Tangled Threads
Bellingham's first act, upon regaining his room, was to close the door
tightly behind him, as if to prevent the possibility of pursuit. After
which, he resumed his seat at his desk, and lighting his pipe, leaned
back thoughtfully in his chair, and began to consider at his leisure
the strange scene which he had just witnessed in the gallery. A more
imaginative man might perhaps have wondered if his eyes had not
deceived him, but Bellingham, being of a prosaic and matter-of-fact
disposition, did not dream of questioning the evidence of his senses.
Yet to solve the riddle of his employer's conduct was a problem which
was wholly beyond him, and although various vague conjectures
suggested themselves to his mind, he immediately dismissed them as
being too improbable to be worthy of consideration. Drink could not be
the answer, nor could drugs, for Marshall Hamilton, although a man of
more than middle age, was aggressively healthy, with a body of iron
and nerves of steel. Intrigue seemed to the secretary to be a more
plausible explanation, and yet scarcely a likely one, for the banker's
devotion to his invalid wife, and his affection for his daughter and
for his little boy were unmistakably genuine and sincere. More
probable appeared the supposition that the sliding panel might be the
entrance to a vault, where the capitalist could keep important
documents and securities. But whatever the secret might be, the
secretary felt certain that it was on no slight and trivial errand
that the banker had visited the gallery, for in the three years during
which he had served his employer he had long ago discovered that
Hamilton's huge responsibilities made his outlook upon life
essentially a serious one. And while it was quite possible that if
someone else, of lesser interests and of greater leisure, had thus
vanished through a wall, the incident might have seemed frivolous and
amusing; yet where Marshall Hamilton was the man in question,
Bellingham felt that the occurrence was of genuine significance. All
his efforts to solve the mystery, however, were in vain, and presently
realizing that he was accomplishing nothing, and that his
correspondence was still unfinished, he came to the sensible
conclusion that he was wasting his time, and accordingly set to work
upon his task and a couple of hours later had completed it, just as
Martin, the butler, knocked at the door and entered to leave the
afternoon papers upon the secretary's desk.
Bellingham thanked him, and at the same time advanced a chair and
pushed a box of cigars across the desk, for Martin's personality, and
his position in the Hamilton household, were both distinctly out of
the ordinary. Tall and smooth-shaven, with a keen and penetrating eye,
there was something in his appearance suggestive of the ministry; yet
this impression was a false and misleading one, for while it was true
that the butler had interests and aspirations far beyond his station,
yet these interests were the very reverse of ecclesiastical. The stock
market, the wheat pit, the cotton exchange--these were the absorbing
passions of his life; his ears, sharp as those of a fox, were trained
to lose no word that fell, at table, from the lips of his master and
his master's friends; and whether it was owing to this, or to natural
shrewdness on his part, his ventures had prospered so amazingly that
he occupied a position in the eyes of his fellow-servants almost as
dignified and exalted as that of his master in Wall Street.
Now, with a respectful inclination of his head, he seated himself,
helped himself to a cigar, and in answer to the secretary's question,
"Well, what's new, Martin?" he answered, "Stocks were very strong
to-day, sir. Steel crossed one hundred and twenty-nine."
"The devil!" exclaimed Bellingham. "You don't mean it!" And forthwith
turned eagerly to the papers, for while in his present impoverished
condition he had no personal interest in the market's ups and downs,
yet in the atmosphere of finance in which he lived it was part of his
duty to have at his fingers' ends the daily fluctuations in cotton,
stocks and grain. For some moments he studied the pages of the
_Journal_ in silence; then handed the paper to Martin, observing,
"Well, you're right. And there's the explanation, too."
The butler took the paper from Bellingham's hand, and read, in staring
headlines, at the top of the page, "Bull market continues. Marshall
Hamilton and Cyrus McKay both said to favor the advance. Steel booked
for two hundred."
Martin's eyes glistened. "Mr. Bellingham," he asked earnestly, "do you
imagine, sir, that this is true?"
The secretary, with the unbiassed mind of the man who has no stake in
the game, meditated for a moment, then answered truthfully, "My dear
Martin, I haven't the remotest idea whether it's true or not."
The butler looked visibly disappointed. "If you happen to hear
anything, sir," he said in a tone so low that it was almost a whisper,
"you know what I mean, sir--any letters or telegrams--I should be most
grateful if you'd remember me, sir."
