I
A MAN walked into the office of Richards & Tuttle, bankers and
brokers, members of the New York Stock Exchange. All he could see was
a ground-glass partition, with little windows only a trifle larger than
peepholes, over which he read, “deliveries,” “comparisons,” “telegrams,”
and “cashier.” If you had business to transact you knew at which window
to knock. If you had not you should not disturb the unseen clerks by
asking questions that took valuable time to answer. It was a typical,
non-communicative, non-confiding Wall Street office.
The man approached the “cashier” window because it was open. He was
tall and well built, with unmyopic eyes that looked through
tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. The brim of his high hat, the cut of his
coat, the hang of his trousers, the hue of his necktie and the gray,
waxed, needle-pointed mustaches proclaimed him unmistakably Parisian.
“I wish to see Mr. Richards,” he said, in a nasal voice, so like the
twang of a stage Yankee that the cashier frowned and twisted his neck to
see if some down-easter were not hiding behind the Frenchman.
“You what?” asked the cashier, and looked watchful.
“I wish to see,” repeated the stranger, with a formal precision meant,
to be rebuking, “Mr. George B. Richards, senior member, I believe, of
this firm.”
The cashier, with a frown that belied the courtesy of his words, said:
“Would you be kind enough to tell me the nature of your business, sir?”
Gourley, the cashier, insanely hated book agents, and his one pleasure
in life consisted of violently ejecting them from the office. When a man
clearly established his innocence Gourley never forgave him for cheating
him out of the kicking.
The stranger said, very slowly:
“The nature of my business with Mr. Richards is private, personal, and
urgent!”
The stranger might, be a customer, and customers make brokers rich and
give wages to cashiers.
“Mr. Richards is very busy just now, sir, with an important conference.
It would be a favor if you could let me have your name.”
“He doesn't know me and he has never heard my name.”
“Would any one else do?”
The stranger shook his head. Then:
“Say to Mr. Richards that a gentleman from Paris wishes to give to
him--personally--ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one
life secret.” The man's gaze was fixed frowningly on Gourley.
“Ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one life secret!”
repeated Gourley, dazedly. “Here, Otto. Hold the fort. I'll go myself.”
The cashier's place was promptly occupied by a moon-faced Teuton.
Presently Gourley, whose misanthropy had in this instance merely made
an office-boy of him, returned to the window and said, in the insolent
tones of a puglistic _agent provocateur_:
“He says to send in the letters of introduction.”
“My friend,” said the stranger, so impressively that the cashier was
made uneasy, “are you sure Mr. Richards said that?”
“Well--ah--he said,” stammered Gourley, “to ask you--er--would you
please send in the letters. He will read them, and as soon as possible
he will--ah--see you.”
“H'm!” muttered the stranger, skeptically. Then, as a man rids himself
of angry thoughts, he shook his head and, without another word, went
out.
“Ha! I knew it all along,” said Gourley, triumphantly, to his assistant,
Otto. “It beats the Dutch what schemes these damned book agents get up
to see people during business hours. But I called his bluff that time!”
Less than ten minutes later the French-looking man with the down-east
voice opened the door, tapped at the cashier's window, and told Gourley,
sternly:
“Here are the ten letters and the one card. They are very important!
I'll be obliged, sir, if you will yourself give them into Mr. Richards's
own hands. The life secret I, of course, will impart to him myself. Make
haste, please. I have only five business days and three hours left.”
Gourley laid the letters on Mr. Richards's desk and said, in the
accusing tone old employees use when they are in the wrong: “Here are
the letters of introduction from the book agent I spoke to you about. He
acts damned impudent to me, but I didn't want to make any mistake.”
Richards, a man of fifty, fastidiously dressed, but relieved from even
the implication of foppishness by a look in his eyes at once shrewd and
humorous, said, with a smile, “Well, he certainly has enough letters to
be anything, even a rich man.”
“Funny letters of introduction,” said the cashier--“all sealed and--”
His jaw dropped. That made him cease talking.
Mr. Richards had taken from the first envelope not a letter, but a
ten-thousand-dollar gold certificate!
The cashier closed his mouth with a click. “What the--!” he muttered.
“Next!” said George B. Richards, cheerfully. He opened envelope number
two and pulled out another ten-thousand-dollar bill. One after another
he opened the letters until he had laid in a neat pile on his desk ten
ten-thousand-dollar notes.
