly see that they are held?
Good morning!" And he left the room.

An hour later cablegrams and telegrams by the dozen began to come in for
Robison, care Richards & Tuttle. But Robison did not return to the
office until after the close of the stock-market.

"Any messages?" he asked Richards.

"Not over a hundred!" answered the broker, smilingly. He felt less
suspicious after the telegrams began to arrive; they were tools he
understood.

"I used the Triple Three," explained Robison, opening telegram after
telegram; the cables he seemed to leave for the last. The telegrams
were, as Richards later ascertained, from San Francisco, Seattle,
Tacoma, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Vancouver, and other points west of
the Rockies. Each contained but one word, but always the word ended in
"less," such, for example, as Headless, Toothless, Tailless, Nerveless.
All were signed in the same way, to wit: Three-Three-Three.

"No Beaver! I'm just as glad," Robison mused aloud and took up the
cablegrams. They were from London, Paris, Berlin, Frankfort, and
Amsterdam. They were in code, but he seemed to have the key by heart.
The very last one made him thoughtful.

He handed the cablegram absently to Richards and said, "The Lion after
all--and artificial at that!" He seemed to be lost in thought, oblivious
of his whereabouts, as Richards read:

Robison, care Richtut:

Mogulgar wind Lloyd Vast Nigger Shaw twice home urban sweet Edward.

"Code, hey?"

"Lion! Oh! Code, did you say? No. Code is too risky. Plain reading! Of
course I have more practice than you. Give it to one of your office-boys
to decipher. If he succeeds give him fifty dollars and charge it to my
account. But what I can't tell is the politics of it. Is it collusion,
philanthropy, or fear? Is it wise? After all, the unusual is not
necessarily dangerous. I shall double my money within four days and you
will make the commissions in a perfectly simple, legitimate way; and
you will think I am a pretty sane lunatic; and you will respect me for
having such sources of information; and if I can induce Mrs. Le--my
friend to take it, I'll make a million for her in a month, and you will
get the benefits accruing from having the market named after you--a
Richards & Tuttle market, the papers will call it. Thank you very much
for your kindness. I'll be down to-morrow before the opening. Good day,
sir!"

And Mr. Robison left the office with a calm, confident look in his
face. Richards gazed after him, a look of perplexity on his own face.
Presently he shook his head. It meant that he gave up efforts to solve
the puzzle, but that he would wait until commissions began.



IV

From Richards & Tuttle's office Robison went to the nearest Western
Union office and gave a letter to the manager.

"Send this at once! City editor, _Evening World_, Park Row. No answer.
How much?"

The manager told him. Robison paid him and then went to the
Postal-Telegraph office and sent a message to the city editor, _Evening
Journal_. Inside of each envelope was a letter. Both read alike, as
follows:

_Dear Sir,--Three years ago one of your reporters did me a good turn.
In return I promised to tip him off if ever I came across a big piece of
news. He saved me from being wrongly sent to state prison. Things looked
pretty black for me, though I was not guilty. I've forgotten his name.
He looked to be twenty-eight or thirty years old, about five foot
ten, not very heavy-built, smooth-shaven, dark-brown hair, and wore
eyeglasses. He had on a dark-blue serge suit and was always smoking
cigarettes. It happened on Chambers Street, not far from the Irving
Bank. Ask him if he remembers my promise to pay him back for being
good to me. Here is where I do it. Mr. W. H. Garrettson, the banker and
promoter, is going to be kidnapped. The plans are all made. He will be
held for one hundred million dollars ransom, and no harm will come to
him, because he will be sure to pay._

_Don't warn the police of this, because the other papers would get it
and you would lose your scoop. You can warn Garrettson if you wish,
but it will be useless, as in that event we should wait until vigilance
relaxes, as it will surely do. Please do not think this is a crazy
yan! Don't print anything now. Simply be ready, with photographs of
Garrettson, his home, art-gallery, bank, list of his promotions,
and corporations controlled by him, and so on. Keep this letter for
reference, and just before you throw it into the waste-basket remember
this: It costs you nothing; it commits you to nothing, involves no
expense; there is no concealed dynamite and no fool joke. Remember my
writing and my signature, and wait for the tip I shall send you if I
possibly can, so that you alone publish the news._

_Grateful Friend._

The city editors thought it was a crank's letter and threw it away, but
each made a mental note--in case! Also they did not "tip off" anybody.
They afterward stated that they said nothing to Garrettson, because if
they acted on every freak missive they received half the city would not
sleep. They thus were ready for the kidnapping of the great Garrettson.

At nine-forty-five on Tuesday morning Mr. James B. Robison, accompanied
by an office-boy and an order-pad on which was printed "From J. B. R.,
for Richards & Tuttle," went to the Broad Street entrance of the New
York Stock Exchange. His gaze was fixed steadily on the Subtreasury, or
so it seemed to the office-boy. At nine-fifty-two he exclaimed: "There
he is!"

The office-boy, Sweeney, looking in the same direction, saw nothing
but hurrying pedestrians and a carriage or two. Robison seemed so
disappointed that the office-boy out of kindness asked, sympathetically,
"Who, sir?"

"Nobody!" answered Mr. Robison, shortly. "Go back to the office and tell
Mr. Richards to send me the clerk he promised me--the clerk with the
ticker deafness, tell him. I'll wait here."

The boy left and presently returned with one of the bookkeepers.

"Here is Mr. Manley," the office-boy told Mr. Robison.

"Thank you. Here is something for you, my boy. Go back to the office."

The office-boy put the five-dollar bill in his pocket, said "Thank you"
in a voice celestial, and hurried away before the crazy Frenchman with
the Cape Cod voice discovered the size of the tip. To Manley, the clerk,
Mr. Robison said:

"Look across the street--W. H. Garrettson & Co. You can see Mr.
Garrettson by the window. See him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, just you stay here and watch him; and if you see him do anything
unusual or if anything happens in Garrettson's office that you think
strange, run to our office and let me know. I'll be waiting for you.
Don't be afraid to say so if you think something unusual is going on,
because I tell you now that Mr. Garrettson never does anything unusual."

"Yes, sir."

"Now what would you call unusual?"

"What would you?"

"If a bareheaded man came out of the office, stood at the head of
the steps and threw an egg into the middle of the street, I'd call it
unusual."

"So would I."

"Especially if I went up to the smashed egg and found the insides were
of ink. It might be red ink or black."

"That would be queer!"

"Exactly. You watch. Go to lunch at twelve-thirty and be back at one.
Remember! Watch closely, and if anything unusual happens look carefully
and then come and tell me. Here's ten dollars for you."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's only a beginning," smiled Mr. Robison, promisingly.

Manley, the clerk, put the money in his pocket and began to think he
might be able to buy the motorboat next spring if this business kept up.

Between what Sweeney, the office-boy, suspected aloud and what Manley,
the clerk, confirmed the office force of Richards & Tuttle discussed Mr.
Robison with the zest of the deciding baseball game.

Richards had confided to his intimates some of his experiences, and Amos
Kidder, the _Evening Planet_ man, was as interested in the mystery as
if he had not been the man who first let loose the flood of surmise by
introducing Robison to the brokers.

Nothing happened on Tuesday more exciting than keeping tally on
the telegrams and cables received by Mr. Robison, which amounted to
thirty-seven in all. The object of so much conjecture--and hero of
the office-boy's improvised dime novel--spent the day in an arm-chair
looking at the blackboard, making elaborate calculations that convinced
other customers he must be a "chart fiend." At three o'clock sharp he
went home.

He stopped long enough to send by messenger-boy a letter to the city
editor of the _Evening World_ and another to the city editor of the
_Evening Journal._ They bore the same message and said:

_Refer to my letter of yesterday. To-night W. H. Garrettson goes to the
opera to see "The Jewels of the Madonna." He will leave the Metropolitan
in his automobile. In it will be his wife, his daughter, and his friend,
Harry Willett. And he will not arrive at his house--Lexington Avenue
and Thirty-eighth Street. Somewhere between the Opera House and his
residence he will vanish! It will be the most mysterious kidnapping
on record. Follow the Garrettson motor and have your reporters watch
carefully._

_Grateful Friend._

Whatever the city editors may have intended to do in the matter is of no
consequence, because at seven o'clock messages were received as follows:

_Kidnapping of W. H. G. postponed. Will keep you posted._

_Grateful Friend._



V

At nine-forty-five on Wednesday morning Mr. James B. Robison entered
the office of Richards & Tuttle, sought the senior partner, and said:

"I shall both buy and sell Con. Steel--or possibly sell first and buy
later. The order clerk knows about my printed slips. The orders will go
to you first. If at any time you are worried about margin, remember to
tell me at once, because, as you know, I have not yet used half of my
letter of credit; and, besides, the cables are working. I'd like to see
Amos Kidder."

"He's in his office."

"Would you mind having some one telephone to him? Thank you."

Mr. Robison promptly left the office, followed by his faithful attendant
Sweeney, the office-boy. They took their stand just north of the Broad
Street entrance of the Stock Exchange.

It was not long before Amos Kidder, of the _Evening Planet_, who
had received the message, found Mr. Robison in the act of gazing
unblinkingly toward the Subtreasury.

"Good morning, Mr. Robison."

Mr. Robison started as if he had been rudely awakened out of a profound
reverie.

"Oh! Kidder! How d'ye do? Ah, yes! Ah--I'd like you to dine with me and
a few friends--interesting people. You will--don't be offended!--you
will learn why all newspaper articles on the stock-market arouse mirth
among the people who pull the wires. What do you say?"

"I say," replied Kidder, with a good-natured smile, "just this: When and
where?" His smile ceased. Mr. Robison had turned his back on his friend.
Kidder heard a nasal mumble and made out:

"Here in eight minutes."

"What do you mean?"

"I shall learn if the Lion ate the man or if it's a case of another
day."

"Mr. Robison, I don't understand--"

"I beg your pardon. I was thinking of the old man who was seen in a
front seat at the circus every day. They asked him what he found so
interesting, and he said that some day the lion would eat the man and he
wanted to be a spectator. Well, one day he was sick. That day the lion
ate the lion-tamer. Well, I am here waiting to see Garrettson come out
of the cage."

"Garrettson?"

"The great W. H. Garrettson! I am planning a campaign in Con. Steel.
Garrettson's health is important. I must consider the state of his liver
as carefully as the condition of the iron trade, because it is not only
a question of the dividend rate, but of the price per share--not alone
an investment, but a speculation. You can't lose all your mills
and furnaces in one minute and you can't destroy all your customers
overnight; but Garrettson can die in a second!"

"Of course that contingency has been provided for. His firm would
undoubtedly be on the job."

"So would the undertaker. As a matter of fact everything to-day depends
upon the character of Garrettson's life. Have you ever stopped to think
of how much depends upon the character of his death?"

"All deaths are alike. You talk like a novelist unaware of the resources
of a firm like Garrettson's."

"And you talk like a plain ass or a bank president, my boy. Is there
no difference to the stock-market between the death of Garrettson by
pneumonia and his death by lynching at the hands of a thousand indignant
fellow-citizens? Stop and think."

"Oh, well, that will never happen."

"I cannot swear that it will, but you cannot guarantee that it never
will. Stranger things have come to pass. By Jingo! it's three minutes to
ten! Would it not be curious if something had happened?"

"How do you mean?"

"I have studied the great Garrettson and his habits, that I may, in
my operations in Con. Steel, know on what to bank and against what to
guard. He leaves his Lexington Avenue house every morning at nine and
arrives at his office not later than nine-fifty. He is like the clock.
All his life he has come down-town in his coupé, driven by a coachman
who has been in his employ thirty years. In this age of novelties
that old-fashioned coupé suggests a stability and solid respectability
comparable to _Founded 1732!_ on a firm's letter-head. However, just as
the wireless has introduced a new element into maritime life, so has the
automobile changed the character of street traffic. Do you remember the
case of James M. Barrier, the famous sculptor, smashed in his taxicab
on his way to his studio? You remember the insurance advertisements,
and how he carried a two-hundred-and-seventeen-thou-sand-dollar accident
policy? Well, it's ten o'clock. In one minute, if Garrettson is not
here, I shall sell short one thousand shares of Con. Steel. For each
delay of one minute, one thousand shares."

Robison looked impressive, but the newspaper man was unimpressed.

"You'll have the pleasure of covering when he arrives as usual. Your
operation is of the kind that sounds wise."

"How much do I stand to lose by covering, say, in a few minutes? A
fraction! How much do I stand to gain if something has happened? Five
or ten points! It's a fifty-to-one shot. I'll take it every time. Here,
boy, rush this to the office and hurry back. Tell Mr. Richards I shall
need another boy besides you, for a few minutes only."

Young Sweeney hurried away with Robison's order to sell one thousand
shares of Con. Steel "at the market."

"There are men who will risk money on the shadow cast by a human hair,"
observed Kidder, pleasantly. "In assuming that disaster has overtaken
Garrettson--"

"I assume nothing. I know that something unusual has happened! What
the nature of it is I know not--nor whether it is capitalizable, sight
unseen. Here, boy!" Sweeney had returned with a colleague and Robison
sent the new boy back with an order to sell two thousand shares of
Steel. Watch in hand, Robison stood staring unblinkingly toward the
north. Kidder also looked up Nassau Street, expecting and--such, alas,
is human nature!--hoping to see Garrettson's familiar coupé.

"Here, boy!" And Robison sent off another selling-order. He kept this up
until he had put out a short line of ten thousand shares.

At ten-fifteen he said to Kidder:

"Let us go over to Garrettson's office. His nonarrival is news, Kidder."

"He may have stopped on the way to do some shopping--"

"Well, that's a story! Any deviation from the normal is, even though it
may not be tragedy. The delay may mean--"

"Nothing whatever," finished Kidder, a trifle exultingly. "There comes
Garrettson's carriage. I guess you'd better cover!"

And the _Planet_ man laughed.

"Kidder, you'll never be rich! Of course I shall not cover until I know
the reason for the delay. Make haste! I ought to take a good look at his
face. I want to see how he looks and notice how he walks up the steps
to the office. One glimpse of Harriman getting off the train once put a
cool quarter of a million in my pocket."

"Stocks went up when he died. People sold them thinking--"

"When you know a man is dying and you know that the rabble doesn't know
it, you don't always sell stocks short, Kidder," anticipated Robison,
with a gentle smile.

"Hello!" said Kidder, and ran forward.

Robison followed. The coupé had stopped before the door of the banking
firm's offices. The herculean private policeman in gray had hastened
to open the door of the chief's carriage and had staggered back as if
horrified by what he had seen.

"Murdered!" thought the newspaper man in a flash. "What a story!"

The policeman turned an alarmed face toward the coachman and asked:

"Where's Mr. Garrettson?"

"What!" Lyman, the coachman, who had been in Garrettson's employ
thirty-odd years, turned livid. He stared blankly at the big man in the
gray uniform.

"He isn't here!" said Allcock, the policeman. Kidder and Robison heard
him.

The coachman looked into the coupé.

"Good God!" he muttered.

"Are you sure he was inside?" asked Allcock. "Sure? Of course! There's
the newspapers. Look at the cigar-ashes on the floor."

"Did you see him get in?" persisted the policeman. "Of course I saw him!
I heard him call to the footman, who was going back to the house without
leaving the newspapers."

"And you didn't stop anywhere?"

"No. I was delayed a little at Twelfth Street and Fourth Avenue, and
again--"

"Are you sure he didn't jump off?"

"What would he be jumping off for?" queried the old coachman, irritably.
"And wouldn't I have heard the door slam? I can't account for it! My
God! Where's Mr. Garrettson? Where is he? Where is he?" He repeated
himself like one distraught.

"Could he have jumped out without your knowing it?" queried Kidder.

"Shut up, Jim. That's a reporter!" the policeman warned the coachman.
"Wait here and I'll tell Mr. Jenkins."

The private policeman rushed into the bank, and rushed out, followed by
William P. Jenkins, junior partner of W. H. Garrettson & Company.

"What is all this about?" Mr. Jenkins, who had been speaking in a sharp
voice to the coachman, caught sight of Kidder. Nothing concerning Mr.
Garrettson's whereabouts could be discussed by or before newspaper men.

"Come with me, James," Mr. Jenkins said, peremptorily, to the old
coachman.

"Get on the job!" whispered Robison to Kidder. "Don't be bluffed.
You've got enough to raise the dickens if printed. It's the scoop of a
lifetime!"

Amos Kidder nodded eagerly. He had ceased to think of Robison's
eccentricities and was occupied with the disappearance of the great
financier. He followed Jenkins and the coachman into the office, but
all efforts to listen to their colloquy were in vain. He could see
perturbation plainly printed on the face of Mr. Jenkins, for all that
Garrettson's junior partner was one of the master bluffers of Wall
Street and a consummate artist at poker. The newspaper man was,
moreover, fortunate enough to overhear Mr. Jenkins's private secretary
say: "Mrs. Garrettson says Mr. Garrettson left the house about
nine-twenty in the carriage, as usual. The butler saw him get in; the
footman helped him into the cab. She wanted to know what had happened. I
said, 'Nothing that I know of.'"

Jenkins nodded approval of the typical financier's evasion and
hastened back to the private office, where the cross-examination of the
coachman--a man above suspicion--was carried on by the other partners.

Amos Kidder had heard enough. He rushed out and, accompanied by the
patient Robison, telephoned to his office this bulletin:

_W. H. Garrettson left his residence in Lexington Avenue near
Thirty-eighth Street this morning as usual in his coupé, driven by James
Lyman, his coachman. Lyman, who has been in the employ of the family
from boyhood, declares positively that Mr. Garrettson got in as usual.
He was smoking one of his famous $2.17 cigars and had all the daily
newspapers. These and cigar-ashes were all that could be seen in the
coupé when it reached the Wills Building, at Broad and Wall streets,
where the offices of W. H. Garrettson & Company are. His partners are
unable to say where the multimillionaire promoter is to be found. Mrs.
Garrettson is equally positive that Mr. Garrettson left the house as
usual. The butler saw him get in. Nobody saw him get out. What makes
this remarkable is that Mr. Garrettson is punctuality itself and
not once in forty years has he failed to reach his office before ten
o'clock. His disappearance from the coupé is not thought to be a joke;
but, on the other hand, there is no reason to apprehend a tragedy. "It
is mysterious--that's all," remarked a prominent Wall Street man; "and
mysteries are not always profitable in the stock-market!"_

"How long," inquired Robison, as Kidder came out of the telephone-booth,
"will it be before the _Evening Planet_, with your account of the
non-arrival of Garrettson, is out on the street?"

"Well," said Kidder, looking a trifle important, "if it had been any one
else who telephoned a story of that importance time would be wasted in
verifying it, but my story ought to be out in five minutes!"

"As quickly as that?"

"Well, maybe seven minutes--but that," said Kidder, impressively, "would
be slow work for the _Evening Planet!_"

"Amazing!" murmured Robison, in a congratulatory tone. "And did you make
it clear that there was no explanation for the non-arrival of--"

"I said it had not been explained as yet. A man isn't kidnapped in broad
daylight in the city of New York--taken out of his own cab and
carried away. If conscious, he would have shouted to the coachman; if
unconscious, he would have attracted attention. It can't be done!"

"No, it can't," agreed Robison. "Nevertheless, it has been done."

"How could--"

"Kidder, the taxicab has introduced a new and easily utilizable
possibility into criminal affairs, against which the police cannot
yet protect the public. I can see one, two, three, five, ten, fourteen
different ways in which Mr. Garrettson could have been abducted from his
own carriage, put into a taxi, and carried away. Suppose there are six
taxis. Three are in front to prevent the coachman from passing them.
The coachman is also compelled to regulate his speed according as they
desire. Then put one taxi on each side and one behind. These taxis not
only escort the cab; they pocket it and keep out help. At one of the
many halts the cab door is opened and Garrettson induced to enter one of
the side taxis while the coachman is occupied taking care of his horses
because one of the taxis in front threatens to back, which will crush
the prancing beasts. Do you suppose the coachman, especially if he is
elderly and somewhat deaf, as all old people are, could hear a cry
for help with six taxis making all the noise they can, muffler cutouts
going, or backfiring, or--"

"Do you think that is--"

"I think nothing! I cited it as one of fourteen--indeed,
twenty--possible ways," said Robison, quietly.

"It's funny--I mean it is a curious coincidence that on the one day you
had sold Steel short--"

"My young friend," interrupted Robison, gravely, "I sold after
Garrettson was late! Wisdom is always accused of unfairness. A man whose
mind enables him to win steadily at cards is invariably suspected of
marking them. I had planned to buy Con. Steel provided Garrettson's
health, state of mind, and trade conditions satisfied me! Instead I
sold a little because of his delay. Why, man, we did that in London
once--Cecil Rhodes and I--when Barney Barnato, at the height of the
Kaffir craze, suddenly decided--"

"Wait till I get a piece of paper," said Amos Kidder. He saw a big
story. But Robison said:

"I'll tell you all you wish to know--if you promise not to use names--in
Richards's office later, when Garrettson's disappearance is officially
admitted. You should hang round Garrettson's office. Don't lose sight of
it for one minute! Your office will keep in touch--"

"Yes; they are sending three men down to work under me."

"Keep me posted, will you? I am going to Richards's office and watch the
market."

Kidder nodded and hurried to the Wills Building. Robison went to the
office of his brokers, stopping previously at a telephone pay-station
to telephone to the city editors of the _Evening World_ and the _Evening
Journal_. This was his message:

_The Evening Planet is getting out an extra about the disappearance
of W. H. Garrettson. Send your men to Garrettson's office and also his
residence. Hurry!_

The _Evening Planet_ story was on the street before Robison returned to
Richards & Tuttle's office, and five minutes later _World_ and _Journal_
extras were selling in the financial district. Curiously enough, both
papers used the same scare-head, and that fact had a great deal to do
with the acceptance of the story by many people. The heading was:


HELD FOR RANSOM!!

And each stated it had information that W. H. Garrettson had been
kidnapped and was held for one hundred million dollars ransom. The
Wall Street news agencies sent out the news on the tickers. One of them
subtly finished:

_Those who know Mr. Garrettson state that the two things the greatest
financier of our times cannot do are: first, take advice; and second,
be coerced. A man who has compelled a President of the United States to
come to him for advice, and who has flatly told a reigning monarch, No!
is not going to do as he is told by any band of crooks! The worst is,
therefore, to be feared!_



VI

For one brief dazed moment the stock-market hesitated! Then suddenly
the ticker stopped, as it did in the old days whenever a member's demise
was announced. The ticker's silence, with its suggestion of death,
did in truth strangle bull hopes. Ten thousand gamblers' hearts almost
stopped when the ticker did. Then the storm burst, increasing in
violence as corroboration came from newspaper extras, from the Wall
Street news agencies and the news tickers, from brokers and bankers who
had rushed to the offices of W. H. Garrettson & Company and had rushed
out again to sell stocks. And for one fatal moment the great house of
W. H. Garrettson & Company was guilty of the capital crime--in high
finance--of indecision.

The stock-market at times suggests a reservoir--: the selling-power
is liquefied fear. Like water, all it asks is one tiny crevice--a
beginning!--and it will itself complete the havoc.

Inside support--that is, buying by Garrettson's firm--would have been
the only effective denial of the alarming rumors. Therefore, in the
brief instant that saw absolutely no "support" forthcoming the flood of
selling-orders raged down upon the stock-market, carrying with it big
margins and little margins and minus margins, fortunes and hopes and
reputations.

The price of Con. Steel declined faster and faster as the volume
of selling-orders grew larger. It was the snowball rolling down the
hillside. From sixty-eight it went to sixty-seven; to sixty-six; to
sixty-five by fractions. Then it broke whole points at a time--to sixty;
to fifty-five! In fifteen frightful, unforgetable minutes the capital
stock, of the Consolidated Steel Corporation shrank in value fifteen
million dollars--one million a minute! A psychological statistician
would have figured that this million a minute was the tribute of
the moneyed world to the great Garrettson's reputation for financial
invulnerability; it was the cost of the blow to his prestige, the result
of his partners' inefficiency during the one crucial moment of the
firm's existence. The partners would have understood death and could
have provided against it, stock-marketwise. It is likely that they even
might have capitalized their senior partner's demise had it come from
typhoid, tuberculosis, or taxicab. But the disappearance of the great
Garrettson, the fatal incertitude, the black ignorance, the fearing
and the hoping, paralyzed the faculties of the junior partners of Wall
Street's mighty firm. And the costliness of their indecision was raised
into the millions by the fact that, just as Jenkins, Johnson, and Lane,
the junior partners, agreed that Garrettson, though absent, was well,
and were about to take steps to check the gamblers' panic, the telephone
summoned Jenkins.

"Hello! Is this Mr. Jenkins? Good. This is Dr. Pierson. Come at once to
Mr. Garrettson, Hotel Cressline, Suite D. No, not B--D! Say nothing to
the family! Hurry!" And the speaker rang off.

His face livid with apprehension, visibly tortured by the still
unrelieved uncertainty, Jenkins turned to Walter Johnson, the youngest
and--Wall Street said--the cleverest of Garrettson's partners, and
repeated the message.

"Was it Dr. Pierson's voice?" asked Johnson.

"I don't know--yes; I think it was. He said, 'This is Dr. Pierson,' and
I didn't suspect--yes; I think it was." After a second's pause, "I know
it was Pierson!"

"Then, for Heaven's sake--" began Lane.

"Your knowledge of Pierson's voice, Jenkins, is vitiated by your obvious
wish. Call up Dr. Pierson's office, of course!" said Johnson.

"Meantime we are losing precious time--" Johnson had already gone to
the desk telephone and asked for Dr. Pierson's office. To his partner he
said, the receiver at his ear:

"We have all eternity before us to solve the problem if--" The emphasis
on the conditional particle indicated so clearly his meaning that there
was no need to say it. "You need not go on a wild-goose chase, and we
hoping and expecting and uncertain if--Hello! Dr. Pierson's office? This
is Mr. Johnson, of W. H. Garrettson & Company. Is the doctor there?
Out? Where did he go? Speak out--I am Mr. Garrettson's partner. Hotel
Cressline, Suite D? Thank you." Johnson turned and said: "Dr. Pierson
was summoned by telephone to the Cressline, Suite D, to attend Mr.
Garrettson. Hurry call! I'll get the hotel and ask--"

"And meantime," said Jenkins, excitedly, "he might be dying or dead; and
we--"

"Yes! Go! I'll arrange to have a telephone-line kept for our exclusive
use. Hurry!"

Jenkins rushed madly from the office and Johnson took up the telephone
once more.

"Give me the Hotel Cressline!" And presently, "Hello! Cressline? This is
W. H. Garrettson & Company. Yes--Mr. Johnson, Mr. Garrettson's partner.
Is Mr. Gar--... Yes--yes--I want to talk to him.... Why not? Is it our
Mr. Garrettson... Here! Hold your horses! You will tell me!--or, by
Heaven, I'll... Helloh-Hello! Damn 'em!"

"What did they say, Walter?" asked Mr. Lane, partner and brother-in-law
of Garrettson.

"He said I could go to hell!" growled Johnson, his face brick-red from
anger; people did not talk that way to the partners of the great
Garrettson. "He said a Mr. Garrettson, accompanied by a heavily veiled
lady, took Suite D this morning at nine-forty-five, and left orders not
to be interrupted under any circumstances--no cards sent up, no
telephone connection made, no messages of any kind delivered!"

The two partners looked at each other gravely. In their eyes was
something like a cross between a challenge and an entreaty, as though
each expected the other to say he did not expect a terrible final
chapter. In the veiled woman each feared what was worse than mere
death--scandal! Of course, much would be suppressed, as had been done in
the case of Winthrop Kyle or of Burton Willett, to whom death had come
suddenly and under dubious circumstances.

"William is not that kind!" said Lane, loyally. "He has never--"

"I know that, of course. I don't believe it. I don't! I don't!" repeated
Walter Johnson, vehemently.

"Neither do I," agreed Lane. "But--" He looked furtively at Walter
Johnson.

Johnson nodded, and said, "Yes, that's the devil of it!" He lost
himself in thoughts of how to suppress the scandal; for these men loved
Garrettson, admired his abilities, gloried in his might, and reverenced
his greatness. They would rather see the firm lose millions than have
posthumous mud flung upon the historic figure of W. H. Garrettson.

That was the explanation of why the ordinary precautions for staving
off a panic were not taken by the partners. That was why they denied
themselves to everybody who brought no news of Mr. W. H. Garrettson; and
such was the discipline of the office that no word was brought to the
palefaced partners in the inner office about the big break in stocks or
of the newspaper extras.

It was the fatal mistake. By the time Walter Johnson, by accident or
force of habit, or possibly subconsciously, moved by the telepathic
message of the ticker, approached the little instrument the slump in
stocks had taken on the proportions of a panic.

"Great Scott! Fifty-eight for steel!"

"No!" incredulously shouted Lane.

"It'll never do!"

"Yes, but--"

Walter Johnson, forgetting that Mr. Garrettson was a man who liked to
do things in his own way, rushed out of the private office and began
to give out buying-orders to the better-known of the Garrettson
brokers--they kept some of these for the effect of obvious "Garrettson
buying." It was all the firm could do to check the decline. No matter
what had happened, the house of Garrettson must not lie about it!
Silence, yes; untruth, never! And yet silence might be taken as
corroboration of the awful stories. He could not say that the great
Garrettson was alive and could not say he was dead. He must not mention
Hotel Cressline. A trying situation! To the news-agency men, who would
put out the news on the Street, from whom also the daily papers would
get it, he said, very calmly and impressively:

"I know of no reason why anybody should sell Consolidated Steel. The
iron trade is in excellent shape; the company is doing the biggest
business in its history at reasonable but remunerative prices, and we
consider the stock a good investment. We deprecate these violent
speculative movements. They are designed to frighten timid holders. I
advise every man who owns Consolidated Steel stock to hold on to it.

"But about Mr. Gar--"

"Not another word!" he said, firmly, with a smile that was a masterpiece
of will-power.

The newspaper men translated it: "Not a word about W. H. Garrettson!"
And in the Stock Exchange a similar construction was put upon the
message. What was wanted was to know whether the great Garrettson was
dead or not--the kidnapping was by now accepted as a fact!--and if
so what would be done with the enormous Garrettson holdings of Steel.
Wherefore the traders sold more of the same stock--short--and the
bona-fide holders could develop no conviction strong enough as to the
wisdom of holding on, so long as the price continued to go down.

Jenkins arrived at the Cressline in time to find Dr. Pierson engaged in
a fight with the office force, who would not show Suite D to him or send
up any message. But Jenkins, who in his youth had been a book agent,
succeeded in inducing the management to break open the door after
repeated knocking brought no response from within.

They found nobody in Suite D. Mr. Garrettson had vanished! But they
found on the bureau a long lavender automobile veil.

Jenkins and Dr. Pierson stared at each other in perplexity. At length
Jenkins, red and uncomfortable, said to Dr. Pierson:

"I came up as soon as I got your telephone message; and--"

"I never telephoned you!" interrupted Dr. Pierson.

"Why, you said--"

"I didn't say it. I came up here because I got a message from the
hotel--or so the voice said--to see Mr. Garrettson, who had been taken
suddenly ill in Suite D. His companion, a young lady, was with him."

"Damn!" said Jenkins, with ah uneasy look. He bethought him of the
office, hastened to the telephone and told Walter Johnson all about the
fake messages and Dr. Pierson's story.

"That was to throw us off the scent. Con. Steel has broken ten points,
and--"

"It's a bear raid then!"

"Yes. But have the bears got W. H. Garrettson? If so, where? Hurry
down!"

Meantime in the office of Richards & Tuttle Mr. Robison was carefully
following the course of the stock-market. The lower Steel went the
higher Robison rose in the estimation of the firm, the customers, and
the office-boys.

In one of the interludes between the slumps George B. Richards asked in
a voice which one might say sweated respect:

"What do you think now, Mr. Robison?"

The office had been doing a great business and the big room with the
quotation-board that took one side was crowded with customers. These
customers, with eyes that shone greedily, drew near and frankly listened
to the colloquy. They were all happy because they were all short of
Steel, and they were all short of Steel because a mysterious stranger
had scented a strange mystery ten minutes ahead of Wall Street.

"Yes?" said Mr. Robison, absently.

"What do you think now?"

"What do I think now?" repeated Mr. Robison, mechanically.

"Yes, sir," said George B. Richards, in the tone of voice of an
office-boy about to ask for a day off. Robison stared unseeingly at
the broker. Then, with a little start, he said so distinctly that every
listening customer heard very plainly:

"I have not changed my opinion. When I do I'll let you know."

"It looks to me," persisted Richards, fishing for information, "that
they can't keep on going down forever."

"No--not forever," assented Mr. Robison, calmly.

"Maybe the bottom is not far off."

"Maybe not."

"If a man bought now he might do well."

"Then buy 'em."

"Still, until we know just what is back of this break it isn't safe to
go long."

"In that case," said Mr. Robison, with a polite nod of the head, "don't
buy 'em."

Richards did not persist, and with an effort subdued the desire to
say "Thank you!" in a most sarcastic tone of voice. The disappointed
customers drifted away. To be told when to begin making money is great,
but any experienced stock speculator will tell you that it is even more
important to be told when to stop making it. The tale of the Untaken
Profit is the jeremiad of the ticker-fiend.

Con. Steel was down to fifty-five and beginning to show "resiliency,"
as financial writers used to say, when an office-boy rushed to Mr.
Robison's side. The lad's face shone with pride at being the bearer of
money-making news to-the most distinguished of the firm's customers,
whose paper profits at that moment were about one hundred thousand
dollars.

"Mr. Robison!" he said in the distinct, low voice of one who is
accustomed to repeating confidential messages in a crowded room. The
other customers, who were still hopeful of getting the tip when to
cover, looked at the boy's lips and listened strainingly to catch his
whispered words.

"Speak up, my boy. I am a little hard of hearing," said Mr. Robison
through his nose, with a pleasant smile.

The customers, to a man, blessed the catarrh that caused the deafness
which would give them the tip they all expected.

"The photographer says the pictures came out very fine indeed."

The looking and listening customers, to a man, murmured, "Stung again!"

"Wait a minute my lad. Here!" and he gave the office-boy a five-dollar
bill and a small envelope.

"Thank you very much, sir," said the boy. He put the five dollars in
his pocket, beamed gratefully on Mr. Robison, gazed pityingly at the
customers, and looked at the envelope. It said, "Mr. Richards."

He gave the envelope to Mr. Richards, who had retreated into the private
office. The broker opened it. It contained one of Robison's slips, on
which was written:

_Buy twenty thousand Con. Steel at the market._

_J. B. Robison._

Richards rushed the order to the Board Room. It helped to steady the
price. Presently Mr. Richards approached Robison and sat in the
empty place beside him. Feeling that they were not wanted, two polite
customers moved away, ostensibly not to hear; but they tried to listen
just the same.

"Your order is executed, Mr. Robison." Mr. Richards whispered it out
of a corner of his mouth without turning his head, all the time looking
meditatively at the quotation-board.

"Got the whole twenty?"

"Yes."

"Good!"

"Do you think--" began the broker in a voice that would make flint turn
to putty.

"I do!" cut in Robison. "I do, indeed! There is no telling what has
happened. The sharpness of the break was intensified by two facts." He
had unconsciously raised his voice.

A startled look fastened itself on the seventeen faces of the seventeen
customers who were short of Steel. The seventeen owners of the faces
drew nearer to Mr. Robison, who, apparently unaware of having any other
listener than Mr. George B. Richards, went on, nasally but amiably:

"By two things: First, the mystery. What has become of Mr. W. H.
Garrettson? Second: If the great Garrettson has disappeared it must be
because of a worse-than-death. Many things can be worse than death, in
the stock-market--failure, for instance."

"Oh, but that's out of the question."

"Yes, it is! So is the disappearance of W. H. Garrettson, one of the
best-known men in America, in broad daylight, in a crowded and very
efficiently policed city thoroughfare."

"Yes; but a failure--"

"When the Baring Brothers failed Englishmen the world over wouldn't
believe it. They couldn't fail, you know!"

"Do you think--"

"No, I do not. I was merely objecting to the habit of loose assertions
so characteristic of Wall Street. I told you to what two things I
ascribed the sharpness of the break. Mystery is the greatest of all bull
cards, as you all know. It may also be made to work on the bear side.
Now it isn't likely that anything serious has happened to Mr. W. H.
Garrettson. There would be no sense in murdering him--not even by a
stock speculator; but, even if he is dead, the break in the Garrettson
specialties has by now discounted that sad contingency. Therefore I
should say prices ought to be touching bottom; and what ought to be
generally is, in the stock-market. I fancy we'll hear, one way or
another, very soon now. If the news is good the price of Steel will
rebound smartly. If it is bad we'll at least know what to look to, and
with the elimination of the mystery there should be a cessation of the
selling. There will follow a rush to cover and then--There you are! I
believe it's begun already. Fifty-nine; and a half; sixty; sixty-two!
Get 'em back!"

The seventeen shorts in the room rushed to give their orders to cover
and gloomily watched the massacre of the bears as melodramatized in
figures on the quotation-board.

Sixty-three! Sixty-five! Sixty-seven! Higher than it had been before
the newspaper extras came out! Big blocks were changing hands. W. H.
Garrettson & Co. were buying the stock aggressively, even recklessly
now. Somebody must pay---and it wouldn't be the firm.

Amos Kidder rushed into the office. "He's found!" he yelled, excitedly,
addressing Mr. Robison.

"Where was he?" asked Mr. Robison, very calmly.

"At home--damn 'im!"

"Why that, my boy?"

"He won't talk--says he was in his library all the time."

"We know better than that. Don't we, Kidder?" said Robison, with a
smile.

"Yes; but you don't have to print the official statement as though it
were the truth, and I have. How can I say he lied when I can't prove
that he wasn't in his library? If I knew the whole truth--"

"The whole truth?" echoed Mr. Robison, with the shade of a smile.

"Don't you know it?" Amos Kidder shot this at Mr. Robison suspiciously.

"Don't make me laugh, Kidder! Nobody knows the whole truth about
anything. Take dinner with me to-morrow night--will you?"

"Yes." There was a smoldering defiance--it wasn't suspicion exactly--in
the newspaper man's voice and eyes.

"Good for you! Mr. Richards, please sell my Steel."

"Now that Garrettson is--"

"Yes, now--at the market, carefully. Have I doubled my money in a week?"

"Yes."

"I told you I would."

"An accident is not a fair test of--"

"An accident is not a fair test of anything, because there is no such
thing in the stock-market as an accident! The sooner you let that fact
seep in the better it will be for the bank account of your children. I
must be going up-town now. Good night, gentlemen."

As early as practicable the next day, after the interest had been
figured out to the ultimate penny, Mr. James Burnett Robison was
informed by Mr. George B. Richards that he had to his credit the sum of
$268,537.71 with the firm.

"I've won my bet!" murmured Mr. Robison, staring absently at the broker.

"You have indeed, Mr. Robison." Richards spoke deferentially.

"H'm! I hope I can induce Ethel to--Mr. Richards, I'll thank you to sign
this paper. There is a notary public up-stairs."

This was the document:

_To WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:_

_This is to certify that on July 18, 1912, Mr. James B. Robison opened
an account with the firm of Richards & Tuttle, bankers and brokers,
members of the New York Stock Exchange, by depositing with them the
sum of $100,000. On July 23d he closed this account, which showed a net
profit of $168,537.71._

_A copy of the itemized statement, showing purchases and sales of stocks
and prices paid and received, will be given to any one upon an order
from Mr. James B. Robison._

_For Richards & Tuttle:_ _George B. Richards._

When Mr. George B. Richards had signed this certificate Mr. Robison
said, amiably:

"If you wish I'll give you, in return, a letter testifying to the
pleasure it has given me to trade in an office where they let customers
more than double their money in one week."

"Thank you. I hope you are not going to withdraw your account."

"And I hope you will send and get me a hundred thousand dollars in new,
clean hundred-dollar bills to give to the beneficiary of my wager. I
told you it was easy to make money in Wall Street. You wouldn't have
given me a certificate of sanity a week ago. What?"

"Oh yes, I would. But if you don't think my curiosity impertinent--"

"All curiosity in a stock-broker is a sign of intelligence; and
intelligence, my dear Mr. George B. Richards, is never impertinent." Mr.
Robison smiled with such amiable sincerity that Richards felt flattered
enough to blush.

"Thank you. But there is one thing I don't understand--" The broker
paused; he was about to inquire into the personal affairs of a
profitable customer. He did not wish commissions to stop.

Mr. Robison bowed his head acquiescingly and, as though it were his turn
to speak, said:

"It is always wise for a man to have a number of things he doesn't
understand. It affords occupation during idle moments, gives the mind
healthy exercise, and, indeed, maintains a salutary interest in
life. Humanity loves knowledge, but is fascinated by mystery. Is life
interesting to you? Yes. Why? Because it is so important and you know so
little about it. Is death interesting to you? Yes. Why? Because of death
you know only the first letter of the first word of the first line of
the first chapter of a big, black book--Mystery!"

"Yes," murmured the dazed broker.

Robison continued, cheerfully: "My dear Mr. Richards, by all means
don't understand! I'll drop in later in the day for the hundred thousand
dollars. Meanwhile pray continue to be mystified and unhappy, but
interested, and believe me your sincere friend and well-wisher, James
Burnett Robison." With these words the man who looked like a Paris dude
and talked like an actor with the voice of a down-east farmer, whose
speech suggested insanity but whose deeds yielded him twenty-five
thousand dollars a day, walked out of the office of his brokers.

A few hours later he received ten bundles of hun-dred-dollar bills,
which he carelessly stuffed into his coat pocket, and then asked for a
check for his balance. When George B. Richards regretfully complied and
lachrymosely hoped Mr. Robison would reconsider his decision to close
the account, Mr. Robison answered, very impressively:

"My dear Mr. Richards, if you were Rockefeller, would you work in a
glue-factory for the pleasure of it? I don't need money and I hate the
marketplace. If ever I decide that humanity needs more money than I
personally possess I'll come back and take it out of Wall Street through
Richards & Tuttle, at one-eighth of one per cent, commission and the
state tax. Good day, sir!" And he left, Mr. Richards remembered just
afterward and wondered, without shaking hands.



VIII

Amos Kidder dined with Mr. Robison that evening at Mr. Robison's hotel,
the Regina.

"Americans," explained the host, "always flock to the newest hotel on
the theory that material progress is infallible and that the latest
thing is necessarily the best thing. But cooking is not sanitary
plumbing; it is an art! I am here not because of the journalistic,
Sunday-special character of the filtered air and automatic temperature
adjusters of this hotel, but because I discovered it had the best
chef of all New York here. The food," he finished, with an air of
overpraising, "is almost as good as in my own house. Have you any
favorite dishes or doctor's diet to follow?"

"No, thank Heaven! I'll eat and drink whatever you'll order," replied
the newspaper man.