Bellingham nodded. "I'll be glad to," he answered, with just the
suggestion of a smile, for the combination of Martin the decorous
servant and Martin the eager speculator was one which never failed to
amuse him. Then, impelled by mere curiosity, he added, "Which is it
this time, Martin? Are you long or short?"
The butler's face was impassive, but his voice was eager with the
irrepressible passion of the gambler. "I'm short, sir," he answered.
"Quite heavily short. I have every reason to believe, Mr. Bellingham,
that we are going to see a severe decline in the market. Unusually
severe, sir. But of course I may be wrong."
Bellingham glanced at the papers with renewed interest, running his
eye up and down the narrow columns of figures which summarized, in
this brief space, the prosperity or the adversity of the entire world.
"They're awfully strong," he commented, "and the gains run through the
list, too. Locomotive is up four, Crucible three and a half, Steel
five. And the rails are strong, too. By Jove, Martin, I believe you
_are_ wrong. Be careful you don't come a cropper. Have you any real
reason for thinking the market isn't going up?"
"Why, sir," the butler answered, "you may remember that about three
months ago it was generally supposed that we were on the brink of a
panic. But I am confident that at that time Mr. Hamilton and Mr. McKay
and the other gentlemen were buying very heavily indeed. And if that
is so, sir, why it hardly seems probable that they would be adding to
their purchases now, when stocks are thirty or forty points higher
than they were then. In fact, sir, if it's not an impertinence upon my
part, I think that if you were to sell Steel short on a scale up--"
But Bellingham interrupted him. "My dear Martin," he observed with a
smile, "when a man has dallied with the market all his life, as I
have, and suddenly ceases either to buy or to sell, there is usually
just one answer," and raising his hand, he formed, with thumb and
forefinger the figure zero.
The butler flushed. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said hastily. "I
didn't intend--I meant it in a friendly way, sir--"
"Of course you did," Bellingham good-naturedly interposed, "and I
appreciate your tip, Martin. I'm only sorry I can't take advantage of
it, but I hope you make a million. Oh, and by the way," he added, as
the butler rose to go, "would you mind telephoning Saunders to saddle
the bay mare? I'll be over right away."
Ten minutes later, on his way to the stables, he met Helen. Hamilton
returning from the garden, her arms heaped high with flowers.
"You're not forgetting our golf?" she asked. "Miss Wilton said that
you would play."
"Yes, indeed," he answered, "I'm only going for a turn. I'll be back
in plenty of time." And as he continued on his way, he found himself
thinking, as he had done a hundred times before, that his employer's
daughter approached more nearly to his ideal than any other girl whom
he had ever seen. He admired her beauty, her charm, her thoughtfulness
of others, and most of all he liked the friendliness of her smile and
the frank and fearless glance of her dark brown eyes. "No nonsense
about her." That was his invariable summing-up of her character, and
her friendship had been the pleasantest feature of his employment at
Marshall Hamilton's.
Once astride the mare, however, he had no further chance for
meditation, for his mount had stood idle for two days, and now seemed
to be doing her level best to pull his arms from their sockets, and to
break his neck into the bargain. But after he had made the circuit of
the lake, and had turned her head toward home, she behaved more
sedately, and subconsciously he had already begun to think again of
the adventure in the gallery when all at once, as he neared the
entrance to the links, the whole affair was suddenly revived by the
appearance of Cyrus McKay's motor, drawn up by the side of the road,
the chauffeur, a thick-set, bullet-headed young Irishman, sprawled
comfortably on the seat, cigarette in mouth. "I'm expecting some
friends to play golf." He remembered his employer's phrase, and at
once drew rein beside the car.
"Hullo, Jim," he hailed, "how are you? Mr. McKay on the links?"
"Sure," the chauffeur answered, with a yawn. "I brought him out here
two hours ago, and I've just come back for him now. So I guess he's
had some game."
"Yes, indeed," agreed Bellingham, "it's a perfect day for it, too.
You'll find you'll be waiting another half hour yet."
The chauffeur stretched himself luxuriously, happy in the mere
enjoyment of the pine-scented air and the languorous warmth of the
sun. "Well," he grinned, "it won't worry me any; I'll put my time
against his. But on the level, Mr. Bellingham, don't it beat hell?
