Tom arrived at his home early enough to have his bath at the usual
hour. Though he had never been asked to account for his movements, he
nevertheless made it a point to breakfast with his father. He would do
so to-day. There was no occasion to say he had been to Boston or that he
had slept in a Pullman.
As a matter of fact, he had not slept well. The stateroom seemed full
of those elusive flower-fragrances that always made him think of her,
particularly sweet peas--a beautiful flower, and of such delicate
colors, he now remembered, who had not thought of them for years. He
really loved them, he now discovered. Their odor always tinged his.
thoughts with a vague spirit of romance; and this, in turn, in some
subtle way, rendered him more susceptible to the lure of adventure. It
almost made him feel like a boy.
For all the stimulating reaction of his cold plunge, Tom looked a trifle
tired about the eyes at breakfast.
Mr. Merriwether looked at his son with eyes that also looked tired;
said, “Good morning, Tom!” in his usual tone of voice, and hid behind
his newspaper. Instead of reading about the absurd demands of the
railroad workers all over the United States for higher wages, he was
thinking that he had never allowed anybody to do his work for him,
because he had always intended that Tom should succeed him. He had at
one time fully intended to train Tom for the succession, to have him
learn railroading from brake-man up.
Indeed, the boy after leaving college had seemed much taken with the
idea and listened with interest to his father's talks about his plans
and desires and hopes. But with the great boom, that wonderful era of
amazing reorganizations and stupendous consolidations, the great little
man had been swamped by the flood of gold that poured into Wall Street.
And gold, as usual, had been ruthless in its demands on the great little
man's time. For years he had averaged a net personal profit of a million
a month; but it was not that he wished to make more money. It was that
his time no longer belonged to himself; it was not his family's, but his
associates'--not his only son's, but his many syndicates'. And he had
devoted himself to the welfare of his syndicates and had written a
dazzling page in the annals of Wall Street.
But what about his son's present and the future of the Merriwether
roads? If Tom died, the Merri-wether dream would follow him, but that
would be a natural death at the hands of God. If Tom lived and refused
to be a Merriwether, the death of the Merriwether dreams would be by
slow strangulation. In short, hell!
His promise to the brother of the woman who had a daughter that might
prove to be the executioner of his dreams stared him in the face. The
situation called for tact and skill and superhuman self-control. He
liked to fight in the open; but this was not a battle for more millions;
it involved more than the deglutition of a rival railroad.
McWayne had reported that Tom had acted like a lunatic when he could
not secure the room in the Hotel Lorraine that had been engaged by Mrs.
Calderon and daughter. The only ray of light was that Tom had not talked
to the ladies.
“Tom,” asked Mr. Merriwether, casually, “have you anything on special
for this morning?”
Tom had in mind a visit to 777 Fifth Avenue, at which he promised
himself to end the affair; but he answered:
“N-no.”
“I mean,” said the father, speaking even more casually, because he noted
the hesitancy, “anything that could not be done just as well in the
afternoon.”
“Oh no, I have nothing special; in fact, nothing at all,” said Tom.
Mr. Merriwether saw in his reply merely Tom's way of not declaring his
intention to see the girl.
“Then I wish you would come down-town with me. I have some papers I want
you to look over, and we'll have luncheon together. What do you say?”
A prisoner accused of murder in the first degree does not listen to
the jury's verdict with more interest than E. H. Merriwether waited for
Tom's reply, for at this crisis he realized that he had not been in his
son's confidence in those other important little crises of boyhood that
breed in sons the habit of confiding in fathers.
“Sure thing!” said Tom', cheerfully.
Though thus relieved of some of his fears, there remained with E.
H. Merriwether the determination that Tom had not volunteered any
information. The little czar of the Pacific & Southwestern was so
intelligent that in general he was fundamentally just. He did not
exactly blame Tom for not confiding in him, but, also, he did not blame
himself. And this was because he had habituated himself to paying for
his mistakes in dollars. What could not be paid off in dollars was never
a mistake, though it might well be a misfortune.
They went down-town together. Mr. Merriwether took Tom into one of
his half-dozen private offices, made him sit down in one of those
over-comfortable arm-chairs that you paradoxically find in busy Wall
Street offices, and said to him very seriously:
“My son, here is the history of the Pacific & Southwestern system from
its very start. It goes back to the early stage-line days and is brought
up to to-day. I had it prepared in anticipation of an ill-advised
Congressional investigation. I have thus far succeeded in staving off
the investigation, not because I was afraid of it or because it might
hurt me, but because the market was in bad shape to stand the alarmist
rumors and canards and threats that always go with such affairs.
Other people would have quite unnecessarily lost money. As soon as the
investigation cannot be used as a bear club I'll let up opposing it.
I'll even help it.” He paused and gave to Tom a book bound in limp
black morroco. “I want you to read this book because it is written with
complete frankness in order to spike certain political guns. You will
get in it the full story of what has been done and what we hope still
to be allowed to accomplish. When you get through with it you'll know as
much about the system as I do!”
The old man had spoken quietly and impressively. Tom was so pleased at
having something to occupy his mind and keep it from dwelling on the
girl he had never seen and the exasperating scoundrel at 777 Fifth
Avenue that his face lighted up with joy.
“You could not have given me anything to do that I'd like better, dad!”
he said, with such obviously sincere enthusiasm that Mr. Merriwether
felt profoundly grateful for this blessing.
Then came the inevitable reaction and with it the thought: “Have I
gained a successor only to lose him to some--”
He shook his head, clenched his jaws, and looked at his watch. It was
not yet time to go to fight for the possession of his son. He had much
to do before he left his office to go to 777 Fifth Avenue.
“Tom,” he said, “'you stay here until I return--will you?”
“You bet!” smiled Tom, looking at the thickness of the system's history.
“I have a meeting or two before luncheon, but I'll try not to let them
interfere.”
“Any time before three, boss,” said his son, cheerfully.
His heir and successor, but, above all and everything, his son! There
was no sacrifice he would not make for this boy to keep him from
blighting his own career--and his father's hopes, he added, with the
selfishness of real love.
Knowing that Tom was safely imprisoned and could not marry at least
for a few hours, he was able to concentrate his mind on his railroad's
affairs. He disposed of the more urgent matters. At ten-forty he sent
for McWayne.
“I'm going to 777 Fifth Avenue.”
“Again?” inadvertently said the private secretary.
Mr. Merriwether looked at him.
McWayne went on to explain: “I've had a man watching it since we found
Tom called there, just before going to Boston.”
“Right! I expect to be back in time to lunch with Tom; but if I should
be delayed--” He paused.
“Yes, sir?”
