On the evening of the third day after his latest interview with Doctor
Jones, Keith threw down his paper with a cry of triumph. He had been
scanning the columns of every issue with minute care, combing even the
fine print for the auctioneer's advertisements. Here was what he
wanted: top of column, third page, where every one would be sure to see
it. The commissioners issued a signed statement, calling public
attention to the details of their appointment, and warning that titles
issued under sheriff's sale would be considered invalid.
Keith read this with great attention, then drew his personal check
against Palmer, Cook & Co. for eleven thousand dollars in favour of
Doctor Jones. After some search he unearthed the little man in a
downtown rookery, and from him obtained an assignment of his judgment
against the city. Doctor Jones lost no time spreading the news, with
the additional statement that he considered himself well out of the
mess. He proceeded to order himself a long-coveted microscope, and was
thenceforth lost to sight among low-tide rocks and marine algae. The
sheriff's sale came off at the advertised date. There were no bidders;
the commissioners' warning had had its effect. Keith himself bought in
the lots for $5,000. This check about exhausted his resources. This,
less costs, was, of course, paid back to himself as holder of the
judgment. He had title, such as it was, for about what he had given
Jones.
The bargain amused Keith's acquaintance hugely. Whenever he appeared he
was deluged with chaff, all of which he took, good naturedly. He was
considered, in a moment of aberration, to have bought an exceedingly
doubtful equity. Some thought, he must have a great deal of money,
arguing that only the owner of a fat bank account could afford to take
such fliers; others considered that he must have very little sense.
Keith was apparently unperturbed. He at once began to look about him,
considering the next step in his scheme. Since this investment had
taken nearly every cent he had left, it was incumbent to raise more
money at once.
He called on John Sherwood at the Empire. The gambler listened to him
attentively.
"I can't go into it," he said, when Keith had finished. A slight smile
sketched itself on his strong, impassive face. "Not that I do not
believe it will work; I think it will. But I have long made it a rule
never to try to make money outside my own business--which is gambling.
I never adopt ordinary honest methods."
Keith's honest but legally trained mind failed to notice the quiet
sarcasm of this. "Well, you know everybody in town. Where can I go?"
Sherwood thought a moment.
"I'll take you to Malcolm Neil," he said at last. It was Keith's turn
to look thoughtful.
"All right," he said at last. "But not just right away. Give me a
couple of days to get ready."
At the appointed time Sherwood escorted Keith to Malcolm Neil's office,
introduced and left him. Keith took the proffered wooden chair,
examining his man with the keenest attention.
Malcolm Neil, spite of his Scotch name, was a New Englander by birth.
He had come out in '49, intending, like everybody else, to go to the
mines, but had never gone farther than San Francisco. The new city
offered ample scope for his talents, and he speedily became, not only
rich, but a dominating personality among financial circles. He
accomplished this by supplementing his natural ability with absolute
singleness of purpose. It was known that his sole idea was the making
of money. He was reputed to be hard, devoid of sentiment, unscrupulous.
Naturally he enjoyed no popularity, but a vast respect. More people had
heard of him, or felt his power, than had seen him; for he went little
abroad, and preferred to work through agents. John Sherwood's service
in obtaining for Keith a personal interview was a very real one. Neil's
offices were small, dingy, and ill lighted, at the back of one of the
older and cheaper buildings. In the outer of the two were three
bookkeepers; the other contained only a desk, two chairs, and an
engraving of Daniel Webster addressing the Senate.
The man himself sat humped over slightly, his head thrust a little
forward as though on the point of launching a truculent challenge. He
was lean, gray, with bushy, overhanging brows, eyes with glinting
metallic surfaces, had long sinewy hands, and a carved granite and
inscrutable face, His few words of greeting revealed his voice as
harsh, grating and domineering.
Keith, reading his man, wasted no time in preliminaries.
"Mr. Neil," he said, "I have a scheme by which a great deal of money
can be made."
Neil grunted. If it had not been for the fact that John Sherwood had
introduced the maker of that speech, the interview would have here
terminated. Malcolm Neil deeply distrusted men with schemes to make
large sums of money. After a time, as Keith still waited, he growled;
"What is it?"
"That," said Keith, "I shall not disclose until my standing in the
matter is assured."
"What do you want?" growled Neil.
"Fifty per cent of the profits, if you go in."
"What do you want of me?"
"The capital."
"What is the scheme?"
"That I cannot tell you without some assurance of your good intention."
"What do you expect?" rasped Neil, "that I go into this blind?"
"I have prepared this paper," said Keith, handing him a document.
Neil glanced over the paper, then read it through slowly, with great
care. When he had finished, he looked up at Keith, and there was a
gleam of admiration in his frosty eye.
