THE New Angera Syndicate was registered as a private company, and its
prospectus was not made public. Officially, the shares were not offered
to general subscription, and actually they had been subscribed—or the
first issue of five hundred thousand had—by a little group of shrewd
speculators in the City of London, who, before now, had made vast sums
from Cartwright’s promotions. The five hundred thousand shares brought
in about half that number of pounds, and nobody doubted that the
properties consolidated for the purposes of flotation included the block
of claims described in the prospectus as “lately the property of Señor
Brigot.”
Gold had been found on the Angera reef, and gold in sufficient quantity
to make the new company a very promising speculation. That Brigot’s
property could be made to pay, had it been properly managed, was common
knowledge in the City of London. A dozen offers had been made for this
concession, but none had been quite acceptable to Señor Brigot, whose
estimate of the value of the mine varied with the passing hour.
Probably, had it been possible to secure an interview with M. Brigot at
one o’clock in the afternoon, when he arose with a splitting head and a
dry throat, his possessions might have been acquired at the price of a
quart of sweet champagne.
But, as the day progressed and his views of life became more charitable,
his estimate expanded until, by seven o’clock in the evening, which hour
he as a rule reserved for any business discussion, his figure was
awe-inspiring. Nobody in the City doubted for one moment that Cartwright
had purchased the property. Though his system of finance might not
commend itself to the barons and even the baronets of Capel Court, there
was no question of his honesty.
Was it by some extraordinary fluke that Maxell, who had hitherto shared
in the profits of promotion, had kept aloof from this last and greatest
of Cartwright’s flutters? No application for shares was ever found. He
heard (he said at a subsequent inquiry) in a round-about way of the
flotation, and saw a copy of the prospectus, and was a little worried.
He knew that when he had left Cartwright in Paris, not only was the
Brigot mine outside of his friend’s control, but there was precious
little prospect of bringing the Spaniard to a reasonable frame of mind.
Cartwright must have done his work quickly, he thought, and have paid
heavily; and this latter reflection worried him even more because he had
a fairly accurate idea as to the condition of Cartwright’s private
finances. His private thoughts on this occasion are set forth in the
report of the Attorney-General’s Committee of Investigation.
He was eating his solitary dinner in Cavendish Square when the telephone
bell rang and the voice of Sir Gregory Fane, the Attorney-General,
saluted him.
“I should like to see you, Maxell,” he said. “Will you come round to
Clarges Street after dinner?”
“Certainly,” replied Maxell promptly, and hung up the receiver,
wondering what new difficulties had arisen, which called for a
consultation; for he was not on visiting terms with Mr. Attorney.
In the tiny drawing-room of the house occupied by the Cabinet Minister,
Maxell was surprised to find another visitor waiting—no less a person
than Fenshaw, the Prime Minister’s private secretary.
The Attorney-General came straight to the point.
“Maxell,” he said, “we want your seat in the House of Commons.”
“The deuce you do!” said Maxell, raising his eyebrows.
The Attorney nodded.
“We also want to give you some reward for the excellent services you
have rendered to the Government,” he said. “But mostly”—his eyes
twinkled—“it is necessary to find a seat for Sir Milton Boyd—the
Minister of Education has been defeated at a by-election, as you know.”
The other nodded. The communication was a surprise to him and he
wondered exactly what position was to be offered him which would involve
his resignation from the House. For one brief, panicky moment he had
connected Cartwright and his delinquencies with this request for an
interview, but the Attorney’s speech had dispelled that momentary fear.
“Quilland, as you know, has been raised to the Court of Appeal,” said
the Attorney, speaking of a well-known Chancery Judge, “and we are
departing from our usual practice by bringing over a man from the King’s
Bench to take his place. Now, Maxell, how does a judgeship appeal to
you?”
The K.C. could only stare.
Of the many things he did not expect, it was elevation to the Bench,
although he was a sound, good lawyer, and the Bench is the ambition of
every silk.
“I would like that,” he said huskily.
“Good!” said the brisk Attorney. “Then we will regard it as settled. The
appointment will not be announced for two or three days, so you’ve a
chance of clearing up your more urgent work and preparing a letter for
your constituents. You might say a kind word for the new candidate who
isn’t particularly popular in your part of the world.”