"Thank you, Kidder--thank you!" said Mr. Robison, with an air of such
profound gratitude that Kidder forgot to laugh. "I was hoping you would
leave it to me to order the dinner; in fact, it is ordered. Thank you!"
And he beckoned to the _maître d'hôtel_, who immediately hastened to the
table and covered his face with a mask of extreme respectfulness. "You
may begin to serve the dinner, Antoine," said Robison, simply.

"Dewey at Manila!" thought Kidder, impressed in spite of himself. His
Wall Street work and his friendship with millionaires had accustomed him
to all sorts of extravagances, but he admitted to himself he had never
eaten so unconsciously well in his life. Emboldened by the dinner and
the heartwarming wine, and his own growing affection for the curious man
who said remarkable things through his nose and did remarkable things
in a remarkably matter-of-fact way, Kidder was inspired to say over the
coffee:

"I'd like to ask you two questions--just two."

"That's one more than Carlyle, who said that man had but one question to
ask man, to wit: 'Can I kill thee or canst thou kill me?'"

"O king, live forever!" said Kidder, saluting. "Thanks. Shoot ahead."

"Did you know what was going to happen or were you really betting on the
chance that Garrettson's absence meant something serious?" Kidder was
looking at Robison with a steady gaze.

"There is, my dear boy, no such thing as chance. Irreligious people have
invented chance to fill in a hiatus otherwise unbridgable. Right, my
boy!" And Robison nodded.

"Your talks with Richards were mighty mysterious," said Kidder, with an
accusing tone of voice he could not quite control.

"So is the internal economy of a bug mysterious."

"And your talk about the Lion eating the man and the International
Cribbage Board--"

"But not exactly criminal, eh?"

"No; but--"

"Kidder, my rhetorical eccentricities are of no consequence. Suppose
you call it a harmless desire to give to myself the importance of the
inexplicable, or even an intent to confuse impressions by making the
mind of the broker dwell more on the mysteriousness of the customer than
on the possible meaning of that customer's trading. Do you wish me to
tell you that I have a system for beating the ticker game? Because I
sha'n't! But that I go about my business scientifically you yourself
have seen. At least you are witness that I have won."

"Yes; but--"

"What's the second question?"

"There isn't a second if you won't answer the first," said Kidder, with
the forced amiability of the foiled.

"I have answered it. What you really wish is a detective story. Suppose
we imagine. The only real people are those that live in our minds. Now
let us wonder what happened to Garrettson and why he will not tell. Here
is an incident that precipitated a slump which had the semblance of
a panic--short-lived though it was--that caused mental anguish to
his friends, relatives, and associates; and yet that great genius of
finance, Wall Street's demigod, says nothing."

"He says he was in his library."

"We know he lies. That makes it more serious. Why does he lie? What
compels so powerful and courageous a man as the great Garrettson to
lie?"

"I don't know."

"You ought to; there is only one thing."

"Do you mean fear of a petticoat scandal?"

"No; because Garrettson does not fear that. Being highly intelligent, he
protects himself against all possibility of scandal. No. It is something
else. It's fear!"

"Of the alleged kidnappers?"

"No. He doesn't fear men. But he might fear--" He paused.

"What?" eagerly asked the newspaper man.

"Ridicule!"

Kidder aimed what he fondly hoped was a piercing glance at Mr.
Robison. He discovered nothing. Mr. Robison had a far-away look in his
philosophical eyes.

"It's too much for me," finally confessed Kidder, hoping that the
frankness of his admission might induce Mr. Robison to speak on.

Robison smiled forgivingly, and said:

"You have what I may call the usual type of mind. You look at usual
things in the usual way. And yet the application of well-known
principles to well-known people seems to benumb your usual mind most
unusually. Now what do you gather from the Garrettson episode?"

"Nothing, unless it is that you made a lot of money by what seems to be
a most unusual succession of coincidences."

"Your voice," said Robison, with a sort of sedate amusement, "exudes
suggestions of the penitentiary. The idea of law and order has become an
instinct. The lawful is usual. The unusual, therefore, is unlawful. It
puts the blessed era of scientific anarchy as far off as the old maids'
millennium--or as the abolition of stupidity among bankers and--"

"And newspaper men--what?" Kidder prompted, pleasantly. "Don't mind me.
I enjoy it."

"Kidder, you are a nice chap! That's why I asked your Paris man for a
letter of introduction to the financial editor of his newspaper. It gave
me what I as a stranger needed in Wall Street. It was easy to get. It is
an American failing to give such letters promiscuously, because we are
an irresponsible people. I have, I suppose, voiced a suspicion of yours
about me?"

"I did not have it. I have it now, however."

"If we talk about poor me any longer you'll be asking for my aliases and
my Bertillon measurements. Now let's get to Garrettson. We know he left
his house in his carriage at his usual hour and that he did not arrive
at his office. We have the evidence of his coachman--a man above
suspicion--of the newspapers, and of the cigar-ashes. We know, for you
heard Jenkins call up the house, that Mr. Garrettson was not at home.
We know that his disappearance must have been connected with alarming
circumstances or his partners would not have been so badly upset as to
allow that reputation-shattering slump in the Garrettson shares--led, I
am thankful to say, by Consolidated Steel. We know that Jenkins rushed
up-town to the Cressline Hotel and found Dr. Pierson, but no Garrettson
there, as had been tipped off, thereby increasing the mystery or
suggesting that a bear clique was at work and was taking advantage of
the obvious possibilities of the situation. Merely out of curiosity
I found out that the hotel people had rented Suite D to a man calling
himself W. H. Garrettson, who was accompanied by a veiled woman. It
wasn't Garrettson, though."

"How do you know?"

"It was clearly a ruse--having a woman. Don't you see it? The gossip
that would--"

"Very ingenious; but--"

"At all events, Garrettson got back. We suspect he scolded his partners,
and we know he gave out a statement to the reporters that was, to
say the least, disingenuous. We know that, had it been any one but
Garrettson, Wall Street would have seen stock-market strategy in his
highly inconvenient disappearance."

"Yes, yes; but--"

"Friend Kidder, let us evolve an explanation that explains. Let us form
a syndicate of intelligent men!" He made a motion with his hand as if
waving away the necessity of further elucidation.

"Friend Robison," said Kidder, jocularly mimicking the older man's
manner, "you are one of those unusual men whose speeches are better than
his silences. _Continuez, s'il vous plaît._"

"Intelligent men, deprecating alike violence and the immoderate
accumulation of wealth by others. To reduce such wealth would be their
object."

"A band of robbers?"

"No; an aggregation of philosophers."

"None the less crooks."

"No; since they would take from crooks, annexing only that class
of wealth which is called tainted! They would take plunder from the
plunderers, themselves pardonable plunderers. That would give to the
syndicate a confidence in itself and a faith in its righteousness that
would make success easy. How would they go about making Wall Street
contribute to the fund? Now they must have seen that Garrettson's
life was a bull factor, and his death a bear card. But they had
old-fashioned, unphilosophical scruples against murder. Moreover, the
sensational disappearance of Garrettson would serve even better than his
death. Problem: How to kidnap Garrettson? Or, better still: How to make
Garrettson kidnap himself? Simplicity itself!"

"It I am Dr. Watson to your Sherlock Holmes, consider me gazing on you
with admiration. And so--"

"The time would be when the Street was full of people long of Con.
Steel and the newspapers full of articles showing the greatness of W. H.
Garrettson. If I, who merely desired to trade in a few thousand
shares, studied Garrettson's habits, think of the syndicate playing for
millions! They learn about his daily carriage trip to his office. The
rest is obvious, even to you--isn't it?" Mr. Robison gazed benignantly
at his guest.

"No; it isn't obvious to me--or to any one else," retorted Kidder,
sharply.

"You still think I am Delphic or a crook? My dear Kidder, how can you
ask me to insult your intelligence by filling in the obvious gaps in an
obvious way?"

"Insult ahead."

"Very well. Mr. Garrettson is sane in everything except in the matter
of collecting MSS. At five minutes to nine a man goes to his house--an
impressive stranger, well-dressed, cold-eyed, with the aristocratic
attitude toward servants that sees in them merely pieces of furniture.
He tells the footman in a dehumanized voice that he must see Mr.
Garrettson. The footman tells the butler. The butler comes out. The
stranger says to the butler: 'I am leaving for Europe this morning.
Tell Mr. Garrettson he will see me at once or not at all. Give him this
paper and show him this sheet. Make haste!' The dazed butler gives
Mr. Garrettson the paper, which is apparently the first page of
the _Knickerbocker History of New York_. The memorandum informs Mr.
Garrettson: 'I have, in their entirety, the MSS. of this history,
Cooper's "Spy," Poe's "Goldbug," three love-letters of George Washington
to Mrs. Glendenning, and no less than sixteen signed letters of Thomas
Lynch, the one signer of the Declaration of Independence whose autograph
is really rare.' Of course Mr. Garrettson would see the stranger!"

"The sheet supposed to be the first page of Irving's _Knickerbocker
History_ is a forgery, so well done as to writing, paper, and ink as to
make Garrettson's mouth water for the rest. He has the stranger taken
into the library and shows him various rare MSS., the history of
which the stranger knows, thereby growing in Garrettson's estimation,
particularly since Garrettson does not know how carefully the stranger
has prepared himself for this same selfchosen test. But the man is a
lunatic, for he wishes Garrettson to give him fifty thousand dollars and
five fifteenth-century enamels for the MSS., sight unseen. They argue
and haggle and fight. Time thus passes. While Garrettson and the lunatic
are quarreling, the Garrettson coupé and the coachman are waiting
outside as usual.

"As nine o'clock strikes, which the coachman hears as usual and is
the usual signal for Garrettson's appearance, the coachman sees a man
running from round the corner, pursued by a well-dressed woman with
a horsewhip; also six urchins yelling, 'Give it to him, Liz!' This
attracts the coachman's attention. The man stops just across the street
from the Garrettson house and the woman lashes him. Of course the
coachman has turned his head away from his master's house on the left to
the horsewhipping on the right. Suddenly he hears the door of the coupé
slam--a rebuking sort of slam! He turns round, gathers up the reins and
prepares to start. He doesn't have to be told where to go. It's always
the office. While he was looking at the horsewhipping Mr. Garrettson has
come out of the house and entered the waiting carriage, as he has done
every day for thirty years.

"Out of the corner of his eye the coachman sees the footman returning to
the house--a bareheaded footman in the dark-green Garrettson livery,
a bundle of newspapers in his hands. The footman stops short and turns
round. He is smooth-shaved, as all footmen are. The coachman hears him
say, 'Beg pardon--here they are, sir!' and sees the footman hand
papers to Mr. Garrettson inside; for who should be inside but Mr. W.
H. Garrettson? The footman returns to the house and the coachman drives
away, sure that his master is within. His customary route has been
studied and it is easy to cause delays, so as to make the carriage
arrive at the office fifteen minutes late. No Garrettson! Why? Because
he was in the library! The footman was an accomplice. The syndicate has
in readiness an exact replica of the Garrettson carriage, of the horse,
and even of the coachman; and when Garrettson and his cranky visitor do
come out, Garrettson sees his carriage waiting for him, gets in, and is
driven away--but not to his office! And there you are."

"Do you really think that is what happened?"

"It is what a gang of intelligent men would do."

"It is very fine--only it cannot happen."

"Why not?"

"The coachman would never swallow such a fool trick as that."

"If you knew the history of our old New York families you would
recall the episode of Mrs. Robert Nye, whose old coachman, English
and stiff-necked, one day drove the empty victoria round Central Park,
thinking he carried his mistress, because the lap-robe had been placed
in the carriage by the footman before the old lady had gotten in--and
usually the old lady got in first and the lap-robe followed."

"But he said he saw Garrettson get in," objected Kidder; "and the
cigar-ashes were there on the floor!"

"The ashes were thrown in by the footman for the very purpose of
making Argus-eyed reporters make a point of it. That and the crumpled
newspapers clinched it, so that the coachman thought he remembered
seeing Garrettson get in. It is what psychologists call an illusion of
memory."

"Oh, well--"

"Oh, well, it merely means that progressive people keep posted. Here,
let me read you what Henry Rutgers Marshall, an American psychologist,
better known to the learned bodies of Europe than to benighted
compatriots like you, has to say about this. I copied it:

"_Few of our memories are in any measure fully accurate as records; and
under certain conditions, which arise more frequently than most of
us realize, the characteristics of the memory-experience may appear in
connection with images, or series of images, which are not revivals
of any actual past events. In such cases the man who has such a
memory-experience, automatically following his usual mode of thought,
accepts it as the revival record of an actual occurrence in his past
life. When we are convinced that this is not the case we say that he has
suffered from an 'illusion of memory.'_"

_"The term 'illusion of memory' thus appears to be something of a
misnomer. What we are really dealing with is a real memory-experience,
but one by which we are led to make a false judgment--and this because
the judgment, which in this special case is false, is almost invariably
fully justified._

_"A man of unquestioned probity is thus often led to make statements in
regard to his experience in the past that have not the least foundation
in fact."_

"But, when Garrettson came out of his house do you mean to say he
wouldn't notice a different coachman?" Kidder looked incredulous in
advance of the answer.

"He wouldn't be looking for a different coachman and, therefore, he
wouldn't find one. The imitation was close enough to show nothing
unusual, nothing different. A lifelong habit never develops
introspective misgivings. No, my boy; Garrettson never noticed. Of
course the coachman drove to some place or other and left the great
financier a prisoner in the cab."

"How?"

"By making the door of the coupé impossible to open from the inside,
so that Garrettson was compelled finally to climb out of the window, a
matter of some difficulty to a man of his years and weight. The rest you
know."

"I don't."

"I don't, either, if you use that tone of voice. But I imagine that,
since there was nothing illegal or violent thus far, the syndicate
continued to be intelligent. For instance, they might have made it
impossible for Garrettson to escape from the carriage-room of the
private stable whither he was taken, carriage and all, except by going
through a lot of cobwebs and coal-dust and stable litter. As he emerged
from the coal-chute a photographer could take pictures of him--no hero
of a thrilling escape from desperate criminals, but just a plain chump,
full of dirt and soot and mud and manure, hatless, grimy, and unscathed!
A quickly developed photographic plate, a print, and a line or two
would, of course, make him keep the entire affair mum on the eve of
the most gigantic of his promotions--the Intercontinental Railway
Consolidation. Indeed, Garrettson can use the break in prices and the
recovery of the market to increase his prestige by pointing out how
important not only his life is, but, indeed, his physical presence."

"But the syndicate--"

"It might have been short a hundred thousand shares of the Garrettson
stocks, on which it made an average profit of eight or ten points. Well,
my friend Kidder, we'll just about have time to see the last act of
Bohême. Come on!"

Amos Kidder, torn by conflicting emotions, grateful for an epoch-making
dinner, interested as never before by his host's conversation, talked
a great deal about it, but it was only months afterward that he finally
knew.

One day he received three photographs. One showed the great Garrettson
in the act of emerging from a coal-hole. His clothes were a sight and
his face was much more! Another showed Garrettson dusting himself
of cobwebs and wisps of stable litter. The photographs explained why
Garrettson had not told the reporters where he had spent that fateful
forenoon--and why he had not tried to learn to whom he was indebted for
his misadventure. Accompanying the photographs was this letter:

_Sir,--We send you herewith photographs of the great Mogul of Wall
Street in the act of leaving the house whither he was taken on a certain
morning. The house number Was removed so he could not identify the
house. We are sure you can reconstruct the story of the famous forenoon
by what you know and by what you can guess. This syndicate of ours was
formed to reduce the tainted wealth of our compatriots, and is still
operating successfully. If we ever send you a telegram in code, read
it by taking the first two letters of each word--except only the first
word, which is always the abbreviation of a name. We take the trouble to
tell you this because your paper was of great use to us, as we intended
it should be, and because we expect to use you again very shortly. You
might compare notes with Mr. Boon, the jeweler. Once more thanking you
for your benevolence, we remain,_

_Respectfully,_

_The Plunder Recovery Syndicate._

Kidder showed this letter to Richards. "Let us see," said Richards,
"whether we can now read the cablegram that Robison left with the
office-boys, with a reward for the successful translator."

He rang the bell, sent for the message, and applied the test; it worked!

"Mogulgar must stand for Garrettson, the great Mogul of Wall Street,"
said Richards. He was one of those men who always are glad to discover
the obvious.

"Yes. 'Will vanish two hours Wed.' Well, he certainly did. It proves it
really was planned. But I am not sure this was a bona-fide cablegram.
Possibly Robison himself faked it."

"Why don't you find out?" suggested the broker. "I will," said Kidder,
and he did. He learned that neither the telegraph nor the cable
companies had any record of the deluge of messages received by Robison
in the brokers' office.

"They were fakes, probably to carry out the appearance of reality," said
Richards, with a Sherlock Holmes nod of explanation.

"Yes, yes," acquiesced Kidder, impatiently; "but what astonishes me is
the syndicate's moderation. I wonder what they'll do next."

"I wonder," echoed the broker, who really was wondering whether the
market was going up or down.

Kidder, however, went up-town and saw Jesse L. Boon. He told Boon all he
knew and much that he suspected, and Boon in return admitted that Welch,
Boon & Shaw "had lost a few pieces"--but not for publication. Such
things are bound to happen, and are charged to profit and loss. Kidder
knew better, but all that he could do was to pray that he might again
cross the trail of the plunder-recoverer who had called himself Robison.




III--AS PROOFS OF HOLY WRIT


I

THE bell of the telephone on the desk of the alert city editor of the
New York _Planet_ rang twice. The alert city editor did not instantly
answer it. He was reading a love-letter not meant for his eyes. It had
been sent in with his mail by mistake. The bell rang again.

"Yes?" he said, angrily. "Who? Oh, hello, Bill!" There was a pause.
Then: "Shall we? Why, friend, he's already started. Thanks awfully! Sure
thing!"

He swung round and cast a roaming glance about the big room. It was
Sunday, the sacred day when nothing happened.

"Parkhurst!" he called.

Parkhurst, one of the _Planet's_ star men, sauntered over to the
desk. He had planned to do other things with his time this nice Sunday
afternoon. Monday-morning stories are not apt to be exciting. Therefore
he limped pathetically in anticipation of the excuse he proposed to make
to get off. He was Williams's chum.

"Jimmy," said the city editor, with his habitual air of giving
assignments as though they were decorations awarded for distinguished
services, "I just had Bill Stewart, of the Hotel Brabant, on the
telephone. He says there is a man there who has seven million dollars in
gold-dust in the engine-room of the hotel. Klondike mine-owner. Does not
believe in banks, I guess. Takes mighty big stocking to hold the cash--"

"Do you want _me_ to write the story?" interrupted Parkhurst, coldly. It
was his way of showing his city editor his place.

"Coal-Oil Johnny up to date! Don't fall for any press agent--"

Parkhurst forgot the excuse he was going to make. His limp vanished. The
story promised well. He hastened to the Brabant and saw the room clerk,
Stewart, who had tipped off the city editor.

"Yes; he is in," said Stewart. "But if you think it is another case
of Coal-Oil Johnny you've got another guess coming. Not that he is a
tightwad; he is liberal enough with his nuggets, the bell-hops say. But
he is no fool. And yet--think of it!--he takes into Seattle with him
from Nome eight or ten millions of gold-dust! There he hires a special
train to bring him and his gold-dust to New York. He arrives at the
Grand Central in the early morning. They hustle round and find seven
trucks to carry the boxes of gold-dust for him. He follows in a taxicab.
He comes straight to this hotel--"

Stewart here swelled up his chest. It made the reporter say, amiably:

"It was considered a good hotel once; but news travels slowly in the
frozen North."

"He comes up here, registers, and then expects me to let him take the
whole fifteen tons of gold up to his room. What do you know about that?
Well, then he wanted to hire a whole floor so as to distribute the
weight. But you know it is a highly concentrated weight. No floor would
stand it. Gold is the heaviest thing there is."

"It is," agreed Parkhurst, hastily. "It is, dear friend. That's why I
never carry more than a couple of tooth-fillings with me, and--"

"Let me tell you," cut in Stewart, full of his story. "So, being Sunday
and no banks open, we arranged for him to keep the gold-dust down-stairs
in the engine-room. And it is there now, a hundred and fifty boxes,
worth, he says, about eight million--"

"Lead me to it before you hand in your bill," entreated the reporter.

"There are eight Old Sleuths, with sixteen automatic pistols, on the
job of keeping hungry newspaper men from the nice little paper-weights,
Jimmy," said Stewart. "I am so kind to Mr. Jerningham myself that I
think he will remember me in one of those wills you fellows are always
writing about--don't you know? How a fabulous fortune is left to the
polite hotel clerk who was so nice to the stranger in the spring of
eighteen seventy-four?"

"What's the full name?" asked the reporter. "There it is!" and Stewart
pointed to the autograph in the hotel register.

"Alfred Jerningham. Nome and New York. Suite G."

There followed the names of the eight bullion guards and his two
personal servants.

"Looks like a school-boy's writing."

"He is about forty," said the clerk.

"Then it means he probably stopped writing for publication when he was
about fourteen. That is the immature chirography of a man who is more at
home with a pick than with a pen. And, furthermore--"

"Here he comes," interjected Stewart. "I'll introduce you."

J. Willoughby Parkhurst, the reporter, was startled by the change in
Stewart's face. It had taken on the ingratiating soul-sweetness of one
who enjoys your story with all his faculties--the complete surrender of
self, soul, and hopes of heaven. The clerk exuded gratitude from every
pore.

"Gosh!" exclaimed J. Willoughby Parkhurst in amazement, and turned
quickly to see who it was that had made Stewart's greed-stricken face
turn itself into a moving-picture film of all the delights.

A man was approaching--a man of about the reporter's height,
square-shouldered, smooth-shaved, strong-chinned, with an outdoor
complexion, and the clear, clean, steady eyes of a man without a liver.
There was a metallic glint to the gray-blue of the iris that made the
eyes a trifle hard. The lips were not only compressed, but you guessed
that the compression was habitual. Even a private detective could have
told that this man had made up his mind to do one thing, and therefore
he would do it. There was no doubt of it.

"Oh, Mr. Jerningham!" The name issued like a stream of saccharin out of
the eddying smiles on Stewart's face.

"The expectation of twenty millions of gold, at least, on that face!"
thought Parkhurst, more impressed by the smile than by the cause
thereof.

"Here is that nugget I promised you." And Mr. Jerningham dropped
four-and-three-quarter pounds troy of gold into the clerk's coy hand.
"It is the largest I ever found in six years' mining on the Klondike."

The reporter later told the city editor--he did not print this--that
Stewart, as he got the nugget, showed plainly on his face his
disappointment that Jerningham had not come from the South-African
diamond-fields. A carbon crystal weighing four pounds and
three-quarters--that would have been worth a real smile! But the clerk
said, gratefully: "It's very good of you. Thank you ever so much! I'd
like to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Park-hurst."

"Glad to make your acquaintance, sir. Parker, did you say?"

The Klondiker spoke coldly. It made the reporter say, subtly
antagonistic:

"Parkhurst!"

"Any relation to--"

"Haven't a relation in the world."

"Shake again, friend," said Jerningham, warmly. "I am in the same boat
myself!"

They shook hands again.

"Do you want to be very nice?" asked Jerningham, almost eagerly, of the
reporter.

"It is my invariable custom to be that," Parkhurst assured him, gravely.

"Dine with me to-night." Jerningham looked expectant.

"I have an engagement with my friend the bishop," said the reporter, who
hated clergymen for obvious reasons. "But--let me see!" Parkhurst closed
his eyes the better to see how he could break his engagement. "I'll send
regrets to the bishop and dine with you with pleasure."

"Mr. Parkhurst is on the _Planet_" put in Stewart. It was the way he
said it!

"Ah, yes," said Jemingham, vaguely.

"In fact, Mr. Jemingham," said Parkhurst, "I was sent to interview you."

"Huh?" ejaculated the Klondiker, blankly. It was plain he was virgin
soil.

"All to myself!" thought J. Willoughby, with a mental smack of the lips.
Then he began, in that congratulatory tone of voice with which practised
interviewers corkscrew admissions out of their victims: "We heard about
your trip from Seattle, and about your--er--baggage. Would you mind
telling me a little more about it? We could"--with a honeyed grin at
Stewart--"sit down in a nice little corner of the café and have a nice
little chat."

"I don't mind--if you don't," said Jemingham, with one of those
diffidently eager smiles of people who are doing you a favor and do not
know it.

The reporter led the way to the café, selected a small table in the
farthest corner, beckoned to a waiter, pointed to a chair, and nodded
toward the Alaskan Monte Cristo.

"Thank you!" said Jemingham, with real gratitude, and sat down. Then he
looked at his watch, saw that it was only four o'clock, and said to the
waiter, "A cup of tea, please."

"Huh?" It was all J. Willoughby could rise to. A miner and tea? What
about the free champagne for the hundreds? A tea-drinker would not
scatter walnut-sized diamonds along the Great White Way.

"I got used to it. My pal was English. We found it preferable to
whisky in the Klondike." Mr. Jerningham made no effort to disguise the
apologetic tone.

"I'll have the same," cleverly said J. Willoughby. Then, to clinch it,
"Of course you know that in the exclusive clubs to-day men drink more
tea than liquor!"

"It's the proper thing--eh?" said Jerningham, with a sort of head-waiter
deference that made the reporter stare in surprise. "I am glad you told
me that."

"Oh yes. It is no longer good form to get load--er--intoxicated. It's
one of the few good things we've got from England--tea-drinking," the
reporter said. "And, Mr. Jerningham, to get back to our subject, just
how did you happen to go to the Klondike?"

"It began in New York," said Jerningham, and drew his lips together. It
was clearly not a pleasant memory.

"It did?" You could tell that J. Willoughby was grateful. "Well, well!
And--" He frowned as though a date had escaped him. He really suggested
time to the miner, for Jerningham volunteered: "When I was twelve years
old."

"That's about twenty years ago," ventured the reporter in the
affirmative tone of voice that inevitably elicits contradiction and the
exact figures from the victim.

"Thirty-two years ago, sir."

"Well, well! And--How did you say it began?" The reporter put his hand
to his ear to show that his hardness of hearing had prevented him from
getting Jerningham's previous answer to the same question.

"My father!" Mr. Jemingham nodded twice, to show that those two words
told the whole story.

"Ah, yes! And then?" The reporter looked as if instant death Would
follow the non-receipt of information; and Jerningham, as though against
a lifelong determination to be silent, spoke--and frowned as he spoke:

"My father! He was a coachman in the employ of old David Soulett, who
was the son of Walter and the father of Richard and David the third, and
of Madge, who married the Duke of Peterborough. Old David Soulett--the
second, he was--was my father's employer. My father was English. He came
to New York when he was eighteen. He went straight into the Souletts'
stable, became head coachman, and lived with the family for fifty years.
They pensioned him off. I grew up with the boys--called one another by
our first names. Do you get that?--by our first names!"

Jemingham compressed his lips tightly and nodded. His eyes filled with
reminiscence--sweet, yet sad.

"You did, eh?" said the reporter.

If J. Willoughby had been addicted to slang he would have used the same
wondering tone of voice and would have exclaimed, "What do you know
about that!"

"And that is why I went to the Klondike!"

There are times when a man's voice and attitude show that he is speaking
in italics. This was one of the times. Having said all there was to be
said, he turned to the tea with a gesture of such determination
that Parkhurst leaned over, half expecting to see a dozen starving
grizzly-bears jump out of the cup. Then the thought came to the watchful
reporter that the grim-shut lips merely expressed that some memory was
bitter. He asked, very sympathetically, "Did they send you away?"

"They did not send me away. They did nothing! They were! That's all. It
was enough."

"Yes, of course!" The reporter agreed with Jerningham absolutely. "But I
don't quite see the exact reason, as you might say."

"They were!" explained Jerningham as one might talk to a child. "They
were Souletts, rich by inheritance, in the best society. They had
everything I did not have. So I went to the Klondike."

"Yes?"

"Is it not clear?"

"No!" said the reporter, grateful for the chance to use the plain
negative.

"They were in the Four Hundred. They were gentlemen. They were
good-looking, pleasant-mannered, kindly-hearted fellow-Christians. But
if they had not been the sons of David Soulett, and if David had not
been the son of Walter, and Walter the son of the first David, they
wouldn't have been in the Four Hundred, or in the Four Thousand even.
Policemen at the corners used to touch their hats to them as they drove
by and seemed really glad to get a pleasant smile in return. You
felt the cops would never have dreamt of taking a Soulett to the
station-house--always to the Soulett mansion. New-Yorkers used to point
to it--the Soulett mansion--with an air of pride, as though they owned
it! Clerks in shops would send for the proprietor if one of the Souletts
walked in, and later they would brag how they said to David Soulett,
they said; and he said, said he--and so on. And why? Why, I ask you?"

"Why?" repeated the reporter, hypnotically.

"Because an ignorant old cuss couldn't read or write and had to go to
digging graves in Trinity churchyard for a living. It was old David's
proud boast that he put away one thousand six hundred and thirty-two
people, including the very best there were in literature, art,
science, theology, commerce, and finance, besides nineteen murderers,
thirty-eight pet slaves, and one dog of his own. A very snob among
grave-diggers, laying the foundation for the nonsnobbishness of his
great-grandchildren! Digging graves, you see, turned his mind to soil.
The only thing that didn't burn up or evaporate or shrink was soil.
Genius for real estate they call his madness to-day. But it was an
obsession. He bought a farm in what is now the swell shopping district;
and another where the Hotel Regina is; and another beginning where the
Vandeventer houses are. The old lunatic's mad purchases are now worth
one hundred and fifty million dollars; and he himself is an ancestor,
with fake portraits showing an intellectual-looking country squire.
Grave-digger--that's what! But the money really began with him and the
near-gentleman with Walter, who knew the best families because his father
buried them one after another. By the time the real-estate market got
to going in earnest David was born--of course a gentleman! What did it?
Unearned money!"

"Yes. But what's digging graves got to do with your going to the
Klondike?"

"Everything. It gave me the secret of it--the unearned part. Don't you
see?"

"No."

"My dear sir, I loved the company of the Soulett boys and I enjoyed the
society of their equals. So I naturally desired to become their equal.
To become a gentleman I had to become rich. But the money must not be
earned; so I couldn't make it in trade--which, moreover, was too slow.
The careers of butcher, plumber, and liquor-dealer, that might have made
me rich quickly, were closed to me by the social disqualifications they
carry. And the careers of Jim Sands and Bill Train in Wall Street were
too malodorous; besides which, you can't make very much money on the
Stock Exchange without treading on influential social toes. Hence the
Klondike. Do you see now?"

"I'm beginning to."

"Well?"

"Do you mean," said the reporter, to get it straight, "that you went
to the Klondike to make money so as to climb--I mean, so as to go into
society?"

"Exactly so! Yes, sir! And I tell you, Mr. Parker--"

"Park-_hurst!_" said J. Willoughby, with a frown of injured vanity.

"Mr. Parkhurst, a man has to have some strong motive to enable him to
conquer success. In all my wanderings for twenty-five years, prospecting
in Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, the Southwest, Nevada, California,
Oregon, and Washington, and finally all over Alaska, I had but one
object in mind, one purpose. It sustained me. It gave me courage when
others despaired; it kept me marching onward when others fell by
the wayside and died or became sheep-ranchers. I had no thought for
amusement, none for pleasure, none for love. I simply kept up my search.
It was the search for happiness that the old knights used to go out on.
It was a search, Mr. Parker-hurst, for the yellow admission ticket to
the Four Hundred!"

"Have you found it?" J. Willoughby could not help it.

"Let me tell you," pursued Jerningham, ignoring the question. "I used to
read the society columns of the New York papers whenever I felt myself
growing discouraged; and that always revived me. Up in the Klondike I
had saved fifteen hundred dollars and I paid one thousand dollars in
gold-dust for a six-months-old copy of a society paper which had an
account of Mrs. Masters's ball. To me, 'among those present' meant more
than a list of gilt-edge bonds. I've got it yet."

He paused to take from his pocket-book a tattered clipping and showed
it to the newspaper man with a mixture of pride and tenderness and
solicitude lest it be harmed, as a father shows the only extant
photograph of the most wonderful baby in captivity.

"I thought my name would fit in very nicely between the Janeways and the
Jesups. It was a good investment, that one thousand dollars, for I
felt I had to get a gait on, and that very same day I went on that
prospecting trip to the Endicott Mountains which changed my luck for me.
Everything came my way then--I mean, in mining. I am getting six hundred
thousand dollars a year out of my claims; and that is because I believe
fifty thousand dollars a month enough for a bachelor. More would
be--er--sort of ostentatious. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, indeed," agreed J. Willoughby Parkhurst, with a shudder.

"When I marry I'll make it one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars
a month."

"I agree with you," said Parkhurst--"because, really, two cannot live as
cheaply as one." He thrilled when he thought how he would play up that
promised income in his story.

"That's what I say," Jerningham said, gratefully. "Of course there's
the seven millions and a half of gold-dust I have brought with me. It's
downstairs." His grim mouth became more determinedly grim than ever.
This man was the kind that gets what he wants, with or without money. He
will not climb, thought Parkhurst; he will vault into society. He asked
Jerningham:

"Have you really got that much down-stairs? I mean," he hastily
corrected himself, "have you no fear of the danger of going about with
that much loose change?"

"No. It's guarded by men who are getting big pay for being honest. You
can buy honesty--if you treat it as a luxury and pay for it as such.
Each box weighs one hundred and fifty pounds, for convenience in
handling. Would you like to see the stuff?" He could not hide a
boyish eagerness--not at all offensive--to impress his new friend.
J. Willoughby Parkhurst forgave him in advance, and to prove it said,
heartily:

"Very much indeed!"

"Very well. Please come with me." And he led the way to the engine-room.
They went down two flights. At the door of the engine-room they met
the engineer, who bowed with an obsequiousness that indicated sincere
gratitude and renewed hope--as of a man who has received a handsome
gratuity and is expecting another.

In the middle of the concrete floor, of the engine-room, piled up in an
amazingly small mound of boxes, was the gold.

"Each box has about fifty thousand dollars in dust," explained
Jerningham, with what one might have called a matter-of-fact pride.
"Would you like to open one?"

"I don't want to put you to any trouble--not for worlds; but I do want
to see the inside of one like anything."

"No trouble. I say, Mr. Wilkinson," to the hotel engineer, who had
followed them, a deferential smile fastened to his face, "could you get
me a hammer and chisel and a screw-driver?"

"Certainly, Mr. Jerningham," said the engineer, with obvious pride at
being part of an extraordinary adventure. He reappeared presently with
the tools and a burly assistant. They pried off the steel hoop and
cracked off the sealing-wax from over the heads of the screws that held
the lid in place. They then unscrewed the cover--and there before their
wide-gaping eyes was a boxful of yellow Yukon gold.

Jerningham smilingly looked at J. Willoughby Parkhurst and waved his
hand toward the treasure--a gesture that said Help yourself!--only it
said it humorously. And so the reporter smiled indulgently and plunged
his hand in it.

"How heavy!" he exclaimed, involuntarily. He had meant to be witty, as
penniless people always are in the presence of great wealth to show that
they are not impressed.

"It will be light enough to blow away here," said Jerningham so
seriously that nobody smiled--indeed, everybody hoped for a blast in
the direction of his own pocket. Put Jerningham merely said: "Thank you.
Will you screw it on again?" And the engineer did. Jerningham did not
stay to see the rescrewing finished. He took Parkhurst's arm and walked
out. The reporter told him:

"I can't help thinking it was imprudent. The detectives now know they
can open the boxes and--"

"It isn't likely that all eight will be dishonest at the same minute.
That's why I got eight instead of four. But, even if they all wanted
to, how much could they get away with? With the contents of one of the
boxes, fifty thousand dollars? Well, that isn't much. I can't afford to
let that gold be a bother to me. I brought it along so that it could be
my servant--not for me to be its slave."

"I've heard others make that selfsame remark," said J. Willoughby,
cheerfully, "but they never struck off the aureate shackles!"

"My friend, it's not in striking off shackles; that is always difficult.
The secret is in not letting them become shackles!" said Jerningham,
grimly. "A man does not confidently expect during twenty-five years to
strike it rich some day without very carefully thinking of what he is
going to do with the gold after he gets it."



II

The story, as James Willoughby Parkhurst wrote it, and even as the
_Planet_ printed it, was a masterpiece. It was far more interesting than
a fake. The truth often may be stranger than fiction, but it is seldom
so exciting. With the generous desire to repay Jerningham's hospitality
with kindness, to say nothing of an eye for the picturesque, the
reporter made his victim an Admirable Crichton. Parkhurst's
Jerningham was very distinguished-looking, which every woman knows is
better for a man than being handsome. He not only was "probably the
richest man in the world," but a fine linguist--indeed, a philologist.
You saw Jerningham digging in his gravel-bank by day---spadeful after
spadeful of clear gold-dust--and at nights reading Aristophanes in the
original by the flickering and malodorous light of seal-fat lamps.

On the same day that Jerningham learned that his own wealth was
practically inexhaustible, and decided to limit his income in order that
gold might not be demonetized, he--the philologist in him--discovered
also amazing analogies between certain Eskimo and Aleutian words and
their equivalents in Tibetan. This and a monograph on "Totemism in
the Light of Its Undoubted Babylonian Origin," he would read in London
before the Royal Society. Of Jerningham's ancestry the article said that
the erudite Croesus was "of the Long Island Jerninghams."

At three separate and distinct places in the article, each time
differently worded, but the intention and purpose thereof being the
same, the writer said that for generosity, lavish extravagance, capacity
for spending, and deep-rooted belief that there was no difference
between gold coins and stage money, the learned Klondiker was a
combination of Monte Cristo, Boni de Castellane, Coal-Oil Johnny, and
Alcibiades--only more so. But his feverish efforts were all in vain--he
only grew richer! If he decided to give a million to a newsboy who was
polite, that same moment he would be sure to get a cablegram from one of
his superintendents that the vein had widened to three miles and the
assays jumped to three hundred thousand dollars a ton.

Parkhurst finished by saying that Jerningham had no use for women. In
divers countries world-famous sirens had sung to him--in vain. He
was the kind that registered zero, even though plunged to the chin in
Vesuvian lava. So the dear things might as well save time, breath, and
muscular exertion; he would have none of them, no matter what their age,
color of hair, temperament, accomplishments, or even faces might be.
He was arrow-proof and Cupid had given up trying. Still, there must be
One--somewhere!

When J. Willoughby Parkhurst went to the Hotel Brabant on Monday morning
in the hope of a second-day story, he was not sure how Jerningham would
take his masterpiece. He was going so early in the hope of shunting
off the head-line artists of the afternoon papers, for all that he had
begged Stewart to fix it so that nobody got to Jerningham before the
_Planet_ man turned up.

As he entered the lobby he saw in a corner lounge five reporters
from the yellows, three photographers from same, a professor from the
Afternoon Three-Center, and a "psychological portraitist," feminine and
fat, but dressed with unusual care and even piquancy, from a magazine.
He saw Jemingham's finish--not!

The competitors were too busy talking to see J. Willoughby Parkhurst,
author of the day's sensation, walk up to the desk and greet Stewart
affectionately. They did not see J. W. P. turn sharply, approach a
well-built, square-shouldered man, with an outdoor complexion, who had
just emerged from the elevator, and shake hands warmly.

After one and a half seconds of dialogue, consisting of "Good morning!"
and "Good morning!" J. Willoughby cleverly realized that Mr. Alfred
Jemingham could not possibly have read the article. On general
principles he took the Klondiker to one end of the corridor, out of
sight of the other reporters.

"I am very anxious to make arrangements to store my gold in some bank's
vaults. I don't know any bank--that is, I have no account in any; and I
wondered if I needed to be introduced."

Jemingham looked anxiously at Parkhurst.

"Of course!" said J. Willoughby, and immediately looked alarmed. "Of
course! They are very particular--very! The good ones, you know. A man's
bank is like a man's club--it can give him a social standing or it can
prove he hasn't any." He looked at his Klondike friend with a frown of
anxiety.

"I never thought of that side of it. But I can see there is much in what
you say. I should like to put the gold in the VanTwiller Trust Company."

"Fine! I think I can help you. I'll call up our Wall Street man and he
will make the trust company take it--unless he thinks there is another
still better. Let's go to your room and telephone from there; and we'll
tell Stewart to tell the telephone operator not to bother us--what?"

J. Willoughby intended that Jemingham should be the sole and exclusive
property of the _Planet_. From Jerningham's sumptuous room he called up
the office, ordered a corps of photographers to the battlefield to take
pictures of sundry loads of gold on trucks on their way to the great
vaults, escorted by the _Planet's_ special commissioner in one of the
armored automobiles which the _Planet_ supplied to its bright young men.

Then he called up Amos F. Kidder, the _Planet's_ financial editor;
and Kidder, who, of course, knew the president of the VanTwiller
Trust Company, Mr. Ashton Welles, hustled thitherward and made all
arrangements, including the securing of the trucks owned by Tommy
O'Loughlin, who did all the gold-trucking for W. H. Garrettson &
Company, Wolff, Herzog & Company, and other gold-shipping banking firms.
Photographers were duly stationed at the various points by which the
aureate procession would pass.

Mr. J. Willoughby Parkhurst had the boxes of gold-dust taken out by the
ash-and-cinder exit, caused his fellow-reporters to be "tipped off" by
hall-boys that the gold would be taken away at twelve-thirty sharp to
the Metropolitan National Bank vaults, and then took Jerningham in the
_Planet's_ automobile and followed the trucks.

In Wall Street Parkhurst introduced Jerningham to the waiting Kidder,
and Kidder introduced Jerningham to the waiting Mr. Welles. The gold was
carried down to the vaults. Jerningham separated twenty boxes from the
heap.

"I'd like to have these cashed," he said, with that delightful humor of
all very rich men. And everybody within hearing laughed, as everybody
always laughs at the so-delightful humor of all very rich men. There was
not a clerk in the trust company who did not repeat the historic remark
at home that night.

Word of what was happening went about, and soon the great little narrow
street was blocked by people who wished to see six or eight millions go
into a place where there were one hundred and fifty. But there was this
difference--the one hundred and fifty already there would stay there;
but a handful or two of the six or eight might be distributed among
those present by the latest Coal-Oil Johnny from the Klondike. The hope
of a stray nugget or two kept two thousand busy people about the doors
of the VanTwiller Trust Company nearly two hours.

As for Jerningham, the trust company was to send the twenty boxes of
gold-dust to the Assay Office and credit Mr. Jerninghan's account with
the proceeds of the sale thereof. Two days later Mr. Alfred Jerningham
had to his credit in the VanTwiller Trust Company $1,115,675.28; and
in the vaults boxes containing, as per his most conservative estimates,
gold-dust valued at six millions and a half. And everybody knew
it--the Planet saw to that. Great potentialities in that golden fame of
Jerningham's--what?



