money is yours to do with as you see fit; but don’t withdraw it because
of a misunderstanding. We are very glad indeed to have your account. But
really, my dear Mr. Grinnell, you must see how natural it is that we
should wish to know, not so much the source of your gold, but the
quantity controlled by you.”
“And the source too,” said the richest man in the world, in a tone that
showed there should be no argument about a purely family matter. “Where
does it come from?”
“Mr. Dawson,” said Grinnell, distinctly ignoring Mellen, “Mr. Mellen is
one of your largest depositors, is he not?”
“Yes; he--”
“Do you insist upon his telling you where he gets the money that he
deposits here?”
“Mr. Grinnell----”
“Is my gold any different from his gold? Is an Assay Office check not
as good as an International Distributing Syndicate check? I don’t mean
ethically, but financially.”
Mr. Mellen flushed. Mr. Dawson said with the dignity of suppressed
anger: “It is not that; but if gold is to become as cheap as
pig-iron----”
“Why should it?” interrupted Grinnell idly. “Does Mr. Mellen intend to
give all his money to the poor?”
“This is----” began Mellen, in a rebuking voice.
“Mr. Grinnell,” said the president, still with much dignity, “we have
no desire to pry into your private affairs. But great wealth means great
responsibilities, and what is permissible to a pauper is not permissible
to you. You must admit that there is no limit to the harm that can be
done from a too rapid increase in the gold supply of the world.”
“I realize that. You agreed with me that an increase of one hundred
millions a year, in addition to the normal output of the mines now in
operation, was not excessive. Since I saw you I have carefully
studied the matter”--Grinnell’s voice and manner showed profound
conviction--“and I have come to the conclusion that the world could not
only stand two hundred and fifty millions more than it is now getting,
but be all the better for it. That is only a billion more in four years.
Four years is a long time.” He looked pensive--as if he were thinking
how very long that would be.
Mr. Mellen started. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Grinnell
went on quickly: “Tell me, Mr. Dawson, is it not true that the expansion
in business all over during the past few years, while it has been
followed by a great expansion in bank credits, has not been followed by
a proportionate increase in the supply of actual cash? That being the
case, why couldn’t it be possible to add two hundred and fifty millions
a year without disturbing business, by distributing one hundred millions
among banks in Germany, France, and England, and scattering one hundred
and fifty millions among banks in various sections of the United
States?”
“Do you propose to do this?” Mr. Dawson was looking at the young man
with an intentness which he could not help tinge-ing with anxiety.
“That isn’t the question,” said Grinnell, a trifle impatiently, as if
unwilling to lose the thread of his argument. “Do you deny that such a
thing could be done?”
“Yes, I do! It would mean wild inflation; it would lead to a world
panic!” said Mellen, not altogether composedly.
“Do you think so, Mr. Dawson?” Grin-nell persistently ignored Mr.
Mellen.
“I think,” replied the president, nervously, “that $250,000,000 in gold
a year more than the world is now getting would be too much. Without
definite knowledge of the source and limit of the new supply, sentiment
would become so alarmed that it would mean a disastrous panic, probably
the worst in the history of humanity, since there would be the keenest
apprehension over the possibility of gold being demonetized. An
inexhaustible supply of gold could lead to nothing else; and then--God
help us all!” The president was so impressed by his own words that his
face grew livid. Mr. Mellen was breathing quickly.
“Who said anything about an inexhaustible supply of gold?” said Grinnell
angrily. “I, of all people, do not wish gold to be demonetized. What
would my gold be worth if that happened?”
“Precisely; that’s why we wish you to confide in us,” said Dawson, with
a very friendly smile.
“But I still believe,” said Grinnell doggedly, “that two hundred and
fifty millions a year would not do harm. I have made up my mind on that
point, and I will not change it. Mr. Dawson, you have asked me several
questions. Now, let me ask you one: Do you, or do you not, wish me to
make any additional deposits in this bank?”
“Certainly I wish you to if you do.”
“Very well.” The young man took from his pocket-book a package of slips.
He read one after another--the bank president could see that they were
Assay Office checks--and finally selected one. He said, “Here is a
check for eleven millions two hundred thousand,” and returned the
others--there were at least eight--to his pocket-book. “I shall deposit
this.”
