THE GOVERNORS
By
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of "A Maker of History," "The Long Arm of
Mannister," "The Missioner," etc.
1909
ILLUSTRATED
BY WILL GREFÉ AND HOWARD SOMERVILLE
CONTENTS
BOOK I.
CHAPTER
I. MR. PHINEAS DUGE
II. COUSIN STELLA
III. STORM CLOUDS
IV. A MEETING OF GIANTS
V. TREACHERY
VI. MR. WEISS IN A HURRY
VII. A PROFESSIONAL BURGLAR
VIII. FIREARMS
IX. CONSPIRATORS
X. MR. NORRIS VINE
XI. MR. LITTLESON, FLATTERER
XII. STELLA SUCCEEDS
XIII. BEARDING THE LION
XIV. STELLA PROVES OBSTINATE
XV. THE WARNING
XVI. A TRUCE
BOOK II.
I. MY NAME IS MILDMAY
II. REFLECTIONS
III. "WILL YOU MARRY ME?"
IV. THE AMERICAN AMBASSADOR
V. A QUESTION OF COURAGE
VI. MR. MILDMAY AGAIN
VII. AN APPOINTMENT
VIII. DEFEATED
IX. INGRATITUDE
X. A NEW VENTURE
XI. CONSCIENCE
XII. DUKE OF MOWBRAY
XIII. AN INTRODUCTION
XIV. ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE
XV. MR. DUGE THREATENS
XVI. TRAPPED
XVII. MR. DUGE FAILS
XVIII. ADVICE FOR MR. VINE
XIX. THE CRISIS
XX. BEWITCHED
XXI. A LESSON LEARNED
XXII. A SURPRISE
XXIII. A DINNER PARTY
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
VIRGINIA
"AS I DARESAY YOU KNOW, I AM NOT ON SPEAKING TERMS WITH MY FATHER!"
ONE OF THE BLOCKS SPRANG UP A LITTLE WAY AND WAS EASILY REMOVED
A BULLET WHISTLED ONLY A FEW INCHES FROM HIS HEAD
PHINEAS DUGE DROPPED HIS CIGARETTE, AND FELL ON HIS KNEES BY HER SIDE
"FOR GOD'S SAKE, TELL ME WHO HAS IT, MISS DUGE!" HE IMPLORED
"ISN'T IT THE BUSINESS OF ANY MAN TO LOOK AFTER A CHILD LIKE YOU?"
VIRGINIA, WITH A LITTLE MURMUR OF DELIGHT, RECOGNIZED MR. MILDMAY
STANDING BEFORE HER
SIMULTANEOUSLY SHE HEARD A STEALTHY MOVEMENT OUTSIDE
THEN HE CAME SLOWLY BACK, AND PUTTING HIS ARM AROUND VIRGINIA'S WAIST,
KISSED HER
SHE THOUGHT NOTHING OF THE MOTIVE OF HER COMING, ONLY TO PLACE THE DOOR
BETWEEN HER AND THIS!
HE HAD AN OPPORTUNITY OF WATCHING A SEARCH CONDUCTED UPON SCIENTIFIC
PRINCIPLES
THEN IN THE MIDST OF HER WONDERING CAME THE ELUCIDATION OF THESE THINGS
HE WAS ONLY JUST IN TIME TO SAVE HER FROM FALLING
THE GOVERNORS
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
MR. PHINEAS DUGE
Virginia, when she had torn herself away from the bosom of her sorrowing
but excited family, and boarded the car which passed only once a day
through the tiny village in Massachusetts, where all her life had been
spent, had felt herself, notwithstanding her nineteen years, a person of
consequence and dignity. Virginia, when four hours later she followed a
tall footman in wonderful livery through a stately suite of reception
rooms in one of the finest of Fifth Avenue mansions, felt herself
suddenly a very insignificant person. The roar and bustle of New York
were still in her ears. Bewildered as she had been by this first contact
with all the distracting influences of a great city, she was even more
distraught by the wonder and magnificence of these, her more immediate
surroundings. She, who had lived all her life in a simple farmhouse,
where every one worked, and a single servant was regarded as a luxury,
found herself suddenly in the palace of a millionaire, a palace made
perfect by the despoilment of more than one of the most ancient homes
in Europe.
Very timidly, and with awed glances, she looked around her as she was
conducted in leisurely manner to the sanctum of the great man at whose
bidding she had come. The pictures on the walls, magnificent and
impressive even to her ignorant eyes; the hardwood floors, the wonderful
furniture, the statuary and flowers, the smooth-tongued servants--all
these things were an absolute revelation to her. She had read of such
things, even perhaps dreamed of them, but she had never imagined it
possible that she herself might be brought into actual contact
with them.
At every step she took she felt her self-confidence decreasing; her
clothes, made by the village dressmaker from an undoubted French model,
with which she had been more than satisfied only a few hours ago, seemed
suddenly dowdy and ill-fashioned. She was even doubtful about her
looks, although quite half a dozen of the nicest young men in her
neighbourhood had been doing their best to make her vain since the day
when she had left college, an unusually early graduate, and returned to
her father's tiny home to become the acknowledged belle of the
neighbourhood. Here, though, she felt her looks of small avail; she
might reign as a queen in Wellham Springs, but she felt herself a very
insignificant person in the home of her uncle, the great railway
millionaire and financier, Mr. Phineas Duge. Her courage had almost
evaporated when at last, after a very careful knock at the door, an
English footman ushered her into the small and jealously guarded sanctum
in which the great man was sitting. She passed only a few steps across
the threshold, and stood there, a timid, hesitating figure, her dark
eyes very anxiously searching the features of the man who had risen from
his seat to greet her.
"So this is my niece Virginia," he said, holding out both his hands. "I
am glad to see you. Take this chair close to me. I am getting an old
man, you see, and I have many whims. I like to have any one with whom I
am talking almost at my elbow. Now tell me, my dear, what sort of a
journey you have had. You look a little tired, or is it because
everything here is strange to you?"
All her fears seemed to be melting away. Never could she have imagined a
more harmless-looking, benevolent, and handsome old gentleman. He was
thin and of only moderate stature. His white hair, of which he still had
plenty, was parted in the middle and brushed away in little waves. He
was clean-shaven, and his grey eyes were at once soft and humorous. He
had a delicate mouth, refined features, and his slow, distinct speech
was pleasant, almost soothing to listen to. She felt suddenly an immense
wave of relief, and she realized perhaps for the first time how much she
had dreaded this meeting.
"I am not really tired at all," she assured him, "only you see I have
never been in a big city, and it is very noisy here, isn't it? Besides,
I have never seen anything so beautiful as this house. I think it
frightened me a little."
He laid his hand upon hers kindly.
"I imagine," he said, smiling, "that you will very soon get used to
this. You will have the opportunity, if you choose."
She laughed softly.
"If I choose!" she repeated. "Why, it is all like fairyland to me."
He nodded.
"You come," he said, "from a very quiet life. You will find things here
different. Do you know what these are?"
He touched a little row of black instruments which stood on the top of
his desk. She shook her head doubtfully.
"I am not quite sure," she admitted.
"They are telephones," he said. "This one"--touching the first--"is a
private wire to my offices in Wall Street. This one"--laying a finger
upon the second--"is a private wire to the bank of which I am president.
These two," he continued, "are connected with the two brokers whom I
employ. The other three are ordinary telephones--two for long distance
calls and one for the city. When you came in I touched this knob on the
floor beneath my foot. All the telephones were at once disconnected here
and connected with my secretaries' room. I can sit here at this table
and shake the money-markets of the world. I can send stocks up or down
at my will. I can ruin if I like, or I can enrich. It is the fashion
nowadays to speak lightly of the mere man of money, yet there is no king
on his throne who can shake the world as can we kings of the
money-market by the lifting even of a finger."
"Are you a millionaire?" she asked timidly. "But, of course, you must
be, or you could not live in a house like this."
He laid his hand gently upon hers.
"Yes," he said, "I am a millionaire a good many times over, or I should
not be of much account in New York. But there, I have told you enough
about myself. I sent for you, as you know, because there are times when
I feel a little lonely, and I thought that if my sister could spare one
of her children, it would be a kindly act, and one which I might perhaps
be able to repay. Do you think that you would like to live here with
me, Virginia, and be mistress of this house?"
She shrank a little away. The prospect was not without its terrifying
side.
"Why, I should love it," she declared, "but I simply shouldn't dare to
think of it. You don't understand, I am afraid, the way we live down at
Wellham Springs. We have really no servants, and we do everything
ourselves. I couldn't attempt to manage a house like this."
He smiled at her kindly.
"Perhaps," he said, "you would find it less difficult than you think.
There is a housekeeper already, who sees to all the practical part of
it. She only needs to have some one to whom she can refer now and then.
You would have nothing whatever to do with the managing of the servants,
the commissariat, or anything of that sort. Yours would be purely
social duties."
"I am afraid," she answered, "that I should know even less about them."
"Well," he said, "I have some good friends who will give you hints. You
will find it very much easier than you imagine. You have only to be
natural, acquire the art of listening, and wear pretty gowns, and you
will find it a simple matter to become quite a popular person."
She nerved herself to ask him a question. He looked so kind and
good-natured that it did not seem possible that he would resent it.
"Uncle," she said, "of course I am very glad to be here, and it all
sounds very delightful. But what about--Stella?"
He leaned back in his chair. There was a pained look in his face. She
was almost sorry that she had mentioned his daughter's name.
"Perhaps," he said, "it is as well that you should have asked me that
question. I have always been an indulgent father, as I think you will
find me an indulgent uncle. But there are certain things, certain
offences I might say, for which I have no forgiveness. Stella deceived
me. She made use of information, secret information which she acquired
in this room, to benefit some man in whom she was interested. She used
my secrets to enrich this person. She did this after I had warned her. I
never warn twice."
"You mean that you sent her away?" she asked timidly.
"I mean that my doors are closed to her," he answered gravely, "as they
would be closed upon you if you behaved as Stella has behaved. But, my
dear child," he added, smiling kindly at her, "I do not expect this from
you. I feel sure that what I have said will be sufficient. If you will
stay with me a little time, and take my daughter's place, I think you
will not find me very stern or very ungrateful. Now I am going to ring
for Mrs. Perrin, my housekeeper, and she will show you your room.
To-night you and I are going to dine quite alone, and we can talk again
then. By the by, do you really mean that you have never been to New
York before?"
"Never!" she answered. "I have been to Boston twice, never anywhere
else."
He smiled.
"Well," he said, "the sooner you are introduced to some of its wonders,
the better. We will dine out to-night, and I will take you to one of the
famous restaurants. It will suit me better to be somewhere out of the
way for an hour or two this evening. There is a panic in Chicago and
Illinois--but there, you wouldn't understand that. Be ready at
8 o'clock."
"But uncle--" she began.
He waved his hand.
"I know what you are going to say--clothes. You will find some evening
dresses in your room. I have had a collection of things sent round on
approval, and you will probably be able to find one you can wear. Ah!
here is Mrs. Perrin."
The door had opened, and a middle-aged lady in a stiff black silk gown
had entered the room.
"Mrs. Perrin," he said, "this is my niece. She comes from the country.
She knows nothing. Tell her everything that she ought to know. Help her
with her clothes, and turn her out as well as you can to dine with me at
Sherry's at eight o'clock."
A bell rang at his elbow, and one of the telephones began to tinkle. He
picked up the receiver and waved them out of the room. Virginia
followed her guide upstairs, feeling more and more with every step she
took that she was indeed a wanderer in some new and enchanted land of
the _Arabian Nights_.
CHAPTER II
COUSIN STELLA
"Well," he said, smiling kindly at her over the bank of flowers which
occupied the centre of the small round table at which they were dining,
"what do you think of it all?"
Virginia shook her head.
"I cannot tell you," she said. "I haven't any words left. It is all so
wonderful. You have never been to our home at Wellham Springs, or else
you would understand."
He smiled.
"I think I can understand," he said, "what it is like. I, too, you know,
was brought up at a farmhouse."
Her eyes smiled at him across the table.
"You should see my room," she said, "at home. It is just about as large
as the cupboard in which I am supposed to keep my dresses here."
"I hope," he said, "that you will like where Mrs. Perrin has put you."
"Like!" she gasped. "I don't believe that I could have ever imagined
anything like it. Do you know that I have a big bathroom of my own, with
a marble floor, and a sitting-room so beautiful that I am afraid almost
to look into it. I don't believe I'll ever be able to go to bed."
"In a week," he said indulgently, "you will become quite used to these
things. In a month you would miss them terribly if you had to give
them up."
Her face was suddenly grave. He looked across at her keenly.
"What are you thinking of?" he asked.
"I was thinking," she answered, after a moment's hesitation, "of Stella.
I was wondering what it must be to her to have to give up all these
beautiful things."
His expression hardened a little. The smile had passed from his lips.
"You never knew your cousin, I think?" he asked.
"Never," she admitted.
"Then I do not think," he said, "that you need waste your sympathy upon
her. Tell me, do you see that young lady in a mauve-coloured dress and a
large hat, sitting three tables to the left of us?"
She looked across and nodded.
"Of course I do," she answered. "How handsome she is, and what a
strange-looking man she has with her! He looks very clever."
Her uncle smiled once more, but his face lacked its benevolent
expression.
"The man is clever," he answered. "His name is Norris Vine, and he is a
journalist, part owner of a newspaper, I believe. He is one of those
foolish persons who imagine themselves altruists, and who are always
trying to force their opinions upon other people. The young lady with
him--is my daughter and your cousin."
Virginia's great eyes were opened wider than ever. Her lips parted,
showing her wonderful teeth. The pink colour stained her cheeks.
"Do you mean that that is Stella?" she exclaimed.
Her uncle nodded, and paused for a moment to give an order to a passing
_maître d'hôtel_.
"Yes!" he resumed, "that is Stella, and that is the man for whose sake
she robbed me."
Virginia was still full of wonder.
"But you did not speak to her when she came in!" she said. "You nodded
to the man, but took no notice of her!"
"I do not expect," he said quietly, "ever to speak to her again. I have
been a kind father; I think that on the whole I am a good-natured man,
but there are things which I do not forgive, and which I should forgive
my own flesh and blood less even than I should a stranger."
The colour faded from her cheeks.
"It seems terrible," she murmured.
"As for the man," he continued, "he is my enemy, although it is only a
matter of occasional chances which can make him in any way formidable.
We speak because we are enemies. When you have had a little more
experience, you will find that that is how the game is played here."
She was silent for several minutes. Her uncle turned his head, and
immediately two _maîtres d'hôtel_ and several waiters came rushing up.
He gave a trivial order and dismissed them. Then he looked across at his
niece, whose appetite seemed suddenly to have failed her.
"Tell me," he said, "what is the matter with you, Virginia?"
"I am a little afraid of you," she answered frankly. "I should be a
little afraid of any one who could talk like that about his own child."
He smiled softly.
"You have the quality," he said, "which I admire most in your sex, and
find most seldom. You are candid. You come from a little world where
sentiment almost governs life. It is not so here. I am a kind man, I
believe, but I am also just. My daughter deceived me, and for deceit I
have no forgiveness. Do you still think me cruel, Virginia?"
"I am wondering," she answered frankly. "You see, I have read about you
in the papers, and I was terribly frightened when mother told me that I
was to come. Directly I saw you, you seemed quite a different person,
and now again I am afraid."
"Ah!" he sighed, "that terrible Press of ours! They told you, I suppose,
that I was hard, unscrupulous, unforgiving, a money-making machine, and
all the rest of it. Do you think that I look like that, Virginia?"
"I am very sure that you do not," she answered.
"You will know me better, I hope, in a year or so's time," he said. "If
you wish to please me, there are two things which you have to remember,
and which I expect from you. One is absolute, implicit obedience, the
other is absolute, unvarying truth. You will never, I think, have cause
to complain of me, if you remember those two things."
"I will try," she murmured.
Her thoughts suddenly flitted back to the poor little home from which
she had come with such high hopes. She thought of the excitement which
had followed the coming of her uncle's letter; the hopes that her
harassed, overworked father had built upon it; the sudden, almost
trembling joy which had come into her mother's thin, faded face. Her
first taste of luxury suddenly brought before her eyes, stripped bare
of everything except its pitiful cruelty, that ceaseless struggle for
life in which it seemed to her that all of them had been engaged, year
after year. She shivered a little as she thought of them, shivered for
fear she should fail now that the chance had come of some day being able
to help them. Absolute obedience, absolute truth! If these two things
were all, she could hold on, she was sure of it.
A messenger boy was brought in, and delivered a letter to her uncle. He
read and destroyed it at once.
"There is no answer," he said.
The messenger protested.
"I am to wait, sir, until you give me one," he said. "The gentleman said
it was most important. I was to find you anywhere, anyhow, and get an
answer of some sort."
"How much," Mr. Phineas Duge asked, "were you to receive if you took
back an answer?"
"The gentleman promised me a dollar, sir," the boy answered.
Mr. Duge put his hand into his pocket.
"Here are two dollars," he said. "Go away at once. There is no answer.
There will not be one. You can tell Mr. Hamilton that I said so."
The boy departed. Her uncle looked across at Virginia and smiled.
"That is how we have to buy immunity from small annoyances here," he
said. "All the time it is the same thing--dollars, dollars, dollars!
