The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMen of AffairsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Men of AffairsAuthor: Roland PertweeRelease date: December 7, 2007 [eBook #23757]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN OF AFFAIRS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Men of AffairsAuthor: Roland PertweeRelease date: December 7, 2007 [eBook #23757]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Men of Affairs
Author: Roland Pertwee
Author: Roland Pertwee
Release date: December 7, 2007 [eBook #23757]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN OF AFFAIRS ***
Produced by Al Haines
Publishers
New York
First and Second Printings before publication
1. Dissolution 2. Eight Closed Doors 3. Which Develops an Idea 4. Sitting on the Floor 5. Experiences of a Vagrant 6. Concerning a Tie 7. The Night of the 27th 8. Introducing a Lady 9. An Invitation to Stay 10. Nerves 11. Outlining a Programme 12. Pineapple 13. Harrison Smith 14. "Off the Beaten Track" 15. Tea and Tears 16. A Hyphen 17. A Doubtful Ally 18. Holding Out 19. At the Chestnuts 20. A Little Housebreaking 21. The Cornish Riviera 22. Plain Sailing 23. An Encounter 24. Rival Factions 25. Mr. Bolt Drops In 26. Among Allies 27. A Knotted Kerchief 28. Sand 29. Individual Resource 30. The True Auriole 31. A Way Out 32. The Appointed Hour 33. A Smash Up 34. The Finishing Straight
At a pawnshop in the Gray's Inn Road, Richard Frencham Altar disposed of the last of his worldly goods. Four suits from a tailor in Saville Row, two pairs of shoes in brown and patent by a craftsman of Jermyn Street, some odds and ends of hosiery, a set of dressing table brushes with black monograms on ivory and the gold cigarette case Doreen had given him on the day of their engagement. In consideration for which he departed with a sum of twenty-seven pounds sixteen shillings in his trousers pockets. At his rooms in Golden Square he settled his account with the landlady, a luxury that reduced his wealth by a matter of nineteen pounds. Of the eight pounds sixteen shillings remaining, five guineas were placed on one side for the tobacconist who had supplied him with Gold Flake and the margin transferred to another pocket for the purpose of one final engagement with the habit of high living. After that—well time would show. It was futile to speculate upon the future. He had the clothes he stood up in, the brain and tissue heaven had provided him with and a spirit unawed by adversity. Many men have started life with less.
A neighbouring clock chimed the hour. Too early to dine—besides there were things to be done first. From a highly decorated vase that stood upon a particularly restless over-mantel, he drew a small packet of letters and untied the tape that circled them. They were written in a careless sprawling hand, with lots of ink and little thought. They were very full of 'darlings' and 'dearests' and 'how much do you love me's.' They were very, very rapturous—they were very, very silly. They had made him very happy when first he read them because silliness and sincerity are often partners, but now he knew better—now they made him laugh. Not a very cheerful laugh perhaps—a little cynical maybe but on the whole tolerant and forbearing.
He put a match to the first and lit the others in succession one by one until a charred chain of memories stretched across the tiling of the grate. The last 'Doreen' straggled scarlet across a black and twisting page, whitened, greyed and disappeared.
"And I'll grow a beard and forget all about you," said Richard. "And it oughtn't to be very difficult really."
He rose, crossed to the window and looked out.
"If ever I fall in love again—if ever I earn enough for the luxury of falling in love again, it won't be with——" but he changed his mind about finishing the sentence, for, after all, it is folly to speak hard words against pretty little things that make the world very jolly while they last.
Besides Doreen had her way to make like any other girl, and no one can deny the difference between the son of an exceptionally wealthy and indulgent parent and the same son after the parental wealth has exploded and the parental brain has been drilled with a .450 calibre bullet discharged at a range of two inches from the frontal bone and making a somewhat unsightly exit by way of the parietal.
James Frencham Altar, father of Richard, did not believe in failure or exposure or public obloquy. His lode-star was success and when the forward speed of success threw out its selectors and went suddenly into reverse the liquidation of his affairs was conducted by the firm of Colt and was covered in a single report. Thus ended an ambitious career.
