Broad Street, just before the stock-market begins its daily orgy of
frenzied finance, is perhaps the most orderly and imposing of any of the
splendid thoroughfares in New York's commercial center. Strange to say,
it also fits its name, having almost three times the width of any other
street in the down-town district. From the Wall Street end where the
Sub-Treasury faces the old-fashioned premises of J. Pierpont Morgan &
Co.'s banking-house, Broad Street sweeps round in a noble curve, lined
on either side with stately office-buildings, rivaling each other in
beauty of architectural design. The imposing building opposite
ornamented with bas reliefs and noble marble columns is the Stock
Exchange, where the unsophisticated lamb is ruthlessly sheared by bull
and bear, and farther on, without other roof than the blue vault of
heaven, are the noisy curb brokers, so called because, having no
building of their own in which to transact their business, they are
permitted by time-honored custom to trade in a roped-off enclosure in
the middle of the street.
It was absolutely terra incognita to Armitage, and he gazed open-eyed
around him like any country yokel seeing the sights of the city for the
first time. Suddenly he saw a crowd of men engaged in what seemed to be
a desperate struggle in the middle of the road. They were grappling with
each other, brandishing their arms and fists, yelling like Indians. It
looked like a riot of serious proportions, and he wondered why the
policeman who stood close by calmly looking on viewed it with such
unconcern.
"What's the matter?" he queried of a passer-by.
"Matter--where?" asked the stranger, looking in all directions.
"Don't you see those men fighting?" said Armitage.
The stranger grinned.
"Say, you're from Jersey, ain't you? That's no fight. They're curb
brokers trying to unload on each other their mining stocks."
Armitage felt foolish. To hide his confusion he asked:
"Can you direct me to the offices of Coxe and Willoughby, the attorneys?
I'm a stranger here."
The man pointed a little farther up the street.
"See that tall building on the left? That's it."
Thanking his informant Armitage hurried on, and, going up the stone
steps of No. 27, passed through a revolving door kept whirling by an
endless procession of brokers, clerks and messenger-boys who hurried in
and out. Following a long corridor, he came to a large open space
completely lined with elevators. Some were expresses which made no stop
below the 25th floor; the rest were locals stopping at each story, on
request.
"Coxe and Willoughby?" he said interrogatively to the uniformed starter.
"Twenty-seventh floor. Take the express," was the quick reply.
Armitage entered the waiting car. Other persons followed him in, and it
was comfortably filled when the starter cried sharply:
"Right!"
Instantly the attendant closed the gates and touched a lever. Armitage
felt his stomach leap into his throat. They were flying upward at a
speed of fifty miles an hour, and before he had time to gasp, the car
had reached the first stop, nearly 300 feet up in the air. Two stories
more and he had reached the floor he wanted.
"Along the corridor to your left, first door to the right," shouted the
elevator man.
Armitage followed the handsome corridor with its marble walls, inlaid
floors and hard-wood finishing until he came to a glass door on which
was inscribed in bold black letters:
COXE AND WILLOUGHBY
Counsellors at law
He opened the door, and found himself in an outer office in which behind
a rail were two foppish-looking clerks seated at desks. Neither of them
made an attempt to move when Armitage entered, but continued their
animated discussion of a game of baseball they had witnessed the
previous day. Armitage hit the rail lightly with his hand to attract
their attention, and finally one of the clerks condescended to get up
and come and ask what the caller wanted.
"I wish to see a member of the firm," said Armitage.
The clerk looked him over from head to toe. He had been trained to judge
people by their clothes, and there was something unconventional about
Armitage's attire that appealed to his sense of humor. He turned to his
fellow clerk and gave him the wink, whereupon the other laughed.
"In relation to what?" he demanded, wondering what possible business
this ordinary workingman could have with his employer.
Armitage was puzzled for a moment as to how he should announce himself.
Then an idea occurred to him. Taking from his pocket the advertisement
which he had clipped from the paper the night before, he handed it to
the clerk, saying:
"Say that a gentleman has called in answer to this advertisement."
"A 'gentleman,' did you say?" demanded the clerk insolently.
He looked first at the advertisement and then at Armitage. A look of
blank astonishment which came over his face was succeeded by one of
utter incredulity. Leaving the rail, he went over to his fellow clerk
and whispered something to him, and they both snickered.
