George Gallon had lately left a well-known firm of stockbrokers, in
which he had been junior partner, and set up business on his own
account. He had started at a trying time, about the close of the Boer
war, when the financial world was in a state of depression; but he had
since brought off two or three _coups_ for his clients and himself, and
though he was unpopular, he had begun to be talked of among a limited
circle in the City as a man who would succeed.
Joan Carthew had heard "George's luck" discussed by guests at Lady
Thorndyke's, when she had been at home from school on her holidays;
therefore it was that she had so promptly accepted the offer thrown to
her in derision, as a bone is flung to a chained dog. "If I keep my
eyes and ears open, I shall get tips," was the thought that flashed into
her mind.
If Joan had been an ordinary eighteen-year-old girl, she would have
faltered before the difficulty of turning such "tips" to her own
advantage, on a salary of two pounds a week; but she would not have
entered George Gallon's service if she had been one to falter before
difficulties; and three days after the reading of the will which left
the girl a pensioner on her own wits, she presented herself at the
office in Copthall Court.
It was early, and Gallon had not yet arrived. However, his curiosity to
see whether Joan would really keep her engagement brought him to the
City half an hour earlier than usual. When he came in, there sat at an
inner office, at the desk used by his late stenographer, a young woman
plainly dressed in black, though not in mourning deep enough to depress
the spirits of the beholder.
It was Joan Carthew. She had already taken off her hat and hung it on a
peg. Gallon noticed instantly that her beautiful golden-brown hair was
dressed more simply than he had seen it. Every detail of her costume
was suited to the new part she was about to play--that of the business
woman.
"Good morning, Mr. Gallon," she said crisply. "Your head clerk told me
this would be my desk. I have brought my own typewriter. I hope you
don't mind. You know, from the test you made the other day, that I take
down quickly from dictation, and that my typing is clear. I am ready to
begin work whenever you are."
"Glad to find you so businesslike," said Gallon, uncomfortable in spite
of himself, though there was a keen relish in the situation.
"You will, I hope, never find me anything else," quietly replied Joan.
So the new _regime_ began. At first, for some days, the man was ill at
ease, could not collect his thoughts for dictation, and stammered in his
speech. He regretted that his desire to humiliate the girl had tempted
him to offer this position; but Joan's attitude was so tactful, so
unobtrusive, that little by little he forgot his awkwardness and even
the meanness of his motive in making her his dependent. He almost
forgot that he had ever asked her to marry him; and because he found her
astonishingly clever and useful, he waived the idea of further insults
which had flitted through his head when first the dethroned heiress
became his secretary.
One autumn morning, Gallon was late. Joan sat waiting in his office, and
had opened such correspondence as was not marked "Private," had typed
several letters ready for her employer's signature, and having no more
business which could be transacted until he appeared, began to glance
through an illustrated Society weekly which she took in. This paper she
always read with eagerness; not because she had the morbid interest of
an outsider in the doings of Society, with a capital S, but because any
information she could glean about important people might be of service
in the career to which she undauntedly looked forward.
On one page of this particular paper, country houses, electric-launches,
libraries, motor-cars, and even family jewels were advertised; and it
was an absorbing page to Joan. To-day she gazed long at the
reproduction of a handsome steam-yacht, which for some weeks past had
been advertised for sale, for the sum of twelve thousand pounds. Only a
few months ago, she had been planning to have some day a yacht of her
own. It had been one of the many pleasant things she had meant to do
with Lady Thorndyke's money.
"I shouldn't mind owning the _Titania_, if she's as good as her
photograph," the girl was thinking, when George Gallon and a fat,
foreign-looking man came in.
"You can go back into the next room, Miss Carthew," said George,
abruptly. "I shall not need you at present, and you may tell them
outside that I am not to be disturbed."
Joan rose and walked into the outer office, where the three clerks, who
were all more or less in love with the beautiful secretary, glanced up
joyfully from their work at sight of her. The youngest, whose desk was
close to the door, had already proposed. He was a dreamy youth with a
fluffy brain, but his father was a rich man known in the City as "the
Salmon King," who cherished hopes that one day his son would cut a
figure on the Stock Exchange. These family details the young man had
confided to Joan as a lure to matrimony, and though she had answered
that he was a "foolish boy," and nothing was farther from her intention
than to settle down as Mrs. Tommy Mellis, she had not in so many words
refused the honour.
Now she whispered a request that, if he had still a regard for her, he
would slip away and buy a box of chocolates, for the need of which she
was perishing. A moment later Tommy was out of his chair, and Joan was
in it. His was the one seat in the room where conversation in Gallon's
private office could by any means be overheard; and Gallon was aware
that whatever might go in at Tommy's right ear promptly went out at the
left, without leaving the smallest impression of its meaning.
"Is the deal certain to come off?" she heard George inquire.
"Sure as the sun is to rise to-morrow," replied another voice with a
foreign accent. "You are the only outsider in the know. That's worth
something, isn't it?"
"It's worth what I've promised for it."
"At least that. And I want an advance to-day."
