The library was the most important room in the Ryder mansion, for it
was there that the Colossus carried through his most important business
deals, and its busiest hours were those which most men devote to rest.
But John Burkett Ryder never rested. There could be no rest for any man
who had a thousand millions of dollars to take care of. Like Macbeth,
he could sleep no more. When the hum of business life had ceased down
town and he returned home from the tall building in lower Broadway,
then his real work began. The day had been given to mere business
routine; in his own library at night, free from inquisitive ears and
prying eyes, he could devise new schemes for strengthening his grip
upon the country, he could evolve more gigantic plans for adding to his
already countless millions.
Here the money Moloch held court like any king, with as much ceremony
and more secrecy, and having for his courtiers some of the most
prominent men in the political and industrial life of the nation.
Corrupt senators, grafting Congressmen, ambitious railroad presidents,
insolent coal barons who impudently claimed they administered the coal
lands in trust for the Almighty, unscrupulous princes of finance and
commerce, all visited this room to receive orders or pay from the head
of the "System." Here were made and unmade governors of States, mayors
of cities, judges, heads of police, cabinet ministers, even presidents.
Here were turned over to confidential agents millions of dollars to
overturn the people's vote in the National elections; here were
distributed yearly hundreds of thousands of dollars to grafters, large
and small, who had earned it in the service of the "interests."
Here, secretly and unlawfully, the heads of railroads met to agree on
rates which by discriminating against one locality in favour of another
crushed out competition, raised the cost to the consumer, and put
millions in the pockets of the Trust. Here were planned tricky
financial operations, with deliberate intent to mislead and deceive the
investing public, operations which would send stocks soaring one day,
only a week later to put Wall Street on the verge of panic. Half a
dozen suicides might result from the coup, but twice as many millions
of profits had gone into the coffers of the "System." Here, too, was
perpetrated the most heinous crime that can be committed against a free
people--the conspiring of the Trusts abetted by the railroads, to
arbitrarily raise the prices of the necessaries of life--meat, coal,
oil, ice, gas--wholly without other justification than that of greed,
which, with these men, was the unconquerable, all-absorbing passion. In
short, everything that unscrupulous leaders of organized capital could
devise to squeeze the life blood out of the patient, defenceless toiler
was done within these four walls.
It was a handsome room, noble in proportions and abundantly lighted by
three large and deeply recessed, mullioned windows, one in the middle
of the room and one at either end. The lofty ceiling was a marvellously
fine example of panelled oak of Gothic design, decorated with gold, and
the shelves for books which lined the walls were likewise of oak,
richly carved. In the centre of the wall facing the windows was a
massive and elaborately designed oak chimney-piece, reaching up to the
ceiling, and having in the middle panel over the mantel a fine
three-quarter length portrait of George Washington. The room was
furnished sumptuously yet quietly, and fully in keeping with the rich
collection of classic and modern authors that filled the bookcases, and
in corners here and there stood pedestals with marble busts of
Shakespeare, Goethe and Voltaire. It was the retreat of a scholar
rather than of a man of affairs.
When Jefferson entered, his father was seated at his desk, a long black
cigar between his lips, giving instructions to Mr. Bagley. Mr. Ryder
looked up quickly as the door opened and the secretary made a movement
forward as if to eject the intruder, no matter who he might be. They
were not accustomed to having people enter the sanctum of the Colossus
so unceremoniously. But when he saw who it was, Mr. Ryder's stern, set
face relaxed and he greeted his son amiably.
"Why, Jeff, my boy, is that you? Just a moment, until I get rid of
Bagley, and I'll be with you."
Jefferson turned to the book shelves and ran over the titles while the
financier continued his business with the secretary.
"Now, Bagley. Come, quick. What is it?"
He spoke in a rapid, explosive manner, like a man who has only a few
moments to spare before he must rush to catch a train. John Ryder had
been catching trains all his life, and he had seldom missed one.
"Governor Rice called. He wants an appointment," said Mr. Bagley,
holding out a card.
