On the left-hand side of Old Broad Street, City, passing from the Royal
Exchange to Liverpool Street Station, stands a dark and dingy building,
with a row of four windows looking upon the street. On a dull day, when
the green-shaded lamps are lit within, the passer-by catches glimpses of
rows of clerks, seated at desks poring over ledgers. At the counter is
a continual coming and going of clerks and messengers, and notes and
gold are received in and paid out constantly until the clock strikes
four. Then the big, old doors are closed, and upon them is seen a brass
plate, with the lettering almost worn off by continual polishing,
bearing the words "Statham Brothers."
Beyond the counter, through a small wicket, is the manager's room--
large, but gloomy, screened from the public view, and lit summer and
winter by artificial light. In a corner is a safe for books, and at
either end big writing-tables.
In that sombre room "deals" representing thousands upon thousands were
often made, and through its door, alas! many a man who, finding himself
pressed, had gone to the firm for financial aid and been refused, had
walked out a bankrupt and ruined.
Beyond the manager's room was a narrow, dark passage, at the end of
which was a door marked "Private," and within that private room,
punctually at eleven o'clock, three mornings after Rolfe's conversation
with Macgregor, old Sam Statham took his seat in the shabby
writing-chair, from which the stuffing protruded.
About the great financier's private room there was nothing palatial. It
was so dark that artificial light had to be used always. The desk was
an old-fashioned mahogany one of the style of half a century ago, a
threadbare carpet, two or three old horsehair chairs, and upon the
green-painted wall a big date-calendar such as bankers usually use,
while beneath it was a card, printed with old Sam's motto:--
"TIME FLIES; DEATH URGES."
That same motto was over every clerk's desk, and, because of it, some
wag had dubbed the great financier, "Death-head Statham."
As he sat beneath the lamp at his desk, old Sam's appearance was almost
as presentable as that of his clerks. Levi always smartened his master
up on the day he went into the City, compelling him to wear a frock
coat, a light waistcoat, a decent pair of trousers, and a proper cravat,
instead of the bit of greasy black ribbon which he habitually wore.
"And how much have we gained over the Pekin business, Ben?" Mr Samuel
was asking of the man who, though slightly younger, was an almost exact
replica of himself, slightly thinner and taller. Benjamin Statham,
Sam's brother, was the working manager of the concern, and one of the
smartest financiers in the whole City of London. He was standing with
his back to the fireplace, with his hands thrust deep in his
trousers-pockets.
"Ah!" he laughed. "When I first suggested it you wouldn't touch it.
Didn't owe for Chinese business, and all that! You'd actually see the
French people go and take the plums right from beneath our noses--and--"
"Enough, Ben. I own I was a little short-sighted in that matter.
Perhaps the details you sent me were not quite clear. At any rate," he
said, "I was mistaken, for you say we've made a profit. How much?"
"Twelve thousand; and not a cent of hazardous risk."
"How did we first hear of the business?"
"Through the secret channel in Paris."
"The woman?"
"Yes."
"Better send her something."
"How much? She's rather hard-up, I hear."
"Women like her are always hard-up," growled old Sam. "Leave it to me.
I'll get Rolfe to send her something to-morrow."
"I promised her a couple of hundred. You mustn't send her less, or we
shall queer business for the future."
"I shall send her five hundred," responded the head of the firm. "She's
a very useful woman--and pretty, too, Ben--by Jove! she is! She called
on me in her automobile at the Elysee Palace about eighteen months ago,
and I was much struck by her. She knows almost everybody in Paris, and
can get any information she wants from her numerous male admirers."
"She's well paid--gets a thousand a year from us," Ben remarked.
"And we sometimes make twenty out of the secret information she obtains
for us," laughed old Sam. "Remember the Morocco business, and how she
gave us the complete French programme which she got from young Delorme,
at the Quai d'Orsay. We were as much in the dark as the newspapers till
then, and if we hadn't have got at the French intentions, we should have
made a terribly heavy loss. As it was, we left it to others--who went
under."
"She got an extra five hundred as a present for that," Ben pointed out.
"And it was worth it."
"Delorme doesn't know who gave the game away to us. If he did, it would
be the worse for Her Daintiness."
"No doubt it would. But she's a fly bird, and as only you and I and
Rolfe know the truth, she's pretty confident that she'll never be given
away."
"She's in town--at Claridge's--just now, so you need not write her to
Paris. She asked me to call the night before last, and I went," said
Ben. "She wanted to get further instructions regarding a matter about
which I wrote her. I dined with her."
Sam grunted as he turned slightly in his chair.
"Rather undesirable company--eh--Ben?" he exclaimed, with some surprise.
"Suppose you were seen by anyone who knows her? And recollect that all
Paris knows her. It is scarcely compatible with our standing in the
City for you to be seen in her company."
"My dear Sam, I took very good care not to be seen in her company. I'm
not quite a fool. I accepted her invitation with a distinct purpose. I
wanted to question her about one of her friends--a man who may in future
prove of considerable use to us. He's, as usual, in love with her, and
she can twist him inside out."
"Ah! any man's a fool who allows himself to fall under the fascination
of a woman's smiles," remarked the dry-as-dust old millionaire. "We've
been wise, Ben, to remain bachelors. It's the unmarried who taste the
good things of this world."
Benjamin sighed, but said nothing. He, like Sam himself, had had his
love-romance years ago, and it still lingered within him, lingered as it
does within the heart of every man who has loved a woman that has turned
out false and broken her pledge of affection. Ben Statham's was a sorry
story. Before his eyes, even now that thirty years had gone, there
often arose the vision of a sweet, pale-faced, slim figure in white
muslin, girdled with blue; of green meadows, where the cattle stood
knee-deep in the rich grass, and of a cool Scotch glen where the trees
overhung the rippling burn and where the trout darted in the pools.
But it had all ended, as many another love-romance has, alas! ended, in
the woman forsaking the man who loved her, and in marrying another for
his money.
Three years later her husband--the man whom she had wedded because of
his position--was in the bankruptcy court, and six months afterwards he
had followed her to her grave. But the sweet recollection of her still
remained with Ben, and beneath that hard and wizened countenance beat a
heart foil of tender memories of a day long since dead.
His brother Samuel's romance was even more tragic. Nobody knew the
story save himself, and it had never passed his lips. The society
gossips who so often wrote their tittle-tattle about him never dreamed
the strange story of the life of the great financier, nor the
extraordinary romance that underlay his marvellous success. What a
sensation would be produced if they ever learnt the truth! In those
days long ago both of them had been poor, and had suffered in
consequence. Now that they were both wealthy, the bitterness of the
past still remained with them.
They were discussing another matter, concerning a project for an
electric tramway in a Spanish city, the concession for which had been
brought to them. They both agreed that the thing would not pay,
therefore it was dismissed.
During their discussion Rolfe entered, and, taking his seat at the small
table near his master, busied himself with some letters.