"In such a hurry? Remember I shan't make anything, or be sure you
haven't fooled me, for weeks. Still, I can manage a hundred."
"I need ten times that."
"You'll have it the day the Clerios are taken over."
"'Sh! not so loud! And no names, for Heaven's sake, man!"
"Oh, that's all right. The clerk near the door is a fool. The only one
out there with any real brains is a girl, but she doesn't know the
difference between Clerios and clerics. That's why I employ a woman for
a secretary. She spends her spare energy on the fashions, and doesn't
bother about things which are none of her business."
In spite of this protest, Gallon dropped his voice. Only a word here
and there started out of the broken murmurs on the other side of the
door; but one more sentence, almost whole, came to her ears. "Grierson
Mordaunt ... sort of chap ... carries these things through." Then
reappeared Tommy with the chocolates, and Joan went to her own desk; but
the stray bits of information were as flint and steel in her brain, and
together they struck out a spark of inspiration. She was as sure as if
she had heard all details of the transaction that the World's Shipping
Combine, of which the American millionaire, Grierson Mordaunt, stood at
the head, had arranged to take over the Clerio line of Italian boats
plying between Mediterranean ports. The fat man with the foreign accent
was no doubt the confidential agent of the Italian company, and being
acquainted with George Gallon and his methods, had given the secret away
for a consideration. Doubtless he was poor, perhaps in difficulties;
otherwise he would have kept the information and bought all the Clerio
shares he could lay his hands upon.
Now Joan knew why Gallon had written yesterday to a man in Manchester,
asking him how many Clerios he had to sell, and what was the lowest
price he was prepared to take for them, adding that it would be useless,
in the present depressed state of the market, to name a high figure.
This man had been requested to wire his answer, and at any moment it
might arrive.
When Joan had jumped so far in her conclusions, Gallon escorted his
visitor out, flinging back word that he would be in again in half an
hour.
The girl's blood sang in her ears. It seemed to her that Fortune was
knocking at the door; but could she find the key to open it? She called
all her wits to the rescue, and in five minutes that key was grating in
the lock.
In Gallon's private room was a small desk, which she used when her
services were wanted there. This gave her an excuse to go in, and in
passing she threw a glance at Tommy Mellis, which caused him, after the
lapse of a decent interval (he counted eighty seconds), to follow.
"Once you said you would do anything for me," she began, with a lovely
look. "Did you mean it?"
"Rather!"
"Well, then, the next question is: Will your father do anything for
_you_?"
"He'll do a good deal."
"If you tell him you've a tip about some shares that are bound to rise,
will he give you the money to buy them?"
"He'd lend it. That's his way. He'd be tickled to see me taking an
interest in business. But what has that got to do with----"
"I want to buy some shares--lots of shares--all I can get hold of.
To-day they're going cheap. To-morrow, who can say? They are Clerios."
"But, look here, even I know that Clerios are no good. It's a badly
managed line, and the shares are down to next to nothing."
"All the better. Mr. Gallon mustn't know you are in this, as he wants
to get hold of all the shares himself. You must trust me enough to have
them put into my name, and when I've got your profit for you, we'll go
halves. Can you see your father inside half an hour?"
"His place is just round the corner."
"Well, then, if you _do_ care anything for me, ask him to see you
through a big deal. You shall really make on it, I promise you,
something worth having besides my--gratitude."
"The governor's a queer fish. If I should let him in----"
"You won't let him in. But we don't want your father or anybody else in
with us. All we want is the loan, and his name, which is a good one in
the City, I know. I trust you for that. You must show how clever you
are, if you're anxious to please me. I'll manage the rest. Now, like a
dear, good boy, run off and arrange things with your father."
Again Tommy became knight-errant, and hardly was he out of the way when
a strange voice was heard in the adjoining office. "Mr. Gallon in? I'm
Mr. Mitchison, from Manchester."
"Mr. Gallon is out at present, but----" a clerk had begun, when Joan
appeared and cut him short. "Mr. Gallon wishes me to see Mr. Mitchison,
in his absence. Will you kindly step in here, sir?"
The gentleman from Manchester obeyed. Joan's quick eyes noted his
worried air and the genteel shabbiness of his clothing. "I am Mr.
Gallon's confidential secretary," she said. "I know about this business
of Clerios. You came instead of wiring? Mr. Gallon rather expected you
would."
"I had to come to London in a day or two, anyhow, and it's always more
satisfactory to do business in person."
"Exactly. Well, I'm sorry to tell you that Mr. Gallon has seen reason
to change his mind about buying your block of shares in the Clerio line,
as he has some big things on now, and finds his hands full; but Mr.
Mellis, a client of his--'the Salmon King,' you know--wants to invest
some money privately for his son. Mr. Gallon has advised them that,
though Clerios are not likely to rise much for some years, there is a
certain, if small, dividend; and if you can tell young Mr. Mellis where
they can get hold of other blocks of the same shares, it might then be
worth his while to take over yours. Those you hold are hardly enough
for him without others."
