In the parlor of her pretty little home on Dalton Street Rose Ashton was pacing restlessly to and fro. Finally, with a sigh of weariness, she flung herself down on the sofa, and lay quiet, gazing into the dying embers with wide-open, unseeing eyes.
Wave after wave, a flood of bitter, remorseful thoughts swept over her. What a weak thing, she mused, a woman is, after all. "To know the right and still the wrong pursue," she quoted to herself. "That's what I'm doing now, and that's what I've done for a year. Perhaps, before that, I wasn't to blame, but since I met Dick it's all been so different. Now I know, and yet three times in a year I've lowered myself to depths of which no decent woman would even dream. And perhaps I've got more shame before me still. And yet I do it—hating it, protesting, drawing back, almost refusing,—and then doing it, because he tells me to. I might as well be honest. I've damned myself for a man who's using me to help himself, and I've done it just on the hope that he's going to be honest with me and do what he's promised. I've done it because I'm weak, I've done it because I couldn't help myself, I've done it—because I'm a woman."
She sat silently watching the last embers die. The clock in the square boomed the hour of ten. With a sigh of utter weariness she rose.
"Life for a woman," she murmured, "is safe—monotonous, perhaps, but safe—until the man comes along. And then, the old life and all its memories are gone for ever in the twinkling of an eye, and the woman's true life begins. And perhaps, after all, the old life was the better, for the new may be Heaven—and it may be hell."
Mechanically Gordon rowed across to the darkening shore; mechanically he traveled the path to the road, and followed the road to the station; mechanically he boarded the train and sat quietly in his seat, to all outward appearances calm and indifferent, until the city lights gleamed a welcome through the dark, and the train clanked and bumped its way over the drawbridge, and passed from the silence of the night into the bustle and roar of the noisy, smoky station.
Outwardly composed, but his brain was all the while in a turmoil, so that some thought for which he was seeking would not come to his mind, but seemed constantly to keep just beyond his grasp. Far back in his brain a ghastly, haunting something still lurked and mocked him, and yet, seated there in the train, filled with its freight of every-day prosaic passengers, the stout conductor roaring the indistinguishable names of the numberless little way-stations, that terrible quarter of an hour on the island seemed fantastic, unreal, impossible of truth. He waited almost expectantly, thinking every moment to awaken as if from a nightmare, to feel some friend's hand laid upon his shoulder and to start suddenly back to life again; perchance even to see Palmer himself enter the train, and to tell him, laughing, of the curious dream.
Palmer! He pulled himself together sharply. This was no time to let his brain play him such tricks as these. Now, when he needed every atom of good judgment and cool daring at his command. Palmer himself—God! Somewhere back on the deserted island, sucked down and down into the depths of the earth, was that mangled, grinning, wide-eyed thing that had been careless, irresponsible Harry Palmer, across whose limited vision real thoughts of life—and death—had scarcely so much as passed.
With a sudden intense effort he tore his mind free from its clinging fancies. For good or ill—the meeting on the island had been real. For good or ill—the murder was done. And now, what next? How best to carry through the game, begun selfishly, recklessly perhaps, but with no plot or even thought of bodily harm to any one, and now, almost at its ending, grown suddenly desperate and black with tragedy.
Annie Holton—he wished now that he had been more deliberate, and had asked Palmer more questions—first. And yet, in doing that, there might have been greater danger still; suspicion might have been more keenly aroused, and even as it was, the situation, indeed, seemed tolerably clear. Somehow, the girl had managed to get the story from her mother, and had gone straight to Palmer with it. Would she have told any one else? Obviously not. It was to her interest only to possess and to impart the information to Palmer. And now Palmer was out of the way—and Annie Holton was left. So much for to-night, but to-morrow—ah, that was the thought that had been eluding him—tomorrow she would know of Palmer's disappearance, and she was the only person in the world who knew that when Palmer had left the city he was bound for the island. The deduction was only too obvious. Not alone his fortunes and his liberty, but his life itself, hung in this girl's power. To-night then, at any cost, he must see her; and to-night, somewhere, somehow, her silence must be assured.
Somehow—ah, it was just there that the problem lay. By what means, then, could he gain his end? His old relations with her, once so tenderly intimate, so fraught with reckless passion, could he once more recall the past, and make it live again? No, scarcely that. After deserting her for Rose, and after her betrayal of his secret; hardly, it seemed, could the breach between them be healed. And even if it were possible, there again would be Rose to reckon with. Unconsciously he frowned and shook his head. No, the way out did not lie there.
What else, then? Money? The promise of that she must already have had, and, indeed, if the question came to be one of money, if that were all, though he might beggar himself to his last cent, still all that Palmer's friends would have to do would be to double or treble any offer that he himself might make.
No, there was no hope there The game was going badly. The cards lay all against him, unless—unless—
A feeling of repulsion, almost of physical nausea, crept over him—and yet, must he give up thus early in the struggle, for lack of courage and nerve? Because somehow he shrank—because, somehow, in spite of all, he pitied the lips that had known his kisses. A curse on the whole wild venture. Was there then no way out? No way butthat?Yes, one other way, indeed, there was, but only one. And which of the two to choose. Logic, clear, straightforward thought and argument, led but one way; and now it was plain to him that that was the way he must take. And then, in spite of him, again that ghastly memory would come; and, life and logic contending, life and logic inevitably at odds, the issue once more was blurred. Notthat. Whatever else, no more of that.
Thus, over and over, his thoughts, ranging in a circle, seeking an outlet where no outlet lay, swung back at last, repulsed at every turn, to the same starting point. For once baffled, perplexed, uncertain, now firmly resolute, now tremblingly terrified, now wholly despairing, he sat in his seat and railed, first at Fate, then at himself, then at the other pawns that moved hither and thither across the board—blindly perhaps—perhaps directed by the Master's hand. Thus he sat and pondered, until the train, with a grinding and jarring of brakes, came to its final stop, and threading his way in and out among the alighting passengers, he left the station and mingled with the crowds that thronged the street.