“--delayed beyond one o'clock have luncheon brought from the Meridian
Club and tell Tom I wish him to stay until I return. This is important.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think that is all.”
“If no word is received from you by--” McWayne paused.
Mr. Merriwether finished. “By two o'clock, come after me. But always
remember the newspapers!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I'll telephone before two in case I expect to stay beyond that hour.”
“Very well, sir.”
E. H. Merriwether put on his hat, familiar to the world through the
newspaper caricaturists--and walked toward the door. Then he did what he
never before had done--he repeated an order! He said to McWayne, “Look
after Tom!”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he went to 777 Fifth Avenue to learn whether Tom was to be his
pride and successor or his sorrow and dream-slayer.
X
E. H. Merriwether drove to the house of mystery in his motor,
told the chauffeur to wait, and rang the bell. One of the
over-intelligent-looking footmen opened the door.
“I wish to see Mr.--whoever is master in this house.”
“Yes, sir!”
The footman led the way. At the door of the library he knocked twice,
sharply, then, after a pause, once, and then twice again. He waited;
and presently, having evidently heard some answer not audible to the
financier, he opened the door and announced:
“Mr. E. H. Merriwether!”
Why had there been any necessity for signals? Why such cheap theatrical
claptrap? To make him think things? These questions in Mr. Merriwether's
mind showed that the mysterious master of the house knew the advantage
of suggesting the important sense of difference.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” answered E. H. Merriwether, and looked about the room.
No girl!
It began to irritate him. The man intensified the feeling by speaking
very deliberately, as one to whom time is no object:
“Will you not be seated, Mr. Merriwether?”
“I am a very busy man,” began the autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of
railroad.
“Sit down, anyhow,” imperturbably suggested the man.
The autocrat sat down. He said, “But please understand that.”
“I won't keep you any longer because you are sitting. Shall we get down
to business?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Merriwether”--the man spoke almost dreamily--“do you know why I
asked you to call to-day at eleven?”
“No.”
“Because when you were here yesterday it was after banking hours.”
“And?” The little czar was in a hurry to finish.
“You, Mr. Merriwether, are one of those fortunate mortals about whom the
newspapers do not lie.”
“Oh, am I? I take it you haven't seen a newspaper in twelve years.” Mr.
Merriwether, after all, was an American. His sense of humor helped to
make him great.
“I've read every line that has ever been printed about you--I had to,
in order to study you exhaustively. I find that you are acknowledged by
both friends and foes to be an intelligent man.”
“Oh yes!”
“A very intelligent man,” continued the man.
“And therefore?” said the very intelligent man.
“And, therefore, I now ask you to give me one million dollars.”
Mr. E. H. Merriwether never so much as batted an eyelid. He kept his
eyes fixed on the stranger's eyes. He repeated, a trifle impatiently:
“And?”
“A certified check will do.”
“Come to the point. I am a busy man,” said Mr. Merriwether.
The man looked at the little financier admiringly. Then he said, “You
mean you wish to know why you should give the million, or what you will
get for it?”
“Either! Both!”
“You should give it because it is I who ask it. You will get for it what
is very, very cheap at a million.”
“My dear sir, we'd do business quicker if you'd play show-down.”
Now that it was a matter of money, of paying, of trading, Tom's father
felt a great sense of relief. Still, there was Tom's unhappiness to
consider. Poor boy!
“I want you to give me a million so that in return I may give you a
daughter-in-law.”
“You mean you will not give me a daughter-in-law if I give you a
million, don't you?”
“I am in the habit of meaning what I say. The sooner you learn that,
the quicker we'll close the deal. I mean that for a million dollars I'll
give you a daughter-in-law.”
Mr. Merriwether shook his head. It was plainly to be seen on his face
that every moment spent in this room was a sad waste of time.
“Isn't it worth a million to you?” asked the man, as if he knew it was.
Mr. Merriwether proceeded to look as though it were worth even less than
a Santo Domingo mining concession. Then he said, with finality:
“No.”
The man rose.
“Then,” he spoke indifferently, “come back when it is. I'll ask you to
excuse me. I, also, am a busy man. Good day, sir.”
Mr. Merriwether rose and bowed. He looked straight into the man's very
shrewd eyes, smiled very slightly--and sat down again.
“Do you mean,” he asked, very pleasantly, for his bluff had been called,
“Miss Calderon?”
The man sat down.
“Oh no!” he answered, unsmilingly.
“No? Then?” Mr. Merriwether was so surprised that he forgot not to show
it.
“I am sorry you are a busy man, because what I have to say can not
be hurried. First, you must chase from your mind all thoughts of Wall
Street, high finance, railroad systems--and fill it with love!”
Mr. Merriwether looked alarmed. Would it all end with a Biblical text
and an exhortation to endow some sort of a Home?
“You can do this,” pursued the man, imperturbably, “by thinking of your
son Tom. He is your only son. You should love him. Once your mind is
attuned to thoughts of love, you will be able to understand me more
easily. Concentrate on love!” The man leaned back in his chair as though
he were certain the attuning process would consume an hour, this being,
alas! a Wall Street man; but Merriwether said, very promptly:
“I am ready for chapter two.”
“I doubt it. Love! The love of father for son, of son for mother, of son
for wife, of son for father!”
“I understand. My mind works quickly. Go on!”
“Do you by any chance happen to know that your son is in love?”
“Yes. Where is the girl?”
“It isn't the girl. It's just girl.”
“Oh, hell! Quit vaudevilling!”
“There is no girl who is the girl. There never was. There doesn't have
to be any!”
Quite obviously this man was a lunatic--with the eyes of a particularly
sane person. If there was no girl Tom was in no danger of marriage. A
million for not marrying an undesirable person, yes, but a million for a
daughter-in-law, when Tom was not in love!
“Only,” thought Mr. Merriwether, “in case I have the selecting of her!
And if I pick her I don't have to pay.”
“And yet,” said the man, musingly, “Tom loves her!”
Mr. Merriwether's perplexity was fast rising to the dignity of anger.
“If there had been a girl of Tom's own class,” the man went on, as if
talking to himself, “why shouldn't he have been seen in public with
her?” Mr. Merriwether was listening now with his soul. “And if this girl
were of the other class--that financial geniuses, alas! sometimes have
to accept for daughters-in-law--a nice, vivacious chorus-lady, or a
refined Reno graduate, or worse--she would have insisted on being
seen in public with Tom, to show her power and to raise the paternal
bid-price for a trip to Europe--alone!”
The man ceased to speak and began to nod his head slowly, his gaze on
the rug at his feet. Mr. Merriwether could stand it no longer.
“If there is no girl, what in blazes do I get for my million?”