That messenger boy was clever to get in. When we leave this restaurant,
you will find that there are at least half a dozen people waiting to
speak to me. It will be telephoned to several places in the city that I
am dining here to-night. From where I am sitting, I can see two
reporters standing by the entrance. They are waiting for me."
She looked at him with interested eyes.
"But why?" she asked timidly.
"Oh! it is simply a matter," he said, "of the money-markets. I have been
doing some things during the last few days which people don't quite
understand. They don't know whether to follow me or stand away, and the
Press doesn't know how to explain my actions; so you see I am watched.
You heard what I said," he asked, somewhat abruptly, "about those two
things, obedience and truth?"
"Yes!" she answered.
"They say," he resumed, "that a wise man trusts no one. I, on the other
hand, do not believe this. There are times when one must trust. Your
mother and your father were both as honest as people could be, whatever
their other faults may have been. I like your face. I believe that you,
too, are honest."
"Remember," she said, smiling, "that I have never been tempted."
"There could be no bidders for your faithfulness," he answered, "whom I
could not outbid. I am going to trust you, Virginia. There are sometimes
occasions when I do things, or am concerned in matters, which not even
my secretaries have any idea of. You only, in the future, will know. I
think, dear, that we shall get on very well together. I am not going to
offer you a great deal of money, because you would not know what to do
with it, but so long as you remain with me, and serve me in the way that
I direct, I am going to do what I feel I ought to have done long ago for
your people down at Wellham Springs."
Her face shone, and her beautiful eyes were more brilliant still with
unshed tears.
"Uncle!" she murmured breathlessly.
He nodded.
"That will do," he said. "I only wanted you to understand. For the next
week or two, all that you have to do is to get used to your position.
The small services which I shall require of you will commence later on.
Now try some of that ice. It has been prepared specially. How do you
like our New York cooking?"
"It is all too marvellous," she declared.
Then there came a sudden interruption. She heard the rustle of a gown
close to their table, and looking up found to her amazement that it was
Stella who was standing there.
"So you are my cousin!" Stella said, "little Virginia! I only saw you
once before, but I should have known you anywhere by your eyes. No! of
course you don't remember me! You see I am six years older. I mustn't
stop, because, as I dare say you know, I am not on speaking terms with
my father, but I felt that I must just shake hands with you, and tell
you that I remembered you."
"You are very kind," Virginia faltered.
Her uncle had risen to his feet, and was standing in an attitude of
polite inattention, as though some perfect stranger had addressed the
lady who was under his care. He appeared quite indifferent; in his
daughter's voice there had not been the slightest trace of any
sentiment. A careless word or two passed between him and the man Norris
Vine, who was waiting for Stella. Then they passed out together, and
Phineas Duge calmly resumed his chair. Virginia, who had expected to
find him angry, was herself amazed.
"By the by," Mr. Duge said, as he lit a cigarette, "always remember what
I told you about that man. Be especially on your guard if ever you are
brought into contact with him. I happen to know that he registered a
vow, a year ago, that before five years were past he would ruin me."
"I will remember," Virginia faltered.
CHAPTER III
STORM CLOUDS
Mr. Phineas Duge, since the death of his wife, had closed his doors to
all his friends, and entertained only on rare occasions a few of the men
with whom he was connected in his many business enterprises. On the
arrival of Virginia, however, he lifted his finger, and Society stormed
at his doors. The great reception rooms were thrown open, the servants
were provided with new liveries, an entertainment office was given carte
blanche to engage the usual run of foreign singers and the best known
mountebanks of the moment. Mrs. Trevor Harrison, the woman whom he had
selected as chaperon for Virginia, more than once displayed some
curiosity, when talking to her charge, as to this sudden change in the
habits of a man whose lack of sociability had become almost proverbial.
"If it were not, my dear," she said one day to Virginia, when they were
having tea together in her own more modest apartment, "that I firmly
believe your uncle incapable of any affection for any one, we should all
have to believe that he had lost his heart to you."
Virginia, who had heard other remarks of the same nature, looked
puzzled.
"I cannot see," she exclaimed, "why every one speaks of my uncle as a
heartless person. I do not think that I ever met any one more kind, and
he looks it, too. I do not think that I ever saw any one with such a
benevolent face."
Mrs. Trevor Harrison laughed softly as she rocked herself in her chair.
"Dear child," she said, "New York has known your uncle for twenty-five
years, and suffered for him. These men who make great fortunes must make
them at the expense of other people, and there are very many who have
gone down to make Phineas Duge what he is."
"I cannot understand it," Virginia said.
"Your uncle," Mrs. Trevor Harrison continued, "has a will of iron, is
absolutely self-centered; sentiment has never swayed him in the least.
He has climbed up on the bodies of weaker men. But there, in America we
blame no one for that. It is the strong man who lives, and the others
must die. Only I cannot quite understand this new development. I have
never known your uncle to do a purposeless thing."
"You say," Virginia remarked slowly, "that he has no heart. Why did he
send for me, then? Since I have been here, he has paid off the mortgage
which was making my father an old man, he has sent my brother to
college, and has promised, so long as I am with him, to allow them so
much money that they have no more anxiety at all. If you only knew what
a change this has made in all our lives, you would understand that I do
not like to hear you say that my uncle has no heart."
Mrs. Trevor Harrison stopped rocking her chair, and looked at the girl
thoughtfully.
"Well," she said, "what you tell me sounds very strange. Still, I don't
see what motive he could have had for doing all this."
"Why should you suspect a motive?" Virginia demanded.
"Because he is Phineas Duge," Mrs. Harrison said drily. "But there, my
dear child, I mustn't say a word against your uncle. He has been nice
enough to me because I have promised to look after you. Does he want me
to marry you, I wonder? I don't think that it would be very difficult."
Virginia blushed, and moved uneasily in her chair.
"Please don't," she begged. "I do not wish to think of anything of the
sort. My uncle says that presently I am to help him."
"To help him," Mrs. Trevor Harrison repeated thoughtfully.
Virginia nodded.
"Yes! I don't exactly know how, but that is what he said."
Her chaperon looked thoughtful for a moment. So there was a motive
somewhere, then! But, after all, what concern was it of hers? She was an
old friend of the Duge family, and Phineas Duge had made it very well
worth her while to look after his niece.
They were interrupted by some callers. It was an informal "At Home"
which Mrs. Harrison was giving in honour of her young charge. Soon the
rooms were crowded with people, and Virginia, slim, elegant, perfectly
gowned, looking like a picture, with her pale oval face and wonderful
dark grey eyes, was the centre of a good deal of attention. And in the
midst of it all a girl, whom as yet she had not noticed, touched her on
the arm and drew her a little away. She started with surprise when she
saw that it was Stella.
"Come, my dear cousin," Stella said, "I want to have a little talk with
you. Won't you sit down with me here? I am sure you have been doing your
duty admirably."
Virginia was a little shy. She was not quite sure whether she ought to
talk to her cousin. Nevertheless, she obeyed the stronger personality.
"Of course I know," Stella said, spreading herself out on a sofa, and
smiling in amusement at the other's slight embarrassment, "that I am in
disgrace with my beloved parent, and that you are half afraid to talk to
me. Still, you must remember that you owe me a little consideration, for
you have taken my place, and turned me out into the cold world."
"You must not talk like that, please," Virginia said quietly. "You know
very well that I have done nothing of the sort. When my uncle sent for
me, I had no idea that you were not still living with him."
"I lived with him for three years," Stella said, "after I had come back
from Europe. I call that a very wonderful record. I give you about
three months."
"I don't know why you should say this," Virginia answered. "I find my
uncle very easy to get on with so long as he is obeyed."
Stella smiled.
"Ah, well!" she said, "I don't want to dishearten you, only you seem
rather a nice little thing, and I am afraid you don't quite understand
the sort of man my father is. However, you'll find out, and until you do
I should have as good a time as I could if I were you. How do you like
New York?"
"How could I help liking it?" Virginia answered. "I came here from a
little wooden farmhouse in a desolate part of the country. I did not
know what luxury was. Here I have a maid, a suite of rooms, an
automobile, and all manner of wonderful things, all of my own."
"Will you be willing," Stella asked calmly, "to pay the price when the
time comes?"
Virginia looked at her wonderingly.
"The price?" she asked. "What do you mean?"
Stella laughed a little hardly.
"Little girl," she said, "you are very young. Let me tell you this. My
father never did a kind action in his life for its own sake. He never
befriended any one for any other motive than that some day or other he
meant to exact some return for it. Your time hasn't come yet, but there
will be something some day which will help you to understand."
Virginia sat upright in her seat. A very becoming touch of colour had
stolen into her cheeks, and her eyes were bright.
"I like to talk to you, Stella," she said, "because you are my cousin,
and none of these other people are even my friends yet, but I cannot
listen to you if you talk like this of the man who has been so kind to
me, especially," she added, "as he is your father and my uncle."
Stella leaned over and patted her hand patronizingly.
"Silly little girl!" she said. "Never mind, we shall be friends some
day, I dare say. You daren't come and see me, I suppose?"
Virginia shook her head.
"Not without my uncle's permission," she said.
"Quite right," Stella agreed. "Don't run any risks. We shall come across
one another now and then, especially since my father seems determined to
throw open his doors once more to the usual mob. By the by, does he ever
say anything about me?"
"Nothing," Virginia answered, "except that you deceived him. He has told
me that."
"Any particulars?" Stella asked.
"I am not sure," Virginia said, "that I ought to repeat them."
Stella sat quite still for a moment, and a slight frown was on her
forehead.
"He has told you, then, why he sent me away?" she asked.
"Yes!" Virginia answered.
Stella shrugged her shoulders and rose.
"Well," she said, "I mustn't monopolize you any longer, or I shall be in
disgrace."
She walked away with a little nod, leaving behind her a faint but
uncomfortable impression. Virginia, an hour or so later, thought it best
to tell her uncle of this meeting. They were standing together in one of
the reception rooms, waiting for some guests who were coming to dine,
and were alone except for a couple of footmen, who were lighting a huge
candelabrum of wax candles.
"Uncle," Virginia said, "I met Stella this afternoon, and she came and
spoke to me."
He looked at her without change of countenance.
"Well?" he said.
"I thought I ought to tell you," Virginia continued. "I was not sure how
you felt about it."
"I have no objection," he said, resting his hand for a moment upon her
shoulder, "to your talking to her whenever you may happen to meet. Only
remember one thing! She must not enter this house. You must never ask
her here. You must never suffer her to come. You understand that?"
"I understand," Virginia answered.
"And this man Vine, Mr. Norris Vine, have you met him?" he asked.
Virginia shook her head.
"No!" she said, "I have never seen him since that night at the
restaurant."
"The same thing," Phineas Duge said, "applies to him. Neither of them
must cross the threshold of this house. It is a hard thing to say of
one's own daughter, but those two are in league against me, if their
combination is worth speaking of seriously."
Virginia looked hopelessly puzzled. Phineas Duge hesitated for a moment,
and then continued--
"There are phases of our life here," he said, "which you could not hope
to understand, even if you had been born in this city. But you can
perhaps understand as much as this. In the higher regions of finance
there is very much scheming and diplomacy required. One carries always
secrets which must not be known, and one does things which it is
necessary to conceal for the good of others, as well as for one's own
benefit. I have been for some years engaged in operations whose success
depends entirely upon the secrecy with which they are conducted.
Naturally, there is an opposing side, there always must be. There are
buyers and sellers. If one succeeds, the other must fail, so you can
understand that one has enemies always."
"It sounds," she murmured, "almost romantic, like diplomacy or
politics."
He smiled.
"The secret history of the lives and operations of some of us, who have
made names in this country during the last few years," he said, "would
make the modern romance seem stale. Even odd scraps of news or surmises
are fought for by the Press. The journalists know well enough where to
come for their sensation. Our guests at last, I believe. Don't forget
what I have been saying to you, Virginia."
CHAPTER IV
A MEETING OF GIANTS
Phineas Duge, if his manners preserved still that sense of restraint
which seemed part of the man himself, still made an excellent host. He
sat at the head of his table, a distinguished, almost handsome
personality, his grey hair accurately parted, every detail of his
toilette in exact accordance with the fashions of the moment, his eyes
everywhere, his tongue seldom silent.
Virginia watched him more than once from her seat, in half-unwilling
admiration. She was ashamed to admit that her personal enthusiasm for
him had in any way abated, and yet she was becoming conscious of that
absolute lack of any real cordiality, of any evidence of affection in
his demeanour towards her and every one else with whom he was brought
into contact. She knew very well what the world's account of him was,
for in the old days they had read sketches of his career up in the
little farmhouse amongst the mountains. They had read of his indomitable
will, of his absolute heartlessness, the stern, persistent individuality
which climbs and climbs, heedless of those who must fall by the way.
Perhaps he was really like this. Perhaps her first impressions had been
wrong. Then, with a sudden wave of shame, she remembered the joyous,
affectionate letters which every post brought her from the home, which
notwithstanding all her sufferings, she had loved so dearly. She looked
down at the pearls which hung from her neck. She saw herself in her
spotless muslin gown. She felt the touch of laces and silk, all the
nameless effect of this environment of luxury thrilled in her blood. It
was better, she decided, that she did not think of the future at all. It
was better that she should nurse the gratitude which she most
assuredly felt.
The dinner-party that night consisted of men only, and although the
conversation was fairly general, even Virginia had a suspicion that
these men had not been brought together absolutely as ordinary guests
for social purposes. Lightly though they all talked, there was something
in the background. More than once the voices were lowered, allusions
were made which she failed to understand, and half-doubting glances were
thrown in her direction. One of these her uncle appeared to notice, and,
leaning a little forward in his chair, he said a few words to the man
at his side in such a way that they were obviously intended for the
information of all.
"My niece," he said, "is going to take the part which I had once hoped
my daughter might fill. If the occasion arises, you can speak of any
matter of business in which we may be interested, before her. It is
necessary," he continued, after a slight pause, "that there should be
some one in my household who is above suspicion, I might almost say,
above temptation. My niece will hold that post."
Then they all looked at her, and Virginia was a little frightened. It
did not seem to her necessary, however, to say anything. Two of the men
she met for the first time, but all were known to her by sight. There
was Stephen Weiss, the head of a great trust, long, lean, with
inscrutable face, and eyes hidden behind thick spectacles; Higgins, who
virtually controlled a great railway system; Littleson and Bardsley,
millionaires both, and politicians. It was a gathering of men of almost
limitless power; men who, according to some of the papers, lived with
their hands upon their country's throat. Littleson leaned over and spoke
to her not unkindly.
"I am sure," he said, "that your uncle has made a wise choice. There are
some secrets too great to be in one man's charge alone, and besides--"
Phineas Duge lifted his hand.
"Never mind the rest," he said. "I have not explained those
circumstances as yet to my niece. If you are quite ready, we will take
our coffee in the library." He turned to Virginia, who had risen at once
to leave them. "In an hour and a half exactly, Virginia," he said, "come
into the library. Not before."
She glanced at her watch and made a note of the hour. Then she wandered
off to one of the smaller drawing-rooms, and, to relieve a certain
strain of which she was somehow conscious, she played the piano softly.
In the middle of a nocturne of Chopin's the door was opened, and a young
man was shown into the room.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "you are Miss Longworth?"
She rose at once from the piano seat. He was not dressed for the
evening, and he carried a felt hat in his hand. Nevertheless his bearing
was pleasant enough, and he seemed to her a gentleman.
"I am Miss Longworth," she answered. "You want to see my uncle, I
suppose? They have made a mistake in showing you in here."
"Not at all," he answered, with an ingratiating smile. "I know that your
uncle is very busy, so I took the liberty of asking to see you. It is
such a simple matter I required, that it was not worth while
interrupting him. My name is Carr, and I am on the _World_. There was
just an ordinary question or two I was going to put to your uncle, but
you can answer them just as well if you will."
"You mean you are a reporter?" she asked.
"That's it," he assented. "Odd sort of life in a way, because it sends
us round seeking sometimes for the most trivial information. For
instance, your uncle had a dinner-party to-night, and I have stepped
round for a list of the guests."
"I do not see," she answered slowly, "what possible concern that can be
of your paper's."
He smiled indulgently.
"Ah, Miss Longworth!" he said, "you have just come from the country, I
believe. You do not understand the way we do things in New York. Your
uncle is a famous man, and the public who buy papers to-day are dead
keen upon knowing even the most trifling things that such men do. In
fact, I have been sent all the way up from down town simply to find out
that simple matter. Of course, I could have asked the servants, but we
always prefer to get our information from one of the family where
possible. Now, let me see. Mr. Weiss was here, of course?"
Virginia hesitated, but only for a moment.
"If you really wish for these details," she said, "you must ask my
uncle. I do not care to tell you."
"But say, isn't that rather rough upon your uncle?" he asked doubtfully.
"We can't bother him with every little thing. Surely there can be
nothing indiscreet in your giving me the names of your guests. Most
people send them to the papers themselves."
"I do not know," Virginia said, "whether my uncle would wish me to do
so. In any case, I shall do nothing without his consent."
The young man frowned slightly. This was not to be so easy as he
thought.
"Well," he said, "I can get the names from your servants, without
bothering your uncle. Must be rather interesting for you, Miss
Longworth, to hear these famous men talk,"
She shook her head.
"I do not understand one half of what they say," she answered, "but what
I do understand doesn't sound in the least wonderful."