Armitage tried to be patient, but he was fast losing his temper. He did
not like the clerk's supercilious manner. In another minute he would
vault over that rail, and some one's head would get punched. Finally he
said impatiently:
"Are you going to take that in to a member of the firm or must I do it
myself?"
The clerk looked up, and he was about to make some impertinent retort
when he suddenly thought better of it. There was a look in Armitage's
eye that he did not like. Crossing the office, he disappeared through a
glass door. A moment later he reappeared and, unfastening the rail gate,
said in more respectful tones:
"Mr. Willoughby will see you at once, sir."
He ushered him into a spacious, well-lighted and handsomely furnished
room. An elderly man of legal appearance was writing at a table littered
with documents. He rose as Armitage entered, and courteously waved him
to a chair. In his hand he held the advertisement, and while he twisted
it nervously in his fingers he scrutinized his caller closely through
his glasses.
"You wish to see me, Sir. What can I do for you?" he began.
"No," replied Armitage quickly. "You wished to see me. I came in answer
to that advertisement."
The lawyer came nearer, and his scrutiny became keener.
"Oh, yes--I see. May I ask in what way this advertisement interests
you?"
"Only that I'm John Armitage--that's all."
Mr. Willoughby started, and, taking out his handkerchief nervously,
wiped his face. As much as any lawyer allows himself to show emotion, he
betrayed surprise. He came still closer and, peering into his visitor's
face, said:
"You? _You_ are John Armitage?"
He looked at his visitor's dress, noticed his clumsy thick-soled boots,
soiled jacket and trousers, and he shook his head incredulously.
"The world's full of impostors," he muttered to himself, "but we lawyers
are too much for them." Aloud he repeated: "_You_ are John Armitage?"
"Yes--I am John Armitage, formerly of Alnwick Tower, Bucks, England."
Hurrying back to his desk, the old lawyer opened a drawer and took from
it a faded photograph. Holding it so that Armitage could not see it, he
stood comparing the portrait with the living man before him.
"Same face!" he murmured. "Older--more serious expression, but same
shaped head--same features." Aloud he added: "If, as you say, you are
John Armitage, you have, of course, some way of identifying yourself.
You see we have to be very careful."
Armitage laughed.
"I don't happen to have a passport," he said. "When I left England some
fifteen years ago I didn't think I'd require one. But I've a mark on my
left arm, a rough tattooing of the Armitage crest, which I did in my
foolish boyhood days. And I have some letters which my mother wrote me
after I left home. Those I've treasured. I let everything else go, but
her letters I kept." Placing his hand over his heart, he added: "They're
here."
As Mr. Willoughby grew more and more interested he became more and more
nervous.
"Let me see them," he said impatiently.
Armitage opened his vest and drawing forth a small package of
yellow-stained letters tied with a bit of ribbon, he handed them over.
"I guess we have no secrets from you," he said. "You may read them."
Mr. Willoughby untied the package, opened a letter and glanced hurriedly
at the handwriting and signature. Then he handed them back.
"That's enough," he cried. "That's enough." Starting forward, he
extended his hand.
"My dear Sir John--allow me to congratulate you!"
Armitage felt himself grow pale. He rose from his chair.
"You mean that my father----" he exclaimed.
The lawyer looked grave.
"Your father, Sir William, is dead----"
"But my elder brother, Charles?" stammered Armitage. "He succeeded to
the title and estates--not I."
"Your brother Charles," replied the lawyer solemnly, "was killed in an
automobile accident five years ago."
Armitage sank into a chair and burying his face in his hands burst into
tears. That his father had died without forgiving him was bad enough,
but that Charlie, his old pal, should have died years ago without his
knowing it, was terrible!
"Poor Charlie! Poor Charlie!" he murmured.
"When your brother was dying," went on the lawyer, "he summoned your
heart-broken father to his bedside and made him promise to forgive you,
to make every effort to discover your whereabouts, and to make a will in
your favor. They advertised for you in the London and colonial papers.
We advertised for you in the American papers. We received no answer. And
now your father has passed away. You are the sole heir. As the estates
are entailed, you would have succeeded to the estates as a matter of
course, but your father died forgiving you fully and leaving you
sufficient income to keep up the title. Sir John, I again congratulate
you on succeeding to an old and honored title and an income of little
less than $100,000 a year."
