When Philip Endicott was at Harvard, he wrote stories of undergraduate
life suggested by things that had happened to himself and to men he
knew. Under the title of “Tales of the Yard” they were collected in book
form, and sold surprisingly well. After he was graduated and became a
reporter on the New York Republic, he wrote more stories, in each of
which a reporter was the hero, and in which his failure or success in
gathering news supplied the plot. These appeared first in the magazines,
and later in a book under the title of “Tales of the Streets.” They also
were well received.
Then came to him the literary editor of the Republic, and said: “There
are two kinds of men who succeed in writing fiction--men of genius and
reporters. A reporter can describe a thing he has seen in such a way
that he can make the reader see it, too. A man of genius can describe
something he has never seen, or any one else for that matter, in such a
way that the reader will exclaim: 'I have never committed a murder; but
if I had, that's just the way I'd feel about it.' For instance, Kipling
tells us how a Greek pirate, chained to the oar of a trireme, suffers;
how a mother rejoices when her baby crawls across her breast. Kipling
has never been a mother or a pirate, but he convinces you he knows how
each of them feels. He can do that because he is a genius; you cannot
do it because you are not. At college you wrote only of what you saw at
college; and now that you are in the newspaper business all your tales
are only of newspaper work. You merely report what you see. So, if you
are doomed to write only of what you see, then the best thing for you to
do is to see as many things as possible. You must see all kinds of life.
You must progress. You must leave New York, and you had better go to
London.”
“But on the Republic,” Endicott pointed out, “I get a salary. And in
London I should have to sweep a crossing.”
“Then,” said the literary editor, “you could write a story about a man
who swept a crossing.”
It was not alone the literary editor's words of wisdom that had driven
Philip to London. Helen Carey was in London, visiting the daughter
of the American Ambassador; and, though Philip had known her only one
winter, he loved her dearly. The great trouble was that he had no money,
and that she possessed so much of it that, unless he could show some
unusual quality of mind or character, his asking her to marry him, from
his own point of view at least, was quite impossible. Of course, he knew
that no one could love her as he did, that no one so truly wished for
her happiness, or would try so devotedly to make her happy. But to him
it did not seem possible that a girl could be happy with a man who was
not able to pay for her home, or her clothes, or her food, who would
have to borrow her purse if he wanted a new pair of gloves or a
hair-cut. For Philip Endicott, while rich in birth and education and
charm of manner, had no money at all. When, in May, he came from New
York to lay siege to London and to the heart of Helen Carey he had with
him, all told, fifteen hundred dollars. That was all he possessed in the
world; and unless the magazines bought his stories there was no prospect
of his getting any more.
Friends who knew London told him that, if you knew London well, it was
easy to live comfortably there and to go about and even to entertain
modestly on three sovereigns a day. So, at that rate, Philip calculated
he could stay three months. But he found that to know London well enough
to be able to live there on three sovereigns a day you had first to
spend so many five-pound notes in getting acquainted with London that
there were no sovereigns left. At the end of one month he had just
enough money to buy him a second-class passage back to New York, and he
was as far from Helen as ever.
Often he had read in stories and novels of men who were too poor to
marry. And he had laughed at the idea. He had always said that when two
people truly love each other it does not matter whether they have money
or not. But when in London, with only a five-pound note, and face to
face with the actual proposition of asking Helen Carey not only to marry
him but to support him, he felt that money counted for more than he had
supposed. He found money was many different things--it was self-respect,
and proper pride, and private honors and independence. And, lacking
these things, he felt he could ask no girl to marry him, certainly not
one for whom he cared as he cared for Helen Carey. Besides, while he
knew how he loved her, he had no knowledge whatsoever that she loved
him. She always seemed extremely glad to see him; but that might be
explained in different ways. It might be that what was in her heart for
him was really a sort of “old home week” feeling; that to her it was a
relief to see any one who spoke her own language, who did not need to
have it explained when she was jesting, and who did not think when she
was speaking in perfectly satisfactory phrases that she must be talking
slang.
The Ambassador and his wife had been very kind to Endicott, and, as a
friend of Helen's, had asked him often to dinner and had sent him cards
for dances at which Helen was to be one of the belles and beauties. And
Helen herself had been most kind, and had taken early morning walks with
him in Hyde Park and through the National Galleries; and they had fed
buns to the bears in the Zoo, and in doing so had laughed heartily. They
thought it was because the bears were so ridiculous that they laughed.
Later they appreciated that the reason they were happy was because
they were together. Had the bear pit been empty, they still would have
laughed.
On the evening of the thirty-first of May, Endicott had gone to bed with
his ticket purchased for America and his last five-pound note to last
him until the boat sailed. He was a miserable young man. He knew now
that he loved Helen Carey in such a way that to put the ocean between
them was liable to unseat his courage and his self-control. In London
he could, each night, walk through Carlton House Terrace and, leaning
against the iron rails of the Carlton Club, gaze up at her window.