“Your pick of eight.”
“Eight what?”
“Eight perfect daughters-in-law!”
A thought shot through Mr. Merriwether's mind: Was any form of insanity
contagious? He looked at the lunatic. The eyes were sane, cold, shrewd,
mind-reading eyes full of a sardonic humor.
“They are all,” added the man, as if he wished to dispel unworthy
suspicion, “in love.”
“With Tom?”
“With love--like Tom!”
“With love--like Tom!” helplessly repeated Mr. E. H. Merriwether.
“Your mind”--the man spoke very slowly and distinctly, as if he wished
to deprive Mr. Merriwether of every excuse for not understanding
him--“does not seem to be working this morning with its usual
efficiency!”
“No!” admitted Mr. Merriwether, sadly. “If you'd only use words of one
syllable I think I could follow you better.”
“It isn't that. It is that your mind was not attuned in the beginning
to the thought of love, and, therefore, could not follow my words. You
compel me to spend time in explaining the obvious. Listen! If you wish
Tom to become the heir to your name, to your railroad, to your work, and
to all the dreams you have dreamed about your work and about your
son; if you want him to be your successor, to continue your work, to
perpetuate the name and influence of Merriwether in his country--I say,
if you wish all this, he must do one thing, and you must see that
he does it. And that one thing, Mr. Merriwether, is for him to marry
wisely. Do you get that?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Merriwether, very simply.
“If he doesn't, it will be death to your hopes, a tragic break in the
Merriwether succession. No, don't shake your head. Admit it. Face it
frankly. I know it. I know that you also know it. Can you expect me to
believe that you want Tom to be the fool husband of a fool girl whose
influence on him--”
“Tom isn't that kind,” interrupted E. H. Merri-wether.
“All men are that kind. Does history record the case of a man, greater
even than E. H. Merriwether, who, when it came to women, was an utter
ass? Yes, of a thousand; in fact, the stronger the man, the weaker she
makes him--the better his brain, the worse his folly. And the cure? When
an intelligent man realizes that he is a hopeless ass over one woman
he realizes that his only escape is by the suicide route. No! It's much
cheaper for you to pay the million. Oblige me by thinking. Isn't it
cheaper to pay a million?”
He held up a silencing hand, as though he wished Mr. Merriwether
to spend a full hour thinking of the bargain he was getting. Mr.
Merriwether thought--quickly and accurately as was his wont. And he
admitted to himself that it was indeed cheap at a million. But there
must be value received. Promises, however plausible, are no more to be
capitalized blindly than threats. It depends on who promises, and why;
and also on what is promised. He thought of offering a smaller sum and
of going through the usual preliminaries of a trade, but decided to be
frank.
“If you can deliver the goods, I'll pay the million.” And, after a
pause, he added, “Gladly!”
“I banked on that when I decided you ought to contribute a million to
our fund,” said the man, simply. “I studied you and your fortune and
your vulnerability, and I decided to attack _via_ Tom. This was easier
and cheaper than a stock-market campaign.”
The man somehow looked as though he had said all that was necessary; but
Mr. Merriwether reminded him:
“You must prove your ability to deliver the goods.”
“I thought”--the man seemed mildly surprised--“we had.”
“Certainly not. The million hasn't stirred.”
“You are a brave man, Mr. Merriwether.”
Mr. Merriwether laughed, and said:
“What should I fear? People don't murder a man like me and get away with
it--not when the motive is money. Political assassination, perhaps; but
not for a few dollars--especially when my heirs would spend millions to
see that justice did not miscarry.” He shook his head, smilingly.
“My dear sir, when we decided to go into the gold-mining business--”
“Gold-mining business!”
“Exactly! We thought to save time and effort by getting our gold already
coined. Our general staff studied various methods--the ticker, for
instance, and legislative attacks on your roads; but we went back
to Tom. It is, of course, nearly as stupid to overestimate as to
underestimate one's opponent; so, while we provided against every
contingency arising from your undoubted possession of a resourceful and
fearless mind, we also thought--please take note--that you might display
stupidity; and we prepared for it. Such as, for instance, in case you
point-blank said No! We have also provided ways of preventing you and
your uncaptured millions from hurting us. Of course we could make the
stock-market pay us for the trouble of kidnapping you or of murdering
you. Don't you see clearly what you would do if you were in my place?”
“Oh yes--I see it clearly; but I don't believe you could do what I could
in your place?”
“Nobody is free from vanity, for everybody seems to be a natural
monopolist when it comes to brains. You are kidnapped at this very
moment, aren't you?”
“People know I am here--”
“Oh yes! We expect to have you telephone McWayne presently not to expect
you to lunch, and that we have extended every facility to his detectives
for having this house under surveillance. We kidnapped the great
Garrettson and kept him out of reach of the great world of finance long
enough to enable us to cash in. Not only that, but he never told how we
did it. You remember when Steel broke to--”
“You didn't do that!” exclaimed E. H. Merri-wether.
“Oh yes, we did; and I'll tell you how.” And the man briefly outlined
the case for him.
E. H. Merriwether listened with much interest. When the man made an end
of speaking, the financier shook his head skeptically, which made the
man ask: “You don't believe it?”
“No!” answered Mr. Merriwether.
“Nevertheless, it is so. We also might have engineered in your case some
deal such as that by which we compelled Ashton Welles to disgorge some
of the money he had no business to have.” And he proceeded to enlighten
the financier.
“Very clever!” said Mr. Merriwether.
“Rather neat!” modestly acquiesced the man. “Suppose we had decided
to kidnap you? The first thing to do is to get you here. Well, you are
here.”
“How will you make money by that?” asked the financier, smiling.
“We don't expect to. We have not planned to make money by kidnapping
you. Nevertheless, you must admit it can be made a very expensive matter
for you. But please let me kidnap you without interruption!”
“I beg your pardon!” said Mr. Merriwether, gravely.
It struck him that the possession of a sense of humor makes a crook
ten times more dangerous. It was what made the reporter, Tully, really
formidable.
“We assume that you foresaw the danger to yourself in coming alone to
this house. You'd employ private detectives to watch it at ten dollars
a day a man, exactly as you have had your son watched the moment
we decided it was time for you to begin the watching. McWayne, your
efficient private secretary, is ready to move to your rescue. I don't
see what else you could have done to protect yourself that we have not
provided for.”
“The police!” mildly suggested Mr. Merriwether.
“And the reporters!” mocked the man. “Pshaw! We know what we are doing.