Richard had suffered rather heavily under the generosity of his father whose cherished wish was that his son should be a gentleman and nothing more. Accordingly Richard had been sent to Eton, Oxford, and round the world three times. He had been given a racing stable, an enormous allowance and was instructed to spend as much as he could and enjoy himself all he knew how. Being a high spirited and obliging young fellow, Richard did all these things very engagingly, and somehow contrived not to spoil himself. He emerged from the war with a Military Cross, a row of service medals, a brace of foreign decorations and an ambition to do some work. His father appeared to applaud the ambition but actually discouraged it with specious argument and an introduction to Doreen—who did the rest.
Doreen, of course, was a perfect darling. She always bit her lower lip and she held her arms tight to her sides like a child who has been naughty. There was no possible excuse to refrain from hugging Doreen. One just had to and damn the consequences. Doreen would cry after being kissed and would continue crying until again kissed into an even frame of mind. Lots of people kissed Doreen because they could not help themselves and she forgave them all on that account. There never was such a darling. Richard Frencham Altar, fresh from the wars, simply wanted to eat her and, seeing that he was a handsome young fellow with a pleasant aura of gold about him, Doreen arrayed herself in her most eatable frocks and devourable smiles and just let him.
"Oh, Dicks," she cried, soon after their engagement—'Dicks' being the name she called him, for Doreens all the world over adore plurals and attaching 'S's' to names because it makes them so snakey—"Oh, Dicks, there's only one teeny-weeny thing I wish."
"What's that?" he said.
"I wish you were as poor as poor as poor so I could just love you for nothing but yourself."
It was very pleasant hearing, but when a year later he went to her and confided that he was as 'poor as poor as poor' it transpired she had only said it for something to say and infinitely preferred young men who were as rich as rich as rich.
Discoveries like that are a little apt to revolutionise a man's ideals even if they fail to destroy them altogether.
Richard kept his views to himself. He kissed the tearful Doreen for the last time and she waved a tiny georgette kerchief from the window as he passed down the street and out of her life. He had not a great deal of leisure to consider the extent of his loss. The proceedings of the coroner's court and the importunities of creditors occupied his days very fully. The chaos of his father's affairs and the winding up of his own provided ample entertainment. The net result was a settlement of something less than a farthing in the pound and the retirement into oblivion of one of the most able spendthrifts of the twentieth century. He had spent a couple of months looking for work, but the name Frencham Altar, coupled with his complete inability to point to a single marketable asset other than courage and a smiling disposition, conspired together to harden the hearts of employers. Old friends denied him interviews, business acquaintances turned him from their doors and the casual advertiser forbore replying to his enquiries. Of course, if he had been a little less honest he might very easily have cleaned up a quiet thousand or two from the wreckage of the estate. His solicitor had demonstrated the absurdity of Quixoticism in such affairs, but whatever other reproach might be laid to his account, Richard was no opportunist and lacked the parental liking for feathering his own nest at the expense of his fellows. Wherefore the whole of his worldly resources, if we except the courage and the smile, went into the whirlpool and were swallowed up.
Richard let the curtain fall across the window and crossed to the mantelpiece where he touched the bell. It occurred to him that there was a certain luxury in ringing bells—it was one of many comforts of civilisation that would pass out of his reach. No one answered the bell so he rang it again and was quite dispirited to hear footsteps ascending the stairs. If his connection with bells was to cease it would have been pleasant to have rung it a few more times. It is an awful thing to contemplate that you have rung a bell for the last time. One can get very sentimental over a thing like that. Dear jolly old bells, what an influence they have upon life. How bravely they whirr at the arrival of a dear expected—how madly they riot to the tune Wedding—how sadly they toll when the last of us is borne away.
Mrs. Walton, the landlady, came into the room and said "Yes."
"I am going now," said Richard.
"We shall be sorry to lose you."