For a little distance, quickly and surely he made his way, and then, all at once, amid the familiar scenes, the light and the noise and the bustle of the crowd, for just a moment of time the tense strain on body and mind relaxed, and on the instant, like a flood, the inevitable reaction swept over him. Suddenly, without warning, he found himself gasping for breath; something tightened, like a band of iron, about his throat; his knees trembled under him; and shudder after shudder shook him from head to foot. Deathly faint and sick, he clutched at a near-by railing for support, and for a moment or two that seemed age-long, stood helpless, powerless, until the attack to some extent had passed, and, shaken, weak and exhausted, he came again to himself. Then, after a moment, with an intense effort at self-control, he loosed his hold, and managed, dizzily enough, to make his way into the first saloon that lay in his path. The pallor of the face reflected in the mirror fairly startled him, and three times he had to moisten his lips with his swelling tongue before he could order the drink he craved. Once, twice, thrice he drained his glass before his weakness passed, and then, in a flash, his heart began to pound, and the life blood all at once seemed again to stream riotously into every pulsing vein. It was not until a half hour later that he left the saloon, and then the man who swung out again into the night was a man with head held high, with steadied nerves of steel, and with a brain again crystal clear—perchance too clear. Only one thing now—one thing in the way—one thing to be done—and the entrance to his life—his splendid, glorious, mighty life—would lie open before him. No time now for other thoughts of what was past—past, it seemed, long, long ages ago—now, at the instant, but one thing remained—only one thing.
Along the familiar route he passed, now by the park, now along Fulton Street, now through the sinister, deserted byways on the borderland of the city, and now at last he neared the quiet side street, two blocks away from Bradfield's, where Annie Holton lived in her tiny flat, a street as unfrequented and inconspicuous as that on which the gambling house itself was built. To his relief, for the last half dozen blocks he had met no one, not even a casual pedestrian like himself. Perhaps a trifle more inattentive and preoccupied than was his wont, he had failed to notice, almost at his journey's end, that he had been an object of interest to at least one person. For a young man, hidden in the shadow of a doorway across the street, had watched him as he ran quickly up the steps, and then, when he had disappeared, the watcher, in the most casual way, had strolled to the corner, crossed over, and taken up his stand in the doorway next to Annie Holton's home. And now he stood there, quietly waiting.
Gordon ran quickly up the stairs, silently extinguished the flickering gas jet in the hall, and knocked softly on the door. There was a moment of suspense, then a faint noise from within, and in another instant the door was opened, and Annie Holton, her light wrap drawn closely around her, stood before him.
Dim as was the light within, it was far brighter than the darkness in the hallway, so that for a moment the girl could hardly distinguish the tall figure, muffled in the long overcoat, that stood without. Then Gordon took a quick step forward. "Annie," he cried, and at the sound of the well-known voice the girl gave a little cry, partly of wonder, partly of fear.
"Dick," she gasped, and the blood seemed suddenly to leave her heart, "what are you doing here?"
There was a moment's silence. Then, without speaking, Gordon crossed the threshold, brushing the girl aside as he did so, and closed the door quickly behind him.
It was not until long after midnight that the door again opened and Gordon stepped out. Slowly, almost inch by inch, he came forth into the darkness of the hall; slowly, hesitatingly, as if in deadly fear, he crept down the flight of stairs that led to the street. In the silence of the hallway, the quick, gasping intake of his breath could be distinctly heard. His step faltered, and the hand that gripped the railing of the stairs shook as if with palsy. Surely a strangely altered man was Richard Gordon. Down the stairs he passed. Then, for a long time he stood in front of the outer glass door, listening anxiously for any sound or movement. Finally, as if summoning all that was left of waning strength and resolution, he opened the door and stepped forth into the street.
His hurried glance to right and left showed the way to be clear. Then suddenly, half-way down the steps, his heart gave a quick leap of fright, as the door of the adjoining house opened quietly and a young man emerged. "Good night, Bill," he called gaily to some one within, "see you to-morrow," and with a casual glance at Gordon, strolled off, whistling, down the street.
Gordon drew a long breath of infinite relief. "God!" he muttered; and then, with hands clenched, walking as if every step cost him infinite effort, he left Annie Holton's flat, with all its many memories, behind him for ever.
In the little room up-stairs, the firelight, slowly dying, fell softly on the slender figure in the armchair, lying there peacefully, quietly, as if in sleep.
To the press, the total and unexplained disappearance of a well-known millionaire and young man about town came as a golden opportunity, and flaring head-lines and extra editions followed close upon the heels of the tragedy. Indeed, for several days in succession, the Palmer case managed to hold the center of the stage. Theory after theory was advanced by the police, by the private detectives called in on the case, and by the papers themselves; and then, nothing transpiring to clear up the mystery, the attention of the public was in turn distracted by a railroad horror, a prize fight of national importance, and the scandal caused by the head of the pork trust running away with a chorus girl; and thus, before the excitement created by this sequence of events, the Palmer case, save to a very few, ceased to be an object of interest for all time.
Verily, the world moves rapidly these days, and human life—always excepting one's own—is but cheaply esteemed. Men are plenty, and one more or less—still, of course, always excepting one's self—what difference does it make, anyway?
Overshadowed by the importance of the Palmer case, the violent death of a woman of the underworld on an obscure street near Bradfield's attracted little attention, and by the papers the affair was disposed of in a few brief lines of the smallest type. Suicide seemed to be favored as the cause of death, and despondency and weariness with life the reason therefor.
That Gordon should be questioned both by Mrs. Holton and Rose was inevitable. Not that Mrs. Holton, with hazy memories of talking too freely while the wine had worked its spell upon her, altogether regretted that Providence had seen fit to intervene, or that Rose, after her work was done, was deeply concerned with Palmer's subsequent fate, but to both, knowing the situation as they did, the sequence of events seemed, though lacking the faintest shadow of proof, beyond all question to implicate Gordon. To both he made the same answer. He admitted that Palmer's disappearance, coming just at the time it did, was a remarkable stroke of good fortune for all of them, but as to any knowledge of it, outside of the theories advanced by the papers, he blandly professed entire ignorance. That Annie Holton should have come to her death on the night of the same day on which Palmer had disappeared, he further acknowledged to be a most remarkable coincidence, but so far as he could see, nothing more than that. And with this they were fain to be content.