“The letters of introduction are from the Treasury Department,” said
Richards, laughing. “Now let us see whom the card is from.”
“I don't care whom the card is from. I know the man is crazy,”
said Gourley, in the defiant tone of one who expects not logic, but
contradiction. “It is as plain as the nose on your face.”
“Maybe they are counterfeit,” teased Richards; he knew they were not.
The cashier snatched one from the desk, looked at the vignette of
Jackson, and examined the back. “It's good,” he said, gloomily.
Richards opened the eleventh envelope and took out a card.
“From Amos Kidder, of the Evening Planet,” he told Gourley, and read
aloud:
_Dear George,--The bearer, Mr. James B. Robison, of Paris, France, a
friend of Smiley, our correspondent there, asked me to recommend some
highly intelligent stock-brokers. I, of course, at once thought of you.
Deal with him as you do with_
_Yours,_
_Amos F. Kidder._
“Maybe it's a set of those French books that are awful until you've
signed the contract and Volume I. comes, and they are not awful at all.
Those fellows,” said the cashier, indignantly, “will do anything to get
your money.”
“You forget I've got his,” suggested Richards.
“That's a new one on me, I admit,” said the cashier; “but I'll bet a
ten-spot--”
“I'll have no gambling in this office! Send in Mr. Robison; and if
Kidder should happen in, tell him I'd like to see him.”
The waxed-mustached man, preceded by Otto, the moon-faced clerk, entered
the private office of Mr. George B. Richards, who rose and smiled
pleasantly even as his keen eyes quickly inventoried Mr. Robison.
“Mr. Richards?” twanged the stranger. That Yankee voice issuing from
between those unmistakably French mustaches made Richards start; and yet
the vague atmosphere of disquietude and suspicion that the ten letters
of introduction had created seemed to be dispelled by the man's Yankee
twang. It was so genuinely down-east that it humanized Mr. Robison and
made his eccentricity less eccentric. Also, the eyes gleamed not with
the fire of insanity, but with a great earnestness.
“Yes. And this is Mr. Robison?”
“Yes, sir!” Mr. Robison bowed very low, like a man who has lived abroad
many years.
“Won't you be seated, sir?”
“Thank you, sir.” There was another bow of gratitude, and Mr. Robison
sat down by Richards's flat-topped desk.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Robison?” asked Richards, amiably polite.
His course of action would be determined by the stranger's own words.
“You can help me if you will.” Mr. Robison spoke very earnestly, after
the manner of strong, self-reliant men when they ask for favors.
“We shall be glad to if you will tell me how.”
“By being patient. That's how.”
Richards laughed uncertainly. Mr. Robison held up a hand as if to check
unseemly merriment and said, very seriously:
“I have lived alone too long to be politic or diplomatic or evasive. I
wish to ask you a question.”
“Ask ahead,” said Richards, with an encouraging recklessness.
“Tell me, Mr. Richards--what is the most difficult thing in the world?”
Mr. Robison was looking intently at the broker's face, as if he
particularly desired to detect any change in expression. This intentness
disconcerted Richards, who had at first intended to answer jocularly. He
now said, distinctly apologetic:
“There are so many very difficult things!”
“Yes, there are--a great many indeed. But of all things, which is by far
the most difficult?” His eyes held Richards's.
“I shall have to think a little before I can answer that question.”
“Take all the time you wish!” and Mr. Robison leaned back in his chair,
his attitude somehow suggesting a Gibraltar-like ability to withstand a
three years' siege.
It made Richards do much thinking very quickly: Here was a man who was
not crazy; who had lying on the desk a hundred thousand dollars in cash
to which he had not even casually referred; who probably intended to do
business that would prove a source of profit to the firm of Richards &
Tuttle. He might be a crank or a crook, but against either contingency
the firm could and would protect itself. It was just as well to humor
this man until he proved himself unworthy of humoring. The problem of
the moment, therefore, became how to raise the siege politely.
“I suppose,” began Richards, trying to look philosophical, “that telling
the truth always and every-, where is about as difficult a thing as--”
“It isn't a question,” interrupted Robison, with a polite regret, “of as
difficult a thing as any, but of the most difficult of all!”
“I am afraid I'll have to ask you to tell me what you consider the most
difficult thing in the world.”