Mellen walked over to the desk and took the slip from Mr. Dawson’s hand
with a calm authoritativeness, as though the bank president were his
clerk, which, indeed, was what Wall Street thought, though erroneously.
Then he turned to Grinnell.
“What assurance will you give that you will do nothing to ruin us? If
the world knew your secret it would mean ruin for all, absolute ruin!”
The sound of that word, uttered by himself, seemed to shake Mellen’s
composure. He glared at the young man.
“Mr. Mellen,” said Grinnell, very quietly, “you are an older man than I.
I shall try not to forget it.’”
“I must know! At once! Do you hear me?” said Mr. Mellen loudly. It was
not exactly anger which burned in his eyes, but a sort of overgrown
petulance at being baffled. There was an obstacle; it might be
insurmountable. The uncertainty was in itself a check. An invincible
pugilist had been knocked down for the first time in his career as
champion.
“William!” said Mr. Dawson, approaching his friend; “you are excited.”
Then to the young man, apologetically: “He has been under a severe
strain for some time past.”
The richest man in the world grew composed as by magic. For the first
time that day he became his normal self. He had crushed all opposition
to his Syndicate twenty years before by the exercise of stupendous
will-power. For a decade he had not been called upon to weigh his words
or his actions. Through disuse the qualities that had made him the
richest man in the world had atrophied. But now he was again the William
Mellen his competitors had feared.
“Mr. Grinnell,” he said, with a politeness that was not excessive, “I
apologize. I beg that you will forgive the nerves of a man who, as you
say, is much older than you, and has many more troubles.”
“Have you thought of any investment yet, Mr. Grinnell?” interposed
Mr. Dawson. It was to change the conversation. At the same time the
answer would be interesting, possibly valuable. Mr. Mellen sat down and
listened attentively.
“No, I have decided to wait until my deposits at the various banks are
larger.”
“How much do you propose to deposit with us?”
“Oh,” said Grinnell, with a smile full of an ingratiatory humour, “if
you are still frightened I’ll only deposit a million a week. I suppose I
ought to start a bank of my own.” Mr. Dawson and Mellen exchanged quick
glances, unperceived by the young man, since the young man continued to
smile, almost boyishly.
“Yes; you must not dream that you can produce two hundred and fifty
millions a year,” said Mr. Mellen, ignoring the last bomb, about the
bank. “That would not do at all.”
“I think it would. Even at that rate it would take a man some time to
catch up with your fortune, Mr. Mellen.”
“It isn’t a question of my fortune, Mr. Grinnell,” Mellen said in a
kindly voice, “but of the fortunes of all the world; yours as well.”
“I have no objections to seeing my fortune many times larger than it is,
I assure you.”
“Neither have we, provided you take your time about it, said Mr. Dawson
earnestly.
“I know I am young, but there are many things I wish to do before I die.
Life is uncertain.”
“Yes, it is. And if you died?” asked Mellen. He leaned forward slightly
as he spoke, his eyes on the young man’s.
“My sister would do what she could.”
“And if she dies?”
“_AFTER US_,” said the young man, “_THE DELUGE!_”
A deluge of gold; a deluge of ruin, devastation, and misery! financial
anarchy; commercial chaos! thought the richest man in the world. He
leaned back in his chair and breathed a bit quickly.
“Mr. Grinnell,” said Mr. Dawson, “your fortune already makes you
independent. But I think Mr. Mellen will join with me in saying that
if you care to consider a working alliance with us, commercial or
financial, we should be glad to have your co-operation.”
Mr. Mellen was again leaning forward, almost as if ready to shake hands
with his dear friend and comrade, Grinnell, to whom he would be as a
father whose love made him over-indulgent.
“Mr. Dawson, you will realize how little of a business man I am when I
tell you that I desire to stand alone. If it were a question of doubling
a fortune of ten or fifteen millions I suppose I’d be only too glad. But
I must work out my salvation unaided. You will grant that the possession
of such money as I have deposited in this bank may conceivably kill the
desire for more, unless it is to be used in carrying out plans nearer to
the heart than mere physical comforts. There are many things I’d like
to do which, with my present capital, I am not yet able to do. So I’ll
choose those that I can and let the others wait. For example, do you
deny that, if a man had two or three hundred millions of dollars and
started a bank with that capital he could solve many problems of vital
importance to the community?”