"I know several men in Genoa, where I did business for some years, who
hold shares and would part with them for a decent price. I could work
the deal for Mr. Mellis, I'm certain."
"Good. He's at his father's office now. I have Mr. Gallon's permission
to introduce you to him, but his only free time this morning is in the
next half-hour. I can go with you to Mr. Mellis senior's office, if
you're inclined to settle matters at once."
"The Salmon King," who had earned his title by building up the largest
"canned goods" business of its kind in England, had offices on the
ground floor of an imposing building not far away, and Joan was lucky
enough to guide her companion to the door without the dreaded misfortune
of meeting George Gallon on the way. As they crossed the threshold,
Tommy Mellis issued from a room with a ground-glass door. Joan hurried
to him, asked if his father had been kind, was assured that all was well
so far, and hastened to explain the new development of affairs so
clearly that even Tommy's slow intelligence grasped her meaning without
difficulty. "When I've introduced you to Mr. Mitchison, offer him
twenty pounds a share (their nominal value is fifty), and if necessary
go up to twenty-five. Tell him he shall have a commission on all the
other shares he can get, if the whole thing can be fixed up by wire
to-morrow. Say there is a man coming to see you the day after about
some other investment, which your father prefers, but you've taken a
fancy to this, and want everything settled before the two older men come
together. As Gallon must do all his business in Clerios privately, and
doesn't want to ask for them in the House, that will give us time to
work."
"By Jove! this will mean a lot of money," faltered Tommy. "Of course,
I'm delighted to do this for you, but if the governor----"
Joan soothed his fears; and introduced Mitchison to young Mellis, who
took them both into a small, empty office. She hovered about during the
business conversation which ensued, putting in a word here and there,
and impressing the Manchester man with her shrewdness. In his opinion,
George Gallon had a treasure for a secretary, and he was grateful to her
for pushing on his affairs so well, especially as he did not believe he
could have got from Gallon the price which Mellis was willing to give.
When Joan returned to the office in Copthall Court, her employer had not
yet come back. "Don't tell Mr. Gallon I've been out, will you?" she
appealed to the clerks, her slaves. As she spoke, the door opened, and
Gallon entered, just in time to hear the ingenuous request. The young
men flushed in consternation for her, but the girl did not change
colour. As a matter of fact, she had known that George was coming up,
and had probably seen her on the stairs. She had not spoken without
design.
Having been delayed vexatiously, Gallon was not in a good mood, and his
black ones were unpleasant for underlings. A frowning look and a
gesture of the head called Joan to his private office. She followed
meekly; but when the scolding had reached the stage which she mentally
designated as "ripe," her meekness vanished like snow in sunshine.
"How dare you speak to me like that!" she exclaimed, her eyes blazing.
"I'm not your servant, though I have served you well. I leave to-day."
"This moment, if you choose," George flung back at her furiously, though
in reality he had not intended matters to touch this climax. Joan had
become valuable, but, as he said to himself in his sullen anger, she was
the "last person in the world whose impudence he would stand."
When Joan had gathered up her few belongings, and remarked that she
would send for her typewriter, she added: "Mr. Mitchison, of Manchester,
called, and wanted me to tell you that he'd already parted with the
shares you wired about last night. I asked who had bought them, but he
was pledged to secrecy. I believe that is all I need say, except that
you will find all your correspondence in good order, to be taken over by
my successor; and as you have declared so often that clever
stenographers are starving for want of employment, you will not be long
in obtaining one."
With this she was off, and, hailing the first cab she saw (though in her
circumstances a cab was an extravagance), drove to Woburn Place, where
she lived in a back bedroom on the top floor of a cheap boarding-house.
She remained only long enough, however, to change into one of the pretty
dresses left from last spring's wardrobe. Looking as if her home should
be Park Lane instead of Bloomsbury, she went to the office of the
illustrated weekly in which she had been interested that morning. When
she inquired the address of _Titania's_ owner, she was told that all
business connected with the yacht would be done at the advertising
bureau of the paper. This was a blow, for the proposal that Joan had to
make was not, perhaps, of a kind suited to the taste of a mere
commonplace agent. She thought for a moment, and then said, with a
slight accent which she had learned through mimicking a girl at school:
"Well, I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid we can't do business, then. I'm an
American girl; my name is Mordaunt. Grierson Mordaunt is my uncle. I
guess you've heard of him. I want to buy a yacht, in a hurry--my people
generally are in a hurry--and I thought this one might do. But if I
can't see the owner myself, it's no use. _Good_ morning."
[Illustration: "Looking as if her home should be Park Lane instead of
Bloomsbury, she went to the office."]
Before she had got half-way to the door the dapper manager of the
advertising bureau stopped her. Possibly an exception might be made in
her favour; he would write to his client.
"Can you send the letter by district messenger?" shrewdly asked the
newly-fledged Miss Mordaunt.
The manager admitted that this could be done. To what hotel should he
transmit the answer? "I'm staying with friends, and I don't want them
to know about this till it's settled," said Joan. "I tell you what I'll
do: I'll wait here."