But, once on the other side of the ocean, that tender exercise must
be abandoned. He must even consider her pursued by most attractive
guardsmen, diplomats, and belted earls. He knew they could not love her
as he did; he knew they could not love her for the reasons he loved her,
because the fine and beautiful things in her that he saw and worshipped
they did not seek, and so did not find. And yet, for lack of a few
thousand dollars, he must remain silent, must put from him the best that
ever came into his life, must waste the wonderful devotion he longed
to give, must starve the love that he could never summon for any other
woman.
On the thirty-first of May he went to sleep utterly and completely
miserable. On the first of June he woke hopeless and unrefreshed.
And then the miracle came.
Prichard, the ex-butler who valeted all the young gentlemen in the house
where Philip had taken chambers, brought him his breakfast. As he
placed the eggs and muffins on the tables to Philip it seemed as though
Prichard had said: “I am sorry he is leaving us. The next gentleman
who takes these rooms may not be so open-handed. He never locked up his
cigars or his whiskey. I wish he'd give me his old dress-coat. It fits
me, except across the shoulders.”
Philip stared hard at Prichard; but the lips of the valet had not moved.
In surprise and bewilderment, Philip demanded:
“How do you know it fits? Have you tried it on?”
“I wouldn't take such a liberty,” protested Prichard. “Not with any of
our gentlemen's clothes.”
“How did you know I was talking about clothes,” demanded Philip. “You
didn't say anything about clothes, did you?”
“No, sir, I did not; but you asked me, sir, and I--”
“Were you thinking of clothes?”
“Well, sir, you might say, in a way, that I was,” answered the valet.
“Seeing as you're leaving, sir, and they're not over-new, I thought...”
“It's mental telepathy,” said Philip.
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Prichard.
“You needn't wait,” said Philip.
The coincidence puzzled him; but by the time he had read the morning
papers he had forgotten about it, and it was not until he had emerged
into the street that it was forcibly recalled. The street was crowded
with people; and as Philip stepped in among them, It was as though every
one at whom he looked began to talk aloud. Their lips did not move,
nor did any sound issue from between them; but, without ceasing, broken
phrases of thoughts came to him as clearly as when, in passing in a
crowd, snatches of talk are carried to the ears. One man thought of his
debts; another of the weather, and of what disaster it might bring to
his silk hat; another planned his luncheon; another was rejoicing over
a telegram he had but that moment received. To himself he kept repeating
the words of the telegram--“No need to come, out of danger.” To Philip
the message came as clearly as though he were reading it from the folded
slip of paper that the stranger clutched in his hand.
Confused and somewhat frightened, and in order that undisturbed he might
consider what had befallen him, Philip sought refuge from the crowded
street in the hallway of a building. His first thought was that for some
unaccountable cause his brain for the moment was playing tricks with
him, and he was inventing the phrases he seemed to hear, that he was
attributing thoughts to others of which they were entirely innocent.
But, whatever it was that had befallen him, he knew it was imperative
that he should at once get at the meaning of it.
The hallway in which he stood opened from Bond Street up a flight of
stairs to the studio of a fashionable photographer, and directly in
front of the hallway a young woman of charming appearance had halted.
Her glance was troubled, her manner ill at ease. To herself she kept
repeating: “Did I tell Hudson to be here at a quarter to eleven, or
a quarter past? Will she get the telephone message to bring the ruff?
Without the ruff it would be absurd to be photographed. Without her ruff
Mary Queen of Scots would look ridiculous!”
Although the young woman had spoken not a single word, although indeed
she was biting impatiently at her lower lip, Philip had distinguished
the words clearly. Or, if he had not distinguished them, he surely was
going mad. It was a matter to be at once determined, and the young woman
should determine it. He advanced boldly to her, and raised his hat.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but I believe you are waiting for your maid
Hudson?”
As though fearing an impertinence, the girl regarded him in silence.
“I only wish to make sure,” continued Philip, “that you are she for whom
I have a message. You have an appointment, I believe, to be photographed
in fancy dress as Mary Queen of Scots?”
“Well?” assented the girl.
“And you telephoned Hudson,” he continued, “to bring you your muff.”
The girl exclaimed with vexation.
“Oh!” she protested; “I knew they'd get it wrong! Not muff, ruff! I want
my ruff.”
Philip felt a cold shiver creep down his spine.
“For the love of Heaven!” he exclaimed in horror; “it's true!”
“What's true?” demanded the young woman in some alarm.
“That I'm a mind reader,” declared Philip. “I've read your mind! I can
read everybody's mind. I know just what you're thinking now. You're
thinking I'm mad!”
The actions of the young lady showed that again he was correct. With a
gasp of terror she fled past him and raced up the stairs to the studio.
Philip made no effort to follow and to explain. What was there to
explain? How could he explain that which, to himself, was unbelievable?
Besides, the girl had served her purpose. If he could read the mind of
one, he could read the minds of all. By some unexplainable miracle, to
his ordinary equipment of senses a sixth had been added. As easily as,
before that morning, he could look into the face of a fellow-mortal,
he now could look into the workings of that fellow-mortal's mind. The
thought was appalling. It was like living with one's ear to a key-hole.