To Rose, indeed, the succeeding weeks brought a vague sense of injustice and disappointment. Constantly Gordon had referred to the getting of the money from Palmer as the turning point in their fortunes; the first real step towards the culmination of their plans; as marking the time when he should have leisure to be constantly at her side; and now, so far from this being so, she found as the days went by that she saw less of him even than before. Moreover, on the rare occasions when he did dine with her at Bradfield's or call at her rooms, he was preoccupied, inattentive, distraught, his mind only too plainly upon other things.
And in truth, Gordon for a time had found himself more perplexed than he would perhaps have cared to own. Even with sufficient capital, and a practically certain knowledge of the future course of the metal market, the problem still remained to him how best to make use of his point of vantage. The first move in the game successfully accomplished, the second was yet to be made.
At length, after long deliberation, he went to young Bob Randall, floor broker for Parkman and Brooks. Randall's father, old Sam Randall, the big cotton man, had just emerged victor from a desperate fight with the Parker-Moorfield interests, the loudest bellowing and highest tossing of all the great cotton bulls, in which battle, besides the prestige gained, he was incidentally reported to have cleaned up something over two millions on the sharp break in July cotton. Young Bob, besides having money back of him, was one of those gifted mortals who seem always able to carry others with them in whatever they choose to undertake. With a national reputation as an athlete while still at school, in college he had played end on the football team, and then made the crew, both with the same ease with which he had been chosen president of his class, and called out as first man on the Alpha Chi. In addition, in his few leisure moments he had worked enough, as he had himself expressed it, to "somehow get by," so that at last, infinitely to his friends' surprise, and somewhat to his own, he found himself, at the end of his four years, entitled to his sheepskin, and perchance with somewhat mingled feelings of regret for lost opportunities of learning, and of satisfaction at more substantial and worldly-wise success, heard himself, together with three hundred of his mates, welcomed by the venerable president in his class-day address to "the fellowship of educated men."
To young Randall, then, over the coffee and cigars in a private dining-room at the Federal, Gordon broached the subject.
"Bob," he said abruptly, "do you want to make a barrel of money?"
Randall nodded. "Sure thing," he answered briefly. "How?"
Gordon did not at once reply, and when he did, it was to answer the query with another.
"What do you know about coppers?" he asked.
"Soft," answered the younger man readily, "and going lower, too. There's a big surplus supply of the metal stored somewhere, or at least so everybody says."
Gordon leaned back in his chair, gazing at his companion from beneath half-closed eyelids.
"Just one more question, Bob," he said; "don't think it's an impertinence. About how much are you getting now?"
"Three thou," answered Randall promptly. "And now give me a turn. What in the devil are you driving at, anyway?"
Gordon hesitated the veriest instant, as if choosing which course to pursue. Then he answered, speaking with the utmost earnestness.
"Here's the story, Bob. I've got a great chance; the kind that only comes once in a man's lifetime, and of course I'd be a fool if I didn't want to make the most of it. It's perfectly true that coppers are soft; it's perfectly true that they're going lower, but that there's any accumulation of the metal I know to be absolutely false. And more than that: I can almost name the precise day when there's going to be launched the biggest copper boom this country's ever seen. A boom that's going to last, barring the absolutely unforeseen, for several years, and that's going to provide the speculative opportunity of the century. Now my proposition is just this: Leave Parkman and Brooks at once; get your father to advance you a hundred thousand dollars, and then start in partnership with me. I'll put in a like amount, and this information, which I'll absolutely guarantee, against your ability to bring your father and some of his crowd in as customers, to say nothing of your own following among the younger set. Nothing succeeds like success. We'll do well by our customers, and incidentally we'll make our own reputations and our fortunes beside. Bob, it's an absolute cinch, and I don't mind letting you know that I started with a list of twenty men as possibilities, and eliminated one after the other until you were left as the man I wanted for a partner. Now, what do you say?"
Randall had allowed his cigar to go out, as he sat listening to Gordon's words.
"It sounds good," he said at length, "but, Gordon, tell me one thing. I know your reputation on the Exchange, of course, and I know you're a bully good judge of the market, but the information you're giving me is away out of the ordinary. I think you ought to be willing to tell me where and how you got it."
Gordon smiled. "I can tell you where," he answered readily, "but not how. Is this good enough for you?" and, leaning forward, he whispered a name known the world over.
Randall started slightly, and then gave a low whistle of astonishment. "The devil you say!" he exclaimed. "Well, you have struck it rich. I didn't know you stood in with him."
Gordon smiled again. "It isn't a thing that's generally known," he said softly, "and of course you realize I'm trusting a great deal to your discretion in talking so freely, but I feel so sure you're not going to let the chance slip, Bob, that I thought it was the best way to let you know the whole situation and keep nothing back at all. Do you feel reasonably satisfied now?"
Randall nodded. "I'll have to see the governor, first, of course," he answered; "but I guess it will be all right. That's just the kind of thing he rather likes, you know. I'll dine with you again day after to-morrow, if you say so."
Thus it was that they met again two days later, to sit discussing. plans and details far into the morning, and thus it was that a month after, in their big new offices in the Equitable Building, with a generous bank account, with the hearty backing of old Sam Randall, and with every prospect of success, the stock brokerage firm of Gordon and Randall was formally launched.
The sun, sinking low, for an instant shone through the gap in the distant hills in one splendid blaze of light, enfolding in its radiance, as if in friendly farewell, the little cabin which lay so snugly nestled away on the towering slope of Burnt Mountain.
Abe Peters, gaunt, unkempt, kindly of face and gentle of manner, turned for a moment from his methodical washing of the supper dishes to glance down and away far over the distant valley.