"You are a lawyer, I take it?" he surmised.
Keith nodded. Neil went over the document for the third time.
"And a good one," added Neil. "This is watertight. It seems to be a
contract agreeing to the division you suggest, _providing_ I go into
the scheme. Very well, I'll sign this." He raised his voice. "Samuels,
come in and witness this. Now, what is the scheme?"
Keith produced another paper.
"It is written out in detail here."
Neil reached for it, but Keith drew it back.
"One moment."
He turned it over on the blank side and wrote:
"This is in full the financial deal referred to in contract entered
into this 7th of June, 1852, by Malcolm Neil and Milton Keith."
To this he appended his signature, then handed the pen to Neil.
"Sign," he requested.
Neil took the pen, but hesitated for some moments, his alert brain
seeking some way out. Finally and grudgingly he signed. Then he leaned
back in his chair, eying Keith with rather a wintry humour, though he
made no comment. He reached again for the paper, but Keith put his hand
on it.
"What more do you want?" inquired Neil in amused tones. His sense of
humour had been touched on its only vulnerable point. He appreciated
keen and subtle practice when he saw it.
"Not a thing," laughed Keith, "but a few words of explanation before
you read that will make it more easily understood. Can you tell me how
much water lots are worth?"
"Five to eight thousand for fifty varas."
"All right. I've bought ten fifty vara lots at sheriff's sale for five
thousand dollars."
Neil's eye went cold.
"I've heard of that. Your title is no good. The reason you got them so
cheaply was that nobody would bid because of that."
"That's for the courts to decide. The fact remains that I've a title,
even though clouded, at $500 per lot."
"Proceed."
"Well, the commissioners are now advertising a sale of these same lots
at auction on the 15th."
"So I see."
"Well," said Keith softly, "it strikes me that whoever buys these lots
then is due for a heap of trouble."
"How so?"
"My title from the sheriff may be clouded, but it will be contested
against the title given at that sale. The purchaser will have to defend
himself up to the highest court. I can promise him a good fight."
Neil was now watching him steadily,
"If that fact could be widely advertised," went on Keith slowly, "by
way of a threat, so to speak, it strikes me it would be very apt to
discourage bidding at the commissioners' sale. Nobody wants to buy a
lot of lawsuits, at any price. In absence of competition, a fifty vara
lot might be sold for as low as--say $500."
Neil nodded, Keith leaned forward.
"Now here's my real idea: suppose _I_ buy in against this timid
bidding. Suppose _I_ am the one who gets the commissioners' title for
$500. Then I have both titles. And I am not likely to contest against
myself. It's cost me $1,000 per lot--$500 at each sale--a profit of
from $4,000 to $7,000 on each lot."
He leaned back. Malcolm Neil sat like a graven image, no expression
showing on his flintlike face nor in his eyes. At length he chuckled
harshly. Then, and not until then, Keith proceeded:
"But that isn't all. There's plenty more scrip afloat. If you can buy
up as much of it as you can scrape together, I'll get judgment for it
in the courts, and we can enlarge the deal until somebody smells a rat.
We need several things."
"What?"
"Secrecy."
Neil made no reply, but the lines of his mouth straightened.
"Influence to push matters along in official circles."
"Matters will be pushed along."
"A newspaper."
"Leave that to me."
"Agents--not known to be connected with us."
Neil nodded.
"Working capital--but that is provided for in the contract. And"--he
hesitated--"it will not harm to have these matters brought before a
court whose judge is not unfriendly."
"I can arrange for that, Mr. Keith."
Keith arose.
"Then that is settled." He picked up the duplicate copy of the
contract. "There remains only one other formality."
"Yes? What?"
"Your check for $12,000."
"What for?"
"For my expenses in this matter up to date."
"What!" cried Neil.
"The contract specifies that you are to furnish the working capital,"
Keith pointed out.
"But that means the future--"
"It doesn't say so."
Neil paused a moment.
"This contract would not hold in law, and you know it," he asserted
boldly. "It would be held to be an illegal conspiracy."
"I would be pleased to have you point out the illegality in court,"
said Keith coldly, his manner as frosty as Neil's. "And if conspiracy
exists, your name is affixed to it."
Neil pondered this point a moment, then drew his checkbook toward him
with a grim little smile.
"Young man, you win," said he.
Keith thawed to sunniness at once.
"Oh, we'll work together all right, once we understand each other," he
laughed. "Send your man out after scrip. Let him report to me."
Neil arose rather stiffly, and extended his hand.
"All right, all right!" he muttered, as though impatient. "Keep In
touch. Good-day. Good-day."