In his dismay his first idea was to seek medical advice--the best in
London. He turned instantly in the direction of Harley Street. There,
he determined, to the most skilled alienist in town he would explain his
strange plight. For only as a misfortune did the miracle appear to him.
But as he made his way through the streets his pace slackened.
Was he wise, he asked himself, in allowing others to know he possessed
this strange power? Would they not at once treat him as a madman?
Might they not place him under observation, or even deprive him of his
liberty? At the thought he came to an abrupt halt His own definition of
the miracle as a “power” had opened a new line of speculation. If this
strange gift (already he was beginning to consider it more leniently)
were concealed from others, could he not honorably put it to some useful
purpose? For, among the blind, the man with one eye is a god. Was not
he--among all other men the only one able to read the minds of all
other men--a god? Turning into Bruton Street, he paced its quiet length
considering the possibilities that lay within him.
It was apparent that the gift would lead to countless embarrassments.
If it were once known that he possessed it, would not even his friends
avoid him? For how could any one, knowing his most secret thought was at
the mercy of another, be happy in that other's presence? His power would
lead to his social ostracism. Indeed, he could see that his gift might
easily become a curse. He decided not to act hastily, that for the
present he had best give no hint to others of his unique power.
As the idea of possessing this power became more familiar, he regarded
it with less aversion. He began to consider to what advantage he could
place it. He could see that, given the right time and the right man, he
might learn secrets leading to far-reaching results. To a statesman, to
a financier, such a gift as he possessed would make him a ruler of men.
Philip had no desire to be a ruler of men; but he asked himself how
could he bend this gift to serve his own? What he most wished was to
marry Helen Carey; and, to that end, to possess money. So he must meet
men who possessed money, who were making money. He would put questions
to them. And with words they would give evasive answers; but their minds
would tell him the truth.
The ethics of this procedure greatly disturbed him. Certainly it was no
better than reading other people's letters. But, he argued, the dishonor
in knowledge so obtained would lie only in the use he made of it. If he
used it without harm to him from whom it was obtained and with benefit
to others, was he not justified in trading on his superior equipment? He
decided that each case must be considered separately in accordance
with the principle involved. But, principle or no principle, he was
determined to become rich. Did not the end justify the means? Certainly
an all-wise Providence had not brought Helen Carey into his life only to
take her away from him. It could not be so cruel. But, in selecting them
for one another, the all-wise Providence had overlooked the fact that
she was rich and he was poor. For that oversight Providence apparently
was now endeavoring to make amends. In what certainly was a fantastic
and roundabout manner Providence had tardily equipped him with a gift
that could lead to great wealth. And who was he to fly in the face of
Providence? He decided to set about building up a fortune, and building
it in a hurry.
From Bruton Street he had emerged upon Berkeley Square; and, as Lady
Woodcote had invited him to meet Helen at luncheon at the Ritz, he
turned in that direction. He was too early for luncheon; but in the
corridor of the Ritz he knew he would find persons of position and
fortune, and in reading their minds he might pass the time before
luncheon with entertainment, possibly with profit. For, while pacing
Bruton Street trying to discover the principles of conduct that
threatened to hamper his new power, he had found that in actual
operation it was quite simple. He learned that his mind, in relation
to other minds, was like the receiver of a wireless station with an
unlimited field. For, while the wireless could receive messages only
from those instruments with which it was attuned, his mind was in key
with all other minds. To read the thoughts of another, he had only to
concentrate his own upon that person; and to shut off the thoughts of
that person, he had only to turn his own thoughts elsewhere. But also
he discovered that over the thoughts of those outside the range of his
physical sight he had no control. When he asked of what Helen Carey was
at that moment thinking, there was no result. But when he asked, “Of
what is that policeman on the corner thinking?” he was surprised to find
that that officer of the law was formulating regulations to abolish the
hobble skirt as an impediment to traffic.
As Philip turned into Berkeley Square, the accents of a mind in great
distress smote upon his new and sixth sense. And, in the person of a
young gentleman leaning against the park railing, he discovered the
source from which the mental sufferings emanated. The young man was a
pink-cheeked, yellow-haired youth of extremely boyish appearance, and
dressed as if for the race-track. But at the moment his pink and babyish
face wore an expression of complete misery. With tear-filled eyes he was
gazing at a house of yellow stucco on the opposite side of the street.
And his thoughts were these: “She is the best that ever lived, and I am
the most ungrateful of fools. How happy were we in the house of yellow
stucco! Only now, when she has closed its doors to me, do I know how
happy! If she would give me another chance, never again would I distress
or deceive her.”
So far had the young man progressed in his thoughts when an automobile
of surprising smartness swept around the corner and drew up in front
of the house of yellow stucco, and from it descended a charming young
person. She was of the Dresden-shepherdess type, with large blue eyes of
haunting beauty and innocence.
“My wife!” exclaimed the blond youth at the railings. And instantly he
dodged behind a horse that, while still attached to a four-wheeler, was
contentedly eating from a nose-bag.
With a key the Dresden shepherdess opened the door to the yellow house
and disappeared.
The calling of the reporter trains him in audacity, and to act quickly.