"An' there's another day gone," he said slowly, "an' there's old Ph[oe]be once again tellin' us good night. All sorts of ways she comes up over the mountain in the morning, and all sorts of ways she goes down behind the hills at night, but that's the way I like to see her set the best; sort of nice and peaceful like and calm."
He turned to the other occupant of the cabin. "But there," he added, after a moment, "I expect it seems kind of all-fired lonesome to a city man, don't it now? I expect you find us folks out here live pretty common."
Frost, short, stout, pleasant of face and manner, turned from the window. "No, sir," he said heartily, "not a bit of it. I'm a city man part of the time, but the other part I have to spend just knocking around the world, here, there and everywhere. And after all, Abe, four walls and a roof, a fire and a bit to eat and drink; that's all a man's got a right to expect, and that's all he needs, too."
Peters nodded in pleasant assent. "Yes, sir, that's right," he answered, "but it ain't every one that thinks the way you do. Most of 'em are crazy for somethin' they can't get; money mad, or liquor mad, or minin' mad, or somethin' of the kind. Speakin' in general, it ain't what you'd call a contented world, no ways at all."
Frost laughed. "Abe," he said good-humoredly, "you're a real philosopher. You've got about the same ideas concerning things that I have, and that's why I respect you and esteem you as a man of intelligence and good sense."
Up the path, standing out in shadowy relief against the fading afterglow in the west, a figure strode past the cabin window. Frost turned idly to his host. "There goes a late worker, Abe," he said. "I wonder if that might be Harrison you were telling me about."
Peters stepped to the window, shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed out into the fast gathering twilight. "No, that ain't Harrison," he replied. "Jack would be steppin' out sprier'n that. That must be the old man, I reckon. Yes, that's him, for sure."
Frost turned from the window, and, seating himself by the log fire, began leisurely to fill his pipe. "So we see the gentlemen to-night, do we?" he asked.
Peters nodded. "That's what we do," he answered, "and, Mr. Frost, I'm givin' this to you straight. I'm a friend of Jim's and I'm a friend of yours, and I want to see you both come out of this thing right. And the way to do it's for you to buy a half interest in the Ethel. That's best for him and it's best for you, too."
Frost smiled. "So you think half a loaf's better than no bread, do you?" he said. "Well, that's right enough sometimes, but where a man wants to buy the whole blamed bake-shop, why, then it doesn't quite seem to fit. Yes, I've got to do my best, anyway. And I wonder, Abe, which is the real man I ought to get next to here, Mason or Harrison."
Peters put the last dish away on the shelf, and in turn drew up his chair and, fumbling in his pocket, drew forth and lighted a grimy pipe. He shook his head doubtfully.
"That's more'n I can tell," he answered, "but we've got half an hour yet before we start, an' I can give you the story, anyway; then you can figure things out for yourself, an' you won't be blamin' me. How's that suit?"
Frost blew a beautifully rounded ring of smoke, and leisurely watched it float upward. "Fine," he assented. "Just what I was going to ask. I'm all attention, Abe. Let her go."
For some minutes Peters puffed in silence; then took his pipe from his mouth and began.
"In the first place," he said slowly, "Jim Mason's an all fired smart man. He wa'nt born and brought up here, like I was. He used to live down Octagon way. Soon as he left school, he went to copper minin'. I've heard him tell about it fifty times. 'I began,' he says, 'at the bottom o' the mine an' the bottom o' my trade, an' I worked pretty well up to the top in both of 'em.' An' it's the truth, too. He was one o' the best surface men at the lake, an' earnin' good money; layin' it away, too, an' that's more than a lot of 'em can say. Then he gets married an' settles down, an' then damned if a while after that an epidemic o' typhoid don't hit the Octagon camp, an' Jim's wife takes it an' dies in a week. Well, that breaks him up complete. After a while he finds he can't stand it round home noways, so he takes his little girl an' moves up here to Seneca. Always he's claimin' the Onondaga lode hits here somewheres after it dips. So he fools around for a while, an' then, after a year or so, he stakes out his claim, names it the Ethel after his little girl, hires a gang o' men, an' goes to work. Four years he's fitted out for, an' blamed if they don't turn out to be four hard luck years. First he strikes tough rock, then the price o' labor goes up on him, then he gets sick himself, an' it's most a year before he's right again; it's one thing here and another there, so finally he has to let his gang go, an' by that time he's so plumb crazy over his claim that he goes on workin' her by himself, everybody but him knowin' he couldn't do nothin' that way if he lived to be as old as Methusalem. Still, he don't seem to care, an' goes right on pluggin' away alone.
"Now here's where Harrison comes in. Jack's a pretty likely young man, an' he'd got to be Jim's foreman, an' was mighty sweet on the little girl. No blame to him, either. She's as pretty as a picture, an' smart as chain lightnin', but let to run wild like a colt. Long as she gets the old man's meals, an' keeps the house cleaned up, he don't care a mite what she does the rest o' the time. I guess, though, the girl's got discontented like, an' she'd be mighty glad to have the old man strike it rich, so's she could get out o' here for good an' move off to the city somewheres. Well, when the rest o' the gang goes, Harrison says he won't leave, but he'll work along a spell with the old man, an' if they strike things rich Jim can treat him any ways he thinks is right. Course, though, it ain't the old man or the mine Jack cares about; it's Ethel he's after, an' as I say, small blame to him.
"So there you are. The old man's the legal owner, but Jack's got a kind of a say-so about the mine, too. The old man's sensible enough about everythin' else, but half crazy about the mine, an' Jack's sensible enough about everythin' else, an' the mine, too, but he's half crazy about the girl. So that's the story, an' there you are."
Frost, rising, nodded. "I guess," he said slowly, "the old man's the one I want. I can tell better after I've seen 'em, though. What's the use of waiting, Abe? Let's go along over and size 'em up."
For answer Peters rose and put on his coat, and a moment later they had left the cabin.
Meanwhile, over at Mason's, Jack Harrison had come slowly up the path, the stoop of his broad shoulders and the slight stiffness of his usually springy gait showing that there are limits beyond which the strongest muscle and sinew can not with safety be driven. Entering the kitchen and seeing no one, he stepped out on to the broad veranda which surrounded the house, and came suddenly on the girl he was seeking, seated alone and gazing idly out over the broad sweep of the darkening valley.