When the boss is working, he's the busiest guy in Wall Street; a
minute is worth a thousand dollars; I'm on the jump the whole blamed
time. And then he'll come out here to Mr. Hamilton's and waste a whole
afternoon chasing a little white ball around a field, making half a
dozen rotten shots to every good one. Honestly now, can you beat it?"
Bellingham smiled. "It's relaxation, Jim," he answered, "and that's
what the big men have got to have. That's all that keeps them going.
Whoa, girl, whoa," for the mare, impatient at the delay, reared
straight upward and began to paw the air frantically with her
forefeet. There was a momentary struggle while Bellingham coaxed her
back to earth again, calling over his shoulder to the chauffeur,
"Good-by, Jim, see you again." Then, yielding to a fleeting impulse,
he added, "Where are you keeping the car now? I may drop in and see
you some day."
"Wheeler's garage," Nolan answered. "Find me there about noon, most
any time," and Bellingham, giving the mare her head, arrived at the
stables in greater perplexity of mind than ever. "So he's been playing
golf," he reflected, "just as he said he would, and according to Jim
Nolan, Mr. McKay came to the links at half past two. But that was just
the time when I was in the gallery. So Mr. Hamilton couldn't have
stayed there long; that's certain. Probably he went straight over to
the golf course. But I was working at the window, all that time, and I
should surely have seen him. And it's a safe bet that a man can't be
in two places at once. So what the devil does it all mean, anyway?"
The village clock was striking five as he and his partner reached the
hill which overlooked the first tee. Jock McKenna, the professional,
practising faithfully for the open championship, was just making ready
to drive, while on the green, two hundred and twenty yards away, a
half dozen small white objects bore testimony to the stocky
Scotchman's deadly aim. Helen laid her hand restrainingly on
Bellingham's arm. "Let's watch him," she whispered, and McKenna,
unconscious of his audience, drew back with the free, effortless swing
of the born golfer, while the ball, like a shot from a gun, skimmed
away toward the fluttering flag, struck, bounded, rolled, first with
vigor, then more and more slowly, until it came to a final stop hole
high and only a hair's breadth to the left of the green. Helen, with
the enthusiasm of a true lover of the game, clapped her hands
involuntarily. "Oh splendid, Jock," she cried, "that was a beauty,"
and the professional, looking quickly up at them, smiled and touched
his cap, not ill pleased that his shot had been appreciated.
An instant later, they had joined him upon the tee. "Well, Jock,"
asked Bellingham, "how did Mr. Hamilton come out with Mr. McKay? I
suppose he won, didn't he?"
The professional stared. "'Deed, and there's been no match to-day," he
declared. "And more's the pity, for the course was never as good as
now. Young Mr. Marshall was down this morning, skelping up my turf for
me till I fair had to drive him away, but nobody else has played a
stroke."
Helen Hamilton, paying no heed to their talk, had teed her ball, and
now, with a deliberate and well-timed swing, sent her ball straight
down the fairway for a hundred and fifty yards. "Very good, Miss
Helen," was McKenna's comment, "you're improving all the time. What
handicap does Mr. Bellingham give you now?"
"A stroke a hole," she answered, "but I only take it to humor him. In
another month I shall beat him even."
She spoke chaffingly, and Bellingham answered in similar vein,
"Nonsense, I could give you two strokes instead of one," but his
thoughts, as he swung, were far distant from the game, and a topped
and sliced tee shot came to rest in a sand-trap near the seventeenth
green.
Helen Hamilton laughed aloud, and the professional half smiled in
sympathy with her triumph, half frowned in disapproval of this most
inartistic shot. "You've played golf enough, Mr. Bellingham," he said
reprovingly, "to make it a shame for me to have to say 'You didna
follow through,' like I would to some beginner. But that was the
trouble, man; you checked your swing as though you were no thinking of
the shot at all."
"My club turned in my hand," said Bellingham absently. "The grip's
worn smooth." But as they started for the green, he was saying to
himself, "So they played no golf. And if they weren't on the links,
where were they? That's one mystery. And the second is, no matter
where they were, what on earth were they doing?" And greatly
wondering, he walked onward toward the trap where his misplayed ball
lay buried in the sand.