He shares the troubles of so many people that to the troubles of other
people he becomes callous, and often will rush in where friends of the
family fear to tread. Although Philip was not now acting as a reporter,
he acted quickly. Hardly had the door closed upon the young lady than
he had mounted the steps and rung the visitor's bell. As he did so, he
could not resist casting a triumphant glance in the direction of the
outlawed husband. And, in turn, what the outcast husband, peering from
across the back of the cab horse, thought of Philip, of his clothes, of
his general appearance, and of the manner in which he would delight to
alter all of them, was quickly communicated to the American. They were
thoughts of a nature so violent and uncomplimentary that Philip hastily
cut off all connection.
As Philip did not know the name of the Dresden-china doll, it was
fortunate that on opening the door, the butler promptly announced:
“Her ladyship is not receiving.”
“Her ladyship will, I think, receive me,” said Philip pleasantly, “when
you tell her I come as the special ambassador of his lordship.”
From a tiny reception-room on the right of the entrance-hall there
issued a feminine exclamation of surprise, not unmixed with joy; and in
the hall the noble lady instantly appeared.
When she saw herself confronted by a stranger, she halted in
embarrassment. But as, even while she halted, her only thought had
been, “Oh! if he will only ask me to forgive him!” Philip felt no
embarrassment whatsoever. Outside, concealed behind a cab horse, was the
erring but bitterly repentant husband; inside, her tenderest thoughts
racing tumultuously toward him, was an unhappy child-wife begging to be
begged to pardon.
For a New York reporter, and a Harvard graduate of charm and good
manners, it was too easy.
“I do not know you,” said her ladyship. But even as she spoke she
motioned to the butler to go away. “You must be one of his new friends.”
Her tone was one of envy.
“Indeed, I am his newest friend,” Philip assured her; “but I can safely
say no one knows his thoughts as well as I. And they are all of you!”
The china shepherdess blushed with happiness, but instantly she shook
her head.
“They tell me I must not believe him,” she announced. “They tell me--”
“Never mind what they tell you,” commanded Philip. “Listen to ME. He
loves you. Better than ever before, he loves you. All he asks is the
chance to tell you so. You cannot help but believe him. Who can look at
you, and not believe that he loves you! Let me,” he begged, “bring him
to you.” He started from her when, remembering the somewhat violent
thoughts of the youthful husband, he added hastily: “Or perhaps it would
be better if you called him yourself.”
“Called him!” exclaimed the lady. “He is in Paris-at the races--with
her!”
“If they tell you that sort of thing,” protested Philip indignantly,
“you must listen to me. He is not in Paris. He is not with her. There
never was a her!”
He drew aside the lace curtains and pointed. “He is there--behind that
ancient cab horse, praying that you will let him tell you that not only
did he never do it; but, what is much more important, he will never do
it again.”
The lady herself now timidly drew the curtains apart, and then more
boldly showed herself upon the iron balcony. Leaning over the scarlet
geraniums, she beckoned with both hands. The result was instantaneous.
Philip bolted for the front door, leaving it open; and, as he darted
down the steps, the youthful husband, in strides resembling those of an
ostrich, shot past him. Philip did not cease running until he was well
out of Berkeley Square. Then, not ill-pleased with the adventure, he
turned and smiled back at the house of yellow stucco.
“Bless you, my children,” he murmured; “bless you!”
He continued to the Ritz; and, on crossing Piccadilly to the quieter
entrance to the hotel in Arlington Street, found gathered around it
a considerable crowd drawn up on either side of a red carpet that
stretched down the steps of the hotel to a court carriage. A red carpet
in June, when all is dry under foot and the sun is shining gently,
can mean only royalty; and in the rear of the men in the street Philip
halted. He remembered that for a few days the young King of Asturia and
the Queen Mother were at the Ritz incognito; and, as he never had seen
the young man who so recently and so tragically had been exiled from his
own kingdom, Philip raised himself on tiptoe and stared expectantly.
As easily as he could read their faces could he read the thoughts of
those about him. They were thoughts of friendly curiosity, of pity for
the exiles; on the part of the policemen who had hastened from a cross
street, of pride at their temporary responsibility; on the part of the
coachman of the court carriage, of speculation as to the possible amount
of his Majesty's tip. The thoughts were as harmless and protecting as
the warm sunshine.
And then, suddenly and harshly, like the stroke of a fire bell at
midnight, the harmonious chorus of gentle, hospitable thoughts was
shattered by one that was discordant, evil, menacing. It was the thought
of a man with a brain diseased; and its purpose was murder.
“When they appear at the doorway,” spoke the brain of the maniac, “I
shall lift the bomb from my pocket. I shall raise it above my head. I
shall crash it against the stone steps. It will hurl them and all of
these people into eternity and me with them. But I shall LIVE--a martyr
to the Cause. And the Cause will flourish!”
Through the unsuspecting crowd, like a football player diving for a
tackle, Philip hurled himself upon a little dark man standing close to
the open door of the court carriage. From the rear Philip seized
him around the waist and locked his arms behind him, elbow to elbow.