To find Ethel Mason in an attitude even suggesting meditation was an occurrence so rare that the young man was fairly startled. "Hullo, Ethel," he exclaimed, "anythin' gone wrong?"
The girl started to her feet. Slight of figure, slender and graceful as a deer, the brown curls clustering around her pretty face made her at first sight seem little more than a child in appearance, an impression, however, no sooner formed than at once dispelled by the soft curves of her figure, and the poise and self-reliance of her manner as she answered him.
"Yes," she cried rebelliously, "there's plenty wrong. I'm just sick and tired of the way things are going on. He doesn't give me enough a week to keep house for a dog; I haven't had a cent to spend on myself for a month; and then last night there's a dance over at the Hall, and every girl in the county can go but me, and I haven't a single thing to my name I can wear, and so I have to stay at home. Cook the meals, wash the dishes, clean the house; if that's all the life I'm ever going to have, I'd a lot rather be dead."
The young man's face showed his dismay. "Don't say that, Ethel," he cried. "I'm sorry things are goin' so bad. It's Jim's fault, partly, and it's mine, too. I'm afraid I'm gettin' as crazy over the lode as he is, and pretty nigh forgettin' everythin' else. I'm sorry, Ethel. It is tough on you, and no mistake."
The girl shrugged her shapely shoulders. "Oh, it's all right," she said indifferently. "Everybody's got to have their troubles; and I wouldn't start telling you mine if it wasn't so's you could see what things are getting down to. You know what I think about you, anyway. I think you're a fool to stick around here. The old mine's never going to be any good, anyhow."
Harrison smiled grimly. "You know right well it ain't the mine I'm holdin' on for," he answered, a gleam of passion in his eyes. "It's for what goes with it when we strike the lode. And the man that's waitin' for that ain't got no cause to be called a fool."
The girl, not ill-pleased, tossed her head coquettishly. "You aren't sure of either of 'em," she cried, "the lode or the girl. We aren't regular promised, Jack. Maybe some day a better looking fellow with more money'll come along, and then you'll get left."
The young man's face grew dark with anger, and he took a quick step forward. "Don't you dare say that!" he cried fiercely. "If I thought you meant that, Ethel, I'd kill you! By God, I would!"
The girl shrank a little before the storm she had unwittingly raised. "There, there," she cried, "don't be so foolish, Jack. I didn't mean it. You run along and fix up, and don't bother me. I've got to get supper. Where'd you leave the old man?"
Even before Harrison had started to reply, the door swung open and Mason entered, stooping, unkempt, weary, but with eye still bright and his whole expression alert and aglow with the lust of battle.
"I knew it, Jack!" he cried. "I told you the farther we worked to the eastward, the richer that fifth level was going to open up. Look at this! And this! And this!" and he tossed the chunks of rock on the piazza table.
Harrison, a trifle shamefaced, picked them up and nodded. They were in truth splendid samples, fairly blazing with copper.
"I tell you," Mason went on, "if we haven't really struck the lode, and I believe we have, we're right next door to it, anyway. Perhaps I haven't mined that rock year in and year out for ten years without finding out a little something about it. Perhaps I don't know the look of it and the feel of it, and pretty near the taste of it. I'll bet you anything you want, Jack, that inside a month we'll strike as rich copper as ever was mined at the lake."
All through supper he talked on in a like strain. Ethel and Jack listening in silence. Then, after the supper dishes were cleared away, and the old man had settled down, pipe in mouth, in front of the kitchen stove, Harrison had his say.
"Look here, Jim," he said abruptly, "I did somethin' last night that I suppose is goin' to get you mad. I met Abe Peters walkin' home, an' he tells me he's got one of those eastern sharps stayin' with him, investigatin' likely claims, Abe says, with the idea to buy 'em if they comes up to standard. Abe says he starts to tell him about the Ethel, an' the man seems to be better posted than Abe is himself. Anyways, we fixed it up that Abe's goin' to bring him over to-night after grub, an' we'll have a little talk with him. Can't do no harm, an' the way things is goin' now ain't right to none of us; not to you nor to me nor to the girl here, neither. So you want to treat 'em civil when they come."
The old man straightened up in his chair with a glare of resentment, and banged the table with his clenched fist.
"No, sir," he exclaimed, "I won't see him or have nothing to do with him, and neither will you. I'll have no man nosing into my claim, or talking of buying it, either. It ain't a mite of use, Jack. The claim ain't for sale, and I won't have 'em coming round bothering me about it. You can get rid of Abe your own way, but I don't let him set foot in this house, him or his mining sharp or anybody else. I won't do it, Jack, for you nor no man."
Harrison's jaw set with a resolution quieter, perhaps, but every bit as determined as Mason's.
"Jim," he said, "that talk don't go. I've stuck to you and the mine for two years now, fair and square, and it looks like I'd got a right to some say about what we're going to do. Now, I've been figuring it out pretty careful, and this is just about the way we're fixed. Supposin', just for argument, we strike the lode to-morrow, why, even at that we can't ever develop that mine alone. It stands to reason we've got to have an awful pile of money back of us. Give us all the men we want, and all the machinery, and God knows what else, and then it's goin' to take two years and more to make her a dividend payer. No, sir, we've got to have money, Jim, and the only way to get it's to hitch up with some one like this cuss that's out here now. We can look out for our end all the time. You hold out for a big lot of stock, and getting yourself appointed superintendent, and me assistant, and that way we'll be doing right by the mine, and we'll get plenty rich, too. So that's sense, Jim, and nothing but sense, and you've got to talk to this man to-night, or, by God, Jim, I'll get out to-morrow, as sure as we're sitting here, and leave you to go it alone."
Mason, completely taken aback, fairly gasped. Suddenly he had realized, perhaps for the first time, his utter dependence on the younger man. "You—you wouldn't really do that, Jack," he faltered tremulously.
