A FOOL AND HIS FORTUNE
Slyne skirted a flower-bed cautiously and, approaching the shadowy
background by a flank movement, found a stout individual in a voluminous
coat kneeling on the grass there, with some white, metallic object in
one trembling hand lifted in the direction of his own left eyelid. A
second _Click!_ startled Slyne disproportionately, and he spoke at that,
in a very querulous voice. "Hey! you fool," he said, "you're wasting
your time. Wait till I show you how.
"Good Lord! is that _you_, Jobling?"
Mr. Jobling suddenly cast a revolver from him, with a wailing
execration, and, attempting to rise, sank down beside it, blubbering,
entirely unstrung after the agonising strain of the past few seconds.
Slyne, eyeing him with exasperated contempt, picked the weapon up and
fingered it for an instant.
"A damned rotten make!" he commented morosely. "But it'll do the job for
you all right now. You can't shoot it off, you know, with the safety
catch set."
The miserable man on the grass held out his hand for it, humbly. But
Slyne was not at all prepared to take any risks on his account--for
suicide and murder are often very difficult to distinguish, in their
results--and made up his mind to keep it, in the meantime at any rate.
"Get up," he ordered in his sharpest tone, "and come away out of this.
If you could only see yourself, you wouldn't want to sit there and
whimper."
Under the spur of that insult Mr. Jobling seemed to recall some stray
shred of his forfeited self-respect. He got on to his knees, with an
effort, and thence by degrees to his feet.
"I think you might show a little more decent feeling," he sobbed
brokenly, "when--"
"And I think you might show a vast deal more sense," snapped Slyne.
"Button up your coat, and come away out of this. You can kill yourself
just as easily--a good deal more so, in fact, since I've shown you
how--in half an hour, after I'm in a safer position to prove an _alibi_
if any inconvenient questions are asked about it afterwards. Come on,
now."
His whilom acquaintance followed him meekly, muttering, to a secluded
corner where there was a seat.
"What's the trouble?" demanded Slyne magisterially, sitting down at one
end of the bench and motioning him to the other. "But I suppose I need
scarcely ask. Trust funds mysteriously melted away--the usual childish
attempt to recover them by sheer chance, and with all the odds against
you!--the dread of exposure and disgrace--which never worry a dead man.
You've been a bit of a wolf in sheep's clothing, eh, my respectable
friend? And you'd rather die in the dark than face the world in broad
daylight without your immaculate fleece."
Mr. Jobling groaned.
"But why, after all, finish playing the knave by playing the fool? If
you were the man of the world you fancy yourself, you'd know that sheep
are very seldom successful in real life. It's all very well to pose in a
sheep-skin, but it isn't everything. A wolf undisguised can do very
well for himself, so long as his teeth are sufficiently sharp. And, when
he becomes a big millionaire, he can buy himself, among other things, a
nice new merino coat."
His parable amused himself, but his auditor did not seem possessed of a
sufficient sense of humour to appreciate its personal application.
"You're labouring under a misapprehension," said that gentleman, who had
meantime regained some grip on himself, in accents anything but properly
grateful. "I may, perhaps, have been unfortunate with--er--a few small
investments for clients, but your inference that I have--er--er--You're
positively insulting, sir!"
Slyne laughed, in better humour. "Bah!" said he. "What's the use of
bluffing? You weren't going to blow out your brains--if any--because you
had been too honest, were you?"
"I'm a desperate man," declared Mr. Jobling, thus rudely reminded of the
matter in hand. "Life isn't worth living, now that I've lost--" He
gulped and gasped, once more on the verge of tears, but a furtive glance
at Slyne's impassive features, dimly visible in the glow of a
half-smoked cigar, showed him he need not expect any excess of sympathy
from that quarter. It also seemed to suggest to him, in the midst of his
anguish of mind, an idea. He looked round at Slyne again.
"You're a man of wealth," he said in a husky voice whose suddenly
inspired eagerness he could not conceal, and some spark of hope perhaps
sprang up in his fainting heart again since Slyne did not deny that
erroneous suggestion. Slyne was waiting to hear what more he might have
to say, though not with any intention of helping him.
"I wonder--" the stout solicitor muttered. "It might interest you
to--Two heads are better than one, and--Some sort of partnership--"
"I can only spare you five minutes more," said Slyne crisply. "As soon
as I've finished my cigar, I'm going across to Ciro's for supper. The
Marquis of Ingoldsby is expecting me."
"Do you know his lordship?" breathed Mr. Jobling, his new-born hope no
doubt gaining strength and his respect for his chance companion
obviously increased. "Then you'll understand me when I tell you that
I've ruined myself--ab-so-lutely _ruined_ myself over the Jura
succession."
"I haven't the least idea what the devil you're talking about," said
Slyne.
Mr. Jobling groaned again. He was most grievously disappointed.