He smiled appreciatively.
"I can quite understand that," he said; "but there must have been some
of the conversation that you understood. For instance, the Anti-Trust
Bill that is coming before the House in a few weeks. They ought to have
said some interesting things about that."
Virginia moved calmly across the room, and before the young man had
perceived her intention she had rung the bell.
"I think," she said, "that you are a very impertinent person. Please go
away at once."
He shrugged his shoulders as he turned towards the door. His expression
was still entirely good-humoured.
"Don't be angry with me, Miss Longworth," he said, as he paused for a
moment with his hand upon the knob of the door; "it's all in my day's
work, you know. One has to try and find out these things, or one
wouldn't be worth one's place. We had word down at the office that you
had just come from the country, and that something might be done
with you."
"And I think it was most unfair and ungentlemanly," Virginia began.
"It seems so, I dare say," he admitted, "from your point of view; but
you must remember, Miss Longworth, that it is all part of a game which
is played here all the time. Each side knows the other's moves; there is
no deceit about it. Men like your uncle, who want to cover up their
actions, take as much pains to hoodwink us, and use any means that occur
to them to keep us in the dark when they want to. They just make use of
us, and we have to try and make use of them. Good night, Miss
Longworth!"
He left the room, and Virginia returned to the piano. Her fingers were
shaking, however, and she was unable to play. She took up a book and
tried to read. All the time she kept glancing at the clock. At last she
rose to her feet and left the room. The hour and a half was up.
CHAPTER V
TREACHERY
Somewhat to Virginia's surprise, when at last she stepped with beating
heart into the library, she found her uncle alone. He was sitting in
front of his open desk, a pile of papers before him, and a long,
black-looking cigar between his teeth. Scarcely glancing up, he motioned
her to a seat.
"In five minutes," he said, "I shall want to talk to you."
She sat down in one of the chairs, now vacant, which had been drawn up
to the study table. The air of the room was heavy with tobacco smoke,
and there were empty liqueur glasses upon the sideboard. Yet Virginia
somehow felt that it was not only to take their after-dinner coffee, and
enjoy a chat over their cigars, that these men had met together around
the table before which she was sitting. She had the feeling somehow that
things had been happening in that little room, of which she and Phineas
Duge were now the only occupants.
"Virginia!"
She turned her head suddenly. Her uncle was looking at her. His eyes had
lost their far-away gleam, and were fixed upon hers, cold and
expressionless.
"Yes, uncle!" she said.
"I want to talk to you for a few moments," he said. "Listen, and don't
interrupt."
She leaned a little toward him in an attitude of attention. The words
seemed to frame themselves slowly upon his lips.
"You have been wondering, I suppose, like all the rest of the world," he
began, "why I sent for you here. I am going to tell you. But first of
all let me know this. Are you satisfied with what I have done for you,
and for your people? In other words, have you any feeling of what
people, I believe, call gratitude towards me?"
"I wonder that you can ask me that," she answered, a little tremulously.
"You know that I am very, very grateful indeed."
"You like your life?" he asked. "You find it"--he hesitated for a
moment--"more amusing than at Wellham Springs?"
"I am only an ordinary girl," she answered simply, "and you must realize
what the difference means. Life there was a sort of struggle which led
nowhere. Here I don't see how any one could be happier than I. Apart
from that, what you have done for the others counts, I think, for more
than anything with me."
"I am glad," he answered, "that you are satisfied. You think, perhaps,
from what you have seen since you came here that the power of money has
no limits. I can tell you that it has very fixed and definite limits,
and it was when I realized them that I sent for you. I hope to gain from
you what in all New York I should not know where to buy."
She was careful not to interrupt him, but her eyes were full of mute
questions.
"I mean," he continued, "fidelity, absolute unswerving fidelity. The
four men who have been here to-night call themselves my friends. We are
leagued together in enterprises of immense importance. Yet take them one
by one, and there is not one whom I can trust. I have proved it. I pay
my two secretaries more highly than any other employer in the city. They
do their duty, but I know very well that they only wait for some one
else to outbid me, and they would take themselves and their knowledge of
my affairs to whoever might call them. It has become necessary that
there should be one person in whose charge I can repose the knowledge of
certain things. New York does not hold such a person. That is why I have
sent for you."
He paused so long that she ignored his injunction of silence.
"You know very well, uncle," she said, "that I am not clever, and that
I understand nothing whatever about business, or anything to do with it,
but I can at least promise that I will be faithful. That seems a very
poor reward for all that you have done for me."
"Yes!" he answered, "I believe that you mean that. Now I must tell you
this, that these four men who have dined with me here to-night, with
myself, are under a solemn covenant to conduct all our operations upon
the market and in finance, whether in this country or in Europe,
absolutely in unison. We control practically an unlimited capital, and
we pool all profits. We never speculate individually, at least that is a
condition of our agreement. You may not understand this, but such a
combination as ours, honestly adhered to, can do what it likes with the
money-markets anywhere. We can bend them to our will. We buy or sell,
and our profits are sure. We keep our agreement secret, but even then it
is guessed at. I can assure you that we are probably the five best hated
men in America. During the last two years we have made great fortunes.
Our system is perfect. So far as the acquisition of wealth goes, there
could be no object in any treachery, and yet one of these five men is
playing a double game, if not more."
"You have found him out?" she asked breathlessly.
He shook his head.
"It is not so easy," he said, "only I know. To-night," he continued,
lowering his voice almost to a whisper, "a new suspicion has come to me.
I have an idea that there is a scheme, in which all four are concerned,
for ruining me and sharing the plunder,"
"It is infamous!" she cried, turning pale.
He smiled slowly. It was the smile she hated. It seemed to change his
face from the similitude of a benevolent divine to something hard,
almost satanic.
"The odds," he continued, "seem heavy, but I have known one man hold his
own against four before now. You may not understand all these different
points, but I must tell you this. All through America, we millionaires,
who operate largely upon the markets and control the finances of the
country, are hated by the middle classes. We are hated by the merchants,
the fairly well-off people, the labouring classes, and, more than any
others, perhaps, by the politicians. Last month it was decided to strike
a dangerous blow at us and our interests. A bill is to come before the
Senate before very long which is framed purposely to undermine our
power. Can you understand that?"
"I think so," she answered.
"It was to discuss this," he continued, "that we met to-night. I laid a
trap for my four friends, and they fell into it. They have signed a
document pledging themselves to resist this bill, in such a fashion that
their doing so renders them parties to an illegal conspiracy. That
document is in my possession. They all signed it, and it was left for me
to be the last. No one noticed that my name was written across a piece
of paper laid over the document itself. Now this I keep as a hostage
over them. Sooner or later, when their plans mature, it will occur to
them what they have done. They will remember that, so long as I hold
this document, I have them in my power. Weiss was uneasy before he left
the room to-night. In less than a week they will be trying to regain
possession of that document under some pretext or other. I am going to
show you where I keep it."
He pushed his chair away and pulled up the rug from beneath it. Even
then Virginia, who had obeyed his gesture and was standing by his side,
could see nothing unusual in the appearance of the hardwood floor. She
watched his finger, however, count the cracks from a knot in the wood.
Then he pressed a certain spot, and one of the blocks sprang up a little
way and was easily removed. Beneath it was the steel lid of a small
coffer, with two keyholes.
"This is my hiding-place," he said calmly, "and these," he added, "are
the keys."
He laid before her two keys of curious device, and he took from a drawer
in his desk a thin chain of platinum and gold.
"Now," he said, "you are going to be the guardian of these keys. You are
going to wear this chain around your neck all the time, and the keys are
going in here."
He drew from his pocket a gold locket, and touching the spring showed
her that inside, instead of any place for a photograph, were little
embedded pads of velvet, shaped for the keys. He placed them in and hung
the locket around her neck. She looked at it, half terrified.
"I do not understand," she said, "why you trust me with this. Surely it
would be safer with you!"
He smiled grimly.
"You do not know my friends," he said. "Remember that in my possession
is not only the document which must cause them to abandon their great
scheme of attack upon me, but also that that same document, if made
proper use of, means ruin and ridicule for them. New York is a civilized
city, it is true, but money can buy the assassin's pistol to-day as
easily as it bought the bravo's knife a few hundred years ago. Have you
ever thought of the number of unexplained, if not undetected crimes you
read of continually, in which the victims are generally rich men?
Perhaps not, and you need not worry your little head about it, but take
my word for it, the keys are safer with you."
Virginia laid her hand tremulously upon the locket.
"They shall be safe," she said, "but tell me this. I am never to give
them up to any one but you?"
"Never under any conditions," he answered.
"Not even," she asked, "if any one should bring a written message from
you?"
"Distrust it," he answered. "Do not give them up. Into my hands only,
remember that."
The telephone bell rang suddenly at his elbow. Phineas Duge took off the
receiver and held it to his ear. The quiet, measured voice of Stephen
Weiss came travelling along the wire.
"Say, Duge, I am half inclined to think we made a mistake in signing
that paper," he said. "Of course, I know it's safe in your keeping, but
I don't fancy my name standing written on a document that means quite
what that means. I fancy that Higgins is a little nervous, too. We'll
meet and talk it over to-morrow night."
Phineas Duge smiled faintly as he answered--
"Just as you like, only I must tell you that I entirely disagree. Unless
we strike, and strike quickly, that bill will become law, and we shall
all have to print a European address upon our notepaper, if we get
as far."
"I speak for the others, too," Weiss continued. "We'll meet right here
to-morrow night to discuss it. Say at eight o'clock."
Phineas Duge laid down the receiver and turned away.
"Well," he said, "this will become interesting. They will not strike now
until they have got hold of that foolish paper. If they are all
determined to get it back, and I resist, they will know that the game is
up, and that I have seen through their little scheme. This must be
thought about. Virginia, do I look ill?"
She shook her head.
"I thought you were looking very well, uncle," she said.
He locked up his desk, and looked down to see that the surface of the
carpet was unruffled.
"To-morrow," he said, "I am going to be very ill indeed!"
CHAPTER VI
MR. WEISS IN A HURRY
Virginia walked along Fifth Avenue, enjoying the sunshine, the crowds of
people, and the effect of a new hat. Every now and then she stopped to
look in a shop, and more than once she smiled to herself as she
remembered how she had escaped from her uncle's house by flitting out of
the side entrance. For she had found herself within the last few hours a
very important person indeed. From the moment the doctor's carriage had
stopped before the door, a little stream of callers, reporters, business
friends, and others whom she knew nothing of, had thronged the place,
unwilling to depart without some definite news of this unexpected
illness, and all of them anxious to obtain a word or two with her.
Already a "Special" was being sold on the streets, and in big black
letters she read of the alarming illness of Phineas Duge. She had left
both his secretaries, young men with whom as yet she had exchanged only
a few words, hard at work opening letters and answering telegrams. She
alone was free from all anxiety, for she had had a few words with her
uncle before she came out, and at her entrance the languor of the sick
man disappeared at once, and he had spoken to her with something of the
enjoyment of a boy enjoying a huge joke.
She paused every now and then to look in the shop windows, and make a
few purchases. Then, just as she was leaving a store, and hesitating for
a moment which way to continue her walk, a man stopped suddenly before
her and raised his hat. It was Stephen Weiss, gaunt, ill-dressed, easily
recognizable. He was evidently glad to see her.
"This is real good fortune, Miss Longworth," he said, holding her hand
in his, as though afraid that she might slip away. "I have just left
your house, but I couldn't seem to get hold of anything very definite
about this sudden attack of your uncle's."
"I know very little about it myself," Virginia answered. "The doctor had
only just been when I came away. He said, I believe, that it was only a
matter of a complete rest for several days, perhaps a week, and then
possibly a short holiday."
Mr. Weiss shook his head thoughtfully.
"I am much relieved to hear that," he declared. "Your uncle is one of my
oldest friends, and, apart from that, we are concerned in one or two
very important speculations just now, things which you, young lady,
would scarcely understand; but it would be awkward if he were laid up."
"The doctor thinks," Virginia remarked, "that he will be able to attend
to anything very necessary in four or five days. They will not allow
him, however, even to look at a newspaper until then."
Mr. Weiss nodded thoughtfully.
"You were going back toward the house, I see," he remarked. "Permit me
to walk with you a little way."
Virginia hesitated for a moment.
"I have a little more shopping to do," she said. "I was not going home
just yet."
Mr. Weiss, however, was already leading her across the street.
"My dear young lady," he said, "I have something very important to say
to you. I am sure you will not mind going back to the house with me now
and continuing your walk afterwards. It is in your uncle's interests as
much as my own."
She allowed herself to be led along, and when they had reached the other
side of the Avenue, Stephen Weiss, speaking earnestly, and stooping a
little towards her, commenced his explanation.
"Your uncle," he said, "and three or four of us whom you met last night,
are engaged just now in a very important undertaking. I cannot explain
it to you, but it involves a great many millions of dollars, more than
we could any of us afford to lose, although, as you know, we are none of
us poor men. Now we can carry this thing right through without bothering
your uncle, and make a success of it, but there is just one thing we
must have, and that is a paper which he has locked away in his study,
and which is a sort of key to the situation. I spoke to your uncle about
it last night over the telephone, and he agreed to have it ready for me
when I called this morning. I could not find any one at the house,
however, who had received instructions about it, so I concluded that he
had perhaps left word with you."
"No!" she answered, "he has not told me anything."
"Miss Longworth," he continued, laying his hand for a moment upon her
arm, "you know from what your uncle said last night that we are all
practically his partners. Now in his interests and all of ours, and
naturally therefore in yours, we must have that paper. When we get home,
just step into your uncle's room and say one sentence to him. Say that I
am downstairs. He will know what I want, and I am sure he will tell you
to give it to me. I hate to have to bother him just now, but I can
assure you that it would do him a good deal more harm just when he is
pulling round, to find that we were all on the wrong side of things,
than to have just one sentence breathed into his ear now."
Virginia seemed to hesitate.
"The doctor's orders," she remarked, "were very strict. I am sure I
don't know what to say."
"Doctors," Mr. Weiss said, "are all very well, but they do not know
everything. Just those few words from you can do your uncle no possible
harm, and they may save him a very bad relapse later on. I wouldn't
press this thing, my dear young lady, if I wasn't convinced of its
tremendous importance. You can trust me about that."
Virginia walked on for a few steps in silence. They were approaching her
uncle's house, and already a small crowd of people were collected,
reading the bulletin which was hung upon the railings. Mr. Weiss
stopped short.
"Isn't there any way of getting in without being seen by all this
crowd?" he asked. "They'll worry us to death with questions."
She nodded, and led him round the back way. Even here they were caught,
however, by a reporter, whom Mr. Weiss brushed unceremoniously away.
Virginia took her companion into a morning-room upon the ground floor,
and motioned him to a chair.
"If you will wait here," she said, "I'll go upstairs and see my uncle.
If I see that it is in any way possible, I will do as you ask."
"That's good," he declared. "If you don't mind, Miss Longworth, I'll
just step into the study, where we were last night. I dare say one of
your uncle's young men will be there, and there are a few minor details
I'd like to talk over with young Smedley, if he's about."
"I will find Mr. Smedley for you," Virginia said, "when I come down. I
am sure that he is not in the library, because my uncle uses that always
as his private room. Please wait here until I come down."
She left him and made her way upstairs. The door of her uncle's bedroom
was guarded by his man servant, who allowed her, however, to pass.
Inside the room Phineas Duge was sitting in an easy-chair, carefully
dressed, smoking a cigarette, and with a pile of newspapers by his side.
On the table a few feet away was a telephone, the receiver of which he
had just laid down.
"Well," he asked, looking up as she entered, "have they made a move
yet?"
"I met Mr. Weiss on Fifth Avenue," she said. "He explained that you were
all partners in some business undertaking of very great importance. Then
he went on to say that they could carry it on all right without you, but
that they must have one paper, which he said was the key to the
position. He remarked that he had telephoned to you last night about it,
and he is quite sure that you will give me orders to find it and give it
up to him. He persuaded me even, you see, to break the doctor's orders."
Phineas Duge smiled quietly.
"I am too ill to be disturbed about such things," he said, lighting a
fresh cigarette. "I do not know what paper he means. If you come and
talk to me again about business matters, I shall send for the doctor. It
is most unreasonable. By the by, where did you leave Mr. Weiss?"
"In the morning-room," she answered. "He wanted to go into the library,
and he wanted to see Smedley, but I told him to wait where he was till I
got down."
"I hope you will find him there," Phineas Duge said. "He can see Smedley
if he wants to, on your responsibility of course. Those boys know
nothing. Come up and tell me how he takes it."
Virginia went down to the morning-room and found it empty. She crossed
the hall, opened the door of the outer library softly, and passed with
swift silent footsteps into the smaller apartment. Mr. Weiss was
standing there before her uncle's closed desk, regarding it
contemplatively. He looked up quickly as she entered.
"Don't think I am taking a liberty, Miss Longworth," he said calmly.
"This place has been a sort of office for us, and your uncle lets us do
about as we please here. I trust you are going to unlock that desk and
give me the paper I want."
Virginia shook her head slowly.
"I am sorry," she said, "but my uncle will not discuss business matters
at all. He did not seem to remember anything about a paper, and he said
that everything must wait until his head is a little clearer. I am sorry
I disturbed him. I am afraid that the doctor will be very angry with
me."