“I see great possibilities for evil--appalling possibilities for harm,”
said Mr. Mel-len, with impressive solemnity.
“Infinite possibilities for good also, Mr. Mellen,” said the young man,
a trifle sternly. “A bank designed, not so much to pay big dividends to
its stockholders, but to protect the public and to help business men and
the entire community in time of distress. An income of a quarter of a
million a year is sufficient to gratify the most luxurious tastes of any
man. It’s much more than enough for me. The rest might be devoted to the
good of humanity.”
“Is that one of your plans?” asked Mr. Dawson very quietly.
“Not at present. I realize that more is required than merely honest
motives. I may have the will to do good as the president of such a bank,
but I lack the ability and experience to conduct it. I am content to see
Mr. Dawson,” with a pleasant smile, “at the head of the richest bank in
America.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grinnell,” returned Mr. Dawson, with the cordiality of
immense relief. “What are your plans, then?”
“My first plan is to make more--ah--to make arrangements to deposit more
gold.”
“You were going to say ‘make more’ something--when you stopped,” said
Mel-len, with a sort of nonchalant curiosity. At least, that is what he
meant it to look like.
“I was going to say,” answered the young man, very quickly, “make more
deposits.”
“I thought,” said Mellen with a smile, though his eyes were serious,
“that you were going to say ‘make more gold,’” He was speaking in
the quiet, self-possessed way that had so impressed the Congressional
Committee which had “investigated” his Syndicate’s business and its
violation of the law, because it so resembled the self-possession of
an utterly honest man to whom there had never come a thought of the
possibility of a doubt of the righteousness of his every action. It
made logical the impression that the richest man in the world believed
himself the instrument of Providence.
The young man laughed. “That would be dreadful. We’d be in a terrible
fix if we had to re-create the science of chemistry. It would mean a
scientific panic, a slump in the molecular theory market.” He laughed
again as if pleased at the application of Wall Street phraseology to
chemical science.
“Don’t you make it?” persisted Mellen; his voice had an insinuating
quality, as though he were inviting spiritual confidences. He was not a
persuasive man, but he often looked so much as though he had persuaded
himself, that it had the effect of persuasion--on stubborn and misguided
competitors.
Grinnell looked at the richest man in the world seriously. “It is
perfectly astonishing,” he said, musingly, “how many people still
believe in alchemy. That comes from the tommy-rot they read in the
Sunday newspapers about scientific discoveries.”
“You haven’t answered my question.” Mellen’s persistence was not
offensive. He might have been a Sunday-school teacher trying to make a
shy boy tell how good he was.
“Mr. Mellen, the chemical laboratory which you built for the Lakeside
University is the finest in the country. Professor Ogden is one of our
foremost scientists. Ask him if it is possible for any living man to
make gold.”
“I’d rather ask you if you make it?” The voice was still of the
Sunday-school, and Grinnell the favourite but shy scholar.
“If you insist upon asking such questions I insist upon refusing to
answer them. If I did make it, would I tell you? You’d tell everybody.”
“Indeed not!” exclaimed Mellen eagerly.
He could not help it. He was almost human.
“Well, Mr. Dawson,” turning to the president, “I’ll deposit these eleven
millions.”
“You have more gold with you?” asked Mr. Dawson.
The young man felt in his vest pockets, ostentatiously, one after
another. Then he shook his head and said: “No.”
Mr. Dawson smiled to hide his anger. “I meant Assay Office checks,” he
explained.
“I’m going,” confessed Grinnell, “to make some deposits with
the Eastern, Agricultural, and Marshall National banks. But the
Metropolitan,” he added with a pleasant smile, “is my first love.
Good-morning, gentlemen.” He turned to go.
“Mr. Grinnell, one moment, please. I should like to ask a favour.
I think you are depositing too much. Ten millions a week means five
hundred millions a year.”
“So it does. But I thought----” He checked himself; and then went on:
“What is the favour you were about to ask?”
“Could you abstain from depositing any more gold in any bank for, say a
month or two?”
The young man’s eyes were thoughtful for a moment.