"I can't see him. Tell him so," came the answer, quick as a flash. "Who
else?" he demanded. "Where's your list?"
Mr. Bagley took from the desk a list of names and read them over.
"General Abbey telephoned. He says you promised--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Ryder impatiently, "but not here. Down town,
to-morrow, any time. Next?"
The secretary jotted down a note against each name and then said:
"There are some people downstairs in the reception room. They are here
by appointment."
"Who are they?"
"The National Republican Committee and Sergeant Ellison of the Secret
Service from Washington," replied Mr. Bagley.
"Who was here first?" demanded the financier.
"Sergeant Ellison, sir."
"Then I'll see him first, and the Committee afterwards. But let them
all wait until I ring. I wish to speak with my son." He waved his hand
and the secretary, knowing well from experience that this was a sign
that there must be no further discussion, bowed respectfully and left
the room. Jefferson turned and advanced towards his father, who held
out his hand.
"Well, Jefferson," he said kindly, "did you have a good time abroad?"
"Yes, sir, thank you. Such a trip is a liberal education in itself."
"Ready for work again, eh? I'm glad you're back, Jefferson. I'm busy
now, but one of these days I want to have a serious talk with you in
regard to your future. This artist business is all very well--for a
pastime. But it's not a career--surely you can appreciate that--for a
young man with such prospects as yours. Have you ever stopped to think
of that?"
Jefferson was silent. He did not want to displease his father; on the
other hand, it was impossible to let things drift as they had been
doing. There must be an understanding sooner or later. Why not now?
"The truth is, sir," he began timidly, "I'd like a little talk with you
now, if you can spare the time."
Ryder, Sr., looked first at his watch and then at his son, who, ill at
ease, sat nervously on the extreme edge of a chair. Then he said with a
smile:
"Well, my boy, to be perfectly frank, I can't--but--I will. Come, what
is it?" Then, as if to apologize for his previous abruptness, he added,
"I've had a very busy day, Jeff. What with Trans-Continental and
Trans-Atlantic and Southern Pacific, and Wall Street, and Rate Bills,
and Washington I feel like Atlas shouldering the world."
"The world wasn't intended for one pair of shoulders to carry, sir,"
rejoined Jefferson calmly.
His father looked at him in amazement. It was something new to hear
anyone venturing to question or comment upon anything he said.
"Why not?" he demanded, when he had recovered from his surprise.
"Julius Caesar carried it. Napoleon carried it--to a certain extent.
However, that's neither here nor there. What is it, boy?"
Unable to remain a moment inactive, he commenced to pick among the mass
of papers on his desk, while Jefferson was thinking what to say. The
last word his father uttered gave him a cue, and he blurted out
protestingly:
"That's just it, sir. You forget that I'm no longer a boy. It's time to
treat me as if I were a man."
Ryder, Sr., leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.
"A man at twenty-eight? That's an excellent joke. Do you know that a
man doesn't get his horse sense till he's forty?"
"I want you to take me seriously," persisted Jefferson.
Ryder, Sr., was not a patient man. His moments of good humour were of
brief duration. Anything that savoured of questioning his authority
always angered him. The smile went out of his face and he retorted
explosively: "Go on--damn it all! Be serious if you want, only don't
take so long about it. But understand one thing. I want no preaching,
no philosophical or socialistic twaddle. No Tolstoi--he's a great
thinker, and you're not. No Bernard Shaw--he's funny, and you're not.
Now go ahead."
This beginning was not very encouraging, and Jefferson felt somewhat
intimidated. But he realized that he might not have another such
opportunity, so he plunged right in.
"I should have spoken to you before if you had let me," he said. "I
often--"
"If I let you?" interrupted his father. "Do you expect me to sit and
listen patiently to your wild theories of social reform? You asked me
one day why the wages of the idle rich was wealth and the wages of hard
work was poverty, and I told you that I worked harder in one day than a
tunnel digger works in a life-time. Thinking is a harder game than any.