Harrison, more from the old man's manner than from the words themselves, felt that the victory was won. He nodded decisively.
"That's just what I'd do," he answered firmly. "I don't mean to go against you any way at all, Jim, but I know what's common sense, and you'll see it yourself some day, too. I'm not bluffing. I'd hate to do it, but I mean every word just the way I say."
The old man sighed, as if half the joy had suddenly gone out of his life. Then he nodded with resignation.
"All right, Jack," he said, with a trace of bitterness in his tone, "I can't say but what you've used me straight as a string all the way through. Mining's a young man's work, I guess. Maybe you'd act a mite foolish over the old claim yourself, Jack, if you'd wintered and summered with her the way I have. Never mind, though. Have it your own way."
Harrison had started to reply, when heavy footsteps sounded on the path without. "Good for you, Jim," he said quickly, "it won't hurt to talk it over, and we'll be careful we don't make any mistake. I guess that's them now."
Gordon, with apparent reluctance, rose slowly from the table. "Rose," he said, "this has been most delightful. If life, now, were all Saturday afternoons and Sundays, with none of this getting back to work again on Monday mornings, what a good time we should have."
The girl forced a smile, though her eyes were troubled. "Yes," she said, "it has been delightful, only—I do so wish things were really settled for good. Can't you begin to tell something, Dick, about how long it will be?"
Gordon made an effort not to appear annoyed. "No," he answered, a trifle coldly, "I certainly can't, and, for that matter, nobody can. For a guess, though, I should think that another six months would see things pretty well fixed. I expect to see Frost this morning, and of course a lot depends on the kind of report I get from him. If it's what I'm hoping for, it's practically the last link in the chain. If it isn't, then it's a choice between waiting or taking a chance on something that may go and may not. So it's really an impossibility, as you can see for yourself, to say just when things will be settled Still, I can't see but what we're doing pretty well as we are. You're not unhappy, are you?"
The girl's troubled look did not alter. "No," she said, half doubtfully, "not really unhappy, but if I didn't know that this would all be over soon, and that within a year we should be married and settled down, I'm afraid I should be—miserably so. It's no kind of a life to be leading, the way we are now. Do you remember, Dick, the afternoon we went to the island?"
Gordon nodded. No incident connected with his trips to the island was ever likely to escape his memory. "I do, very well," he answered shortly.
The girl nodded in her turn. "Then you probably remember," she continued, "what I said that day. And I've never changed my mind since. Just to be by ourselves somewhere in a little place in the country, and I should never want to be rich or want to see the city again. That would be my idea of being happy, Dick, but of course you've got your ambitions, and I've no right to want to hinder them."
Gordon.
Gordon laughed. "The eternal feminine," he quoted. "I'm sorry, my dear, but I'm afraid I can't give them up, even to please you. Let me try them first, anyway, and then, if you're still of the same mind, we'll have the cottage and the roses to fall back on in our old age. Well, I suppose I must really be going. Until next week, then."
He stooped and kissed her, and in another moment the door had closed behind him, and he was striding away down the street.
Outwardly, to the casual passer-by, he appeared the very embodiment of content; prosperous, untroubled, self-satisfied. But inwardly, his keen mind was busy forecasting the future, and he was even then dissecting himself, his strong and weak points, his successes and his failures, as judicially and as mercilessly as he might have done if he had been sitting in judgment on some stranger in whom and in whose fortunes he had not a ray of interest.
"Promising to marry her," he mused; "that was the worst mistake. I had to do it, of course, to get at old Pearson, and to get at Palmer, and for that matter I was crazy enough about her for a while to promise anything, but I was a fool not to look further ahead. It's only fools, anyway, who say, 'Let's cross that bridge when we get to it.' I suppose a more dangerous proverb was never coined. In plain English, all it means is that we're too lazy to take a look ahead to see if there's a bridge there at all. Yes, that was my mistake. Given a hundred thousand and my start, I was ready to promise anything, and now there's so much ahead I never dreamed of then, marrying her seems absolutely out of the question. Who would ever have foreseen, though, that she'd develop this spasm of virtue? If she'd been what I thought she was—and what I had every reason for thinking she was—I imagine things could have been fixed up easily enough. I wonder whether—"
Abstractedly, as he crossed towards the park, he had paused for a passing victoria. As the carriage passed, he noticed that its only occupant was a girl, her slender figure clothed in deep black, and glancing up, he was just in time to receive Miss Sinclair's friendly bow. Raising his hat, he passed on and entered the park.
"The devil!" he muttered. "Coincidences are queer things." And with a shrug of his shoulders he turned his thoughts in the direction of the day's plans.
Ten minutes later he entered the Equitable Building, and turned sharp to the left where the doors leading into the big ground floor office suite bore the inscription, "Gordon and Randall; Investment Securities."
Confident in himself as he was, firm believer as he had been from the first in the destinies of himself and his firm, even he still felt a trifle awe-struck at the wonder of it all. Only a few months ago and he had been proud of his little two room and a ticker establishment, proud of the fact that he had a stock clerk, a stenographer and an office boy, proud that he was slowly piling up his modest profits, regarding a five hundred share order with veneration—and now—the huge modern office lay outspread before him, clean, light, spacious, the delicate tracery of steel work taking the place of old-time partition and creaking door. To the right, occupying more than half the whole floor space was the huge "cage," with its ordered ranks of busy bookkeepers, cashiers, order clerks, margin clerks, telephone operators and messengers; in front, the pleasant room reserved for the firm's customers, where the casual investor might drop in for a moment to read at a glance the long rows of quotations on the board, and where the leisurely professionals gathered daily from ten to three to sit and smoke in the big cushioned armchairs, basking pleasantly in the sunshine, and listening to the whirring tickers as they sang their two songs, one merry and cheerful—up, up,—click, click,—up, up,—the other sorrowful and full of discouragement,—down—click—down, down—click—away, way down, more margin, quick,—click, click,—down, down, still further down, down—and out. To the left lay the private offices of the firm; first, the luxurious ladies' room; then, in sequence, the room for ordinary private business, then Gordon's and Randall's private consulting-room, and last of all, the holy of holies, Gordon's own special office, cosy and homelike, where he could retire when he pleased and be as safe from intrusion or interruption as though he were a thousand miles away. All in all, it was small wonder that Gordon stood still for the briefest of moments, looking quickly to right and left with the glance of the general marshalling his forces in review before going into action. Then, with a momentary glow of just self-satisfaction, he turned into the first office on the left and hastened to his desk.