Brokers have to earn their money in more complicated ways than by
shouting “Sold!” or “Take it!” on the floor of the Stock Exchange. They
have to listen to potential customers.
“The most difficult thing in the world, Mr. George B. Richards, is for
a man to give money--in cash--to a woman who is not his wife or his
mistress or a blood-relation or a pauper!”
“That _is_ difficult!” acquiesced the broker.
“It is what I have to do. That is why I am here.”
“You mean you wish us to give this money--”
“No--no! How can you, pray, give money to a lady any better than I?”
“I wondered,” said Richards, patiently. He was beginning to fear that
Robison might be one of those mysterious people out of whom no money is
to be made.
“Would you mind hearing my story?” Mr. Robison looked at Richards
pleadingly.
“Not at all,” politely lied the broker.
“There is a lady in New York--to be explicit, an old sweetheart--” Mr.
Robison paused, bit his lip, looked away, bit his lip again and cleared
his throat loudly. He did all these things so untheatrically that they
thrilled the keen-eyed Wall Street man. Presently Mr. Robison went on
in that Yankee nasal voice of his that somehow sounded like the extreme
antithesis of sentiment: “The only woman I ever loved! I have never
married! She did--unfortunately; and now, this girl, this woman,
accustomed to every comfort and every refinement, has to earn her own
living! She has five children and she is earning her living!” He rose
and walked up and down the office like a caged wild animal. Then he
sat down again and said, determinedly, “Of course I simply have to do
something for her!”
“I appreciate your position,” said Richards, tenderly. He was a very
good stock-broker.
“Thank you. You cannot imagine what she was to me! I came to America to
find her. I have found her. I wish to give her money or securities that
will insure a comfortable income, and I have to do it circuitously. I'd
give half a million to anybody who killed her damned husband! Yes, I
would!” He looked at Richards with a wild hope in his eyes. He calmed
himself with an obvious effort and proceeded: “Knowing her as I do, and
because of--of certain circumstances of our early affair, I know she
will never accept any help directly from me. Last night I was calling
on her. Other friends of hers were present, among them a man who called
himself a lawyer. His name is W. Bailey Jackson. Know him?”
“No, I don't. I think I've heard of him, though.” Richards lied from
sheer force of professional habit.
“Well, I led the conversation round to Wall Street and incidentally said
I didn't know which was easier for a man, to be a fool or to make money
in the stock-market. I, myself, I hastened to add, had always found
folly extremely easy--but successful stock speculation infinitely
easier. That, I may remark to you in passing, sir, is gospel truth.”
“You are right,” agreed Richards, heartily. It did not behoove a
stock-broker to point out the difficulty of making money in Wall Street.
Moreover, Mr. Robison showed so quiet a confidence that Richards had
lightning flashes of memory, and recollected every story he had ever
heard about queer characters who had taken millions out of the Street.
“This Mr. W. Bailey Jackson jeered and sneered, however, until I said I
would bet him fifty dollars to fifty cents that I could double a sum
of money in the Street in one week, in a reputable broker's office,
operating on the New York Stock Exchange in a reputable and active
stock--no bucket-shop, no mining-stock, and no pool manipulation. But
I made this point: The trick was so easy that it was not interesting.
I didn't wish to do it to make money, but if Mrs.--if my friend would
accept the profits, I would prove that I knew what I was talking about;
and, besides, would keep the children in candy for a month. And, of
course, everybody laughed and urged her to consent--especially the
Jackson person. In the end she gave in, doubtless thinking I'd win a few
dollars--if I won at all. Also my offer was accepted in the presence and
by the advice of men and women who could stop Mrs. Grundy's mouth.”
“Very clever!” said Richards, with the enthusiasm of a man who sees
commissions coming his way.
“It was love that made me so ingenious,” explained. Mr. Robison, very
simply. “I've got her written acceptance in my pocket as well as that
damned W. Bailey Jackson's bet, duly witnessed by the two gossipiest
women there. And in this envelope you will find instructions for your
guidance in case of my sudden death. So I now wish to double the money.”
He looked inquiringly at Richards, who thereupon felt the pangs of
disappointment. Neither crank nor crook, decided the broker, but simply
_Suckerius Americanus; genus_ D. F.
Mr. Robison evidently was going to ask Richards & Tuttle to take the
one hundred thousand dollars and double it for him, which meant that Mr.