Why, we have rehearsed your kidnapping and even your death. Our ablest
members have in turn impersonated you--put themselves in your place and
fought us. I will not bore you with more details, and I admit that the
human mind cannot foresee accidents; but we have studied how your mind
would work. Suppose you assume that you are kidnapped and beyond the
possibility of help from your friends. Shall I tell you what we have
done to make Tom marry one of our eight desirable candidates?”
“If you still wish that million.”
“Having decided to attack through Tom, we studied him and his ancestry
on both sides. We easily learned that he had never had a serious
love-affair, and that he was imaginative and adventurous, like yourself.
There were many young women who would have liked to become your
daughter-in-law--too many. That was Tom's trouble. But our problem was
really made easier by that. We simply had to turn his thoughts to love
and to one girl. We therefore did.”
“How?”
“We got him here. I piqued his curiosity and made the affair an
extraordinary one by saying all we wished him to do was to answer one
question. As we had rather expected, he would not come; but, of
course, we had foreseen that, and so we got him here in one of our own
taxicabs.”
“How?”
“We telephoned him that the doctor said he should come instantly, and
that you were not really in danger. We don't believe in lies; but we
took pains that no other cab should be in front of the club when we
telephoned him from the corner drug-store. Attention to details, my dear
sir, always brings home the bacon. Having roused the spirit of adventure
in a remarkable way, I then asked him the great question. What do you
think it was?”
Tom's father shook his head.
“It was this: Where did you spend your summer at the end of your
freshman year? He told me. Then I gave him a box made to order for me by
a French expert, which would deceive other experts so long as we did not
try to sell it. Anybody can imitate the goldwork of any period. In all
the museums of the world you will find fakes. Attention to details! I
was prepared to have him show that box to local experts. I assumed he
would do so, being a Merriwether and, therefore, intelligently curious.”
“Box with what?” asked Mr. Merriwether, also intelligently curious.
“Wait! When your son told me where he spent his summer at the end of his
freshman year I knew he was then about nineteen--too young to think of
marriage, but old enough to think of love. He had for the first time in
his life been free from home influences and direct parental supervision.
He was bound to regard himself as a man of the world and think of
innocent flirtations as a manly art. Being in that frame of mind, and at
the same time being a nice, rich, good-looking chap, all the girls would
naturally make a dead set for him. Their numbers would keep him from
having one love-affair. All love-affairs at twenty are much the same.
A boy always begins by being in love with love. Indeed, I believe
twenty-year love to be exclusively a literary passion--that, is,
boys get it from reading about it. Of course I studied time, period,
locality, and manifold probabilities; and, therefore, I sent him on a
mission that suggested love--love for the one girl that Fate intended
him to love and to marry. In order to fix, accentuate, and accelerate
his love-thinking I used the perfume of sweet peas.”
“How does that work?”
“I picked out sweet peas because they are found everywhere. Their odor
is strong and characteristic. He must have inhaled that odor thousands
of times when he was flirting with pretty girls the summer he spent at
Oleander Point with Dr. Bonner.”
“Yes; but about suggesting--”
“I advise you to read up on the psychology of odor associations. You
will learn that there is a very close relation between the olfactory
sense and the desire to love. Oliver Wendell Holmes declared that
memory, imagination, old sentiments, and associations are more readily
reached through the sense of smell than by almost any other channel;
and, also, that 'olfactory impressions tend to be associated with a
sum-total of feeling-tone.' This has been known for thousands of years.
A very interesting paper was written by Mackenzie, of Johns Hopkins. If
you read it you will know more than I can now take the time to tell you.
The Orient understands the value of perfumes in lovemaking, and I could
tell you amazing things; but I will refer you to Cabanis, Dadisett,
Hobbes, Jaworski, Jwanicki, Schiff, Wolff, and Zwaardemaker. If you
wish, my secretary will prepare an exhaustive bibliography of the
subject for you.”
“No, thanks,” said Mr. Merriwether. “But I still don't understand--”
The man sighed. Then he said, “I'll tell you, of course.” He then told
Tom's father about the message in the dark that Tom had carried.
“But he couldn't believe it!” exclaimed Mr. Merriwether.
“No; he couldn't--but he did. Of course I have taken you behind the
scenes---that is, I have opened your eyes and turned your head in the
proper direction and held it firmly there and shouted, 'Look!' And of
course you see the machinery standing still and you can't imagine it in
motion. You are not as imaginative as I thought you were.”
“Huh!” said E. H. Merriwether, thoughtfully. Then after a pause he said:
“I see the wheels revolving. Ingenious!”
“More than that, practical! My object in having Tom fall in love
with love, suggesting that there was one girl born to be his bride,
accentuated by my use of the sweet-peas odor as a _leit-motif_, was to
have something to offer you which would be cheap at a million. The next
step was to make Tom do foolish things--for effect on you. First, to
make you fear Tom was crazy. I had a girl who knew young Waters talk to
him about Tom's new and alarming queerness and suggest that he telephone
to Mr. E. H. Merriwether. Of course Waters wouldn't telephone--and of
course I did. And, of course, if you had disbelieved or suspected
you would have sent for young Mr. Waters and he would have denied the
telephone, but admitted the queer actions of Tom and the fact that
people were talking about them. That would have allayed any suspicion
you might have entertained. So I stage-managed the opera scene and the
Boston trip to make you fear the worst. In that frame of mind you could
be induced to come here voluntarily. I sent Tully to you. You had to
come!”
“Very clever!” said Mr. Merriwether, with a thoughtful absence of
enthusiasm.
“Therefore,” continued the man as if he had not heard the other's
interpolation, “your son, being full of the thought of love and, even
worse, of marrying the mate that Fate selected for him five million
years ago, is now ready to marry any girl that smells of sweet peas.
We thought that, instead of vulgarly extracting the million from you by
torture or threats, we would place you in our debt by perpetuating
the Merriwether dynasty. Hence the preparation of eight very nice
girls--three of them in your own set, three others children of people
you know, and the remaining two equally desirable but less historical,
as it were.”
“Who are they?” If Mr. Merriwether was to pay a million he might as well
see the label.
“Cynthia, Agnes, and Isabel, daughters respectively of Gordon Hammersly,
William Murray, and Vanderpoel Woodford. Any objections?”
“No; but you can't--”
“Yes, I can. Also, Louise Emlen, daughter of Marbury Emlen, the
lawyer--”
“He's a crook!” interrupted Mr. Merriwether.
“He doubtless interfered with one of your deals; I see you respect him.
He's a crank, but she is a brick. And a Miss Lythgoe, daughter of
Professor Lythgoe, of Columbia, the most beautiful girl in New York.