"I thought every one had heard of the case," he went on. "A couple of
millions in cash--"
"Millions of what?" demanded Slyne with a little more lively interest.
"Pounds sterling," the London lawyer explained, rather testily. "A
couple of millions in cash and forty or fifty thousand a year going
a-begging may not seem a very important matter to a moneyed man like
you, but I've thought of nothing else, night and day, for the past five
years, and--"
"I've been all over the world for the past five years," mentioned Slyne
loftily, but impatient now, "and the latest news of the parish pump has
probably failed to reach me. Get on with your story, anyhow. If there's
anything in it--I don't know but that I may be disposed to lend you a
hand--if there's anything in it." And, having lighted a fresh cigar, he
composed himself to listen. His time was his own. The chance of catching
Lord Ingoldsby alone at Ciro's was too remote to be worth more than the
passing thought. A story with so much money in it might prove at least
as entertaining as a solitary supper.
Mr. Jobling gazed with glistening eyes at his providential acquaintance.
"I've told you what there is in it," said he in a tremulous tone. "A
couple of millions in cash and forty or fifty thousand a year that will
all ultimately fall to the Crown--unless I can find that girl, or--"
"What girl?" Slyne demanded irritably.
"The late Earl of Jura's daughter. You'll no doubt remember--But if
you've been abroad for so long, I'd better repeat--" And, having got
over his nervous prolixity, he became much more explicit.
"The late earl's first wife, as you must recall, sir, was Lady Eulalie
Orlebarre. But she did not survive the birth of their only child, a son,
in 1876.
"The earl married again, in '94. His second wife was Josceline
Beljambes, the famous dancer. A daughter was born to them. But they
separated, by mutual agreement, only a year or two later, and the
countess retained custody of her daughter. The earl was a good deal
older than she.
"She was a very restless, erratic woman, and fond of travel. In '99 she
disappeared most mysteriously, somewhere abroad, and has never been
heard of since.
"The following year, Lord St. Just, the earl's son by his first wife
and, of course, his heir, was found dead one day at the foot of the
cliffs near Loquhariot, the family seat in Scotland. He had grown up a
very headstrong, troublesome lad, I have heard. There was some suspicion
of foul play on the part of one of the gamekeepers on the estate--some
scandalous story about a girl in the village--but the coroner's jury
returned an open verdict.
"The earl himself died in 1906, a little more than five years ago. The
estates fell into Chancery. And ever since I've been trying to trace his
second wife--or their child; for, failing an heir-male, the female line
of succession maintains in the family.
"The Court of Chancery is quite prepared to presume the mother dead, and
I have evidence sufficient to prove that assumption a certainty. So that
now, you see, if I could only find--"
He hesitated, to scrutinise his companion's inscrutable face.
"I was a consummate fool, of course, ever to have come to Monte Carlo,"
he went off at a tangent. "Though I had a good enough reason for
coming," he went on, defending himself to himself. "I didn't dare trust
anyone in London. And I--I thought that I might find here--" He balked
again.
"It was merely to pass the time that I first tried my luck at the
tables--and look at me now! I haven't even money to pay my hotel bill.
For want of a few thousand francs I must lose my chance of the fortune
on which I've staked every penny I could scrape together and--and five
years of my good time, and--" He started to one side as Slyne cut him
short.
"I'm not going to waste five seconds of _my_ good time," said Slyne with
concentrated bitterness, "in telling you how many different sorts of a
damned fool you are." His expensive cigar had gone out, unheeded. But
his keen, close-set eyes were aglow. He was finding it extremely
difficult to contain himself.
"Are you _sure_ of your facts?" he demanded, in the same acid,
embittered voice.
"From first to last," affirmed Mr. Jobling, so peevishly that Slyne was
satisfied. "Haven't I told you that I've spent five years of my life and
every penny I could--er--every penny I possessed, in sifting them out,
and that I'm a Chancery practitioner? I have most of the papers with me
at the Metropole. There's only the one link lacking to complete the long
chain I've forged. And--" He lowered his voice to a whisper after
looking about him furtively, and, at last, under the decent screen of
the darkness, completely demoralised by the events of the day, confided
in the Heaven-sent stranger beside him his chief ambition in coming to
Monte Carlo. "And even a good enough imitation might serve--"
"No imitation would stand the strain," Slyne interrupted him hoarsely.
"And you'll very soon find yourself inside the four walls of a cell, my
friend, if you try any forgery of that sort. You can take my word for
that, because--_I'm_ the real rivet, and without me all the rest of your
precious chain isn't worth a snap of my fingers."
Mr. Jobling subsided into a heap, and was staring at him, open-mouthed.
But Slyne said no more for a moment or two. Outwardly quite calm and
matter-of-fact, his mind was in a seething turmoil. If all the inept
rogue beside him had said were true--He could scarcely restrain an
impulse to get to his feet and shout for joy.