Philip's face, appearing over the man's shoulder, stared straight into
that of the policeman.
“He has a bomb in his right-hand pocket!” yelled Philip. “I can hold him
while you take it! But, for Heaven's sake, don't drop it!” Philip turned
upon the crowd. “Run! all of you!” he shouted. “Run like the devil!”
At that instant the boy King and his Queen Mother, herself still young
and beautiful, and cloaked with a dignity and sorrow that her robes of
mourning could not intensify, appeared in the doorway.
“Go back, sir!” warned Philip. “He means to kill you!”
At the words and at sight of the struggling men, the great lady swayed
helplessly, her eyes filled with terror. Her son sprang protectingly
in front of her. But the danger was past. A second policeman was now
holding the maniac by the wrists, forcing his arms above his head;
Philip's arms, like a lariat, were wound around his chest; and from his
pocket the first policeman gingerly drew forth a round, black object of
the size of a glass fire-grenade. He held it high in the air, and waved
his free hand warningly. But the warning was unobserved. There was no
one remaining to observe it. Leaving the would-be assassin struggling
and biting in the grasp of the stalwart policeman, and the other
policeman unhappily holding the bomb at arm's length, Philip sought to
escape into the Ritz. But the young King broke through the circle of
attendants and stopped him.
“I must thank you,” said the boy eagerly; “and I wish you to tell me how
you came to suspect the man's purpose.”
Unable to speak the truth, Philip, the would-be writer of fiction, began
to improvise fluently.
“To learn their purpose, sir,” he said, “is my business. I am of the
International Police, and in the secret service of your Majesty.”
“Then I must know your name,” said the King, and added with a dignity
that was most becoming, “You will find we are not ungrateful.”
Philip smiled mysteriously and shook his head.
“I said in your secret service,” he repeated. “Did even your Majesty
know me, my usefulness would be at an end.” He pointed toward the two
policemen. “If you desire to be just, as well as gracious, those are the
men to reward.”
He slipped past the King and through the crowd of hotel officials into
the hall and on into the corridor.
The arrest had taken place so quietly and so quickly that through the
heavy glass doors no sound had penetrated, and of the fact that they
had been so close to a possible tragedy those in the corridor were still
ignorant. The members of the Hungarian orchestra were arranging their
music; a waiter was serving two men of middle age with sherry; and two
distinguished-looking elderly gentlemen seated together on a sofa were
talking in leisurely whispers.
One of the two middle-aged men was well known to Philip, who as a
reporter had often, in New York, endeavored to interview him on matters
concerning the steel trust. His name was Faust. He was a Pennsylvania
Dutchman from Pittsburgh, and at one time had been a foreman of the
night shift in the same mills he now controlled. But with a roar and
a spectacular flash, not unlike one of his own blast furnaces, he had
soared to fame and fortune. He recognized Philip as one of the bright
young men of the Republic; but in his own opinion he was far too
self-important to betray that fact.
Philip sank into an imitation Louis Quatorze chair beside a fountain in
imitation of one in the apartment of the Pompadour, and ordered what
he knew would be an execrable imitation of an American cocktail. While
waiting for the cocktail and Lady Woodcote's luncheon party, Philip,
from where he sat, could not help but overhear the conversation of Faust
and of the man with him. The latter was a German with Hebraic features
and a pointed beard. In loud tones he was congratulating the American
many-time millionaire on having that morning come into possession of
a rare and valuable masterpiece, a hitherto unknown and but recently
discovered portrait of Philip IV by Velasquez.
Philip sighed enviously.
“Fancy,” he thought, “owning a Velasquez! Fancy having it all to
yourself! It must be fun to be rich. It certainly is hell to be poor!”
The German, who was evidently a picture-dealer, was exclaiming in tones
of rapture, and nodding his head with an air of awe and solemnity.
“I am telling you the truth, Mr. Faust,” he said. “In no gallery in
Europe, no, not even in the Prado, is there such another Velasquez. This
is what you are doing, Mr. Faust, you are robbing Spain. You are robbing
her of something worth more to her than Cuba. And I tell you, so soon
as it is known that this Velasquez is going to your home in Pittsburgh,
every Spaniard will hate you and every art-collector will hate you, too.
For it is the most wonderful art treasure in Europe. And what a bargain,
Mr. Faust! What a bargain!”
To make sure that the reporter was within hearing, Mr. Faust glanced
in the direction of Philip and, seeing that he had heard, frowned
importantly. That the reporter might hear still more, he also raised his
voice.
“Nothing can be called a bargain, Baron,” he said, “that costs three
hundred thousand dollars!”
Again he could not resist glancing toward Philip, and so eagerly
that Philip deemed it would be only polite to look interested. So he
obligingly assumed a startled look, with which he endeavored to mingle
simulations of surprise, awe, and envy.
The next instant an expression of real surprise overspread his features.
Mr. Faust continued. “If you will come upstairs,” he said to the
picture-dealer, “I will give you your check; and then I should like to
drive to your apartments and take a farewell look at the picture.”
“I am sorry,” the Baron said, “but I have had it moved to my art gallery
to be packed.”