Ramona Ogden; her father is Dr. Ogden, the lung specialist; her mother
was a Jewess. The remaining two are of humble birth. But all of them are
healthy and beautiful, plenty of honesty, brains, and, above all,
imagination. Any one of them will not only make Tom happy, but will make
him a worthy successor of a great man. And such grandchildren as they
will give you! I envy you!” The man spoke with such fervent sincerity
that E. H. Merriwether merely said:
“It is a risky business, even though the chances appear to be--”
“That's why we ask one million dollars--because we have eliminated the
risk. Very cheap. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Merriwether, grimly.
“Then, will you kindly--”
“Yes; I will kindly tell you that you are a damned fool! You've wasted
my time. I'm going to my office, and if I don't have you put in jail it
will be because I don't want the publicity. But don't push me too far or
I'll do it anyhow!” And Mr. E. H. Merriwether rose.
“Sit down!” said the man, with a pleasant smile.
“Go to hell!” snarled the czar of the Pacific & Southwestern, and looked
at the man with the eyes that Sam Sharpe once said reminded him of a
mink's when it kills for the sheer love of killing.
For all reply the man clapped his hands sharply twice. Four men--the
over-intelligent-looking footmen--came from behind the heavy plush
portières. Also, the ascetic-looking man who had held the glass of acid
in the taxicab and had brought Tom into the house the first time. The
ascetic-looking man held a cornet to his lips, and his lungs were filled
with still unblown blasts.
“Three weeks ago, Mr. Merriwether,” explained the mysterious master
of the house, “this worthy artist began to practise on his beautiful
instrument at exactly this time every morning. This was in anticipation
of the morning when you should be here--the idea being to drown your
cries. The neighbors have complained and I have promised to play
pianissimo; but a few loud blasts, which will do the trick, will be
forgiven. Attention to details, Mr. Merriwether! Ready!”
The cometist inflated his lungs and held the comet to his lips in
readiness. The footmen seized Mr. Merriwether by the arms and legs, one
man to each limb.
“Doctor!” called the master.
A sixth man came from behind the portières. He had some tin cans in
his hand--plainly labeled ether--and also a cylinder of compressed
laughing-gas and an inhaler.
“Expert! Anesthetics!” said the man, curtly, to Mr. Merriwether. “We
propose to take you out of this house if we kidnap you. If we decide to
kill you we have arranged to do it right here at home. I think we'll
kidnap you. A week or two will make you amenable to reason. We realize,
of course, that every day you spend under our hospitable roof will make
it a little bit more difficult to get the million into our clutches.
Would you like to know how we propose to kidnap you and get away with
it?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. E. H. Merriwether, with a pleasant smile.
“Tell our Mr. E. H. Merriwether to come in,” said the man to the
cometist, who thereupon disappeared and presently returned, followed by
a man made up to resemble the great financier.
The task was rendered easy by the famous flat-brimmed hat, with the
crown like a truncated cone, so familiar to newspaper-readers through
the cartoonists' efforts. The resemblance was not striking enough to
deceive at close range, but it probably would work at a distance.
“Walk like him!” commanded the master.
The fake Mr. Merriwether walked up and down the room with the curious
swaggering, jockey-like jauntiness of the little railroad man. From time
to time he snapped his fingers impatiently in the same characteristic
way Mr. E. H. Merriwether almost always used when giving an order to
subordinates.
“That will do!” said the man, with a broad grin at the impersonator of
the little financial giant. The double left the room--still walking _à
la_ E. H. M.
“I have had that man--an actor of about your build with a gift of
mimicry--coached for weeks to imitate you. We told him it was a joke and
guaranteed him an appearance before the most select audience in New York
at one of Mrs. Garrettson's world-famous functions. We pledged him to a
secrecy so natural, under the circumstances, as to rouse no suspicions.
A few minutes ago we sent a footman to tell your chauffeur to go away
and return at one. He wouldn't do it. The footman said the boss said
so. Your man retorted that he took orders from only the boss
himself--especially when countermanding previous orders.
“So our Mr. Merriwether went out to the front door, yelled 'One!' in
your voice, and snapped his finger at the intelligent chauffeur, who
thereupon beat it. But the sleuth remains. It makes us laugh! But,
after all, since we have provided for him, it would be a pity not to go
through the entire program. Does this bore you?”
“Must I tell the truth?” asked Mr. Merriwether, anxiously.
“Yes.”
“I can stand more.” In point of fact, Mr. Merriwether was sure the
situation was serious for him. That is why he joked about it.
“Over six months ago we opened an antique-shop on Fourth Avenue. We
had the usual truck. Also we have had this antique-dealer--who is your
humble servant--go from house to house on the Avenue offering to buy or
exchange those antiques of which people have grown tired. We even asked
you. We have offered such good prices and such excellent swaps that we
have taken antiques from some of the wealthiest houses on the Avenue.
Also we have made a practice of importing antiques from Europe, which
we auction off every two weeks. The money we get we deposit in various
banks, and then we buy bills on Paris. The banks now know us. Remember
that--it is important. Well, we also have an exact copy of your motor,
even to the initials in the door panels. Pretty soon we send for our
Merriwether motor and our E. H. Merriwether emerges from this house and
gets into his car and off he goes--and the watching sleuth with him.”
“But if there should be two, and one stay?”
“Then number two will see not long afterward an elaborately carved
Gothic chest taken from here into the antique-dealer's wagon--a wagon
now known to the traffic squad. We carry you away and lock you in a
small sound-proof room, to get to which people would have to move out of
the way a lot of heavy pieces of furniture. There is no question of our
ability to kidnap you and to keep you a prisoner. I tell you we have
paid attention to details persistently and intelligently. Meantime what
does Sam Sharpe do to the stock-market? And Northrup Ashe? How much will
a month's absence from your office cost you?”
“Not half as much as it will cost you when I get out.”
“And if you don't get out?”
For reply Mr. E. H. Merriwether grinned broadly.
“My dear Mr. Merriwether”--the man spoke very seriously now--“we had
not really expected such unintelligent skepticism from you; but, as
we prepared for everything, we, of course, prepared for even crass
stupidity on your part. In demonstrating our power to do what I say some
painful moments will be your portion. This I regret more than I can say.
Just now our problem is to prove our complete physical control of you
and also our utter indifference to your feelings. I am going to do what
will make you hate me to the murder point. In deliberately making a
violent enemy of a man like you we pay ourselves the compliment
of thinking ourselves absolutely fearless. I propose to have you
spanked--to whip you as if you were a bad little boy. We shall at first
use a shingle on you--undraped. You may begin when ready, James.”
“Sir,” said one of the footmen, very respectfully, to Mr. E. H.
Merriwether, “will you kindly take off your coat and waistcoat,
preliminary to the removal of your trousers?”