Mr. Weiss' face, clean-shaven and lined, with his spectacled eyes and
thin, indrawn lips, was as expressionless as a face could be, but
Virginia heard him draw a quick little breath, and his very attitude
seemed to be the attitude of a man confronted with calamity.
"Miss Longworth," he said slowly, "this is very unfortunate."
"I am sorry," she answered.
"Will you sit down?" he said. "I have something to say to you."
She shook her head.
"I am afraid that I cannot stay now," she said. "I have so many things
to do, and so many notes to write."
His spectacled eyes looked right into hers.
"This," he said quietly, "is important. There are times, Miss Longworth,
when the junior in command of a great enterprise is faced with a crisis,
when he or she is forced to act upon their own responsibility. The
person who is great enough to rise to an occasion like this is the
person who wins and deserves success in life. You follow me, Miss
Longworth?"
"I suppose so," Virginia answered, a little doubtfully, although in her
heart she understood him very well indeed.
"Miss Longworth," he said, "have you pluck enough to save us all several
millions of dollars, and to make your uncle grateful to you for life? In
other words, will you help me look for that paper?"
"Without my uncle's permission?" she asked.
"Without a permission which he would give you in one moment," Mr. Weiss
declared, "if he was in a fit state to look after his own affairs. Come,
you shall not have to wait until he recovers. For a part of your reward,
at any rate, there is a pearl necklace in Streeter's, which I saw
yesterday marked forty thousand dollars. It shall be yours within half
an hour of the time I get that paper, and I guarantee that your uncle
will give you another like it when he knows what you have done."
Virginia shook her head sorrowfully. Her great eyes seemed full of real
regret.
"Mr. Weiss," she said, "I am too dull and stupid to dare to do things on
my own account. I can only obey, and I am afraid all these beautiful
rewards are not for me. Even if my uncle sends me away when he gets
well, I must do exactly as he told me, no more, nor any less, and one
of those things," she added, turning and pressing the electric bell in
the wall by her side, "was that no one, no one at all, should enter
this room."
Mr. Weiss stood quite still. He seemed to be thinking, but Virginia
could see that his hands were tightly clenched, and the bones of his
long sinewy fingers were standing out, straining against the flesh.
"I am disappointed in you, Miss Longworth," he said. "You have a great
opportunity. It need not be only a matter of the necklace--"
She held out her hands.
"You mustn't!" she begged. "I am too frightened of my uncle."
Then she turned suddenly and opened the door to the servant, whose
approaching footsteps she had heard.
"Will you please show Mr. Weiss out?" she said. "He is in rather a
hurry."
Mr. Weiss went without a word.
CHAPTER VII
A PROFESSIONAL BURGLAR
There were three men in New York that day, who, although they occupied
their accustomed table, the best in one of its most exclusive clubs, and
although their luncheon was chosen with the usual care, were never
really conscious of what they were eating. Weiss was one, John Bardsley
another, and Higgins, the railway man, the third. They sat in a corner,
from which their conversation could not be overheard; and as often
before when their heads had been close together, people looked across at
them, always with interest, often with some envy, and wondered.
"I'd like you both to understand," Weiss said, speaking with
unaccustomed emphasis as he leaned across the table, "that I don't like
the look of things. We tackled something pretty big when we tackled
Phineas Duge, and if he has the least idea that these Chicago brokers
have been operating on our behalf, it's my belief we shall find
ourselves up against it."
Higgins, who was the optimist of the party, a small man, with the
unlined, clear complexion and face of a boy, shrugged his shoulders a
little doubtfully.
"That's all very well, Weiss," he said, "but if Phineas had been going
to find us out at all, he'd have found us out three weeks ago, when the
thing started. He wouldn't have sat still and let us sell ten million
dollars' worth of stock without moving his little finger. I guess you've
got the jumps, Weiss, all because we were d-----d fools enough to sign
that rotten paper last night. All the same I don't quite see how he
could ever use that against us. His own name's there."
"I'm not so sure of that," Weiss said quietly. "I tell you it occurred
to me to look across just as he was blotting the page, and I saw that he
had his arm right round the paper, and it didn't seem to me that he was
blotting the place where his signature ought to have been."
"Why didn't you ask to read the thing through again?" Higgins demanded.
"I wish I had," Weiss answered gloomily.
Bardsley, a large man, with grey beard and moustache, and coarse, hard
face, spoke for the first time.
"Do any of you know," he asked, "whereabouts in that infernal little
room of his Duge keeps his papers?"
Weiss looked up.
"I am not sure," he said. "I know that he has a small iron strong-box
screwed into the inside of his roll-top desk, and of course there is a
safe in the outer office; but I don't see how we're going to find out
whether the paper we want is there."
"The girl seemed a fool," Higgins remarked. "Can't she be got at?"
"I have done my best," Weiss answered. "It strikes me she's just fool
enough to stick to what she's been told, and she's too scared of her
uncle to do more or less. She practically turned me out of his room this
morning, when I was just having a look round."
"If there is really anything," Higgins said in a soft voice, "in what
Weiss is hinting at, there's only one thing for us to do, and, difficult
or easy, it's got to be done, even if we use our friends from
down there."
He motioned with his head toward the window which was behind them, and
which looked out over the river. They were all three silent for a
moment. Then Weiss struck the table lightly with his clenched fist.
"Fools that we are!" he muttered--"babies! idiots! To think that such
men as Bardsley and Higgins and myself are compelled to make use of
criminals, to put ourselves practically in fear of the law, to get back
a paper which we signed like babes in the wood. What if this illness of
Duge's is a fake! Nowadays a man doesn't need to move from his room to
do mischief in this world."
"I've been round to his broker's this morning," Higgins remarked. "He is
doing nothing, has done nothing for weeks. He left off the day we all
agreed to leave off."
"Why couldn't he be doing as we've done," Bardsley remarked, "and work
from Chicago or Boston?"
Higgins grunted, and poured himself out a glass of wine.
"You fellows have got the nerves," he said contemptuously. "You're
imagining things like a pack of frightened women. Duge can't swallow us
up, even if he tumbled to our game. I don't believe there's anything in
this funk of yours. As to signing that paper, well, we've got to run the
Government of this country, as well as a good many other things, if the
Government won't leave us alone. Duge's name is on it right enough, but
if you fellows are really going to shake all day about it, let's have
the paper, even if we blow up the house. I'll send for Danes to-night.
We'll meet him down town somewhere--two of us, no more--and see what he
can suggest. If we get that paper, and Duge's illness isn't a sham,
he'll come downstairs to face the biggest smash that any man in New York
has ever dreamed of, and serve him d----d well right. I'm sick of the
fellow and his ways. For every million we've scooped, he's scooped two.
Every deal we've been into, he's had a little the best of us. We are
going to get our own back, but for Heaven's sake don't let us spoil the
game because you fellows have got the shivers. We'll have another bottle
of wine, and right after lunch I shall telephone down for Danes. Now
let's chuck it. There's little Simpson and Henderson watching us like
cats. They'll think we've got caught on something, or that we are going
on the market. Eat your luncheon, and don't forget my supper-party
to-night. The whole crowd from the Eden Theatre are coming. I only hope
the reporters don't get hold of it."
* * * * *
A few hours later Virginia was summoned to her uncle's room. As she
entered the door she passed a small, insignificant-looking man, plainly
dressed, and of somewhat servile appearance, whom she remembered to have
seen about the place several times since her arrival. He glanced at her
in passing, and Virginia saw that his eyes, at any rate, were keen
enough. She found her uncle, now fully dressed, walking up and down the
room, with his hands behind his back.
"I have just had news of our friends, Virginia," he remarked. "They are
evidently very much in earnest. If they can't get hold of that paper by
strategy, they are going to try and steal it."
"Won't that be a little difficult?" she asked.
He smiled.
"More difficult than they imagine. The coffer itself is an inch thick,
and the lock will stand anything but dynamite. However, I hear that
they've engaged a professional burglar, so we ought to get some
amusement out of it."
"How did you hear this?" she asked.
"The little man who has just gone out," he answered. "He is one of
Pinkerton's detectives, or rather he was. He is in my service now, and
spends most of his time watching these precious friends of mine. I
expect they will make the attempt to-night."
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "Send for the police?"
Her uncle shook his head.
"Certainly not," he answered. "If it wasn't that I suppose they will
arrange it so that the affair could not possibly be traced back to them,
I should be in the room myself. As it is, I shall leave the matter to
Leverson, the man who has just gone out. He will get as much help as he
wants. Only if you hear a noise in the night, you will know what
to expect."
Virginia shivered a little.
"There will be a fight, I suppose," she said.
"There may be some shooting," he answered. "In any case, I am not afraid
of their opening my safe-box."
CHAPTER VIII
FIREARMS
In the middle of the night Virginia was awakened by the sound of a
revolver shot. She put on her dressing-gown, and, with an electric torch
in her hand, started to descend the stairs. The house was already,
however, a blaze of light. Electric alarm bells were ringing, and
servants were hurrying toward the library. The man Leverson was sitting
in an easy-chair, with an ugly gash across the temple, and one of his
men had a revolver wound through the shoulder. One of the two burglars,
however, whom they had surprised, was a prisoner in their hands, a pale,
sullen-looking man, who had apparently accepted his fate quite
philosophically. He was just being marched off by the uniformed police
when Virginia arrived.
"Has anything been taken?" she asked Leverson.
"Not a thing, miss," the man answered. "There were three of them, but
two escaped. One was Bill Danes, I'm sure o' that, and we can lay our
hands upon him at any time. This one I don't know, but they meant
business. They had enough dynamite with them to blow the house up."
She crossed to her uncle's desk and looked downward. The carpet had
apparently not been disturbed. There were no signs that it had been
touched at all.
"Are these men ordinary burglars?" she asked Leverson.
He hesitated.
"Why, I imagine so," he answered. "Their tools are as smart a lot as
ever I saw in my life. They had spies all round the house to help them
escape, and this one would have got away too, if I hadn't tripped
him up."
"Curse you!" the bound man muttered.
Virginia looked at him and shivered.
"Well, I am glad you caught one of them," she said. "I will go and tell
my uncle."
But Phineas Duge already knew all about it. He smiled when Virginia
brought him her news.
"They must be desperate indeed," he said, "to run such risks. However, I
suppose they have bought these fellows' silence safe enough."
The midday papers were full of the attempted burglary. Before the
magistrates, the man who had been apprehended said not a word. He seemed
to accept his position with stolid fatalism. The cross-examination as to
his associates, and the motive of the attempted robbery, was absolutely
futile.
Phineas Duge kept up during the day the assumption of severe
indisposition. No one was allowed to see him. A bulletin posted outside
announced that he had been ordered complete and entire rest; and all the
time the telephone wires from his bedroom, high up in the back of the
house, were busy flashing messages east and west, all over the country.
The work in which he had been engaged was zealously pushed home. No one
saw his secretaries coming and going so often from his room, and neither
of them was willing to admit, in fact they flatly denied when
questioned, that they had seen their chief at all. Towards afternoon,
Virginia returned from a short drive in the park to be told that two
gentlemen were waiting to see her. She found no one in the drawing-room
or waiting-room, however, or any of the usual reception-rooms, and rang
the bell for the butler.
"Where are these people, Groves," she asked, "who want to see me?"
"They are in the library, madam," the man answered.
"You mean in your master's room?" she asked, with a sudden presentiment.
"Yes, madam!" the man answered. "You see, they are Mr. Weiss and Mr.
Higgins, two of the master's greatest friends, and they wished to see
the room where the burglary took place."
Virginia looked at the man in cold anger.
"Groves," she said, "you had my orders that no one was to be admitted
into that room."
"I am sorry if I did wrong, madam," the man answered. "I made exception
in favour of these two gentlemen, because they were constant visitors
here, and old friends of Mr. Duge's, and I scarcely thought that your
orders would apply to them."
Virginia stepped past him and across the hall. She entered the room
suddenly and closed the door behind her. Mr. Weiss, with a bunch of keys
in his hand, was trying to find one that fitted her uncle's desk.
Higgins, who held an open penknife, seemed to have been attempting to
pry the lid. They started as they saw Virginia enter, and it flashed
into her mind at once that they had waited to pay their visit until they
had seen her go out, and that her return so quickly had
disconcerted them.
"Mr. Weiss," she said, crossing the room towards them, "this room is in
my charge. It is by my uncle's orders that no one enters it. I regret
that you were shown here by a servant who misunderstood his
instructions. Will you come into the morning-room with me at once?"
Mr. Weiss stood up. Higgins had moved a little toward the door, and
Virginia suddenly realized that her retreat was cut off.
"Young lady," the former said, "you must forgive us both, and me
especially, if we speak to you very plainly. I told you about the
document in which we were interested, which your uncle was holding
yesterday. We were willing to let it remain here under ordinary
circumstances, but after the events of last night, we do not propose to
let it stay here another hour. If your uncle is not well enough to be
spoken to, then we must take the matter into our own hands. You can see
for yourself what a risk we run, when only last night an attempt was
very nearly successfully made to steal these papers,"
"I hear what you say," Virginia answered. "May I ask what you intend to
do?"
"To break open this desk, if necessary," Mr. Weiss said, "and to find
our way somehow or other into the interior of the coffer where these
papers are."
"And supposing I tell you," she answered calmly, "that I shall not
permit a second burglary in this room within twenty-four hours?"
Higgins came forward.
"Miss Virginia," he said, "pardon me, Miss Longworth, you look like a
sensible young woman. I believe you are. Consider our position. Our
whole future as men of influence and character depends upon certain
papers, of which your uncle had charge, being kept absolutely secret. We
entrusted him with the care of them in health, but we are not prepared
to let them stay here now that he is lying upstairs dangerously ill,
and one attempt to steal them has already been made. Take the case at
its worst; if your uncle should die, a seal would be put upon all his
effects, and nothing in the world could stop those documents becoming
public property. You can't realize what that would mean to us. It would
mean ruin not only to ourselves, but to hundreds of others. It would
mean a panic in all the money-markets of the world. We only meant that
paper to remain in existence for a matter of twenty-four hours. We are
fully determined that it shall not remain in this room any longer,
guarded or unguarded. Can't you sympathize with us? Don't you see the
position we are in?"
"Whatever is in this room," Virginia said, "is safe until my uncle is
well enough to decide what shall be done. While he remains in his
present condition I shall not allow anything to be disturbed."
"You have relations," Higgins said to her meaningly, "whom you would
like to help. One could not offer to bribe you. Don't think that I mean
anything of the sort. But between us we will give one hundred thousand
dollars for those papers, and I guarantee that when your uncle recovers
he will be quite willing to give you another hundred thousand for having
been sensible enough to let us have them."
Virginia turned her back upon him.
"This is not a matter," she said, "if you please, Mr. Weiss, which I
can discuss with you or your friend. I cannot let you stay in this room.
If you will not go away, I must ring for the servants."
Higgins made a sudden movement, as though to seize her by the arms, but
she was too quick for him. She wheeled suddenly round, and something
very small but very deadly looking flashed out in her hand.
"You will force me," she said, "to treat you like thieves. I know that
you are not, but I shall treat you as though you were if you don't leave
this room. Don't think that this is a toy either," she continued.
"Revolver shooting was one of our favourite recreations up in the
country. Will you get up from that desk, Mr. Weiss?"
He stooped down and tried one of the keys from his bunch. Virginia did
not hesitate. She pulled the trigger of her revolver, and a bullet
whistled only a few inches from his head. He sprang upright in a minute.
"Damn the girl!" he said. "Higgins, take that thing away from her."
But Virginia was standing with her back to the wall, and Higgins, after
one look into her face, shook his head.
"Don't be a fool, Weiss," he said. "This sort of thing won't do. You've
lost your head. Beg Miss Longworth's pardon and come away. She is quite
right. There is no excuse for our behaving like this."
Weiss hesitated for a moment, looked into Virginia's face himself, and
with a shrug of the shoulders admitted defeat. The two men moved
toward the door.
"I am going to call now upon your uncle's physician," Weiss said. "I am
going to tell him that whatever the risk to your uncle may be, we must
have an interview with him."
"As you please," Virginia answered. "That has nothing to do with me."
They left the room and closed the door behind them. Virginia, breathing
a little quickly, crossed the room and tried the desk, but it was still
fast locked. She looked down at the carpet and found it undisturbed.
Then she stood up, and started violently. The inner door leading into
the secretaries' room was open, and her uncle was standing there upon
the threshold. He smiled at her benevolently.
"I congratulate you, Virginia," he said. "You have routed two of the
worst scoundrels in New York. Now please help me to get upstairs again
without being seen."
CHAPTER IX
CONSPIRATORS
The great automobile swung out of the park into the avenue, and Stella
drew a little sigh of regret.
"Mine is the next turning," she said. "Thank you so much, Mr. Littleson.
I have enjoyed every minute of it."
Littleson smiled, but he did not slacken speed.
"I was very fortunate indeed to meet you," he said, "but I shall not
think of letting you go until you have had some lunch. It is nearly
one o'clock."
Stella settled down again in her seat.
"That is very kind of you," she said. "I had an idea that you were such
a tremendously busy person, that you never stopped work for luncheon or
trifles of that sort."
"A mistake, I can assure you," he said. "Which do you prefer, Sherry's
or Delmonico's?"