One of Maxell’s first acts was to write a letter to Cartwright. All
Cartwright’s correspondence went to his London office, and was forwarded
under separate cover to Paris. It was a long letter, recapitulating
their friendly relationship, and ending:
“This promotion, of course, means that we can no longer be
associated in business, and I have instructed my broker to sell
all the shares I possess in your and other companies forthwith.
As you know, I have very definite views about the high prestige
of the Bench; and whilst, in any circumstances, I feel that I
can go to that dignified position with clean hands, my mind will
be freer if I cut all the cords which hold me to commerce of
every shape and description.”
Three days later the letter came to Cartwright, and he read it through
with a thoughtful expression on his face. He read it twice before he
slowly folded it and put it into his inside pocket.
Maxell was to be made a Judge!
He had never considered that contingency, and did not know whether to be
pleased or sorry. He was losing the service of a man who had been a
directing force in his life, greater than Maxell himself ever imagined.
It was not so much the advice which he asked and received from the
King’s Counsel, but rather Cartwright had secured help by the simple
process of making a study of the other’s moods and expressions.
He knew the half-frown which greeted some schemes, put forward
tentatively over the dinner table, and it was that little sign of
displeasure which could squash the scheme rather than any considered
advice which Maxell might have given. He was losing a good advocate, a
very sound legal adviser. He shrugged his shoulders. Well, it did not
matter very much. Fate had put a period to an old phase of life, and
many things had come to an end coincidently. He was taking his afternoon
tea when the letter had arrived, and the new Mrs. Cartwright marked with
interest the depression which followed the arrival of the mail.
The new period was beginning excitingly, he thought. He had found a new
method of doing business, bolder and more desperate than any he had
attempted before; and with this development he had lost a man upon whom
he placed a great deal of reliance. Incidentally, he had just been
married, but this fact did not bulk very largely in his reckoning.
Maxell might serve him yet. The memory of an old business
partnership—for in such an aspect did Cartwright interpret their
previous relationship—the memory, too, of favours done, of financial
dangers shared, might serve him well if things went wrong. Maxell had a
pull with the Government—a greater pull, since he was now a Judge of
the Supreme Court.
Maxell a Judge! It seemed queer. Cartwright had all the properly
constituted Englishman’s reverence for the Bench. In spite of much
experience in litigation, and an acquaintance with lawyers of all kinds
and stations, he reserved his awe for the god-like creature who sat in
wig and gown, and dispensed justice evenhandedly.
“Have you had a worrying letter?” asked the girl.
He shook his head.
“No, no,” he said, a little impatiently; “it is nothing.”
She had hoped for a glimpse of the envelope, but was disappointed.
Curiously enough, she ascribed the fact that her husband passed under a
strange name and would not divulge his own, to a cause which was far
from the truth, and was a great injustice to a man who, if he had not
given her his proper name, had given her a title to whatever name he
had. That thought she revealed for the first time.
“Do you know what I think?” she said unexpectedly.
“I didn’t know you thought very much,” he smiled. “In what particular
department of speculation does your mind wander?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” she answered. She was a little afraid of sarcasm,
as are all children and immature grown-ups. “It was about your name I
was thinking.”
He frowned.
“Why the dickens don’t you leave my name alone?” he snapped. “I have
told you that it is all for your good that I’m called Benson and known
as Benson in this town. When we go to London you will discover my name.”
She nodded.
“I know why you keep it dark.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Why do I keep it dark?” he asked, fixing his eyes on her.
“Because you’re married already.”
He looked at her for a moment, and then burst into such a peal of
laughter that the girl knew her shot was wide of the mark.
“You’re a weird person,” he said, getting up. “I’m going out to see an
old friend of ours.”
“Of ours?” she asked suspiciously.
“Brigot is the gentleman’s name.”
“He won’t see you,” she said decidedly.
“Oh, won’t he?” said the grim man. “I rather think he will.”
M. Brigot would not willingly have received one whose name was anathema,
but Cartwright got over the difficulty of his reception by the simple
process of sending up a card inscribed with the name of Brigot’s lawyer.
“You!” spluttered M. Brigot, rising to his feet as the other entered the
room and closed the door behind him. “This is an outrage! It is
monstrous! You will leave this house immediately, or I will send for the
police!”
“Now, just keep quiet for a moment, Brigot,” said Cartwright, seating
himself coolly. “I have come to see you as one business man to another.”
“I refuse to discuss any business with you,” stormed his unwilling host.