You must think or you won't know. Napoleon knew more about war than all
his generals put together. I know more about money than any man living
to-day. The man who knows is the man who wins. The man who takes advice
isn't fit to give it. That's why I never take yours. Come, don't be a
fool, Jeff--give up this art nonsense. Come back to the Trading
Company. I'll make you vice-president, and I'll teach you the business
of making millions."
Jefferson shook his head. It was hard to have to tell his own father
that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable
one, so he only murmured:
"It's impossible, father. I am devoted to my work. I even intend to go
away and travel a few years and see the world. It will help me
considerably."
Ryder, Sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said
gently:
"Don't be obstinate, Jeff. Listen to me. I know the world better than
you do. You mustn't go away. You are the only flesh and blood I have."
He stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion
over which he had no control. Jefferson remained silent, nervously
toying with a paper cutter. Seeing that his words had made no effect,
Ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried:
"You see my weakness. You see that I want you with me, and now you take
advantage--you take advantage--"
"No, father, I don't," protested Jefferson; "but I want to go away.
Although I have my studio and am practically independent, I want to go
where I shall be perfectly free--where my every move will not be
watched--where I can meet my fellow-man heart to heart on an equal
basis, where I shall not be pointed out as the son of Ready Money
Ryder. I want to make a reputation of my own as an artist."
"Why not study theology and become a preacher?" sneered Ryder. Then,
more amiably, he said: "No, my lad, you stay here. Study my
interests--study the interests that will be yours some day."
"No," said Jefferson doggedly, "I'd rather go--my work and my
self-respect demand it."
"Then go, damn it, go!" cried his father in a burst of anger. "I'm a
fool for wasting my time with an ungrateful son." He rose from his seat
and began to pace the room.
"Father," exclaimed Jefferson starting forward, "you do me an
injustice."
"An injustice?" echoed Mr. Ryder turning round. "Ye gods! I've given
you the biggest name in the commercial world; the most colossal fortune
ever accumulated by one man is waiting for you, and you say I've done
you an injustice!"
"Yes--we are rich," said Jefferson bitterly. "But at what a cost! You
do not go into the world and hear the sneers that I get everywhere. You
may succeed in muzzling the newspapers and magazines, but you cannot
silence public opinion. People laugh when they hear the name
Ryder--when they do not weep. All your millions cannot purchase the
world's respect. You try to throw millions to the public as a bone to a
dog, and they decline the money on the ground that it is tainted.
Doesn't that tell you what the world thinks of your methods?"
Ryder laughed cynically. He went back to his desk, and, sitting facing
his son, he replied:
"Jefferson, you are young. It is one of the symptoms of youth to worry
about public opinion. When you are as old as I am you will understand
that there is only one thing which counts in this world--money. The man
who has it possesses power over the man who has it not, and power is
what the ambitious man loves most."
He stopped to pick up a book. It was "The American Octopus." Turning
again to his son, he went on:
"Do you see this book? It is the literary sensation of the year. Why?
Because it attacks me--the richest man in the world. It holds me up as
a monster, a tyrant, a man without soul, honour or conscience, caring
only for one thing--money; having but one passion--the love of power,
and halting at nothing, not even at crime, to secure it. That is the
portrait they draw of your father."
Jefferson said nothing. He was wondering if his sire had a suspicion
who wrote it and was leading up to that. But Ryder, Sr., continued:
"Do I care? The more they attack me the more I like it. Their puny pen
pricks have about the same effect as mosquito bites on the pachyderm.
What I am, the conditions of my time made me. When I started in
business a humble clerk, forty years ago, I had but one goal--success;
I had but one aim--to get rich. I was lucky. I made a little money, and
I soon discovered that I could make more money by outwitting my
competitors in the oil fields. Railroad conditions helped me. The whole
country was money mad. A wave of commercial prosperity swept over the
land and I was carried along on its crest. I grew enormously rich, my
millions increasing by leaps and bounds. I branched out into other
interests, successful always, until my holdings grew to what they are
to-day--the wonder of the twentieth century. What do I care for the
world's respect when my money makes the world my slave? What respect
can I have for a people that cringe before money and let it rule them?