"Martin's, if you don't mind," she answered. "I like watching a crowd of
people."
They found a quiet table in one of the balconies, and Littleson devoted
several minutes to ordering a luncheon which should be worthy of his
reputation. Then he leaned across the table and looked steadily at his
companion.
"Miss Duge," he said, "we have known one another for some time, although
chance has never been very kind to me in the way of bringing us
together. Now I am going to tell you something which I dare say will
surprise you. When I saw you in the park this morning, I was on my way
to call upon you."
She raised her eyebrows. She was certainly surprised.
"Do you mean that?" she asked.
"I mean it," he answered.
"But why? I have seen so little of you. I had no idea that you knew even
what had become of me since I had left my father."
"I am going to explain everything by and by," he said, "but first of all
I want to ask you one question. Do you know anything about this illness
of your father's? Do you believe that it is a genuine thing, or that he
has some motive of his own for keeping to his room?"
A faint smile parted Stella's lips.
"I begin to understand," she murmured. "I must admit that I was puzzled
at your sudden interest in me."
"Does it need any particular reason?" he asked, looking at her
admiringly.
Stella, who was conscious of a new hat and a very becoming gown, laughed
softly.
"Well, perhaps it shouldn't," she said, "but, you see, you have given
yourself away. But I may as well warn you at once that I know nothing
about my father. He has even forbidden me the house, and I have not seen
him for weeks,"
He nodded.
"So I understood," he said. "May I be quite frank?"
"Of course," she answered. "If you really have anything to say to me, I
should prefer it."
"Then after the oysters I will undertake to be," he declared, smiling.
He turned away to send a boy out for some flowers and order some wine,
and afterwards they proceeded with their lunch, talking of the slight
things of the moment. Littleson, in that little group of millionaires,
represented youth, and to a certain extent fashion. He came from one of
the better-known families in New York. He had rooms and connections in
London and Paris. He was fairly good looking, and always irreproachably
dressed. Stella looked at him more than once approvingly. He was
certainly a desirable companion. For the rest, she had little vanity,
and she knew well enough that he had some purpose of his own in seeking
her out. She had only known of him as one of her father's allies, and
she was puzzled to know the meaning of that first question of his.
He seemed in no hurry, however, to satisfy her curiosity. He had
ordered a wonderful lunch, and not until they had reached its final
stage did he refer again to anything approaching serious conversation.
Then he leaned a little across the table towards her, and she felt the
change in his expression and tone, as he began to speak in lowered
voice.
"Miss Duge," he said, "I dare say you were surprised at my question to
you. Let me explain. Your father and several others of us have been
allies for some time in some very important matters connected with
finance. For the last few months, however, we have all felt a sort of
vague uneasiness one with the other. Apparently we were all still
pulling the same way, yet I think that each one of us had the feeling
that there was something wrong. We all began to distrust one another. To
come to an end quickly, I hope I do not offend you, Miss Duge, when I
say that it is my belief that your father has been and is trying to
deceive us for his own benefit."
Stella nodded assent.
"Well," she said, "I don't know why you should imagine that it could
offend me to hear you say that. I understood that amongst you who
control the money-markets there is no friendship, nor any right and
wrong. At least if there is, it is the man who succeeds who is right,
and the man who fails who is wrong."
"To a certain extent you are right, Miss Duge," he answered, "but you
must remember that there is an old adage, 'Honour amongst thieves!'"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Well," she said, "we won't discuss that. You have got so far in your
story as to tell me that you believe my father is trying to get the best
of you all, and you seem to be a little nervous about it. Well, I know
my father, and I don't mind telling you that I should not be in the
least surprised if you were right."
He lit a cigarette and passed the box across the table to her.
"Good!" he said. "It is a pleasure to talk to you, Miss Duge. You grasp
everything so quickly. Now you understand the position, then. There are
three or four of us, including myself, on one side, and your father on
the other. Supposing it was in your power to help either, and your
interests lay with us," he added, speaking with a certain meaning in his
tone--"well, to cut it short, how should you feel about it?"
"You mean," she said slowly, "would my filial devotion outweigh--other
considerations?"
He looked at her admiringly.
"You are a marvel, Miss Duge," he said. "That is exactly what I do
mean."
She leaned back in her chair for a moment, and looked thoughtfully
through the little cloud of cigarette smoke into the face of the man
opposite to her.
"You have probably heard," she said, "that my father turned me out of
his house."
"There was a rumour--" he began hesitatingly.
"Oh! it was no rumour," she interrupted. "He took care that every one
knew that I had given Norris Vine some information about his doings in
Canadian Pacifies. If I were back at home, which I never shall be, I
would do the same thing again. I have lived with my father since I came
back from Europe, and I know what manner of a man he is. I think," she
continued, looking away from him, and speaking more thoughtfully, "that
I was just like the average girl when I came back to New York. I lived
with my father for two or three years, and--well--it would be a severe
lesson for any one. However, this doesn't matter. And I am not
over-sensitive. If you have anything to say to me, say it."
"I will," he answered. "We have an idea that at any moment there may be
war between us and your father. I think that the odds would be very much
in our favour but for one thing. Your father has a paper which we
foolishly enough all signed one night, which places us practically in
his power. If that paper were given to the Press, we should all of us be
ruined men--I mean so far as prestige and position are concerned.
Further, I am not sure that we should not have to leave the country
altogether."
She looked at him in wonder. "Whatever made you sign such a paper?" she
asked.
He shook his head.
"Heaven knows!" he answered. "We were a little mad. We did not mean to
leave it in your father's charge, however. That is why this illness of
his is so embarrassing to us. We can't help an idea that it is to keep
out of our way for a few days, and to retain possession of that wretched
document, that he is lying by. If, on the other hand, his illness is
genuine, and he were, to put it bluntly, to die, that paper would be
discovered by his lawyer, and Heaven knows what he would do with it!"
"I am beginning to understand," Stella said. "Now please tell me where I
come in."
"We are willing," Littleson said quietly, "to give a hundred thousand
dollars to the person who places that paper in our charge. To any one
who knew your father's house, and where he keeps his important
documents, the task would not be an impossible one."
She looked at him fixedly for several moments. He was half afraid that
she was going to get up and leave him. Instead, however, she broke into
a hard little laugh, and helped herself to another cigarette.
"You forget," she said, "that I have no longer the entrée to my father's
house."
"It would be perfectly easy for you," he answered, "to go there,
especially with your father out of the way upstairs. I presume that you
know where he keeps his important papers?"
"Yes! I know that," she answered. "It is a pity," she added, with a
faint smile upon her lips, "that those burglars didn't, isn't it?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"A clumsy effort that, of course," he admitted, "especially when your
father has a detective always round the place. He is well guarded, but I
think that you could do better than that if you would, Miss Duge."
"About the paper?" she asked.
"It is simply," he answered, "a sheet of foolscap. I will not tell you
exactly what is written upon it, but it contains a proposal with
reference to raising a certain sum of money, to remove from office
certain prominent politicians who are supporting this Anti-Trust Bill.
Our names are all there, Bardsley's, Weiss', Seth Higgins', and my own.
Your father's should have been there, but I believe he was too
clever for us."
She began drawing on her gloves.
"Well," she said, "I have had a delightful morning, thanks to you, and
these roses are lovely. Supposing I should feel that my gratitude still
requires some expression, where could I write you?"
He handed her a card, which she tucked into her muff. They left the
restaurant together, talking again of the people whom they passed, of
the play at the theatre, of which they were reminded by the sight of a
popular actress, and other indifferent matters. He offered his
automobile, which she declined.
"I am going to make a call quite close to here," she said. "Good-bye!"
"I hope that I shall hear from you soon," he said, bowing over her hand.
"You may," she answered, smiling, as she turned away.
CHAPTER X
MR. NORRIS VINE
Stella walked briskly down Fifth Avenue and turned into Broadway. Here
she took a car down town, and presented herself in the space of twenty
minutes or so before the offices of Mr. Norris Vine, at the top of a
great flight of stairs in a building near Madison Square. Vine himself
opened the door, and led her through the clerk's office into his own
small but luxurious apartment.
"You were just going out?" she asked.
"It is no matter," he answered. "I have at least half an hour that I can
spare."
He led her to his easy-chair, and seated himself in the chair before his
desk. The sunshine fell upon his thin, somewhat hard face, and she
looked at him thoughtfully.
"Are you getting older, Norris?" she asked, "or are things going the
wrong way with you just now?"
He raised his eyebrows.
"It is a very strenuous life this," he remarked. "One has to crush all
one's nervous instincts, and when one has succeeded in doing that, one
finds oneself a little aged."
She nodded.
"You look like that," she said. "You look as though a good many of the
fires had burned out, and left you--well, something of a machine. Is it
worth while?"
"I don't know," he answered listlessly.
"You ought to go to Europe more often," she said softly. "I do not
understand how men can make the slaves of themselves that you do here.
Don't you long sometimes to feel your feet off the treadmill?"
"Perhaps," he answered; "but the life here becomes like one of those
pernicious habits of cigarette smoking, or morphia taking. It grips hold
of you--grips hold very tight," he added in a lower tone.
"I wonder," she said, "whether there is anything in the world which
would tempt you to break away from it."
He struck the desk at which he was sitting, suddenly, with his clenched
fist. His face was still colourless, but his black eyes held a touch
of fire.
"Don't!" he said. "I am not such a slave, after all, as to love my
chains; but don't you understand that one gets into this morass, and one
can keep a foothold only by struggling."
"Is that how it is with you, Norris?" she asked.
"Yes!" he answered, with a sudden fierceness. "Six months ago I think
that I might have freed myself. I shouldn't have been a rich man, but
over there in Europe, where people have learned how to live, wealth
isn't in the least necessary. I had enough for Italy, for a season in
Paris, for a little sport in Hungary, even for a month or two at Melton.
I hesitated, and while I hesitated the thing closed in upon me again.
Then your father and I came up against one another once more, and I
began it all over again."
"Am I right," she asked softly, "in imagining that just now things are
going a little wrong?"
"I am fighting for my life," he said tersely. "Wherever I have turned
during the last few months I seem to have encountered the opposition of
your father's millions. Our sales are going down day by day. The great
advertisers are practically ignoring us. We are losing money fast. That
is what happens to any one who dares to raise a finger against the
accursed idols of this country. Three of the greatest advertisement
contractors have given us notice that they have struck off our paper
from their list. It is your father's doings, Stella. I had hoped
something from this illness of his, but the thing goes on. Do you know
whether he is really laid up, or whether this is part of a scheme?"
"I am not sure," she answered. "I have been told to-day that it is part
of a scheme."
"Who told you?" he asked quickly.
"Peter Littleson," she answered. "I have been lunching with him."
"Peter Littleson!" he interrupted. "But he is one of your father's
allies! He and Bardsley and Weiss and your father are what they call
here 'The Invincibles!'"
She nodded.
"I am not sure," she answered, "but I fancy there is going to be a
split."
He was interested now, almost eager.
"Tell me what you know!" he begged.
"I know this," she answered; "that Littleson asked me to lunch to-day to
find out whether my father's illness was genuine or not, and he gave me
to understand that they suspected him of playing them false. I believe
that as usual my father has the best of it. Peter Littleson admitted to
me that just now, at any rate, he held them all in the hollow of
his hand."
Norris Vine looked out of the window for a moment. His face was haggard.
"I have begun," he said slowly, "to lose faith in myself, and when one
does that here the end is not far off. I believe that Littleson is
right, Stella. I believe that your father, if it pleased him, could take
them one by one and break them, as he is doing me."
"Supposing, on the other hand," she said, "something were to happen so
that they were in a position to break him?"
"Then," he answered coolly, "it would be the very best thing that could
happen for the country and for me. There's no morality about
speculation, of course, and the finance of this country is one of the
most ghastly things in the world. All the same, there are degrees of
rascality, and there is no one who has sinned against every law of
decency and respect for his fellows like Phineas Duge. What are you
doing to-night, Stella? Will you dine with me?"
She shook her head.
"Not to-night, Norris," she said. "I have something else to do; but
before I go I want you to answer me a question. Once before, when my
father had you in a corner, I helped you out, and you know the price
I paid."
He leaned toward her, but she waved him away.
"No!" she said, "I am not reminding you of that because I want anything
from you, but listen. Supposing I could help you out again? Supposing I
could give you something for your paper which would produce the greatest
sensation which New York has ever known? Would you promise to realize at
any loss, and give it up? Leave America altogether and go to Europe?"
"Yes!" he said, "I think I would promise that."
She rose to her feet. He approached her a little hesitatingly, but she
waved him back.
"No, don't kiss me, Norris," she said.
He protested, but she still drew herself away.
"My dear Norris," she said, "please do not think because I show some
interest in your affairs, that you are forced to offer me this sort of
payment. There, don't say anything, because I don't want to be angry
with you. If you knew more about women, you would know that there is
nothing one resents so much in the world as affection that is offered in
the way that you were offering me your kiss just then. Please come and
put me in the elevator. I am going now. You will hear from me in a day
or two. I shall write and ask myself to dinner."
He took her outside and rang the bell for the elevator. They stood for a
moment in front of the steel gate.
"I am afraid," he said quietly, "that in your heart you must think me an
ungrateful beast."
"Yes!" she answered, "I suppose I do! But then all men are ungrateful,
and there are worse things even than ingratitude."
The lift shot up and the door was swung back. There was no time for any
further adieux. Norris Vine walked slowly back into his office, with his
hands clasped behind his back.
CHAPTER XI
MR. LITTLESON, FLATTERER
Once more a little luncheon was in progress at the corner table in the
millionaires' club. This time Littleson also was of the party. He had
been describing his luncheon of the day before to his friends.
"I am dead sure of one thing," he declared. "She is on our side, and I
honestly believe that she means getting that paper."
"But she hasn't even the entrée to the house now," Weiss objected.
"There are plenty of the servants there," Littleson answered, "whom she
must know very well, and through whom she could get in, especially if
Phineas is really up in his room. I tell you fellows, I truly believe
we'll have that wretched document in our hands by this time to-morrow."
"The day I see it in ashes," Bardsley muttered, "I'll stand you fellows
a magnum of Pommery '92."
"I wonder," Weiss remarked, "what sort of terms she is on with her
cousin, the little girl with the big eyes."
"I wish to Heaven one of you could make friends with that child!"
Bardsley exclaimed. "I'd give a tidy lot to know whether Phineas Duge
lies there on his bed, or whether his hand is on the telephone half the
time. You are sure, Littleson, that Dick Losting is in Europe?"
"Absolutely certain," Littleson answered. "I had a letter from him dated
Paris only yesterday."
"Then who in God's name is shaking the Chicago markets like this!"
Bardsley declared, striking the newspaper which lay by his side with the
palm of his hand. "You notice, too, the stocks which are being hit are
all ours, every one of them. Damn! If Phineas should be sitting up there
in his room with that hideous little smile upon his lips, talking and
talking across the wires hour after hour, while we hang round like
idiots and play his game! It's maddening to think of."
"Oh, rot!" Littleson declared. "You can imagine everything if you try.
There are the doctor's bulletins! We've had a dozen detectives all round
the place, and there is not a single murmur of his having been seen by
any one, or known to have even dictated a letter."
"I've never known him sick for a day in my life," Bardsley said thickly.
"It must come some time," Littleson answered. "It's always these men
who've never been ill at all, who come down suddenly. I'm not going to
worry myself about nothing. Our only mistake was in the way that child
was handled. I think Weiss frightened her."
Weiss shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps I did," he said. "You see I'm not a fashionable young spark
like you. Why the devil don't you go and call on her? It's only a civil
thing to do. You are supposed to be one of her uncle's greatest friends,
and he's supposed to be dangerously ill. Go and call on her this
afternoon. Put on your best clothes and your Paris manners. You ought to
be able to get something out of a child from the backwoods. If you talk
to her cleverly you can at least find out whether Phineas is playing the
game or not."
Littleson nodded.
"I'll call directly after lunch," he said. "Perhaps I could get her to
come out for a ride. I'll try, anyhow, and ring you fellows up
afterwards at the club."
"Don't bother her any more about the paper," Weiss said. "She'll get
suspicious at once if you do. Try and make friends with her. This thing
may drag on for a week or so."
Littleson nodded and left them soon afterwards. He went to his rooms,
changed into calling attire, and before four o'clock his automobile was
outside the mansion in Fifth Avenue, and he himself waiting in the
drawing-room for Virginia. She came to him with very little delay, and
welcomed him quite naturally.
"I am afraid," he said, "that you must look upon callers as rather a
nuisance just now, but we are all very anxious about your uncle, and I
thought I would like to hear something more than that little bulletin
outside tells us."
She motioned him to sit down.
"You are very kind," she said. "My uncle is really about the same. The
doctor thinks he may be able to get up in about a week."
"Is there any--specific disease?" he asked, hesitatingly.
"I think not," she answered. "I don't understand all that the doctor
says. It seems to me that all you men here lead such strenuous lives
that you have no time to be ill. You simply wait until you collapse."
"I'm afraid that's true, Miss Longworth," he said, "and if you will
forgive my saying so, I fancy you have been doing a little too much
yourself, worrying and looking after your uncle. Can't I tempt you out
for a little way in my automobile? It's a delightful afternoon."
She shook her head.
"You are very kind," she said, "but I seem to be the only person for
whom my uncle asks sometimes, and he is awake just now. I should not
like to be away."
