The _Planet's_ official version of the Jerningham affair, and the flood
of sensational literature turned loose on the community by the other
papers, made the Klondiker's name as familiar to New-Yorkers as a
certain breakfast-food advertisement.
His daily mail was enormous, especially after the newspapers said that
he was looking for a house in which to entertain. “The richest bachelor
in the world,” he was called, and the real-estate agents acted
accordingly. So did no end of unattached females of dubious age, but
of not at all dubious intentions. Also it became known that he needed a
social secretary to guide him in two things--the two things being
whom to invite and how to spend six hundred thousand dollars a year in
entertaining those who were invited by the social adviser.
The applications came by the dozen--in the strictest confidence. If
somebody had said this aloud in the hearing of society, society would
have laughed scornfully. A gentleman was always a gentleman, and could
never, never be secretary to a parvenu! But, for all that, there were
scores of well-born men who appeared willing enough--don't you know?--to
help spend the six hundred thousand a year. Or else some historic names
were forged by dastards. The _Planet's_ society editor, who would never
allow herself to be called editress, proved invaluable as a living Who's
Who, and demonstrated her worth to her paper by making connections that
would further her work; for she was much sought by people who wished
introductions to Mr. Jerningham.
They would trade with her--items for letters.
It helped all concerned that not only Parkhurst, but the rest of the
kind-hearted space-grabbers, informed the world that the possessor of
the income of six hundred thousand a year was a fount of erudition, and
withal a man of the world, with exquisite manners--invulnerable to the
optical artillery of the fairest sirens on earth. And always the six
hundred thousand dollars a year to spend, so that the beastly stuff
would not accumulate and choke up the passages of the palace he proposed
to build! That was how Francis Wolfe came to be introduced to Mr.
Jerningham by J. Willoughby Parkhurst, and how the position was
delicately offered to him, and how F. Wolfe delicately accepted.
A fine-looking, well-built young fellow, this Frank--dark-eyed,
black-haired, with a wonderfully clean pink but virile complexion that
made him physically very attractive. In those Broadway restaurants that
have become institutions Francis Wolfe was himself an institution. His
debts were discussed as freely as the cost of gasoline. And yet the
chorus contingent and their lady friends, consisting of the most
beautiful women in all the world, not only preferred, but publicly and
on the slightest provocation proclaimed their preference for, Frank
Wolfe penniless to almost any one else--short of millions. But if Frank
Wolfe was the chorus-girls' pet, Mr. Francis Wolfe was the only brother
of Mrs. John Burt and Mrs. Sydney Walsingham, and favorite nephew of old
Mrs. Stimson. And everybody knew what that meant!
J. Willoughby Parkhurst left them alone, even if he was a reporter.
“If you do not mind talking business,” said Jerningham, with a
deprecatory smile.
“Not at all,” eagerly said young Wolfe, who was consumed by curiosity
to listen to the golden statistics. “In fact,” he added, with a burst of
boyish candor, “I'd be glad to have you.”
“You are a nice boy!” said Jemingham, so gratefully and non-familiarly
that Frank could not find fault with him.
“I need a friend,” continued Jerningham. “I know friendship cannot be
bought. It grows--but there must be a seed. It may be that after you
know me better you will give me your friendship. That is for the future.
I also need a man! A man whom I can trust! A man, young Mr. Francis
Wolfe,” he said, with a sternness that impressed young Mr. Francis
Wolfe, “who will not laugh at me!”
Frank was not an intellectual giant, but neither was he an utter ass. He
said, very seriously, “Go on!”
“I am willing to pay such a man twenty-five thousand a year--” He paused
and almost frowned.
“Go on!” again said young Mr. Wolfe, looking the Klondiker straight in
the eyes.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars--to begin with!”
“Yes?” said young Mr. Wolfe, quite calmly.
“The duties of such a man--and keep in mind I mean a man when I say a
man!--entail nothing whatever of a menial or dishonorable character;
nothing to which a gentleman could possibly object. But it would
necessitate a certain spirit of good-will toward me. I am not only
willing, but even anxious, to pay twenty-five thousand dollars a year,
and all traveling expenses, to a clean-minded young man who, for all his
wild-oat sowing, is a gentleman and will learn to like me enough not to
laugh at me when I intrust him with the secret desire of my heart.”