The lawyer seemed to have nothing more to say, either. And Slyne, having
somewhat recovered command of himself, at length rose, tossing his cold
cigar away with an angry oath. "It makes my blood boil," said he, "to
think--But for the sheerest accident you'd be a dead man by now--and
where would _I_ have been then! You don't deserve such stupendous luck,
and, by the Lord Harry! if I find you playing the fool again--You're
going to put yourself into my hands from now on, d'ye hear? And, in the
first place, I must see those papers you spoke of; if they're in order,
I'll see the thing through. We can't work without each other,
unfortunately for me, or--"
"You're going too fast," intervened Mr. Jobling, still seated, and with
some faint show of spirit. "You're taking too much for granted, sir. I
don't even know who you are, and--we must come to terms of some sort
before--"
He shrank aside as Slyne stepped forward with twitching fingers and eyes
aflame.
"You'll take whatever terms you get--and be precious thankful," hissed
Slyne, stooping over him. "You'll do exactly what you're told, no more,
and no less. And--you won't forget again, will you, that you've met your
master in me?"
Mr. Jobling, gazing, aghast, into the muzzle of the cheap revolver which
had proved so ineffective in his own hands, at last regained voice
enough to subscribe solemnly to these stipulations, and from that moment
went uncomfortably, in fear for the life he himself had been trying to
take not an hour before. That was probably the first time he had ever
been threatened with personal violence, and a life spent chiefly in
Chancery Lane does not always foster an excess of that calculating
courage needed to deal with one of Slyne's dangerous sort.
"Come on, then," said Slyne, and Mr. Jobling got shakily up from the
bench. "You needn't be afraid that I won't deal fair--generously with
you, but this is no time to be haggling here. We haven't a moment to
spare. I must see those papers at once. Step out!"
The hall-porter at the Metropole raised his eyebrows over Mr. Jobling's
somewhat dishevelled appearance, but promptly lowered them again in
response to a look from Slyne.
"Tell them to send up your bill," said Slyne to the lawyer. "If
everything's all right, I'll settle it and put you up at the Paris."
And Mr. Jobling very meekly did as he was bidden. He could not well help
himself, just then. But his expression was not at all properly grateful
as he ushered Slyne into the room he himself had never expected to see
again, and there proceeded to display to that masterful adventurer the
mass of papers on which their further partnership was to depend.
Slyne picked out the more important of these with an acumen which would
have done Mr. Jobling himself every credit; and for a busy hour they two
sat poring over one dog's-eared document after another, Slyne's mask of
indifference deserting him by degrees as he grasped point after point of
the case, till he threw the last down with a smile of triumph, and,
rising from the table, paced to and fro for a moment, rubbing his hands
in an ecstasy of exultation.
"Everything's all right," he announced confidently. "My--our fortune's
as good as made; and I'll tell you what, Jobling,--you shall have ten
per cent. of the immediate cash for your share. How does that strike
you, eh? I don't say that you deserve any such consideration from me,
but--I'm ready to let bygones be bygones, and I want you to work for me
with a will."
His self-assurance was contagious. Mr. Jobling, after the merest moment
of hesitation, rose in his turn, holding out a hand, which Slyne grasped
affectionately. And thus they came to an amicable understanding, without
more words.
"Pack up now," commanded Slyne, pleasantly peremptory, "and we'll run
across to the Paris. I've any amount to do yet, before I can snatch a
sleep."
"I'll be very thankful to get into _my_ bed," said Mr. Jobling, already
busy among his belongings, and more than a little dazed by the march of
events. "I've had a _most_ trying day."
It did not take long to have his baggage transferred to the other hotel,
and there Slyne put him under confidential charge of the manager, with
very strict orders that he was not, on any pretext whatever, to be
allowed to decamp pending Slyne's return. Whereafter that active man of
affairs sent to the garage for his car, with word that his chauffeur
need not be disturbed and, having deposited his still uncounted winnings
with the cashier, started eastward again in such haste that he would not
even wait to change his thin evening clothes.
Slyne was, in fact, fiercely excited. His particular Providence seemed
to be holding out to him such a chance in life as he could scarcely have
conceived himself in his wildest dreams. And he was in such frantic
haste to grasp that chance--which involved so much more than the mere
money--that he had quite forgotten his recent fear of M. Dubois.
"I think I've got you this time, my girl!" said he to himself gleefully,
as he once more slowed down to stop at the Italian frontier. And that
was the burden of all his thoughts as he raced madly along the Corniche
Road in his high-powered car. In the darkness before the dawn, his eyes
intent on the long white ribbon of highway endlessly slipping toward his
head-lights, he saw only roseate visions of what the future now held for
him. As the sun rose to burnish the bare, brown mountains before him, he
nodded happily to himself, and his lips moved again to the glad refrain,
"I think I've got you quite safe this time, my girl!"