III

The _Planet's_ official version of the Jerningham affair, and the flood
of sensational literature turned loose on the community by the other
papers, made the Klondiker's name as familiar to New-Yorkers as a
certain breakfast-food advertisement.

His daily mail was enormous, especially after the newspapers said that
he was looking for a house in which to entertain. "The richest bachelor
in the world," he was called, and the real-estate agents acted
accordingly. So did no end of unattached females of dubious age, but
of not at all dubious intentions. Also it became known that he needed a
social secretary to guide him in two things--the two things being
whom to invite and how to spend six hundred thousand dollars a year in
entertaining those who were invited by the social adviser.

The applications came by the dozen--in the strictest confidence. If
somebody had said this aloud in the hearing of society, society would
have laughed scornfully. A gentleman was always a gentleman, and could
never, never be secretary to a parvenu! But, for all that, there were
scores of well-born men who appeared willing enough--don't you know?--to
help spend the six hundred thousand a year. Or else some historic names
were forged by dastards. The _Planet's_ society editor, who would never
allow herself to be called editress, proved invaluable as a living Who's
Who, and demonstrated her worth to her paper by making connections that
would further her work; for she was much sought by people who wished
introductions to Mr. Jerningham.

They would trade with her--items for letters.

It helped all concerned that not only Parkhurst, but the rest of the
kind-hearted space-grabbers, informed the world that the possessor of
the income of six hundred thousand a year was a fount of erudition, and
withal a man of the world, with exquisite manners--invulnerable to the
optical artillery of the fairest sirens on earth. And always the six
hundred thousand dollars a year to spend, so that the beastly stuff
would not accumulate and choke up the passages of the palace he proposed
to build! That was how Francis Wolfe came to be introduced to Mr.
Jerningham by J. Willoughby Parkhurst, and how the position was
delicately offered to him, and how F. Wolfe delicately accepted.

A fine-looking, well-built young fellow, this Frank--dark-eyed,
black-haired, with a wonderfully clean pink but virile complexion that
made him physically very attractive. In those Broadway restaurants that
have become institutions Francis Wolfe was himself an institution. His
debts were discussed as freely as the cost of gasoline. And yet the
chorus contingent and their lady friends, consisting of the most
beautiful women in all the world, not only preferred, but publicly and
on the slightest provocation proclaimed their preference for, Frank
Wolfe penniless to almost any one else--short of millions. But if Frank
Wolfe was the chorus-girls' pet, Mr. Francis Wolfe was the only brother
of Mrs. John Burt and Mrs. Sydney Walsingham, and favorite nephew of old
Mrs. Stimson. And everybody knew what that meant!

J. Willoughby Parkhurst left them alone, even if he was a reporter.

"If you do not mind talking business," said Jerningham, with a
deprecatory smile.

"Not at all," eagerly said young Wolfe, who was consumed by curiosity
to listen to the golden statistics. "In fact," he added, with a burst of
boyish candor, "I'd be glad to have you."

"You are a nice boy!" said Jemingham, so gratefully and non-familiarly
that Frank could not find fault with him.

"I need a friend," continued Jerningham. "I know friendship cannot be
bought. It grows--but there must be a seed. It may be that after you
know me better you will give me your friendship. That is for the future.
I also need a man! A man whom I can trust! A man, young Mr. Francis
Wolfe," he said, with a sternness that impressed young Mr. Francis
Wolfe, "who will not laugh at me!"

Frank was not an intellectual giant, but neither was he an utter ass. He
said, very seriously, "Go on!"

"I am willing to pay such a man twenty-five thousand a year--" He paused
and almost frowned.

"Go on!" again said young Mr. Wolfe, looking the Klondiker straight in
the eyes.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars--to begin with!"

"Yes?" said young Mr. Wolfe, quite calmly.

"The duties of such a man--and keep in mind I mean a man when I say a
man!--entail nothing whatever of a menial or dishonorable character;
nothing to which a gentleman could possibly object. But it would
necessitate a certain spirit of good-will toward me. I am not only
willing, but even anxious, to pay twenty-five thousand dollars a year,
and all traveling expenses, to a clean-minded young man who, for all his
wild-oat sowing, is a gentleman and will learn to like me enough not to
laugh at me when I intrust him with the secret desire of my heart."

Before Frank's thoughts could crystallize into the definite suspicion
that Jerningham wanted to be helped to climb socially, Jemingham went on
so coldly that again young Wolfe was impressed:

"You will admit, Mr. Wolfe, that a man who has prospected all over
North America from the Rio Grande to the Arctic Circle, and who has,
unfortunately, been compelled"--he rose, went to his bureau, brought
out two revolvers of a rather old-fashioned kind--"compelled against his
will to draw first"--he showed the young man about a dozen notches in
the handle of one of them--"one who fears no man and no government and
no blackmailer; who owns the richest placer mines in the world--is not
apt to be an emotional ass!" There was a pause. But Jemingham continued
before young Wolfe could speak: "Neither is he a damned fool--what?"

Mr. Francis Wolfe felt he had to say something, so he said, "I
shouldn't think so."

He felt that Jemingham was not a man to trifle with--a tough customer
in a rough-and-tumble fight; a man who had taken life in preserving his
own; altogether a man, a character, who would make an admirable topic of
conversation with both men and women--therefore a man to be interested
in.

"Do you know Mr. Ashton Welles?" asked Jer-ningham, almost sharply.

"Not intimately."

"Do you know Mrs. Ashton Welles?"

"Same answer."

"Ever dine at their house?"

Frank thought a moment. He had dined at so many people's houses. "No,"
he answered, finally. "Could you?"

"How do you mean?"

"Are your relations with Welles such, or could they be cultivated so, as
to make him invite you--not me--you!--to dine at his house?"

"Look here, Mr. Jerningham," and young Mr. Wolfe's face flushed, "a
fellow doesn't do some things for money; and this is one--"

"I know it! Not for money. For friendship, yes! That's why--you
understand now, don't you?" He looked so earnestly at young Wolfe that
Frank absolved him of wrong-doing.

"No, I don't!" said the young man.

"Did you ever know Randolph Deering, who used to be president of the
VanTwiller Trust Company?"

"Do you mean Mrs. Welles's father?"

"Yes."

"I don't recall speaking to him more than to say 'How do you do?' I
don't remember when or how I met him."

"Do you know Mrs. Deering, Mrs. Welles's mother?"

"No."

"Do you know anybody who does?"

"I suppose I do."

"Anybody who would give you a letter of introduction?"

"I don't know. If my aunt or my sisters know her it would be easy. But,
of course, I should have to know first why I should want to meet her."

"Of course. Did you ever hear anything about Mrs. Welles's sister, Naida
Deering?"

"Didn't know she had a sister."

"Then, of course, you never saw her."

Francis Wolfe thought a long time. His mind did not work very quickly
at any time. At length he said: "I don't think there could have been
a sister, for I never heard of her having any; indeed, I distinctly
remember hearing that she was an only child. Maybe she was a cousin
or--er--something of the sort."

"No; Naida was a sister; a good deal older and--But we are drifting
away from business. Will you accept my proposition to be my--er--adviser
in certain matters on which I think you are qualified to give advice,
and accept twenty-five thousand dollars a year?"

"Do you mind if I speak frankly?"

"Certainly not. Speak ahead."

"Are you offering me this--er--salary when, of course, I know I am not
worth a da--a cent in business; I mean, isn't it really in exchange for
what I may be able to do for you in a--a social way? You know what I
mean."

"No, sir!" said Jerningham, decisively. "Not for an instant! I do not,
dear Mr. Wolfe, give an infinitesimal damn for what is called society."

"But I thought Jimmy Parkhurst told me--"

"I cannot help what Jimmy Parkhurst told you; but I tell you that I like
interesting people, and I don't care who or what they are socially. I
hate bores--whether they are hod-carriers or dukes. If I can meet people
who will instruct me when I want to learn, or amuse me when I want to
laugh, I'm satisfied. And I can always meet that kind without anybody's
help. You know how it is." Then he spoke perhaps thirty words in a
foreign language that Frank thought must be Hungarian. "You remember
your Latin, of course. That's from Petronius."

"I thought so!" said Frank Wolfe, the pet of the chorus-girls, laughing
to himself. Remember his Latin! He? Haw!

"It is from his 'Cena Trimalchionis.' The _arbiter elegantiarum_ knew
what social climbers might be expected to do, though I neither boast
of my money nor do I eat with my knife. The Latin of the 'Cena' is
difficult--too slangy, full of the _sermo plebeius_."

"Yes, it is," agreed Frank, so gravely that it was all he could do to
keep from laughing at himself. This Klondiker was not only a gun-fighter
and richer than Croesus, but also a highbrow! Could you beat it?

"Will you accept my offer? Will you try to be my friend?"

"Suppose I find I can't?"

"I'll be sorry. The money is nothing. The inability to make a friend
will be my real loss."

"Well, we might try six months." He looked inquiringly at Jerningham. "I
don't exactly know what you wish me to do."

"Become my friend! You yourself said some things cannot be done for
money by a gentleman; but there is nothing--so long as it is not
dishonorable--that a gentleman may not do for a friend. Shall I explain
a little more?" He looked anxiously at young Mr. Wolfe.

"Yes--do," said Frank. It occurred to him that this singular man was in
reality proceeding with a curious delicacy.

"Just as soon as you feel you know me I will ask you to help me. Mrs.
Deering is now abroad. Mrs. Welles may be of help to us. Mr. Wolfe, now
that I am not so poor as I was, I want to find Naida Deering, the only
woman I ever loved--and, God help me, the only woman I still love!"

Jerningham rose hastily and walked up and down the room, his face
persistently turned away from Wolfe. He walked to a window and stared
at the sky a long time. Finally he turned to the young man, who was
watching him, and said, with profound conviction:

"_Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur!_"

Young Mr. Wolfe at first felt like saying, "Yes, indeed!" which would,
as a matter of fact, have been a very pat retort. But he weakened and
said, "What is that quotation from?"

"Publilius Syrus. Mr. Wolfe, I must find her. And of course I can't
employ a private detective. You understand?"

"Yes. That is true," said Frank.

"In her youth something happened." Young Mr. Wolfe sat up straight. Here
at last was something really vital! Jerningham proceeded: "She was a
high-strung girl--pure as gold. Her very innocence made her indiscreet.
There was no scandal--no, indeed! But she disappeared. And now, when I
have more than enough money for the two of us, I wish to find her. If I
don't--of what possible good are my millions? Tell me that!"

Jerningham glared so angrily at young Mr. Wolfe that young Mr. Wolfe
felt a slight spasm of concern. The Klondiker had a metallic gray eye
that at times menaced like cold steel.

"Excuse me!" said Jerningham, contritely. "My dear boy, do you know what
it is to go chasing over the landscape for years and years in the hope
of striking it some day so as to be able to go back to your native city
and marry the one woman in all the world--particularly when she was one
whom her parents, not understanding her nature, practically disowned? In
all my prospecting what I wanted was to find Naida's mine--gold by the
ton--so I could buy back her place in society!"

There was such determination in Jerningham's voice and look that young
Wolfe felt a thrill of admiration and, with it, a distinct masculine
liking.

"That's a great story!" he said. "I never heard of your--er--Miss Naida.
She never married, I suppose?"

"I don't know! I don't know! She promised to wait for me. The Deerings
used to live in Jersey; and living in Jersey when I was a kid wasn't
what it is to-day. They were not prominent in society. Of course the
Deerings kept it quiet. I think Mrs. Welles may know where her sister
is--the sister who is never mentioned by her own flesh and blood! Mrs.
Deering, of course, does; but she is abroad somewhere. I must find
Naida, I tell you--and--" Jerningham was silent, but Wolfe saw that he
was breathing quickly, as though he had been running. Frank never
read anything except the afternoon papers, love-letters, and the more
romantic of the best-sellers. He now very laboriously constructed a
romance of Jemingham's life that became so thrilling it took away
his own breath. It made him feel very kindly toward the new
Jerningham--everybody feels kindly toward his own creations; and so he
said, in a burst of enthusiasm:

"By George! I'll help you!"

And thus was begun the pact between the two men.

IV

On the very, next morning Mr. Jerningham, instead of going to Wall
Street as was his custom, went instead to Mrs. Charlton Morris's Agency
for Trained Nurses.

An empress--no less--sat at a desk. She was not, however, one of those
empresses who change the destiny of nations by their beauty. She had
merely an arrogance more than royal.

"I should like to see Mrs. Charlton Morris," said Jerningham, briskly.

"I am Mrs. Morris," she said.

You at once perceived that she was even more than imperial. She was a
woman of forty, dark, slender, with shell-rimmed, round lenses that gave
her that look between a Chinese philosopher and an ancient owl, which
those tortoise-shell goggles always do. You also obtained the impression
that a completely successful operation had removed Mrs. Morris's sense
of humor.

"I should like, if you please--" began Jerningham; but Mrs. Morris
interrupted with an effect as of thrusting an icicle into the interior
mechanism of a clock.

"I beg your pardon, but we must know with whom we are dealing. What is
the name, please?"

"I prefer not to give you mine yet."

"Oh no, sir; I must know."

"Suppose I had given you a false one, how would you have been the
wiser?"

"Oh, but also you must give me the name of your doctor."

"He sent me here."

"And who is he, sir?"

From her voice and her look you gathered that she was in charge of a
hospital and was obtaining indispensable clinical data.

"Madam," said Jemingham, very coldly indeed, "you talk like the census
man. Would you also like to know my age, sex, and color?"

"We never," retorted Mrs. Morris, imperturbably, "do business with
strangers."

"Do you want me to get a letter from the President of the United States?
I know him pretty well. Or from my bankers? They are known even in
Brooklyn."

"We are here to supply trained nurses to people whose physicians we
know."

A trained nurse must have unfailing good humor--it is part of her
professional requirements. But a purveyor of trained nurses may permit
herself much dignity, as though her mission in life consisted, of
fitting nurses to cases--the best nurse for the worst case.

"My doctor," said Jerningham, "is Dr. Jewett." It was the name of a very
great surgeon.

"Ah, yes. Surgical case! Yes! I have Miss Sennett and Miss Audrey. Dr.
Jewett knows them very well."

"Kindly wait a second! I must see them myself. And it is not a surgical
case. It is no case at all--yet. Show me the girls!"

"Sir, this is not an intelligence-office; but--"

"I know there is no intelligence in this office. This is merely the
anteroom of a hospital and you are the superintendent. By rights you
ought to be on the faculty. I am perfectly willing to pay for any loss
of time or trouble to which you and the young ladies may be put."

"Must she be young?" asked Mrs. Morris.

Her voice was at least thirty degrees below zero, for all that there was
no devilishness about Mr. Jerningham. He said:

"Yes; and good-looking--not a girl in her teens, but a young woman.
I should say, without meaning to be personal, about your age, Mrs.
Morris."

It was plain that Mrs. Morris had almost superhuman control over her
facial muscles--she did not beam on him!

"I understand," she said, in a quite human voice. This man was, after
all, neither rude nor blind. "A woman--"

"About thirty--or a little less," said Jerningham. He looked at Mrs.
Morris's face and nodded confirmatively.

"Exactly," said Mrs. Morris, genially. First impressions are so apt to
be unfair!

"I'll be more than satisfied with one of your age and good
loo--and--er--appearance "--here the Morris smile irrepressibly made
its début--"and also tactful. It is an unusual case. It will necessitate
going to Europe."

"With the patient?"

"For the patient," said Jerningham, and waited.

"If you will tell me a little bit more about the case--" said Mrs.
Morris, encouragingly. She had just taken a good look at the pearl in
the scarf of this delightful judge of ages--at the lowest estimation,
five thousand dollars!

"My--I--We have reason to believe that a--friend is ill in London.
Kidneys. We wish her to take care of herself. She is a woman of
fifty-odd. We want a nurse, refined, well-bred, good-looking, and
competent--like yourself; so that she could be a companion and at home
among wealthy people. You know what I mean." He paused.

"Perfectly, sir!" said Mrs. Morris, veraciously. Did she not know Mrs.
Morris?

"It would be nice to find such a nurse--and, if possible, also one to
whom the fact that she is going to visit England, and possibly other
countries, may be a sort of compensation for her sudden departure
from New York. Of course she will be paid all her traveling and living
expenses--first-class all through--and her regular honorarium. I believe
it is thirty-five dollars a week. As I am leaving New York myself soon,
I'll pay in advance, and will leave instructions with my bankers to
honor any of your drafts, Mrs. Morris. It will be a good opportunity for
the young lady to know London--and you know how attractive it is--and
Paris!"

"Yes, indeed," acquiesced Mrs. Morris, suddenly looking like Baedeker.

"The young lady--I am sorry you could not go in her place! Yes, I
am!--will live at the same hotel with the patient and become acquainted
with her--and advise her to see a physician regularly--a specialist in
kidney diseases. We think her only daughter ought to be with her. But
you can't say anything to either of them, because if the mother doesn't
think she is ill the daughter cannot know it, either. We only suspect it
is Bright's. You can't afford to wait until you have to go to bed with
Bright's--can you?"

"No, indeed!" gravely agreed Mrs. Morris, specialist.

"So now you know what sort of a girl I wish--one who will be there if
the trouble should take a sudden turn for the worse; one who will induce
the old lady to consult a physician. Do I have to give a preliminary
fee?"

"Not at all. Call this afternoon at four and I'll try to have one of my
best nurses here. She is--well, quite young; in fact"--with what might
be called a desiccated archness--"she is a little younger than I and
quite pretty. I call her handsome!"

Some women are so sure of their own position that they do not fear
competition.

"Thank you! I'll be here at four, sharp." And Mr. Jemingham went away
without having given his name to Mrs. Morris.

At four o'clock Mr. Jemingham called at Mrs. Charlton Morris's agency
and had an interview with Miss Kathryn Keogh. Mrs. Morris gave them the
use of her own little private office; Jemingham very impressively waited
for Miss Keogh to sit down and then did so himself.

He threw at Miss Keogh one of those inventorying looks that women find
so difficult to appear unconscious of, probably because they know their
own weak points.

Miss Keogh was beautiful--and when an Irish girl is beautiful she is
beautiful in so many ways! She had the wonderful complexion of her race
and a mouth carved out of heaven's prize strawberry. Her eyes were an
incredibly deep blue when they were not an incredibly deep pansy-purple,
and they were abysses of velvet. In the darkness, without seeing
them--just by remembering them--you loved those eyes. In the light, when
you could see them, you simply worshiped! Her throat was one of those
paradoxical affairs, soft and hard, which made you think at one and the
same time of marble and rose-leaves--Solomon's tower of ivory, crowned
by the glory of golden-brown hair, so fine that you thought of clouds of
it!

If you looked at her eyes you suspected, and if you looked at her throat
you were certain that you, a respectable married man, had in you the
makings of a criminal--the crime being bigamy. Also you would have
sworn to her only too cheerfully that she was the only girl you had ever
loved. With one look, remember!

Jemingham looked at her with a cold, impersonally appreciative eye, as
he might have scrutinized a clock that was both beautiful and costly.

Miss Keogh understood it perfectly. It piqued her, accustomed as she was
to instant adoration. Yet it was not entirely displeasing. This man knew
as a connoisseur knows--with his head. That he had not permitted the
silly heart to disturb the critical faculties was less flattering,
of course. It deferred the inevitable triumph and thus would make it
sweeter.

"Has Mrs. Morris told you what I should like you to do?" Jemingham's
voice was coldly emotionless, and his gray eyes showed frosty lights.

"She has told me what you doubtless told her. But I must confess I am
not very clear in my own mind," answered Miss Keogh.

Her voice was what you would have expected an artistic Providence to
give her. It complemented the lips. If you closed your eyes and heard
the voice you saw her eyes and felt the heavenly strawberries on your
own lips!

Jemingham had not taken his cold eyes off her. He asked as if she
were anybody--a woman of forty, for example, "Will you listen to me
carefully?"

"Oh yes!"

"I provide transportation, first-class, to London. I pay you thirty-five
dollars a week for your services and allow ten dollars a day for hotel
expenses, and so on. At the end of the case your contingent fee will
depend upon your success. We don't want to skimp--but we are not
throwing away money. It may be one hundred or five hundred dollars. But
forget all about it."

"I have--in advance," said the marvel, calmly.

Jemingham looked at her steadily. She looked back unflinchingly and yet
not at all defiantly as a lesser person would.

"If you accept my offer you will go when in London to Thornton's
Hotel--an old-fashioned but very select hotel--where you will find a
nice room reserved for you; I will cable for it. It will cost you a
guinea a day--for the room and table board. You will thus have five
dollars a day for cabs and incidentals. In that hotel lives Mrs.
Margaret Deering, an elderly American widow, who looks healthy enough.
We fear she is not so strong as she looks, and don't want her to be
alone. But she will not take hints. I wish you to make friends with her,
so that if she should become ill enough to need attention you may see
that she gets proper care and induce her to cable to her only daughter."
He stopped and looked at Miss Keogh inquiringly, as if to convince
himself that Miss Keogh had understood.

"What," said Miss Keogh, calmly, "is the rest of it?" Her eyes were very
dark. They always seemed to deepen in color when she frowned. She always
frowned when she concentrated--all women do, notwithstanding their dread
of wrinkles.

Jerningham stared at her. Then he said, "The lady is not insane."

"Nervous?"

"Not yet!"

"Ah!" Miss Keogh nodded her head. Her color had risen somewhat.

"Is there anything in what I have said so far that makes you unwilling
to take this case?" asked Jerningham.

"Nothing--so far," she said, looking steadily into his cold, gray eyes.
She was, of course, Irish.

"Very well. You can save her family much worriment by suggesting to Mrs.
Deering that she ought to have a trained nurse in constant attendance."

"By the name of Keogh?" interjected the most wonderful.

"No. You are supposed to be a young lady with an income of your own.
You might explain that you took up trained nursing to help your only
brother, a physician."

"Very well. And--"

"After you meet Mrs. Deering you might make judicious remarks about her
health."

"For example--"

"Well, at breakfast you say: 'You didn't sleep well last night, did
you?' If she says no, you can immediately suggest a physician. If she
says she did, you say: 'Well, there is something wrong with you! Did you
ever have your kidneys examined?' A simple remark in the proper tone of
voice sometimes does it--like, 'Whatever in the world is the matter with
you, dear Mrs. Deering?' You understand?"

"If you mean that I must suggest to her that she is ailing--"

"Precisely. The idea is not to frighten her to death, my dear young
woman with the beautiful but suspicious eyes, but simply to induce her
to send for her only daughter, so that afterward the two will not be
separated. And the old lady, I may say for the benefit of your still
suspicious eyes, is not very rich, though the daughter is. So your
imagination need not invent any devilish plot. I think you can
accomplish your work in six weeks. For every day under the six weeks
you will receive five pounds. That's twenty-five dollars a day. That is
intended, Miss Keogh, to make you hurry. But you must be tactful."

"Make it a fixed sum. You look like a clever man."

She looked at him challengingly. He stared back, and gradually a look of
admiration came into his eyes. He said, with a smile of appreciation:

"You win! You are certainly the most wonderful girl in the world! I'll
make it one thousand dollars, win, lose, or draw. But the quicker the
cablegram--"

"--grams," she corrected--"plural. For greater effect at this end!"

"--grams!" he echoed. "And now you must come with me to the bank to get
your letter of credit and some English money. I'll pay in advance."

He rose. Miss Keogh motioned to him to sit down again. He did so, and
looked at her alertly. It might have disconcerted some girls--but not
the only absolutely perfect one. Not at all!

"There remains something," she said.

"What?" he queried, sharply.

"You forgot it!" she told him, with one of those utterly maddening
smiles of forgiveness with which beautiful women rivet the fetters and
make one grateful.

"What? What?" he asked, impatiently.

"Why?" she answered. "That is what! Why?"

Her beautiful head nodded twice with a birdlike gracefulness. Her eyes
were very blight--and very dark! Her cheeks were flushed. Her ripe lips,
slightly parted, were overpoweringly tempting.

Jerningham stood up again and stared fixedly at her as though he would
read miles and miles beyond her wonderful eyes--into the very depths
of her soul! He approached her and held out both his hands. After a
scarcely perceptible hesitation she placed hers in his. He shook them
with profound gravity; then bowed and raised her right to his lips--and
kissed it twice. Still holding her hands in his, he said to her,
earnestly:

"My dear child, you are the most wonderful woman in all the world. You
are simply the last word in utter perfection. I am a millionaire, but
not a crook. I am forty, but still strong. I have never been in love
with a woman; but I now know I could be. If you ever wish to marry for
the ease and comfort that great wealth gives, or if you ever feel like
using your wonderful gifts to make a man who has both money and brains
become an important personage in the world--just say the word. There is
nothing--nothing, do you hear?--that we could not do together, you and
I. My name is--" He paused and looked at her as if to make sure again.

"Yes?" she said, in her most heavenly voice. She released her hands, but
her eyes never left his. "Jerningham."

"The Klondike millionaire who--"

"The same!"

"Ah!" said Miss Keogh, calmly, but her flowerlike cheeks were
azalea-pink, and her eyes were full of light. She had read the
_Planet's_ articles. She did not remember how many million dollars
Jerningham was supposed to have; but she did remember how the fairest of
the fair had tried--and failed!

"Remember--any time, with or without notice. My offer is open until you
accept it or definitely refuse it. Perhaps I never could make you love
me; but I know I could love you if I let myself go."

"You have not answered me," said Miss Keogh. "Ask again," he smiled.

"Why?" There was no smile in her eyes.

It made him serious. He answered:

"For friendship."

"To a woman?"

"To a man."

"Again I ask, Why?"

There was a pause. Then he said:

"Mrs. Ashton Welles is the only daughter of Mrs. Deering."

"And--"

"She is twenty-two."

"And--"

"Her husband is fifty-two. That's all!"

"Is it?"

"So far as I am concerned, it is--really!"

"Is Mr. Ashton Welles your friend?"

"No. But he is no enemy, either."

"No? But you have a friend, a Mr. Wolfe--a Mr. Francis Wolfe?" She knew
it from a newspaper item.

But Mr. Jerningham jumped up from his seat. "Marry me, dear girl! Marry
me, I beg of you! You are the only woman in the world! You are the most
beautiful ever created and, beyond all question, the cleverest. You are
a genius! Why isn't all mankind on its knees worshiping? Will you marry
me? Wait! Don't speak. I know what your answer will be."

"You do?" She smiled inscrutably.

Imagine the Sphinx--if the Sphinx were Irish and very beautiful--with
those eyes and those lips! Guess? You couldn't guess where your soul
was--or whose!

"Yes, I do," answered Jerningham, confidently. "I will write it on a
piece of paper and prove it. But first tell me this: Will you take Mrs.
Deering's case?"

She looked at him, and said, "Yes."

"Very well." He wrote something on one of his cards, doubled it so she
could not see what he had written, and gave it to her, saying, "Now
answer me: Will you marry me?"

She looked at him a long time. He met her gaze squarely. Presently she
said, very seriously:

"Not yet!"

"Look in the card," he said, also very seriously.

She did. It said: _Not yet!_

A vague alarm came into her purple-blue eyes. She was on the point of
speaking, but he held up his hand, and said, earnestly:

"Please don't say it. We'll meet in London. You will enjoy the
Continent later on. Now let us go and get your letter of credit, and see
whether you like the stateroom that I ordered reserved." They did.

On the next day Jerningham's limousine took Miss Keogh and her
hand-luggage to the steamer.-Jerningham was there to see her off.
She had invited a dozen of her friends to do the same, and they were
there--all of them women and most of them frankly envious, for her
stateroom was full of beautiful flowers and baskets of wonderful
fruit--quite as if she already were a millionaire!

As she said good-by to Jerningham there was in her eyes a look of
intelligent, almost cold-blooded, gratitude which seemed to embrace Mr.
Jerningham's kindness, his thoughtfulness, and his bank account.

"I wish you a very pleasant voyage!" he said. "Think over my offer. When
you get to London will you mail these letters for me? Remember, you are
to cable if you need anything, money or advice--or a husband. And cable
at once if Mrs. Deering cables. Good-by! _Bon voyage!_"

When Miss Keogh came to open the package of letters she found in it
thirty-three, stamped with British stamps, on stationery of Thornton's
Hotel'! They were addressed in a woman's handwriting to various business
houses, some of which she recognized as manufacturers of medical goods
and agents of mineral waters of the kind used by people who suffer
from kidney diseases. It made her think that if--between the deluge
of medical prospectuses and Miss Keogh's efforts--Mrs. Deering did
not cable for her only daughter it would be a wonder! Jerningham was
neglecting nothing to succeed.

V

Frank Wolfe's first task in his new and now famous job consisted
of helping Jerningham buy two automobiles. Then, when the weather
permitted, they toured Westchester County and Long Island.

Usually they took along some of Frank's men friends. It was pleasant
work---at the rate of twenty-five thousand dollars a year.

Jerningham did not again refer to his love-affair, and Frank could not
very well allude to it; but it was perfectly plain to the young man that
within a very short time their friendship would be sufficiently strong
to justify Mr. Jerningham in asking Frank to help actively in the search
of the vanished Naida Deering.

One day Mr. Jerningham waited in vain for young Mr. Wolfe. They had
planned to go to Mount Kisco to look at a farm that was offered for
sale, Mr. Jerningham having developed the usual millionaire's desire
to own an estate. At one o'clock the telephone-bell rang. Jerningham
answered in person. He heard a feminine voice say that Mr. Wolfe
regretted that a severe indisposition had prevented him from going
as usual to Mr. Jerningham's rooms, but he hoped to be sufficiently
recovered to have that pleasure on the next day.

Jerningham merely said, "Say I hope it is nothing serious--and ask him,
please, whether there is anything I can do."

Silence. Then: "He says, 'No--thanks!' It is nothing very serious."

"Tell him not to come down until he has entirely recovered and to take
good care of himself. Good-by!"

If Mr. Jerningham heard the tinkling music of an irrepressible giggle at
the other end of the wire he did not show it. His face was serious as
he found an address in the telephone-directory. He called up the
Brown Lecture Bureau and made an appointment to see Captain Brown, the
manager, at 3 p.m. At that hour, to the minute, he was ushered into the
private offices of the world-famous manager of the lecture bureau.

"Captain Brown?"

"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I should like to know what lecturers you have available at the moment,"
said Jerningham.

The Klondiker did not look like the chairman of a church entertainment
committee or like a village philanthropist. So Captain Brown asked:

"Where is the--er--Is it a club?"

"No. It is myself. Here in New York."

"Well, we provide speakers and lecturers, not exactly entertainers,
to--"

"I know all that. I wish to know whom you could send me to entertain me.
Let me see! Is Commander Finsen, the explorer, here now?"

"Yes."

"And his terms?"

"It depends upon where it is."

Evidently Jerningham did not think Captain Brown realized what was
wanted, for he said, earnestly:

"Captain Brown, get this clearly fixed in your mind, if you please: I
am anxious to hear some of your lecturers by myself alone, in my own
apartments. I wish men who have done things--men who are, above
all things, brave and resourceful. I don't want decadent poets, but
explorers, gentlemen adventurers, humanists, or scientists, who have a
knack of imparting their knowledge in such a way as to interest men who
are neither old nor scientific. I am perfectly willing to pay your usual
rate. What's the odds if one of your clients spends an evening with
me or whether he spends it in Norwalk, Connecticut, or Boundbrook, New
Jersey? Do you get me?"

"Oh, perfectly. I might suggest--"

Here the genial manager ceased speaking to smile, grateful that so
unusual a man as Jerningham should condescend to listen. It was a
habit--this thankful smiling--that came from having dealt with geniuses
for thirty years. Then Captain Brown permitted himself to suggest a
dozen or more men who had very interesting stories to tell. Jerningham
asked him to make a memorandum of the men and their specialties, and
agreed to call on Captain Brown when he needed entertainment. After
Captain Brown had given him the names and prices, Jerningham gave his
own name and address.

Captain Brown looked grieved. He read the newspapers. He might have
asked double the fees from the Alaskan Monte Cristo!

On the next day, when Mr. Francis Wolfe showed up with never a trace of
anything but good health on his pleasing face, Jerningham invited him to
spend the next evening in the apartments and hear Finsen tell how he had
discovered the tribe of Antarctic giants, the shortest of whom was seven
feet three inches; and how he had captured alive, thirty-three white
bears. He asked Frank to invite five friends who might be interested,
first, in dining with Jerningham and Commander Finsen, and then in
hearing Finsen spin his yarn.

Frank gladly undertook to find the audience.

So they had a very nice little dinner, with just enough to drink and no
killjoys in activity. And later, in Jerningham's little sitting-room at
the hotel, they heard the great Dane, who was a prosaic viking with
iron muscles and pale-blue eyes that made you uncomfortable for reasons
unknown, tell them all about his remarkable voyage of discovery and his
hunts--no end of things that he could tell them, but could not tell
a mixed audience: perfectly amazing details, of which Frank and his
friends talked for weeks.

Then there was a little midnight supper, at which they all told stories
that left no unpleasant aftereffects.

One day after luncheon Jerningham, who had been in a particularly jovial
mood, suddenly became very serious. He aimed at Frank one of those
searching looks that seemed to go to the young man's soul. Then he said:

"My boy, I'd like to say something to you."

"Say it."

"I shall probably hurt your feelings, so you must be prepared to keep
your temper well in hand."

"You ought to know me better than that by now, Jerningham," retorted
Frank. He had grown not only to like, but even to admire, this strange
miner.

"Wolfe," said Jerningham, slowly, "you are one of those unfortunate
chaps who are cruelly handicapped by perennial youth. It is doubtless a
pleasing thing to feel at fifty as you did at twenty. Nevertheless,
it is bad business. It is all very nice to shun responsibility, but it
makes you careless; and you can't expect to saddle consequences on your
guardian after you are twenty-one. A boy of forty can't be trusted to
take care of his own property."

"I can take care of mine," laughed Frank, "without any trouble." His
property was about minus thirty thousand.

"Your property now--yes. But suppose you had a million or two left
you--or even more? Do you know what would happen to those millions, and
do you know what would happen to you?"

"I know--but I won't tell."

"Will you let me tell you?" asked Jerningham, so earnestly that Frank
almost stopped smiling.

"I'll hear you to the bitter end."

"The millions would go from your pocket into the pockets of--well, you
know whose pockets! And your life would go into the Big Beyond by the W.
W. route."

"I bite. What's W. W.?"

"Wine and woman. You would last perhaps five years. You would die a
dipsomaniac at thirty or thereabout. The chief folly of fighting booze
when you are rich is that it renders wealth utterly futile."

"How?"

"Well, you can get just as drunk on ten dollars a day as you can on one
thousand dollars--with this difference, that in the one case you would
have to get drunk on whisky by yourself and in the other you might get
drunk on vintage champagne in the company of paid parasites. The morning
after is the same in both cases: you don't remember any more of the
ten-dollar jag than of the thousand-dollar orgy! When a drunkard sets
out to squander a million all he really does is to carry a sign on
his back with letters a mile high--the sign reading, 'I am a d------d
fool!"'

Frank took it good-naturedly because he liked Jemingham and because he
was not a millionaire. It really would be asinine to be a millionaire
and try to drink all there was; so he said, amiably:

"Having downed the Demon Rum, then what?"

"I'll put it up to you this way: I have no family and I may never marry.
I certainly won't if I don't find my first and only sweetheart. Suppose
I felt like leaving you some of my money? You are a nice boy, but you
also have been a D. F., and you must admit that no man likes to see his
friend trying to beat all D. F. records. Don't get mad and don't look
indignant! I want to make a proposition to you: I'll agree to deposit to
your account in a trust company one hundred dollars a day for every day
you don't touch a drop! I don't want to reform you. I merely want to
train you--in case! There will be some times when you will forfeit that.
It will amount to paying one hundred dollars for a Martini. It will
become a luxury."

"Too expensive for me!" said Frank, seriously. "And, my boy, it is more
than being on the water-wagon--it's being able to stay on! Booze is so
foolish! I want to give you some business matters--for you to handle for
me."

"You know what I know about business--"

"Can't you do as you are told? Don't you know enough to look clever and
say, 'Sign here!' in a frozen voice?"

"Oh yes. But--"

"I know you will miss your evenings at first. But I'll tell you what to
do. I am no killjoy. Well, you spend as many evenings as you wish with
me. Invite as many friends as you please--sex no bar. Will you?"

"Jemingham, you are a nice chap. I'll do it. But you must not think of
that one hundred dollars--"

"Tut-tut! Can't you understand that I want to do it--that I love to see
your bank account grow? Run along now. I want to read Lucretius."

From that day Francis Wolfe became Jemingham's inseparable companion.
Every night they went to the theater together or else they spent the
evening in Jemingham's rooms, listening to celebrities. Their evenings
soon became famous. Indeed, people began to talk about Frank Wolfe's
reform. Even his fairest and frailest friends, knowing that Frank
forfeited one hundred dollars a day by falling off the water-wagon,
kept him firmly on the seat--and borrowed the hundred. In due time
the miracle reached the ears of Frank's sisters and of his aunt, Mrs.
Stimson. They had a talk with Frank. They were first amazed, then
delighted, when they saw Frank and when they heard about Jerningham's
intention of making him his heir.

Thus it came about that, out of gratitude for the man who was making a
man of their brother, Mrs.

John Burt and Mrs. Sydney Walsingham accepted Mr. Jerningham's
invitation and attended one of the lectures at the Klondiker's
apartments. The little supper that followed was a great success. Mr.
Jemingham talked little, but extremely well--as when he said to Mrs.
Jack in a low voice that he loved Frank Wolfe and some day everybody
would be sure of it!

"I am merely training him. But don't think I am asking the impossible. I
wish him to know enough to hold on to what I'll leave him."

Of course after that Mr. Jerningham was not only in society, but even
in a fair way of becoming a fad. Gerald Lanier, the short-story writer,
said that Jerningham was society's gold cure and had climbed into the
inner circles on a ladder made of tightly corked wine-bottles; in fact,
he wrote what his nonliterary friends called a skit--and Frank's friends
a knock--entitled: "How to Capitalize Intemperance." But that did not
hinder Jerningham from receiving invitations from families with thirsty
younger sons.

VI

One morning Jemingham, who had seemed preoccupied, said to Frank:

"I wonder if I can ask you--" He paused and looked doubtfully at Frank.

"What?"

"A favor."

"Of course. Why, you can even touch me if you want to."

"I wonder if your--if Mrs. Burt would invite Mrs. Ashton Welles to
dinner?"

"I guess so. I'll ask her."

"That way you could meet Mrs. Welles, and--"

"You mean," said Frank, trying to look like Sherlock Holmes, "I could
ask her about your--about her sister?"

Jerningham jumped to his feet in consternation.

"Great Scott, no! No!" he shouted.

"Why, I thought--"

"You can't ask her that until you know her so well that you can take a
friend's liberty. Promise me you won't ask her until I myself tell you
that you may! Promise!"

There was in his eyes a look of such intensity that young Wolfe was
startled.

"Of course I'll promise."

"You must make friends with her first. She must learn to like you--"

Francis Wolfe smiled a trifle fatuously. It was merely boyish. A little
more, however, would have made the smile ungentlemanly. Jerningham
continued, very earnestly:

"Listen, lad. She will have to do more than merely like you--she will
have to trust you. And the only way to make a young and pretty woman
trust a _young_ and not unattractive man is by having that man never,
never, never fail in respect of her. He may be in love with her, or
he may only pretend to be in love with her; but he must act as if he
regarded her with such awe that he dare not make direct love to her. Do
you get it?"

"Yes. But--"

"There is no but. She must first like you, which is not difficult; and
then she must trust you as a true friend, which is, to say the least, a
slower matter. Be a brother to her. Do you think you like me well enough
to do this for me now?"

Jerningham looked at young Wolfe steadily--a man's look.

Frank said: "I'll do it gladly. And my sisters--"

"They must never know about--about Naida!" interrupted Jerningham,
hastily.

"Of course not. But they will do anything for me--and for you, too!"

That is the true story of how it came about that Mrs. Ashton Welles was
taken up by the Jack Burts; and how she met Francis Wolfe; and how Mrs.
Stimson invited Mr. and Mrs. Ashton Welles to one of her old-fashioned
and tiresome but famous and very formal dinners; and how Frank again
took in Mrs. Welles. Thereafter they met often. At some of these dinners
they met Jerningham.

The Klondiker paid his court to Mr. Welles. Indeed, he seemed to have
for the president of the VanTwiller Trust Company an admiration that
closely resembled the worship of a matinée girl for an actress like
Maude Adams. It was an innocent sort of worship, but, nevertheless, not
displeasing. In men it sometimes makes the worshiped feel paternally
toward the worshiper.

Jerningham developed a habit of going every day to the trust company;
and he made it a point always to see Ashton Welles, if only to shake
hands. One morning he told Mr. Welles he desired advice about an
investment. Jerningham, it must be remembered, had on deposit with
the trust company over a million dollars, and there were six or seven
millions in gold-dust in the company's vault.

"Mr. Welles, I--I," said the Klondiker, so earnestly that he
stammered--"I should like to buy some VanTwiller Trust Company stock, to
have and to hold as long as you are president."

There was in Jemingham's eyes a look of that admiration that best
expresses itself in absolute confidence in the infallibility of a very
great man. Welles was a very cold man; but flattery has rays that will
thaw icebergs.

Welles nearly blushed and smiled one of his politely deprecating
smiles--as if he were apologizing for smiling--and said:

"Why, Mr. Jemingham, I'll confess to you that I myself think well of
that stock. I guess we'll keep on paying dividends."

Jemingham smiled delightedly--the king had jested! Then he said:

"I'll buy as much as I can, but I don't want to put up the price on
myself. Who can give me pointers on how to pick up the stock quietly? Do
you think I should see Mr. Barrows or Mr. Stewardson?"

He looked so anxiously at Mr. Welles that Mr. Welles said, kindly:

"Oh, see Stewardson. I'll speak to him, if you wish."

"Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Welles," said Jer-ningham, so gratefully
that Welles felt like a philanthropist as he rang the bell to summon the
second vice-president.

"Mr. Stewardson, Mr. Jemingham, wants to buy some of our stock. I want
you to help him in any way possible."

"Delighted, I'm sure!" said the vice-president, very cordially. He was
paid to be cordial to customers.

"If I had my way I'd be the largest individual stockholder," said
Jerningham, looking at Welles almost adoringly.

"I hope you will," said Welles, pleasantly. "Mr. Stewardson will help
you."

Jerningham and Welles shook hands. Then Jerningham and Stewardson left
to go to the vice-president's private office.



VII

The remarkable Miss Keogh was one of those remarkable people who are
really remarkable. Within three weeks came a cablegram from her to Mr.
Jerningham to the effect that a letter had been sent by Mrs. Deering to
her daughter--the first. Mrs. Deering had begun to doubt her own health.
Then came cablegrams from her to Mrs. Welles; and in a few days, before
Ashton Welles could think of a valid excuse for not letting his wife
go to England, Mrs. Welles told him to engage passage for her on the
_Ruritania_.