Before Frank's thoughts could crystallize into the definite suspicion
that Jerningham wanted to be helped to climb socially, Jemingham went on
so coldly that again young Wolfe was impressed:
“You will admit, Mr. Wolfe, that a man who has prospected all over
North America from the Rio Grande to the Arctic Circle, and who has,
unfortunately, been compelled”--he rose, went to his bureau, brought
out two revolvers of a rather old-fashioned kind--“compelled against his
will to draw first”--he showed the young man about a dozen notches in
the handle of one of them--“one who fears no man and no government and
no blackmailer; who owns the richest placer mines in the world--is not
apt to be an emotional ass!” There was a pause. But Jemingham continued
before young Wolfe could speak: “Neither is he a damned fool--what?”
Mr. Francis Wolfe felt he had to say something, so he said, “I
shouldn't think so.”
He felt that Jemingham was not a man to trifle with--a tough customer
in a rough-and-tumble fight; a man who had taken life in preserving his
own; altogether a man, a character, who would make an admirable topic of
conversation with both men and women--therefore a man to be interested
in.
“Do you know Mr. Ashton Welles?” asked Jer-ningham, almost sharply.
“Not intimately.”
“Do you know Mrs. Ashton Welles?”
“Same answer.”
“Ever dine at their house?”
Frank thought a moment. He had dined at so many people's houses. “No,”
he answered, finally. “Could you?”
“How do you mean?”
“Are your relations with Welles such, or could they be cultivated so, as
to make him invite you--not me--you!--to dine at his house?”
“Look here, Mr. Jerningham,” and young Mr. Wolfe's face flushed, “a
fellow doesn't do some things for money; and this is one--”
“I know it! Not for money. For friendship, yes! That's why--you
understand now, don't you?” He looked so earnestly at young Wolfe that
Frank absolved him of wrong-doing.
“No, I don't!” said the young man.
“Did you ever know Randolph Deering, who used to be president of the
VanTwiller Trust Company?”
“Do you mean Mrs. Welles's father?”
“Yes.”
“I don't recall speaking to him more than to say 'How do you do?' I
don't remember when or how I met him.”
“Do you know Mrs. Deering, Mrs. Welles's mother?”
“No.”
“Do you know anybody who does?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Anybody who would give you a letter of introduction?”
“I don't know. If my aunt or my sisters know her it would be easy. But,
of course, I should have to know first why I should want to meet her.”
“Of course. Did you ever hear anything about Mrs. Welles's sister, Naida
Deering?”
“Didn't know she had a sister.”
“Then, of course, you never saw her.”
Francis Wolfe thought a long time. His mind did not work very quickly
at any time. At length he said: “I don't think there could have been
a sister, for I never heard of her having any; indeed, I distinctly
remember hearing that she was an only child. Maybe she was a cousin
or--er--something of the sort.”
“No; Naida was a sister; a good deal older and--But we are drifting
away from business. Will you accept my proposition to be my--er--adviser
in certain matters on which I think you are qualified to give advice,
and accept twenty-five thousand dollars a year?”
“Do you mind if I speak frankly?”
“Certainly not. Speak ahead.”
“Are you offering me this--er--salary when, of course, I know I am not
worth a da--a cent in business; I mean, isn't it really in exchange for
what I may be able to do for you in a--a social way? You know what I
mean.”
“No, sir!” said Jerningham, decisively. “Not for an instant! I do not,
dear Mr. Wolfe, give an infinitesimal damn for what is called society.”
“But I thought Jimmy Parkhurst told me--”
“I cannot help what Jimmy Parkhurst told you; but I tell you that I like
interesting people, and I don't care who or what they are socially. I
hate bores--whether they are hod-carriers or dukes. If I can meet people
who will instruct me when I want to learn, or amuse me when I want to
laugh, I'm satisfied. And I can always meet that kind without anybody's
help. You know how it is.” Then he spoke perhaps thirty words in a
foreign language that Frank thought must be Hungarian. “You remember
your Latin, of course. That's from Petronius.”