"And I to go. Many thanks, Mrs. Walton."
"And what is your destination, sir?"
"I have my eye on a bench facing Green Park," he replied. "It is a favourite locality for the impecunious philosopher. In other words I don't know where I'm going but I have a pretty solid conviction that one of these days I shall get there. There are two empty trunks in my bedroom which I should be glad if you would accept."
Mrs. Walton shook her head.
"You could raise a bit of money on them," she suggested.
"Maybe," said Richard, "but I don't want to. There are only two kinds of money that are any use. Regular money or lots of money—a little money is no good to anyone and is better spent. By midnight tonight I hope to find myself with none at all."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Walton.
"That," replied Richard, "is precisely what I am relying upon. And I could not wish to start on my adventures under a happier ensign. Goodbye."
And to the amazement of the lady he hissed her very soundly and clattered down the stairs.
At the tobacconist he settled the last of his small accounts, purchased a hundred cigarettes and hailed a taxi.
"The Berkeley Grill Room," he said.
They were a little surprised at the informality of his attire, but there is something in the bearing of a restaurant habitué that would procure him the best the establishment can afford even though he appeared in a bathing suit.
"Stick me in a corner somewhere," he said, "I have no evening clothes."
"Monsieur has not had time to dress."
"I repeat I have no evening clothes, on the other hand I've a deuce of a good appetite. A brandy cocktail and the book of words, please."
They were supplied.
Richard ordered his dinner with a reckless disregard for expenditure and a nice choice of wine and dishes which earned the appreciation of those that waited upon him. He finished with a Villa Villa and a double Napoleon and sat back with folded arms, a pleasant smile and eyes that drowsed comfortably over the agreeable quiet of the café.
It caused him something of an effort to ask for his bill, dispose of it with the last of his notes, tip the waiter and rise to his feet. As he was approaching the swing doors that led to the little hexagonal foyer, a man at a table near by raised a pair of keen black eyes, glanced at him quickly, smiled and nodded. The man's face was unfamiliar but Richard returned the nod casually and passed out. The man half rose then changed his mind and sat down again. He was a tall man with black hair threaded with white. His face was large featured but clear cut, high cheekbones, a Roman nose, a straight, firm mouth and Wellingtonian side whiskers, his age forty or a little more. His companion at the table put a question but the man shook his head.
"I fancy I made a mistake," he said.
Richard tipped the porter with the last coins in his pocket, a shilling and five coppers, turned slowly down Berkeley Street and crossed Piccadilly. He passed the Ritz, of pleasant memory, and entered into the sleeping apartment of London's destitute—the single bench on the slope that faces Green Park, gratuitously provided by the generosity of the City of Westminster.
There was a constable by the cabman's shelter and him Richard addressed.
"A fine night, Bobbie," he said.
The constable agreed that this was so. He did not resent having been addressed as 'Bobbie.' There was no offence in it and Richard belonged to that class of individuals with whom familiarity is a cloak for courtesy.
"Taking a stroll, sir?" he asked.
Richard produced his hundred Gold Flake and bade the officer fill his helmet.
"Better help me out with a few or I shall be smoking all night," he said.
"In trouble, sir?"
"Broke," said Richard, "and I want your advice. I've had the devil of a good dinner with the last of my fortune and I'm looking for words of wisdom. In the first place, how about that bench?"
"The Rowton is better."
"Won't run to it."
"Not to be recommended, p'raps, but it's free to all," said the constable, nodding at the green seat which was already filling up for the night, with bundles of rags, voluminous overcoats and thin, shiny blue serges buttoned at the neck.
"I don't want to steal a march on the regular custom," observed Richard.
"It's first come hereabouts, but you'd better not leave it too late.Anyway you'll get a shake-up when the four o'clock patrol comes on."
"How's that?"
"Always give 'em a shake-up at four o'clock. Don't make many odds. You just get up and sit down again. Takes the cold out of your bones if it does nothing else."