“Then let's go to the gallery,” urged the patron of art. “We've just
time before lunch.” He rose to his feet, and on the instant the soul of
the picture-dealer was filled with alarm.
In actual words he said: “The picture is already boxed and in its lead
coffin. No doubt by now it is on its way to Liverpool. I am sorry.” But
his thoughts, as Philip easily read them, were: “Fancy my letting this
vulgar fool into the Tate Street workshop! Even HE would know that old
masters are not found in a half-finished state on Chelsea-made frames
and canvases. Fancy my letting him see those two half-completed Van
Dycks, the new Hals, the half-dozen Corots. He would even see his own
copy of Velasquez next to the one exactly like it--the one MacMillan
finished yesterday and that I am sending to Oporto, where next year, in
a convent, we shall 'discover' it.”
Philip's surprise gave way to intense amusement. In his delight at the
situation upon which he had stumbled, he laughed aloud. The two men,
who had risen, surprised at the spectacle of a young man laughing at
nothing, turned and stared. Philip also rose.
“Pardon me,” he said to Faust, “but you spoke so loud I couldn't help
overhearing. I think we've met before, when I was a reporter on the
Republic.”
The Pittsburgh millionaire made a pretense, of annoyance.
“Really!” he protested irritably, “you reporters butt in everywhere. No
public man is safe. Is there no place we can go where you fellows won't
annoy us?”
“You can go to the devil for all I care,” said Philip, “or even to
Pittsburgh!”
He saw the waiter bearing down upon him with the imitation cocktail,
and moved to meet it. The millionaire, fearing the reporter would escape
him, hastily changed his tone. He spoke with effective resignation.
“However, since you've learned so much,” he said, “I'll tell you the
whole of it. I don't want the fact garbled, for it is of international
importance. Do you know what a Velasquez is?”
“Do you?” asked Philip.
The millionaire smiled tolerantly.
“I think I do,” he said. “And to prove it, I shall tell you something
that will be news to you. I have just bought a Velasquez that I am going
to place in my art museum. It is worth three hundred thousand dollars.”
Philip accepted the cocktail the waiter presented. It was quite as bad
as he had expected.
“Now, I shall tell you something,” he said, “that will be news to you.
You are not buying a Velasquez. It is no more a Velasquez than this hair
oil is a real cocktail. It is a bad copy, worth a few dollars.”
“How dare you!” shouted Faust. “Are you mad?”
The face of the German turned crimson with rage.
“Who is this insolent one?” he sputtered.
“I will make you a sporting proposition,” said Philip. “You can take it,
or leave it. You two will get into a taxi. You will drive to this man's
studio in Tate Street. You will find your Velasquez is there and not on
its way to Liverpool. And you will find one exactly like it, and a dozen
other 'old masters' half-finished. I'll bet you a hundred pounds I'm
right! And I'll bet this man a hundred pounds that he DOESN'T DARE TAKE
YOU TO HIS STUDIO!”
“Indeed, I will not,” roared the German. “It would be to insult myself.”
“It would be an easy way to earn a hundred pounds, too,” said Philip.
“How dare you insult the Baron?” demanded Faust. “What makes you
think--”
“I don't think, I know!” said Philip. “For the price of a taxi-cab fare
to Tate Street, you win a hundred pounds.”
“We will all three go at once,” cried the German. “My car is outside.
Wait here. I will have it brought to the door?”
Faust protested indignantly.
“Do not disturb yourself, Baron,” he said; “just because a fresh
reporter--”
But already the German had reached the hall. Nor did he stop there. They
saw him, without his hat, rush into Piccadilly, spring into a taxi, and
shout excitedly to the driver. The next moment he had disappeared.
“That's the last you'll see of him,” said Philip.
“His actions are certainly peculiar,” gasped the millionaire. “He did
not wait for us. He didn't even wait for his hat! I think, after all, I
had better go to Tate Street.”
“Do so,” said Philip, “and save yourself three hundred thousand dollars,
and from the laughter of two continents. You'll find me here at lunch.
If I'm wrong, I'll pay you a hundred pounds.”
“You should come with me,” said Faust. “It is only fair to yourself.”
“I'll take your word for what you find in the studio,” said Philip. “I
cannot go. This is my busy day.”
Without further words, the millionaire collected his hat and stick, and,
in his turn, entered a taxi-cab and disappeared.
Philip returned to the Louis Quatorze chair and lit a cigarette. Save
for the two elderly gentlemen on the sofa, the lounge was still empty,
and his reflections were undisturbed. He shook his head sadly.
“Surely,” Philip thought, “the French chap was right who said words were
given us to conceal our thoughts. What a strange world it would be if
every one possessed my power. Deception would be quite futile and lying
would become a lost art. I wonder,” he mused cynically, “is any one
quite honest? Does any one speak as he thinks and think as he speaks?”
At once came a direct answer to his question. The two elderly gentlemen
had risen and, before separating, had halted a few feet from him.
“I sincerely hope, Sir John,” said one of the two, “that you have
no regrets. I hope you believe that I have advised you in the best
interests of all?”
