IN THE MOMENT OF HIS SUCCESS
Diamonds worth a quarter of a million! And yet already they were
beginning to hang like a millstone round Mr. Paxton's neck. The relief
which he felt at having got rid of them from his actual person proved
to be but temporary. All day they haunted him. Having done the one
thing which he had come to town to do, he found himself unoccupied. He
avoided the neighbourhood of the Stock Exchange, and of his usual
haunts, for reasons. Eries were still declining. The difference
against him had assumed a portentous magnitude. Possibly, confiding
brokers were seeking for him high and low, anxious for security which
would protect them against the necessity of having to make good his
losses. No, just then the City was not for him. Discretion, of a sort,
suggested his confining himself to the West-end of town.
Unfortunately, in this case, the West-end meant loitering about bars
and similar stimulating places. He drank not only to kill time but
also to drown his thoughts, and the more he tried to drown them, the
more they floated on the surface.
What a fool he had been--what an egregious fool! How he had exchanged
his talents for nothing, and for less than nothing. How he had thrown
away his prospects, his opportunities, his whole life, his all! And
now, by way of a climax, he had been guilty of a greater folly than
any which had gone before. He had sold more than his birthright for
less--much less--than a mess of pottage. He had lost his soul for the
privilege of being able to hang a millstone round his neck--cast
honour to the winds for the sake of encumbering himself with a burden
which would crush him lower and lower, until it laid him level with
the dust.
Wherever he went, the story of the robbery met his eyes. The latest
news of it was announced on the placards of the evening papers.
Newsboys bawled it in his ears. He had only to listen to what was
being said by the other frequenters of the bars against which he
lounged to learn that it was the topic of conversation on every
tongue. All England, all Europe, indeed, one might say that the whole
of the civilised world was on tiptoe to catch the man who had done
this thing. As John Ireland had said, he might as soon think of being
able to sell the diamonds as of being able to sell the Koh-i-Nor.
Every one who knew anything at all of precious stones was on the
look-out for them, from pole to pole. During his lifetime he would not
even venture to attempt their disposal, any attempt of the kind would
inevitably involve his being instantaneously branded as a felon.
Last night, when he left London, he had had something over two hundred
pounds in his pockets. Except debts, and certain worthless securities,
for which no one would give him a shilling, it was all he had left in
the world. It was not a large sum, but it was sufficient to take him
to the other side of the globe, and to keep him there until he had had
time to turn himself round, and to find some means of earning for
himself his daily bread. He had proposed to go on to Southampton this
morning, thence straight across the seas. Now what was it he proposed
to do? Every day that he remained in England meant making further
inroads into his slender capital. At the rate at which he was living,
it would rapidly dwindle all away. Then how did he intend to replenish
it? By selling the duchess's diamonds? Nonsense! He told himself, with
bitter frankness, that such an idea was absolute nonsense; that such a
prospect was as shadowy as, and much more dangerous than, the
proverbial mirage of the desert.
He returned by an afternoon train to Brighton, in about as black a
mood as he could be. He sat in a corner of a crowded compartment--for
some reason he rather shirked travelling alone--communing with the
demons of despair who seemed to be the tenants of his brain; fighting
with his own particular wild beasts. Arrived at Brighton without
adventure, he drove straight to Makell's Hotel.
As he advanced into the hall, the manager came towards him out of the
office.
"Good evening, Mr. Paxton. Did you authorise any one to come and fetch
away your bag?"
"No. Why?"
"Some fellow came and said that you had sent him for your Gladstone
bag."
"I did nothing of the kind. Did you give it him?"
The manager smiled.
"Hardly. You had confided it to my safe keeping, and I was scarcely
likely to hand it to a stranger who was unable to present a more
sufficient authority than he appeared to have. We make it a rule that
articles entrusted to our charge are returned to the owners only, on
personal application."
"What sort of a man was he to look at?"
"Oh, a shabby-looking chap, very much down at heel indeed,
middle-aged; the sort of man whom you would expect would run
messages."
"Tell me, as exactly as you can, what it was he said."
"He said that Mr. Paxton had sent him for his Gladstone bag. I asked
him where you were. He said you were at Medina Villas, and you wanted
your bag. You had given him a shilling to come for it, and you were to
give him another shilling when he took it back. I told him our rule
referring to property deposited with us by guests, and he made off."
Medina Villas? Miss Strong resided in Medina Villas, and Miss
Wentworth; with which fact Mr. Lawrence was possibly acquainted. Once
more in this latest dash for the bag Mr. Paxton seemed to trace that
gentleman's fine Roman hand. He thanked the manager for the care which
he had taken of his interests.
"I'm glad that you sent the scamp empty away, but, between you and me,
the loss wouldn't have been a very serious one if you had given him
what he wanted. I took all that the bag contained of value up with me
to town, and left it there."
The manager looked at him, as Mr. Paxton felt, a trifle
scrutinisingly, as if he could not altogether make him out.