"I suppose," said Richard, "I couldn't doss down on that board that's perched on the two iron standards up towards Hyde Park Comer. It has a single room touch that I rather fancy."
The constable shook his head.
"I couldn't let you," he said, "though there's no particular harm in it."
"Then what's it for anyway?"
"Don't rightly know. They do say it was for the garden carriers to rest their packs on when they was coming up to market from the outlying farms. And again I been told that they laid the corpses on it what was being carried to the plague pits when there was one of these 'ere epidemics in London. Long while back that 'ud be."
"Hm," said Richard, "cheery sort of memory. Well I'll take a chance with the rest. Good night. Oh, by the way, how's one manage about getting a wash in the mornings?"
"You goes without."
"Well, there's a damn thing," said Richard and departed with a nod.
There was an empty place on the bench but Richard hesitated long before occupying it. Although no more than a single step it seemed a tremendous distance from the pavement to the seat. A happy memory of a similar sensation helped him to take the plunge—it was the trembling nervousness he had felt on the first day of his commission when he stood in an agony of suspense outside the anteroom of the officers' mess and tried to summon up courage to enter. A dark shambling figure approaching the spot decided him, and having accomplished the feat it was only to find experience repeating itself. No one took any notice, not a sunken chin was raised. The sleepers to right and left edged away a trifle to give him room and continued with their breathy muttering sleep.
Richard Frencham Altar lit a cigarette and buried his hands in his pockets and with the whole future before him to contemplate and with every vital problem that a man may be called upon to face, he said to himself, "Now I wonder who that johnny was who nodded to me at the Berkeley."
He was still wondering, for want of something better to do, when an hour later his friend the constable passed slowly by and looked him over critically. An official report of his observation would have read as follows:—
Height, about five feet nine. Age, thirty odd. Hair, dark with a disposition to wave. Eyes, brown, merry and set wide apart. Well marked brows. Nose of medium length and slightly crooked to the left. Short upper lip. Firm mouth with an upward twist at the corners. A strong square chin. A habit of holding the head slightly at an angle. Quick way of speaking and walks with a springy step. Stands with one hand on his left hip.
"Doing all right?" asked the constable.
"Fine," said Richard.
As the taxi turned into the station yard from the Euston Road, Anthony Barraclough unobtrusively opened the offside door and dropped into the street. A pantechnicon concealed the manoeuvre from the traffic that followed. His taxi driver was blissfully unaware of his departure. It would seem a mean thing to have done but Barraclough had pinned a Bradbury to the vacated seat as a tacit apology.
On landing in the street he wasted no time and nipped very neatly into the open back of the pantechnicon. Here he concealed himself until a stream of a dozen taxis had passed by, and in the pleasant straw smelling shadows Anthony Barraclough grew a beard in precisely half a minute by the clock, and a moustache in even less time. It was a nice beard and a nice moustache, but even so it did not improve his appearance. He was much better looking without. If you doubt the statement here is an official report of his looks and bearing, by means of which you may judge for yourself.
Height, about five feet nine. Age, thirty-four. Hair, dark with a disposition to wave. Eyes, brown and set wide apart. Well marked brows. Nose of medium length and slightly crooked to the left Short upper lip. Firm mouth with an upward twist at the corners. A strong square chin. A habit of holding the head slightly at an angle. Quick way of speaking. Walks with a springy step. Stands with one hand on his left hip.
Compare this description with one printed in the foregoing chapter and a certain peculiar resemblance may suggest itself. The absence of the word 'merry' in the latter as applied to the eyes must not be mistaken for a careless omission, but rather as a piece of keen observation in physiognomy. These things are very important.
Having pressed his cheeks until the wax warmed and adhered, Anthony Barraclough threw a leg over the tailboard and alighted on the pavement. Scarcely a soul bothered to glance his way. At a smart walk he made for the tube station, bought a ticket at the twopenny machine and entered the lift. In the passages below he made a circular tour, entered an ascending lift and reappeared in the street. A 'bus was passing which he entered and travelled in for a few hundred yards. Then he got out and hailed a taxi and two minutes later was at the booking office of St. Pancras Station. As he was reaching for his note case a man in the queue behind him observed, vaguely, as though addressing the air:
"Pity to waste the money, Mr. Barraclough. Much better go home and be reasonable."