“I do, indeed,” the other replied heartily “We shall be thought entirely
selfish; but you know and I know that what we have done is for the
benefit of the shareholders.”
Philip was pleased to find that the thoughts of each of the old
gentlemen ran hand in hand with his spoken words. “Here, at least,” he
said to himself, “are two honest men.”
As though loath to part, the two gentlemen still lingered.
“And I hope,” continued the one addressed as Sir John, “that you approve
of my holding back the public announcement of the combine until the
afternoon. It will give the shareholders a better chance. Had we given
out the news in this morning's papers the stockbrokers would have--”
“It was most wise,” interrupted the other. “Most just.”
The one called Sir John bowed himself away, leaving the other still
standing at the steps of the lounge. With his hands behind his back, his
chin sunk on his chest, he remained, gazing at nothing, his thoughts far
away.
Philip found them thoughts of curious interest. They were concerned with
three flags. Now, the gentleman considered them separately; and Philip
saw the emblems painted clearly in colors, fluttering and flattened
by the breeze. Again, the gentleman considered them in various
combinations; but always, in whatever order his mind arranged them, of
the three his heart spoke always to the same flag, as the heart of a
mother reaches toward her firstborn.
Then the thoughts were diverted; and in his mind's eye the old gentleman
was watching the launching of a little schooner from a shipyard on the
Clyde. At her main flew one of the three flags--a flag with a red cross
on a white ground. With thoughts tender and grateful, he followed her
to strange, hot ports, through hurricanes and tidal waves; he saw her
return again and again to the London docks, laden with odorous coffee,
mahogany, red rubber, and raw bullion. He saw sister ships follow in her
wake to every port in the South Sea; saw steam packets take the place
of the ships with sails; saw the steam packets give way to great
ocean liners, each a floating village, each equipped, as no village is
equipped, with a giant power house, thousands of electric lamps, suite
after suite of silk-lined boudoirs, with the floating harps that vibrate
to a love message three hundred miles away, to the fierce call for help
from a sinking ship. But at the main of each great vessel there still
flew the same house-flag--the red cross on the field of white--only now
in the arms of the cross there nestled proudly a royal crown.
Philip cast a scared glance at the old gentleman, and raced down the
corridor to the telephone.
Of all the young Englishmen he knew, Maddox was his best friend and a
stock-broker. In that latter capacity Philip had never before addressed
him. Now he demanded his instant presence at the telephone.
Maddox greeted him genially, but Philip cut him short.
“I want you to act for me,” he whispered, “and act quick! I want you
to buy for me one thousand shares of the Royal Mail Line, of the
Elder-Dempster, and of the Union Castle.”
He heard Maddox laugh indulgently.
“There's nothing in that yarn of a combine,” he called. “It has fallen
through. Besides, shares are at fifteen pounds.”
Philip, having in his possession a second-class ticket and a five-pound
note, was indifferent to that, and said so.
“I don't care what they are,” he shouted. “The combine is already signed
and sealed, and no one knows it but myself. In an hour everybody will
know it!”
“What makes you think you know it?” demanded the broker.
“I've seen the house-flags!” cried Philip. “I have--do as I tell you,”
he commanded.
There was a distracting delay.
“No matter who's back of you,” objected Maddox, “it's a big order on a
gamble.”
“It's not a gamble,” cried Philip. “It's an accomplished fact. I'm at
the Ritz. Call me up there. Start buying now, and, when you've got a
thousand of each, stop!”
Philip was much too agitated to go far from the telephone booth; so for
half an hour he sat in the reading-room, forcing himself to read the
illustrated papers. When he found he had read the same advertisement
five times, he returned to the telephone. The telephone boy met him
half-way with a message.
“Have secured for you a thousand shares of each,” he read, “at fifteen.
Maddox.”
Like a man awakening from a nightmare, Philip tried to separate
the horror of the situation from the cold fact. The cold fact was
sufficiently horrible. It was that, without a penny to pay for them,
he had bought shares in three steamship lines, which shares, added
together, were worth two hundred and twenty five thousand dollars.
He returned down the corridor toward the lounge. Trembling at his own
audacity, he was in a state of almost complete panic, when that happened
which made his outrageous speculation of little consequence. It was
drawing near to half-past one; and, in the persons of several smart men
and beautiful ladies, the component parts of different luncheon parties
were beginning to assemble.
Of the luncheon to which Lady Woodcote had invited him, only one
guest had arrived; but, so far as Philip was concerned, that one was
sufficient. It was Helen herself, seated alone, with her eyes fixed
on the doors opening from Piccadilly. Philip, his heart singing with
appeals, blessings, and adoration, ran toward her. Her profile was
toward him, and she could not see him; but he could see her. And he
noted that, as though seeking some one, her eyes were turned searchingly
upon each young man as he entered and moved from one to another of those
already in the lounge. Her expression was eager and anxious.
“If only,” Philip exclaimed, “she were looking for me! She certainly is
looking for some man. I wonder who it can be?”