Armitage listened like a man who is dazed. It had all come so suddenly
that he thought he must be dreaming.
"When did my father die--of what?" he asked in a low tone.
"Of heart failure--three weeks ago," was the rejoinder. "We've been
trying to find you ever since. They followed you as far as the London
docks, and then all trace of you was lost. Where have you been all these
years?"
The lawyer noted his new client's sun-tanned face, and he looked askance
at his workman's dress.
"Knocking about the world--trying to forget things," replied Armitage.
Mr. Willoughby shook his head as he said:
"Young men will do foolish things! Well, you've had your lesson. Perhaps
you'll be a better man for the hard time you've had. The past is dead
and forgotten. A bright future is before you. What do you propose to do
now?"
Armitage seemed lost in thought.
"I don't know. I haven't had time to think."
"Have you any ties here? Are you married?"
Armitage smiled.
"No, who would have me--a pauper?"
Mr. Willoughby carefully adjusted his spectacles and said decisively:
"Well, then, you had better start for England at once and take
possession of your property under the will and entail. There will be a
number of legal formalities to go through. I will advise our London
office that you are coming. This is Tuesday. Could you sail on the
_Florida_ next Saturday?"
"I can," replied Armitage quickly.
The lawyer went to his desk and sat down to write. A moment later he
returned with a piece of paper in his hand. Holding it out, he said:
"Of course you can't go dressed as you are. Here's a check for $1,000.
It will pay your passage and your immediate needs. When you arrive in
England, you can, of course, draw on our London office for all you
want. You had better hurry now to book your passage and buy some
clothes, and this evening if you have nothing else to do I shall be
delighted if you'll dine with me at the Union League Club."
He touched a bell, and the supercilious clerk entered. By the sneer on
his face, he evidently expected that he had been summoned to eject the
rough-looking visitor. To his astonishment, he saw his employer shaking
hands with him.
Mr. Willoughby accompanied Armitage into the outer office.
"Good-by, Sir John," he said cordially. "I'm delighted to have made your
acquaintance. Don't forget to-night. Union League Club, at 7 o'clock."
The two clerks nearly swooned from amazement and consternation. As
Armitage went down in the elevator he pinched himself to find out if he
was awake.
When he emerged into Broad Street he was surprised to find how different
everything looked to him. The world had suddenly taken on another
aspect. The sunshine seemed brighter. Every man and woman he met seemed
more amiable and friendly. The whole world seemed gayer, more joyous. He
felt within him a strange novel sensation of exhilaration. His
moodiness, his pessimism had disappeared. He felt imbued with new life
and energy, as if he could go forth and conquer a world. From less than
nothing to a title and $100,000 a year is a jump big enough to daze any
man.
Suddenly he thought of Grace. If only he had received this news a few
weeks before! Things might have been very different. Well, what was the
use of torturing himself any longer? She was lost to him now--no matter
how changed his circumstances and position.
He stood still, at the edge of the curb, irresolute, not knowing what to
do next. Putting his hand in his pocket to feel if the check was still
there, he drew it out to look at it. It was drawn on the Chemical Bank
and payable to bearer. A thousand dollars! He had never seen so much
money in his life. It was a question if they wouldn't arrest him as a
suspicious character when he presented it for payment. However, there
was no time to be lost. He must get the check cashed at once, buy an
outfit and secure his steamship passage.
After some difficulty he found the Chemical Bank, opposite the
Post-Office. It was a splendid building with a lofty dome of stained
glass, reminding him of a church. Making his way to the paying-teller's
window, he handed in the check. The teller, a gaunt, keen-eyed man with
spectacles, looked first at the check and then at Armitage. The latter's
appearance did not seem to fit the amount of money the check called for,
and a suspicious look came over his face. Eyeing the bearer severely, he
demanded sternly:
"Where did you get this?"
"From the man who drew it, of course," replied Armitage coolly. "Let me
have it in fifties and hundreds!"
Instead of complying with the request, the teller quickly touched an
electric bell. It was evidently a signal, for instantly a special
policeman attached to the Bank came up and took up a position near
Armitage. He made no attempt to interfere, but just remained on hand in
case he was wanted. Meantime the teller was already in telephonic
communication with Coxe and Willoughby.