It was very unfortunate that he could not accompany her; but the annual
meeting was only three weeks away, and the minority, never strong enough
to do real damage, always was devilish enough to be very disagreeable to
the clique in control. Ashton Welles, after the extremely stupid fashion
of all strong men, had always kept the absolute control of the company's
affairs in his own hands. It was the one thing he refused to share with
his subordinates. He was a czar in his office. He was, in reality, the
trust company--or he so believed and so he made others believe. His
vice-presidents were merely highly paid office-boys, according to the
gossip of the Street, which was not so far out of the way in this
particular instance.

Ten minutes after Mrs. Ashton Welles engaged Suite D on the _Ruritania_,
due to sail on the following day, Jerningham said to Mr. Francis Wolfe:

"My boy, I should like you to go to London on business for me--and for
yourself. You've got to represent me in a deal with the Arctic Venture
Corporation. You will have my power of attorney and you will sign
the deed for one of my properties, as soon as they have deposited two
hundred and fifty thousand pounds to my credit in Parr's Bank. And also
you will call on the prettiest girl in the world--the prettiest, do
you hear?--who unfortunately is also the brightest and cleverest. Her
name--" He paused and looked at Francis Wolfe meditatively, almost
hesitatingly.

"Go on!" implored Francis Wolfe.

"Her name is Kathryn Keogh and she is stopping at Thornton's Hotel. She
will help you find Naida. Miss Keogh is a friend of Mrs. Deering."

"She is Irish--eh?" asked Frank.

"Mrs. Deering?"

"No; the peach--the--Miss Keogh?"

"She is of the Waterford Keoghs, famous for their eyes and their
complexions. But business first. You are not to fall in love with Miss
Keogh until after my two hundred and fifty thousand pounds are safe in
bank. I'd go myself, but I have a still bigger deal on here in New York.
I've taken the liberty to engage a stateroom on the _Ruritania_, sailing
tomorrow, and a letter of credit has been ordered for five thousand
dollars. Have I taken too much for granted?"

"No; but you know perfectly well that I don't know a thing about
business, and I'd be afraid--"

"My solicitors in London will call on you when they are ready for you.
I shall give you a memorandum for your own conduct; you will find there
instructions in detail--just as though you were a ten year-old boy; but
that is really for your own protection, and I don't mean to imply that
your mind is ten years old--"

"No feelings hurt," said Frank, who in reality was much relieved to
learn that the chances of his making a mistake had been intelligently
minimized.

"I'm glad you take it that way. Now we'll go down-town to Towne, Ripley
& Co. and give them your signature for the letter of credit; from there
we'll go to the British Consulate and have my own signature on my power
of attorney certified to by the consul, and then you can skip up-town
and say good-by to your friends."

Frank left Jerningham at the consulate and went home to pack up and
arrange for his more pressing adieus. Jerningham went into a public
telephone-booth and called up the offices of _Society Folk_. When they
answered he asked to speak with the editor.

"Well?" presently came in a sharp voice.

"This is Mr.--er--a friend."

"Anonymous! All right. What do you want?"

"To give you a piece of news."

"We verify everything and take your word for absolutely nothing. I tell
you this to save your telling me a lie."

"That's all right. You'll find it true enough. I--"

"One minute. Where is that pencil? All right! Now the name of the
woman?"

"How do you know I want to--"

"All you fellows always do. What's her name?"

"Mrs. Ashton Welles."

"The wife of the president of the VanTwiller--"

"Correct!" said Jerningham.

"Now the name of the man?"

"Francis Wolfe," answered Jerningham, unhesitatingly.

"The chorus-girls' pet?" asked the voice.

"The same!"

"Has it happened yet? Or do you merely fear it? Or is it a case of
hoping?"

"I don't know what you are driving at."

"Then you don't read _Society Folk_"

"Well, I don't--regularly. All I know is that Frank has been very
assiduous in his attentions lately. He's shaken the Great White Way and
hasn't been in a lobster-palace in two months. He and Mrs. Ashton Welles
are sailing on the _Ruritania_ tomorrow."

"Under what name?"

"Their own."

"Thank you, kind friend. Thank you!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because we can now use names. Does Mr. Welles also go?"

"Of course not!"

"Excuse me for asking such a silly question. What other crime has he
committed besides being old?--I mean Mr. Welles."

"Stupidity is worse than criminal."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"When does your paper come out?"

"Day after to-morrow. Much obliged. You are a friend in need. Don't ring
off yet. Listen! You are also a dirty, low-lived, sneaking, cowardly
dog, and a general, all-round, unrelieved, monumental--" It was the
one way the editor had of showing that he was better than his anonymous
contributor.

Jerningham, of course, went on board the _Ruritania_ to see Frank off.
Ashton Welles was also there to say good-by to his young and beautiful
wife. It was their first separation, and Welles did not like it. He
seemed to feel her absence in advance; it was really that, as the hour
drew near, he realized more vividly how lonely she would leave him! They
have a saying in Spain that a man may grow accustomed to bearing sorrow,
but that nobody can get used to that happiness which comes merely to
disappear immediately after. A cigar manufacturer from Havana had once
quoted this to Ashton Welles, and Ashton Welles was impressed less by
the saying than by the fact that the Spaniard was so serious about it.
But now he remembered it.

He was very uncomfortable and this discomfort made his mental machinery
act queerly; it seemed to tint his thoughts with strange, unusual hues
that made them almost morbid. He would have felt contempt for his own
weakness had he not been so full of half-angry regret at being left
alone in New York--this man who never had possessed an intimate friend;
who not even as a boy had a chum!

Of course it was only a coincidence that young Mr. Francis Wolfe was
to be young Mrs. Ashton Welles's fellow-passenger; and it was also a
coincidence that Mr. Wolfe's stateroom was just across the passageway
from Mrs. Welles's suite. Indeed, neither of the young people had picked
out the cabins--but there they were. And there, in Ashton Welles's mind,
was another unformulated unpleasantness.

Frank's sisters were so proud Frank was going to put through an
important business deal that they showed it. But if they were glad that
Mrs. Welles was also going they did not show it. They recalled Frank's
desire to meet the pretty young matron whose husband was thirty years
older, and they were rather ostentatiously polite to her. Ashton Welles,
in his disturbed state of mind, somehow felt that the attitude of Mrs.
John Burt and Mrs. Sydney Walsingham was one of blame-fixing; but he
could not definitely understand why there should be any blame to fix!
He dismissed his semi-suspicions with the thought that women had petty
minds. His wife was very pretty and Wolfe's sisters were not as young as
they used to be. And youth is a terrible thing--to lose! It is hard to
forgive youth for being, after one is past--well, say, past a certain
age. And to prove that he himself had nothing to fear--absolutely
nothing--he even smiled and said to young Mr. Wolfe:

"I feel certain, of course, that if Mrs. Welles should need anything--"

It was the season of the year when east-bound liners carried few
passengers. The young people were bound to be thrown together a great
deal.

"Of course, Mr. Welles. Only too delighted, I'm sure!" said Frank, very
eagerly.

He was a fine-looking chap, with that wonderfully clean, healthy pink
complexion which suggests a clean and healthy mind. His eyes were full
of that eager, boyish light that makes the possessors thereof so nice to
pet, small-child wise.

Ashton Welles received an impression of Frank Wolfe's face that was
photographic in its details.

The floating hotel moved off slowly. Ashton Welles, on the pier,
watched the fluttering handkerchief of his wife out of sight. He had
the remembrance of her beautiful young face framed in Siberian sable to
cheer him. She certainly looked heavenly. She had cried at leaving
him. She had waved away at him vehemently, and there was the unpleasant
suggestion that always attends such leave-takings--that the parting was
forever. A frail thing--human life! A little speck of vitality on the
boundless waste of grim, gray waters! And she seemed so sorry to go away
from him! And she waved and waved, as if she, also, feared she might
never see him again! And Francis Wolfe stood beside her, very close to
her, and waved also--to Jemingham, who stood beside Ashton Welles.

Ashton Welles accepted Jerningham's invitation and rode to his office
in the Klondiker's sumptuous motor in the Klondiker's company. Ashton
Welles looked at the flower-holder. Instead of the white azaleas he saw
two white handkerchiefs waved by two young people.

"You are very friendly with young Wolfe?" said Ashton Welles, carelessly
inquisitive--merely to make talk, you know. All rich old men who marry
young women have ostrich habits. They put an end to danger by closing
their eyes to the obvious. That is why they always discover nothing.

"Rather--yes. I think he is a fine chap--one of those clean-cut
Americans of the present generation that European women find so
perfectly fascinating."

Ashton Welles instantly frowned--and instantly ceased to frown.

"Yes," he said, and grimaced, thinking it looked like a smile.
"What business is taking him to London? I thought he was a young man
of--er--elegant leisure."

"He was that until very recently; but he has turned over a new leaf. He
has forsworn his old and, I suppose, rather disreputable companions. I
find him rather serious."

"What has changed him?" Ashton Welles was foolish enough to be brave
enough to ask. When a question can have two answers--one of them
disagreeable--it is folly to ask it.

"I don't know," answered Jerningham, as if puzzled. "He has acted a
little queerly and secretive-like; but it is, I admit, a queerness that
other young men would do well to imitate, for it has made him cease
drinking, and cease--er--you know. I rather suspect it is his sister,
Mrs. Burt. He is very fond of her. A man will do things for a good woman
that he won't for his best man friend, or for his own sake. You saw him.
There is no viciousness or dissipation in that face. Damned handsome
chap, I call him!"

"H'm!" winced the glacial Ashton Welles. He could not help it.

There came upon him a strange mood, almost of numbness, that made him
silent against his will. He answered by nods--the nods of a man who
does not hear--to Jerningham's chatter. He gathered in some way that
the Alaskan Monte Cristo was talking of buying VanTwiller Trust Company
stock, and that he would ask Stewardson how much he could borrow on the
stock.

"Yes--do!" said Ashton Welles as the motor stopped in front of the
imposing entrance of the trust company's marble building.

They stepped out; Welles excused himself almost brusquely and went into
his own private office to think all the thoughts that a millionaire of
fifty-two thinks when he thinks that he married at fifty a girl thirty
years his junior, with cheeks like flower petals and eyes like skies,
who is going to spend the best part of a week on a steamer in the
company of a man who is much worse than handsome--young!

Mr. Jerningham, who did not seem to have noticed the near rudeness of
Mr. Ashton Welles, promptly sought the second vice-president and asked
how much the company would lend on its own stock.

"It is against the law for us to lend money on our own stock," said the
vice-president, who did not add that this provision had prevented many
an inside clique from eating its pie and having it too.

"Will the banks loan money on V.T. stock?" asked Jerningham. He had
already bought three thousand shares at an average of four hundred
dollars a share.

"Well, I guess so."

"On a time loan?"

"No trouble in borrowing three hundred dollars a share, I should say."

"That is not much," objected Jerningham.

"No, it isn't. But--May I ask you a question?"

"Two if you wish," said Jerningham, with one of his likable smiles.

"Why should you need to borrow a trifle, with all the millions in gold
you have down-stairs? Or are they only gold bricks you've got in your
boxes?"

This was, of course, meant in jest; but Stewardson thought in a flash
the trust company did not know for a positive fact that Jerningham's
iron-bound and wax-sealed boxes had real gold-dust in them.

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Stewardson," said Jerningham, with that
curious earnestness people assume when they discuss matters they do not
really understand--"let me tell you this: The time is coming--and coming
within a few months!--when good, hard gold is going to command a premium
just as it practically did during the Bryan free-silver scare in 1896. I
am going to save mine. I want to have it in readiness to take advantage
of--"

"But present conditions are utterly different--"

"They are always different--and yet the panics come! You thought that
after 1896 there would never again be any need for clearing-house
certificates; and yet, in 1907--"

"They were unnecessary--" began Stewardson, hotly.

He had been left out of all conferences among the powers at that trying
time, and naturally disapproved their actions.

"But they happened, just the same! I know myself. If I cash in now I'll
buy something with the money. I don't want to buy now. No, sir! If I
should happen to need a million or two I prefer to borrow it for a few
weeks until my next shipment comes in. There will be two millions coming
in about the middle of next month. I've sent word to get out as big an
output as possible. See? You bet your boots Wall Street is not going to
get either my cash or my mines, as they did Colonel Cannon's. You know
he was The Mexican copper king' one day and That jackass from Chihuahua'
the next! See?"

The vice-president looked at him and said "I see!" in a very flattering
tone of voice; but in his inmost mind he was thinking that such a thing
was precisely what doubtless would happen to Mr. Alfred
Jemingham, late of Nome. It is always the extremely suspicious,
too-smart-for-you-by-heck! farmer who buys the biggest gold brick.

"They'll find out I'll never let them change my name into That
blankety-blank-blank from Alaska!'" And Jemingham put on that look of
devilish astuteness that buyers of stocks always put on when they buy at
top prices.

He left the vice-president of the VanTwiller Trust Company and called
on the vice-presidents of several other trust companies and banks, and
found out that he could borrow, more than three hundred dollars a share
on his V.T. stock. And he did--then and there. He impressed the genial
philanthropists on whom he called as being a child of Nature--a great
big boy playing at being a financier. There was in consequence much
smacking of financial lips. It was morsels like this naïve and honest
Alaskan miner with the millions that helped to reconcile men to living
the Wall Street life.



VIII

On the day after the _Ruritania_ sailed Ashton Welles, whose first
wifeless evening at home had not been pleasant, found on his desk a
marked copy of _Society Folk_. These were the four marked paragraphs:

The man who first said there was no fool like an old fool had in mind
that form of folly which consists of the purchase of a beautiful girl by
a man who endeavors to span a difference of thirty years in age by
means of a bridge of solid gold. It is unnatural, unwholesome, and even
immoral. The sordid romances of high life that begin in a Fifth Avenue
jewelry-shop are apt to end in a Reno divorce-mill. Why shouldn't they?

A girl who marries once for money is always ready to marry again
for more money--or for more love--for she always wants more than the
desiccated ass who first bought her can give her.

A girl of twenty who is famous for her good looks is always a beautiful
young woman, no matter what else she may be. But a man close to sixty,
whether he is the head of a big trust company or a poet, is nothing
but an old man. Speaking of remarkable coincidences, is it not odd that
both Fool and Financier should begin with an F? And Frailty, too, whose
other name is Woman?

If there are some things that gold cannot do it is perfectly wonderful
how many things love can do! It bridges all chasms with kisses, and
solves all riddles--with glances. It even defies the high cost of living
and makes men think themselves demigods. It has been known to make
champagne drunkards swear off long before they are bankrupt. It even now
depopulates the lobster-palaces. It turns dining-room navigators into
fearless vikings, braving the wild Atlantic and its midwinter gales in
order to be by their lady-loves. It may even reform Tammany leaders--for
we know it can transform young asses into handsome Lancelots.

Among the passengers on the _Ruritania_, sailing for Liverpool at this
unfashionable season of the year, were Mrs. Ashton Welles, who has the
gorgeous Suite D all to herself, and young Mr. Francis Wolfe, who is
content with the more modest stateroom across the way. Frank's friends
are always singing his praises these days. He never looks at a
chorus-girl save from the middle of the house, and has not taken
anything stronger than Vichy in long weeks. If we were not averse to
advertising male beauty shows we would remark that young Wolfe is the
handsomest bachelorus-girl save from the middle of the house, and has
not taken anything stronger than Vichy in long weeks. If we were not
averse to advertising male beauty shows we would remark that young Wolfe
is the handsomest bachelor who ever sidestepped matrimony.

It takes more than money to keep the Wolfe from the door--eh? What?

The Ashton Welles who finished reading the beastly paragraphs of
_Society Folk_ was not the same Ashton Welles who began them. He was
no longer an efficient financier, but a man benumbed, whose brain had
turned to plaster of Paris. His mind at once lost all elasticity, all
power to functionate. And, since he could not think, he could not act.
That wonderful world, which financially successful people create for
themselves with so much pride, tumbled about his ears. Out of the chaos
made by a few printed words, only one thing was certain--he suffered!

Men are always wounded in a vital spot when they are wounded by
jealousy, and Ashton Welles was particularly vulnerable because he
lived in only two places--his office and his home. He did not have
other houses of refuge to which his soul could retreat--like music or
literature or art--in case of need. He had been so busy winning success
that he had not had time for anything else. He had worked for
the aggrandizement of the personal fortune of Ashton Welles. When
circumstances and that reputation for luck, shrewdness, and caution,
which is in itself a golden sagacity, finally placed him, still a young
man, at the head of the VanTwiller Trust Company, David Soulett, one of
the directors, remarked: "Welles has married the company; but we don't
yet know whether he is to be the company's husband or whether the
company is to be his wife!" And a fellow-director, who had been in
profitable deals with Welles, retorted, "Well, I call it an ideal
match!"

Welles brought to the company what it needed and the presidency brought
to Welles many opportunities--none of which he neglected. He saw the
deposits increase tenfold--and his own fortune twentyfold. What
might not have been politic in an individual playing a lone hand
was altogether admirable in the head of a financial institution--his
cold-bloodedness, for example, and the dehumanized attitude toward
life habitually assumed by the principal cog-wheel in that intricate
aggregation of cog-wheels known as a modern trust company. Being an
excellent money-lender, he was an uninteresting human being. You lose
much when you win money--for gold is hard and cold, and the enjoyment of
life calls for softness and warmth. It is the appalling revenge capital
takes on its self-called masters.

As he approached his fiftieth year Welles began to find that
his isolation might be splendid, but that it was also damnably
uncomfortable. Did you know that in certain millionaire households,
where everything always runs very smoothly, the master gets to long for
a burnt steak or the spilling of soup by the very competent servant?
Welles, accustomed to the wonderfully comfortable life of a very rich
bachelor in New York, desired a home where everything need not be so
comfortable. And as his fortune became a matter of several millions it
began--as swollen fortunes always do, also in revenge!--to take on the
aspect of a monument, something to admire during the monument-builder's
lifetime and to endure impressively afterward! With the desire of
permanence came the dream of all capitalists that makes them dynasts
of gold--an heir to extend the boundaries of the family fortune! It was
inevitable that Ashton Welles should grow to believe that, though the
trust company's deposits were in other people's names, they really
belonged to Ashton Welles, because they were merely the marble blocks
of the Welles monument. The name of Welles must never cease to be
identified with the work of Ashton the First!

Wherefore the need of an heir became almost an obsession with him, and
with it came a quite human dissatisfaction with hotels and clubs, and
trained nurses in times of illness. When a capitalist realizes clearly
that, apart from his money-lending capacity, he has absolutely no power
to bring tears to human eyes, he grows jealous of his own money. He
wishes to be feared, though penniless, just as he would be loved, though
a pauper. All these desires combined to force Ashton Welles into a
decision. He had kept up a desultory sort of friendship with Mrs.
Deering, the widow of his predecessor in the presidency of the trust
company, and Anne Deering was the girl he knew best of all--though he
really did not know her at all.

The Deerings had not been fortunate in their investments; in fact, the
Deering holdings of Van-Twiller stock had been benevolently assimilated
at one-fifth of their value by Ashton Welles himself during one of those
panics that make reckless persons cease being reckless ever after. It
was not very difficult for Anne Deering to be made to feel that she
could save her mother's life and assure ease and comfort for herself
forever by marrying Mr. Ashton Welles, who at fifty was one of those men
whom old friends invariably classify as well-preserved. To be just, he
was really distinguished-looking and had a sort of uniform urbanity that
made him at least unobjectionable.

He was also very rich. She married him. She learned to like him. He grew
to love her!

She was a doll--beautiful and utterly useless; but it was this very
uselessness that made Ashton Welles worship her. This financier, who
in his office was not only a skilful bargain-driver, but preached and
practised the religion of efficiency, in his home plunged into an orgy
of utterly juvenile lovemaking. He reveled in his wooing, which he had
to do after his marriage. He did not merely desire to have a wife--he
must have a wife of an extreme femininity; she must be one of those
womanly women who exist only in the imaginations of men of a tyrannical
cast of mind. His life having been for years exclusively a money-making
life, he became very selfish. And he continued to find his greatest
pleasure in pleasing himself--only that he now best pleased himself by
being a boy sweetheart; by achieving his puppy love at fifty and deeming
it marvelously rejuvenating and therefore altogether admirable.

Very well! Now imagine that man, living for two years amid those
pitifully evanescent illusions so cherished by middle-aged men of money
who marry very young women of looks--imagine that man suddenly informed
that he is no longer to be anything but an old man! And not only old,
but deserted! Imagine that selfsame man brought face to face with the
invincible Opponent of all old men--youth!

To Ashton Welles, sitting in his office, surrounded by glittering
millions, there came the deadly chill of age--doubly cold from being
surrounded by gold. In the twinkling of an eye all young men suddenly
became redoubtable warriors, love-conquerors, irresistible as a force of
nature--and as heartless! He was beaten by the universal victor--Time!

He stared fixedly at a photograph of his wife in an elaborately
chased silver frame, but he did not see her. He saw ruins, as of a
conflagration--the smoking débris of a destroyed home; and heaps of
ashes--ashes everywhere! And in the rising puffs of smoke he saw faces
of men--of young men--of very handsome young men!

Stewardson, the vice-president, walked in--the door was open, as usual.
He saw his chief's face and was shocked into a quite human feeling of
consternation.

"Great heavens, Mr. Welles, what is the matter?"

"Nothing!" said Ashton Welles. He suddenly felt an overwhelming impulse
to hide his face from the sight of his fellow-men. He thought his
forehead must show in black letters--_Fool!_ and--and--and ten thousand
terrible legends that changed with each beat of his heart, and told what
he had been and what had happened; and--yes--what was bound to happen!

"Nothing! Nothing!" he repeated, fiercely.

"Nothing, I tell you!" He was certain all the world knew his disgrace.

"Shall I call a doctor?"

"No! No!" he snarled. Call in the entire world and gloat at his
discomfiture? He glanced at the vice-president. The impolitic alarm on
Steward-son's face exasperated him. "What do you want? Damn it, what do
you want?" It was almost a shriek.

"I wanted to consult with you about that Consolidated Cushion Tire bond
issue--"

"Yes, yes! Well?"

"Have you decided whether to--"

"Yes! I mean--no! I mean--Wait! Ask Witter. I dictated a memorandum to
him, I think. Yes, I did!"

He was making desperate efforts to speak calmly; but he stopped, because
Stewardson, a dastard of thirty-two, suddenly grew to resemble young Mr.
Francis Wolfe! Stewardson saw the gleam in Ashton Welles's eyes and felt
that the president must have hated him all his life!

"I'll get it from Witter," he said, and hastily left the room.

Welles stared wide-eyed at the open door for perhaps a full minute;
always he saw ruins--smoke and ashes--ashes everywhere! And then he
started up and squared his shoulders. He rang for an office-boy and said
to him, "Tell Mr. Witter I've gone for the day"--Witter was his private
secretary--and left the office.

He could not bear even to think of going home, for he now had no home!
Therefore he went to Central Park and walked aimlessly about until his
unaccustomed muscles compelled him to sit down. There he sat, thinking!
After three hours he had grown sufficiently calm to believe himself when
he called himself a fool for being jealous. Having convinced himself
of his folly, he clutched eagerly at every opportunity to close his
own ears to the whisperings of his own doubts. At length he went to his
house, dressed as usual, and went to the Cosmopolitan Club to dine.



IX

A few minutes after Ashton Welles left his office, stabbed to the soul
by the poisoned paragraphs of _Society Folk_ Jemingham sought Stewardson
and told him he had decided to send some more gold-dust to the Assay
Office. His own attendant, a young man, dark-haired and blue-eyed, who
properly answered to the name of Sheehan, accompanied him. Stewardson,
whose nerves had not recovered from the shock of Mr. Welles's behavior,
decided that he, also, would go to the vaults.

"I want ten boxes sent to the Assay Office," said Jemingham.

"Certainly, sir," said the superintendent of the vaults, very
obsequiously. To show how eager he was to please, he asked, "Any
particular boxes, Mr. Jemingham?"

Immediately a half-formulated suspicion fleeted across the mind of the
second vice-president of the VanTwiller Trust Company. How did they know
what those boxes contained? How did they know that all of them were full
of Yukon gold? How did they know anything about this man or about his
treasure--his alleged treasure?

Almost immediately afterward, however, he reproached himself. Why, the
man had deposited over a million--the proceeds of twenty of the boxes!

"Oh, take any ten," said Jerningham--"the first ten. They are the
easiest to take out."

"The last ten!" said Stewardson, hastily, obeying an impulse that came
upon him like a flash of lightning.

Jerningham turned and asked: "Why the last ten? They are away back,
and--"

"I have my reasons," smiled Stewardson--the smile of a man who knows
something funny about you, but does not wish to tell it--not quite yet.
It is the most exasperating smile known.

Jerningham looked at him a moment. Then he said, coldly: "Why not pick
them out haphazard--one here and another there, as if you were sampling
a mine and wanted to make sure they hadn't salted it on you?" He turned
to the men and said, "Pick out ten at random, no two from the same
place; and be sure they are not full of stable litter!"

Stewardson flushed, and whispered apologetically to the superintendent,
"The more the boys work, the more grateful he will be."

"Oh, he is very generous, anyhow," said Sullivan, the superintendent,
watching his helper and Sheehan pick out the ten boxes at random.

Stewardson accompanied Jerningham up-stairs and then excused himself
long enough to say to a confidential clerk: "Follow Mr. Jerningham and
his ten boxes of gold-dust, and find out what he does, how much he gets,
and every detail of interest. Don't let him see you."

The clerk found out and later reported to the vice-president that the
ten boxes all contained Alaskan gold-dust, and that their value was
$531,687, the boxes averaging a little better than fifty thousand
dollars each. Stewardson then had the remaining boxes counted. There
were one hundred and twenty-one left. They were worth over six million
dollars. Jerningham ought to have the gold-dust coined and then deposit
the proceeds in the trust company. The company would allow him two and
a half per cent.--or maybe three per cent.--on the six millions. That
would be one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year. The company
could then loan the entire six millions, not having to bother with
keeping a reserve like the national banks, and, the way the money-market
was, the money could be loaned at five per cent. That would be three
hundred thousand dollars a year.

Men properly must end in dust; but dust, when gold, should end in
eagles. He would speak to Jerningham about it--one hundred and eighty
thousand dollars a year that Jerningham was not making--which was
silly! And one hundred and twenty thousand a year the company was not
making--which was a tragedy!

Ashton Welles sent word to the office on the following morning that he
would not be down until late, if at all. He did not send word that he
had decided to consult his lawyer about the _Society Folk_ article.
He had received eight marked copies, addressed to him at his house in
different handwritings, and he did not know that on his desk at the
office there were a dozen more. Friends always tell you about anonymous
attacks anonymously. They wait for them.

Jerningham seemed disappointed when he learned, at ten-thirty, that Mr.
Welles might not come to the office at all. Stewardson came upon
him looking disgruntled. That did not deter the vice-president from
broaching the subject nearest his heart. "I'd like to ask you one
question, Mr. Jerningham. Of course I know you must have a reason--a
very good reason, too--"

"If the reason is good I'll confess," said Jerningham, pleasantly.

"Well, I'd like to know what your reason is for not sending all your
gold to the Assay Office?"

"My reason is that I want to make a lot of money later by not sending
the gold to the Assay Office now. Remember my very words!"

"But how are you going to do it?" Stewardson could not help asking,
because he was so puzzled that his sense of humor was paralyzed.

"By having the gold--that's how."

"That's all right! But why don't you change it into coin? That way you
can have it at a moment's notice."

"My dear chap, do you know how many hours it will take the Assay Office,
after I take my dust in there, to give me a check for the proceeds? I
get ninety per cent, of the value at once. If I cash this gold now I'll
spend it. I know it! I never could resist the temptation to spend--it
is my one weakness. And if I spent it what would I have to show for the
hardships of thirty years?"

"But why don't you deposit it with us? We'll allow you two and a half
per cent. Or if you make it a time deposit we can do better than that by
you. You know you can always get gold for it if you ask us for it."

"I can, can I?" laughed Jerningham, with a sort of good-natured mockery.
"How about 1907 and your old clearing-house certificates--eh?
What?" Stewardson was nettled. So he permitted himself the supreme,
all-conquering argument of business: "But you are losing one hundred
and eighty thousand dollars a year by leaving your gold uncoined and
undeposited."

"I won't lose a year's interest, because it isn't going to take a year
for the big panic to come." Stewardson laughed--a kindly laugh. "For
pity's sake, don't wait for that! Panics have a habit of not coming
if expected. Just now everybody is bluer than indigo. You'd think the
United States was on its last legs. Invest at once, and don't wait for
the bargains at the funeral that may never come."

"How sound is this institution?" Jerningham looked Stewardson full in
the face.

The vice-president answered, smilingly, "Oh, I guess we'll weather the
storm."

"Then I'll buy more stock. Mr. Welles advised me to buy all I could get
hold of. A wonderful man--"

"Yes, indeed," acquiesced Stewardson, solemnly. "Wonderful! Great
judgment!" pursued Jeming-ham, with a sort of boyish enthusiasm that
made Stewardson think his superior had designs on the Klondike gold in
the vaults. "He is so clear-cut--and never, never loses his head! To
tell you the truth," and Jerningham lowered his voice, "I used to think
he was an icicle--the sort of man nothing can disturb; but, for all his
calmness and imperturbability, he has a great warm heart and a great big
brain!"

Stewardson had never before heard anybody accuse the president of the
VanTwiller Trust Company of having any heart at all. Why had Welles
taken the pains to pose before the Klondike miner as a philanthropist?
And why had the imperturbable Ashton Welles been so perturbed the day
before?

"Ablest man in this country!" said Stewardson, his mind wrapped in the
folds of his unformulated mysteries and his own half-asked questions.

"So I'll get a little more of the stock," said Jerningham.

"Go ahead! You can't go wrong," Stewardson assured him; "in fact, you
ought to send some of your gold to the Assay Office and--"

"What will you lend me on my gold--on the six millions I've got
down-stairs?" asked Jerningham, with a frown. He looked intently at the
vice-president with his cold, gray eyes, and Stewardson somehow fancied
he saw a challenge in them; but he was an old bird at the game. He
laughed and said, jovially:

"Not a penny!"

"I know it. It shows you how incompetent all these financial
institutions are. You think you are doing your duty by being
suspicious--what? Well, you don't unless you are intelligently
suspicious. Never mind; you are only the vice-president. I'll buy the
stock just the same." And Jerningham laughed, exaggeratedly forgiving,
and went away.

Later in the day, when Stewardson thought he might sell his own holdings
of VanTwiller Trust stock to Jerningham and trust to luck to pick it up
again here and there at a lower figure, he called up a firm of brokers
who made a specialty of dealing in bank and trust-company stocks. He was
surprised to learn that V.T. stock was scarce and thirty points higher.
The vice-president called up specialists and heard the same story--the
floating supply had been quietly bought.

"By whom?" he asked Earhart.

"You know very well!" retorted the last broker, in an aggrieved tone of
voice.

"I do not!" Stewardson assured him.

"Well, it all goes into your office."

"Mine?"

"Yes--yours! And it's paid by your checks. The name signed is Alfred
Jerningham. Are you going to cut a melon? Just whisper!"

"Oh!" and Stewardson laughed. "What a suspicious man you are, Dave!"

In the alarmingly inexplicable frame of mind in which Ashton Welles was
Stewardson did not feel like speaking to his superior about Jemingham's
investment. There was no reason why the Klondiker should not buy all
the VanTwiller Trust Company stock he could pay for; but a day or
two afterward the vice-president learned that Jerningham had secured
control, by purchase outright or by option, at prices ranging from three
hundred and ninety-five to five hundred dollars a share, of twenty-two
thousand shares. That was important for two reasons: In the first
place it was more than Jerningham could pay for even if he sold all his
gold-dust; and, secondly, such a block in unfriendly hands might work
injury to the controlling clique. He decided to see the president; but
he was told that Mr. Ashton Welles was engaged at that moment.

Jerningham was talking to him. They had exchanged greetings with much
cordiality.

"Have you heard from Mrs. Welles?" asked the Alaskan.

"She hasn't arrived yet--"

"I know it. But I received a wireless from young Wolfe--"

"What did he say?" asked Ashton Welles before he knew it.

Jerningham looked mildly surprised. He answered:

"It was a funny message. He asked me to go to his room and get his
trunks, and send all his belongings to London, as he had decided to stay
there indefinitely."

"Yes?" It was all Welles could say.

"So I wired back, 'Are you crazy?'"

"Did he answer that?"

"Yes." Jerningham paused. Then he laughed.

"What did he answer?" queried Welles.

"Oh, he is crazy, all right. He answered, 'Yes--with joy! Please send
trunks to Thornton's Hotel--'"

"What?" Ashton Welles rose to his feet, his face livid. It was the
London hotel where Mrs. Deering lived, the hotel to which Mrs. Welles
was going!

"What's the matter?" asked Jerningham, in amazement.

"N-nothing!" said Ashton Welles, huskily. He gulped twice. Then, having
spent thirty-five years in Wall Street making money, he explained, "I've
got a terrible toothache!" And he put his hand to his left cheek.

"I'm sorry!" said Jemingham so sympathetically that Welles, for all
his distress--and nothing is so inherently selfish as suffering--felt
a kindly feeling toward the man from Alaska. "Could I ask your advice
about a business matter?"

"Certainly!"

Ashton Welles tried to smile. It was ghastly, but Jemingham did not
remark it. He said, placidly:

"I've bought quite a little bunch of VanTwiller stock because you are
its president, Mr. Welles. On my honor, that is my only reason. I've
paid good prices, too; but you are worth it--to me!" And Jemingham
beamed adoringly on the efficient president of the VanTwiller Trust
Company.

Ashton Welles said, "Thank you!" and even tried to feel grateful to
this queer character from the frozen North who was so naïve in his
admiration--and envied him for not having a young wife who had sailed on
the same steamer with an exceedingly attractive young man.

"I guess I'm all right in my purchase--what?"

"Oh yes!" said Welles. He was thinking of the _Ruritania_. It did not
even occur to him that this Monte Cristo might be worth while to pluck.

"Thank you. I hope I didn't bother you. Good morning, Mr. Welles."

"Good morning, Mr. Jemingham. Er--come in any time you think I can be of
service to you."

As Jemingham was leaving the president's office he almost bumped into
the vice-president.

"You've bought quite a lot of our stock," said

Stewardson, full of his errand. His voice had an accusing ring.

"Yes. I was just speaking to Mr. Welles about it."

"And what did he say?"

"Ask him!" teased Jerningham, with a smile, and went away.

Stewardson felt it his duty to do exactly as Jerningham had mockingly
suggested. It was an abnormal situation. That being the case, there was
no regular provision--no indicated chapter and verse--for meeting it.
The principal function of a chief in business is to supply answers to
puzzled subordinates.

Ashton Welles was sitting back in his swivel chair. He was staring
fixedly at a hook on the picture-molding that had been left there after
the picture was taken away. He was thinking that if he employed private
detectives in London he would have to hire them by cable. There are
suspicions a man cannot help having and yet cannot set down in plain
black and white. He cannot hint when he writes, for written instructions
must always be explicit and categorical. That is why no love-letter
of which the real meaning is to be read "between the lines" is ever
satisfactory to the recipient.

Ashton Welles turned his head and, still frowning, asked Stewardson,
sharply:

"Well, what is it?"

"It's about Jerningham. You know he has been buying our stock. But I
thought you ought to know--"

He wished to tell the president what a big block the Alaskan had already
secured. But the president, from force of habit, perhaps, or possibly
by reason of the irritation of his nerves, assumed the usual financial
attitude of omniscience:

"I know all about it," he said. "Anything else you wish to say to me?"

"No, sir!" answered Stewardson, who felt rebuffed and now would not have
turned in an alarm of fire if he had seen the place beginning to burn.
He was, after all, human.

You cannot, in your lust for absolute power, make your subordinates
into sublimated office-boys or decorative figureheads without paying the
price some time. Stewardson was justified in assuming that Mr. Welles
was worried about business--it was perfectly obvious; and it was a
natural suspicion, also, that said deal must threaten destruction to the
company since Ashton Welles was so eager to have poor Jerningham buy so
much VanTwiller stock. Therefore Stewardson and his intimate friends,
in order to be on the safe side, very promptly sold out their own
holdings--to poor misguided Jerningham's brokers.

Of course other people who did not wish Welles well heard about it, and
the whisper ran about the Street, getting blacker and blacker as it
ran, until everybody knew something had happened--everybody except the
directors of the VanTwiller Trust Company. And when the transfer-books
closed for the annual meeting of the stockholders it was found that
Mr. Alfred Jerningham owned, by purchase or option, and had irrevocable
proxies on, a little more than twenty-eight thousand shares of the
stock. This, together with the twelve thousand shares owned jointly by
Patrick T. Behan and Oliver Judson, the street-railroad magnates, and
the blocks controlled by the Garvin brothers, Tammany contractors, and
Mayer & Shanberg, F. R. Chisolm, John Matson & Company, and others of
the Behan-Judson clique, which once tried to secure control of the
company and were foiled by Ashton Welles, made a combination that was
bound to win at the annual election.

Jerningham ceased going to the VanTwiller Trust Company because Ashton
Welles had sailed for London on the receipt of a cablegram that read:

_Leaving for Continent. Mother and I cannot return before three months.
Will write soon._

_Anne_.

Instead of calling on his friend Stewardson, Jerningham preferred to
spend hours and hours conversing with Patrick T. Behan, "the most
dangerous man in Wall Street!"--and the slickest. But on the day before
the election Jerningham did call on Stewardson and offered to sell his
holdings of VanTwiller stock at six hundred dollars a share.

"Why, I thought you--" began the vice-president.

"I know you did. I wanted you to. But six hundred dollars is only
twenty-five dollars a share more than Behan, and Judson, and Garvin,
and the rest of those pirates have offered me. I've decided not to be a
stockholder of the trust company; so just get your friends together and
tell them if they want to retain the control they can give you a check
for me--six hundred dollars a share on twenty-eight thousand, one
hundred and twenty-three shares. Put it down--twenty-eight thousand, one
hundred and twenty-three shares. Good day!"

"Wait! I want to say--"

"Don't say it! Write it! I'm still at the Brabant," said Jerningham,
coldly. "I advise you to get at Mr. Welles on the steamer by wireless.
Good day!"

"But, I--" shouted Stewardson.

Jerningham paid no attention to him and walked away.

Later in the day negotiations were resumed. In the end Jerningham
accepted a little less; but the deal yielded him a net profit of about
two million dollars. He insisted upon being paid in gold coin. This
convinced Stewardson and the other victims that Jerningham was out of
his mind; but there is no law that enables officers of a trust company
to imprison a gold maniac or to take away his gold, particularly when
his lawyers stand very high in the profession.

Five minutes after getting the gold coin in his possession--and drawing
every cent of it--Jerningham told Stewardson he would leave the dust in
the VanTwiller vaults. That reassured Stewardson, who otherwise might
have suspected Jerningham of various crimes. He then sent two cablegrams
to London. One was to

_Kathryn Keogh,_

_Thornton's Hotel, London._

_Your services are no longer needed. Go ahead and have a nice time!
Thanks awfully!_ _Jerningham_.

The other was to Francis Wolfe--same address. It read:

_You ought to marry Kathryn Keogh. Never mind anything else. I am
disappearing for good. God bless you both, my children! Letter follows._

_Jerningham._

Francis Wolfe showed his cablegram to Miss Keogh and Miss Keogh did not
show hers to Francis Wolfe.

A week later Frank asked Miss Keogh to read a letter he had received
from Jerningham, and to tell him what to do.

This was the letter.

Dear Boy,--We needed a million or two out of Ashton Welles, and the only
way we could see of getting it was by selling to him what he already
had--to wit, the control of the VanTwiller Trust Company. From previous
operations the syndicate I have the honor to represent had accumulated
enough cash to render this operation feasible; but Welles watched the
trades in VanTwiller stock so closely that we could not have bought
a thousand shares without blocking our own game. So we planned our
operations very carefully, as we always do. And because I like you I
will tell you how we went about it--that you may profit by our example.

First, I had to become instantly and sensationally known as the
possessor of vast wealth. The mere deposit of a million or two in a
bank would not do it. We must have the cash and a stupendous cash-making
property--hence the mines in the Klondike. Purely mythical mines, dear
lad! We sent to Alaska, bought $1,686,000 of gold-dust, put it in boxes,
and put a lot of lead in other boxes--now in the VanT. vaults!--thereby
increasing our less than two million into more than eight--and nobody
hurt thereby! Then the shipment to Seattle, so that every step could be
verified--and the special bullion train to New York; and the eccentric
miner--myself--with his gold--no myth about the gold--what? in a New
York hotel; and of course the reporters were only too willing to help
and to magnify our gold-dust.

The _Planet's_ articles were our letters of introduction to the trust
company and to Wall Street. Could not have done better--could we? But
how to catch Welles off his guard? By breaking it down, of course. Best
way? By rousing jealousy. That's where you come in. Mrs. Welles must go
to England with you on the same steamer. How? By winning your friendship
and rousing your romantic interest in an unhappy love-affair--that
would, moreover, explain my interest in Mrs. Welles. Of course there
never was any Naida Deering for me to be interested in!

But you had to meet Welles's wife. How? By means of your sisters. How
did I make friends of them? By reforming you and making you my heir.

How did I make Mrs. Welles take the same steamer that you did? By having
her mother cable for her. How did I do that? Ask Miss Keogh.

I admit that much of what we were compelled to do was not gentlemanly;
but, after all, our only crime is the crime of having been business
men--buying something at four dollars and selling it at five or six
dollars.

Take my advice, dear boy, and stay on the water-wagon! If you marry Miss
Keogh I think you can show this letter to A. Welles and ask him to give
you a nice position in the trust company.

I am sorry I cannot see you again; but believe me, dear boy, that we
are very grateful for your efficient assistance. We would send you a
check--only we need it in our business. Tell Jimmy Parkhurst to tell you
and Amos F. Kidder all about it.

Yours truly,

The Plunder Recovery Syndicate, Per Alfred Jerningham.

But it was a long time before Frank Wolfe returned to New York--without
Miss Keogh, who flatly refused to marry him. Jerningham had disappeared,
leaving absolutely no trail. Parkhurst introduced Frank Wolfe to Fiske,
but all that came of it was that Fiske added a few fresh notes to his
collection.




IV--CHEAP AT A MILLION


I

TOM MERRIWETHER, only son and heir of E. H. Merriwether, finished the
grape-fruit and took up the last of that morning's mail. He had acquired
the feminine habit of reading letters at the table from his father, who
had the wasteful American vice of time-saving.

He read the card, frowned, glanced at his father, and seemed to be on
the point of speaking; but he changed his mind, laughed, and tore the
card into bits.