Mr. E. H. Merriwether tried to smile, but desisted when he saw that the
men's faces had taken on a grim look--as if they knew that after the
whipping it would be a fight to the death. They somehow conveyed an
impression that, though they would not stop at murder, they nevertheless
appreciated the gravity of the offense.
“We know,” said the master, solemnly, “that for every blister we raise
you will gladly spend a million to clap us into jail. Do you really wish
to be spanked and to hate us for it for the rest of your life?”
“No.”
“The alternative is the million--or death.”
“You can't kill me and get away with it.”
“Oh yes--even easier than kidnapping. I'll show you how we'll do it.”
He rose and took from one of the drawers of the table a small,
morocco-covered medicine-case, opened it, and showed Mr. Merri-wether
a lot of small tubes tightly stoppered. “Cultures!” explained the
man--“typhoid; bubonic plague; anthrax; _Bacillus mallei_--that's
glanders--meningitis; Asiatic cholera; and others. This, for
instance--number thirteen--is the virus of tetanus. Inoculation with
an ordinary culture would take days; but with this virus it will take
hours. What a wonderful thing science is! You know what tetanus is?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Merriwether, calmly, “lockjaw.”
“Exactly! Well, this will lock your jaws, and all your millions won't
be able to pry them open for you, and all the antitoxin injections won't
help you. You will have your consciousness almost to the last--and you
will not make yourself understood. The _risus sardonicus_, which is
a most unpleasant sort of grin resulting from your inability to smile
naturally, will linger in the memory of Tom to his death. You really
ought to have a moving-picture film of your last hours taken as a
warning to those stupid millionaires whose plunder we would recover.
And, of course, I have here seven poisons, of which prussic acid is the
mildest and slowest. Will you please assume the fact of your death?”
“I'll do that much to please you,” said Mr. Mer-riwether. He still
believed that murder would not be profitable to these men and hence did
not believe they would go that far.
“Would you like to know how we propose to dispose of the body?”
“I might as well see everything,” he answered, in a resigned tone of
voice. The man looked at him admiringly, and said:
“Come on!”
They led the great E. H. Merriwether to the cellar. There he saw that
the furnace coal had been taken out of its bin and put in the adjoining
compartment. The plank floor had been taken up, and what looked like a
short trench--or a grave--had been dug. Outside stood a pile of crushed
stone, some bags of cement, some bundles of steel rods, a section
of five-inch iron soilpipe with a mushroom-head trap at one end, and
concrete-workers' tools.
“After we make absolutely sure that you are dead we throw a lot of
soft mortar into the grave, deposit the corpse, and then pour in more
cement--so that you will be completely surrounded by it. It will make
it very difficult indeed to recognize you when they try to chip away the
hard cement--if they ever try! Then we fill the grave up to the top with
concrete, using plenty of steel rods--not to re-enforce the concrete at
all, but to make it very hard digging with a pick.
“We also stick the soilpipe into the--er--cavity in order to account
for the disturbed pavement. Intelligent searchers--your son and his
detectives--will assume it is plumbing--and seek no further. We replace
the plank flooring in the bin and fill it up with coal, thereby further
obliterating all traces of your grave.
“We have provided for that part, you see. Why, my dear Mr. Merriwether,
what we really do to you is confer immortality on you. We elevate you
to the rank of one of the mysteries. Charlie Ross and E. H. Merriwether!
Just assume that we'll do what I say. Very well! Now, visualize the
search made for you. Endow your people with superhuman ingenuity.
Useless!”
The man waved a hand toward Mr. Merriwether; but Mr. Merriwether said:
“You assume that the search will be exclusively for me--but they will
also search for you!”
“My dear sir, that is unkind of you!” The man spoke reproachfully. “We
know that when we go into the plunder-recovery business we must guard
against the chief contributory cause of the vast majority of
all business' failures, according to the statistics of Dun and
Bradstreet--to wit, insufficient capital. Murderers are caught when
their faces and habits and families are known. Usually their lack of
means forces them to betray themselves. But nobody knows how the men who
will kill E. H. Merriwether look, simply because we have enough money to
go anywhere. We will become tourists--like thousands of others. Some of
us will stay in New York; others will go on round-the-world tours. See
this?”
The man pulled from his pocket some packages of well-worn bills, with
the bank-wrappers round them, though a finger hid the bank name. Also
the man showed to Mr. Merriwether several books of travelers' checks of
the fifty-dollar denomination--the specimen signature also being covered
by the man's finger.
“Enough for all,” said the man. “Kindly oblige me by thinking of
what you would do in my place; and, in all frankness, acknowledge that
nothing would be easier than to get away. Ordinary crime is so largely
accidental that the average criminal is at the mercy of even the
unintelligent police. Professionals do the same thing over and over and
acquire telltale mannerisms. Also, they lack culture, and find the
class attraction too strong to resist--besides always being hard up and
therefore defenseless. Whenever you find a crook who is thrifty, you
will find him always out of jail--like any other business man of equal
thrift. We have gone about this case systematically. We wanted your
million--but, more, we wanted the sport of taking it from a man who had
no moral right to the particular million we desired. If you had been
a really conscienceless financier we'd have made it five millions; in
fact, it is because we are not sure that even this million is tainted
that we ask you to pay it to us for giving you a fine daughter-in-law.
Shall we go up-stairs?”
The master of the house led the way up-stairs and Mr. E. H. Merriwether,
escorted by the stalwart footmen with the intelligent faces, followed,
his own intelligent face impassive. That he was thinking meant only that
he was doing what he always did.
The man sat down in his chair, with his back to the stained-glass
window. He asked, pleasantly:
“What do you say now, Mr. Merriwether?”
“I say,” the little czar answered, with a frown of impatience, or anger,
or both, “that when you are tired of playing the damned fool I'd like to
return to my business.”
The man rose to his feet quickly, his face pale with anger. He took
a step toward the financier, his fists clenched--and then suddenly
controlled himself.
“You jackass!” he said. “You idiot! Have you no brains whatever? Must
I lash common sense into you? Take 'em off!” It was a command to the
footmen.
“Will you disrobe, sir?” very politely asked the oldest of them.
Mr. Merriwether, six inches shorter than the speaker, and a hundred
pounds lighter, drew back his fist, but the four men seized him
and began to take his clothes off. Mr. Merriwether, recognizing the
uselessness of resistance and the folly of having garments torn so far
from home, helped by unbuttoning here and there. Presently he stood _in
puris naturctlibus_.
His face was pale and his jaw set tight.
“Tie him!” commanded the master.
They tied him to the library table, face down.