"He is conscious, then?" Littleson asked.
"Perfectly," she answered.
"I suppose it is quite useless asking to see him?"
"Quite. The doctor would never allow it. He has to be kept absolutely
quiet, and free from excitement,"
"I hope," he said, "that he did not hear anything of the attempted
burglary the other night?"
Virginia smiled very faintly, and her dark eyes rested for a moment upon
his.
"No!" she answered, "we kept that from him. You see nothing was really
stolen. As a matter of fact there was so little in that room which could
have been of any value to any one."
"Exactly!" he answered, feeling a little uncomfortable.
"There are so many lovely things all over the house," she continued,
"that it has puzzled me very much why they should have chosen to try
only to break open that desk in the library. It seems queer,
doesn't it?"
"Perhaps it does," he admitted. "On the other hand, they might have
thought that your uncle had bonds and papers worth a great deal more
than any of the ordinary treasures they could collect."
"Well," she said, "they got nothing at all. Somehow, I don't fancy," she
added, "that my uncle is the sort of man to keep valuable things where
they could possibly be stolen."
He determined to be a little daring. He raised his eyebrows, and looked
at her with a smile which was meant to be humorous.
"Fortunate for him that he doesn't," he answered, "for, frankly, if I
knew where to find it, I should certainly steal that document that Mr.
Weiss came and worried you about. We ought to have it. If it got into
any one's hands except your uncle's, it would be the most serious thing
that ever happened to any of us."
"I don't think," she said reassuringly, "that you need worry. My uncle
does not part easily with things which he believes have value."
He laughed, not quite naturally.
"I see," he said, "that you are beginning to appreciate your uncle."
"One learns all manner of things," she answered, "very quickly here."
He looked at her with more attention than he had as yet bestowed upon
her. She was very slim, but wonderfully elegant, and her clothes, though
simple, were absolutely perfect. Her eyes certainly were marvellous. Her
complexion had not altogether lost the duskiness which came from her
outdoor life. Her hair was parted in the middle, after a fashion of her
own, and coming rather low on the back of her head, gave her the
appearance of being younger even than she was. Stella's beauty was
perhaps the most pronounced, but this girl, he felt, was unique. He
looked thoughtfully into her eyes. Her whole expression and manner were
so delightfully simple and girlish, that he found it almost impossible
to believe that she was playing a part.
They talked for a little while upon purely general subjects, the Opera,
her new friends, the whole social life of the city, of which he was a
somewhat prominent part. She talked easily and naturally, and he
flattered himself that he was making a good impression. When at last he
rose to take his leave, he made one more venture.
"I don't know," he said, "whether you get bothered by your uncle's
business affairs at all while he is laid up, but I hope you will
remember that if I can be of any service, I am practically one of his
partners, and I understand all his affairs. You must please send for me
if I can be of the slightest use to you."
She had apparently listened to him for the first part of his sentence
with her usual air of polite interest. Suddenly, however, she started,
and her attention wandered. She crossed quickly toward the bell and
rang it.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Littleson," she said. "I won't forget what you
have said. Do you mind excusing me? I fancy that I am wanted."
She left the room as the servant whom she had summoned arrived to show
her visitor out. Was it her fancy, or had she indeed heard the soft
ringing of the burglar alarm which she had had attached to the library
door on the other side of the hall!
CHAPTER XII
STELLA SUCCEEDS
Virginia crossed the hall with rapid footsteps, and entered the library.
She realized at once that she had not been deceived, but she started
back in surprise when she discovered who it was standing before the
roll-top desk and regarding it contemplatively. Stella looked up, and
the eyes of the two girls met. Stella nodded, apparently quite at
her ease.
"How are you, cousin Virginia?" she said. "You see I have come back home
to play the part of the repentant daughter."
Virginia was a little distressed. She closed the door behind her and
came further into the room.
"Stella," she said, "I am very sorry, but while your father is ill he
does not like any one to come into this room."
Stella seated herself in his chair.
"Quite right," she said. "I hope you will be careful to keep them out.
He always has such a lot of secrets, and I know that he hates to have
people prying round."
Virginia felt that she had never received a more embarrassing visitor.
"Would you mind, Stella," she said, "coming into the drawing-room with
me? This room is supposed to be locked up. You knew the catch in the
door, of course, or you could not have come in."
"Yes! I know the catch," Stella answered, "and, my dear child, you must
forgive my saying so, but I have lived here for some years, and it is
still home to me. You, on the other hand, have been here a few weeks. I
know you don't mean anything unkind, but just because I have quarrelled
a little with my father, you must not tell me which rooms I may enter,
and which I may not. I am going to stay here for half an hour, and write
some letters."
"You can write them in any other room in the house," Virginia declared,
"but not here. It is impossible."
Stella smiled and shrugged her shoulders as she sat down.
"I am sorry," she said, "but this is where I mean to write them. You
must remember that this house belongs to my father. You are here
temporarily in my place. I have not bothered you very much, and it is a
very simple thing that I ask. I want to make use of this room, to write
a few letters here. After that I shall go away."
The troubled frown on Virginia's face grew deeper.
"My dear Stella," she said, "although nothing would please me better
than to see your father and you friends again, you must know that he
allows no one to enter these rooms when his secretary is away. In fact,
as you know, the door was closed, and if you had not known the secret of
the catch, you could not have entered."
"Well," Stella repeated carelessly, "since I am here, I am here. Please
unlock this desk and give me some writing paper."
"I cannot unlock it," Virginia answered. "You must know that."
"But you have the keys," Stella interposed.
"If I have," Virginia declared, "it is because your father trusted me
with them."
"Perhaps," Stella said, leaning a little forward in her chair, "you have
also the keys of that wonderful little hiding place of his that he
showed me one day."
"Perhaps I have," Virginia answered, "but if so, no other person in the
world will ever know about it."
"You won't even open the desk for me, then?" Stella said.
"Certainly not," Virginia answered. "Your father's orders to me were
quite explicit."
"You do not suppose," Stella asked, "that he meant to exclude his own
daughter?"
"How can I tell?" Virginia answered. "I know nothing of the trouble
there was between you two," she added more softly, "It is not my affair,
although nothing would please me more than to see you friends again. If
you will come into the drawing-room and wait, I will go upstairs and
try and persuade him to see you."
Stella shook her head.
"It would be of no use," she said. "He is frightfully obstinate, and I
shall never have a chance of making my peace with him again unless I can
come upon him unexpectedly."
"Well," Virginia said, "he is not likely to be downstairs to-day, and,
Stella, don't be angry with me, but I must really ask you to leave
this room."
"Thank you," Stella answered coldly. "I am at home here, and I mean to
stay so long as I choose. It is you who are the intruder. If you have
any sense at all, you will go away and play with your dolls. You can't
have left them very long, and I'm sure it is a more fitting amusement
for you than ordering me about my father's house."
Virginia moved up and down the room. The tears were already in her eyes;
she was utterly and completely perplexed.
"Stella," she said, "you know what sort of a man your father is. If he
learns that you have been here in this room, he will never forgive me.
He will send me home, and that would be hateful, for many, many reasons.
Do please be reasonable, and come away with me now into one of the other
rooms. I will do all that I can to bring you two together."
Stella seemed to have made up her mind to quarrel with her cousin. Her
face was white and hard. She laughed a little scornfully before
she answered.
"You bring us together!" she exclaimed. "Do you think that I don't
understand you better than that? I know very well that you are much too
pleased with your position here, and you are afraid that if my father
forgave me and I came back, you would have to go home again. Don't think
that I don't understand."
Virginia walked to the window, and stood there several moments looking
out upon the avenue. Her eyes were quite dry now, and a spot of colour
was burning in her cheeks. The injustice of her cousin's words had
checked the tears, but they had also achieved their purpose. She turned
slowly round.
"Very well, Stella," she said, "I will not interfere with you any more,
but I am going to do exactly what is my duty. Will you leave this
room or not?"
"When I am ready," Stella answered, "not before!"
Virginia crossed the room, meaning to ring the bell. Stella, springing
quickly from her seat, caught her cousin up, and seizing her by the
shoulders, turned her round. Then she calmly locked the door of the room
in which they were, on the inside.
* * * * *
About an hour afterwards, the elder of Phineas Duge's secretaries,
Robert Smedley, entered the bedroom at the top of the house with some
precipitation, and turned a white face towards his master. Phineas Duge,
fully dressed, was entering some figures in a small memorandum book on
the table before him.
"Mr. Duge," the young man exclaimed, "forgive me for disturbing you, but
I think that if you feel strong enough you ought to come downstairs into
the library at once."
Phineas Duge did not hesitate. There was a light in his eyes which
transformed his face. He knew as though by inspiration something of what
had happened. He took the back stairs, and descending at a pace quite
extraordinary for a sick man, he was inside the library in less than a
minute. It was easy to see that Smedley's alarm had not been altogether
ill-founded. A chair was overturned; Virginia was lying face downwards
upon the floor in front of the desk. Phineas Duge dropped his cigarette,
and fell on his knees by her side. Then he saw that her hands and feet
were tied with an antimacassar torn into strips, and a rude sort of gag
was in her mouth. She opened her eyes at his touch, and moaned slightly.
In a moment or two he had released her from her bonds, and removed the
handkerchief which had been tied into her mouth.
"Fetch some brandy," he told the young man, "and keep your mouth shut
about this. You understand?"
"Sure, sir!"
The young man hurried away. Duge was still stooping down, with his arm
around Virginia's waist. Gradually she began to recover herself. She
looked all round the room, as though in search of some one. Her uncle
asked her no questions. He saw that she was rapidly regaining
consciousness, and he waited. Smedley returned with the brandy. Together
they forced a little between her lips, and watched the colour coming
back into her cheeks. Then Phineas Duge withdrew his arm and walked to
the other side of the desk. On the floor were the broken fragments of
Virginia's locket. The carpet had been torn up. The steel coffer, with
the keys still in it, was there half open. He slid back the lid, and
taking out a few of the topmost papers, ran them through his fingers.
There was no doubt about it. The document was missing. He returned to
the chair to which he had carried Virginia.
"Are you well enough now," he asked, "to tell me about this?"
She raised herself in her chair, and looked with fascinated eyes toward
that spot in the carpet.
"Has anything gone?" she asked.
"Yes!" her uncle answered shortly. "I want to know how it was that any
one got into this room, and who it was. Quickly, please!"
"I was in the drawing-room talking to Mr. Littleson," Virginia said,
"when I heard the small alarm bell that I had had fitted on to the
library door ring. I came in and found Stella here. She locked me in.
She is very strong. I had no idea that she was so strong," Virginia
murmured, half closing her eyes and fainting away.
He hurried to her side, and forced some more brandy between her lips.
Then he laid her flat on the floor, and began to walk up and down.
"So this is Stella's work," he muttered to himself. "That accounts for
the message I had yesterday, that she was seen driving with Littleson.
What she did for that blackguard Vine, she has done for them!"
His face, no longer an amiable one, grew sterner as he walked backwards
and forwards, his hands behind him, his eyes fixed upon the carpet. He
had staked a good deal on his possession of this hold upon the men who
had been his associates. The whole situation had to be readjusted in the
altered light of events. The first impulse of the man, to act, seemed
strangled almost at its birth by the absolute futility of any move he
could possibly make. He had no idea where to find his daughter, with
whom she was living, or how. Any publicity of any sort was of course out
of the question. No wonder that his frown grew heavier as he realized
more completely the helplessness of his position. He was a man
unaccustomed to failure, whose career through life had been one smooth
road of success and triumph. His touch seemed to have transformed the
very dust heaps into gold, and the barren wastes into prosperous cities.
The shadow of failure had never fallen across his path. Now that it had
come he was bewildered. An ordinary reverse he could have met resolutely
enough. This was something stupendous, something against which the
ordinary weapons of his will were altogether powerless. Try as he might,
he could not see his way ahead. He was too deeply involved for any one
to gauge the position accurately. A knock at the door. Phineas Duge
looked up, and paused for a moment in his restless walk. He opened it
cautiously and let in young Smedley, a tall, broad-shouldered young man.
"Come in, Smedley," he said shortly. "I have been wanting you."
The young man looked straight across at Virginia, still stretched upon
the floor, and he took a quick step in her direction.
"What did you find was the matter with Miss Longworth, sir?" he asked.
"Is she ill?"
Duge glanced carelessly towards his niece.
"She's only a little faint," he said. "There's matter enough here
without that."
"What is it, sir?" the young man demanded.
Phineas Duge looked at him for a moment in silence, while he decided how
much to tell.
"You remember my daughter Stella?" he asked abruptly.
The young man looked serious.
"I remember Miss Duge quite well," he answered.
"She has been here this afternoon. This is her work," Duge said grimly.
"We had some trouble before, you know, about that Canadian Pacific
report. It was after that, that I was obliged to send her away
altogether."
The young man looked swiftly around the room.
"Has she taken anything?" he began.
"Nothing of importance," Phineas Duge answered calmly, "but that doesn't
alter the fact that she might have done so!"
CHAPTER XIII
BEARDING THE LION
Early the next morning, Littleson's automobile dashed up to the door of
Weiss' office. Without even waiting to be announced, its owner pushed
his way through the clerk's office and entered the private room of
his friend.
"Heard the news?" he demanded quickly.
"No! What is it?" Weiss asked.
"Phineas Duge is in the city. He was going into Harrigold's as I came
out. I tried to speak to him, but he cut me dead. They say that he has
sent for all his brokers, and is coming on this market heavily!"
"Then his illness was a fake after all," Weiss declared. "We can't stand
this, though. I'll get on to his office. We must speak to him."
He gave some rapid instructions to a clerk whom he had summoned, then
took a printed sheet of prices from a machine which ticked at his elbow.
"If it's war," he muttered, "we shall have to fight hard, but what I
don't understand is why he wants to break with us."
The clerk re-entered the room.
"There is a young lady here," he said, "who wishes to speak to you,
sir."
"Name?" Weiss demanded curtly.
"Miss Virginia Longworth," he answered.
Weiss and Littleson exchanged quick glances.
"Show her in at once," Weiss ordered. "What do you suppose this means?"
he asked, turning to Littleson.
The young man had no time to reply. Almost immediately Virginia was
ushered into the office. She was very pale, and there were dark lines
under her eyes. Stephen Weiss rose at once, and Littleson hastened to
offer her a chair, but she took no notice. They could see that she was
agitated, and she seemed to find some difficulty in commencing what she
had to say.
"What can I have the pleasure of doing for you, Miss Longworth?" Weiss
asked. "I hope that you have come to tell me--"
"I have come to tell you that you are both thieves!" she interrupted.
"If you do not give me back that paper, I don't care what my uncle says,
I shall go to the police station."
The men exchanged swift glances. Littleson suddenly started. He drew
Weiss on one side.
"Stella has got it," he whispered, in a tone of triumph. "Get rid of
this girl easily. That is what she must mean."
Weiss turned round and faced her.
"My dear Miss Longworth," he said, "a thief I would have been if I could
have found the chance, and a thief I would have made of you if you would
have stolen that paper for me, because I considered that it belonged to
us, and we had a moral right to take it. But the fact remains that we
have not got it. When I heard your name announced I hoped that you had
brought it to us."
"You have not got it!" she repeated contemptuously.
"Upon my honour we have not!" Littleson declared.
"Perhaps," she said, turning to him, "you will deny that it was you who
incited my cousin Stella to come and rob her own father?"
The two men exchanged swift glances. Littleson's surmise had been
correct then. It was Stella who had succeeded where the others
had failed!
"We know nothing of Miss Duge," Littleson said, "nor have we received
the paper nor any news of it. If Miss Stella has stolen it, she has not
brought it to us. That is all I can tell you."
Virginia read truth in their faces. She turned away.
"Oh, I do not understand!" she said. "Perhaps I have made a mistake. I
will go."
She hurried outside to the automobile which was waiting, and drove to
the address which Stella had given her. It was a kind of residential
hotel, and a boy in the hall took her up in the lift to the floor on
which Stella's rooms were. She knocked at the door. Stella herself
opened it. She started back when she saw who her visitor was.
"You!" she exclaimed.
Virginia stepped into the room.
"Yes!" she answered. "What have you done with the paper that you stole
from the safe?"
Stella closed the door and looked at her cousin thoughtfully. She had
evidently been busy packing. Dresses and hats lay about on the bed, and
in the next room the maid was busy emptying the cupboards. Stella closed
the communicating door.
"Why have you come here?" she said to Virginia. "You don't suppose I ran
risks like that, to possess myself of a thing which I meant to give up.
Oh! you need not look as though you were going to spring at me. I have
not got it here, I can assure you. I parted with it hours ago!"
"To whom?" Virginia demanded.
"My father will find out some day, perhaps," Stella answered. "I don't
see that it's so much his affair. The men who have to pay for their
folly are the men who deserve to pay. I see that my father was too
cunning to write his name down with theirs."
"You mean," Virginia demanded, "that you have not given it to Mr.
Littleson and his friends?"
"Not I!" Stella laughed,--"although they offered me one hundred
thousand dollars for it."
Virginia sat down on the bed. She had not slept all night, and she had
eaten no breakfast.
"Stella," she said, looking at her cousin with her big eyes full of
tears, and her voice becoming unsteady, "you have done a very, very
cruel thing. You have ruined my life. Your father had done so much for
my people, and now he is going to stop it all and send me back to them.
