like to say that you are more greatly in need of advice at this moment
than any man in America."
"You are perfectly right, Mr. Boscombe. I am always in need of good
advice, and I appreciate it."
"An application was made to me from New York for a block of stock. That
stock is not for sale, but I dallied with the brokers, made
investigations, and traced the inquiry to you."
"Very clever of you, Mr. Boscombe."
"I learn that you propose to finance Miss Constance Maturin, who is a
junior partner in my business."
"I should not think of contradicting so shrewd a man as yourself, Mr.
Boscombe. What do you advise in the premises?"
"I advise you to get out, and quick, too."
"If I don't, what are you going to do to me?"
"Oh, I shall do nothing. She will do all that is necessary. That woman
is stark mad, Lord Stranleigh. Her own father recognised it when he
bereft her of all power in the great business he founded. If she had her
way, she'd ruin the company inside a year with her hare-brained schemes;
love of the dear people, and that sort of guff."
"I am sorry to hear that. I noticed no dementia on the part of Miss
Maturin, who seemed to me a most cultivated and very charming young
lady. You will permit me, I hope, to thank you for your warning, and
will not be surprised that I can give you no decision on the spur of the
moment. I am a slow-minded person, and need time to think over things."
"Certainly, certainly; personally I come to sudden conclusions, and once
I make up my mind, I never change it."
"A most admirable gift. I wish I possessed it."
Lord Stranleigh said nothing of this interview to Constance Maturin,
beyond telling her that the acquisition of stock appeared to be
hopeless, as indeed proved to be the case.
"Boscombe must be a stubborn person," he said.
"Oh, he's all that," the girl replied, with a sigh. "He cares for one
thing only, the making of money, and in that I must admit he has been
very successful."
"Well, we've got a little cash of our own," said Stranleigh, with a
laugh.
Miss Maturin and Mrs. Vanderveldt celebrated a national holiday by the
greatest entertainment ever given in that district. The mills had been
shut down for a week, and every man, woman and child in the valley city
had been invited up to the new town on the heights. There was a brass
band, and a sumptuous spread of refreshments, all free to the immense
crowd. The ladies, for days before, visited everyone in the valley, and
got a promise of attendance, but to make assurance doubly sure, an
amazing corps of men was organised, equipped with motor cars, which
scoured the valley from Powerville downwards, gathering in such remnants
of humanity as for any reason had neglected to attend the show. Miss
Maturin said she was resolved this entertainment should be a feature
unique in the history of the State.
The shutting down of the mills had caused the water in the immense dam
to rise, so that now the sluices at the top added to the picturesqueness
of the scene by supplying waterfalls more than sixty feet high, a
splendid view of which was obtainable from the new city on the heights.
Suddenly it was noticed that these waterfalls increased in power, until
their roar filled the valley. At last the whole lip of the immense dam
began to trickle, and an ever augmenting Niagara of waters poured over.
"Great heavens!" cried Boscombe, who was present to sneer at these
activities, "there must have been a cloud-burst in the mountains!"
He shouted for the foreman.
"Where are the tenders of the dam?" he cried. "Send them to lower those
sluices, and let more water out."
"Wait a moment," said Constance Maturin, who had just come out of the
main telephone building. "There can be no danger, Mr. Boscombe. You
always said that dam was strong enough, when I protested it wasn't."
"So it is strong enough, but not----"
"Look!" she cried, pointing over the surface of the lake. "See that
wave!"
"Suffering Noah and the Flood!" exclaimed Boscombe.
As he spoke, the wave burst against the dam, and now they had Niagara
in reality. There was a crash, and what seemed to be a series of
explosions, then the whole structure dissolved away, and before the
appalled eyes of the sight-seers, the valley town crumpled up like a
pack of cards, and even the tall mills themselves, that staggered at the
impact of the flood, slowly settled down, and were engulfed in the
seething turmoil of maddened waters.
[Illustration: "'This,' he cried, 'is murder.'"]
For a time no voice could be heard in the deafening uproar. It was
Boscombe who spoke when the waters began to subside.
"This," he cried, "is murder!"
He glared at Constance Maturin, who stood pale, silent and trembling.
"I told you she was mad," he roared at Stranleigh. "It is your money
that in some devilish way has caused this catastrophe. If any lives are
lost, it is rank murder!"