“You are a scoundrel, a conspirator—bah! why do I talk to you?”
“Because you’re broke!” said Cartwright in calm, level tones, and he
used the Spanish word for “broke,” which is so much more expressive than
any word in English.
The conversation was carried on in this language, for Cartwright had an
intimate knowledge of its idioms and even of its patois.
“Your creditors in Paris are gathering round like hawks about a dead
cow. Your attempt to sell your Moorish property has been a failure.”
“You know a great deal,” sneered Brigot. “Possibly you also know that I
am going to work the mine myself.”
The Englishman chuckled.
“I’ve heard that said of you for years,” said he, “but the truth is,
you’re wholly incapable of working anything. You’re one of nature’s
little spenders—now, Brigot, don’t let us quarrel. There is a time to
end feuds like ours, and this is that time. I am a business man, and so
are you. You’re as anxious to sell your property at a good price as I am
to buy it. I’ve come to make you an offer.”
M. Brigot laughed sarcastically.
“Ten thousand pounds?” he demanded with gentle irony. “To build a house
for a beautiful American widow, eh?”
Cartwright accepted the gibe with a smile.
“I’m not going to show you my hand,” he said.
“It will be infamously dirty,” said M. Brigot, who was in his bright six
o’clock mood.
“I know there is gold in the Angera,” the other went on, without
troubling to notice the interruption, “and I know that, properly worked,
your mine may pay big profits.”
“I will sell out,” said M. Brigot after consideration, “but at a price.
I have told you before I will sell out—at a price.”
“But what a price!” said Cartwright, raising his eyebrows and with a
gesture of extravagant despair. “It is all the money in the world!”
“Nevertheless, it is the price,” said M. Brigot comfortably.
“I’ll tell you what I am willing to do.” Cartwright stroked his chin as
though the solution had just occurred to him. “I will float your
property in London, tacking on a number of other properties which I have
bought in the neighbourhood. I am willing to pay you two hundred
thousand pounds—that is to say, six million francs.”
M. Brigot was interested. He was so interested that, for the moment, he
could forget his animosity and private grievances. It was true that, as
Cartwright had said, his creditors were becoming noisy.
“In cash, of course?” he said suddenly.
Cartwright shook his head.
“You can have a portion in cash and the rest in shares.”
“Bah!” Brigot snapped his fingers. “I also can issue shares, my friend.
What are shares? Pieces of paper which are not worth their ink. No, no,
you deceive me. I thought you had come to me with a genuine offer. There
is no business to be done between you and me, Mr. Cartwright. Good
evening.”
Cartwright did not move.
“A portion in cash—say, fifteen thousand pounds,” he suggested; “that
is a lot of money.”
“To you—yes, but not to me,” said the magnificent Brigot. “Give me
two-thirds in cash and I will take the rest in shares. That is my last
word.”
Cartwright rose.
“This offer is open until—when?”
“Until to-morrow at this hour,” replied Brigot.
As Cartwright was going, a man tapped at the door. It was Brigot’s
“secretary,” who was also his valet. He handed a telegram to the
Spaniard, and Brigot opened and read. He was a long time digesting its
contents, and Cartwright waited for a favourable opportunity to say
good-bye. All the time his mind was working, and he thought he saw
daylight. Two-thirds of the money could be raised, and he could breathe
again.
Presently Brigot folded up the telegram and put it in his pocket, and
there was on his face a beatific smile.
“Good night, Señor Brigot,” said Cartwright. “I will see you to-morrow
with the money.”
“It will have to be big money, my friend,” said Brigot, and there was a
note of exultation in his voice. “To buy my little property will cost
you half a million English pounds.”
Cartwright gasped.
“What do you mean?” he demanded quickly.
“Do you know Solomon Brothers, the financiers of London?”
“I know them very well,” replied Cartwright steadily. He had good reason
to know Solomon Brothers, who had taken a large block of shares in his
new syndicate.
“I have just had a telegram from Solomon Brothers,” said Señor Brigot,
speaking slowly, “and they ask me to give them the date when my property
was transferred to your syndicate. They tell me it is included in your
properties which you have floated. You know best, Mr. Cartwright,
whether my little mine is worth half a million English pounds to
you—especially if I put a date agreeable to you.”
“Blackmail, eh?” said Cartwright between his teeth, and without a word
left the room.