You can't imagine what it means to be thrown back into such poverty. It
isn't for myself I mind; it is for their sakes."
"I don't see," Stella answered, "how my father can blame you."
Virginia shook her head sadly.
"Your father is one of those men," she said, "who judges only by
results. He trusted me, and whether it was my fault or my misfortune, I
was a failure. Stella, does it mean so much to you, after all, that you
should keep that paper? Why don't you bring it back and be reconciled to
your father? I should be quite content to go away; anything so long as
he gets it back. Don't you understand that after he has been so kind, I
hate the feeling that I have been so abject a failure?"
Stella smiled a little bitterly.
"It is my turn," she said, "to tell you that you do not understand my
father. He would never forgive me, nor do I want him to. If you think
that I was the tool of these men Littleson and Weiss, you make a
mistake. What I did, I did for the sake of the only man I have ever
cared for. Never mind his name, never mind who he is. But if it makes my
father any happier, you can tell him that his friends are no nearer
safety now than they were when the paper was in his keeping."
Virginia looked around the room drearily.
"You are going away?" she said.
"I am going to Europe," Stella answered. "I hate America. I hate the
whole atmosphere here. It is a vile, unnatural life. I am going to try
and live somewhere where people are simpler, and where life is not made
up of gambling and plotting and senseless luxuries. I am tired to death
of it all!"
"You are going to be married?"
Stella turned away and hid her face.
"No!" she said, "I do not think so."
There was a short silence. Virginia rose to her feet.
"Well," she said, "I think you have been a little unkind to me, Stella.
I could have reached the bell and stopped you, only I hated to seem rude
in your father's house."
"I am sorry," Stella said simply. "You see I am like all those other
poor fools who care for a man. I put him first, and everybody else
nowhere. Don't be afraid that I shall not have to suffer for it. I dare
say if you know me, or anything about me, in five years' time, you will
feel that you have had your revenge. If you take my advice, little
girl," she added, speaking more kindly, "you will go back to your
farmhouse and take up your simpler life there. I do not fancy that you
were made for cities, or the ways of cities. I lived in the country
once, and I was a very different sort of person. Run away now. I can do
nothing for you, so it is no use staying, but if ever you need help, the
ordinary, commonplace sort of help, I mean, write to me to Baring's,
either in London or Paris. I'll do what I can."
Virginia went out again into the street and drove back home.
Mechanically she changed her clothes and dressed for dinner. At eight
o'clock she descended, shivering. Her uncle was already in his place. He
rose as she entered, gravely, and took his place again as she sank into
hers. His face was like a mask. He said nothing, and the few remarks
which he made during dinner-time were on purely ordinary topics. There
was only a minute or two, after the dessert had been placed upon the
table and the remaining man servant had gone out with a message, during
which they were alone. Then Virginia summoned up her courage to speak of
the matter which was like a nightmare in her thoughts.
"Uncle," she said, "I think you ought to know this. I went to Mr. Weiss'
office. He did not know that the paper was not still in your keeping. I
went to Stella, and she told me that she had not taken it for them. She
told me that they had offered her one hundred thousand dollars for it,
but she never had any idea of letting them have it."
If Phineas Duge was surprised, he showed no signs of it, only he looked
steadily into his niece's face for a moment or two before he replied.
"Stella," he said coldly, "has taken her goods to a poor market. Norris
Vine is on the brink of ruin. If I turn the screw to-morrow, he must
come down."
He sipped his wine for a moment thoughtfully. Then a grim, hard smile
parted his lips.
"No wonder," he said, "that my friends are still in something of a
panic."
Virginia rose in her place. It seemed as though her appearance was
woebegone enough to soften the heart of any man, but Phineas Duge looked
into her face unmoved.
"Uncle," she said, "I am no longer any use to you. I think that I had
better go home."
He took out his pocket-book, looked through its contents, and passed it
across the table to her.
"As you will," he answered. "I have a great weakness which I am always
ready to admit. I cannot bear the presence about me of people who have
failed. You have become one of them, and I do not wish you to remain
here. If," he added, speaking more slowly, and looking meditatively
into the decanter by his side, "if you saw any chance by which, with
the help of what you will find in that pocket-book, a little
application, a little ingenuity, and a good deal of perseverance, you
could undo some part of the mischief which your carelessness has caused,
then, of course, I should lose that feeling concerning you, and your
place here would be open for your return. It would probably, also, be to
the advantage of your people if any such idea as this resulted in
successful action on your part. There is enough in that pocket-book," he
added, "to take you where you will, and to enable you to live as you
will for the remainder of the year, and during that time your people
also are provided for. I leave the matter in your hands."
He turned and left the room. Virginia stood at the end of the table,
clasping the pocket-book in her hands, and watching his retreating
figure. He opened and closed the door. She sank back into her place for
a moment and covered her face with her hands. For a moment she forgot
where she was. The perfume of the roses, with which the table was laden,
had somehow reminded her of the little farmhouse with its humble garden,
far up amongst the hills.
CHAPTER XIV
STELLA PROVES OBSTINATE
Littleson reached the hotel where Stella lived just in time to find the
hall full of her trunks, and Stella herself, in dark travelling clothes
and heavily veiled, in the act of saying farewell to the manager. He
came up to her eagerly.
"I seem to be just in time, Miss Duge," he said. "You are going away?"
"I am certainly going away," she answered. "Did you wish to see me?"
Her manner took him a little aback. Nevertheless he reflected that there
were a good many people within hearing, and she was right to
be cautious.
"Can I have three words with you?" he begged, "alone, anywhere?"
She led him into a sitting-room, which was fortunately empty.
"Well," she said, continuing to draw on her gloves, "what do you want,
Mr. Littleson?"
"You know very well what I want," he answered quickly. "I have my
cheque-book in my pocket, and I am ready to pay over the hundred
thousand dollars. I know that you have the paper. If you like to wait
for ten minutes, you can have the money in dollars."
"How do you know that I have the paper?" she asked calmly.
"Your cousin, Miss Virginia, has been to our office," he answered. "She
thought, naturally, that you had brought it straight to us. I don't know
whether she seriously expected that we would give it up again, but that
seemed to be the object of her visit. At any rate, we learnt that you
had succeeded."
Stella was busy with the last finger of her glove.
"Yes!" she said, "I succeeded. It was a brutal action, and I shall never
quite forgive myself for it, but I got the paper."
"Well?" he said.
"Well?" she answered calmly.
A horrible misgiving came over him.
"You haven't parted with it?" he demanded anxiously. "You haven't let
your father have it back again?"
"I have not parted with it," she answered, "to my father. On the other
hand, I certainly have not got it. A hundred thousand dollars is a good
deal of money, Mr. Littleson; but I did not commit theft for the benefit
of you and your friends."
"What do you mean?" he asked hoarsely.
"Exactly what I say," she answered. "The paper is in safe keeping. You
will probably hear before long who has it."
Littleson was speechless. All manner of horrible fears oppressed him.
"You must tell me," he insisted hoarsely, "where it is, who has got it!
This is infamous! Why, if I had not told you--"
"I should not have known anything about it," she interrupted. "Quite
true! I suppose I ought to thank you. However, as I say, the paper is in
safe hands, but not my father's. You will probably hear something about
it before long."
"For God's sake, tell me who has it, Miss Duge!" he implored. "You can't
understand what this means to us. We were fools to sign it, I know; but
your father insisted, and we had, I suppose, a weak moment. After all,
there isn't anything so very terrible about it. We have a right to
protect ourselves, we of the Trusts, whether our cause be just or not."
"Exactly!" she admitted. "No doubt you will have a case. I hope you will
find, supposing the worst happens, that popular sympathy will be on your
side. Most things are bought and sold in this country. I don't quite
know how the American public will appreciate this attempted buying of
the conscience of her public men. It might perhaps make you temporarily
a little unpopular, necessitate a trip to Europe perhaps, or something
of that sort. Well, I wish you well out of it, and now I must really go.
If you do have to come across in a hurry, Mr. Littleson, I may see
something of you in Paris."
"You are going to Europe, then?" he asked breathlessly.
"By to-morrow morning's boat," she answered. "I am going to send my
trunks down to the steamer, and stay with some friends to-night."
"At least," he begged, "come down and see Bardsley and Weiss. I'll take
you down in the automobile. It shall not detain you five minutes."
She shook her head.
"I cannot see the faintest use," she answered, "in my going to visit
your friends. I have really and absolutely parted with the paper, and
the person in whose possession it is will no doubt communicate
with you."
"His name?" Littleson demanded. "I must know his name."
"That," she answered, "I decline to tell you; but I dare say, if you
hurry back to Mr. Weiss' office, you will find some news for you. Don't
look so angry. We all have our own game to play, you know, Mr.
Littleson. I dare say I have behaved a little shabbily to you, but, you
see, I had myself to consider, and in New York you know what that means.
_Au revoir!_ I have an idea that I may see something of you in Europe."
She left Littleson, who went round to the bar of the hotel and had a big
drink. Then he lit a cigarette and returned to his automobile.
"Well," he muttered, as he swung round toward the city, "I may as well
go back and face the music...!"
Weiss' offices were crowded when Littleson returned. There was
excitement upon 'Change, clerks were rushing about, telephones were
ringing. Weiss himself, with his coat off, stood in the midst of it all,
giving orders, answering the telephone, exchanging a few hurried words
with numberless callers. He had a big unlit cigar in his mouth, which he
was constantly chewing. He pushed Littleson into his private office, but
he did not follow him for some time. When at last he came in, the uproar
outside was declining. It was five o'clock, and business was over for
the day. Weiss went to a small cupboard and took out a whisky bottle and
some glasses. Before he spoke a word he had tossed off a drink.
"Big day?" Littleson asked, mechanically.
"The devil's own day!" Weiss groaned. "We are in it now thick, all of
us, you and I, Higgins and Bardsley. Do you know that every minute of
the time Phineas Duge was supposed to be lying on his back, he was
buying on the Chicago market?"
"I am not surprised," Littleson answered. "It seems to me we ought to be
able to hold our own, though."
"We may," Weiss answered, "but it's a big thing. Even if we come out
safe, we shall come out losers. Well, did you see the girl?"
Littleson nodded.
"I saw her," he answered drily. "I fancy things are not moving our way
particularly just now, Weiss."
"She has not the paper after all?" Weiss exclaimed.
"She has had it and parted with it," Littleson answered.
Weiss removed his unlit cigar from his mouth, and drew a little breath.
"You d----d fool!" he said. "You bungled things, then?"
"I scarcely see where the bungling comes in," Littleson answered. "I
offered her a hundred thousand dollars for that paper. She took the tip
and got it somehow. How could I tell that she had another scheme in
her mind?"
"One hundred thousand dollars!" Weiss muttered. "Better have offered her
a million and made sure of it. We shall have to pay that now, I expect.
Who's got it?"
"She would not tell me," Littleson answered.
Weiss felt his forehead. It was wringing wet. He went to the cupboard,
poured out another drink, and lit his cigar.
"Did she give you any idea?" he asked.
"None at all!" Littleson answered. "Some one seems to have outbid us. I
only know that it was not Phineas."
Weiss leaned back in his chair.
"It just shows," he said under his breath, "what fools the shrewdest of
us can be sometimes. There were you and I, and Higgins and Bardsley,
four men who have held our own, and more than held our own, in the
innermost circle of this thieves' kitchen. And yet, when Phineas Duge
sprung that thing upon us, and we saw the thunderbolt coming, we were
like frightened sheep, glad to do anything he suggested, glad to sign
our names even to that d----d paper. Do you realize, Littleson, that we
may have to leave the country?"
"If we do," he answered, "we are done for--I am at least. I am in
Canadian Pacifics too deep. If I cannot keep the ball rolling here, I
can never pull through."
"It all depends," Weiss said, "into whose hands that paper has gone. A
week's grace is all I want, time enough to fight this thing out
with Duge."
"Has he been near you?" Littleson asked. "Has he offered any
explanation?"
Weiss shrugged his shoulders.
"None," he answered. "That little fool of a Leslie, the outside broker,
must have given us away. I was afraid of him from the first. He was
always Duge's man."
A clerk knocked at the door. He entered, bearing a card.
"Mr. Norris Vine wishes to see you, sir!" he announced.
Weiss and Littleson exchanged swift glances. The same thought flashed
into both their minds. Neither spoke for fully a minute. Then Weiss,
with the card crumpled up in his hand, turned to the clerk, and his
voice sounded as though it came from a great distance.
"Show him in," he said.
Littleson sank into a chair. His eyes were still fixed upon his
companion's.
"God in heaven!" he muttered.
CHAPTER XV
THE WARNING
Norris Vine shook hands with neither of the two men he greeted upon
entering the room. Weiss, now that he felt that a crisis of some sort
was at hand, recovered altogether from the nervous excitement of the
last few minutes. He bowed courteously, if a little coldly, to Vine, and
motioning him to a chair, took his own place in the seat before his
desk. His manner was composed, his face was set and stern. Behind his
spectacles his eyes steadfastly watched the countenance of the man whose
coming might mean so much. Littleson, taking his cue, did his best also
to feign indifference. He leaned against a writing-table, close to where
Vine was sitting, and taking out his case, carefully selected and lit a
cigarette.
"Well, Mr. Vine," Weiss said, "what can we do for you? Are you too going
to join in the hustle for wealth? Have you any commissions for us? You
will forgive me if I ask you to come to the point quickly. Things are
moving about here just now, and we have little time to ourselves. By the
by, you know Littleson, I suppose? Your business with me is not so
private that you object to his remaining?"
"Certainly not," Vine answered calmly. "As a matter of fact, my business
concerns also Mr. Littleson. In fact, there are two other of your
friends whom I should have been equally glad to have seen here."
"Indeed!" Weiss answered. "You mean?"
"Mr. Bardsley and Mr. Seth Higgins," Vine replied.
"No doubt," Weiss said, "Littleson and I will be able to convey to them
anything you may have to say. Come to the point! What is it? Are you
going to write another of your sledge-hammer articles, damning us all to
hell? Perhaps you have come here for a little information as to our
methods. We will do our best to help you. There are times when we fear
enemies less than friends."
"I, certainly," Vine remarked, "do not come here as a friend, and yet,"
he added, "I am not sure that mine might not be called to some extent a
visit of friendship. I have come here to warn you."
Weiss reached out his hand for a box of cigars, and biting the end off
one, put it unlit into his mouth. He half offered the box to Vine, who,
however, shook his head.
"Come," he said, "you are a little enigmatic. There is only one sort of
business we understand here. People come to buy or to sell. Have you
anything to sell?"
Norris Vine smiled quietly, as though at some thought which was passing
through his brain. He raised his eyes to Weiss', and looked him
steadily in the face.
"I am in possession," he said, "of something which I think, Mr. Weiss,
you would give half your fortune to buy, but I have not come here to
sell. I have come here to warn you of the instant use to which I propose
to put a certain document, signed by you and Littleson, Bardsley and
Seth Higgins. It seems that you have entered into a conspiracy to remove
from their places in the Government of this country the men who are
pledged to the fight against the Trusts which you control. By chance
that document has come into my hands. I propose to let the people of
America know what sort of men you are, who have become the virtual
governors of the country."
Stephen Weiss' surprise was exceedingly well simulated.
"I presume, Mr. Vine," he said, "that you are not here to poke fun at
us. Tell me, if you please, what document it is to which you refer."
"I think," Vine answered, "that I need not enter into too close details.
It is a document which you and your friends signed at Phineas Duge's
house, not many nights ago."
Weiss rose to his feet, crossed the office, and turned the key in the
lock of the door. He was a big man, and his face was a little flushed.
Littleson, too, had slid softly from the edge of the table, and was
watching his friend's face as though for a signal. Norris Vine, long,
angular, unathletic, showed not the slightest signs of discomposure. He
was leaning back in his chair, gently twirling by its thin black ribbon
the horn-rimmed eyeglass which he usually wore.
"Mr. Vine," Weiss said, "whatever attitude we may take up afterwards,
there isn't the slightest need to play a part with you. We did sign that
document, and we have been kicking ourselves ever since for doing so. It
was Phineas Duge's idea, and we are fairly well convinced that he
pressed us for our signatures as subscribers to the fund, simply for the
purpose of having in his possession a document which might, if its
contents were known, cause us some inconvenience. Am I right in assuming
that he deceived us that night, that he himself never signed the paper?"
"His signature," Norris Vine answered, "certainly does not appear."
Weiss nodded.
"Just as I thought," he remarked. "There was every indication a few
weeks ago of what has actually happened, namely a split between us and
Phineas Duge. This document was the weapon with which he had hoped to
obtain the master-hand over us. Now, instead of finding it in his hands,
we find it in yours. What are you going to do about it?"
"I am going to use it," Vine answered. "I am going to use it to strike a
blow against the abominable system of robbery and corruption which is
ruining the finest of all God's countries."
"Very well," Weiss said, "I am not going to give away our defence, of
course. We may treat the document as a forgery, concocted by you or by
Phineas Duge, either of whom would have sufficient motives. We may
insist upon it that it was an after-dinner joke. We may contest the
meaning of the text, and swear that we intended to use none but
legitimate methods in this fight. Or, to put the whole matter before
you, we may use such powers as we possess to see that you are put out of
harm's way before you have an opportunity to make use of that paper. You
see we have alternatives. We are not absolutely without hope. Now I ask
you this, as man to man. The value of that document is, after all, a
matter of speculation to you. Put a price on it, and fight us with our
own dollars."