“Well, I have some gold I must deposit, as I have no facilities at
present for storage, save in bank vaults. You see, I had not figured
upon--well, one does not always think carefully enough in advance of
what he is going to do, and he finds himself confronted by conditions
he had not reckoned on. How was I to tell I couldn’t deposit even fifty
millions without disturbing you? I fear I must deposit a little more. In
fact, I can’t stop, even if I wish to. But I’ll think over what you have
said.”
“Have you much more on hand?”
“Quite a chunk of it!”
“How much?” asked Dawson. The richest man was leaning forward again,
his eyes fixed on the young man because the young man was not looking at
him.
“I don’t know. I haven’t weighed it,” answered Grinnell.
“You are commencing to disturb the money-market. People have begun to
wonder where the gold is coming from. The newspapers will take it up.
You will find the financial reviews already speaking about it. It is
lucky a lot of Klondike gold has been coming to New York lately. But
unless you let up, there will be glaring headlines, and then--”
“The newspapers must not take it up,” said Mellen, almost tenderly.
“That must be seen to, Richard. It must be stopped at any cost.” The
president nodded.
The young man was thinking. He turned a perplexed face to Dawson.
“How long must I stop depositing my gold?”
“It isn’t so much a question of stopping as of reducing the amounts
deposited.”
“I can’t reduce them. I must deposit several millions a week or stop
altogether. My arrangements are peculiar because--” he paused; then
went on quickly, with a smile as if pleased at being able to cease to
flounder--“because I don’t like half-way measures. But I think I can
stop for a month.” He thought for a moment. Somehow Mr. Mellen felt as
if the young man were speaking of a factory. “Yes,” finished Grinnell,
“I can stop for a month, Mr. Dawson, out of regard for what you say.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it more than I can say.”
“Then say nothing. I’ll make another deposit in a day of two, and then
I’ll give you a nice long rest. How does that please you, Mr. Dawson?”
“Very much. Only be sure to do the same by all the other banks.” Dawson
tried to show gratitude, but the anxiety was uppermost.
“I will.”
Mr. Grinnell extended his hand. The president grasped it; his own
was very cold--and very dry. Mr. Mellen was gazing intently at the
arabesques in the rug at his feet. He did not answer when Grinnell said
“Good-morning.”
As the door closed, Dawson rose and approached Mellen.
“William?” he said.
Mellen did not look up. Dawson laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder
and repeated: “William!”
Mellen turned an expressionless face to the president.
“He makes it!” said Dawson.
“He makes it!” repeated the richest man in the world, hypnotically.
“Do you feel certain of it?” Dawson’s voice betrayed his eagerness to
find comfort in Mellen’s assent.
Mellen’s mind awoke. “What’s that? Certain of what?” But he still looked
blankly puzzled. It made the president uncomfortable. He repeated:
“That he is making gold.”
“It can’t be,” said the richest man in the world. “It can’t be. Of
course not. And yet--” He paused. He clenched his hands; his lips were
pressed tightly together. Into his eyes there came a straining
look. Gradually the tense lines about his mouth relaxed. He murmured
doubtfully: “But he might as well make it. Perhaps he does. He has the
gold. He will have more.”
“I am sure of that,” agreed Dawson, not over-cordially, but still as if
that were his firm conviction.
“We must find out more about him. Are we going to take his word for all
he says? Even if he made it he must make it out of something. Where does
the gold come from? How does it come?”
“It comes from his furnace. Costello all but saw it. He--”
“Why didn’t he see it?” interjected Mel-len, glaring at Dawson. “Why
don’t you put a hundred men at work? Is that all you can learn about
this man?”
Dawson had never before seen his financial backer display vehemence,
ever so slightly, for the power of fabulous wealth had given an almost
pious severity to Mellen. The years of golden invulnerability seemed
to have rolled away from the richest man in the world, and left him an
impatient youth, crossed in some cherished plan, exasperated, after long
and soothing immunity from attack, at being forced into defenciveness.