"It is murder," agreed Stranleigh, quietly. "Whoever is responsible for
the weakness of that dam should be hanged!"
V.--IN SEARCH OF GAME.
The warm morning gave promise of a blistering hot day, as Lord
Stranleigh strolled, in his usual leisurely fashion, up Fifth Avenue.
High as the thermometer already stood, the young man gave no evidence
that he was in the least incommoded by the temperature. In a welter of
heated, hurrying people, he produced the effect of an iceberg that had
somehow drifted down into the tropics. The New York tailor entrusted
with the duty of clothing him quite outdistanced his London rival, who
had given Lord Stranleigh the reputation of being the best-dressed man
in England. Now his lordship was dangerously near the point where he
might be called the best-dressed man in New York, an achievement worthy
of a Prince's ambition.
His lordship, with nothing to do, and no companionship to hope for,
since everyone was at work, strolled into the splendour of the
University Club and sought the comparative coolness of the smoking room,
where, seating himself in that seductive invitation to laziness, a
leather-covered arm chair, he began to glance over the illustrated
English weeklies. He had the huge room to himself. These were business
hours, and a feeling of loneliness crept over him, perhaps germinated by
his sight of the illustrated papers, and accentuated by an attempted
perusal of them. They were a little too stolid for a hot day, so
Stranleigh turned to the lighter entertainment of the American humorous
press.
Presently there entered this hall of silence the stout figure of Mr.
John L. Banks, senior attorney for the Ice Trust, a man well known to
Stranleigh, who had often sought his advice, with profit to both of
them. The lawyer approached the lounger.
"Hello, Banks, I was just thinking of you, reflecting how delightful it
must be in this weather to be connected, even remotely, with the ice
supply of New York."
Mr. Banks's panama hat was in one hand, while the other drew a
handkerchief across his perspiring brow.
"Well, Stranleigh, you're looking very cool and collected. Enacting the
part of the idle rich, I suppose?"
"No, I'm a specimen of labour unrest."
"Perhaps I can appease that. I'm open to a deal at fair compensation for
you. If you will simply parade the streets in that leisurely fashion we
all admire, bearing a placard 'Pure Ice Company,' I'll guarantee you a
living wage and an eight hours' day."
"Should I be required to carry about crystal blocks of the product?"
"No; you're frigid enough as it is. Besides, ice at the present moment
is too scarce to be expended on even so important a matter as
advertisement."
Banks wheeled forward an arm chair, and sat down opposite his lordship.
A useful feature of a panama hat is its flexibility. You may roll one
brim to fit the hand, and use the other as a fan, and this Banks did
with the perfection of practice.
"What's the cause of the unrest, Stranleigh?"
"Thinking. That's the cause of unrest all the world over. Whenever
people begin to think, there is trouble."
"I've never noticed any undue thoughtfulness in you, Stranleigh."
"That's just it. Thinking doesn't agree with me, and as you hint, I
rarely indulge in it, but this is a land that somehow stimulates
thought, and thought compels action. Action is all very well in
moderation, but in these United States of yours it is developed into
a fever, or frenzy rather, curable only by a breakdown or death."
"Do you think it's as bad as all that?"
"Yes, I do. You call it enterprise; I call it greed. I've never yet met
an American who knew when he'd had enough."
"Did you ever meet an Englishman who knew that?"
"Thousands of them."
Banks laughed.
"I imagine," he said, "it's all a matter of nomenclature. You think us
fast over here, and doubtless you are wrong; _we_ think _you_ slow over
there, and doubtless we are wrong. I don't think we're greedy. No man is
so lavish in his expenditure as an American, and no man more generous. A
greedy man does not spend money. Our motive power is interest in the
game."
"Yes; everyone has told me that, but I regard the phrase as an excuse,
not as a reason."
"Look here, Stranleigh, who's been looting you? What deal have you lost?
I warned you against mixing philanthropy with business, you remember."
Stranleigh threw back his head and laughed.
"There you have it. According to you a man cannot form an opinion that
is uninfluenced by his pocket. As a matter of fact, I have won all
along the line. I tried the game, as you call it, hoping to find it
interesting, but it doesn't seem to me worth while. I pocket the stakes,
and I am going home, in no way elated at my success, any more than I
should have been discouraged had I failed."
Leaning forward, Mr. Banks spoke as earnestly as the weather permitted.
"What you need, Stranleigh, is a doctor's advice, not a lawyer's. You
have been just a little too long in New York, and although New Yorkers
don't believe it, there are other parts of the country worthy of
consideration. Your talk, instead of being an indictment of life as you
find it, has been merely an exposition of your own ignorance, a sample
of that British insularity which we all deplore. I hope you don't mind
my stating the case as I see it?"
"Not at all," said Stranleigh. "I am delighted to hear your point of
view. Go on."
"Very well; here am I plugging away during this hot weather in this hot
city. Greed, says you."
"I say nothing of the kind," replied his lordship calmly. "I am merely
lost in admiration of a hard-working man, enduring the rigours of toil
in the most luxurious club of which I have ever been an honorary
member. Let me soften the asperities of labour by ordering something
with ice in it."
The good-natured attorney accepted the invitation, and then went on--
"We have a saying regarding any futile proposition to the effect that it
cuts no ice. This is the position of the Trust in which I am interested.
In this hot weather we cut no ice, but we sell it. Winter is a peaceable
season with us, and the harder the winter, the better we are pleased,
but summer is a time of trouble. It is a period of complaints and
law-suits, and our newspaper reading is mostly articles on the greed and
general villainy of the Trust. So my position is literally that of
what-you-may-call-him on the burning deck, whence almost all but he have
fled to the lakes, to the mountains, to the sea shore. Now, I don't
intend to do this always. I have set a limit of accumulated cash, and
when I reach it I quit. It would be high falutin' if I said duty held me
here, so I will not say it."
"A lawyer can always out-talk a layman," said Stranleigh, wearily, "and
I suppose all this impinges on my ignorance."
"Certainly," said Banks. "It's a large subject, you know. But I'll leave
theory, and come down to practice. As I said before, you've had too much
of New York. You are known to have a little money laid by against a
rainy day, so everybody wants you to invest in something, and you've got
tired of it. Have you ever had a taste of ranch life out West?"
"I've never been further West than Chicago."
"Good. When you were speaking of setting a limit to financial ambition,
I remembered my old friend, Stanley Armstrong, the best companion on a
shooting or fishing expedition I ever encountered. It is not to be
wondered at that he is an expert in sport, for often he has had to
depend on rod and gun for sustenance. He was a mining engineer, and very
few know the mining west as well as he does. He might have been a
millionaire or a pauper, but he chose a middle course, and set his limit
at a hundred thousand pounds. When land was cheap he bought a large
ranch, partly plain and partly foothills, with the eternal snow
mountains beyond. Now, if you take with you an assortment of guns and
fishing rods, and spend a month with Stanley Armstrong, your pessimism
will evaporate."
"A good idea," said Stranleigh. "If you give me a letter of introduction
to Mr. Armstrong, I'll telegraph at once to be sure of accommodation."
"Telegraph?" cried the lawyer. "He'd never get your message. I don't
suppose there's a telegraph office within fifty miles. You don't need a
letter of introduction, but I'll write you one, and give your name
merely as Stranleigh. You won't have any use for a title out there; in
fact, it is a necessary part of my prescription that you should get away
from yours, with the consequences it entails. Not that you're likely to
come across would-be investors, or any one with designs on your wealth.
As for accommodation, take a tent with you, and be independent. When I
return to my office, I'll dictate full instructions for reaching the
ranch."
"Is it so difficult of access as all that?"
"You might find it so. When you reach the nearest railway station, which
is a couple of days' journey from the ranch, you can acquire a horse for
yourself, and two or three men with pack mules for your belongings.
They'll guide you to Armstrong's place."
Stranleigh found no difficulty in getting a cavalcade together at
Bleachers' station, an amazingly long distance west of New York. A man
finds little trouble in obtaining what he wants, if he never cavils at
the price asked, and is willing to pay in advance. The party passed
through a wild country, though for a time the road was reasonably good.
It degenerated presently into a cart-track, however, and finally became
a mere trail through the wilderness. As night fell, the tent was put up
by the side of a brawling stream, through which they had forded.
Next morning the procession started early, but it was noon before it
came to the clearing which Stranleigh rightly surmised was the outskirts
of the ranch. The guide, who had been riding in front, reined in, and
allowed Stranleigh to come alongside.
"That," he said, pointing down the valley, "is Armstrong's ranch."
Before Stranleigh could reply, if he had intended doing so, a shot rang
out from the forest, and he felt the sharp sting of a bullet in his left
shoulder. The guide flung himself from the saddle with the speed of
lightning, and stood with both hands upraised, his horse between himself
and the unseen assailant.
"Throw up your hands!" he shouted to Stranleigh.
"Impossible!" was the quiet answer, "my left is helpless."
"Then hold up your right."
Stranleigh did so.
"Slide off them packs," roared the guide to his followers, whereupon
ropes were untied on the instant, and the packs slid to the ground,
while the mules shook themselves, overjoyed at this sudden freedom.
"Turn back!" cried the guide. "Keep your hand up, and they won't shoot.
They want the goods."
"Then you mean to desert me?" asked Stranleigh.
"Desert nothing!" rejoined the guide, gruffly.
"We can't stand up against these fellows, whoever they are. We're no
posse. To fight them is the sheriff's business. I engaged to bring you
and your dunnage to Armstrong's ranch. I've delivered the goods, and now
it's me for the railroad."
"I'm going to that house," said Stranleigh.
"The more fool you," replied the guide, "but I guess you'll get there
safe enough, if you don't try to save the plunder."
The unladen mules, now bearing the men on their backs, had disappeared.
The guide washed his hands of the whole affair, despite the fact that
his hands were upraised. He whistled to his horse, and marched up the
trail for a hundred yards or so, still without lowering his arms, then
sprang into the saddle, fading out of sight in the direction his men
had taken. Stranleigh sat on his horse, apparently the sole inhabitant
of a lonely world.
"That comes of paying in advance," he muttered, looking round at his
abandoned luggage. Then it struck him as ridiculous that he was enacting
the part of an equestrian statue, with his arm raised aloft. Still, he
remembered enough of the pernicious literature that had lent enchantment
to his early days, to know that in certain circumstances the holding up
of hands was a safeguard not to be neglected, so he lowered his right
hand, and took in it the forefinger of his left, and thus raised both
arms over his head, turning round in the saddle to face the direction
from whence the shots had come. Then he released the forefinger, and
allowed the left arm to drop as if it had been a semaphore. He winced
under the pain that this pantomime cost him, then in a loud voice he
called out:
"If there is anyone within hearing, I beg to inform him that I am
wounded slightly; that I carry no firearms; that my escort has vanished,
and that I'm going to the house down yonder to have my injury looked
after. Now's the opportunity for a parley, if he wants it."
He waited for some moments, but there was no response, then he gathered
up the reins, and quite unmolested proceeded down the declivity until he
came to the homestead.
The place appeared to be deserted, and for the first time it crossed
Stranleigh's mind that perhaps the New York lawyer had sent him on this
expedition as a sort of practical joke. He couldn't discover where the
humour of it came in, but perhaps that might be the density with which
his countrymen were universally credited. Nevertheless, he determined to
follow the adventure to an end, and slipped from his horse, making an
ineffectual attempt to fasten the bridle rein to a rail of the fence
that surrounded the habitation. The horse began placidly to crop the
grass, so he let it go at that, and advancing to the front door,
knocked.
Presently the door was opened by an elderly woman of benign appearance,
who nevertheless regarded him with some suspicion. She stood holding
the door, without speaking, seemingly waiting for her unexpected
visitor to proclaim his mission.
"Is this the house of Stanley Armstrong?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Is he at home? I have a letter of introduction to him."
"No; he is not at home."
"Do you expect him soon?"
"He is in Chicago," answered the woman.
"In Chicago?" echoed Stranleigh. "We must have passed one another on the
road. I was in Chicago myself, but it seems months ago; in fact, I can
hardly believe such a place exists." The young man smiled a little
grimly, but there was no relaxation of the serious expression with which
the woman had greeted him.
"What was your business with my husband?"
"No business at all; rather the reverse. Pleasure, it might be called. I
expected to do a little shooting and fishing. A friend in New York
kindly gave me a letter of introduction to Mr. Armstrong, who, he said,
would possibly accompany me."
"Won't you come inside?" was her reluctant invitation. "I don't think
you told me your name."
"My name is Stranleigh, madam. I hope you will excuse my persistence,
but the truth is I have been slightly hurt, and if, as I surmise, it is
inconvenient to accept me as a lodger, I should be deeply indebted for
permission to remain here while I put a bandage on the wound. I must
return at once to Bleachers, where I suppose I can find a physician more
or less competent."