"There seems to be a sort of dead set made at you. First, the
attempted burglary last night--which is a kind of thing which has
never before been known in the whole history of the hotel--and now
this impudent rascal trying to make out that you had authorised him to
receive your Gladstone bag. One might almost think that you were
carrying something about with you which was of unique importance, and
that the fact of your doing so had somehow become known to a
considerable proportion of our criminal population."
Mr. Paxton laughed. He had the bag carried upstairs, telling himself
as he went that it was already more than time that his sojourn at
Makell's Hotel should be brought to a conclusion.
He ate a solitary dinner, lingering over it, though he had but a
scanty appetite, as long as he could, in order to while away the time
until the hour came for meeting Daisy. Towards the end of the meal,
sick to death of his own thoughts, for sheer want of something else to
do, he took up an evening paper, which he had brought into the room
with him, and which was lying on a chair at his side, and began to
glance at it. As he idly skimmed its columns, all at once a paragraph
in the City article caught his eye. He read the words with a feeling
of surprise; then, with increasing amazement, he read them again.
"The boom in the shares of the Trumpit Gold Mine continues. On the
strength of a report that the reef which has been struck is of
importance, the demand for them, even at present prices, exceeded the
supply. When our report left, buyers were offering £10--the highest
price of the day."
After subjecting the paragraph to a second reading, Mr. Paxton put the
paper down upon his knees, and gasped for breath. It was a mistake--a
canard--quite incredible. Trumpits selling at £10--it could not be! He
would have been glad, quite lately, to have sold his for 10d each;
only he was conscious that even at that price he would have found no
buyer. £10 indeed! It was a price of which, at one time, he had
dreamed--but it had remained a dream.
He read the paragraph again. So far as the paper was concerned, there
seemed to be no doubt about it--there it was in black and white. The
paper was one of the highest standing, of unquestionable authority,
not given to practical jokes--especially in the direction of
quotations in its City article. Could the thing be true? He felt that
something was tingling all over his body. On a sudden, his pulses had
begun to beat like sledge-hammers. He rose from his seat, just as the
waiter was placing still another plate in front of him, and, to the
obvious surprise of that well-trained functionary, he marched away
without a word. He made for the smoking-room. He knew that he should
find the papers there. And he found them, morning and evening
papers--even some of the papers of the day before--as many as he
wished. He ransacked them all. Each, with one accord, told the same
tale.
The thing might be incredible, but it was true!
While he was gambling in Eries, losing all, and more than all, that he
had; while he was gambling in stolen jewels, losing all that was left
of his honour too, a movement had been taking place in the market
which was making his fortune for him all the time, and he had not
noticed it. The thing seemed to him to be almost miraculous. And
certainly it was not the least of the miracles which lately had come
his way.
Some two years before a friend had put him on--as friends do put us
on--to a real good thing--the Trumpit Gold Mine. The friend professed
to have special private information about this mine, and Mr. Paxton
believed that he had. He still believed that he thought he had. Mr.
Paxton was not a greenhorn, but he was a gambler, which now and then
is about as bad. He looked at the thing all round--in the light of his
friend's special information!--as far as he could, and as time would
permit, and it seemed to him to be good enough for a plunge. The
shares just then were at a discount--a considerable discount. From one
point of view it was the time to buy them--and he did. He got together
pretty well every pound he could lay his hands on, and bought ten
thousand--bought them out and out, to hold--and went straight off and
told Miss Strong he had made his fortune. It was only the mistake of a
word--what he ought to have told her was that he had lost it. The
certainly expected find of yellow ore did not come off, nor did the
looked-for rise in the shares come off either. They continued at a
discount, and went still lower. Purchasers could not be discovered at
any price.
It was a bitter blow. Almost, if not quite, as bitter a blow to Miss
Strong as to himself. Indeed, Mr. Paxton had felt ever since as if
Miss Strong had never entirely forgiven him for having made such a
fool of her. He might--he could not help fancying that some such line
of reasoning had occupied her attention more than once--before telling
her of the beautiful chickens which were shortly about to be hatched,
at least have waited till the eggs were laid.
He had been too much engaged in other matters to pay attention to
quotations for shares, which had long gone unquoted, and which he had,
these many days, regarded as a loss past praying for. It appeared that
rumours had come of gold in paying quantities having been found; that
the rumours had gathered strength; that, in consequence, the shares
had risen, until, on a sudden, the market was in a frenzy--as
occasionally the market is apt to be--and ten pounds a-piece was being
offered. Ten thousand at ten pounds a-piece--why, it was a hundred
thousand pounds! A fortune in itself!
By the time Mr. Paxton had attained to something like an adequate idea
of the situation, he was half beside himself with excitement. He
looked at his watch--it was time for meeting Daisy. He hurried into
the hall, crammed on his hat, and strode into the street.
Scarcely had he taken a dozen steps, when some one struck him a
violent blow from behind. As he turned to face his assailant, an arm
was thrust round his neck, and what felt like a damp cloth was forced
against his mouth. He was borne off his feet, and, in spite of his
struggles, was conveyed with surprising quickness into a cab which was
drawn up against the kerb.