Norris Vine shook his head gently.
"I think not," he said. "If you gave me half your fortunes, we should
only come into the field level."
"We are not small men," Stephen Weiss said slowly. "We represent a great
power, and a power for which we mean to fight. When I talk to you of
money, I mean it. We will raise a million dollars for you before midday
to-morrow, if you leave that paper in our hands."
"We may shorten this discussion," Norris Vine answered, "by my assuring
you solemnly that neither one nor twenty million dollars would purchase
from me this document. I have spent years, and every scrap of such
ability as I possess, in writing against, and lecturing upon, and
attacking in every way that occurred to me, your abominable methods for
collecting into the hands of a few what should be the comfort and
happiness of the many. I mean the wealth of this country. Not even at
the peril of my life would I part with the most efficient weapon which
has ever yet come into my hands."
"Then why, Mr. Vine," Littleson asked, bending over from his place,
"have you come here to see us?"
"I have come," Vine answered, "because against you personally I bear no
malice. I am not well acquainted with the laws of this country, but it
seems to me that the verbatim publication of this paper would mean for
you something more than financial ruin. It would probably mean the
inside of a prison. Personally, I have not the least doubt that every
one of you deserves to see the inside of a prison, but I am not
vindictive. I give you your chance. If a trip to Europe in the _Kaiser
Wilhelm_ to-morrow morning seems to you opportune, you will certainly
escape reading the record of your own folly in the evening papers."
Weiss threw away his half-chewed cigar, and taking another from the box,
lit it deliberately.
"Now, Mr. Vine," he said, "you are a young man whose attention has
never been turned to the practical affairs of life. You are a literary
person, and you walk a good deal with your head in the clouds. You
haven't the hard common sense of us business men to be able to determine
exactly what the result in a commonplace world is of any definite
action. I can assure you that no prison in America could ever hold me
and my friends, and that our risk is not in any way so serious as you
imagine. But, leaving out the question of our personal safety or
convenience, I want to put this to you. If you publish the contents of
that document in the evening papers to-morrow, you will produce in
America the greatest and most ruinous financial crisis that the country
has ever known."
For the first time Vine's cold, immobile face showed some signs of
interest. He abandoned his somewhat negligent attitude, and sat up with
an attentive expression.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Weiss struck the table in front of him with his open hand.
"Don't you know," he said, "that Bardsley, Littleson, Higgins, Phineas
Duge, and myself, are the blood and the muscle of this country, so far
as regards finance? Every one of the great railroad stocks is controlled
by us. Prices are more or less what we make them. Three of the greatest
industrial undertakings which the world has ever known, in which are
invested hundreds of millions of honest American capital, are still
controlled by us. If you publish that document, whatever the ultimate
results may be, there will be the worst scare in the American
money-market which the world has ever known. London and Paris were never
so ill-prepared to come to the rescue, as a glance at the morning papers
will show you. You will not find a city nor a village in this country,
or a street, I almost was going to say a house, in New York, where there
will not be a ruined man to curse you and your ill-considered action.
The shrinkage in values in a few hours, of good and honest stocks, will
come to twice as much as would pay for the Russo-Japanese war. I doubt
whether this country would ever recover from the shock. That, Mr. Vine,
is precisely what would happen if you adopt the methods of which you
have just warned us."
Weiss ceased speaking and replaced the cigar in his mouth. Littleson, a
few feet off, felt the perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. His
breath was coming fast. The slow, crushing words of his partner had
worked him into a state of excitement such as he had scarcely believed
himself capable of. And Norris Vine, the imperturbable, was obviously
impressed. Weiss had spoken almost as a man inspired. To treat his words
lightly seemed impossible.
"You have given me something," Vine said slowly, "to think over. I
should be very sorry, of course, to bring about such a state of things
as you have spoken of. At the same time, I am not, as you say, a
practical man. I cannot follow you in all you say. It seems to me that
if this immense depreciation of funds really took place, especially in
the case of undertakings of solid value, the pendulum would swing back
to its place very soon. Values always assert themselves."
"And the people who would benefit," Weiss said, leaning forward, "are
the foreigners who stepped in with their gold and bought for themselves
a share in our country at half its value."
He stopped to answer for a moment an insistent ringing of the telephone
from the outer office. As he laid the receiver down he turned to Vine.
"Look here," he said, "you doubt my statement. Outside in the office
there is waiting to see me, upon a matter of business, a man who is as
much my enemy as you are. I mean John Drayton, Governor of New York.
Would you call him an honest man?"
"Absolutely!" Vine answered.
"Would you consider him a shrewd man?"
"Certainly," Vine assented.
"Then look here," Weiss said. "I am going to ask him to come into this
office. I am going to treat this matter as an academic discussion, and
I am going to ask him then what the result would be of such a step as
you propose."
"Very well," Vine answered. "I pledge myself to nothing, but I should
like to hear John Drayton's opinion."
CHAPTER XVI
A TRUCE
Weiss unlocked and threw open the office door, and a moment later
returned with a tall, grey-headed man, with closely cropped beard and
gold-rimmed eyeglasses. He shook hands with Vine warmly, and nodded to
Littleson.
"What, you here in the lion's den, Vine?" he remarked, smiling. "Be
careful or they will eat you up."
Vine smiled.
"I am not afraid," he said, "especially now that you are here to support
me."
"Mr. Vine," Weiss said, "shows himself possessed of our natural quality,
audacity. He is here, I frankly believe, to pick up damaging information
against us, for use the next time he issues his thunders. We have been
led into an interesting discussion, and we have a point to refer
to you."
John Drayton sat down and accepted the cigar which Weiss passed him.
"Sure," he said, "I'll be very pleased to join in; but you are a rash
man, Weiss, to refer to me, for you know very well my sympathies are
with Mr. Vine here. I hate you millionaires and your Trusts, on
principle of course, although I must admit that some of you are very
good fellows, and smoke thundering good cigars," he added, taking his
from his mouth for a moment and looking at it.
"I don't care," Weiss answered. "The point I want you to decide
scarcely calls upon your sympathies so much as your judgment. We were
imagining a case in which say half a dozen men, who held the position of
myself and Phineas Duge and Littleson here, I think I might say the
half-dozen most powerful men in America, were suddenly, without a
moment's warning, to lose in the eyes of the whole of the public every
scrap of character and stability, were to be threatened with absolute
ruin, and a term of imprisonment for misdemeanour. What would be the
effect upon this country for the next forty-eight hours or so?"
John Drayton removed his cigar from his mouth.
"The one reason," he said impressively, "why I hate your Trusts, why I
loathe to see all the power of this country gathered together in the
hands of a few men such as you have mentioned, is that, in the event of
such a happening as you have put forth, the country would have to face a
crisis that would mean ruin to hundreds of thousands of her innocent
people." Then for the first time during this interview Weiss' full round
lips receded in a smile. His spectacles could not hide the flash of
triumph that leapt out. He turned to Vine.
"You hear?" he said simply.
"Yes, I hear!" Norris Vine answered.
"Of course," John Drayton continued, "I do not know how you drifted into
a conversation such as this, but in my last article in the _North
American Review_, which Mr. Vine here will probably remember, I took the
case of even a single man controlling one of the huge mercantile Trusts
in this country, and tried to show what would happen to the small
investors in a perfectly sound undertaking should a collapse happen to a
holder of shares to this excessive extent. It is a painful thing to have
to confess, but there is no doubt that it exists. We Americans are a
great commercial people, and the dollar fever runs a little too hotly in
our blood. We stretch out our hands too far. Vine, I know, agrees
with me."
"Yes," Vine answered, "I agree with you!"
He rose to his feet. John Drayton followed his example.
"My business is really concluded," he remarked. "I had to see your
manager on behalf of a client of mine. Are you coming my way, Vine? I am
going to the club."
"I will follow you in a few minutes," Vine answered.
John Drayton went out, and once more the three men were alone.
"You see, Mr. Vine," Weiss said slowly, "this isn't the country or the
age for Don Quixotes. Fight against our Trusts and our monetary system
with all your eloquence, if you will, but don't tamper with things you
don't understand, or you may do harm where you meant to do good. Now
what can we say to you about that document?"
"I am not prepared," Vine said, rising, "to come to any definite
decision at this moment. Frankly, I want to use it so as to do you the
greatest possible amount of harm. On the other hand, I never
contemplated any such developments as you and John Drayton have
suggested. I am going to think this matter over."
"We are open enemies," Weiss said, "and there is no reason why we should
not respect one another as such. We ask you to abide by the ways of
civilized warfare. Don't strike without a word, at any rate, of warning.
It will be in the interests of others, as well as ourselves."
"Very well," Vine said. "I promise that."
He left the office without any further word, without shaking hands with
either of the two men. Weiss sat down in his seat, and Littleson, who
was trembling all over, came to his side.
"Stephen," he said, "you're a great man. Come right along out of this
and go to Parker's and have a bottle. My nerves are all on the twitch."
Weiss rose and put on his hat. The two men left the office together, and
climbed into Littleson's automobile.
* * * * *
Vine walked thoughtfully down to his club. Amongst the letters which the
hall-porter handed to him was one from Stella. He tore it open and read
it standing there.
"MY DEAR NORRIS," it began,--
"Events have been marching a little too rapidly for me lately, and I am
going away. I cannot stand New York any longer. Fifth Avenue gives me
the horrors, and I am afraid to open an American paper. Besides, there
are other things, to which I need not allude, which make me think that
it would perhaps be better for me to take a journey. You will see from
where I am writing I am on board the _Kaiser Wilhelm_. Where I shall go
to in Europe, or what I shall do, I am not sure. I am not sure either
that it would interest you to know. You are very absorbed in your
profession, and I do not think that the things outside it mean much to
you. I suppose that is the usual fate of us women. We are always willing
to give, and we make no bargains. Don't think that I am reproaching you,
only I have made America an impossible place for me just now. I could
not bear to see that poor little cousin of mine, with her big
reproachful eyes. Nor if you fill your purpose, and the storm comes, do
I care to feel that I am responsible for the trouble which must
surely follow.
"Good-bye, Norris! I wish you every sort of good fortune, and if I
dared I would say that I wish you a little more heart, a little more
understanding, and a little more gratitude!
"STELLA."
He folded the letter up and placed it carefully in his coat pocket. Then
he went off into the reading-room in search of John Drayton. Life did
not seem to him so absolutely simple a thing now, as a few hours ago.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
MY NAME IS MILDMAY
"I am quite sure," Virginia protested, a little shyly, "that you will
want it yourself before long."
The young man laughed pleasantly.
"I am going to run that risk, anyhow," he said. "Please let me wrap it
round you properly, so."
He did not wait for her consent, but after all she was scarcely prepared
to withhold it, for it was a very cold morning, and the young man who
had been sitting on the next chair, with an unused rug by his side, was
wearing a particularly heavy fur coat.
"I think," he said, "that it is quite plucky of you to stay up on deck a
morning like this. I suppose your people are all below?"
She shook her head.
"My people," she said, "are a very long way away."
"Your maid, then," he suggested. "Useless creatures maids, at a time
like this. They are nearly always seasick, especially the first
day out."
Again she shook her head.
"I am travelling quite alone," she said.
He looked at her in astonishment.
"Alone!" he repeated. "Why, you seem to me much too young. Forgive me,
please," he added, apologetically, "I did not mean to be impertinent. I
suppose you are an American?"
"I am," she admitted.
"Ah! that explains everything," he remarked with a little gesture of
relief. "You belong, then, to the most wonderful race on earth, to the
only race who have dared to cross swords with Mrs. Grundy and disarm
her."
"On the contrary," she declared, "Mrs. Grundy of New York is quite as
formidable as Mrs. Grundy of London, only we don't invoke her quite so
often. Still, I will admit that, strictly speaking, I ought not to be
travelling alone. The circumstances are very exceptional."
"I hope," he said earnestly, "that you will give me the opportunity of
looking after you some of the time. I am quite alone, too, and I know no
one on board."
She let her eyes rest for a moment or two upon his face. He was very
fair, young, certainly not more than seven or eight and twenty, and
reasonably good-looking; but apart from these things, he had eyes which
she liked, a voice which was indubitable, and manners which left no
possible room for doubt as to his status. She bowed her head alittle
gravely.
"You are very kind indeed," she said. "I have never crossed before, and
I am quite sure that if you have the time to spare, you can be ever so
useful to me."
He smiled reassuringly.
"That's settled then," he said. "I can assure you that I feel very much
more interested in the voyage already. By the by, my name is Mildmay."
"And mine," she replied, after a moment's hesitation, "is Virginia
Longworth."
"Virginia," he repeated with a smile. "I think that is one of the most
delightful of your American names."
"You are English, aren't you?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I," he said, "am returning from my first visit to the States. I have
been to stay with a cousin who has a ranch out West. We had ever such a
good time."
She looked at his sunburnt skin, and smiled to herself.
"Did you stay in New York?" she asked.
"Only two days," he answered. "Somehow or other those big places are
rather terrifying. I had no friends there, and I wandered about as
though I were in a wilderness."
"What a pity!" she murmured. "Americans are so hospitable. Surely you
could have found some friends if you had wished to!"
He smiled a little whimsically.
"Yes!" he said, "I dare say I could, but I hadn't the time to spare to
look them up. Now tell me about your visit to England. Where are you
going to stay? In the country or in London?"
"I am not sure," she answered, "but I think in London, at first at any
rate."
"You have relations there, of course?" he asked.
"None," she answered.
"Friends, then?"
She turned her dark eyes upon him. He felt himself suddenly embarrassed.
"I am awfully sorry," he said. "I've no right to ask you all these
questions. The fact is, I was only trying to make sure that I should be
able to see something of you after we had landed."
She smiled.
"I am afraid," she said, "that that will be scarcely possible, but, if
you don't mind, you mustn't ask me any questions about my journey. I
will admit that it is rather a peculiar one, that I have no friends in
England, that I made up my mind to come all of a sudden. My journey has
an object, of course, but I cannot tell you what it is, and you must
not ask me."
"Of course I will not," he answered, "but I shall talk to you again
about this before we land. I mean to say that you must let me give you
my card, and you will know, at any rate, that there is some one in
England to whom you can send if you are in need of a friend."
She smiled at him delightfully.
"And I have always been told," she said, "that Englishmen were so slow!
Why, I have known you scarcely a quarter of an hour."
"But I have watched you," he answered, "for two days."
"Well," she declared, "I like impulsive people, so I dare say I'll ask
you for the card before we land. Do you live in London?"
"I have a house there," he answered. "I am there for about two months in
the year, and odd week-ends during the hunting season."
"Tell me about London, please," she said.
"Historically," he began, a little doubtfully. "I am afraid--"
She interrupted him, shaking her head. "No!" she said, "tell me about
the best restaurants and theatres, and how the people live." "That's a
large order," he answered, "but I'll try."
They talked for an hour or more; neither, in fact, took an exact account
of the time. Suddenly they looked up to see a dark-faced,
correct-looking servant standing before them.
"The luncheon gong has gone, your Grace," he said. "Shall I take the
rugs?"
They made their way into the saloon together. Virginia looked up at him
curiously.
"You said that your name was Mildmay," she remarked. "What did your
servant mean by calling you 'your Grace'?"
He laughed.
"Oh! I haven't had the fellow very long," he said, "and he came straight
to me from some Italian duke, or nobleman of some sort. I suppose he
hasn't got out of the habit yet. I wonder whether I can arrange to come
and sit at your table. The purser seems rather a decent fellow."
"I haven't been in the saloon at all yet," Virginia said, "but it would
be very nice if you could sit somewhere near me."
Mr. Mildmay found it an easy matter to arrange. His seat at the
captain's table was exchanged for one at the purser's, and the two were
side by side. Then Virginia, looking around, received a little shock.
She heard her name spoken across the table, and, looking up, found that
she was exactly opposite Mr. Littleson.
"How do you do, Miss Longworth?" he said. "I had no idea that we were to
be fellow passengers."
She was almost too surprised to answer him coherently, but she faltered
out something about an unexpected journey. Afterwards, on the way to her
stateroom, she overtook him near one of the companion-ways, and laid her
hand upon his arm.
"Mr. Littleson," she said, "would you do me a favour?"
"Why, I should say so," he answered. "Nothing I'd like better."
"Don't tell anybody anything about me," she begged, "I mean about my
uncle, or anything of that sort at all. I am going over to England on a
very foolish errand, I think, and I wish to keep it to myself."
Littleson became a trifle grave. He was not a bad sort of a fellow, and
Virginia seemed little more than a charming child as she stood in the
passage, looking up at him with appealing eyes and slightly parted lips.
"Do you mean," he asked, "that you have run away from your uncle?"
"Not exactly that," she answered. "My uncle was quite willing to have me
leave him, but he does not know exactly where I am, nor do my people.
Will you keep my secret, please?"
"Certainly!" he answered.
"From every one on board, as well as from your letters if you write from
Queenstown?"
"Well, I'll try to do as you say," he answered, "but I should like to
have a talk with you before we land."
He went to his stateroom a little thoughtfully. It had not yet occurred
to him that Virginia's errand to London and his might possibly have
something in common.