As suddenly as if he had slapped his face into a wall, he halted in his
steps. Why should he wonder? Why did he not read her mind? Why did he
not KNOW? A waiter was hastening toward him. Philip fixed his mind upon
the waiter, and his eyes as well. Mentally Philip demanded of him: “Of
what are you thinking?”
There was no response. And then, seeing an unlit cigarette hanging
from Philip's lips, the waiter hastily struck a match and proffered
it. Obviously, his mind had worked, first, in observing the half-burned
cigarette; next, in furnishing the necessary match. And of no step in
that mental process had Philip been conscious! The conclusion was only
too apparent. His power was gone. No longer was he a mind reader!
Hastily Philip reviewed the adventures of the morning. As he considered
them, the moral was obvious. The moment he had used his power to his
own advantage, he had lost it. So long as he had exerted it for the
happiness of the two lovers, to save the life of the King, to thwart
the dishonesty of a swindler, he had been all-powerful; but when he
endeavored to bend it to his own uses, it had fled from him. As he stood
abashed and repentant, Helen turned her eyes toward him; and, at the
sight of him, there leaped to them happiness and welcome and complete
content. It was “the look that never was on land or sea,” and it was not
necessary to be a mind reader to understand it. Philip sprang toward her
as quickly as a man dodges a taxi-cab.
“I came early,” said Helen, “because I wanted to talk to you before the
others arrived.” She seemed to be repeating words already rehearsed, to
be following a course of conduct already predetermined. “I want to tell
you,” she said, “that I am sorry you are going away. I want to tell you
that I shall miss you very much.” She paused and drew a long breath. And
she looked at Philip as if she was begging him to make it easier for her
to go on.
Philip proceeded to make it easier.
“Will you miss me,” he asked, “in the Row, where I used to wait among
the trees to see you ride past? Will you miss me at dances, where I used
to hide behind the dowagers to watch you waltzing by? Will you miss me
at night, when you come home by sunrise, and I am not hiding against the
railings of the Carlton Club, just to see you run across the pavement
from your carriage, just to see the light on your window blind, just to
see the light go out, and to know that you are sleeping?”
Helen's eyes were smiling happily. She looked away from him.
“Did you use to do that?” she asked.
“Every night I do that,” said Philip. “Ask the policemen! They arrested
me three times.”
“Why?” said Helen gently.
But Philip was not yet free to speak, so he said:
“They thought I was a burglar.”
Helen frowned. He was making it very hard for her.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “Why did you keep guard outside my
window?”
“It was the policeman kept guard,” said Philip. “I was there only as a
burglar. I came to rob. But I was a coward, or else I had a conscience,
or else I knew my own unworthiness.” There was a long pause. As both
of them, whenever they heard the tune afterward, always remembered, the
Hungarian band, with rare inconsequence, was playing the “Grizzly Bear,”
and people were trying to speak to Helen. By her they were received with
a look of so complete a lack of recognition, and by Philip with a glare
of such savage hate, that they retreated in dismay. The pause seemed to
last for many years.
At last Helen said: “Do you know the story of the two roses? They grew
in a garden under a lady's window. They both loved her. One looked up
at her from the ground and sighed for her; but the other climbed to
the lady's window, and she lifted him in and kissed him--because he had
dared to climb.”
Philip took out his watch and looked at it. But Helen did not mind his
doing that, because she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. She
was delighted to find that she was making it very hard for him, too.
“At any moment,” Philip said, “I may know whether I owe two hundred
and twenty-five thousand dollars which I can never pay, or whether I am
worth about that sum. I should like to continue this conversation at
the exact place where you last spoke--AFTER I know whether I am going to
jail, or whether I am worth a quarter of a million dollars.”
Helen laughed aloud with happiness.
“I knew that was it!” she cried. “You don't like my money. I was afraid
you did not like ME. If you dislike my money, I will give it away, or I
will give it to you to keep for me. The money does not matter, so long
as you don't dislike me.”
What Philip would have said to that, Helen could not know, for a page in
many buttons rushed at him with a message from the telephone, and with
a hand that trembled Philip snatched it. It read: “Combine is announced,
shares have gone to thirty-one, shall I hold or sell?”
That at such a crisis he should permit of any interruption hurt Helen
deeply. She regarded him with unhappy eyes. Philip read the message
three times. At last, and not without uneasy doubts as to his own
sanity, he grasped the preposterous truth. He was worth almost a quarter
of a million dollars! At the page he shoved his last and only five-pound
note. He pushed the boy from him.
“Run!” he commanded. “Get out of here, Tell him he is to SELL!”
He turned to Helen with a look in his eyes that could not be questioned
or denied. He seemed incapable of speech, and, to break the silence,
Helen said: “Is it good news?”
“That depends entirely upon you,” replied Philip soberly. “Indeed, all
my future life depends upon what you are going to say next.”
Helen breathed deeply and happily.
“And--what am I going to say?”
“How can I know that?” demanded Philip. “Am I a mind reader?”
But what she said may be safely guessed from the fact that they both
chucked Lady Woodcotes luncheon, and ate one of penny buns, which they
shared with the bears in Regents Park.
Philip was just able to pay for the penny buns. Helen paid for the
taxi-cab.