He returned the note case to his pocket and stepped out of the queue. A sudden inflammation of anger surged to his cheeks and his brows came down hard and straight.
The individual who had spoken was apparently absorbed in a copy ofAnswers.
"It is annoying, isn't it?" he remarked sweetly.
And then it was that Barraclough did a very stupid thing. He measured the distance speculatively between his own fist and the man's jaw and upper cut to the point as neatly as you could please. It happened so quickly that the onlookers thought the man had fallen from sickness. Barraclough was gone when they helped him to his feet. He was in a taxi speeding out of the yard.
"Drive north as fast you can go," he had shouted.
A loafer, standing by the station gates, who had witnessed his hurried entry into the cab, lounged in front as it was passing out. The driver swore and slammed on his brakes but the loafer took his own time and chances. The speed of the taxi fell almost to a walking pace. The loafer caught the nearside canopy stay with his right hand and slung his knee on to the projecting end of the rear wing. From there he mounted to the roof of the cab, keeping his legs clear of the side windows. It was quite a dexterous performance, and after all, what was against it? The fare for two is the same as for one and the poor must travel. So hugging his knees and smiling he sat on the battens of the luggage rack and congratulated himself, while within Anthony Barraclough was tapping with his foot and feeling very angry indeed.
And if you are interested to know why, here is the reason. The little affair that occurred at St. Pancras booking office was a repetition of seven similar incidents within the last twelve hours. By seven different routes he had endeavoured to get out of London and in every instance had been headed back. It had started with the affair on the Croydon train and the woman who fainted in his arms. Then there was the car on the Portsmouth road that had been crashed into by another at the top of Kingston Hill. Victoria, Charing Cross, Waterloo and Liverpool Street. It seemed to make no difference at all where he tried, the result was always the same. The little contretemps at Rotherhithe when he tried to board a tug was a sufficiently unpleasant experience for one day. A man gets out of the habit of being shot over after two years of peace and the memory of the little chips of flying woodwork flicked from the bows of the dingy as he had pulled out into the river was distinctly discouraging. Whoever fired the shots had a pretty knack with a rifle. It was the whirr of a bullet just over his head persuaded him to put back to port. After that the firing ceased. As he dragged the almost foundering dingy on to the mud a fast motor launch went scurrying down stream with a man on deck who shouted, "Go home."
But Anthony was not the type of man to turn back. Opposition sterned his resolve. Besides he had a pretty sure conviction that they did not mean to kill him. Very much the reverse. Were he to be dying of a sickness he felt certain they would dispatch to his bedside the finest physicians of the land. The problem was how to escape their unwelcome attentions and so far it had proved a problem without solution.
They were speeding along the Caledonian Road when the driver leaned out to ask where he should drive. The man on the top of the cab caught the answer "Hendon Aerodrome" and smiled because he admired a tryer.
"Better wait till we get to a quieter part," he reflected.
The taxi proceeded until at last the houses of Golders Green ran out into the fields near The Welsh Harp. Then very cautiously he spread out at full length and reached out his hand for the knee joint of the hood stay. The one on the right broke easily but the left was stiffer and bit his finger as the joint gave. He had already loosened the little clip hooks that secured the hood frame to the permanent structure. There was room for a knife blade where the frames united and they had slipped back easily. Holding the hood in position with his left hand the adventurous passenger produced a neat automatic with his right. Then he gave the hood a shove and presented the pistol at Barraclough's head. And since it is not in the realms of common occurrence for the tops to fly off cabs and reveal armed desperadoes no one will blame Barraclough for the views he expressed upon the subjects.
"Keep sweet," said the loafer in a very agreeable tone of voice when Barraclough had exhausted his first inspiration. "And if you'll keep your hands in your lap I'll come and sit beside you."