The day was Monday, and this was what the card said:

_If Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether will go to 777 Fifth Avenue any
forenoon this week and answer just one little question about his past
life he will hear something to his advantage._

Idle men who live in New York are always busy. Tom had many things to
think about; but all of them were about the present or the future. His
past caused him neither uneasiness nor remorse.

On the following Monday young Mr. Merriwether received, among other
invitations, this:

_If Tom Merriwether will call at 777 Fifth Avenue any forenoon this week
and answer one question he will do that which is both kindly--and wise!_

It was in the same handwriting, on the same kind of card, and in the
same kind of ink as the first. Now Tom had the Merriwether imagination.
His father exercised it in building railroads into waterless deserts
whereon he clearly saw a myriad men labor, love, and multiply, thereby
insuring freight and passengers to the same railroads. The son had to
invent his romances in New York.

Ordinarily the second invitation would have given him something to busy
himself with; but it happened that he was at that moment planning to do
a heartbreaking thing without breaking any heart. Billy Larremore, the
veteran whose devotion to polo was responsible for so many of the
team's victories in the past, was not aware that age had bade him cease
playing. It would break his loyal heart not to play in the forthcoming
international match. Tom Merriwether had been delegated to break the
news.

Thinking about it made him forget all about the letter until the
following Monday, when he received the third invitation:

_Merriwether,--Come to 777 Fifth Avenue Tuesday morning at ten-thirty
without fail and answer the question._

He crumpled the card and was about to throw it away when he changed his
mind. Perhaps it would be wise to give it to a detective agency. But
what could he say he feared? Then he decided it was probably a joke.
Somebody wished to put him in the ridiculous position of ringing the
bell of 777, showing the card--and being told to get out. It was to be
regretted that this would seem funny to some of his perennially juvenile
intimates at the Rivulet Club.

An hour later, as he walked down the Avenue, he looked curiously at 777.
It was one of those newcomer houses erected by speculative builders to
sell furnished to out-of-town would-be climbers or to local stock-market
bankers who, being Hebrews, were too sensible to wish to climb, but were
not sensible enough not to wish to live on Fifth Avenue.

Tom resolved to ask Raymond Silliman, who played at being in the
real-estate business, to find out who lived at 777. Meantime he did a
little shopping--wedding-presents--and went to luncheon at his club. He
had not quite finished his coffee when he was summoned to the telephone.

"Hello! Mr. Merriwether?" said a woman's voice--clear, sweet, and
vibrant, but unknown. "This is Miss Hervey--the nurse--Dr. Leighton's
trained nurse. They asked me to tell you about your father. Don't be
alarmed!"

"Go on!" commanded young Merriwether, sharply.

"It is nothing serious--really! But if you could come home it
probably--Yes, doctor! I am coming!" And the conversation ceased
abruptly.

Tom instantly left the club. He took the solitary taxicab that stood in
front of the club. He afterward recalled the fact that there was only
one where usually there were half a dozen.

"Eight-sixty-nine Fifth Avenue. Go up Madison to Sixtieth and then turn
into the Avenue. Hurry!"

"Very good, sir," said the chauffeur.

The taxicab dashed madly up Madison and up Fifth Avenue, and finally
stopped--not before the Merriwether home, but in front of Number 777.
Before he could ask the chauffeur what he meant by it both doors of the
cab opened at once and two men sandwiched between them Mr. Thomas Thorne
Merriwether. The one on the west, or Central Park, side threateningly
held in his hand a business-like javelin--not at all the kind that
silly people hang on the walls in their childish attempts at decorative
barbarity. The man who half entered the taxicab from the east, or
sidewalk, side held in his left hand a beer-schooner full of a colorless
liquid that smoked, and in his right something completely but loosely
covered by a white-linen handkerchief.

"Please listen, Mr. Merriwether!" said the man with the glass. "Do
nothing! Don't even move! Hear me first!"

"Is my father--"

"I am glad to say he is well and happy, and working in his office
down-town. The message that brought you here was a subterfuge. Your
father is as usual. We arranged it so you had to take this particular
taxicab. Don't stir, please!"

"What does all this mean?" asked Tom, impatiently.

"I am about to have the honor of telling you," answered the man.

He had no hat and wore clerical garments. His clean-shaved face was
pale--almost sallow--and young Merriwether noticed that his forehead
was very high. His dark-brown eyes were full of the earnestness of
all zealots, which makes you dislike to enter into an argument--first,
because of the futility of arguing with a zealot; and, second, because
said zealot probably knows a million times more about the subject than
you and can outargue you without trouble. So Tom simply listened with an
alertness that would not overlook any chance to strike back.

"This glass contains fuming sulphuric acid. It will sear the face and
destroy the eyesight with much rapidity and completeness. Also"--here
he shook off the handkerchief from his right hand and showed a
revolver--"this is the very latest in automatics; marvelously efficient;
dumdum bullets; stop an elephant! I am about to solicit a great favor."

Tom Merriwether looked into the earnest, pleading eyes. Then he glanced
on the other side, at the bull-necked husky with the business-like
spear. Then he turned to the clerical garb.

"I see I am in the hands of my friends!" said Tom, pleasantly.

"The doctor was right," said the man with the glass, as if to himself.

"Come! Come!" said young Mr. Merriwether. "How much am I to give? You
know, I never carry much cash with me."

"We, dear Mr. Merriwether," said the pale-faced man in an amazingly
deferential voice, "propose to be the donors. If you will kindly permit
us we shall give you what is more costly than rubies."

"Yes?" Tom's voice was perhaps less skeptical than sarcastic.

"Yes, sir. Would you be kind enough to accept our invitation--the
fourth, dear Mr. Merriwether--to join us at 777 Fifth Avenue--right
here, sir--and answer one question? Please listen carefully to what I am
saying: You don't have to go. Moreover, if you should go you don't have
to answer any question. We would not, for worlds, compel you. But, for
your own sake, for the sake of your father's peace of mind and of the
Merriwether fortune, for the sake of your happiness in this world and in
the next; for all that all the Merriwethers hold most dear--come with me
and, if you are very wise, answer the question that will be asked you by
the wisest man in all the world."

"He must be a regular Solomon--" began Tom, but the man held up the
glass and went on, very earnestly:

"Listen, please! If you decide to accept our invitation I shall spill
this acid in the street and I shall give you this revolver. I repeat,
you do not have to answer the question. You will not be harmed or
molested. I pledge you my word. Will you, in return, give me yours
to follow me at once into 777, and that you will not shoot unless you
sincerely think you are in danger?"

Tom Merriwether looked at the pale-faced man a moment. He was willing to
take his chances with that face. Also, he could not otherwise find the
solution of this puzzling affair. Therefore he said: "Yes. I give you my
word."

Instantly the pale-faced man with the high forehead laid the revolver on
the seat beside young Mr. Merriwether and withdrew from the cab. Tom saw
him spill the fuming acid into the gutter. The burly javelin-man took
himself off. The temptation to use the butt of the revolver on the
clerical-garbed man with the earnest eyes came to Tom, but he saw in
a flash that if he should do such a thing he would be compelled in
self-defense to tell a story utterly unbelievable.

Moreover, the pale-faced man was a slender little chap of middle age and
no match for big Tom Merriwether. So, assuring himself that the revolver
was in truth loaded and that it worked, he put it in his pocket, kept
his grasp on it there, and got out of the taxicab. His one impelling
motive now was curiosity. Afraid? With the pistol and his muscles and
his youth, on Fifth Avenue, at two-thirty in the afternoon?

The pale-faced man, the empty glass in one hand, walked toward the door
of 777 without so much as turning his head. Tom followed.

The door was opened by a man in livery who took Mr. Merriwether's hat
and cane. Tom saw in the furnishings of the house--complete with that
curious unhuman completeness of a modern hotel--the kind of furnishings
that interior decorators usually sell to first-generation rich on
their arrival at Fifth Avenue residenceship. The furniture had every
qualification possessed by furniture in order not to suggest a home to
live in. Wherefore Tom, whose mind always worked quickly, reasoned to
himself:

"Rented for the occasion to the man who has made me come to him."

Also Tom noticed four men-servants, all of them well built and all of
them owning faces that somehow were not servant faces. The revolver,
which had seemed amply sufficient outside, seemed less so within the
house. Supposing he killed one--or even two--the other two would down
him in an affray. He tightened his grip on the revolver and planned and
rehearsed a shooting affair in which four men in livery were disabled
with four shots. A great pity E. H. Merriwether was such a very rich
man--a great pity for his son Tom.

At a door, on the center panel of which was a monogram in black, red,
and gold the last of the footmen knocked gently. The door was thereupon
opened from within.

"Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether, 7-7-77!" announced the
intelligent-looking footman, with a very pronounced English accent.

Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether entered. It was a _nouveau-riche_ library.
The Circassian-walnut bookcases and center-table were over-elaborately
carved, and the hangings of rich red velvet were over-elaborately
embroidered. The bronzes on the over-elaborate mantel looked as though
they had been placed there by somebody who was coming back in a minute
to take them away again.

Altogether the apartment suggested a salesroom, and there was a note of
incongruity in a golden-oak filing-cabinet of the Grand Rapids school.

At one end of the room in an arm-chair, with his back to a terrible
stained-glass window, sat a man of about forty. He had a calm,
remarkably steady gaze, with a sort of leisureliness about it that made
you think of a drawling voice. Also, an assurance--a self-consciousness
of knowledge--that was compelling. His chin was firm and there was a
suggestion of power and of control over power that reminded Tom of
a very competent engineer in charge of a fifty-thousand-horse-power
machine.

"Kindly be seated, sir," said the man in a tone that subtly suggested
weariness.

Tom sat down and looked curiously at the man, who went on:

"Sir, I have a question to ask you. If you see fit to answer, be good
enough to answer it spontaneously and in good faith. Do not, I beg you,
in turn, ask me questions--such as, for example, why I wish to know what
I ask. If you decide not to answer you will leave this house unharmed,
accompanied by our profound regret that you should be so unintelligent
at your life's crisis." The man looked at Tom with a meditative
expression, then nodded to himself almost sorrowfully.

Tom, though young, was a Merriwether. He said, politely, "Let me hear
the question, sir."

He himself was thinking in questions: What can the question be? Who is
this man? What is the game? What will be the end of it all?

"One question, sir," repeated the stranger.

"I am listening, sir," Tom assured him, with a quiet, but quite
impressive, earnestness.

"_Where did you spend your vacation at the end of your Freshman year?"_

Tom was so surprised, and even disappointed, that he hesitated. Then he
answered:

"In Oleander Point, Long Island, in the cottage of Dr. Charles W.
Bonner, who was tutoring me. I had a couple of conditions and I stayed
until the third of September!"

"Thank you! Thank you! That is all--unless, Mr. Merriwether, you wish to
do me and yourself three very great favors. Three!"

He looked at Tom with a sort of intelligent curiosity, as of a chemist
conducting an experiment.

"Let's hear what they are," said young Mr. Merriwether, calmly.

It was at times like these that he showed whose son he was--alert, his
imagination active, his nerves under control, and his courage steady
and at par. He had, moreover, made up his mind that he would do some
questioning later on.

"First favor: Concentrate your mind on how you used to spend your
bright, sunshiny days in Oleander Point and your beautiful moonlight
nights. Recall the pleasant people you were friendly with during those
happy weeks. Visualize that summer! Make an effort! Think!"

It was a command, and Tom Merriwether found himself thinking of that
summer. He closed his eyes. His grip on the revolver in his pocket
relaxed.... He saw his friends. Some of them he had not seen in years.
Others he saw almost daily. And somehow it seemed to him that all the
girls were pretty and kindly; and in particular--well, there were in
particular three. But the affairs had come to nothing.

He could not have told how long his reverie lasted--the mind traverses
long stretches of time, as of space, in seconds.

"Well?" said Tom at length.

"Thank you," said the man, with the matter-of-fact gratitude a man feels
toward a servant for some attention.

He took from his pocket a small black-velvet bag, opened it, and spread
on the table before Tom Merriwether a dozen pearls, ranging in size from
a pea to a filbert. They were all of a beautiful orient.

"I beg you to select one of these. You need not use it. You may give it
to your valet if you wish, or throw it out of the window. Only accept
it as a souvenir of our meeting. That, Mr. Merriwether, would be favor
number two."

He pointed toward the pearls. Tom picked one--pear-shaped, white,
beautiful--and put it in his waistcoat pocket. The man swept the rest
into one of the drawers of the long library table.

"I thank you very much," said Tom. He was not sure the pearls were not
genuine.

"No; please don't," said the man. There was a pause. Presently he asked,
"Do you know anything about pearls, sir?"

"I am no expert," answered Tom. "Characteristic. You Merriwethers are
brave enough to be truthful, and wise enough to be cautious. Have you
any opinions?"

"I think they are beautiful," said Tom.

"They are more than that. They represent, Mr. Merriwether, the hope of
the Kingdom of Heaven. The pearl is the symbol of purity, humility,
and innocence. Do you know the legend of the mild maid of God--Saint
Margaret of Antioch?"

"No."

"Margaret is from Margarites--Greek for pearl. And the reason why
faith--But I beg your pardon. Men who live alone talk too much when they
are no longer alone. I beg you to forgive me. Tell me, Mr. Merriwether,
did you ever hear of Apollonius of Tyana?"

"Not until this minute," answered Tom.

He felt almost tempted to ask whether the poor man was dead, but
refrained because he was honest enough to admit to himself that the
question would savor of bravado. Tom was consumed by curiosity as to
what would be the end of it all. To think of it--on Fifth Avenue, New
York, in broad daylight--all this!

How money was to be made out of him he could not yet see.

"I will show his talisman to you--the Dispeller of Darkness!" The
man clapped his hands twice. At the summons a negro walked in. He was
dressed in plain black and wore a fez. The man spoke some guttural words
and the negro salaamed and left the room. Presently he returned with a
silver tray on which were seven gold or gilt candlesticks and candles,
and seven gold or gilt small trays or plates, on each of which was a
pastil.

He arranged the seven candlesticks in some deliberate design, carefully
measuring the distance of each from the other, and of all from a
point in the center. He arranged the plates and pastils about the
candlesticks. Then he left the room, to return with a lighted taper,
with which he lit the seven candles and the seven pastils. Tiny spirals
of fragrant smoke rose languidly in the still air.

Again the negro left the room and returned with a small parcel wrapped
in a piece of raw silk which he gave to his master. He then went away
for good.

The man began to mutter something to himself and very carefully took off
the silk cover, revealing a wonderfully carved ivory box. He opened the
gold-hinged lid and took out a silver case. He opened that and from it
took a gold box elaborately though crudely chased. He opened the gold
box and within it, oh a little white-velvet pad, was a cross of dull
gold curiously engraved. He put the pad, with the cross on it, in
the middle of the seven lights. On the arms of the cross and at the
intersection Tom saw seven wonderful emeralds remarkable as to size,
beautiful as to color.

"Look at it, Mr. Merriwether. It is priceless. The gems alone are worth
a king's ransom. If you consider it merely as a piece of ancient art
there is no telling what a man like Mr. W. H. Garrettson would not give
for it. And as a talisman, with its tried wonder-working powers, there
is, of course, not enough money in all the world to pay for it."

Tom stretched his hand toward it.

"Please! Do not touch it, I beg," said the man, in a voice in which the
alarm was so evident that Tom drew his hand back as though he had seen
a cobra on the table. "Not yet! Not yet!" said the man. "It is the most
wonderful object in existence. It is a cross that antedates Christ!"

"Really?"

"It is obviously of a much earlier period than the Messiah. Great
scholars have thought it a legend, but here it is before you. It
belonged to Apollonius of Tyana, the wonder-worker. Philostratus, who
wrote the life of that great man, does not mention this talisman; he
dared not! Apollonius, who to this day is not known ever to have died,
gave it to a disciple, who gave it to a friend."

Tom looked interested.

"We know who has owned it. It was worn by Arcadius in the fifth century.
The Goths took it and Alaric gave it to the daughter of his most trusted
captain, who commanded his citadel of Carcassonne. Clovis, a hundred
years later, secured it at the sack of Toulouse. We have records of its
having been praised by Eligius, the famous jeweler of Dagobert, in the
seventh century. It was included in the famous treasures of Charlemagne.
It went to Palestine during the first and third crusades--the first time
carried by a maid who loved a knight who did not love her. She went as
his squire, he not suspecting her sex until they were safely back in
France, when he married her. It is a wonderful talisman. The emeralds
came from Mount Zabara. They have the power to drive away the evil
spirits and also to preserve the chastity of the wearer. Moreover, they
give the power to foretell events. Apollonius did--time and again. This
is historically true. But alone he, of all the men who have owned it,
never had a love-affair; hence his clairvoyance. I have bored you.
Forgive me!"

"Not at all. I was interested. It is all so--er--so--"

"Incredible--yes! There is no reason why you should believe it. It is of
no consequence whether you think me a lunatic or a charlatan."

He said this with a cold indifference that made Tom look incuriously
at the man, whose obvious desire was to excite curiosity. Then the man
said, with an earnestness that in spite of himself impressed the heir of
the Merriwether railroads:

"Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether, classified in our books as 7-7-77, you
are the man I need for this job!"

"Indeed?" said Tom, politely.

"Yes, you are." Tom bowed his head and looked resigned. He deliberately
intended to look that way. The man went on, "The reason I am so sure is
because I know both who and what you are."

"Ah, you know me pretty well, then." Tom could not help the mild
sarcasm.

"I have known you, young man, for eighty-five years, perhaps longer."
The man spoke calmly.

"Indeed!" said Tom. He was twenty-eight.

"Yes. On top of that cabinet is a book. After the name Thomas Thorne
Merriwether you will find 7-7-77. In the cabinet--seventh section,
seventh drawer, card Number 77--you will find clinical data,
physiological and psychological details, anecdotes, and so on, about you
and your father, E. H. Merriwether, and your mother, Josephine Thorne;
your grandfathers, Lyman Grant Merriwether and Thomas Conkling Thorne,
and of your grandmothers, Malvina Sykes Thorne and Lydia Weston
Merriwether. Indeed I know about your great-grandfathers and three of
your great-great-grandparents; but the data in their case are of little
value save as to Ephraim Merriwether, who in seventeen sixty-three
killed in one duel three army officers who laughed at his twisted nose,
bitten and disfigured for life by a wolf-cub he had tried to tame. Facts
not generally known, but, for all that, facts, young Mr. Thomas Thome
Merriwether, which enable me to say that I have known you these hundred
and fifty years--if there is anything in heredity, environment, and
education! And now, shall I tell you what favor number three is?"

"If you please," said Tom.

For the first time he felt that the usual suspicions as to a merrymaking
game could not be justified in this particular instance. It was much too
elaborate for a practical joke. He did not know how the matter would
end; but he did not care. In New York, on Fifth Avenue, on Tuesday
afternoon, he was having what, indeed, was an experience!

"I beg that you will listen attentively. You will take the Dispeller
of Darkness with you. Do not open the gold box under any circumstances.
Tonight go to 7 East Seventy-seventh Street so as to be there at eight
o'clock sharp. The door will not be locked. Don't ring. Walk in. Go
up one flight of stairs to the front room--there is only one. You will
stand in the middle of the room, with the talisman resting on the palm
of your hand--thus! Do nothing! Say nothing! Wait there! The talisman
will be taken from you by a person. Do not try to detain her--this
person. After the talisman is taken from you count a hundred--not too
fast! At the end of your count leave the room and come back here and
tell me whether you have carried out my instructions. Now, young sir,
let me say to you that you don't have to do what I am asking you to do.
There is no compulsion whatever. There is no crime in contemplation--no
attempt is to be made against your life, your fortune, or your morals. I
pledge you my word, sir!"

The man looked straight into Tom's eyes. Tom bowed gravely. This man
must be crazy--and yet he certainly was not. This interested Tom by
perplexing him as he had never been perplexed in his eight-and-twenty
years.

"Mr. Merriwether, this will be the most important step of your life. Its
bearing on your happiness is vital--also on the success of your great
father's vast plans. I give you my personal word that this is so." There
was a pause. Tom had nothing to say. The man went on:

"If you care to take reasonable precautions against attack do so. Thus,
keep the revolver you now have in your pocket--it is excellent. Try it
and make certain. You may write a detailed account of what has happened
and leave it with your valet; but mark on it that it is not to be opened
unless you fail to return by 10 p.m. Also you may, if you wish, station
ten private detectives across the way from 7 East Seventy-seventh
Street, and instruct them to go into the house at a single shout from
you or at the sound of a shot. Believe me, it is not your life that is
in danger, sir!"

"I believe you," said Tom, reassuringly.

"Will you do me favor number three?" The man looked at Tom with a
steady, unblinking, earnest--one might even say honest--stare.

Tom considered. His mind worked not only quickly, but
Merriwether-fashion. He saw all the possibilities of danger, but he saw
the unknown--and the lust of adventure won. He looked the man in the
eyes and said, quietly:

"I will."

"Thank you. There is the talisman. Each of the seven emeralds is
flawless--the only seven flawless emeralds of that size in existence.
Two of them have been in great kings' crowns, and the center stone
was in the tiara of seven popes; after which, the Great Green Prophecy
having been fulfilled, it came back to its place on the Cross.
Apollonius raised people from the dead, according to eyewitnesses. The
pagans tried to confute the believers in Christian miracles by bringing
forward the miracles of the sage of Tyana--and they did not know that
Apollonius wrought marvels by the Sign of the Son of Man--the Cross!
This cross! I pray that you will be careful with it. Show it to nobody.
You have understood your instructions?"

Tom repeated them.

"Precisely! I did not make a mistake, you see. In spite of your father's
millions you will be what your destiny wills. Young man, good luck to
you!" The man rose and walked toward the door. Tom Merriwether followed
him and was politely bowed out of the room. From there to the street
entrance the four athletic footmen, with the over-intelligent faces,
took him in tow, one at a time. And it was not until he was out on the
Avenue, headed north, walking toward his own house, that Thomas Thorne
Merriwether, clean-living miltimillionaire idler, shook himself, as
if to scatter the remnants of a dream, felt the butt of the revolver,
hefted the silk-wrapped parcel in which was the talisman, and said,
aloud, so that a couple of pedestrians turned and smiled sympathetically
at the young man, who must be in love, since he talked to himself:

"What in blazes is it all about?"



II

His perplexing experience developed so insistent a curiosity in Tom
that he grew irritable even as he walked. That some sort of a game was
being worked he had no doubt; but the fact that he could see no object
or motive increased his wrath. He discarded all suggestion of violence,
though he was bound to admit now that anybody could be kidnapped in New
York in broad daylight.

He decided to begin by verifying those allusions and references that he
remembered. He walked down the Avenue to the Public Library and there he
read what he could of Apollonius and of Eligius, the marvelous goldsmith
who afterward became Saint Eloi. The helpful and polite library
assistant at length suggested a visit to Dr. Lentz, the gem expert
of Goffony & Company, a man of vast erudition as well as a practical
jeweler. Tom promptly betook himself to the famous jewel-shop.

They knew the heir of the seventy-five Merri-wether millions, and
impressively ushered him into Dr. Lentz's office. Tom shook hands with
the fat little man, whose wonderfully shaped head had on it no hair
worth speaking of, and handed him the pearl he had picked out from
the dozen the man in 777 Fifth Avenue had placed before him. Dr. Lentz
looked at it, weighed it in his hand, and, without waiting to be asked
any questions, answered what nearly everybody always asked him:

"Persian Gulf. About fifteen grains--perhaps a little more. We sell some
like it for about thirty-five hundred dollars."

"Thanks," said Tom, and put the pearl in his pocket.

If it was a joke it was expensive. If not, the other pearls the man had
shown, nearly all of which were larger, must have been worth from fifty
thousand to a hundred thousand dollars. Such is the power of money that
this young man, destined to be one of the richest men in the world
and, moreover, one who did not particularly think about money, was
nevertheless impressed by the stranger's careless handling of the
valuable pearls. He concluded subconsciously that the talisman was even
more valuable. He took the package from his coat pocket and gave it to
Dr. Lentz.

"Raw silk--Syrian," murmured the gem expert, and undid the covering.

"Ha! Italo-Byzantine. The Raising of Tabitha. No! no!" He glared at
young Merriwether, who retreated a step. "Very rare! It's the Raising
of Jairus's Daughter. Same workmanship in similar specimen in the
Lipsanoteca, Museo Civico, Brescia. If so, not later than fourth
century. Very rare! H'm!"

"Is it?" said Tom. "I don't know much about ivories."

"No? Read Molinier! Græven!"

"Thank you. I will, Dr. Lentz."

Dr. Lentz opened the little ivory box and pulled out the silver case.

"Ha! H'm! Not so rare! Asia Minor. Probably eighth century."

"B C?"

"Certainly not. Key? H'm!"

"Haven't got it here," evaded Tom.

The little savant turned to his secretary and said, "Bring drawer marked
forty-four, inner compartment, antique-gem safe."

He was examining the little box, nodding his head, and muttering, "H'm!
H'm!" Tom felt the ground slipping away from under the feet of his
suspicions even while his perplexity waxed monumental. And with it came
the satisfaction of a man convincing himself that he is neither wasting
his time nor making himself ridiculous.

The clerk returned with a little drawer in which Tom saw about a hundred
and fifty keys.

"Replicas! Originals in museums of world!" explained Lentz. "H'm!" He
turned the keys over with, a selective forefinger. "It's that one or
this one." And he picked out two. "Probably this! Damascus! Eighth
century. Byzantine influence still strong. See that? And that? And that?
H'm!" He inserted the little key and opened the casket. He saw the gold
box within. "Ha! H'm! Thracian! How did you get this? H'm!" He
raised his head, looked at Tom fiercely, and then said, coldly, "Mr.
Merriwether, this has been stolen from the British Museum!"

It beautifully complicated matters. Tom's heart beat faster with
interest.

"Are you sure?" he asked, being a Merriwether. "Wait! H'm!" He lifted
it out and examined the back. "No! No! Thracian! Of the Bisaltæ! Time of
Lysimachus! But--Well! Aryan symbolism! Possibly taken to India by one
of Alexander's captains--perhaps Lysimachus himself! And--Oh! Oh, early
Christians! Oh, early damned fools! See that? Smoothed away to put
that--Oh, beasts! Heritics in art! Curious! Do you know the incantation
to use before opening?"

"It was in Greek, and--"

"Of course!"

"Yes. He said this had belonged to Apollonius of Tyana."

"How much does he ask?"

"It is not for sale."

"Inside is a pentagram?"

"No; a cross, with seven emeralds as big as that, all flawless."'

"There are only two such emeralds in the world without flaws and we have
one of them. The other is owned by the Archbishop of Bogota, Colombia."

"He said these were flawless and that he has proofs. He says Eligius
studied this--"

"Mr. Merriwether, you have on your hands either a very dangerous
impostor or else--H'm! He must be an impostor! How much does he want?"

"It is not for sale!"

"H'm! Worse and worse! If I can be of use let me know! They'll fool us
all! All! Good day!" And Dr. Lentz walked away, leaving Tom more puzzled
than ever, but now determined to go to 7 East Seventy-seventh Street at
eight o'clock that night.

He went home and wrote an account of what had happened, placed it in an
envelope, sealed the envelope, and gave it to his valet.

"If you don't hear from me by ten o'clock tonight give this to my
father; but don't give it to him one minute before ten. And you stay in
until you hear from me."

"Very good, sir."

He then went to the club, ordered an early dinner for two, and invited
his friend Huntington Andrews to go with him. He did not go into
details.

Shortly before eight he stationed Andrews across the way from 7 East
Seventy-seventh Street and told him:

"If I am not back here at eight-fifteen come in after me. If you don't
find me go to my house and wait until ten. My man has instructions. See
my father."

Tom was Merriwether enough to have in readiness not only an extra
revolver to give to his friend, but also a heavy cane and an electric
torch. Also he drove Huntington to within a hair's-breadth of death by
unsatisfied curiosity.

At one minute before eight Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether went into the
house of mystery, realizing for the first time how often the mystic
number seven recurred. The Bible teemed with allusions to the seven
stars, the seven seals, the seven-branched candlestick, the seven
mortal sins. The Greeks had Seven Wise Men and Seven Sleepers, and the
Pythagoreans saw magic in all the heptamerides. And there were seven
notes of music and seven primary colors, and seven hills in the Eternal
City. Also, it had never before occurred to him that he was born on the
seventh day of the seventh month. And now it had its effect.

He tried the door. It opened when he turned the knob. The hall was dark,
but he could descry the staircase. He grasped his revolver firmly and
entered.

There was a smell of undusted floors and unaired walls. The darkness
thickened with each step as he climbed, compelling him to grope. And
because he groped there came to him that fear which always comes with
uncertainty. It permeated his soul and was intensified, without becoming
more concrete, by reason of the ghostly emptiness peculiar to all
unoccupied houses. The absence of furniture served merely to fill the
comers with shadows that bred uneasiness. People had been there; people
no longer were! The house was empty of humanity, but full of other
beings--impalpable suspects that made the flesh creep! It was like
death--unseen, but felt with the senses of the soul.

There was no place, decided Tom, so fit to murder people in as an empty
house. His adventure now took on an aspect of reckless folly. But though
he felt in this ghostly house what might be called the ghost of fear, he
also felt the impelling force of an intelligent curiosity. In this young
man's soul was a love of adventure, a gambler's philosophy, a reserve
force of cold intelligence and warm imagination such as is found in the
great explorers, the great chemists, and the great buccaneers of dollars.

That was why in the year of grace 1913 Tom Merriwether stood in the
middle of the second-story front room of a house situated in a very
good street, only three doors from Fifth Avenue, with his left hand
outstretched, and on the open palm of it a cross with a Greek name that
meant Dispeller of Darkness--in a darkness that could not be dispelled.
His right hand grasped the butt of an automatic.45 loaded with
elephant-stopping bullets--but of what avail was that against a knock in
the head from behind?

Listening for soft footsteps, he seemed to hear them time and again--and
time and again not to hear them! People nowadays, he finally decided,
do not want to take other people's lives--only their money. Whereupon he
once more grew calm--and intensely curious! He had not one cent of money
on his person. He had left it at home intentionally.

Presently he thought he heard sounds--faint musical murmurings in
the air about him, low wailings of violins, scarcely more than Æolian
harpings, and pipings as of tiny flutes--almost indistinguishable. Then
a delicate swish-swish, as of silken garments. Also, there came to him a
subtle fragrance that turned first into an odorous sigh and then into
a summer breath of sweet peas; and he imagined--he must have
imagined--hearing, "I do love you!" ah, so softly!

He smelled now the odor of sweet peas, which stirred sleeping memories
without fully awakening them, as all flower odors do by what the
psychologists call association. He heard, "I do love you!"--and then the
Dispeller of Darkness was taken from his outstretched hand.

He stood there, his muscles tense, braced for a shock, ready for a life
struggle, perhaps half a minute before the sound of footsteps retreating
in the hall outside recalled to him his instructions. He vehemently
desired to follow and see who it was that had taken the Dispeller of
Darkness; but he had pledged his word not to. He hesitated.

The odor of sweet peas was flooding him as with waves. And he heard, "I
do love you!"--heard it again and again with the inner ear of his soul,
the listener of delights. He thrilled at the thought of being loved. It
made him incredibly happy. He felt unbelievably young!

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had not counted a hundred as he had
promised, though he must have spent more than a minute wool-gathering.
He counted a hundred as fast as he could and then hastened from the
room. It was plain that Tom Merriwether was already doing incredible
things or, at least, failing to do the obvious. Great is the power of
suggestion on an imaginative mind!

He flashed his electric torch. He was in a bare room with a dusty
hardwood floor, ivory-tinted wainscoting, and a Colonial mantel. The
hall was empty.

He walked down the stairs, his steps raising disquieting echoes and
creepy creakings.

Mindful of his waiting friend outside, he quickly walked out of the
gloom into which he had carried the Dispeller of Darkness of Apollonius
of Tyana, the cross of the seven emeralds. Huntington Andrews saw him
coming and crossed over to meet him.

"How did you make out, Tom?"

"I'm a damned fool, Huntington; and so are you! And so is everybody!"

"Right-O!" agreed Andrews, who was inveterately amiable and, moreover,
loved Tom.

"It's the most diabolical--" Tom paused.

"Yes, it is," agreed Huntington Andrews, so obviously anxious to dispel
his friend's ill temper that Tom laughed and said, cheerfully:

"Come on, me brave bucko!" And together they walked to the corner and
then down the Avenue to 777.

"Huntington, you wait here; and if I am not back by nine-forty-five go
to my house. At ten o'clock have my valet deliver the letter I gave him
for my father. You can be of help to the governor if you will."

And Huntington Andrews asked no questions--he was a friend.

Tom rang the bell of 777. The door opened. One of the four
over-intelligent-looking footmen stepped to one side respectfully.

"Is your--" began Tom.

"Yes, Mr. Merriwether," answered the man, with a deference such as only
royalty elicits.

He then delivered Tom to footman number two, who in turn escorted him
as far as number three; then number four led him to the door of the
master's library. The footman knocked, opened the door and announced,
with a curious solemnity:

"Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether, 7-7-77."

The strange man was there in his arm-chair, his back to the window. The
room was lit by candles. The man rose and said, respectfully:

"I thank you, Mr. Merriwether."

"Don't mention it," said Tom, amiably.

The man bowed his head and looked at Tom meditatively. Tom was the first
to break the silence.

"May I ask what--" Tom began, but was checked by the other, who held up
his right hand with the gesture of a traffic policeman and said, slowly:

"A message in the dark! You carried one to another soul, who waited for
it. And that other soul is taking one to you. Some day you will meet
her. You will marry her. There is no doubt whatever of that. None! Ask
me no questions, Mr. Merriwether. I ask nothing of you--no money, no
time, no services, no work, no favors--nothing! Your fate is not in my
hands. It never was! You will follow your destiny. It will take you by
the hand and lead you to her!"

"That is very nice of destiny."

"My young friend, you are very rich, very powerful. You can do
everything. You fear nothing. This is the year nineteen hundred and
thirteen. But I tell you this: the woman who will be your wife, in this
world and throughout eternity has received your message. It was ordained
from the beginning. You have not seen her; you have not heard her; you
have not touched her. And yet you will know her when you see her and
when you hear her and when you feel her. Into the darkness you went. Out
of the darkness she will come. Nothing you can do can change it. Improve
your hours by thinking of her. Think of the love you have to give her!
Think of it constantly! Of your love! Yours! Of hers you cannot guess.
The love you will give will make her your mate! Your love! And so,
Thomas Thome Merriwether, think of the One Woman!"

"I think--"

"I know! Amusement, sneers, skepticism, anger--all are one to me. I
ask nothing, expect nothing, desire nothing, and fear nothing from you,
young sir. A queer experience this--eh? An unexplained and apparently
unconcluded little game? A plot foiled by your cleverness--what? A joke?
A piece of lunacy? Call it anything you wish. Again I thank you. Good
evening, Mr. Merriwether."

And Tom was politely ushered from the room by the strange man and from
the house by the four over-intelligent footmen.



III

Next day Tom Merriwether found himself unable to think of anything but
the mystery of the fateful Tuesday. He felt baffled. His curiosity had
been repulsed at every step. In their definite incomprehensibility all
the incidents that he so vividly recalled took on an irritating quality
that made him a morose and uncomfortable companion. Huntington Andrews
noticed it at luncheon; and so admirable was the quality of his
amiability that after the coffee he said:

"Tom, I've got important business to attend to to-day, and if you don't
mind I'll be off now. Of course if you think I can help you in any way
all you have to do is to tell me what it is."

"Huntington, you are the best friend in the world. I've been thinking--"

Tom paused and stared into vacancy. He was trying to recall whether the
man at 777 Fifth Avenue had a criminal look about the eyes. Huntington
Andrews rose very quietly and walked away. He knew his friend wished to
think--alone.

Lost in his exasperating speculations, Tom finally ceased, thinking
of the man and began to think of the girl. Was the game to rouse his
interest in an unknown, later to be introduced to him? Was the scheme
one that involved an adventuress? Why all the claptrap? And why had
his thoughts, in spite of himself, dwelt so persistently on love and
somebody to love? Why had the springtime--since the night before--come
to mean a time for loving? Why had he begun to see, in flashes,
tantalizing glimpses of rosy cheeks and bright eyes? Why had he
permitted his own mind to be influenced by the strange man's remarks,
so that Tom Merri-wether was indeed thinking--if he would be honest with
himself--of marriage? Was his affinity on her way to him at this very
moment, as the man said? He began to hope she was.

He dined at home and was so preoccupied at the table that even his
father noticed it.

"What's up, Tom?"

"What? Oh! Nothing, dad! I was just thinking."

"Terrible thing, my boy--thinking at meal-time," said E. H. Merriwether,
with a self-conscious look of badinage.

"Yes, it is. I'll quit."

"Is it anything about which you need advice--or help, my boy?" said the
great little railroad dynast, very carelessly.

His eyes never left his son's face; but when Tom raised his gaze to
meet his father's the elder Merriwether showed no interest. Tom knew his
father and felt the paternal love that insisted on concealing itself as
though it were a weakness.

"No, indeed. There is nothing the matter--really. I was thinking I'd
like to do a man's work. I guess you'd better let me go with you on your
next tour of inspection."

The face of the czar of the Southwestern & Pacific lighted up.

"Will you?" he said, with an eagerness that made his voice almost
tremble.

"Yes."

And that evening E. H. Merriwether delivered a long lecture on railroad
strategy and railroad financing to his son, which brought them very
close to each other.

On the next day, however, all thoughts of being his great father's
successor were subordinated to the feeling that, if Mr. Thomas Thome
Merriwether had to be the successor of a railroad man, he should himself
take steps to provide his own successors. Feeling that he was his
father's son made him think of paternity. And that made him think of the
message he had delivered in the dark and of the message the man had
said would some day come to Tom Merriwether. He drew a deep breath and
thought he smelled sweet peas. And that somehow made him think of the
girl he should marry. Try as he might, he could not quite see her face.
He thought he kissed her, and he inhaled the fragrance of sweet peas.
Her complexion was beautiful. No more!

On the afternoon of the third day Tom decided that he was wasting too
much time in thinking of the possible meaning of his queer experience,
and also that it was of little use trying not to think about it.
Therefore he would try to put an end to the perplexity.

He went to 777 Fifth Avenue and rang the bell. A footman opened the door
and stared at him icily. Tom perceived he was not one of the men whose
faces looked too intelligent for footmen.

"I wish to see Mr.--er--your master."

"Does he expect you, sir?" The tone was not as respectful as footmen
in Fifth Avenue houses used in speaking to the heir of the Merriwether
millions. "No; but he knows me."

"Who knows you, sir?"

"Your master."

"Could you tell me his name, sir?"

"No; but I can tell you mine."

"He's not at home, sir."

"I'm Mr. Merriwether. Say I wish to speak to him a moment."

"I'm sorry, sir. He's not in."

The footman was so unimpressed by the name of Merriwether that Tom
experienced a new sensation, one which made him less sure of his own
powers. He took out a card and a bank-note and held them out toward the
man.

"I am anxious to see him."

"Im sorry. I can't take it, sir," said the footman, with such melancholy
sincerity that Tom smiled at the torture of the cockney soul.

Then he ceased to smile. The master of this mysterious house had
compelled even the footmen to obey him!

"But if you will call again in an hour, sir, I think perhaps, sir--"

"Thank you. Take it anyhow."

He again held out the bank-note. The man saw it was for twenty dollars,
and almost turned green.

"I--I d-daresent, sir!" he whimpered, and closed his eyes with the
expression of an anchoret resolved not to see the beautiful temptress.

Tom left him, walked across the Avenue to the Park, and sat down on a
bench. He settled down to think calmly over the mysterious affair, and
looked about him.

The grass in the turf places had taken on a definite green, as though
it were May. The trees were not yet in leaf, making the grass-greenness
seem a trifle premature, but Tom noticed that the buds on the trees and
shrubs were bursting; there were little feathery tips of tender red and
pale green--tiny wings about to flutter upward because the sun and the
sky beckoned to them to go where it was bright and warm. The sky was of
a spotless turquoise, as though the spring cleaning up there had been
thorough. The clouds were of silver freshly burnished for the occasion.
The air was alive, laden with subtle thrills; it throbbed invisibly,
as though the light were life, and life were love. He saw hundreds of
sparrows, and they all twittered; and all the twitterings were very,
very shrill, and yet very, very musical. And also they twittered in
couples that hopped and darted and aerially zigzagged--always together
and always twittering!

A policeman stopped and said something to a nurse-maid. The nurse-maid
said something to the policeman. He was young and she was pretty. Then
the policeman said nothing to the nurse-maid, and the nurse-maid said
nothing to the policeman. Then two faces turned red. Then one face
nodded yes. Then the other face walked away, swinging a club; and--by
all that was marvelous!--swinging the club in time to the tune the
sparrows were twittering--in couples--the same tune, as though the
club-swinger's soul were whistling it!

Tom smiled uncertainly--he wanted to give money, lots of it, to the
policeman and to the nursemaid; and he knew it was impossible--it was
too obviously the intelligent thing to do! So, instead, he drew a deep
breath.

Instantly there came to him not the odor of spring and of green things
growing, but of sweet peas and summer winds, and changing, evanescent
faces, pink-and-white as flowers, with flower-odor associations and eyes
full of glints and brightnesses that recalled dewdrops and sunlight and
stars. And these glittering points shifted in tune to the twittering of
birds and the swinging of Park policemen's clubs.

Love was in the air! Love was making Tom Mer-riwether impatient, as that
love which is the love of loving always makes the mateless man.

He could no longer sit calmly. He could not sit at all. He craved to
do something, to do anything, so long as it was motion. Therefore he
walked briskly northward. At Ninetieth Street he halted abruptly. He had
begun to walk mechanically and he could think of what he did not wish to
think. So he shook himself free from the spell and walked back.

An hour had passed. He again rang the bell of 777. The same footman
opened the door.

"Is he in?" asked Tom, impatiently.

"Yes, sir--he is, sir. I told him the moment he came in, sir." He looked
as uncomfortable as a lifelong habit of impassivity permitted.

"What did he say?" asked Tom.

"He said: 'How much did he offer to give you when you said I wasn't at
home?' Yes, sir. That's what he asked me."

"And you said?"

"I said it was a yellowback, sir. That's all I could see. I said I
wouldn't take it, and he said I might just as well have taken it. Thank
you, sir! This way, sir."

The footman led the way to the door in the rear, rapped, and in the
sonorous, triumphant voice that a twenty-dollar tip will give to any
menial he announced:

"Mr. Merriwether!"

The same man was in the same chair in the same room, with his back to
the stained-glass window. Tom recalled all the incidents of his previous
visits--recalled every detail. Also the old question: What is the game?
Also the new question: Where is she?

The man rose and bowed. It was the bow of a social equal, Tom saw.

"Good morning, Mr. Merriwether. Won't you be seated, sir?" And he
motioned him to a chair.