Field, his private secretary, had just finished sorting the mail, and stood waiting by the window while Gordon quickly ran through the letters that were left, checking, penciling, laying aside, with speed and despatch, and yet with due consideration and without haste; then he called Field to his side.
"Well, Bert," he said affably, "they seem to be mostly routine, don't they? These you can attend to, if you'll be so kind. These go to Mr. Brown, and these I wish you'd give to Sumner, and ask him to look them up sometime before noon. I'll take them up with him directly after lunch. Now, how about Mr. Frost? Can he manage to get over here this morning without inconvenience?"
Field nodded. Latterly he had noticed that upon request people generally found that they were able without apparent inconvenience to get over to his employer's office at almost any time. "Yes, sir," he answered promptly, "I managed to see Mr. Frost personally, and he said that he'd be here sharp at half past ten."
"Thank you very much, Bert," said Gordon. "That's very good indeed. I think there's nothing more just now. I may ring a little later if I want you. If you will just keep on the lookout for Mr. Frost, and as soon as he comes show him right in."
Field nodded and withdrew, appearing again at the end of fifteen minutes to usher in Mr. William D. Frost, widely known as one of the three highest-priced mining experts in the United States. Mr. Frost, as usual, was true to his word, for the clock struck the half hour sharply just at the moment that his spectacled, benevolent face appeared in the doorway.
Gordon rose quickly. "My dear Frost," he cried, "I'm delighted to see you back. You look as fit as possible. Come right in and make yourself comfortable."
Frost shook hands, followed Gordon into the inner office, and took the proffered arm-chair which Gordon drew up in front of the pleasant warmth of the open fire. He was a short, stout man, whose round, ruddy face and twinkling eyes gave not the slightest indication of the really remarkable brain within. One might perhaps have classed him as a traveling man, possibly as a prosperous manufacturer, as a long shot one might even have risked the guess that he had about him something of the magnetism of the successful politician, but the part of the mining expert scarcely seemed to fit. Leaning far back in his chair, legs crossed, the finger-tips of either hand touching one another, he threw Gordon a quick glance of inquiry. "All ready?" he queried, and then, as Gordon nodded, he began with characteristic directness and precision to speak.
"A," he said, much as if his whole subject had been neatly typewritten and docketed in his orderly brain, "Preliminary recapitulation, if we may so term it. And subdivision one of same, my part in the enterprise."
He paused for an instant, and then continued. "Six months ago you intrusted me with what we might designate as a kind of roving commission. My task was to locate for you, within the limits of North America, a genuine gold, silver or copper mine, or rather, to be perfectly explicit, not exactly a mine, but a claim or prospect, with such excellent possibilities attaching to it that one might easily make of it, with proper development, a first-class producing and dividend paying proposition. In a word, what you wished me to find for you was a mine in embryo? Am I so far correct?"
Gordon nodded. "Absolutely correct," he answered good-humoredly. "No lawyer could state the facts more clearly, or more concisely."
Frost checked on the fingers of his left hand. "Subdivision two," he continued, "your responsibility in the matter. You were to pay all necessary expenses, give me a salary of two thousand dollars a month, and in addition, if I so desired, you were to allot to me one-fiftieth part of the capital stock of the company, if any such company was ever formed. That, I take it, is also correct?"
Gordon again nodded. "To the letter," he answered briefly.
Frost, with his left hand, made a little gesture of dismissal, as if mentally telling the stenographer that she might now return the papers to the safe.
"Very good," he said, "and now for part B. Written report of my investigations."
From his inner breast pocket he drew a packet of papers, and handed them to Gordon. "One," he said, "itemized expense account. Two, bill for services. Three, typewritten report of work done, one hundred and thirty-nine pages; and, four, condensed summary of results attained and conclusions reached, eleven pages. All of these, of course, to be gone over by you at your leisure, after which I shall be glad to discuss any points or to answer any questions you may care to ask."
Gordon laid the papers carefully on his desk. "Most excellent," he cried. "If all the world had your ideas of system, Frost, it wouldn't be such an infernally haphazard sort of place as it is. You've been more than good to take so much trouble. And now, as I'm apparently in for a pretty busy week, suppose we take advantage of the opportunity, and, entirely apart from your report, have you give me in a general way a little account of how things have gone."
Frost nodded his assent. "I anticipated that you would in all probability make such a request," he answered, "and we may accordingly"—he tapped the third finger of his left hand—"proceed to C, brief verbal summary of my investigations."
He paused, with the cautious hesitancy of a man given to much thought before putting his ideas into words, while Gordon perforce restrained his impatience as best he might. At length Frost broke the silence.
"Of course, Mr. Gordon," he said, "you understand that mining forecasts are about the most uncertain things in an uncertain world, but, so far as I can tell, I've had really rather remarkable success. You'll find all this in the report, of course, but the situation, in just a word, is this: During my trip I've looked into over two hundred claims and prospects. In all but fifteen or twenty I found, right at the start, some radical defect; something wrong in the size or the location of the mine, or in the quality of the mineral. Of those remaining, I made, of course, a far more extended examination, and the result is that I have three propositions on which I am quite willing to stake my professional reputation. One is a copper mine in Arizona, one is a silver mine in British Columbia, and the third is a copper mine at the lake."
Gordon's eyes gleamed. "Three!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Well, that's certainly good enough. And which of the three do you consider the one best bet?"