Never for an instant while this agile individual transferred himself from the roof of the cab to the interior did the caressing muzzle of the pistol waver from its mark.
"Sorry to be a nuisance," he observed as he settled himself beside Barraclough, "but I'm afraid you'll have to tell this joker to turn back. Golders Green Tube Station will do nicely."
And while Barraclough was leaning forward to comply with the instructions he very neatly removed a Harrington and Richardson from his unhappy victim's pocket.
"Just to be on the safe side," he remarked as he transferred it to his own. "You'll be getting a bit peevish maybe and might lose your sense of proportion after such a busy day."
"Tell me this," said Barraclough. "How many of you are there in this?"
"My dear chap, I don't know—hundreds I expect."
"Hm!" said Barraclough. "Well, I'm going home to bed."
"Sensible fellow and I'll see you get there safely."
They alighted at Golders Green Station where the driver was equally amazed by his open cab and the extra passenger.
"No, no, this is on me," said the loafer and handed out a couple of notes.
In the station he nodded to several men in a friendly fashion and repeated the performance to some others as they sat side by side in the tube carriage. He rather flattered himself on the inspiration that suggested this performance, for, as a fact, everyone of them was a stranger.
"Thought it safer to come home this way," he said to establish the point more firmly. "I felt a bit lonely with you in that cab."
They parted at the doors of Crest Chambers, W., where Barraclough had a flat.
"By the way, any message for Mr. Van Diest?"
"You can tell him to go to the devil," said Anthony Barraclough.
"Right, I will. I say, if you feel a bit neglected during the night don't worry, there are plenty of us knocking about in the street below and we shan't desert you."
Barraclough smiled grimly.
"You seem a genial sort of ass," he said. "Care for a drink?"
"No, thanks. I must toddle along and make my report." He hesitated."But I would like to know what all this is about."
"So would a good many other people," said Barraclough and pressed the third floor button of the electric lift.
The meeting of the directors had been arranged to take place at Lord Almont Frayne's house in Park Lane. Nugent Cassis was first to arrive. It was part of his scheme of life to be five minutes early for appointments. He nodded to the man-servant, crossed to the fire and rubbed his thin hands before it.
"I expect his lordship will be down directly," said the servant.
"Do you?" said Cassis and that was all.
A precise, erect, parchmentlike person was Nugent Cassis, entirely colourless in himself and his outlook. The emotions of life never for an instant affected him. He was apparently insensible to pain, passion, triumph and disaster. His brain worked at one unvarying speed with clocklike regularity. He was always efficient, he was never inspired. He believed in himself and his judgments and doubted everyone else and their judgments. He was a machine, self-contrived, for the purpose of making money, which he had no capacity for spending. He could carry in his head the entire overnight market quotations and invariably did so. He seldom made a mistake and never admitted the mistakes he made. His transactions were honest because his knowledge of the law was unrivalled and he knew to a hair how close to the wind a man might sail. As he never wasted a moment he occupied the time of waiting, in ringing up his broker and firing a barrage of instructions. This done he returned to the fireplace, consulted his own watch, corrected the mantelpiece clock which was a minute and a half slow, sniffed critically and proceeded to warm his hands again. There was nothing spontaneous in the action, warming his hands was as much a part of his daily programme as reading theFinancial Times, the two minutes he spent lying flat on his back after lunch, or the single round of golf which he played every third Sunday throughout the year.