"Thank you."

"How can I serve you?"

"Who is the woman?" said Tom, abruptly. "Your fate!" answered the man.

"Her name?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Her address?"

"I don't know it."

"What is your game?"

"I have money enough for my whims and time enough to gratify my desire
to help you. Eugenics is my hobby. I recognize that I cannot fight
against the decree of destiny."

"I am tired of all this humbug."

"I ask nothing of you now. You can go or you can come. You can go to
India or to Patagonia--or even farther. You may send detectives and
lawyers, or even thugs, to me. You may cease your search for her--if you
can!"

"You have roused my curiosity--"

"That is a sign of intelligence."

"I tell you now that I don't believe a word of what you say."

"Free country, young man."

"I've had enough of this nonsense--"

"Though I am always glad to see you, young sir, and would not wound your
feelings for worlds"--the man's voice was very polite, but also very
cold--"I might be forgiven for observing that I did not ask you to
call."

"I'll give you a thousand dollars--"

The man stopped him with a deprecatory wave of the hand.

"One of the pearls I offered you, Mr. Merriwether, is valued at ten
thousand dollars. You did not select that one; but I'll exchange the one
you took for it--now if you wish."

"That's all very well, but--" Tom paused, and the man cut in:

"Do you wish to see her from a safe distance? Or do you wish to talk to
her without seeing her? Or--"

"To see her and talk to her!"

"Wait!"

The man intently regarded the tip of Tom's left shoe for fully five
minutes. Then he raised his head and clapped his hands twice. The black
manservant with the fez appeared.

The man said something in Arabic--at least it sounded so to Tom. The
black answered. The man spoke again. The black replied:

The man said what sounded to Tom like, "_Ay adad_."

The negro answered, "_Al-sabi! Al-sabi wal Saboun_."

The man waved his hand dismissingly and the negro salaamed and left the
room.

After a moment the man turned to Tom and said, with obvious perplexity:
"I am not sure it is wise for me to meddle, but perhaps it is written
that I am to help you three times. Who knows?"

He stared into Tom's eyes as though he would read a word there--either
yes or no. But Tom said, a trifle impatiently:

"Well, sir?"

"Go to the opera to-night. Take seat H 77. No other seat will do."

"H 77--to-night," repeated Thomas Thorne Merriwether.

"The opera is 'Madame Butterfly.'"

"Thanks," said Tom, and started for the door. He halted when the man
spoke.

"It is the seat back of G 77. None other will do."

"Good day, sir," said Tom, and left the room.



IV

The telephone operator in E. H. Merriwether's office manipulated the
plugs in the switchboard and answered in advance:

"Mr. Merriwether's office!"

From the other end of the wire came:

"This is the Rivulet Club. Mr. Waters wishes to speak to Mr. E. H.
Merriwether. Personal matter."

"He's engaged just now. Will any one else do?"

"No. Say it is Mr. Waters--about Mr. Tom Merriwether."

People resorted to all manner of tricks and subterfuges to speak to Mr.
E. H. Merriwether--deluded people who thought they could get what they
wished if only they could speak to Mr. Merriwether himself. They never
succeeded. He was too well guarded by highly paid experts who prevented
the waste of his precious time. But the telephone operator knew her
business. She switched the would-be conversationalist on to the private
secretary's line, saying: "Mr. Waters, Rivulet Club, wishes to speak to
Mr. E. H. in regard to Mr. Tom Merriwether."

"I'll talk to him," hastily said the private secretary.

"Hello, Mr. Waters! This is McWayne, Mr. Merriwether's private
secretary. Has anything happened to Tom that--Oh! Yes--of course! At
once, Mr. Waters."

McWayne then had the operator put Mr. Waters on Mr. E. H.'s wire.

"Who?" said the czar of the Pacific & Southwestern. "Waters? Oh yes. Go
ahead!"

And Mr. E. H. Merriwether heard, in a young man's voice:

"Say, Mr. Merriwether, some of the fellows here thought I'd better speak
to you about Tom. He's been acting kind of queer; of course I don't mean
crazy or--er--alarming; but--don't you know?--unusual.... Yes, sir! A
little unusual for him, Mr. Merriwether. To-day it was about the opera.
Says he's got to get a certain seat, no matter what it costs. Of course
it isn't our business.... Oh no! he never drinks too much. No; never! We
don't think we are called on to follow him to the Metropolitan, where he
has just gone; but we thought you ought to know it. Please don't bring
us into any--you know we are very fond of Tom; and we were a little
worried, he's been so unlike himself lately. We teased him about
being in love, and he--er--he seemed to get quite angry.... Yes, Mr.
Merriwether; we'll keep you posted; and please don't give me away. It
was a very delicate matter and--Don't mention it, Mr. Merriwether. We'd
all do anything for Tom, sir. Good-by."

E. H. Merriwether, the greatest little cuss in the world, as his
admirers called him, hung up the telephone. His face, that impassive
gambler's face which never told anything, now showed as plainly as could
be that he was wounded in a vital spot.

His son Tom was all this great millionaire had!

His railroad became so much junk and his vast plans just so much waste
paper as he thought of Tom. Was the boy going insane? Was it drugs? Was
it one of those mysterious maladies that break millionaires' hearts by
baffling the greatest physicians of the entire world and being beyond
the reach of gold? Or was it a joke? Young Evert Waters was a friend
of Tom's; but might not he exaggerate? He rang the bell for his private
secretary.

"McWayne, send somebody with brains to the Metropolitan Opera House to
find out whether my son Tom has been up there--box-office--and what he
is up to. I want to know how he acts. I want to know where the boy
goes and what he does, whom he sees and where. Get some specialist
on--er"--he could not bring himself to say mental diseases--"on nervous
troubles, and make an appointment with him to come to my house to-morrow
morning. He will have breakfast with us--say, at eight-thirty. I don't
want Tom to know."

He avoided McWayne's eyes.

"Yes, sir," said McWayne.

"Be ready to notify the papers to suppress any and all stories about
Tom. I fear nothing and expect nothing, because I know nothing. Drop
everything else and attend to these matters at once. I have heard that
Tom is acting a little queer. It may be a lie or a joke--or a trick. I
want to find out--that's all."

He would learn before he acted decisively. He stared at a pigeonhole in
his desk marked T. T. M. There he kept all letters Tom had written him
from boarding-school and from college. Presently he raised his head and
drew a deep breath. There was no need to worry until he knew. It would
be a waste of energy and of time; and, for all his millions, he could
not afford the waste. He rang a bell; and when a clerk appeared he said
in his calm, emotionless voice:

"I'll see Governor Bolton the moment he comes in."

There was a big battle on between capital and labor. He was in the thick
of it. He put Tom out of his mind for the time being. He could do that
at will; but he could not put Tom out of his heart--this little chap
that people called ruthless.



V

Tom Merriwether went to the box-office at the Metropolitan and said,
pleasantly, as men do when they ask for what they know will be given to
them:

"I want the seat just back of G 77--orchestra--for to-night. I suppose
it will be H 77."

The clerk, who knew the heir of the Merriwether millions, said, "I'll
see whether we have it, Mr. Merriwether." He saw. Then he said, with
sincere regret: "I'm very sorry. It's gone."

"I must have it," said Tom, determinedly.

"I don't quite see how I can help you, Mr. Merri-wether. I can give you
another just as--"

"I don't want any other seat. Who bought it?"

"I don't know. It may be a subscription seat, sold months ago."

"It's the double seven on the seventh row that I am concerned about. I
want the seat just back of it."

"I'll call up the ticket agencies. There's a bare chance they may have
it." After a few minutes he said, "I'm very sorry, Mr. Merriwether, but
I can't get it. They haven't it."

"I'm willing to pay any price for H 77. I'll give you a hundred dollars
if you--"

"Mr. Merriwether, I couldn't do it if you offered me a thousand! If I
could do it at all I'd be only too glad to do it for you--for nothing,"
the clerk said, and blushed.

Everybody liked Tom.

The sincerity in the clerk's voice impressed young Mr. Merriwether, who
thanked him warmly and withdrew. The baffled feeling that he took away
with him from the ticket-window grew in intensity until he was ready to
fight.

It was a natural-enough impulse that led him back to 777 Fifth Avenue;
but he was not quite sure whether he was angry at the man for telling
him to do what was obviously impossible or at himself for determining to
find her!

He rang the bell of the house of mystery. The footman that answered was
one of the intelligent four; but his face was impassive, as though he
had never before seen Tom.

"Your master?" asked Tom, abruptly.

"Your card, please," said the footman, impassively.

Tom gave it to him. The man disappeared, presently to return.

"This way, sir." And at the door in the rear he paused and announced,
"Mr. Merriwether!"

The master of the house was in his usual place. He bowed his head
gravely and waited.

"I couldn't get the seat," said Tom, with a frown.

"It is written, 'Vain are man's efforts!'"

"That's all very well, my friend. But the next time--"

"Fate deals with time--not with next time! There is no certainty of any
time but one. If you can do nothing I can do nothing. I still say, The
seat back of G 77 to-night."

Tom Merriwether looked searchingly into the calm eyes before him. The
baffled feeling returned; also, a great curiosity. What would the end
be? At length he said, "Good day, sir." He half hoped the man would
volunteer some helpful remark.

"Good day, sir," said the man, with cold politeness.

Tom went back to the Opera House and asked for somebody in authority
to whom he might talk. They ushered him into Mr. Kirsch's presence. Mr.
Kirsch, amiable by birth, temperament, and training, listened to him
with much gravity; also, with a concern he tried to conceal, for it was
too sad--a bright, clean-living, intensely likable chap like Tom, only
heir to the Merriwether millions!

Fearing a scene, he told Tom that he would speak to the ticket-takers in
the lobby to be on the lookout for ticket H 77. Then he conferred with
the emissary McWayne had sent, who thereupon was able to send in a most
alarming report.

The private secretary softened it as much as he could, and even dared to
suggest to the chief that it might be a bet; but the little czar of
the Pacific & Southwestern, who had never flinched under any strain
or stress, grew visibly older as he heard that his son was offering
thousands for an opera-seat--for the seat back of the double seven,
seventh row. It could mean but one thing!

Tom was so fortunate as to be standing beside the ticket-collector at
the middle door of the main entrance when the owner of H 77 appeared. He
was a fat man with a pink and shiny face, a close-cropped mustache, and
huge pearl studs. The fat man was fortunately alone.

"Sir," said Tom, "I should like to speak a moment with you."

The man looked apprehensive. Then he said, "What is it about?"

"For very strong personal reasons I should like to exchange tickets with
you. I can give you G 126--every bit as good--on the other side of the
aisle."

"Why should I change?" queried the shiny-faced man, suspiciously.

"To oblige a very nice young lady and myself. Of course, if you prefer
to be paid--"

"I don't need money."

"Well, I'll pay you a hundred dollars for your ticket," said Tom,
coldly.

The man shook his head from force of habit, in order that Tom might see
he was offering too little. Then he said, recklessly:

"It's yours, my friend. I have a pet charity. I'll give your money to
it. Where's the hundred?"

Tom took out a small roll of yellow bills, pulled off one, and handed it
to the man with the pet charity, who took it, looked at it, nodded, put
it in his pocket, gave the coupon to Tom, and then held out his right
hand.

"Where is the ticket for G 120 that you'll give me in place of mine?"

Tom gave it to him and walked into the house, not knowing that McWayne's
emissary had listened and reported. He sat in H 77 and tried to laugh
at his own absurd behavior; but somewhere within him--away in, very
deep--something was thrillingly alert, tantalizingly expectant.

The seat before him was empty. It remained empty during the first act.
It angered Tom that the climax should be so long in coming. The three
seats in front of him remained vacant until just before the curtain went
up on the last act. Somebody came in just as the lights were lowered and
occupied seat G 77.

Tom sat up and braced himself. He leaned over, vaguely desiring to be
near her. Unconscious that he was under a strain he, nevertheless, drew
a deep breath.

Instantly there came to him the odor of sweet peas, and with it thoughts
of summer, of a beautiful girl, of a soul-mate, of a wife. Love filled
his being. He wished to love and be loved. He wished to be somebody's
husband, so that he might begin to live the life he was to live until
the day of his death!

He leaned back in his chair and again inhaled the fragrance of sweet
peas--the odor that must mean kisses in the open; the inarticulate
love-making of breezes and blossoms; the multitudinous whispers of
midsummer nights heard by love-hungry ears. And then the music! There
came the breaking of a heart about to cease beating and the sobbing
crash of the brasses in the finale. It was almost more than Tom could
bear.

Then the curtain fell and light flooded the house. People streamed out.
Tom twisted and turned to see the face of the lady who made him think
of the sweet peas, which made him think of love and marriage and
children--but she was wrapped to the cheeks in a fur-edged opera-cloak
and her head was covered with a black-lace wrap. He could not see her
face; and after rivulets of people reached the main stream in the middle
aisle he found himself hopelessly separated from her. He tried to jostle
his way through. McWayne, his father's private secretary, suddenly
happened to be there.

"Hello, Tom!" he said. "What's your rush?"

Tom saw that it was useless to pursue the phantom of sweet peas and
dreams of love unless he vaulted over the stalls. McWayne's presence
made him realize how his friends would be shocked by such actions.

"No hurry at all," said Tom, who, after all, was a Merriwether. "Just
wanted to smoke and to see whether I knew that girl."

"I'll bet she's a pippin!" said McWayne, with a friendly smile. It
irritated Tom.

"I don't know any of your friends," said Tom, coldly; "lady friends and
pippins, fellows like you call them, I believe."

That was what convinced McWayne that the worst was to be feared about
poor Tom, who was so considerate and amiable when normal. Poor Tom!
McWayne telephoned to the waiting E. H. Merriwether, whose only reply
was to ask the private secretary to arrange to have Dr. Frauenthal,
the great specialist, at breakfast in the Merriwether house the next
morning, without fail.

It was a common occurrence for Dr. Frauenthal to meet--under false
pretenses, as it were--persons whose sanity was suspected by fond
relatives who dared not openly acknowledge their suspicions. He was a
man whose eyes had been compared to psychic corkscrews, with which he
brought the patient's secret thoughts to the light of day. Some one
said of him that, by inducing a feeling of guilt and detection among the
predatory rich, he was able to exact colossal fees from them. He was the
man who had made Ordway Blake give up making six millions a year in Wall
Street by quitting the game. Mr. Blake was still alive.

Frauenthal was introduced to Tom as a gentleman whose advice "E. H."
desired. The men conversed on various topics apparently haphazard; but
in reality Tom, without knowing it, was answering test questions. The
answers could not conclusively prove insanity, but they would certainly
show whether a more thorough examination was necessary.

Mr. Merriwether and Frauenthal left the house together. They entered the
waiting brougham. The great little railroad magnate gave the address of
the doctor's office to the footman, then turned to Frauenthal and said,
calmly:

"Well, what do you think of him?"

His voice was steady and cold; his face imperturbable; his eyes were
fixed with intelligent scrutiny on the specialist's, but his fingers
tightly clutched a rolled morning newspaper.

Frauenthal turned his clinical stare on E. H. Merriwether, as though the
financier were really the patient. He swept the little man's face--the
eyes, the mouth, and the poise--and then let his eyes linger on the
clenched fingers about the newspaper.

The iron-nerved, glacial-blooded, flint-hearted Merriwether could not
control himself after forty-five seconds of this. He flung the newspaper
on the floor violently.

"Go ahead!" he said, harshly.

The doctor did not smile outwardly; but you felt that within himself
he had found an answer to one of his own unspoken questions about the
father of the suspect.

"There are, Mr. E. H. Merriwether," he began, in the measured tones
and overcareful enunciation of a lecturer at a clinic, "various
forms of--let us say--madness; and your son Tom, a fine young man of
twenty-eight, is quite unmistakably suffering from--"

He paused to give the fine young man's emotionless father an opportunity
to show human feelings. Frauenthal was always interested in the struggle
between the emotional and the physical in his millionaire patients.

"Go on!" said E. H. Merriwether, so very coldly as to irritate.

His eyes never left the alienist's own secret-draggers; but he was
drumming on his thigh with the tips of his uncontrollable fingers.
Ordinarily his desk would have screened from sight this betrayal of
human feeling.

"Your son, sir, is suffering, beyond any question, from the oldest
madness of all--love!"

"What?"

"Your son Tom is in love. That is what ails him."

"Are you serious?" Mr. Merriwether was frowning fiercely now.

"You'll think so," retorted Frauenthal, coldly, "when you get my bill."

"My boy Tom in love?" repeated the czar, blankly. "Yes."

"With whom?"

"I don't know. I'm a neurologist--not a soothsayer."

"Well, suppose he is in love--what of it?"

"Nothing--to me."

"Then what is serious about it?"

"I can't tell you, for its seriousness to you depends on your point
of view toward society at large. There are, of course, the obvious
disquieting circumstances."

"For instance?"

"He is a fine chap--healthy, bright, honest. What is the reason he has
said nothing to you? Is he ashamed or afraid? If he is ashamed it is
very serious to both of you. If he is afraid--well, then the seriousness
depends on how intelligent a father you have been to him."

"Don't talk like a damned fool! I've been a good father to him; of
course--"

"Wait! Wait! First tell me why you do what you ask me not to do?" In the
specialist's eyes was a sort of professional curiosity.

"What do you mean?" said E. H. Merriwether, impatiently. It exasperated
him to be puzzled.

"Why do you talk like a damned fool?" said Frauenthal.

Nobody ever talked that way to Mr. E. H. Merriwether, overlord of the
greatest railroad empire in history. He flushed and was about to retort
angrily, but controlled himself in time. The brougham had reached
Frauenthal's office. Mr. Merriwether spoke too calmly--you could feel
the tense restraint:

"Dr. Frauenthal, I've heard a great deal of your wonderful ability."

He paused. It came hard to him to be ingratiating. This difficulty
is the revenge which nature takes on people who acquire the habit of
'paying money for everything in this world. Such men cannot talk except
with a check-book, and the check-book loses the power of speech before
happiness--and before death.

"What very difficult thing is it you wish me to do for you?" asked
Frauenthal, coldly.

"You are sure Tom is not--" He hesitated.

"Crazy?" prompted the specialist.

"Yes."

"Yes; I'm sure he is not. Therefore he is saner than you who are a
money-maker."

Mr. Merriwether let this remark pass. He was anxious to save Tom. This
man was uncannily sharp. He said, "And can't you do something, so that
Tom will not--"

"I am not God!" interrupted Frauenthal.

"Then, what can I do? What do you suggest might be done?"

"As a neurologist?"

"Yes."

"Nothing."

"Then, as a man of the world--as one who knows human nature? You see,
this--this--er--sort of thing is not in my line. What shall I do?" It
was a terrible thing for the great Merriwether to confess inefficiency
in anything.

"Pray!"

The little magnate flushed. "Dr. Frauenthal," he began, with chilling
dignity, "I asked--"

"And I answered. Have your millions deafened you? Pray! Pray to
whatever other god you may have that the lady prove to be neither a
prima donna nor a novelist. A temperamental daughter-in-law is really
worse than you deserve, for all the money they say you have made. There
are check-book gods and stock-ticker gods; and there is also God. I'd
pray to Him if I were you. Good day, sir!"

The footman had opened the door, and the great specialist, without
another look at the railroad man, got out and walked into his house.

"Where to, sir?" asked the footman.

Mr. Merriwether, however, was vexed to think that in relieving his
anxiety over Tom's sanity Frauenthal had replaced it with a dread
question--Why had not Tom told his father about her? The boy must be
either crazy or in love. If he was not crazy, who in blazes was she?
What was she? Why was she? All this angered him. He muttered aloud:
"Hell!"

"Yes, sir--very good, sir," said the footman, from force of habit. Then
he trembled; but his master had not heard him.' The footman breathed
deeply and said, tremulously, "B-beg p-pardon, sir?"

"Nearest Subway station!" said E. H. Merriwether. .

He was in a hurry to reach his office, not because he had important
business to transact there, but because somehow he always thought best
in his own chair before his own desk in his own office. There he was
an autocrat, and there he could think autocratically and issue commands
that were obeyed. He had much thinking to do--Tom was concerned, his
son Tom; and Tom's future. And it was now clear that T. T. Merriwether's
future was also the future of E. H. Merriwether!

Why had this thing come on him? Talk about your thunderbolts out of
a clear sky--this love-affair was a million times worse! It was
mysterious--and it is well known in Wall Street that a mystery is worse
than nitroglycerine--infinitely more dangerous.

What was this love-affair? How far had it gone? Just where was the
dynamite stored? Who was she? Why did not Tom say something? Why could
not Tom have fallen in love safely? Why could he not have married a good
girl who would help him and help E. H. Merriwether help both by minding
her own business--to wit, a few little male Merriwethers?

It was time Tom became his father's successor-to-be. E. H. Merriwether
had loved to do his own work his own way all his life. It was his
pleasure. But the work suddenly took on an aspect of far
greater importance than the worker. The work was the work of the
Merriwethers--not of one Merriwether; not even of the great E. H., but
of all the Merriwethers, living and to be.

Tom must be trained not only to be the son of a Merriwether, but to be
himself a Merriwether. And therefore E. H. must cease to be a railroad
expert toward Tom; he must become Tom's father, the trainer of a
successor--flesh and blood the same; the fortune the same.

And, as a sense of impending loss always heightens values, E. H.
Merriwether suddenly realized how important to him and to his happiness
Tom was. He loved Tom, who was not only his only son, but the only
Merriwether. That told everything: He loved Tom.



VI

After his father and Dr. Frauenthal left the house Tom tried to feel
that he had finished his breakfast--that is to say, he attempted to read
the newspapers. But the printed letters failed to combine themselves
into intelligible forms, and even when he read a word here and there his
mind did not record it. Obeying an unexplained impulse, he rose.

Then he sat down merely because he had been standing. Then he tried to
reason why he was sitting and what sitting there thinking of himself in
that particular position meant. But the sky was too blue! It called to
him in an azure voice that made him long for the sunshine and the open
air, and the rooflessness of outdoors that permits ten million fancies
to soar unchecked.

Also, he longed for something; and, though he knew that he longed, he
did not know exactly what it was he longed for, because it was not his
mind that desired it, but all of him; and all of him did not think with
precision. Young men are apt to feel like that in the springtime--also
young women. Also widowers and relicts and canaries and heifers and
burros--and even bankers!

Therefore Tom swore at that nothing which is always something and gave
up trying to make himself think that he wanted to read the morning
papers. His nervous system coined a proverb for him: "When in doubt,
walk out!" So he walked out of the house and crossed the Avenue.

He found himself in Central Park--the remedy which the very rich do not
and the very poor cannot use to cure the spring in the blood. And as he
walked the soul-fidgets left him, so that after a mile or two he quite
cold-bloodedly began to think of his most pressing duties. He went about
them systematically.

The first thing he had to do was some shopping; shopping on Fifth
Avenue--on Fifth Avenue where the jewelry-shops were; in the
jewelry-shops where the wedding-presents were. There! He was off again.
Everybody was getting married! What business had people to make people
think of wives--yes, wives--plural; lots of wives; all beautiful, all
desirable and worthy; all lovely and loving and lovable; and all fit to
be rolled into one--Tom's?

It was not polygamy. It was merely composite photography. The one
he desired had a little of each of the girls he admired. She was the
amorous crazy-quilt that youth is so apt to dazzle itself with in the
springtime--a nose from a friend; two lips from a stranger; a complexion
from a distant relative; a pair of eyes from the sky; a heart from the
heart of the sun--and lo! the wife-to-be!

And so the wedding-presents--a silver service, to be used by two
sitting on opposite sides of a table, looking into each other's eyes;
a glittering string, to be admired on a wonderful throat--were heavy
enough to keep Tom's soul from soaring. And because his feet were on the
pavement he soon found himself--of course!--before 777 Fifth Avenue.

Why should he not go to that house? And why should he not ring the bell?
Why not? He was just in the mood to meet her!

His intentions were above suspicion, though marriage is a serious thing;
but, really, now was the time for the adventure to appear--even if the
adventure turned out to be merely the adventuress.

Therefore, with the inexorable logic of the most illogical state of mind
known, he rang the bell and waited with an eagerness--half hope, half
curiosity--most unusual among people who, like Tom, early acquire the
habit of asking, check-book in hand, for whatever they wish.

The footman who answered was one of the men with the over-intelligent
faces.

"I am Mr. Merriwether. I wish to see your master."

Tom's voice rang a trifle more commandingly than the occasion appeared
to call for. There was a physiological reason for it. The man hesitated
so that Tom wondered; but presently all expression vanished from the
non-menial face and the footman said:

"This way, if you please, sir."

He preceded Tom to the door of his master's library. He rapped twice
smartly and waited in an attitude of listening. Tom also listened
intently; he could not have told why he did it--though it was, of
course, inevitable.

Not a sound was heard. The over-intelligent footman's lips moved for all
the world as though he were counting, and presently he opened the door
and announced:

"Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether--7-7-7 7."

Tom entered. The master of this strange house was seated at the
over-elaborate library table, writing. He looked up, but before Tom
could speak the man said, coldly:

"I cannot do anything for you, sir."

It was so much like a refusal to give alms to a beggar that Tom flushed
angrily. He managed to check a sharp retort on the very brink and,
instead, began in a mildly ironical tone:

"Of course you know what I--"

"Of course!" interrupted the man, rudely; and he began impatiently to
drum on the edge of the table with his penholder. "Do you imagine for a
minute that you are the only mateless male in New York looking for his
destined bride? And do you really think that the fruitlessness--until
now--of your search is a world-tragedy? Because your name happens to
be Thomas--which is a descriptive title when applied to marriageable
felines of your own sex--do you fancy I am concerned with your affairs?
Young man, you are the only son and heir of a very rich man; but there
are some things that money cannot buy. Love is one of them."

He frowned at Tom, but something in the young millionaire's face made
him relent. He went on, more kindly, more encouragingly:

"My boy, she is seeking you, even as you are seeking her. She is very
beautiful! You will meet her at the appointed hour--have no doubt of it.
After your perfectly stupid failure at the opera--Wait!" He held up a
hand as Tom was about to speak in self-defense. "The very futility of
your manoeuvers shows that youth, brains, money, persistence, and desire
are all powerless to hurry fate. As you, who have never seen her, love
her, she loves you, though she has never seen you. She will know you as
you will know her; but she is gone!"

"Where?" Tom spoke before he knew it.

"Be patient! After you meet her you will live with her until death parts
you."

He said this, without theatrical emphasis, in a most matter-of-fact way.
Tom's suspicions, always present in this house of mystification rather
than of mystery, were not made livelier by the man's words; but neither
were they allayed by the tone of his voice. He hesitated, and then,
adventure whispering, he said:

"To be perfectly frank, I am interested in this--"

"Young man, I told you before that I ask nothing of you--no favor, no
money, no service; not even your interest. When I asked you to do a
certain thing you did it. I am not particularly grateful. You could not
have refused! Possibly you can explain to your own satisfaction your
own inexplicable acquiescence; you doubtless have evolved a dozen most
ingenious theories to account for your doings and mine. The shortest
and easiest explanation is the true one--fate. After you marry you will
compare notes with her--and yet you will not understand why I concerned
myself with your lives. You will perplex yourselves so unnecessarily;
all because of your unwillingness to say, fate! Men hate fate as a
hypothesis. It is not flattering to admit that we are but puppets--the
strongest of us no stronger than an autumn leaf in the wind. And because
you do not see fate you do not believe in it. And, for fear of being
considered an ass by a lot of asses, who also do not believe in fate,
you will never tell any one your romantic story. And yet, of the scores
you call friends, there are only seven men who are happily married. And
those seven I helped, as I have helped you and as I shall help those I
am ordered to help. Even now the Dispeller of Darkness is out, making
one heart send a message in the dark to another heart waiting for it!"

"Do you mean to say you cannot or will not arrange for my meeting the
mysterious person you tell me I am going to marry?"

"I mean to say that your coming to this house with such a hope merely
means a waste of your time, young sir, and of mine. You will meet your
love, but you cannot find her. No man finds happiness by means of a
systematic or diligent search. It comes or it does not come--as God
wills."

The man rose. Tom also rose and said:

"But at least tell me where this--this alleged fate of mine is."

The man shook his head with a smile that was in the nature of a mild
sneer.

"Doubting Thomas! He won't admit it, but he can't deny it! Ah, so wise!
So clever in his suspicions! So intelligently skeptical! Ah yes!"

Still nodding in ironical admiration, he approached the filing-cabinet.

"Let me see--you are 7-7-77." He pulled out drawer seven in section
seven and took out an envelope from which he drew a lot of papers. He
read a typewritten sheet. He replaced the papers, closed the drawer,
turned, and stared doubtfully at Tom, muttering half to himself: "I
don't know! I don't know!"

"What?" asked Tom.

"Do you really want her? Do you feel that you must meet her soon or
die?"

Tom knew he would not die if he did not meet her soon, but as for
wanting her, he certainly did. Every cell in his body was on the alert,
waiting for her, hoping to see her; and adventure, through a megaphone,
was vociferating in the middle of his soul: "Come! Come!" Therefore Tom
looked the man straight in the eyes and answered:

"Yes, I do!"

The man hesitated. Then he said:

"Listen! It is for the last time. Do you hear? For the last time! Do you
agree?"

He looked sternly at Tom, who thereupon answered, impatiently:

"Yes! Yes!"

"Boston! Hotel Lorraine! Secure Room 77, seventh floor. On Thursday
at exactly 7 p.m. be in the southeast corner of the library or
reading-room, which is on the left of the hall as you go to the main
dining-room. Green arm-chair. Hold your hat between your knees--bottom
side upward. Close your eyes. A letter will be dropped into the hat.
Then do as you please. Personally I don't think it will help or hinder.
But you are young; and perhaps if you wish hard enough it may happen
according to your desire. Good day!"

The man turned his back squarely on Tom, leaving to the heir of the
Merriwether millions no alternative but to go out dissatisfied, excited,
skeptical, hopeful, and determined to go to Boston--danger or no danger,
swindle or no swindle.

The mysterious man, too mysterious to be anything but a charlatan,
who said he did not wish Tom's money and, for that reason, probably
did--this man promised Tom he should meet a girl--a beautiful girl, the
girl he would marry. If there was to be no compulsion about it; if they,
the man and his accomplices, counted on her charms to capture Tom's
heart and hand--why, the sooner she began the attack, the better. Also,
it was one of those things that only an ass would talk about, since the
telling would put an end to all doubts as to the teller's asininity.

Therefore, without saying a word to anybody, Tom went to Boston, not
knowing that McWayne's detectives had orders to follow Tom wherever
he went and to report in detail what he was seen to do and what he was
heard to say and to whom.

Tom arrived in Boston, went to the Hotel Lorraine, registered, and asked
the polite room clerk for Room 77 on the seventh floor. The clerk smiled
pleasantly, as he always did whenever a guest-to-be asked for rooms that
did not end in thirteen, disappeared to look at the index, and returned.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that room is taken. I can give you--"

"Taken!" said Tom, in such a disappointed tone that the clerk deigned to
explain sympathetically: "Engaged by telegraph."

"Who engaged it?"

Tom asked this so peremptorily that the clerk looked at him icily with
raised eyebrows, turned his back on the New-Yorker, made a pretense of
once more looking at the index of rooms and guests, and said to him with
a cold determination in his voice: "I made a mistake. I thought we had a
vacant room on the eighth floor. I find we have no vacant room anywhere.
I'm sorry, sir. Nothing left."

He marked something after Tom's name on the register and turned away. He
evidently considered the incident closed.

Tom was too surprised to be angry. Then he recovered himself. His
business in Boston was to get a certain room in this hotel. He was a son
of his father; so he said, with a quiet determination that disturbed the
clerk:

"I must have Room 77 on the seventh floor! The price is of no
consequence. I am Mr. Merriwether."

"I told you it was engaged."

"And I told you I must have it. Don't you understand English?"

"Don't you?" said the clerk, trying to disguise his growing uneasiness
with a sneer.

This made Tom calm. He said, quietly:

"Will you be good enough to send my card to Mr. Starrett, the owner of
this hotel? He knows who I am and who my father is; but if he should
have forgotten, say that he is to call up Major Wilkinson, of Pierce,
Wilkinson & Company, the bankers, or Mr. Blandy, of the Moontucket
National Bank, or anybody who knows where New York is on the map. Good
heavens! there must be somebody in Boston who hasn't been asleep for the
last twenty years!" The clerk decided to be polite. The name Merriwether
had a familiar sound, but he could not associate it. He said, more
politely:

"I am sorry, Mr. Merriwether, but the room you want--and three others
with it--have been engaged."

"By whom?"

"You are asking me to break one of our rules."

"Well, can you tell me whether it has been engaged since yesterday?"

"Oh, longer than that!" He disappeared, consulted a book, and came back
with the triumphant expression human beings put on when they do not wish
to say "I told you so," aloud, "Engaged and paid for since the eighth,
Mr. Merriwether. That's nine days ago. So, you see, we can't do what you
ask us to. Sorry!"

Wherever he went, Tom thought he was confronted by crude attempts at
mystery. To send him to this particular room, 77 on the seventh floor,
was merely the same as an effort to impress children by using the
magical number seven.

Who had engaged the room? Was it an accomplice or some stranger
guiltless of participation in the rather juvenile joke?

Still, Tom was in Boston to do a particular thing; and, though much
of the spring restlessness had gone from his veins, there remained the
desire to see the affair through to the end, whether the end should be a
smile or a mild oath. Therefore, after a pause, Tom said to the clerk:

"Can you give me the room exactly opposite 77 on the seventh floor?"

The clerk hesitated, then said:

"Just a minute, please."

He consulted one of the bookkeepers, from whom he must have learned
whose son Tom was. And, though Boston is not New York, money is money,
even in Massachusetts; and the heir to fifty or a hundred million
dollars is something, whether or not he is somebody.

"Certainly," said the clerk, and handed the key to a young man called,
in New York, a bell-boy. The young man now preceded Tom to the seventh
floor and ushered the New-Yorker into Room 78.

Tom gave the studious youth a dollar and never noticed that the boy
regarded the bill with a mixture of suspicion and alarm, put it gingerly
into his pocket, and left the room, closing the door. Tom opened the
door. The boy thought it had opened itself and returned to close it. Tom
waved him away. The boy hastily retreated. He did not, however, throw
away the dollar. He had discovered it was not "phony."

The bell-boy found the room clerk engaged in conversation with two men.
He, divining that the talk concerned the generous lunatic, flung at
the room clerk that look of exaggerated perplexity which will cause any
normal human being inevitably to ask: "What is it?"

The room clerk saw the look and still kept on talking with the men;
whereupon the bell-boy walked up to the desk, frowned fiercely, and
muttered, "He is in his room!"

"What's that, boy?"

"I said," retorted the studious youth, glacially, "he was in his
room--78. He gave me a dollar and left the door open. I tried to close
it, but he opened it again--after he gave me the dollar."

The clerk, awe in his face, turned to the men and nodded confirmatively.

"Your man!" he said. "Of course we don't want any fuss--"

"We'll telephone Mr. McWayne, the private secretary. The young fellow
isn't violent, you know."

The hotel clerk said the inevitable thing:

"Only son, too--isn't he?"

"Yes. Over a hundred million dollars, I've heard." The detective,
induced thereto by the invitation in the clerk's voice, had vouchsafed
inside information.

"Too bad!" murmured the clerk, thinking of the hundred million and Tom.
"Too damned bad!" he almost whimpered, thinking of the hundred million
and himself. To show that he was unimpressed by vast wealth he added,
sternly, "No trouble, you understand!"

One of the men whom McWayne had instructed to shadow Tom sat in the
lobby just in front of the elevator. The other, with the clerk's
permission, went up to the seventh floor and sat down by the floor
telephone operator. From there he could keep a ten-dollar-a-day eye on
Room 78.

Meantime Tom's impatience had reached such a point that he could not sit
still. Through his open door he could see the closed door of Room 77.
The thought came to him to see who was in that room. Then it struck him
that perhaps the mysterious man in New York had reckoned precisely
on rousing the Merriwether curiosity. Perhaps an unpleasant surprise
awaited the man who should enter Room 77. Perhaps the room was occupied
by some one who had nothing to do with her--and therefore nothing to
do with him. Perhaps he should put himself in a ridiculous predicament.
Perhaps a million disagreeable things might happen, making it obviously
the unwise thing to do to go into Room 77.

All these reflections, however, weighed no more than a shadow with
him. The more he thought of why he should not go into Room 77 the more
difficult it became to resist the call of adventure. He walked across
the hall and knocked sharply on the door. No answer came. He knocked
again. A hotel maid approached him.

"I beg your pardon, sir. Are you in the party?"

"What party?"

"In Room 77."

"No. I am in 78."

"I am very sorry--but it is against the rules of the house, sir."

Tom had nothing to say to the maid; so he closed the door of his own
room, conscious that his actions must appear erratic, but not much
concerned over it. Presently he went out for a walk and did not go to
either of his Boston clubs. This omission was duly noted by the clever
Mr. McWayne's star sleuths.

Tom returned to the hotel, feeling almost cured. He realized that he had
come on a fool's errand; and yet there was something that told him it
was not a fool's errand. It was too elaborate for a practical joke. So
long as no motive was apparent the mystery remained a mystery; and no
mystery is laughable--at least, not while in the act of mystifying.

So he decided for the tenth time to go through with his part, absurd or
not. He walked about the lobby, utterly unconscious that he was a marked
man. He could not see that the clerks and the bellboys and the two
men from the New York agency followed his movements, not only with the
liveliest curiosity, but with deep pity.

All he was doing was to wait more or less impatiently for seven o'clock;
but impatience is so natural a feeling, and comes so easily to most
human beings, that it always rouses suspicion. Tom did not "act right"
to the watchers. Any perfectly sane and intelligent man, accused
of being mad, will confirm the accusation if he is watched for five
minutes. People who never think and never imagine are never taken for
lunatics. That nowadays is about the only compensation for being an ass.

At 6.56 p.m. he walked into the hotel library and found that the
green-plush arm-chair in the corner by the window was occupied by an
elderly woman. It annoyed him because he desired to sit in that chair at
exactly seven o'clock. Absurd or not, the problem became how to get rid
of the old woman quickly and without disturbing the peace or alarming
the office.

His mind worked logically enough for a man under observation for
insanity, and his sense of humor acted as a safety-valve for his
inventiveness. He merely drew his chair very close to the startled old
lady and opened a magazine. He found a poem and began to read it in the
exasperating undertone used by the demons who have the next seats to
yours at the opera.

Presently he began to drum on his thigh with the tips of his fingers,
and at regular intervals of ten seconds he thumped it with his clenched
fist bass-drumwise. Every twenty-five seconds he pulled out his watch,
looked at it, exclaimed, "Gracious!"--and blew his nose loudly and
determinedly.

Within two and three-quarter minutes the old lady glared at him, rose,
looked at the clock, glared again at him to make sure, and left the
room. In the hall she stopped and spoke to the young lady who checked
hats and coats near the entrance of the main dining-room.

"I had to leave the reading-room. A perfectly horrible person came in!
He simply drove me out."

"Yes, madam. He is insane. It is a very sad case."

"Goodness! What a narrow--".

"Oh, he is quite harmless, madam."

"It's a wonder a first-class hotel, like this claims to be, allows--"

"You are right!" agreed the wise young woman, whose business was to
encourage generosity.

The old lady went away, muttering. Thomas Thome Merriwether sat down
in the vacated chair, put his hat between his knees, and waited. The
mahogany clock on the mantel presently began to chime the hour and Tom
felt a pang of angry disappointment. Nothing had happened--except that
he again had made an ass of himself!

A tall, strongly built man at that moment entered the room, looked at
Tom, saw the hat held between the knees, and turned away as if the last
person in the world he wished to see was young Mr. Merriwether.

Tom saw him stretch his hand toward a panel in the wall. Instantly the
room was in darkness. It occurred to Tom that this would be a good way
to attack him; but there instantly followed the reflection that it was
not a good place in which to do any robbing or murdering.

Therefore young Merriwether sat on quietly. He felt something drop into
his hat. A faint odor of sweet peas came to his nostrils--the odor he
had associated with his youth until he began to associate it with her,
and therefore with love.

This evanescent perfume that made vague memories stir within him--that
made him desire to see the woman who was to be his wife--that made
him thrill obediently at the call of adventure--made him feel that the
mysterious man of 777 Fifth Avenue was not a cheap charlatan.

Suddenly the light was turned on again. Tom saw a slip of paper within
his hat, fished it out, and, without stopping to see what it was or what
it said, rushed from the room into the corridor.

He saw men and women coming and going. He could not tell whether she was
among them or whether the man who had entered the library--who probably
was the man that put out the light--was among the crowd. But the sleuths
and the bell-boy and the coat-girl watched him. What doubt could remain?
In their minds there was none.

Tom abandoned the chase. The key to the mystery eluded him, as usual. He
was not clever enough to catch the mystery-manipulator in the act, as it
were. He looked at the paper. It was an envelope. On it was written in a
woman's hand:

_For T. M._

He opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of the hotel note-paper,
on which he read, in the same handwriting:

_Too late!_

He walked to the desk and spoke to the room clerk.

"I must--" he began, but stopped.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Merriwether!" The clerk used the voice and manner of a
man saying nice things to a child in order to propitiate its mother.

"About Room 77 on the seventh floor," said Tom.

"We can give it to you now, if you wish. Yes, sir."

"What? Has she--Is it vacant?"

"Given up this very minute. If you'll wait until we send up and see
whether it is ready to be occupied, I'll--"

"I'll take it; but I'd like to go up at once."

He wished to see whether there was any clue left by the previous
occupants.

"Certainly. Front!"

Tom followed the bell-boy. The room was empty and undisturbed. He
thought he smelled sweet peas and sat down in an arm-chair to think; but
the odor, which made her recognizable in his dreams of her, prevented
him from thinking as you would expect a healthy young man to think.
There was no sharpness of outline in the visions of her seen through the
mist of dreams and longings.

He knew there was a girl somewhere whom he would marry. Indeed, he often
had wondered what his wife would be like. Every man, when he endeavors
to look ahead, thinks that some day he shall have a wife--the mother
of his children--the woman whose mere existence will influence his
life more than anything else in the world; whose love will make him a
different man; whose necessities will give to him an utterly different
point of view.

Our lives depend on our point of view; and Tom knew that his point of
view would be utterly changed by this girl he had never seen. Would she
be the girl the man in 777 Fifth Avenue said she would be? Was she the
mysterious person with whom, of course, he was not in love, but with
whom he might fall in love--adventuress or not? His love of love had
not yet changed into love of somebody; but he was keen to enter into a
definite love-affair with a concrete being, and he rather suspected that
this affair was being stage-managed for his benefit.