“I thought so!” said Frank Wolfe, the pet of the chorus-girls, laughing
to himself. Remember his Latin! He? Haw!
“It is from his 'Cena Trimalchionis.' The _arbiter elegantiarum_ knew
what social climbers might be expected to do, though I neither boast
of my money nor do I eat with my knife. The Latin of the 'Cena' is
difficult--too slangy, full of the _sermo plebeius_.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Frank, so gravely that it was all he could do to
keep from laughing at himself. This Klondiker was not only a gun-fighter
and richer than Croesus, but also a highbrow! Could you beat it?
“Will you accept my offer? Will you try to be my friend?”
“Suppose I find I can't?”
“I'll be sorry. The money is nothing. The inability to make a friend
will be my real loss.”
“Well, we might try six months.” He looked inquiringly at Jerningham. “I
don't exactly know what you wish me to do.”
“Become my friend! You yourself said some things cannot be done for
money by a gentleman; but there is nothing--so long as it is not
dishonorable--that a gentleman may not do for a friend. Shall I explain
a little more?” He looked anxiously at young Mr. Wolfe.
“Yes--do,” said Frank. It occurred to him that this singular man was in
reality proceeding with a curious delicacy.
“Just as soon as you feel you know me I will ask you to help me. Mrs.
Deering is now abroad. Mrs. Welles may be of help to us. Mr. Wolfe, now
that I am not so poor as I was, I want to find Naida Deering, the only
woman I ever loved--and, God help me, the only woman I still love!”
Jerningham rose hastily and walked up and down the room, his face
persistently turned away from Wolfe. He walked to a window and stared
at the sky a long time. Finally he turned to the young man, who was
watching him, and said, with profound conviction:
“_Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur!_”
Young Mr. Wolfe at first felt like saying, “Yes, indeed!” which would,
as a matter of fact, have been a very pat retort. But he weakened and
said, “What is that quotation from?”
“Publilius Syrus. Mr. Wolfe, I must find her. And of course I can't
employ a private detective. You understand?”
“Yes. That is true,” said Frank.
“In her youth something happened.” Young Mr. Wolfe sat up straight. Here
at last was something really vital! Jerningham proceeded: “She was a
high-strung girl--pure as gold. Her very innocence made her indiscreet.
There was no scandal--no, indeed! But she disappeared. And now, when I
have more than enough money for the two of us, I wish to find her. If I
don't--of what possible good are my millions? Tell me that!”
Jerningham glared so angrily at young Mr. Wolfe that young Mr. Wolfe
felt a slight spasm of concern. The Klondiker had a metallic gray eye
that at times menaced like cold steel.
“Excuse me!” said Jerningham, contritely. “My dear boy, do you know what
it is to go chasing over the landscape for years and years in the hope
of striking it some day so as to be able to go back to your native city
and marry the one woman in all the world--particularly when she was one
whom her parents, not understanding her nature, practically disowned? In
all my prospecting what I wanted was to find Naida's mine--gold by the
ton--so I could buy back her place in society!”
There was such determination in Jerningham's voice and look that young
Wolfe felt a thrill of admiration and, with it, a distinct masculine
liking.
“That's a great story!” he said. “I never heard of your--er--Miss Naida.
She never married, I suppose?”
“I don't know! I don't know! She promised to wait for me. The Deerings
used to live in Jersey; and living in Jersey when I was a kid wasn't
what it is to-day. They were not prominent in society. Of course the
Deerings kept it quiet. I think Mrs. Welles may know where her sister
is--the sister who is never mentioned by her own flesh and blood! Mrs.
Deering, of course, does; but she is abroad somewhere. I must find
Naida, I tell you--and--” Jerningham was silent, but Wolfe saw that he
was breathing quickly, as though he had been running. Frank never
read anything except the afternoon papers, love-letters, and the more
romantic of the best-sellers. He now very laboriously constructed a
romance of Jemingham's life that became so thrilling it took away
his own breath. It made him feel very kindly toward the new
Jerningham--everybody feels kindly toward his own creations; and so he
said, in a burst of enthusiasm:
“By George! I'll help you!”
And thus was begun the pact between the two men.