"Is this Coxe and Willoughby?" asked the teller.
"This is Mr. Willoughby," came the answer.
"Have you drawn to-day a check for $1,000 payable to bearer?"
"I have."
"What does the bearer look like?"
"Tall, dark man, smooth face, dressed like a workingman. It's all
right. Pay it at once. Good day."
That was enough. The teller returned to his little window. Dismissing
the uniformed attendant, he turned to Armitage and in a tone as if he
had never for a moment doubted the genuineness of the check, asked
suavely:
"Fifties and hundreds, I think you said, Sir."
Rapidly counting out the bills, he passed them through the little
opening and turned to attend to the next man on the line.
Armitage slowly folded up bills, a grim smile of satisfaction. He had
enjoyed the situation hugely.
"Now for my steamship passage!" he muttered to himself.
Turning to the right as he re-entered Broadway, he walked about a mile
in the direction of the Battery until he came to Bowling Green, where
the steamship companies have their offices. Conspicuous on the left-hand
side were the palatial offices of the Blue Star Line. As he went up the
imposing stone steps leading to the passenger booking-rooms, he thought
bitterly under what different conditions he had last visited these
offices. Then it was to sign articles as stoker on the _Atlanta_.
He entered the room devoted exclusively to first cabin business, and a
clerk, quick to notice his shabby appearance, spoke up impatiently:
"Can't you read? This is first cabin. Steerage and second cabin on the
other side of the hall."
Armitage gave the clerk a look that made the latter wish he had left the
caller alone.
"Who asked you for any information?" he demanded, pretending wrath he
did not feel.
"This is only first class," repeated the clerk peevishly, but not
without feeling some respect to his interlocutor's massive shoulders.
"I don't care whether it's first class or tenth class," growled
Armitage. "Let me see the plan of the _Florida_."
The clerk gasped as he laid the plan before him.
"The lowest in this ship is $150 a berth--two in a room," he said, in a
tone as if he expected this would quickly settle the matter.
"Two in a room--not for mine," said Armitage jovially. "I want something
comfortable. How's this?" he added, pointing to a berth.
"Single berth room--$400," said the clerk blandly.
"I'll take it," replied the new passenger. Peeling off four 100-dollar
bills from the bank-roll, he threw them before the astonished clerk.
"What name, sir?" he asked, more respectfully.
"Sir John Armitage."
The clerk's hand shook so with surprise and nervousness that he dropped
the book-plan on the floor.
Leaving the steamship offices, Armitage proceeded along Broadway,
chuckling. How sweet was the power of money! Now he would be able to
wield this power, to enslave men as they had enslaved him. Yet in the
midst of this new-found joy, he knew there was something still lacking.
He was haunted by a pair of dark eyes, lips that had trembled with
passion he alone had awakened. What good was his money, his new-found
power, if it would not give him the woman he wanted. Engaged to that
spendthrift princeling, she was entirely lost to him. She had sold
herself, and he tried to persuade himself that he despised her for it.
Yet how could he go away without saying good-by? It was different when
everything looked hopeless, when his social standing was immeasurably
beneath hers. He would never have subjected himself to a snub, and he
had avoided her for that reason. He knew it would pain her to snub him,
yet she would be compelled to do so. It would only have meant more
suffering for him. But now it was different. He was more than her equal
socially. In fact, he was her social superior. He could not go away
without saying good-by. There could never be anything between them. She
was going to marry the other fellow and satisfy her ambition to be a
member of a royal house. Yet for all that they were still good friends.
He wondered how he could see her. The best way probably was to write
her a letter, telling her he was sailing immediately and asking for an
interview. He would say nothing about his accession to the title, but
just that his condition had changed for the better. This revealed
nothing, and yet would account for his better clothes and possession of
funds.
A firm of ready-made clothiers speedily fitted him with a neat business
suit and furnished all the other things he required. When the
transformation was complete with a clean shave and hair cut, he did not
recognize himself in the mirror.
That night he took rooms at the Waldorf, and after enjoying a good
dinner with Mr. Willoughby at the Union League Club, he returned to the
hotel, sitting down in the reading-room, he wrote Grace a letter.