He would forgive everything so long as in the end something
happened--something in which there was a girl, whether or not she was
the girl. What most irritated him was the indefiniteness of the mystery
so far. The spice of danger; the tragical possibilities; the lure of
adventure; the call of the unusual; the attraction of the unknown and
therefore of the interesting--were no longer quite enough. The glimpse
of a face--of a living face--and a hand to shake, a waist to clasp and
lips to kiss--these things he now desired.

His irritability over his failure to develop an adventure in Boston grew
keener until it became anger. He would have it out once for all with the
mysterious man at 777 Fifth Avenue.

He went down-stairs, paid his bill, and took the midnight train for New
York.



VII

Some men are so picturesque that they do not need publicity agents, and
so intelligent that they wish to be let alone by the public prints.
E. H. Merriwether was one. He employed the ablest experts for his
corporations and they got more than their share of publicity; but for
himself--nothing. Possibly he realized that ungratified curiosity is a
valuable asset; and, of course, he knew that in a democracy the less a
man raises his head above the level of the mass the better it will be
for his comfort.

He took pains to make it plain that he cared only for his work, because
that proved he had no thoughts for mere money-making; and, since he was
not interested in money-making, he could not be primarily concerned
with despoiling the public--which, in turn, clearly proved he was not
dangerous. And, of course, the more he kept himself out of the papers
the more the papers wanted to see him in their hospitable columns.
Everything he did or thought was, therefore, news. Anecdotes about
him were so hard to get that the brightest minds in the profession
manufactured a few. They had to be very good anecdotes--and they were.

To the metropolitan reporters, however, E. H. Merriwether was known
to be mute, dumb, silent, constitutionally incapable of speech,
and, besides, devoid of vocal cords. His office was always free from
reporters, because they had learned to save themselves time by the
simple expedient of writing their interviews with him in their own
offices, after this fashion:

_Mr. Merriwether refused to discuss the matter. Neither confirmation nor
denial could be obtained at his office._

The financial editors of the newspapers fared no better. He was never
too busy to see them; but all news about his work came from his bankers.

On the same day that Tom went to Boston, a young man went to the
Merriwether offices in the Transcontinental Trust Company Building. A
stout, rather high railing fenced off the bookkeepers' room from the
general and unwelcome public.

At a small, flat desk near the gate sat, not a frecklefaced boy, but a
man, powerful of build, keen-eyed and quick-muscled. He, was writing a
letter on a very good quality of note-paper. He said: "Well?"--but kept
on writing. He did not look up. This always discouraged strangers; by
making them feel their utter insignificance. The effect on millionaire
magnates, who similarly found themselves ignored, also was salutary.

"I wish to see Mr. E. H. Merriwether," said the young man, pleasantly
and unimpressed.

The gate-keeper wrote two paragraphs and then, still writing, asked,
wearily:

"Got an appointment?"

"No; but--"

The over-mature office-boy, in one breath and in a voice that dripped
insolence, said, still without looking up:

"What do you want to see him about? He is very busy. Cannot possibly see
any one to-day. Good day!"

There was a laugh, not at all ironical, or in the nature of an
exaggerated and audible sneer, but full of amusement; and then the
stranger without the gate said:

"When I tell you what I am you will bring Mr. E. H. Merriwether to me."

The voice was not menacing at all or cold, but there was an assurance
about it that made the Merriwether hireling look up. He saw a young
man, of about thirty, with very intelligent, gray-blue eyes, a straight,
well-modeled nose, and a determined chin. His square shoulders and
general air of muscular strength made him look as if he could give as
good an account of himself in a rough-and-tumble fight as in a battle of
wits.

The Merriwether gateman felt his entire being permeated by a feeling of
hostility. This was neither a crank to turn over to a complaisant police
nor an alms-seeker to be shooed away; nor yet a millionaire in good
standing. He must be, therefore, a reporter of the new school made
possible by the eccentricities of the Administration in Washington.

"My good James," said the new-school reporter, with a mocking
superciliousness, "I would see your boss. Be expeditious."

The gate-keeper, whose name was not James but Doyle, flushed
dangerously; but his wages were high, and he forced himself to keep his
temper under control. For all that, his voice shook as he said:

"If you have no appointment, you ought to know it's no use. No stranger
from a newspaper ever sees Mr. Merriwether. I--I'm sorry!" Here Doyle
gulped. Then he finished: "Good day!"--and resumed, his writing.

The reporter said, "Look at me!" so sharply that Doyle in a flash pushed
back his chair, jumped to his feet, and looked pugnaciously at the man
who dared to give commands in E. H. Merriwether's office.

"My Celtic friend," pursued the reporter, in a voice of such
cold-blooded vindictiveness that Doyle listened with both astonishment
and respect, "for years the domestics of this office have been rude
and impolite to my profession. Mr. Merriwether never cared how angry
reporters might feel or what they said about him; but to-day I am the
one who does not care, and E. H. Merriwether is the man who is vitally
concerned. _I_ don't give a damn whether he sees me or not. And as
for you, in order to avenge the poor chaps to whom you have been
intelligently rude, I, to whom you have been unintelligently impolite,
shall have you fired. I've got E. H. Merriwether where I want him. If I
can end your boss I can end your job--can't I? Oh no, Alexander! I am
not crazy. I simply have the power. It was bound to happen, for Waterloo
comes to all great men who are not clever enough to die at the right
time. Now you go and get McWayne--and be quick about it!"

Doyle at times saw things through the top of his head, which was red. He
said, a bit thickly:

"When you tell me in plain English, so I can understand--"

"You are not paid to understand; you are paid to use common sense and
discrimination. You go to McWayne and say to him a reporter is here and
wishes to speak to him about a sad Merriwether family matter."

Doyle knew from the office gossip that something was supposed to be
wrong with Tom Merriwether; so, his heart overflowing with anger because
chance had put the one weapon in the hands of an insolent newspaper man,
Doyle went off to tell the boss's private secretary. Presently McWayne,
walking quickly, came from an inner office, and asked: "You wish to see
me?"

"No!" answered the reporter, flatly.

"Then--" began McWayne.

"I don't wish to see you. I wish to see if you have the sense to
understand that I wish to do Mr. E. H. Merriwether the favor of letting
him talk to me. Do you want me to tell you what I want you to tell Mr.
E. H. Merriwether?"

The reporter looked as though he hoped McWayne would say no. Reporters
did not usually look that way; therefore McWayne was perturbed. He
replied, with a polite anxiety:

"If you please--"

"Tell Mr. Merriwether that I wish to see him about his son's marriage.
Tell him that if he does not wish to talk about it, he needn't. You
might add that there is absolutely no use in his trying to keep it out
of the newspapers. Make that plain to him, McWayne."

McWayne did not dare deny the marriage. Tom was, alas! capable of even
worse things. He did the only thing possible while there was still a
chance to suppress the news; he said:

"And you represent which paper, please?"

Reporters do not always know why or how news is suppressed, nor the
price; but this reporter laughed good-naturedly, and replied:

"McWayne, the trouble with you Irish is that you are so infernally
clever that plain jackasses like myself are prepared for you. I
represent myself and I don't want to be paid to suppress. No blackmail
here; no threats; nothing except amiability and good-will. Have you
begun to accumulate a few suspicions that your taciturn boss is going to
talk to me?"

"I'll see!" promised McWayne, non-committally; but he was so perturbed
that he could not help showing it.

Doyle, who had made a pretense of resuming his letter-writing, noticed
it, and felt uncomfortable.

"And--say, McWayne," pursued the reporter, "could you let a fellow have
a photograph or two? You know we've got some, but we'd prefer to publish
those you think the family consider the best. Some people are queer that
way."

McWayne shook his head and went away, convinced of the worst. He
returned and beckoned to the reporter, who thereupon said, sharply, to
Doyle:

"Open the door--you! Quick!" And Doyle, who saw McWayne beckoning, had
to do it.

Four hundred and seventeen reporters were avenged!

Doyle was so angry that he was full of aches. He was tempted to throw
up his job. Then he hoped E. H. Merriwether, who was a very great man,
would order him to throw the insolent dog out of the office. Doyle would
earn a bonus.

E. H. Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad,
fearless fighter, iron-nerved stock gambler, but, alas! also a father,
was seated at his desk. He turned to the reporter the inscrutable
poker-face of his class:

"You wished to see me?"

"Yes, sir," said the reporter, and waited; two could play at that game.
The great financier was compelled to ask:

"About what?"

"About what McWayne told you." The reporter spoke unemotionally.

"About some rumor concerning my son?"

"No, sir."

"No?" E. H. Merriwether looked surprised.

"No. I wished to know what statement you desire to make about your son's
engagement and marriage. If you do not care to say anything we shall not
publish any fake interview, no matter what opinion I personally may form
as to the real state of your feelings."

"I take it you are from one of the yellow papers, young man?" E. H.
Merriwether spoke coldly; but, within, his heart-tragedy was being
enacted.

"You usually take what you wish if it isn't nailed down, I have heard;
but that, doubtless, is one of the slanders that automatically grow
up about a great man, sir," said the reporter, without the shadow of a
smile or frown.

"If I am mistaken about the newspaper you represent--" Here Mr.
Merriwether paused, as if to allow the young man to introduce himself;
but the young man said:

"If I told you the name of the newspaper that honors itself by playing
fair with you, I suspect you would set in motion the machinery that
you--er--men of large affairs use to suppress news. You couldn't
reach my city editor, who is a poor man with a family of eight, or the
reporter, who is penniless; but you could reach the owner, who is a
millionaire. This is my first big story in New York and it will make me
professionally. It means a lot to me!"

"About how much does it mean to you, young man?" asked E. H.
Merriwether, with a particularly polite curiosity.

"Speaking in language that should be intelligible to you and using the
terms by which you measure' all things down here--" He paused, and then
said, bluntly, "You mean in cash, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that this story is worth to
me--Let me see!" And he began to count on his fingers, like a woman.
This habit inexpressibly angers men who find no trouble in remembering
numbers of dollars. "I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that it is worth
about three thousand two hundred and eighty-six--millions of dollars. If
I am to stop being a decent newspaper man to become a blackmailer and
general damned fool I'd want to make enough to endow all my pet
charities and carry out a series of rather expensive experiments in
philanthropy."

"But--" began the magnate.

"No, sir," interrupted the reporter, "no money, please. Just assume that
I am a damned fool and, therefore, refuse to consider a bribe."

"I have not bribed you," suggested E. H. Merriwether, calmly. His eyes
never left the reporter's face.

"Then I misjudged you, and I apologize abjectly; but permit me to
continue to be an ass and blind to money. What about Thomas Thorne
Merriwether, only son and heir of the railroad king of the Southwest?"

"Well, what about him?" The face of E. H. Merriwether showed only what
you might call a perfunctory curiosity. The reporter looked at him
admiringly. After a pause, he asked:

"Do you know her?"

"Do you?"

"Then you don't!" exclaimed the reporter, triumphantly. "This is better
than I had hoped."

"Better?"

"Certainly; it means a better introductory article. The first of the
series will be: 'To whom is Tom Merriwether engaged?' Think of it,
sir," he said, with the enthusiasm of the true artist, "the heir of
the Merriwether millions! By the way, could you tell offhand how many
millions I might safely say?"

Whatever Mr. Merriwether may have thought, he merely said, with the cold
finality that often imposes on young reporters:

"Young man, if you begin your career by being vulgar your ruin will be
of your own doing."

"My dear sir, vulgarity never ruined any career. All the great men of
history were at the beginning accused of hopeless vulgarity--by those
on whom they trod. I tell you it is not vulgarity that prompts me, but
mastery of the technic of my trade. Do you care to have me tell you
about my article?"

What Mr. E. H. Merriwether really wished to hear was that Tom was not
in love--that he was not on the verge of brutally assassinating all
the hopes and dreams of a fond father. What he said to the unspeakable
reporter was:

"Yes."

"Well, I start with this basis--my knowledge of your son's engagement."

"Where did you get that knowledge?"

"One of the few things a reporter is incapable of doing is betraying
a confidence. To tell you the source of my information would be that.
Starting with that one fact, my problem is to make that one fact so
important as to enable me to write several thousand words. To justify
this I must make your son very important. He is not really very
important, but you are. I shall slightly over-accentuate here and
there"--he waved his hand in the air, and repeated, dreamily--"here
and there! You will be the Napoleon of railroads, the Von Moltke of the
ticker, doer of deeds and upbuilder, indisputably the greatest captain
of industry that America has yet produced!"

"Heavens!" burst from the lips of the imperturbable little magnate.

"You are a stunning study for a novelist. Yours is the great romance
of the American business man! Having made you romantic, I wave my
magician's wand and quadruple your millions. Yours, my dear sir--if
you don't happen to know it--is one of the great fortunes of the world!
You've got Croesus skinned to death and John D. whining over his lost
pre-eminence!"

"Now look here--" interjected E. H. Merriwether, sternly; but the
reporter retorted, earnestly:

"Hold your horses!" And the great millionaire did. The young man
continued in his enthusiastic way: "It is much to have the hundreds
of Merriwether millions, but it is infinitely more to have all the
Merriwether millions and such a father and youth. I thus make Tom, who
is really of no importance, of even greater importance than the great
E. H. Merriwether. Do I know my business?" And he bowed in the general
direction of the elder Merriwether.

"I begin to suspect," replied the elder Merriwether, "that you do."

He was watching the reporter closely. He always had found it profitable
to let men talk on. A man who talks is apt to show you what he is; and
that furnishes to you the best available weapon. You also may learn when
it is better not to fight.

"When it comes to picturesque writing about people I do not know, I
can assure you, Mr. Merriwether," the young man said, modestly, "that
I haven't an equal in the United States. In your case I shall not be
handicapped by either facts or knowledge, which are always fatal to the
creative faculty. I shall be free--absolutely free to write!"

Mr. Merriwether permitted himself a frown in order to conceal his
uneasiness. This young man was talking like a humorist. The eyes were
intelligent and fearless. The combination was formidable.

"Your theory has doubtless many supporters among your colleagues."

"There are," admitted the reporter, cheerfully, "other bright young
creative artists on our staff. Well, I proceed to make your son a
paragon--a clean-minded, decent, manly young millionaire."

"Which he is!" interjected Mr. Merriwether, sternly.

"Of course! I know it. Have no fear on that score. I'd make him all that
even if he wasn't. I proceed to draw attention--with a cleverness I'd
call devilish if it wasn't my own--to the strange and, on the whole,
agreeable vein of romanticism in the Merriwether nature. There you are,
a hard-headed man of affairs, whose name the world associates with great
engineering deeds and great high-finance misdeeds! You are--do you know
what?--a poet!--a wonderful poet whose lines are of steel, whose numbers
are of tonnage, whose song is chanted by the ten thousand purring wheels
of your tireless cars."

"My car-wheels are lubricated. They don't purr," mildly objected the
railroad poet.

"They do in my story," said the reporter, firmly. "And to prove it
I'll quote some striking lines from one of those unknown books we great
writers always have on tap. Your romantic nature expresses itself in the
creation of an empire in the alkali desert. You have written an epic on
the map of America--in green!"

"That sounds good to me," said Mr. E. H. Merriwether, with the detached
air of a critic of literature.

He did not know just how to win this young man's silence--perhaps by
letting him talk himself out of creative literature; perhaps by the
inauguration of a molasses diet at once!

"Thank you! Your son Tom's romance is in his unusual love-affair! This
young man, the most eligible bachelor in the world--handsome, rich, a
fastidious artist in feminine beauty, with a heart that has kept itself
inviolate--pretty swell word that?--in-vi-o-late--all these years, opens
at her sweet voice. We alone are able to announce the engagement. High
society is more than interested--more than startled. As thinks society,
so thinks the shop-girl; and there are fifty million of her. What
society is incinerating itself with desire to find out is: To whom is
Tom Merriwether engaged? Will our fair readers devour the article? I
leave it to you, Mr. Merriwether!" The young man looked inquiringly at
Mr. Merriwether.

"I'd read it myself," said Mr. Merriwether, very impressively. "I
couldn't help it!" You could see that literature had triumphed over the
stock-ticker. A great diplomatist was lost in a great money-maker.

"Thank you! And what do you find at the end of the article? What? Why,
a nice psychological little paragraph to the effect that we propose to
print the name of the one woman who, of all the tens of thousands who
have tried, has won the heart of Thomas Thome Merriwether, whose father
you have the honor to be. We refrain, in order to have the parents of
the young people formally announce the engagement. By doing this we
get the full value of the to-be-continued-in-our-next suspense, for the
first time utilized in a news story; and we also increase our reputation
for gentlemanly conservatism, which prevents the refined reporter of
the--of my paper from intruding into a family affair."

"Will your paper be damned fool enough to--" began E. H. Merriwether,
intentionally skeptical.

"It is not damned folly to extract all the juice contained in the scoop
of the century--it is technical skill of a very high order. Now what
happens? My esteemed contemporaries, morning and evening, chuck a fit
and bounce their society editors. They then rush for the telephone and
despatch their strongest photographers, sharpest sleuths, and entire
dictagraph corps to the scene. They can't find Tom--because, as you
know, he is in--he is out of town. And they can't find her--because I
haven't said who she is. There remains you!"

"That won't do them any good," said Mr. E. H. Merriwether, decisively;
but he shuddered.

"Precisely! I banked on that. But, even if you did see them, what could
you tell them? Deny what is bound to be confirmed in the next issue of
my paper? You know better than to acquire a reputation for lying in the
newspapers. No, siree! Your game is to deny yourself to all inquirers
and say nothing. My esteemed contemporaries have now but one desire--to
wit: to print the name and publish the portrait of your son's fiancée.
Of course you see what happens then, don't you?"

The reporter looked at the iron-hearted E. H. Merriwether, with such
pity in his eyes that the great little czar of the Southwestern Railroad
for the first time in his life realized he was merely a man--a human
being; an ordinary, every-day father; one drop in the vast ocean; one
of the crowd temporarily aboveground and therefore exposed to the same
sorrows and troubles and sore vexations as all mankind. His millions,
his position in the world, his great work, his undoubted genius--could
not avail even to rid him of annoyance. Can you imagine John D.
Rockefeller living on Staten Island in June and unable to buy
mosquito-netting--price, five cents a yard?

"What will happen?" asked the great millionaire, who was also a father.

"My intelligent colleagues, of course, will look for the lady. Where
there is a strong demand the supply automatically offers itself for
consumption. And what will the seven hundred and fifty alert young men,
with great capacities for fictional art, who are temporarily assisting
actress-ladies and self-paying authoresses and unprinted poetesses
and fertilizer-manufacturers unmarried daughters, do? What will those
estimable young artists, miscalled press agents, do when they encounter
the demand for Tom's fiancée's photograph? What except 'Here she
is!'--six thousand words, thirty-two poses, and a facsimile of a
love-letter or two, to prove it! And then--chorus-ladies, poetesses,
fair divorcées about to honor the vaudeville--" The reporter stopped--he
had seen the look on E. H. Merri-wether's face. He felt sorry. "But it
is true," he said, defensively.

"Yes!" Tom's poor rich father felt cold all over.

The reporter pursued, more quietly: "You know the ingenuity of my
colleagues, the great American respect for a millionaire's privacy, and
the national sense of humor. Will your son's love-affair be discussed?
Will it be discussed with the gentlemanly reticence and innate delicacy
of feeling of _my_ story?"

Mr. E. H. Merriwether never before realized that the law against
homicide was even more absurd than an Interstate Commerce Commission
order; but he had to bow to the inevitable. He was beginning to
understand how Napoleon felt on the deck of the _Bellerophon_ when on
the way to St. Helena., Do you remember the picture? He nodded--not
dejectedly, but also not far from it.

"Well, in a day or two or three, according to conditions; we come out
with it. We print the lady's name and her portrait--possibly not the
best of all her photographs, but the only one I could--"

"Who is she?" burst from the lips of the reporter's victim.

Instantly the reporter's face became very serious. "I feared so, Mr.
Merriwether," he said, very quietly.

"Look here, my boy!" interrupted Mr. Merriwether, with an earnestness
that had in it a threat. "I don't know what your game is and I don't
care. I'll admit right now that you are a very clever young man and
probably not a crook; but I tell you calmly, quietly, without any
threats, that you are not going to publish any damned-fool article about
my family in any paper in New York."

The reporter rose and looked straight into the unblinking eyes of the
great financier. Then he said, slowly, and, the old fellow admitted,
distinctly impressively:

"And I tell you, twice as quietly and ten times as calmly, without
any fool threats, that all the daily newspapers in New York and
Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco, Boston, and ten thousand other
towns in the United States, Canada, Mexico, the Canal Zone, and
countries in the Postal Union, are going to publish articles about your
son Tom's engagement, and later on about his marriage. Understand once
for all, that there are some things all your millions and all your
will-power cannot do. This is one of them. It is the penalty of being
a public character--or, if you prefer, of being an exceptionally great
man. Do I understand that you have nothing to say about your son's
coming marriage?"

E. H. Merriwether in less than five seconds thought of more than five
thousand possibilities, all in connection with his son's marriage. Then
he said, very slowly, fighting for time and a chance to escape:

"My son will marry whenever he and the young lady chiefly interested
judge fit to do so. He and I are in perfect accord, as always." Mr.
Merriwether was looking into the too-fearless and too-intelligent
gray-blue eyes of the reporter. Then he did what he did not often do
in his Wall Street affrays--he capitulated. "Will you give me your word
that you will not use for publication what I am about to tell you?"

"No, sir, I won't!" emphatically replied the reporter. "You might tell
me something I already know and then you'd always think I had broken
my word. I will not pledge myself not to print the name of your
daughter-in-law-to-be; but anything that concerns you personally or your
attitude toward your son's finacée, or hints of a family quarrel--or
those things that offend a sensitive man--I promise not to print. You
have some rights; but I also owe certain things to myself and my paper.
I've been frank with you. You can be frank with me if you wish. I put it
up to you."

Mr. Merriwether, after a thoughtful pause, said: "Look here! I don't
know anything about my son's engagement. I cannot swear he is not
engaged, but I don't know that he is. It follows that I do not know the
young lady. You don't have to print that, do you?"

The reporter gazed on the financier meditatively. Presently, instead of
answering the question, he asked:

"Have you had no suspicion of any romance?"

"Well"--and it was plain that E. H. Merriwether was telling the truth,
having made up his mind to that policy as being the wisest--"well, I
have of late suspected that such a thing might be possible. It is, I
will confess to you, a terrible predicament, because a man naturally
cherishes certain hopes for his only son." On Mr. Merriwether's face
there was a quite human look of suffering.

"Of course," said the reporter, apologetically, as though offering an
excuse for a friend's misdeed--"of course a man in love is not always
wise."

"No. And though I have no intention or desire to bribe you, and though I
would not presume to interfere with you in your professional activities
or influence you by pecuniary considerations, you will pardon me for
suggesting--"

The reporter did not let him go on. He rose and said, with real dignity:

"Mr. Merriwether, suppose we drop the matter right here?"

"You mean?"

"I will not print any story yet--on one condition."

"Name it. I think likely I can meet it."

"Give me your promise that you will give me an interview the next time
I come to see you. It may be in a day or two or a week. I don't promise
not to print the story, you understand, but it will give you time
to--well, to see your son."

E. H. Merriwether held out his hand and said: "I will see you any time
you come. But let me say, as an older man, that if you should suffer any
loss by not printing--"

"Oh no--I shall not suffer. I propose to print my story. I am simply
deferring publication; but I thank you for the offer you were going to
make. It shows more consideration and, therefore, far greater common
sense than most men in your position habitually display before a
reporter. I'll do even more--I'll give you a friendly tip." He stopped
talking and looked doubtfully at E. H. Merriwether.

"Thank you," said Mr. Merriwether, with a remarkable mixture of
gratitude, dignity, and anxiety. "I am listening."

"Find out why he goes to 777 Fifth Avenue. There are some things a
really intelligent father, poor or rich, should--" He caught himself.

"Please finish, my boy!" cried the great little man, almost
entreatingly.

"There are just a few things"--the reporter was speaking very slowly and
his voice was lowered--"which an intelligent father does not trust to
others--not even to the most loyal confidential men--things that should
be done by the father himself. The number is 777 Fifth Avenue!"

"I thank you, Mr.--"

"William Tully," said the reporter.

"Mr. Tully, I thank you. I think you are throwing away time and brains
in your present position, and if you should ever--"

"Thank you, sir. Don't be afraid. I shall not bother you by--"

"But I mean it," said E. H. Merriwether.

The reporter smiled and said, "If you knew how often my fortune has been
made by men whose story I have not printed you'd be deaf, too."

"Young man, I sometimes forget favors, but not the possession of brains.
I need them in my business."

"Well, then, suppose you show your appreciation by telling the
red-headed person in the outer office that he is to take in my card to
you when I call again?"

"Certainly!" And the czar of the great Pacific & Southwestern system
nearly slew Doyle by accompanying the reporter to the outer door and
saying:

"Doyle, any time Mr. Tully comes to see me let me know instantly, no
matter what I may be doing or who is with me. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" gasped Doyle, looking terrifiedly at the sorcerer.

Tully! Irish! That was the reason, of course; but he was a wonder, all
the same.

"Good day, Mr. Tully. I thank you. And don't forget my offer."

Mr. Merriwether bowed as the door closed on Mr. William Tully and then,
walking like a man in a trance, returned to his private office. He rang
the push-button marked No. 1, and when McWayne appeared turned a haggard
face to his private secretary.

"McWayne, that reporter has a story of Tom's engagement, but he wouldn't
tell me who the girl is."

"I don't believe it!" cried McWayne, with a not very intelligent
intention of comforting his chief. At times the male Irish mind works
femininely.

"Neither do I--and yet I do. It confirms Dr. Frauenthal's diagnosis.
I guess he knows his business, after all. Well, the story will not be
published yet. He acted pretty decently."

McWayne wondered how much it had cost the old man, but he said, "Didn't
he intimate--"

"That reporter knows his business," cut in E. H. Merriwether. "He ought
to be a dramatist. Have you heard from your men?"

"Yes, sir. Tom has gone to Boston. Two of them are with him. He suspects
nothing."

"What else?"

"They will let me know by long distance if anything happens."

"If anything! Great Scott! isn't it enough that--Let me hear what they
report--on the instant!"

"Yes, sir."

"And, McWayne--" He hesitated.

McWayne, his face full of sincere solicitude, prompted, gently:

"Yes, chief?"

It was the first time he had ever used that word. It made his speech so
friendly, so affectionately personal, that E. H. Merriwether said:

"Thank you, McWayne. I wish you would find out for me at once who lives
in 777 Fifth Avenue."

"Yes, sir," said McWayne. "That's where--" He caught himself. .

"I am afraid so!" acquiesced the railroad czar, listlessly.



VIII

Within an hour McWayne walked into the private office. His chief closed
his jaws--a weaker man would have clenched his fists--in anticipation.

"Breese & Silliman, the real-estate men, say they rented 777 Fifth
Avenue, furnished, to a Madam Calderon--an American woman, widow of
a Peruvian nitrate king. She came up here and asked Breese about a
suitable location. She has a daughter she wishes to marry in America.
She talked quite freely about her affairs. The house was for sale, but
she leased if, furnished, with privilege of purchase. Belongs to the
Martin-Schwenk Construction Company. The daughter is about thirty, dark,
Spanish-looking, and fleshy; rather--er--inclined to make googoo eyes,
as Breese says, in a kind of foreign way."

"Go on," commanded E. H. Merriwether.

"Mrs. Calderon said point-blank that she wished her daughter to marry a
nice young man of wealth and position, preferably a blond. I gather that
the agents were rather anxious to let the house and probably encouraged
her. She has paid quarterly in advance, and her banking references are
O. K.; but nothing about her personally is known to any one. That's all
I could get."

"Very well. Thank you, McWayne."

The private secretary stood beside the desk, hesitated, and presently
walked out. Shortly afterward, the great and ruthless E. H. Merriwether,
full of perplexity and regret--and some remorse over his neglect of
his only son for so many years--went uptown. He desired to know what to
expect, in order to be able to think intelligently, and, therefore,
to fight efficiently. How could he fight--not knowing what or whom to
fight?

He told the chauffeur to wait, and then rang the bell of 777.

One of the four footmen whose faces had impressed Tom as being
distinctly too intelligent for menials, opened the door.

"I wish to see Madam Calderon."

"I beg pardon, sir. Have you an appointment?"

"No. Say it is Mr. Merriwether."

"Mr. who, sir?"

Mr. Merriwether took out a card. The footman received it on a very
elaborate silver-gilt card-tray and, pointing to a particularly
uncomfortable, high-backed Circassian-walnut chair in the foyer, left
the great little multimillionaire under the watchful eye of footman
Number Two. This annoyed Mr. Merriwether. Nobody is altogether
invulnerable.

The footman returned, with the card and the tray.

"Madam is not at home, sir; but her brother would be glad to see you, if
you wish, sir. He is madam's man of affairs."

"Very well."

"If you please, sir, this way." And the footman led the way to the door
of the library, where Tom had been received so often.

"Mr. Edward H. Merriwether!" The emphasis on the first name made the
little czar of the Southwestern roads think it was done in order to
differentiate him from Mr. Thomas Merriwether. Even great men are not
above thinking themselves clever.

He entered the room and took in its character at one glance, just as Tom
had done. He became cool, watchful, alert, and observing, as he always
did when he went into a fight. He looked at the man who was said to be
the brother of the woman who had leased the house--the woman who had a
daughter she wished to marry to a blond with money and position.

The man had a square chin and, even in repose, suggested power and
self-control. Mr. Merriwether met the remarkably steady, unblinking
gaze of two extremely sharp eyes, and recognized without any particular
motion that he confronted a man of strength and resource, who, moreover,
had the double strategical advantage of being in his own house and of
not having sought this interview.

"Be seated, sir," said the man, in the calm voice of one who is
accustomed to obedience, even in trifles.

Mr. E. H. Merriwether sat down. He noticed little things, as well as
big. He noted, for instance, that he had begun by doing exactly what
this man told him to do. The man intelligently waited for Mr. E. H.
Merriwether to speak. Mr. E. H. Merriwether did so. He said:

"I called to see Madam Calderon."

"About?" The man spoke coldly.

Mr. E. H. Merriwether raised his eyebrows. He did it in order not to
frown. There is no wisdom in needless antagonisms. His only son was
concerned.

"About my son," he said.

"Tommy?"

The great railroad magnate, accustomed to the deference even of the
self-appointed owners of the United States, flushed with anger. Had
things gone so far that such intimacy existed?

"I understand," he said, trying to speak emotionlessly, "that my son
visits this house."

"Of his own volition, sir."

"I did not think there was physical coercion; but, of course, as his
father--" He stopped in the middle of the sentence.

This never before had happened to this man, who always knew what to
do and what to say, and always did it and said it with the least
expenditure of time and words; but, as a matter of fact, what could he
say, and how?

"That relationship," the man said, calmly, "often interferes with the
exercise of what people formerly called common sense. Will you please do
me a very great favor, sir?"

"A favor?" Mr. Merriwether, skilful diplomatist though he could be at
times, now frowned in advance.

"Yes, Mr. Merriwether--indeed, two favors; or rather, three. First: Will
you please ask me no questions now? Second: Will you please return to
this house at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning? And third: Will you
promise not to speak to your son about your visit here until after you
have paid your second call, to-morrow?"

It flashed through Mr. Merriwether's mind that to grant the favors
might expedite Tom's appalling marriage. He said, decisively:

"I cannot promise any of the things you ask."

"Very well," said the man, composedly. "Then, I take it, there is
nothing more to be said."

He rose politely, and as he did so pressed a button on the table. The
footman appeared and held the door open for Mr. Merriwether to pass out.

The autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, with unlimited
credit in the money-markets of the world, was not accustomed to being
treated like this: but, precisely because he felt hot anger rising in
tidal waves to his brow, he instantly became cool.

He remained sitting, and said, very politely:

"If you will allow me, sir, to tell you that my reasons--"

The man, who was still standing, held up a hand and broke in:

"And if you will allow me to tell you that I am neither a criminal nor
a jackass I shall then proceed to say that nobody in this house has any
intention of entering into any argument or controversy with you. I am
actuated much less by personal considerations of my own than by a desire
to avert from you eternal regrets and--er--unseemly displays of temper."

E. H. Merriwether knew exactly what he would like to do to this man.
What he said--very mildly--was:

"You must admit, sir, that your requests might be interpreted--"

"Oh, I see!" And the man smiled very slightly. "Well, suppose you take
Tom to your office with you to-morrow morning, and keep him there
while you come here? Tell him to wait for you, because you wish to have
luncheon with him. I do not care to discuss my reasons--for example--for
not wishing you to speak to Tom about this visit. I do not wish to wound
your feelings; but I am not sure that you know Tom as well as a father
ought to know his only son. And there are times when a man must be
more than a father, when he must be a tactful man of the world, and a
psychologist."

Mr. Merriwether realized the force of this so clearly that he winced,
but said nothing, since he could not admit such a thing aloud. The man
proceeded coldly:

"If you are both an intelligent man and a loving father, you will
promise what I ask--not for my sake, for yours. There are many things,
Mr. E. H. Merriwether, that money does not cure, and that not even time
can heal. Ask me nothing now; come here at eleven to-morrow morning, and
in the mean time do not speak to Tom about himself--or your fears."

"If you were only not so--er--well, so damned mysterious--" And Mr.
Merriwether forced himself to smile pleasantly.

"Ah--if!" exclaimed the man, nodding. "Do you promise?"

"Yes!" answered Mr. Merriwether.

He had made up his mind that Tom would not be abducted. As for worse
things, if Tom had not already committed matrimony, he could not very
well do it in his father's private office. It was wise to keep Tom
virtually a prisoner without his knowledge. And parental opposition has
so often served merely to add gasoline to the flame of love that one
father would not even whisper his objections.

He bowed and left the room, angry that nothing had been accomplished,
relieved that within twenty-four hours the matter would probably be
settled, and not quite so confident of the power of money as he had been
for many years.



IX

Tom arrived at his home early enough to have his bath at the usual
hour. Though he had never been asked to account for his movements, he
nevertheless made it a point to breakfast with his father. He would do
so to-day. There was no occasion to say he had been to Boston or that he
had slept in a Pullman.

As a matter of fact, he had not slept well. The stateroom seemed full
of those elusive flower-fragrances that always made him think of her,
particularly sweet peas--a beautiful flower, and of such delicate
colors, he now remembered, who had not thought of them for years. He
really loved them, he now discovered. Their odor always tinged his.
thoughts with a vague spirit of romance; and this, in turn, in some
subtle way, rendered him more susceptible to the lure of adventure. It
almost made him feel like a boy.

For all the stimulating reaction of his cold plunge, Tom looked a trifle
tired about the eyes at breakfast.

Mr. Merriwether looked at his son with eyes that also looked tired;
said, "Good morning, Tom!" in his usual tone of voice, and hid behind
his newspaper. Instead of reading about the absurd demands of the
railroad workers all over the United States for higher wages, he was
thinking that he had never allowed anybody to do his work for him,
because he had always intended that Tom should succeed him. He had at
one time fully intended to train Tom for the succession, to have him
learn railroading from brake-man up.

Indeed, the boy after leaving college had seemed much taken with the
idea and listened with interest to his father's talks about his plans
and desires and hopes. But with the great boom, that wonderful era of
amazing reorganizations and stupendous consolidations, the great little
man had been swamped by the flood of gold that poured into Wall Street.

And gold, as usual, had been ruthless in its demands on the great little
man's time. For years he had averaged a net personal profit of a million
a month; but it was not that he wished to make more money. It was that
his time no longer belonged to himself; it was not his family's, but his
associates'--not his only son's, but his many syndicates'. And he had
devoted himself to the welfare of his syndicates and had written a
dazzling page in the annals of Wall Street.

But what about his son's present and the future of the Merriwether
roads? If Tom died, the Merri-wether dream would follow him, but that
would be a natural death at the hands of God. If Tom lived and refused
to be a Merriwether, the death of the Merriwether dreams would be by
slow strangulation. In short, hell!

His promise to the brother of the woman who had a daughter that might
prove to be the executioner of his dreams stared him in the face. The
situation called for tact and skill and superhuman self-control. He
liked to fight in the open; but this was not a battle for more millions;
it involved more than the deglutition of a rival railroad.

McWayne had reported that Tom had acted like a lunatic when he could
not secure the room in the Hotel Lorraine that had been engaged by Mrs.
Calderon and daughter. The only ray of light was that Tom had not talked
to the ladies.

"Tom," asked Mr. Merriwether, casually, "have you anything on special
for this morning?"

Tom had in mind a visit to 777 Fifth Avenue, at which he promised
himself to end the affair; but he answered:

"N-no."

"I mean," said the father, speaking even more casually, because he noted
the hesitancy, "anything that could not be done just as well in the
afternoon."

"Oh no, I have nothing special; in fact, nothing at all," said Tom.

Mr. Merriwether saw in his reply merely Tom's way of not declaring his
intention to see the girl.

"Then I wish you would come down-town with me. I have some papers I want
you to look over, and we'll have luncheon together. What do you say?"

A prisoner accused of murder in the first degree does not listen to
the jury's verdict with more interest than E. H. Merriwether waited for
Tom's reply, for at this crisis he realized that he had not been in his
son's confidence in those other important little crises of boyhood that
breed in sons the habit of confiding in fathers.

"Sure thing!" said Tom', cheerfully.

Though thus relieved of some of his fears, there remained with E.
H. Merriwether the determination that Tom had not volunteered any
information. The little czar of the Pacific & Southwestern was so
intelligent that in general he was fundamentally just. He did not
exactly blame Tom for not confiding in him, but, also, he did not blame
himself. And this was because he had habituated himself to paying for
his mistakes in dollars. What could not be paid off in dollars was never
a mistake, though it might well be a misfortune.

They went down-town together. Mr. Merriwether took Tom into one of
his half-dozen private offices, made him sit down in one of those
over-comfortable arm-chairs that you paradoxically find in busy Wall
Street offices, and said to him very seriously:

"My son, here is the history of the Pacific & Southwestern system from
its very start. It goes back to the early stage-line days and is brought
up to to-day. I had it prepared in anticipation of an ill-advised
Congressional investigation. I have thus far succeeded in staving off
the investigation, not because I was afraid of it or because it might
hurt me, but because the market was in bad shape to stand the alarmist
rumors and canards and threats that always go with such affairs.
Other people would have quite unnecessarily lost money. As soon as the
investigation cannot be used as a bear club I'll let up opposing it.
I'll even help it." He paused and gave to Tom a book bound in limp
black morroco. "I want you to read this book because it is written with
complete frankness in order to spike certain political guns. You will
get in it the full story of what has been done and what we hope still
to be allowed to accomplish. When you get through with it you'll know as
much about the system as I do!"

The old man had spoken quietly and impressively. Tom was so pleased at
having something to occupy his mind and keep it from dwelling on the
girl he had never seen and the exasperating scoundrel at 777 Fifth
Avenue that his face lighted up with joy.

"You could not have given me anything to do that I'd like better, dad!"
he said, with such obviously sincere enthusiasm that Mr. Merriwether
felt profoundly grateful for this blessing.

Then came the inevitable reaction and with it the thought: "Have I
gained a successor only to lose him to some--"

He shook his head, clenched his jaws, and looked at his watch. It was
not yet time to go to fight for the possession of his son. He had much
to do before he left his office to go to 777 Fifth Avenue.

"Tom," he said, "'you stay here until I return--will you?"

"You bet!" smiled Tom, looking at the thickness of the system's history.

"I have a meeting or two before luncheon, but I'll try not to let them
interfere."

"Any time before three, boss," said his son, cheerfully.

His heir and successor, but, above all and everything, his son! There
was no sacrifice he would not make for this boy to keep him from
blighting his own career--and his father's hopes, he added, with the
selfishness of real love.

Knowing that Tom was safely imprisoned and could not marry at least
for a few hours, he was able to concentrate his mind on his railroad's
affairs. He disposed of the more urgent matters. At ten-forty he sent
for McWayne.

"I'm going to 777 Fifth Avenue."

"Again?" inadvertently said the private secretary.

Mr. Merriwether looked at him.

McWayne went on to explain: "I've had a man watching it since we found
Tom called there, just before going to Boston."

"Right! I expect to be back in time to lunch with Tom; but if I should
be delayed--" He paused.

"Yes, sir?"

"--delayed beyond one o'clock have luncheon brought from the Meridian
Club and tell Tom I wish him to stay until I return. This is important."

"Yes, sir."

"I think that is all."

"If no word is received from you by--" McWayne paused.

Mr. Merriwether finished. "By two o'clock, come after me. But always
remember the newspapers!"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll telephone before two in case I expect to stay beyond that hour."

"Very well, sir."

E. H. Merriwether put on his hat, familiar to the world through the
newspaper caricaturists--and walked toward the door. Then he did what he
never before had done--he repeated an order! He said to McWayne, "Look
after Tom!"

"Yes, sir."

Then he went to 777 Fifth Avenue to learn whether Tom was to be his
pride and successor or his sorrow and dream-slayer.



X

E. H. Merriwether drove to the house of mystery in his motor,
told the chauffeur to wait, and rang the bell. One of the
over-intelligent-looking footmen opened the door.

"I wish to see Mr.--whoever is master in this house."

"Yes, sir!"

The footman led the way. At the door of the library he knocked twice,
sharply, then, after a pause, once, and then twice again. He waited;
and presently, having evidently heard some answer not audible to the
financier, he opened the door and announced:

"Mr. E. H. Merriwether!"

Why had there been any necessity for signals? Why such cheap theatrical
claptrap? To make him think things? These questions in Mr. Merriwether's
mind showed that the mysterious master of the house knew the advantage
of suggesting the important sense of difference.

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning," answered E. H. Merriwether, and looked about the room.

No girl!

It began to irritate him. The man intensified the feeling by speaking
very deliberately, as one to whom time is no object:

"Will you not be seated, Mr. Merriwether?"

"I am a very busy man," began the autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of
railroad.

"Sit down, anyhow," imperturbably suggested the man.

The autocrat sat down. He said, "But please understand that."

"I won't keep you any longer because you are sitting. Shall we get down
to business?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Merriwether"--the man spoke almost dreamily--"do you know why I
asked you to call to-day at eleven?"

"No."

"Because when you were here yesterday it was after banking hours."

"And?" The little czar was in a hurry to finish.

"You, Mr. Merriwether, are one of those fortunate mortals about whom the
newspapers do not lie."

"Oh, am I? I take it you haven't seen a newspaper in twelve years." Mr.
Merriwether, after all, was an American. His sense of humor helped to
make him great.

"I've read every line that has ever been printed about you--I had to,
in order to study you exhaustively. I find that you are acknowledged by
both friends and foes to be an intelligent man."

"Oh yes!"

"A very intelligent man," continued the man.

"And therefore?" said the very intelligent man.

"And, therefore, I now ask you to give me one million dollars."

Mr. E. H. Merriwether never so much as batted an eyelid. He kept his
eyes fixed on the stranger's eyes. He repeated, a trifle impatiently:

"And?"

"A certified check will do."