Richards would have to inform Mr. Robison that the firm was not in the
miracle business; and that would make Mr. Robison go away mad. Total--no
commissions!
“Well,” Richards said, just a trifle coldly, “did you come to us to ask
us to double your money for you?”
“No, indeed,” answered Robison; “I came here to do it.”
“When?”
“In one week--or, rather, in five days and two hours.”
“How are you going to do it?” The broker's curiosity was not feigned.
“I propose to study the Menagerie.”
Richards said nothing, but looked “Lunatic!”
“That way inevitably suggests the combinations to you.” Mr. Robison
nodded to himself.
Richards, to be on the safe side, did likewise and muttered, absently,
“That's so!”
“Do you care to come with me?” asked Mr. Robison, with a politeness that
betrayed effort. “Thank you, no. I am very busy, and--”
“And you didn't cut me short!” said Robison, his voice ringing with
remorse. “I'll come in tomorrow morning. Good afternoon--and please
forgive my theft of your time, Mr. Richards.”
“One moment. Do you wish this money--”
“I'll get the receipt to-morrow. I am going to see Kidder now. I didn't
mean to take up so much of your time.” And before the banker could stop
him Mr. James B. Robison was out of the inner office and out of the
outer office and out of the building and out of the financial district.
Shortly afterward Amos F. Kidder, financial editor of the _Evening
Planet_, west into Richards's office. He was thirty-five years old, a
trifle under six feet, had light-brown hair and the eyes of a man who
is a cynic by force of experience and an optimist by reason of a perfect
liver--the kind of man who is fooled by strangers never and by intimate
friends always. If what he had seen of Wall Street gave him a low
opinion of men's motives he had the defect of steadfast loyalty. Having
imagination and a profound respect for statistics, he wrote what might
be called skilful articles on finance.
“Your friend Robison was here to-day. What do you know about him?” asked
Richards. He would not take a stranger's account, but he did not relish
losing an account he already had.
Kidder took a letter from his pocket, gave it to the stock-broker, and
said:
“Smiley gave him a letter to me and in addition sent me that one by
mail.”
Richards read:
The New York Planet, 5 Rue de Provence.
Paris, February 18, 1912.
_Dear Kidder,--I've given a letter of introduction to a Mr. James B.
Robison, who comes originally from some manufacturing town in
Massachusetts, like Lynn or Lowell--I've forgotten which. He is well
liked by the colony here and, I am told, has been kind to poor art
students and other self-deluded compatriots. He is queer; is suspected
of being rich--which he must be because he never borrows, lives well,
and says moneymaking is too easy to merit discussion when men can
discuss the eternal feminine or the revival of cosmetics. His trip to
New York is prompted, he tells me, by the receipt of a letter from an
old flame of his whom he warned against marrying her present husband.
She would not listen to Robison, accused him in choice Bostonian of
being a short sport, and now after long years she writes him, asking for
forgiveness, being at last convinced that her husband is all that
Robison said--and then some. He is off to try to find her; she is
somewhere in New York. Put him in touch with some private detective who
won't rob him too ruthlessly._
_I don't think he'll want to borrow money, as I know he is taking a
letter of credit on Towne, Ripley & Co. for fifty thousand pounds; and
they told me at his bankers'--Madison & Co.--that he owns slathers of
gilt-edged bonds and that they cash the coupons for him. They also tell
me he carries more cash about him than is prudent. You might suggest
to him that the New York banks are safe enough. You'll find him a
character--odd but charitable. Knowing your fondness for fiction in real
life I commend Mr. Robison to you. Regards to the boys. Why don't you
make a million and come over to spend it in the company of Yours as
ever,_
Lurton P. Smiley.
Richards handed the letter back. “He came here with ten
ten-thousand-dollar gold certificates.”
“Yes; he got 'em from Towne, Ripley & Co. I went with him. They had
instructions to pay any amount he might call for, and they did. He asked
for large bills.”
“He got 'em!” said Richards, greatly relieved at seeing no necessity why
he should refuse Robison's account.
“What's he going to do?” asked Kidder.
“I don't know. He told me he had found his old sweetheart and that he is
going to give her all he makes in Wall Street. He expects to double the
one hundred thousand dollars in a week.”
“For Heaven's sake, George, find out his secret! Half a million will do
for me,” laughed Kidder.
“He gave me an envelope,” said Richards, taking it from his desk. On it
was written: