McAllister had speculated for a day or two upon the probable identity of
the man with the hole in his forehead, and then had finally given it up
as a bad job. One didn't like to dig up the past too carefully, anyhow.
You never could tell exactly what you might exhume.
The next Sunday afternoon, while running his eyes carelessly over the
"personals," his notice was attracted to the following:
BUSINESS OPPORTUNITIES.--Advertiser wants party with
four thousand dollars ready cash; can make twelve
thousand dollars in five weeks; no scheme, strictly
legitimate business transaction; will bear thorough
investigation; must act immediately; no brokers;
principals only.
HERBERT, 319 Herald.
The name sounded familiar. But he didn't know any Herbert. Then there
hovered in the penumbra of his consciousness for a moment the ghost of a
scarlet dress, an ermine hat. Ah, yes! Herbert was the man with the hole
in his forehead that night at Rector's, that Alphonse didn't know. But
where had he known that man? He raised his eyes and caught a glimpse of
Tomlinson, the saturnine Tomlinson, sitting by a window. Of course!
Buncomb--Colonel C. T. P. Buncomb--Tomlinson's high-rolling friend of
the Champs-Élysées--turned up in New York as Mr. Herbert--a man who'd
triple your money in five weeks! The chain was complete. If he kept his
wits about him he might increase the reputation achieved at Blair's. It
would require _finesse_, to be sure, but his experience with Conville
had given him confidence. Here was a chance to do a little more
detective work on his own account. He replied to the advertisement,
inviting an interview. The "Colonel" would probably call, try some old
swindling game, McAllister would lure him on, and at the proper moment
call in the police. It looked easy sailing.
Accordingly the appointed hour next day found the clubman waiting
impatiently at his rooms, and at two o'clock promptly Mr. Herbert was
announced. But McAllister was doomed to disappointment. The visitor was
not the Colonel at all, and didn't even have a bullet-hole in his
forehead. A short, thick-set man, arrayed carefully in a dark blue
overcoat, bowed himself in. In his hand he carried a glistening silk
hat, and his own countenance was no less shining and urbane. Thick
bristly black hair parted mathematically in the middle drooped on either
side of his forehead above a pair of snappy black eyes and rather
bulbous nose.
McAllister somewhat uneasily invited his guest to be seated.
Mr. Herbert smilingly took the chair offered him.
"Mr. McAllister?" he inquired affably.
"Ye-es," replied the clubman. "I noticed your advertisement in the
_Herald_, and it occurred to me that I might like to look into it."
Mr. Herbert smiled slightly in a deprecating manner.
"I admit my method savors a trifle of charlatanism," he remarked, "but
the situation was unusual and time was of the essence. Are we quite
alone?"
"Oh, yes, certainly! Will you smoke?"
Mr. Herbert had no objection to joining McAllister in a cigar.
"The gist of the matter is this," he explained, holding the weed in the
corner of his mouth as he spoke--a trick McAllister had never acquired.
"I have a brother who is employed in a confidential capacity by the
president of a large mining company--The Golden Touch. The stock has
always sold at around four or five. Recently they struck a very rich
lode. It was kept very quiet, and only the officers of the company
actually on the field know of it. Needless to say, they are buying in
the stock as fast as they can."
"Of course," answered McAllister sympathetically. He felt as if he had
run across an old friend again. Things were looking up a bit.
"Well, I have located a block of which they know absolutely nothing. It
was issued to an engineer in lieu of cash for services at the mine. He
suddenly developed sciatica, and is obliged to go to Baden-Baden. At
present he is laid up at one of the hotels in this city. Of course he is
ignorant of the find made since he left Arizona, and of the fact that
his stock, once worth only five dollars a share, is now selling at
twenty."
"Well, he's a richer man than he supposes," commented McAllister
naively.
Mr. Herbert smiled with condescension.
"Exactly. That is the point. If I had five thousand dollars I could buy
his thousand shares to-morrow and sell it to the company at fifteen
thousand dollars' profit. You furnish the funds, I the opportunity, and
we divide even. I've a sure thing! What do you think of it?"
"By George!" exclaimed the clubman, slapping his knee delightedly, "I've
a mind to go you! . . . But," he added shrewdly, "I should want to see
the prospective buyer of my stock before I purchased it."
"Right you are; right you are, Mr. McAllister," instantly returned Mr.
Herbert. "Now, I'm dead on the level, see? To-morrow morning you can go
down and see the president of The Golden Touch yourself. The offices are
in the New York Life Building."
"All right," answered McAllister. "To-morrow? Wait a minute; I've an
engagement. Why can't we go now?"
Mr. Herbert nodded approvingly. Ah, _that_ was business! They would go
at once.
McAllister rang for Frazier, who assisted him into his coat and summoned
a cab. On their way down-town Herbert waxed even more confidential. He
believed, if they could land this block of stock, they might perhaps dig
up a few more hundred shares. Conscientious effort counted just as much
in an affair of this sort as in any other. McAllister displayed the
deepest interest.
Arrived at the New York Life Building, the two took the elevator to the
fifth floor, where Herbert led the way to a large suite on the Leonard
Street side. McAllister rarely had to go down-town--his lawyer usually
called on him at his rooms--and was much impressed by the marble
corridors and gilt lettering upon the massive doors. Upon a door at the
end of the hall the clubman could see in large capitals the words,