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