Frost's forehead wrinkled doubtfully. "Not to be too discouraging, Mr. Gordon," he answered, "I ought to say that in the case of all three there are certain disadvantages to be considered, and certain obstacles to be overcome. Take the Arizona mine. The price is exorbitant, to start with; there's a large amount of construction work to be done under unfavorable conditions; I'm not sure but what, considering that it's a low grade proposition, at best, the cost of production would run fairly high; and then, too, there seems to be a possibility of serious labor troubles out that way before long, which, while probably not a determining factor, ought still to be reckoned with."
Gordon laughed. "Yes," he said, with irony, "just to start with, that does sound a little discouraging. Haven't you anything better than that to say for the others?"
Frost sighed. "Better—or worse; I don't know which," he answered. "The silver mine has really caused me a great deal of anxiety. The deposit itself is wonderfully, almost incredibly, rich. One of the most interesting problems, purely from a geological standpoint, that I think I have ever seen. The truth about it is that it's totally undeveloped, and it's practically an impossibility to predict anything about the depth and extent of the deposit. As a straight mining proposition, it's easily the biggest gamble of the three, but really nothing more than a gamble. If, however—" he paused for a moment, and then continued apologetically: "This is, of course, entirely outside my province, but if the mine is to be looked at at all from the stock market point of view, and not entirely on its intrinsic merits, then the extreme richness of the surface deposit is so spectacular that I should judge that would be a strong point in the mine's favor."
Gordon smiled. "Sometimes," he said softly, "even in the case of a perfectly legitimate enterprise like this, people will insist on looking at it merely as a market venture. It's a curious thing, Frost, isn't it?"
Frost, feeling sure that he understood Gordon perfectly, smiled also. "Yes," he assented, "it is. So many people nowadays want to live without working, and, as a result, they get worked."
Gordon laughed delightedly. "That's good, Frost," he cried, "very good, indeed. I must remember that. But to get back to business, how about the copper mine at the lake?"
Frost at once resumed his wonted gravity. "The copper mine at the lake, if we could get it, Mr. Gordon"—he lowered his voice confidentially—"I believe to be far and away the best of the lot. It's really exceedingly interesting. You know, yourself, of course, that the only ground at the lake not already taken up is south of Octagon County, down where the Batavian and the Anona and all those properties are located, or else north as far as Seneca. Mining men have always disagreed, and still do disagree, as to what becomes of the Onondaga lode when it dips. Personally I have always believed that somewhere about the locality of the Batavian was the place to strike the lode, so, on my way west, I stopped there first of all, without, I must confess, finding much that interested me. The Seneca theory I've never been a believer in, and I hardly think I should have stopped there at all except that I wanted to do a thorough job. As a result, however, I'm afraid I've got to admit that I've been wrong, and that Paine and those other fellows have been right. It happened like this: I got in with a man named Peters out there, and got to know him pretty well, too. His own claim is a rather fair one; nothing startling; just a good, likely claim; but the one adjoining his is the jewel. They're all talking about it out there, and I got information enough, and saw samples enough, to convince me that that's the mine we want. But—and I'm sorry to say it's a big But—the claim is owned by an old fellow named Mason, a man of character and intelligence, but half crazy over the mine. It's meat and drink, body and soul, wife and child, to him, and he's absolutely fixed against parting with it, even though it's clear to every one but himself that he can never develop it alone. So there's where we stand. My advice would be that if you can get Mason's claim by hook or crook, you want it; it's the best of the three. If you actually can't get it, try the silver mine, unless you're unwilling to run the risk of losing your market reputation by getting your friends into a gamble that may go wrong. If you have that feeling about it, think over the Arizona proposition pretty carefully before you decide on it; it's safe, but hardly immensely profitable, I think. Do I make myself clear?"
Gordon thought a moment. "Perfectly," he said at length, "except in one particular. You speak of getting Mason's claim by hook or crook. Just what do you mean by that?"
Frost looked a trifle uncomfortable. "Well," he said at last, "we none of us like to own up to making failures, but I feel that somehow I ought to have done better with Mason. It may be all fancy, but I think the right man could have put the thing through. It's like this: Mason's got a pretty daughter, and there's a young fellow named Harrison who works with Mason who's sweet on her. Now, I guess, when you come right down to it, Harrison's word would go a long way toward deciding the thing with the old man; and I don't think I managed to hit it off just right with Harrison. They're a queer crowd out there, and I believe the man you want to send to clench things had better be the hail-fellow-well-met kind who can keep his end up whether it's drinking whisky, or fighting, or talking copper claims. Those seem to be the three principal industries of Seneca, and you can imagine the impression I made. Whisky always disagreed with me, and I'm essentially a man of peace. You need a man with red blood in him to get on out there; what they term, I believe, from something I overheard supposed to be somewhat to my discredit, 'a good mixer.' The right man can get that claim; I'm confident of it, but, frankly, I'm not the man. You see, I'm really not what you'd call a sport, Mr. Gordon."
Gordon laughed long and heartily. "No, Frost," he said, when he could speak, "your worst enemy couldn't say that about you. But you're a mighty good judge of human nature, just the same, which is infinitely more to your credit. I think I catch your idea perfectly. The only thing now is to get the man, and that may be difficult. I wonder, now, how I would do?"
Mr. Frost gazed at him meditatively. Then his face brightened. "I confess that hadn't occurred to me," he said, "but I can see many points in favor of such a decision. In the first place, you can thus keep the thing quiet, and that, of course, is of prime importance. As to your qualifications, you've been an athlete of distinction; I know you can adapt yourself to all sorts of company, and I believe, further, whether it's to your credit or not, you bear the reputation of never having been known to refuse a drink. The mining details I think I could prime you sufficiently on, but, really, after all, it's the other qualities that are going to carry the thing through." He nodded thoughtfully to himself, then said again, "Yes, I can certainly see many points in favor of such a decision."
Gordon rose. "Well," he said, smiling, "I'm glad to know you think so well of me. We'll take a day or two to think things over, and then we'll have another talk. I'm tremendously obliged to you for all your trouble, and I'll send that check along this afternoon. Right out this door here. Takes you directly to the street. Good day, Mr. Frost. Behave yourself, now. Good day."