"Come to the point. I am a busy man," said Mr. Merriwether.

The man looked at the little financier admiringly. Then he said, "You
mean you wish to know why you should give the million, or what you will
get for it?"

"Either! Both!"

"You should give it because it is I who ask it. You will get for it what
is very, very cheap at a million."

"My dear sir, we'd do business quicker if you'd play show-down."

Now that it was a matter of money, of paying, of trading, Tom's father
felt a great sense of relief. Still, there was Tom's unhappiness to
consider. Poor boy!

"I want you to give me a million so that in return I may give you a
daughter-in-law."

"You mean you will not give me a daughter-in-law if I give you a
million, don't you?"

"I am in the habit of meaning what I say. The sooner you learn that,
the quicker we'll close the deal. I mean that for a million dollars I'll
give you a daughter-in-law."

Mr. Merriwether shook his head. It was plainly to be seen on his face
that every moment spent in this room was a sad waste of time.

"Isn't it worth a million to you?" asked the man, as if he knew it was.

Mr. Merriwether proceeded to look as though it were worth even less than
a Santo Domingo mining concession. Then he said, with finality:

"No."

The man rose.

"Then," he spoke indifferently, "come back when it is. I'll ask you to
excuse me. I, also, am a busy man. Good day, sir."

Mr. Merriwether rose and bowed. He looked straight into the man's very
shrewd eyes, smiled very slightly--and sat down again.

"Do you mean," he asked, very pleasantly, for his bluff had been called,
"Miss Calderon?"

The man sat down.

"Oh no!" he answered, unsmilingly.

"No? Then?" Mr. Merriwether was so surprised that he forgot not to show
it.

"I am sorry you are a busy man, because what I have to say can not
be hurried. First, you must chase from your mind all thoughts of Wall
Street, high finance, railroad systems--and fill it with love!"

Mr. Merriwether looked alarmed. Would it all end with a Biblical text
and an exhortation to endow some sort of a Home?

"You can do this," pursued the man, imperturbably, "by thinking of your
son Tom. He is your only son. You should love him. Once your mind is
attuned to thoughts of love, you will be able to understand me more
easily. Concentrate on love!" The man leaned back in his chair as though
he were certain the attuning process would consume an hour, this being,
alas! a Wall Street man; but Merriwether said, very promptly:

"I am ready for chapter two."

"I doubt it. Love! The love of father for son, of son for mother, of son
for wife, of son for father!"

"I understand. My mind works quickly. Go on!"

"Do you by any chance happen to know that your son is in love?"

"Yes. Where is the girl?"

"It isn't the girl. It's just girl."

"Oh, hell! Quit vaudevilling!"

"There is no girl who is the girl. There never was. There doesn't have
to be any!"

Quite obviously this man was a lunatic--with the eyes of a particularly
sane person. If there was no girl Tom was in no danger of marriage. A
million for not marrying an undesirable person, yes, but a million for a
daughter-in-law, when Tom was not in love!

"Only," thought Mr. Merriwether, "in case I have the selecting of her!
And if I pick her I don't have to pay."

"And yet," said the man, musingly, "Tom loves her!"

Mr. Merriwether's perplexity was fast rising to the dignity of anger.

"If there had been a girl of Tom's own class," the man went on, as if
talking to himself, "why shouldn't he have been seen in public with
her?" Mr. Merriwether was listening now with his soul. "And if this girl
were of the other class--that financial geniuses, alas! sometimes have
to accept for daughters-in-law--a nice, vivacious chorus-lady, or a
refined Reno graduate, or worse--she would have insisted on being
seen in public with Tom, to show her power and to raise the paternal
bid-price for a trip to Europe--alone!"

The man ceased to speak and began to nod his head slowly, his gaze on
the rug at his feet. Mr. Merriwether could stand it no longer.

"If there is no girl, what in blazes do I get for my million?"

"Your pick of eight."

"Eight what?"

"Eight perfect daughters-in-law!"

A thought shot through Mr. Merriwether's mind: Was any form of insanity
contagious? He looked at the lunatic. The eyes were sane, cold, shrewd,
mind-reading eyes full of a sardonic humor.

"They are all," added the man, as if he wished to dispel unworthy
suspicion, "in love."

"With Tom?"

"With love--like Tom!"

"With love--like Tom!" helplessly repeated Mr. E. H. Merriwether.

"Your mind"--the man spoke very slowly and distinctly, as if he wished
to deprive Mr. Merriwether of every excuse for not understanding
him--"does not seem to be working this morning with its usual
efficiency!"

"No!" admitted Mr. Merriwether, sadly. "If you'd only use words of one
syllable I think I could follow you better."

"It isn't that. It is that your mind was not attuned in the beginning
to the thought of love, and, therefore, could not follow my words. You
compel me to spend time in explaining the obvious. Listen! If you wish
Tom to become the heir to your name, to your railroad, to your work, and
to all the dreams you have dreamed about your work and about your
son; if you want him to be your successor, to continue your work, to
perpetuate the name and influence of Merriwether in his country--I say,
if you wish all this, he must do one thing, and you must see that
he does it. And that one thing, Mr. Merriwether, is for him to marry
wisely. Do you get that?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Merriwether, very simply.

"If he doesn't, it will be death to your hopes, a tragic break in the
Merriwether succession. No, don't shake your head. Admit it. Face it
frankly. I know it. I know that you also know it. Can you expect me to
believe that you want Tom to be the fool husband of a fool girl whose
influence on him--"

"Tom isn't that kind," interrupted E. H. Merri-wether.

"All men are that kind. Does history record the case of a man, greater
even than E. H. Merriwether, who, when it came to women, was an utter
ass? Yes, of a thousand; in fact, the stronger the man, the weaker she
makes him--the better his brain, the worse his folly. And the cure? When
an intelligent man realizes that he is a hopeless ass over one woman
he realizes that his only escape is by the suicide route. No! It's much
cheaper for you to pay the million. Oblige me by thinking. Isn't it
cheaper to pay a million?"

He held up a silencing hand, as though he wished Mr. Merriwether
to spend a full hour thinking of the bargain he was getting. Mr.
Merriwether thought--quickly and accurately as was his wont. And he
admitted to himself that it was indeed cheap at a million. But there
must be value received. Promises, however plausible, are no more to be
capitalized blindly than threats. It depends on who promises, and why;
and also on what is promised. He thought of offering a smaller sum and
of going through the usual preliminaries of a trade, but decided to be
frank.

"If you can deliver the goods, I'll pay the million." And, after a
pause, he added, "Gladly!"

"I banked on that when I decided you ought to contribute a million to
our fund," said the man, simply. "I studied you and your fortune and
your vulnerability, and I decided to attack _via_ Tom. This was easier
and cheaper than a stock-market campaign."

The man somehow looked as though he had said all that was necessary; but
Mr. Merriwether reminded him:

"You must prove your ability to deliver the goods."

"I thought"--the man seemed mildly surprised--"we had."

"Certainly not. The million hasn't stirred."

"You are a brave man, Mr. Merriwether."

Mr. Merriwether laughed, and said:

"What should I fear? People don't murder a man like me and get away with
it--not when the motive is money. Political assassination, perhaps; but
not for a few dollars--especially when my heirs would spend millions to
see that justice did not miscarry." He shook his head, smilingly.

"My dear sir, when we decided to go into the gold-mining business--"

"Gold-mining business!"

"Exactly! We thought to save time and effort by getting our gold already
coined. Our general staff studied various methods--the ticker, for
instance, and legislative attacks on your roads; but we went back
to Tom. It is, of course, nearly as stupid to overestimate as to
underestimate one's opponent; so, while we provided against every
contingency arising from your undoubted possession of a resourceful and
fearless mind, we also thought--please take note--that you might display
stupidity; and we prepared for it. Such as, for instance, in case you
point-blank said No! We have also provided ways of preventing you and
your uncaptured millions from hurting us. Of course we could make the
stock-market pay us for the trouble of kidnapping you or of murdering
you. Don't you see clearly what you would do if you were in my place?"

"Oh yes--I see it clearly; but I don't believe you could do what I could
in your place?"

"Nobody is free from vanity, for everybody seems to be a natural
monopolist when it comes to brains. You are kidnapped at this very
moment, aren't you?"

"People know I am here--"

"Oh yes! We expect to have you telephone McWayne presently not to expect
you to lunch, and that we have extended every facility to his detectives
for having this house under surveillance. We kidnapped the great
Garrettson and kept him out of reach of the great world of finance long
enough to enable us to cash in. Not only that, but he never told how we
did it. You remember when Steel broke to--"

"You didn't do that!" exclaimed E. H. Merri-wether.

"Oh yes, we did; and I'll tell you how." And the man briefly outlined
the case for him.

E. H. Merriwether listened with much interest. When the man made an end
of speaking, the financier shook his head skeptically, which made the
man ask: "You don't believe it?"

"No!" answered Mr. Merriwether.

"Nevertheless, it is so. We also might have engineered in your case some
deal such as that by which we compelled Ashton Welles to disgorge some
of the money he had no business to have." And he proceeded to enlighten
the financier.

"Very clever!" said Mr. Merriwether.

"Rather neat!" modestly acquiesced the man. "Suppose we had decided
to kidnap you? The first thing to do is to get you here. Well, you are
here."

"How will you make money by that?" asked the financier, smiling.

"We don't expect to. We have not planned to make money by kidnapping
you. Nevertheless, you must admit it can be made a very expensive matter
for you. But please let me kidnap you without interruption!"

"I beg your pardon!" said Mr. Merriwether, gravely.

It struck him that the possession of a sense of humor makes a crook
ten times more dangerous. It was what made the reporter, Tully, really
formidable.

"We assume that you foresaw the danger to yourself in coming alone to
this house. You'd employ private detectives to watch it at ten dollars
a day a man, exactly as you have had your son watched the moment
we decided it was time for you to begin the watching. McWayne, your
efficient private secretary, is ready to move to your rescue. I don't
see what else you could have done to protect yourself that we have not
provided for."

"The police!" mildly suggested Mr. Merriwether.

"And the reporters!" mocked the man. "Pshaw! We know what we are doing.
Why, we have rehearsed your kidnapping and even your death. Our ablest
members have in turn impersonated you--put themselves in your place and
fought us. I will not bore you with more details, and I admit that the
human mind cannot foresee accidents; but we have studied how your mind
would work. Suppose you assume that you are kidnapped and beyond the
possibility of help from your friends. Shall I tell you what we have
done to make Tom marry one of our eight desirable candidates?"

"If you still wish that million."

"Having decided to attack through Tom, we studied him and his ancestry
on both sides. We easily learned that he had never had a serious
love-affair, and that he was imaginative and adventurous, like yourself.
There were many young women who would have liked to become your
daughter-in-law--too many. That was Tom's trouble. But our problem was
really made easier by that. We simply had to turn his thoughts to love
and to one girl. We therefore did."

"How?"

"We got him here. I piqued his curiosity and made the affair an
extraordinary one by saying all we wished him to do was to answer one
question. As we had rather expected, he would not come; but, of
course, we had foreseen that, and so we got him here in one of our own
taxicabs."

"How?"

"We telephoned him that the doctor said he should come instantly, and
that you were not really in danger. We don't believe in lies; but we
took pains that no other cab should be in front of the club when we
telephoned him from the corner drug-store. Attention to details, my dear
sir, always brings home the bacon. Having roused the spirit of adventure
in a remarkable way, I then asked him the great question. What do you
think it was?"

Tom's father shook his head.

"It was this: Where did you spend your summer at the end of your
freshman year? He told me. Then I gave him a box made to order for me by
a French expert, which would deceive other experts so long as we did not
try to sell it. Anybody can imitate the goldwork of any period. In all
the museums of the world you will find fakes. Attention to details! I
was prepared to have him show that box to local experts. I assumed he
would do so, being a Merriwether and, therefore, intelligently curious."

"Box with what?" asked Mr. Merriwether, also intelligently curious.

"Wait! When your son told me where he spent his summer at the end of his
freshman year I knew he was then about nineteen--too young to think of
marriage, but old enough to think of love. He had for the first time in
his life been free from home influences and direct parental supervision.
He was bound to regard himself as a man of the world and think of
innocent flirtations as a manly art. Being in that frame of mind, and at
the same time being a nice, rich, good-looking chap, all the girls would
naturally make a dead set for him. Their numbers would keep him from
having one love-affair. All love-affairs at twenty are much the same.
A boy always begins by being in love with love. Indeed, I believe
twenty-year love to be exclusively a literary passion--that, is,
boys get it from reading about it. Of course I studied time, period,
locality, and manifold probabilities; and, therefore, I sent him on a
mission that suggested love--love for the one girl that Fate intended
him to love and to marry. In order to fix, accentuate, and accelerate
his love-thinking I used the perfume of sweet peas."

"How does that work?"

"I picked out sweet peas because they are found everywhere. Their odor
is strong and characteristic. He must have inhaled that odor thousands
of times when he was flirting with pretty girls the summer he spent at
Oleander Point with Dr. Bonner."

"Yes; but about suggesting--"

"I advise you to read up on the psychology of odor associations. You
will learn that there is a very close relation between the olfactory
sense and the desire to love. Oliver Wendell Holmes declared that
memory, imagination, old sentiments, and associations are more readily
reached through the sense of smell than by almost any other channel;
and, also, that 'olfactory impressions tend to be associated with a
sum-total of feeling-tone.' This has been known for thousands of years.
A very interesting paper was written by Mackenzie, of Johns Hopkins. If
you read it you will know more than I can now take the time to tell you.
The Orient understands the value of perfumes in lovemaking, and I could
tell you amazing things; but I will refer you to Cabanis, Dadisett,
Hobbes, Jaworski, Jwanicki, Schiff, Wolff, and Zwaardemaker. If you
wish, my secretary will prepare an exhaustive bibliography of the
subject for you."

"No, thanks," said Mr. Merriwether. "But I still don't understand--"

The man sighed. Then he said, "I'll tell you, of course." He then told
Tom's father about the message in the dark that Tom had carried.

"But he couldn't believe it!" exclaimed Mr. Merriwether.

"No; he couldn't--but he did. Of course I have taken you behind the
scenes---that is, I have opened your eyes and turned your head in the
proper direction and held it firmly there and shouted, 'Look!' And of
course you see the machinery standing still and you can't imagine it in
motion. You are not as imaginative as I thought you were."

"Huh!" said E. H. Merriwether, thoughtfully. Then after a pause he said:
"I see the wheels revolving. Ingenious!"

"More than that, practical! My object in having Tom fall in love
with love, suggesting that there was one girl born to be his bride,
accentuated by my use of the sweet-peas odor as a _leit-motif_, was to
have something to offer you which would be cheap at a million. The next
step was to make Tom do foolish things--for effect on you. First, to
make you fear Tom was crazy. I had a girl who knew young Waters talk to
him about Tom's new and alarming queerness and suggest that he telephone
to Mr. E. H. Merriwether. Of course Waters wouldn't telephone--and of
course I did. And, of course, if you had disbelieved or suspected
you would have sent for young Mr. Waters and he would have denied the
telephone, but admitted the queer actions of Tom and the fact that
people were talking about them. That would have allayed any suspicion
you might have entertained. So I stage-managed the opera scene and the
Boston trip to make you fear the worst. In that frame of mind you could
be induced to come here voluntarily. I sent Tully to you. You had to
come!"

"Very clever!" said Mr. Merriwether, with a thoughtful absence of
enthusiasm.

"Therefore," continued the man as if he had not heard the other's
interpolation, "your son, being full of the thought of love and, even
worse, of marrying the mate that Fate selected for him five million
years ago, is now ready to marry any girl that smells of sweet peas.
We thought that, instead of vulgarly extracting the million from you by
torture or threats, we would place you in our debt by perpetuating
the Merriwether dynasty. Hence the preparation of eight very nice
girls--three of them in your own set, three others children of people
you know, and the remaining two equally desirable but less historical,
as it were."

"Who are they?" If Mr. Merriwether was to pay a million he might as well
see the label.

"Cynthia, Agnes, and Isabel, daughters respectively of Gordon Hammersly,
William Murray, and Vanderpoel Woodford. Any objections?"

"No; but you can't--"

"Yes, I can. Also, Louise Emlen, daughter of Marbury Emlen, the
lawyer--"

"He's a crook!" interrupted Mr. Merriwether.

"He doubtless interfered with one of your deals; I see you respect him.
He's a crank, but she is a brick. And a Miss Lythgoe, daughter of
Professor Lythgoe, of Columbia, the most beautiful girl in New York.
Ramona Ogden; her father is Dr. Ogden, the lung specialist; her mother
was a Jewess. The remaining two are of humble birth. But all of them are
healthy and beautiful, plenty of honesty, brains, and, above all,
imagination. Any one of them will not only make Tom happy, but will make
him a worthy successor of a great man. And such grandchildren as they
will give you! I envy you!" The man spoke with such fervent sincerity
that E. H. Merriwether merely said:

"It is a risky business, even though the chances appear to be--"

"That's why we ask one million dollars--because we have eliminated the
risk. Very cheap. Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Mr. Merriwether, grimly.

"Then, will you kindly--"

"Yes; I will kindly tell you that you are a damned fool! You've wasted
my time. I'm going to my office, and if I don't have you put in jail it
will be because I don't want the publicity. But don't push me too far or
I'll do it anyhow!" And Mr. E. H. Merriwether rose.

"Sit down!" said the man, with a pleasant smile.

"Go to hell!" snarled the czar of the Pacific & Southwestern, and looked
at the man with the eyes that Sam Sharpe once said reminded him of a
mink's when it kills for the sheer love of killing.

For all reply the man clapped his hands sharply twice. Four men--the
over-intelligent-looking footmen--came from behind the heavy plush
portières. Also, the ascetic-looking man who had held the glass of acid
in the taxicab and had brought Tom into the house the first time. The
ascetic-looking man held a cornet to his lips, and his lungs were filled
with still unblown blasts.

"Three weeks ago, Mr. Merriwether," explained the mysterious master
of the house, "this worthy artist began to practise on his beautiful
instrument at exactly this time every morning. This was in anticipation
of the morning when you should be here--the idea being to drown your
cries. The neighbors have complained and I have promised to play
pianissimo; but a few loud blasts, which will do the trick, will be
forgiven. Attention to details, Mr. Merriwether! Ready!"

The cometist inflated his lungs and held the comet to his lips in
readiness. The footmen seized Mr. Merriwether by the arms and legs, one
man to each limb.

"Doctor!" called the master.

A sixth man came from behind the portières. He had some tin cans in
his hand--plainly labeled ether--and also a cylinder of compressed
laughing-gas and an inhaler.

"Expert! Anesthetics!" said the man, curtly, to Mr. Merriwether. "We
propose to take you out of this house if we kidnap you. If we decide to
kill you we have arranged to do it right here at home. I think we'll
kidnap you. A week or two will make you amenable to reason. We realize,
of course, that every day you spend under our hospitable roof will make
it a little bit more difficult to get the million into our clutches.
Would you like to know how we propose to kidnap you and get away with
it?"

"Yes," replied Mr. E. H. Merriwether, with a pleasant smile.

"Tell our Mr. E. H. Merriwether to come in," said the man to the
cometist, who thereupon disappeared and presently returned, followed by
a man made up to resemble the great financier.

The task was rendered easy by the famous flat-brimmed hat, with the
crown like a truncated cone, so familiar to newspaper-readers through
the cartoonists' efforts. The resemblance was not striking enough to
deceive at close range, but it probably would work at a distance.

"Walk like him!" commanded the master.

The fake Mr. Merriwether walked up and down the room with the curious
swaggering, jockey-like jauntiness of the little railroad man. From time
to time he snapped his fingers impatiently in the same characteristic
way Mr. E. H. Merriwether almost always used when giving an order to
subordinates.

"That will do!" said the man, with a broad grin at the impersonator of
the little financial giant. The double left the room--still walking _à
la_ E. H. M.

"I have had that man--an actor of about your build with a gift of
mimicry--coached for weeks to imitate you. We told him it was a joke and
guaranteed him an appearance before the most select audience in New York
at one of Mrs. Garrettson's world-famous functions. We pledged him to a
secrecy so natural, under the circumstances, as to rouse no suspicions.
A few minutes ago we sent a footman to tell your chauffeur to go away
and return at one. He wouldn't do it. The footman said the boss said
so. Your man retorted that he took orders from only the boss
himself--especially when countermanding previous orders.

"So our Mr. Merriwether went out to the front door, yelled 'One!' in
your voice, and snapped his finger at the intelligent chauffeur, who
thereupon beat it. But the sleuth remains. It makes us laugh! But,
after all, since we have provided for him, it would be a pity not to go
through the entire program. Does this bore you?"

"Must I tell the truth?" asked Mr. Merriwether, anxiously.

"Yes."

"I can stand more." In point of fact, Mr. Merriwether was sure the
situation was serious for him. That is why he joked about it.

"Over six months ago we opened an antique-shop on Fourth Avenue. We
had the usual truck. Also we have had this antique-dealer--who is your
humble servant--go from house to house on the Avenue offering to buy or
exchange those antiques of which people have grown tired. We even asked
you. We have offered such good prices and such excellent swaps that we
have taken antiques from some of the wealthiest houses on the Avenue.
Also we have made a practice of importing antiques from Europe, which
we auction off every two weeks. The money we get we deposit in various
banks, and then we buy bills on Paris. The banks now know us. Remember
that--it is important. Well, we also have an exact copy of your motor,
even to the initials in the door panels. Pretty soon we send for our
Merriwether motor and our E. H. Merriwether emerges from this house and
gets into his car and off he goes--and the watching sleuth with him."

"But if there should be two, and one stay?"

"Then number two will see not long afterward an elaborately carved
Gothic chest taken from here into the antique-dealer's wagon--a wagon
now known to the traffic squad. We carry you away and lock you in a
small sound-proof room, to get to which people would have to move out of
the way a lot of heavy pieces of furniture. There is no question of our
ability to kidnap you and to keep you a prisoner. I tell you we have
paid attention to details persistently and intelligently. Meantime what
does Sam Sharpe do to the stock-market? And Northrup Ashe? How much will
a month's absence from your office cost you?"

"Not half as much as it will cost you when I get out."

"And if you don't get out?"

For reply Mr. E. H. Merriwether grinned broadly.

"My dear Mr. Merriwether"--the man spoke very seriously now--"we had
not really expected such unintelligent skepticism from you; but, as
we prepared for everything, we, of course, prepared for even crass
stupidity on your part. In demonstrating our power to do what I say some
painful moments will be your portion. This I regret more than I can say.
Just now our problem is to prove our complete physical control of you
and also our utter indifference to your feelings. I am going to do what
will make you hate me to the murder point. In deliberately making a
violent enemy of a man like you we pay ourselves the compliment
of thinking ourselves absolutely fearless. I propose to have you
spanked--to whip you as if you were a bad little boy. We shall at first
use a shingle on you--undraped. You may begin when ready, James."

"Sir," said one of the footmen, very respectfully, to Mr. E. H.
Merriwether, "will you kindly take off your coat and waistcoat,
preliminary to the removal of your trousers?"

Mr. E. H. Merriwether tried to smile, but desisted when he saw that the
men's faces had taken on a grim look--as if they knew that after the
whipping it would be a fight to the death. They somehow conveyed an
impression that, though they would not stop at murder, they nevertheless
appreciated the gravity of the offense.

"We know," said the master, solemnly, "that for every blister we raise
you will gladly spend a million to clap us into jail. Do you really wish
to be spanked and to hate us for it for the rest of your life?"

"No."

"The alternative is the million--or death."

"You can't kill me and get away with it."

"Oh yes--even easier than kidnapping. I'll show you how we'll do it."
He rose and took from one of the drawers of the table a small,
morocco-covered medicine-case, opened it, and showed Mr. Merri-wether
a lot of small tubes tightly stoppered. "Cultures!" explained the
man--"typhoid; bubonic plague; anthrax; _Bacillus mallei_--that's
glanders--meningitis; Asiatic cholera; and others. This, for
instance--number thirteen--is the virus of tetanus. Inoculation with
an ordinary culture would take days; but with this virus it will take
hours. What a wonderful thing science is! You know what tetanus is?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Merriwether, calmly, "lockjaw."

"Exactly! Well, this will lock your jaws, and all your millions won't
be able to pry them open for you, and all the antitoxin injections won't
help you. You will have your consciousness almost to the last--and you
will not make yourself understood. The _risus sardonicus_, which is
a most unpleasant sort of grin resulting from your inability to smile
naturally, will linger in the memory of Tom to his death. You really
ought to have a moving-picture film of your last hours taken as a
warning to those stupid millionaires whose plunder we would recover.
And, of course, I have here seven poisons, of which prussic acid is the
mildest and slowest. Will you please assume the fact of your death?"

"I'll do that much to please you," said Mr. Mer-riwether. He still
believed that murder would not be profitable to these men and hence did
not believe they would go that far.

"Would you like to know how we propose to dispose of the body?"

"I might as well see everything," he answered, in a resigned tone of
voice. The man looked at him admiringly, and said:

"Come on!"

They led the great E. H. Merriwether to the cellar. There he saw that
the furnace coal had been taken out of its bin and put in the adjoining
compartment. The plank floor had been taken up, and what looked like a
short trench--or a grave--had been dug. Outside stood a pile of crushed
stone, some bags of cement, some bundles of steel rods, a section
of five-inch iron soilpipe with a mushroom-head trap at one end, and
concrete-workers' tools.

"After we make absolutely sure that you are dead we throw a lot of
soft mortar into the grave, deposit the corpse, and then pour in more
cement--so that you will be completely surrounded by it. It will make
it very difficult indeed to recognize you when they try to chip away the
hard cement--if they ever try! Then we fill the grave up to the top with
concrete, using plenty of steel rods--not to re-enforce the concrete at
all, but to make it very hard digging with a pick.

"We also stick the soilpipe into the--er--cavity in order to account
for the disturbed pavement. Intelligent searchers--your son and his
detectives--will assume it is plumbing--and seek no further. We replace
the plank flooring in the bin and fill it up with coal, thereby further
obliterating all traces of your grave.

"We have provided for that part, you see. Why, my dear Mr. Merriwether,
what we really do to you is confer immortality on you. We elevate you
to the rank of one of the mysteries. Charlie Ross and E. H. Merriwether!
Just assume that we'll do what I say. Very well! Now, visualize the
search made for you. Endow your people with superhuman ingenuity.
Useless!"

The man waved a hand toward Mr. Merriwether; but Mr. Merriwether said:

"You assume that the search will be exclusively for me--but they will
also search for you!"

"My dear sir, that is unkind of you!" The man spoke reproachfully. "We
know that when we go into the plunder-recovery business we must guard
against the chief contributory cause of the vast majority of
all business' failures, according to the statistics of Dun and
Bradstreet--to wit, insufficient capital. Murderers are caught when
their faces and habits and families are known. Usually their lack of
means forces them to betray themselves. But nobody knows how the men who
will kill E. H. Merriwether look, simply because we have enough money to
go anywhere. We will become tourists--like thousands of others. Some of
us will stay in New York; others will go on round-the-world tours. See
this?"

The man pulled from his pocket some packages of well-worn bills, with
the bank-wrappers round them, though a finger hid the bank name. Also
the man showed to Mr. Merriwether several books of travelers' checks of
the fifty-dollar denomination--the specimen signature also being covered
by the man's finger.

"Enough for all," said the man. "Kindly oblige me by thinking of
what you would do in my place; and, in all frankness, acknowledge that
nothing would be easier than to get away. Ordinary crime is so largely
accidental that the average criminal is at the mercy of even the
unintelligent police. Professionals do the same thing over and over and
acquire telltale mannerisms. Also, they lack culture, and find the
class attraction too strong to resist--besides always being hard up and
therefore defenseless. Whenever you find a crook who is thrifty, you
will find him always out of jail--like any other business man of equal
thrift. We have gone about this case systematically. We wanted your
million--but, more, we wanted the sport of taking it from a man who had
no moral right to the particular million we desired. If you had been
a really conscienceless financier we'd have made it five millions; in
fact, it is because we are not sure that even this million is tainted
that we ask you to pay it to us for giving you a fine daughter-in-law.
Shall we go up-stairs?"

The master of the house led the way up-stairs and Mr. E. H. Merriwether,
escorted by the stalwart footmen with the intelligent faces, followed,
his own intelligent face impassive. That he was thinking meant only that
he was doing what he always did.

The man sat down in his chair, with his back to the stained-glass
window. He asked, pleasantly:

"What do you say now, Mr. Merriwether?"

"I say," the little czar answered, with a frown of impatience, or anger,
or both, "that when you are tired of playing the damned fool I'd like to
return to my business."

The man rose to his feet quickly, his face pale with anger. He took
a step toward the financier, his fists clenched--and then suddenly
controlled himself.

"You jackass!" he said. "You idiot! Have you no brains whatever? Must
I lash common sense into you? Take 'em off!" It was a command to the
footmen.

"Will you disrobe, sir?" very politely asked the oldest of them.

Mr. Merriwether, six inches shorter than the speaker, and a hundred
pounds lighter, drew back his fist, but the four men seized him
and began to take his clothes off. Mr. Merriwether, recognizing the
uselessness of resistance and the folly of having garments torn so far
from home, helped by unbuttoning here and there. Presently he stood _in
puris naturctlibus_.

His face was pale and his jaw set tight.

"Tie him!" commanded the master.

They tied him to the library table, face down.

"Music!" cried the man; whereupon the cometist began to play the
Meditation from "Thaïs" softly, but obviously ready to play fortissimo
at a signal from the chief.

"I am going to lick you with a whip; and, for every lash I give you,
you will have to pay me one hundred thousand dollars in addition to
the original million. Theatrical, is it?" And his voice was hoarse with
anger. "Yes? Well, look at this melodramatic whip. Your tragedy will be
my comedy, you--------jackass!"

He showed to Mr. E. H. Merriwether a quirt--a veritable miniature
blacksnake of plaited leather.

"You can stand twenty; that will make three million in all. I'll draw
blood after the fifth. I'll stop when you've got enough. Remember the
price!"

He snapped the whip viciously and walked round the table until he
stood behind Mr. Merriwether. He lifted his arm and then the
great Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad,
iron-nerved, fearless, imaginative, and intelligent, yelled: "Wait!"

"The million?"

"Yes!"

"Help him!" said the man; and the intelligent-looking footmen
respectfully served as valets.

"I don't believe you would kill me--but I never liked spankings." Mr.
Merriwether spoke jocularly--almost!

The man confronted Mr. Merriwether and said, very seriously:

"Mr. Merriwether, we should certainly have killed you if you had
persisted in your stubbornness to the end. We knew we had to convince
you."

The man looked inquiringly at the financier to see whether any doubt
remained; but Mr. Merriwether asked, quizzically:

"Honest, now, would you--"

"We would!" interrupted the man, looking straight into Mr. Merriwether's
eyes. And what Mr. Merriwether saw there made him ask:

"How will you have the million?"

"In cash. I'm glad you will make the payment. But really, sir, I wish to
impress on you that Tom is ripe to be taken for better--or for worse."

Mr. E. H. Merriwether looked long and earnestly into the eyes of the
mysterious man who was despoiling him of a million dollars. It began to
seep into his understanding that if Tom could be married to a nice girl
the resulting peace of mind would indeed be cheap at a million.

"Now, if you please," pursued the man, pleasantly, "telephone to McWayne
that you wish him to come here with certified checks on your different
banks, aggregating one million dollars, made payable to Michael P.
Mahaffy."

Mr. Merriwether started. The name was that of the world-famous
political Boss of New York City. Explanations as to the million might
be embarrassing to any political boss; but for a million dollars in cash
any political boss would be glad to explain--or even not to explain.

"From this house Mr. McWayne will go to the banks, accompanied by the
studious gentleman who had the honor of holding your left leg. You will
indorse each check by writing 'indorsement correct' and signing your
name. McWayne will go with our Mr. Michael P. Mahaffy and get the money
in fives, tens, and twenties, in handy wads--old bills preferred and
so requested from the paying tellers, who will intelligently understand
that Mr. Mahaffy is not signing his name in person, so he can swear in
any court of justice that he never saw the checks. Asking for old bills
is to make them impossible to trace. This will also allay the banks'
suspicions. The worst that can happen will be that a few tellers will
wonder what Mr. Merriwether has to do with city politics that he needs
Mahaffy's aid."

"I see!" said Mr. Merriwether, thoughtfully. Then, after a pause: "Where
is the telephone?"

"There!"

In plain sight and hearing of the master of the house the master of the
Pacific & Southwestern called up his own office. He spoke to McWayne:
"Make out checks on all banks according to my balances in them, so that
the checks will aggregate one million dollars, payable to Michael P.
Mahaffy.... What? Yes?... Have the checks certified.... Of course, if
there isn't enough!... We shall want bills that have been used--fives,
tens, and twenties.... Yes, all cash. Come up to 777 Fifth Avenue. You
will go to the banks with a man--"

"With Mr. Mahaffy," prompted the man.

"With Mr. Mahaffy," repeated Mr. Merriwether. "And tell Tom to have
luncheon and wait for me," again prompted the man.

"And tell Tom I can't go to luncheon with him, but to wait for me."

Mr. Merriwether hung up the receiver and turned to the man, saying:

"The idea of using Mahaffy's name--"

"Rather good, isn't it?" smiled the man. "Of course you wondered how
we were going to cash the checks, didn't you? Well, that's the way. The
bank officials will be surprised to see the checks and they will watch
McWayne and my man to the last. They will thus be able to hear my man
say loudly to the chauffeur, 'Tammany Hall, Charlie!' Attention to
details, my dear sir!"

"I still am not quite convinced that--"

"My dear Mr. Merriwether, there are so many ways of safely getting money
from you Wall Street magnates that the only thing that really protects
you is the sad fact that the professional crooks are even more stupid
than you. Men like you are compelled to bet your entire fortune, your
very life, on averages. The average man is both stupid and honest; so
you and your like are fairly safe for fairly long periods of time. Of
course if we had been obliged to kill you we should have done so and
buried you, and we should have been wise enough to utilize your death
in as many ways as possible in the stock-market--and out of it. For
instance, I should have instantly telephoned to all the men in your
class and told them we had eliminated you--as an example--and to
remember that in case we ever had occasion to ask anything from them.
We should also give them a countersign, so that they would be able to
recognize us when the proper time came. I can kidnap or permanently
suppress any millionaire in New York, with neatness, despatch, and
safety."

"But killing a well-known man--" began Mr. Merriwether.

"If Big Tim Sullivan could be killed and lie in the Morgue for days
unrecognized, what chance do relatively unknown people like you great
millionaires stand to be found, once dead? A dead capitalist, remember,
is no more impressive than a dead streetcar conductor. If I got you
into this house on the strength of Tom, as I got Tom to come in on the
strength of you, what millionaire would refuse, for example, to go, in
answer to a telephone message that his child had been run over and was
now, let us say, at 128 East Seventy-ninth Street? Or that his wife,
acting more or less as if she were intoxicated, was scattering money at
the corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street? And suppose the
millionaire is bound and chloroformed, and taken to the top floor of a
tenement hired by a humpback with red beard and one leg shorter than
the other--same humpback not being really a humpback or red-bearded or
a cripple, but a fake, to furnish false clues in advance--and this
humpback has previously given fire-extinguishing hand-grenades to all
the other tenants, as advertisements! Then we have a charge of dynamite
inserted in the thoroughly prepared corpse of the millionaire--his face
burned off in advance--and he is also soaked in inflammable material and
set on fire. And the deed is done at 11 a.m.; so that all the children
will be in school and all the adults awake and able to get out. Find
you? Bits of flesh and sympathy for the poor humpback is all the police
would find in that tenement. Oh! sir, you were wise to pay--very wise
indeed!"

Mr. Merriwether looked at the man a long time. He could not deny that
to really desperate men such deeds offered no particular difficulty. The
average crook is not dangerous to a millionaire; but a man like this
is more than dangerous. He thought quickly and formed his conclusions
accurately.

"How are you going to make Tom marry one of the girls whose names you
mentioned?" he asked, in the tone of voice one uses toward physicians.

The man smiled slightly and said: "Oh, I am not going to do it. I don't
care whether he marries or not. You must do that. But I'll tell you how,
if you wish,--after McWayne gets here. Just think over the affair. It
will put you in a more intelligently receptive frame of mind." And with
a pleasant smile the man took a little book bound in green leather and
began to read.

Mr. E. H. Merriwether, as was his wont when thinking, began at the
beginning and reviewed the entire affair quickly but carefully. He did
this again--it did not take him long--and then he began to co-ordinate
his ideas and study the case. Within ten minutes he had forgotten his
animosity. In fifteen he felt respect for this man. In twenty he was
thinking how helpless any one man is against his ten billion trillion
natural foes--microbes, seismic disturbances, floods, and the chemical
reaction of hostile brains. This man, whose very name was unknown to
him, had vanquished the victor--had looted the tent of the victorious
general!

This was incredible when spoken in a conversational tone of voice.
Perhaps this same remarkable man might tell how to make Tom choose a
desirable wife. It was worth while making the experiment. It was in the
nature of a gamble in which E. H. Merriwether stood to win a happiness
worth all the money in the world and stood to lose nothing!

A knock at the door roused him from his reverie. One of the footmen
arrived from the threshold.

"Mr. McWayne!"

Mr. Merriwether's private secretary entered. E. H. Merriwether held out
his right hand.

Mr. McWayne took four slips of paper and gave them to his chief, who
quickly looked at them and passed them over to the master of the
house. The man looked at them, indorsed them, and handed a pen to Mr.
Merriwether. The czar of the Pacific & Southwestern wrote on each of the
checks:

Indorsement correct.

E. H. Merriwether.

He returned the checks to the man, who thereupon pushed a button a
number of times.

One of the footmen with the non-menial faces appeared dressed for the
street. He looked Irish. He wore a big solitaire scarf-pin. His hat
inclined to one side noticeably. He carried a square valise in each
hand. They looked as if they had seen service. On each was printed,
"Treasurer Tammany Hall."

"Go with Mr. McWayne to the banks and cash the checks. Mr. McWayne will
identify you," said the master of the house.

"Yis, sor!" said the footman.

The brogue was unnecessary, but E. H. Merri-wether smiled slightly.
McWayne and the footman in mufti left together.

"Think some more!" said the man to E. H. Merri-wether, and resumed his
reading of the little green-leather book.

Mr. Merriwether leaned back and thought some more. To him the
million-dollar loss was already ancient history. The only virtue that
the Wall Street life gives to a professional is the ability to take a
loss of money with more or less philosophy. That philosophy is also
met on the race-track, and among experts in faro as well as among real
Christians.

McWayne and the man were gone an hour and eighteen minutes. Mr.
Merriwether had time to think of Tom and of himself and of the relation
that had existed between himself and his son, and of the relations that
would exist between them in the future--God willing.

"Mr. McWayne!" announced the servant.

The private secretary entered; also the Irishman with the two valises.

"Tell the others! At five o'clock!" said the master of the house, and
the footman left the room--with the valises!

"Mr. McWayne, will you kindly wait in the other room?" The man rose and
parted the portières for the secretary to pass through.

"Certainly," said McWayne, frowning politely. "Now, Mr. Merriwether,"
said the man, "as I told you, Tom's mind and soul are prepared for love.
The romantic vein in him has been worked to the limit. He can be laughed
out of it very easily, for he is not entirely convinced; but it is too
valuable a frame of mind for a really intelligent father to destroy. The
young ladies, also, are ripe for the coming of the one man in all the
world. They will respond readily--and, I may add, respond with relief if
they see he is a man like your son, against whom nothing can be said. It
will clinch the affair. My advice is for you to call on the young
ladies I have mentioned and judge for yourself, and then you be your own
stage-manager!"

"Have you any choice yourself?"

"You know Woodford?"

"Very well."

"And his daughter Isabel?"

"No."

"Well, she has the complementary qualities. She will, as it were,
complete Tom. She is bright, healthy, very handsome, utterly unspoiled
by the knowledge of her good looks--that is, she is highly intelligent.
Her mind functionates quickly and is regulated and made to work safely
by her keen sense of humor. You will love her for herself, as well as
for Tom's sake and for Tom's children's sake. Arrange two things and you
can do it. One is prepare her to meet Tom. Tell her you don't know why
you want her to know him, but you do. Tell her you wanted this before
you ever saw her. And tell her you know she must think you must be going
crazy--but will she meet Tom in her father's home?--in some room with
the lights turned out? She will ask you why you ask such things. And you
will rub your hand across your eyes and say, dazed-like: T don't know!
I don't know! Will--will you do it?' And when you take Tom to her, take
advantage of the dark, and open this little bottle and touch Tom's lapel
with this. It is essence of sweet peas. He will associate Isabel with
the mysterious girl to whom he took a message in the dark, and by the
same token she will know he is the man who destiny decrees shall be
her husband. Then leave the rest to nature. They won't struggle. They
couldn't if they wished; but they won't wish to fight. My parting words
to you are: the man who was smart enough to get a million dollars out of
you finds it even easier to make a young man who wants to love fall in
love in the springtime with a handsome, healthy girl who wants to be
loved. You and McWayne will now use one of my prisoner-carrying motors.
This way, sir!"

He led the way into the next room, picked up McWayne, and escorted the
financier and his private secretary to the curb. A neat little motor
stood there.

Mr. Merriwether climbed in. McWayne followed. And then the man said:

"You will find that the doors cannot be opened from the inside. The
chauffeur was told this queer feature was due to the fact that his
master expects to use this car for his two very active and very
mischievous children. He will drive you anywhere. You can arrest him if
you wish; but it will be useless. We have spent a good many thousands
of dollars in accessories that will be thrown away to-day." And the man
sighed.

"Who do you mean by we?" asked E. H. Merriwether, politely.

"The Plunder Recovery Syndicate, which, having completed its operations,
will now dissolve. Good day, sir."

In the issue of the _World_ of June 9th two advertisements appeared.
One, under "Marriages," read:

Merriwether-Woodford.--On June 8th, at the Church of St. Lawrence,
by the Rev. Stephen Vincent Rood, Isabel Woodford to Thomas Thome
Merriwether.

The other, under "Personals," read:

P. R. Syndicate,--It was cheap at a million!

E. H. M.

On June 10th the great railroad financier received a typewritten letter.
It read:

_In the course of our operations, having for an object the recovery
of plunder taken from unidentified individuals by malefactors of
great wealth, it has happened that we have grown fond of some of our
contributors. We thus are able most sincerely to extend to you our
hearty congratulations. It was indeed cheap at a million, and we shall
remember your good fortune if ever we need advice or additional funds.
What we took from you and from some of your fellow New-Yorkers we
propose to return to the public at large. Mr. Amos F. Kidder will tell
you his suspicions, if you ask him. In return you might tell him that
we propose to capitalize time. We shall make a present of fifty years to
the world by transmuting the recovered plunder into unspent time. Don't
forget that we who were the Plunder Recoverers are now,_

_The Time Givers._


THE END









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