Are you aware that not a factory wheel turns, not a vote is counted,
not a judge is appointed, not a legislator seated, not a president
elected without my consent? I am the real ruler of the United
States--not the so-called government at Washington. They are my puppets
and this is my executive chamber. This power will be yours one day,
boy, but you must know how to use it when it comes."
"I never want it, father," said Jefferson firmly. "To me your words
savour of treason. I couldn't imagine that American talking that way."
He pointed to the mantel, at the picture of George Washington.
Ryder, Sr., laughed. He could not help it if his son was an idealist.
There was no use getting angry, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and
said:
"All right, Jeff. We'll discuss the matter later, when you've cut your
wisdom teeth. Just at present you're in the clouds. But you spoke of my
doing you an injustice. How can my love of power do you an injustice?"
"Because," replied Jefferson, "you exert that power over your family as
well as over your business associates. You think and will for everybody
in the house, for everyone who comes in contact with you. Yours is an
influence no one seems able to resist. You robbed me of my right to
think. Ever since I was old enough to think, you have thought for me;
ever since I was old enough to choose, you have chosen for me. You have
chosen that I should marry Kate Roberts. That is the one thing I wished
to speak to you about. The marriage is impossible."
Ryder, Sr., half sprang from his seat. He had listened patiently, he
thought, to all that his headstrong son had said, but that he should
repudiate in this unceremonious fashion what was a tacit understanding
between the two families, and, what was more, run the risk of injuring
the Ryder interests--that was inconceivable. Leaving his desk, he
advanced into the centre of the room, and folding his arms confronted
Jefferson.
"So," he said sternly, "this is your latest act of rebellion, is it?
You are going to welsh on your word? You are going to jilt the girl?"
"I never gave my word," answered Jefferson hotly. "Nor did Kate
understand that an engagement existed. You can't expect me to marry a
girl I don't care a straw about. It would not be fair to her."
"Have you stopped to think whether it would be fair to me?" thundered
his father.
His face was pale with anger, his jet-black eyes flashed, and his white
hair seemed to bristle with rage. He paced the floor for a few moments,
and then turning to Jefferson, who had not moved, he said more calmly:
"Don't be a fool, Jeff. I don't want to think for you, or to choose for
you, or to marry for you. I did not interfere when you threw up the
position I made for you in the Trading Company and took that studio. I
realized that you were restless under the harness, so I gave you plenty
of rein. But I know so much better than you what is best for you.
Believe me I do. Don't--don't be obstinate. This marriage means a great
deal to my interests--to your interests. Kate's father is all powerful
in the Senate. He'll never forgive this disappointment. Hang it all,
you liked the girl once, and I made sure that--"
He stopped suddenly, and the expression on his face changed as a new
light dawned upon him.
"It isn't that Rossmore girl, is it?" he demanded. His face grew dark
and his jaw clicked as he said between his teeth: "I told you some time
ago how I felt about her. If I thought that it was Rossmore's daughter!
You know what's going to happen to him, don't you?"
Thus appealed to, Jefferson thought this was the most favourable
opportunity he would have to redeem his promise to Shirley. So, little
anticipating the tempest he was about to unchain, he answered:
"I am familiar with the charges that they have trumped up against him.
Needless to say, I consider him entirely innocent. What's more, I
firmly believe he is the victim of a contemptible conspiracy. And I'm
going to make it my business to find out who the plotters are. I came
to ask you to help me. Will you?"
For a moment Ryder was speechless from utter astonishment. Then, as he
realized the significance of his son's words and their application to
himself he completely lost control of himself. His face became livid,
and he brought his fist down on his desk with a force that shook the
room.
"I will see him in hell first!" he cried. "Damn him! He has always
opposed me. He has always defied my power, and now his daughter has
entrapped my son. So it's her you want to go to, eh? Well, I can't make
you marry a girl you don't want, but I can prevent you throwing
yourself away on the daughter of a man who is about to be publicly
disgraced, and, by God, I will."