The president said to him, not servilely at all, but nevertheless with
more than a suggestion of self-defence:
“We have done all that men could do. Grinnell had been at this work only
eight or ten weeks, and he already has fifty millions in cash. It it
were not for that you might call him a charlatan, a trickster of some
sort. You believed what he said when he spoke of his plans; you did not
think he was lying. You know men as well as I do. What impression did
he produce on you? The gold comes out of his house. His servants won’t
talk. I told Costello to offer them any price for information. But he
was convinced it could not be done without Grinnell’s learning of it,
and we don’t want him to know; or, how do we know what complications
might follow? Costello doesn’t think they know anything, anyhow. The
house is guarded day and night. Costello himself went into the cellar
with a load of coal. There is no doubt that Grinnell takes no gold into
the house, and that the gold comes out of the electrical furnace. He has
fifty millions now, and he won’t rest until he has a billion. That is
his minimum. And, in the meantime, if somebody learns his secret--”
“We must find out,” shouted the richest man in the world, shaking his
fist wildly in the air. “A billion in gold. What will become--” He
checked himself as he caught Dawson’s half-frightened look. He drew in
a deep breath, and began to walk to and fro. At length he stopped by
Dawson and said, more composedly: “Richard, I think as you do, yet it
doesn’t seem right; but I can’t tell what is wrong. If he produces gold
at will, and we knew how he did it, we’d still have to sell our bonds.
It is better to prepare for the worst now. Begin at once. Sell those
that are in my box, here. You have the list. Tell Thompson to bring you
the list of those in the safety vault at the office.”
“Yes,” said Dawson, with less relief in his voice than might have been
expected. “We’ll have to be very careful. The market won t--
“This is no time to think of eighths and quarters,” said Mellen with
decision. “If we are right, of what use are our bonds? If we are making
a mistake--” He hesitated. Doubt again showed in his face. Dawson
hastened to speak:
“If we could be perfectly sure he’s not going to--”
Mellen’s doubts and convictions came and went like irregular
pulse-beats--he had been disturbed to his very depths, and his mind did
not work with its normal precision. He became calm again, and he spoke
with quiet decision: “This young man means well. That is what makes
him dangerous. He will flood the world with gold, and think he is doing
good. Yes. Sell the bonds.”
“Very well,” Dawson sighed. It came easier to him to believe the worst;
he had seen more of Grinnell. But he knew the bonds would have to be
sold at grievous sacrifices.
“It’s the only thing we can do,” the richest man said, almost
consolingly; he knew Dawson’s thoughts. “But,” he added, “you must keep
on trying to find out where he gets the gold. Send Costello to me. And
you must buy stocks.”
Bonds are payable, principal and interest, in gold coin of the present
standard of weight and fineness. If Grinnel’s operations made gold as
cheap as pig-iron, each $1,000-bond would be worth fifty ounces of
iron, and no more. If some other metal took the place of gold, the
corporations would take pains to be paid in the new coin, whatever that
might be, and they would pay dividends on their stocks in the same.
But the interest on bonds they must pay in gold. Bondholders would be
ruined, and stockholders would profit by the others’ losses. All
this Dawson and Mel-len had realized on their first interview; it was
perfectly obvious. The president of the Metropolitan National Bank
merely had wished the richest man in the world to be as certain of the
existence of the Grinnell gold-factory as he himself had become, before
selling bonds and buying stocks.
“Which stocks?” asked Dawson.
The richest man in the world did not answer. He was looking at Dawson,
meditatively. At length, he said, musingly: “If he dies? And if his
sister dies? ‘_After us, the deluge._’ he said. The danger lies in that
man’s secret becoming known. Yes. We have no time to lose.”
In winning his fabulous fortune, the richest man in the world had
gambled stupendously. His stakes had been hundreds of fortunes,
thousands of lives. But after the first hundred millions he always had
gambled calmly--he had grown to think he was doing his duty, and that
Providence, whose confidential servant he was, had dealt cards marked
for his benefit. What had unnerved him was the sudden realization that
his financial life hung by a thread. The armour in which thirty years of
success had encased him had been broken. It had fallen from him. He had
acted as he might have acted at the time when he was not the richest man
in the world.
He went to the president’s desk and wrote out a long list--all stocks of
steam and street railroads, gas companies, and industrial concerns. His
writing was very even, and the letters were small, but the figures were
very plain.
“It’s only a question of time,” he told Dawson, as he finished, “when
Grinnell’s gold process will be known to the world.” He rose, and
seeing the president’s serious look, he said, with an air of conscious
jocularity (for he did not jest often, and when he did he had
to announce it beforehand, with his face, that there might be no
misunderstanding): “Cheer up, Richard. The worst is still to come!”
PART III: THE PARADOXICAL PANIC