“Music!” cried the man; whereupon the cometist began to play the
Meditation from “Thaïs” softly, but obviously ready to play fortissimo
at a signal from the chief.
“I am going to lick you with a whip; and, for every lash I give you,
you will have to pay me one hundred thousand dollars in addition to
the original million. Theatrical, is it?” And his voice was hoarse with
anger. “Yes? Well, look at this melodramatic whip. Your tragedy will be
my comedy, you--------jackass!”
He showed to Mr. E. H. Merriwether a quirt--a veritable miniature
blacksnake of plaited leather.
“You can stand twenty; that will make three million in all. I'll draw
blood after the fifth. I'll stop when you've got enough. Remember the
price!”
He snapped the whip viciously and walked round the table until he
stood behind Mr. Merriwether. He lifted his arm and then the
great Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad,
iron-nerved, fearless, imaginative, and intelligent, yelled: “Wait!”
“The million?”
“Yes!”
“Help him!” said the man; and the intelligent-looking footmen
respectfully served as valets.
“I don't believe you would kill me--but I never liked spankings.” Mr.
Merriwether spoke jocularly--almost!
The man confronted Mr. Merriwether and said, very seriously:
“Mr. Merriwether, we should certainly have killed you if you had
persisted in your stubbornness to the end. We knew we had to convince
you.”
The man looked inquiringly at the financier to see whether any doubt
remained; but Mr. Merriwether asked, quizzically:
“Honest, now, would you--”
“We would!” interrupted the man, looking straight into Mr. Merriwether's
eyes. And what Mr. Merriwether saw there made him ask:
“How will you have the million?”
“In cash. I'm glad you will make the payment. But really, sir, I wish to
impress on you that Tom is ripe to be taken for better--or for worse.”
Mr. E. H. Merriwether looked long and earnestly into the eyes of the
mysterious man who was despoiling him of a million dollars. It began to
seep into his understanding that if Tom could be married to a nice girl
the resulting peace of mind would indeed be cheap at a million.
“Now, if you please,” pursued the man, pleasantly, “telephone to McWayne
that you wish him to come here with certified checks on your different
banks, aggregating one million dollars, made payable to Michael P.
Mahaffy.”
Mr. Merriwether started. The name was that of the world-famous
political Boss of New York City. Explanations as to the million might
be embarrassing to any political boss; but for a million dollars in cash
any political boss would be glad to explain--or even not to explain.
“From this house Mr. McWayne will go to the banks, accompanied by the
studious gentleman who had the honor of holding your left leg. You will
indorse each check by writing 'indorsement correct' and signing your
name. McWayne will go with our Mr. Michael P. Mahaffy and get the money
in fives, tens, and twenties, in handy wads--old bills preferred and
so requested from the paying tellers, who will intelligently understand
that Mr. Mahaffy is not signing his name in person, so he can swear in
any court of justice that he never saw the checks. Asking for old bills
is to make them impossible to trace. This will also allay the banks'
suspicions. The worst that can happen will be that a few tellers will
wonder what Mr. Merriwether has to do with city politics that he needs
Mahaffy's aid.”
“I see!” said Mr. Merriwether, thoughtfully. Then, after a pause: “Where
is the telephone?”
“There!”
In plain sight and hearing of the master of the house the master of the
Pacific & Southwestern called up his own office. He spoke to McWayne:
“Make out checks on all banks according to my balances in them, so that
the checks will aggregate one million dollars, payable to Michael P.
Mahaffy.... What? Yes?... Have the checks certified.... Of course, if
there isn't enough!... We shall want bills that have been used--fives,
tens, and twenties.... Yes, all cash. Come up to 777 Fifth Avenue. You
will go to the banks with a man--”
“With Mr. Mahaffy,” prompted the man.
“With Mr. Mahaffy,” repeated Mr. Merriwether. “And tell Tom to have
luncheon and wait for me,” again prompted the man.
“And tell Tom I can't go to luncheon with him, but to wait for me.”
Mr. Merriwether hung up the receiver and turned to the man, saying:
“The idea of using Mahaffy's name--”
“Rather good, isn't it?” smiled the man. “Of course you wondered how
we were going to cash the checks, didn't you? Well, that's the way. The
bank officials will be surprised to see the checks and they will watch
McWayne and my man to the last. They will thus be able to hear my man
say loudly to the chauffeur, 'Tammany Hall, Charlie!' Attention to
details, my dear sir!”
“I still am not quite convinced that--”
“My dear Mr. Merriwether, there are so many ways of safely getting money
from you Wall Street magnates that the only thing that really protects
you is the sad fact that the professional crooks are even more stupid
than you. Men like you are compelled to bet your entire fortune, your
very life, on averages. The average man is both stupid and honest; so
you and your like are fairly safe for fairly long periods of time. Of
course if we had been obliged to kill you we should have done so and
buried you, and we should have been wise enough to utilize your death
in as many ways as possible in the stock-market--and out of it. For
instance, I should have instantly telephoned to all the men in your
class and told them we had eliminated you--as an example--and to
remember that in case we ever had occasion to ask anything from them.
We should also give them a countersign, so that they would be able to
recognize us when the proper time came. I can kidnap or permanently
suppress any millionaire in New York, with neatness, despatch, and
safety.”
“But killing a well-known man--” began Mr. Merriwether.
“If Big Tim Sullivan could be killed and lie in the Morgue for days
unrecognized, what chance do relatively unknown people like you great
millionaires stand to be found, once dead? A dead capitalist, remember,
is no more impressive than a dead streetcar conductor. If I got you
into this house on the strength of Tom, as I got Tom to come in on the
strength of you, what millionaire would refuse, for example, to go, in
answer to a telephone message that his child had been run over and was
now, let us say, at 128 East Seventy-ninth Street? Or that his wife,
acting more or less as if she were intoxicated, was scattering money at
the corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street? And suppose the
millionaire is bound and chloroformed, and taken to the top floor of a
tenement hired by a humpback with red beard and one leg shorter than
the other--same humpback not being really a humpback or red-bearded or
a cripple, but a fake, to furnish false clues in advance--and this
humpback has previously given fire-extinguishing hand-grenades to all
the other tenants, as advertisements! Then we have a charge of dynamite
inserted in the thoroughly prepared corpse of the millionaire--his face
burned off in advance--and he is also soaked in inflammable material and
set on fire. And the deed is done at 11 a.m.; so that all the children
will be in school and all the adults awake and able to get out. Find
you? Bits of flesh and sympathy for the poor humpback is all the police
would find in that tenement. Oh! sir, you were wise to pay--very wise
indeed!”