"Poor old Rossmore," said Jefferson bitterly. "If the history of every
financial transaction were made known, how many of us would escape
public disgrace? Would you?" he cried.
Ryder, Sr., rose, his hands working dangerously. He made a movement as
if about to advance on his son, but by a supreme effort he controlled
himself.
"No, upon my word, it's no use disinheriting you, you wouldn't care. I
think you'd be glad; on my soul, I do!" Then calming down once more, he
added: "Jefferson, give me your word of honour that your object in
going away is not to find out this girl and marry her unknown to me. I
don't mind your losing your heart, but, damn it, don't lose your head.
Give me your hand on it."
Jefferson reluctantly held out his hand.
"If I thought you would marry that girl unknown to me, I'd have
Rossmore sent out of the country and the woman too. Listen, boy. This
man is my enemy, and I show no mercy to my enemies. There are more
reasons than one why you cannot marry Miss Rossmore. If she knew one of
them she would not marry you."
"What reasons?" demanded Jefferson.
"The principal one," said Ryder, slowly and deliberately, and eyeing
his son keenly as if to judge of the effect of his words, "the
principal one is that it was through my agents that the demand was made
for her father's impeachment."
"Ah," cried Jefferson, "then I guessed aright! Oh, father, how could
you have done that? If you only knew him!"
Ryder, Sr., had regained command of his temper, and now spoke calmly
enough.
"Jefferson, I don't have to make any apologies to you for the way I
conduct my business. The facts contained in the charge were brought to
my attention. I did not see why I should spare him. He never spared me.
I shall not interfere, and the probabilities are that he will be
impeached. Senator Roberts said this afternoon that it was a certainty.
You see yourself how impossible a marriage with Miss Rossmore would be,
don't you?"
"Yes, father, I see now. I have nothing more to say."
"Do you still intend going away?"
"Yes," replied Jefferson bitterly. "Why not? You have taken away the
only reason why I should stay."
"Think it well over, lad. Marry Kate or not, as you please, but I want
you to stay here."
"It's no use. My mind is made up," answered Jefferson decisively.
The telephone rang, and Jefferson got up to go. Mr. Ryder took up the
receiver.
"Hallo! What's that? Sergeant Ellison? Yes, send him up."
Putting the telephone down, Ryder, Sr., rose, and crossing the room
accompanied his son to the door.
"Think it well over, Jeff. Don't be hasty."
"I have thought it over, sir, and I have decided to go."
A few moments later Jefferson left the house.
Ryder, Sr., went back to his desk and sat for a moment in deep thought.
For the first time in his life he was face to face with defeat; for the
first time he had encountered a will as strong as his own. He who could
rule parliaments and dictate to governments now found himself powerless
to rule his own son. At all costs, he mused, the boy's infatuation for
Judge Rossmore's daughter must be checked, even if he had to blacken
the girl's character as well as the father's, or, as a last resort,
send the entire family out of the country. He had not lost sight of his
victim since the carefully prepared crash in Wall Street, and the sale
of the Rossmore home following the bankruptcy of the Great Northwestern
Mining Company. His agents had reported their settlement in the quiet
little village on Long Island, and he had also learned of Miss
Rossmore's arrival from Europe, which coincided strangely with the
home-coming of his own son. He decided, therefore, to keep a closer
watch on Massapequa now than ever, and that is why to-day's call of
Sergeant Ellison, a noted sleuth in the government service, found so
ready a welcome.
The door opened, and Mr. Bagley entered, followed by a tall, powerfully
built man whose robust physique and cheap looking clothes contrasted
strangely with the delicate, ultra-fashionably attired English
secretary.
"Take a seat, Sergeant," said Mr. Ryder, cordially motioning his
visitor to a chair. The man sat down gingerly on one of the rich
leather-upholstered chairs. His manner was nervous and awkward, as if
intimidated in the presence of the financier.