"Hurt?" cried the woman in amazement, "and I've been keeping you
standing there at the door. Why didn't you tell me at once?"
"Oh, I think it's no great matter, and the pain is not as keen as I
might have expected. Still, I like to be on the safe side, and must
return after I have rested for a few minutes."
"I'm very sorry to hear of your accident," said Mrs. Armstrong, with
concern. "Sit down in that rocking-chair until I call my daughter."
The unexpected beauty of the young woman who entered brought an
expression of mild surprise to Stranleigh's face. In spite of her homely
costume, a less appreciative person than his lordship must have been
struck by Miss Armstrong's charm, and her air of intelligent refinement.
"This is Mr. Stranleigh, who has met with an accident," said Mrs.
Armstrong to her daughter.
"Merely a trifle," Stranleigh hastened to say, "but I find I cannot
raise my left arm."
"Is it broken?" asked the girl, with some anxiety.
"I don't think so; I fancy the trouble is in the shoulder. A rifle
bullet has passed through it."
"A rifle bullet?" echoed the girl, in a voice of alarm. "How did that
happen? But--never mind telling me now. The main thing is to attend to
the wound. Let me help you off with your coat."
Stranleigh stood up.
"No exertion, please," commanded the girl. "Bring some warm water and a
sponge," she continued, turning to her mother.
She removed Stranleigh's coat with a dexterity that aroused his
admiration. The elder woman returned with dressings and sponge, which
she placed on a chair. Stranleigh's white shirt was stained with blood,
and to this Miss Armstrong applied the warm water.
"I must sacrifice your linen," she said calmly. "Please sit down again."
In a few moments his shoulder was bare; not the shoulder of an athlete,
but nevertheless of a young man in perfect health. The girl's soft
fingers pressed it gently.
"I shall have to hurt you a little," she said.
Stranleigh smiled.
"It is all for my good, as they say to little boys before whipping
them."
The girl smiled back at him.
"Yes; but I cannot add the complementary fiction that it hurts me more
than it does you. There! Did you feel that?"
"Not more than usual."
"There are no bones broken, which is a good thing. After all, it is a
simple case, Mr. Stranleigh. You must remain quiet for a few days, and
allow me to put this arm in a sling. I ought to send you off to bed, but
if you promise not to exert yourself, you may sit out on the verandah
where it is cool, and where the view may interest you."
"You are very kind, Miss Armstrong, but I cannot stay. I must return to
Bleachers."
"I shall not allow you to go back," she said with decision.
Stranleigh laughed.
"In a long and comparatively useless life I have never contradicted a
lady, but on this occasion I must insist on having my own way."
"I quite understand your reason, Mr. Stranleigh, though it is very
uncomplimentary to me. It is simply an instance of man's distrust of a
woman when it comes to serious work. Like most men, you would be content
to accept me as a nurse, but not as a physician. There are two doctors
in Bleachers, and you are anxious to get under the care of one of them.
No--please don't trouble to deny it. You are not to blame. You are
merely a victim of the universal conceit of man."
"Ah, it is you who are not complimentary now! You must think me a very
commonplace individual."
She had thrown the coat over his shoulders, after having washed and
dressed the wound. The bullet had been considerate enough to pass right
through, making all probing unnecessary. With a safety-pin she attached
his shirt sleeve to his shirt front.
"That will do," she said, "until I prepare a regular sling. And now come
out to the verandah. No; don't carry the chair. There are several on the
platform. Don't try to be polite, and remember I have already ordered
you to avoid exertion."
He followed her to the broad piazza, and sat down, drawing a deep breath
of admiration. Immediately in front ran a broad, clear stream of water;
swift, deep, transparent.
"An ideal trout stream," he said to himself.
A wide vista of rolling green fields stretched away to a range of
foothills, overtopped in the far distance by snow mountains.
"By Jove!" he cried. "This is splendid. I have seen nothing like it out
of Switzerland."
"Talking of Switzerland," said Miss Armstrong, seating herself opposite
him, "have you ever been at Thun?"
"Oh, yes."
"You stopped at the _Thunerhof_, I suppose?"
"I don't remember what it was called, but it was the largest hotel in
the place, I believe."