Mr. Merriwether looked at the man a long time. He could not deny that
to really desperate men such deeds offered no particular difficulty. The
average crook is not dangerous to a millionaire; but a man like this
is more than dangerous. He thought quickly and formed his conclusions
accurately.
“How are you going to make Tom marry one of the girls whose names you
mentioned?” he asked, in the tone of voice one uses toward physicians.
The man smiled slightly and said: “Oh, I am not going to do it. I don't
care whether he marries or not. You must do that. But I'll tell you how,
if you wish,--after McWayne gets here. Just think over the affair. It
will put you in a more intelligently receptive frame of mind.” And with
a pleasant smile the man took a little book bound in green leather and
began to read.
Mr. E. H. Merriwether, as was his wont when thinking, began at the
beginning and reviewed the entire affair quickly but carefully. He did
this again--it did not take him long--and then he began to co-ordinate
his ideas and study the case. Within ten minutes he had forgotten his
animosity. In fifteen he felt respect for this man. In twenty he was
thinking how helpless any one man is against his ten billion trillion
natural foes--microbes, seismic disturbances, floods, and the chemical
reaction of hostile brains. This man, whose very name was unknown to
him, had vanquished the victor--had looted the tent of the victorious
general!
This was incredible when spoken in a conversational tone of voice.
Perhaps this same remarkable man might tell how to make Tom choose a
desirable wife. It was worth while making the experiment. It was in the
nature of a gamble in which E. H. Merriwether stood to win a happiness
worth all the money in the world and stood to lose nothing!
A knock at the door roused him from his reverie. One of the footmen
arrived from the threshold.
“Mr. McWayne!”
Mr. Merriwether's private secretary entered. E. H. Merriwether held out
his right hand.
Mr. McWayne took four slips of paper and gave them to his chief, who
quickly looked at them and passed them over to the master of the
house. The man looked at them, indorsed them, and handed a pen to Mr.
Merriwether. The czar of the Pacific & Southwestern wrote on each of the
checks:
Indorsement correct.
E. H. Merriwether.
He returned the checks to the man, who thereupon pushed a button a
number of times.
One of the footmen with the non-menial faces appeared dressed for the
street. He looked Irish. He wore a big solitaire scarf-pin. His hat
inclined to one side noticeably. He carried a square valise in each
hand. They looked as if they had seen service. On each was printed,
“Treasurer Tammany Hall.”
“Go with Mr. McWayne to the banks and cash the checks. Mr. McWayne will
identify you,” said the master of the house.
“Yis, sor!” said the footman.
The brogue was unnecessary, but E. H. Merri-wether smiled slightly.
McWayne and the footman in mufti left together.
“Think some more!” said the man to E. H. Merri-wether, and resumed his
reading of the little green-leather book.
Mr. Merriwether leaned back and thought some more. To him the
million-dollar loss was already ancient history. The only virtue that
the Wall Street life gives to a professional is the ability to take a
loss of money with more or less philosophy. That philosophy is also
met on the race-track, and among experts in faro as well as among real
Christians.
McWayne and the man were gone an hour and eighteen minutes. Mr.
Merriwether had time to think of Tom and of himself and of the relation
that had existed between himself and his son, and of the relations that
would exist between them in the future--God willing.
“Mr. McWayne!” announced the servant.
The private secretary entered; also the Irishman with the two valises.
“Tell the others! At five o'clock!” said the master of the house, and
the footman left the room--with the valises!
“Mr. McWayne, will you kindly wait in the other room?” The man rose and
parted the portières for the secretary to pass through.
“Certainly,” said McWayne, frowning politely. “Now, Mr. Merriwether,”
said the man, “as I told you, Tom's mind and soul are prepared for love.
The romantic vein in him has been worked to the limit. He can be laughed
out of it very easily, for he is not entirely convinced; but it is too
valuable a frame of mind for a really intelligent father to destroy. The
young ladies, also, are ripe for the coming of the one man in all the
world. They will respond readily--and, I may add, respond with relief if
they see he is a man like your son, against whom nothing can be said. It
will clinch the affair. My advice is for you to call on the young
ladies I have mentioned and judge for yourself, and then you be your own
stage-manager!”
“Have you any choice yourself?”
“You know Woodford?”
“Very well.”
“And his daughter Isabel?”
“No.”
“Well, she has the complementary qualities. She will, as it were,
complete Tom. She is bright, healthy, very handsome, utterly unspoiled
by the knowledge of her good looks--that is, she is highly intelligent.
Her mind functionates quickly and is regulated and made to work safely
by her keen sense of humor. You will love her for herself, as well as
for Tom's sake and for Tom's children's sake. Arrange two things and you
can do it. One is prepare her to meet Tom. Tell her you don't know why
you want her to know him, but you do. Tell her you wanted this before
you ever saw her. And tell her you know she must think you must be going
crazy--but will she meet Tom in her father's home?--in some room with
the lights turned out? She will ask you why you ask such things. And you
will rub your hand across your eyes and say, dazed-like: T don't know!
I don't know! Will--will you do it?' And when you take Tom to her, take
advantage of the dark, and open this little bottle and touch Tom's lapel
with this. It is essence of sweet peas. He will associate Isabel with
the mysterious girl to whom he took a message in the dark, and by the
same token she will know he is the man who destiny decrees shall be
her husband. Then leave the rest to nature. They won't struggle. They
couldn't if they wished; but they won't wish to fight. My parting words
to you are: the man who was smart enough to get a million dollars out of
you finds it even easier to make a young man who wants to love fall in
love in the springtime with a handsome, healthy girl who wants to be
loved. You and McWayne will now use one of my prisoner-carrying motors.
This way, sir!”
He led the way into the next room, picked up McWayne, and escorted the
financier and his private secretary to the curb. A neat little motor
stood there.
Mr. Merriwether climbed in. McWayne followed. And then the man said:
“You will find that the doors cannot be opened from the inside. The
chauffeur was told this queer feature was due to the fact that his
master expects to use this car for his two very active and very
mischievous children. He will drive you anywhere. You can arrest him if
you wish; but it will be useless. We have spent a good many thousands
of dollars in accessories that will be thrown away to-day.” And the man
sighed.
“Who do you mean by we?” asked E. H. Merriwether, politely.
“The Plunder Recovery Syndicate, which, having completed its operations,
will now dissolve. Good day, sir.”
In the issue of the _World_ of June 9th two advertisements appeared.
One, under “Marriages,” read:
Merriwether-Woodford.--On June 8th, at the Church of St. Lawrence,
by the Rev. Stephen Vincent Rood, Isabel Woodford to Thomas Thome
Merriwether.
The other, under “Personals,” read:
P. R. Syndicate,--It was cheap at a million!