"Are the Republican Committee still waiting?" demanded Mr. Ryder.
"Yes, sir," replied the secretary.
"I'll see them in a few minutes. Leave me with Sergeant Ellison."
Mr. Bagley bowed and retired.
"Well, Sergeant, what have you got to report?"
He opened a box of cigars that stood on the desk and held it out to the
detective.
"Take a cigar," he said amiably.
The man took a cigar, and also the match which Mr. Ryder held out. The
financier knew how to be cordial with those who could serve him.
"Thanks. This is a good one," smiled the sleuth, sniffing at the weed.
"We don't often get a chance at such as these."
"It ought to be good," laughed Ryder. "They cost two dollars apiece."
The detective was so surprised at this unheard of extravagance that he
inhaled a puff of smoke which almost choked him. It was like burning
money.
Ryder, with his customary bluntness, came right down to business.
"Well, what have you been doing about the book?" he demanded. "Have you
found the author of 'The American Octopus'?"
"No, sir, I have not. I confess I'm baffled. The secret has been well
kept. The publishers have shut up like a clam. There's only one thing
that I'm pretty well sure of."
"What's that?" demanded Ryder, interested.
"That no such person as Shirley Green exists."
"Oh," exclaimed, the financier, "then you think it is a mere nom de
plume?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what do you think was the reason for preserving the anonymity?"
"Well, you see, sir, the book deals with a big subject. It gives some
hard knocks, and the author, no doubt, felt a little timid about
launching it under his or her real name. At least that's my theory,
sir."
"And a good one, no doubt," said Mr. Ryder. Then he added: "That makes
me all the more anxious to find out who it is. I would willingly give
this moment a check for $5,000 to know who wrote it. Whoever it is,
knows me as well as I know myself. We must find the author."
The sleuth was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"There might be one way to reach the author, but it will be successful
only in the event of her being willing to be known and come out into
the open. Suppose you write to her in care of the publishers. They
would certainly forward the letter to wherever she may be. If she does
not want you to know who she is she will ignore your letter and remain
in the background. If, on the contrary, she has no fear of you, and is
willing to meet you, she will answer the letter."
"Ah, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Ryder. "It's a good idea. I'll
write such a letter at once. It shall go to-night."
He unhooked the telephone and asked Mr. Bagley to come up. A few
seconds later the secretary entered the room.
"Bagley," said Mr. Ryder, "I want you to write a letter for me to Miss
Shirley Green, author of that book 'The American Octopus. We will
address it care of her publishers, Littleton & Co. Just say that if
convenient I should like a personal interview with her at my office,
No. 36 Broadway, in relation to her book, 'The American Octopus.' See
that it is mailed to-night. That's all."
Mr. Bagley bowed and retired. Mr. Ryder turned to the secret service
agent.
"There, that's settled. We'll see how it works. And now, Sergeant, I
have another job for you, and if you are faithful to my interests you
will not find me unappreciative. Do you know a little place on Long
Island called Massapequa?"
"Yes," grinned the detective, "I know it. They've got some fine
specimens of 'skeeters' there."
Paying no attention to this jocularity, Mr. Ryder continued:
"Judge Rossmore is living there--pending the outcome of his case in the
Senate. His daughter has just arrived from Europe. My son Jefferson
came home on the same ship. They are a little more friendly than I care
to have them. You understand. I want to know if my son visits the
Rossmores, and if he does I wish to be kept informed of all that's
going on. You understand?"
"Perfectly, sir. You shall know everything."
Mr. Ryder took a blank check from his desk and proceeded to fill it up.
Then handing it to the detective, he said:
"Here is $500 for you. Spare neither trouble or expense."
"Thank you, sir," said the man as he pocketed the money. "Leave it to
me."
"That's about all, I think. Regarding the other matter, we'll see how
the letter works."
He touched a bell and rose, which was a signal to the visitor that the
interview was at an end. Mr. Bagley entered.
"Sergeant Ellison is going," said Mr. Ryder. "Have him shown out, and
send the Republican Committee up."