The clock was striking eleven when Mr. Hilbert Torrington, a bent, bald, clean shaven man of eighty years, entered on the arm of the servant. Mr. Torrington, his age claims the prefix, was a different type to Cassis. He possessed a pair of blue eyes that might have belonged to a child and the expression of his face, a face threaded with a thousand wrinkles, was sweet and calm. People who saw him but had no intimate knowledge of his powers, marvelled that this frail, kindly, stooping old man, with his look of innocence that was almost sublime, could in reality be a giant in the world of money. Such was the case. Mr. Hilbert Torrington had his fingers on the financial pulse of the world and at a pressure could accelerate or decelerate it, to suit his mood. Unlike Cassis, Mr. Torrington had time for everything. When he worked he worked instantaneously, achieving in an hour work that would have kept a less remarkable man busy for a month. After one of these flashes he would relapse into pleasant gardens where he grew roses, or pleasant galleries where he looked with eyes of understanding into the heart of pictures. Sometimes he amused himself by playing with urchins in St. James's Park and on one occasion had been seen to divest himself of his coat to supply the wickets for an informal cricket match. When asked why he bothered to take part in the rack and strain of high finance he gave the amiable reply:
"Because it's such fun."
The servant piloted him to a high elbow chair and helped him to be seated.
"Thank ye," said Mr. Torrington. "And if you'll put a side table alongside I'll try a new patience. No, don't bother to tell me your master won't be long, I know that bit by heart."
He unwound a silk comforter from his neck, hung it over the arm of the chair and produced from his pocket a small pack of cards.
"Cold, Cassis?"
"I was cold," replied Cassis exactly.
"Hm! Fine growing weather, this."
He began to lay out the cards in neat little packs.
"Bulbs are coming through nicely. I was hoping to spend a day or two in the garden but I'm afraid not—'fraid it won't be possible."
Cassis put his hands behind his back.
"This business," he said.
"Yes."
Lord Almont Frayne, a rather resplendant young man of thirty, came into the room with all the bounce of youth. His chin shone from a ten minutes' old shave, his hair clove to his head like fresh laid paint and the crease in his trousers was razor edged.
"Most awfully sorry, dear hearts," he exclaimed in clamourous apology."Deuce of a late night at Thingumy's ball. Do excuse."
From which the reader may assume that his lordship was a bit of an ass—but no. Under the ecstatic exterior of twentieth century modern man-about-townism there existed in the composition of Lord Almont many of the shrewd qualities that had made his father one of the richest bankers in England. People in the know would assure you it was not only luck that had kept the parental millions secure and had even increased them after the old gentleman's decease. Lord Almont had a sense of the market and his intelligence was not entirely devoted to matters sartorial.
"Anybody have anything? No. Too early? Infernally hot in here. Mind if we have a window up?"
Cassis was only just in time to lodge an objection.
Lord Almont pointed to the street.
"Here comes old Cranbourne bobbing along. Shall we wait?"
Mr. Torrington continued playing his patience game until Cranbourne was announced. And if you are interested to know what manner of man Cranbourne might be then turn to the description of the diner at the table near the door in the Berkeley Café. As to his associations with these other gentlemen it remains only to be said that he was a supplier of ideas and occasionally of ideals.
"Anybody know anything?" said Lord Almont.
Cassis shrugged his shoulders negatively.
Mr. Torrington put down a card.
"Waste of time," he said. "Waste of time. Barraclough will never get out of London by ordinary ways. It was a useless attempt."
"Well, we don't know."
"He hadn't got through at ten thirty last night," said Cranbourne. "He was dining at the Berkeley Grill. 'Course he might have had a shot later."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No—just nodded. Billings tells me he was shot at when he tried to make the tug on the river."
"The boat was shot at, you mean," said Cassis.
"Anyone rung him up this morning?" asked Mr. Torrington.
"No, it was arranged we shouldn't."
"Then he's sure to be here soon."
The remark was prophetic for as the words were spoken Barraclough was announced.
"No good," he said.
"You look tired, Barraclough," observed Mr. Torrington, who thought about men as well as money.
"Am a bit."
"Did you try to make Hendon?"
"Did I try? Yes, I tried and travelled a Wild West shooting man on the lid of the cab who worked a hold up by The Welsh Harp. Far as I can see there must be hundreds out to prevent me." His mouth hardened. "But I'm going to do it. I mean to do it somehow."
Mr. Torrington smiled sweetly.
"Ardent young man," he said.
Cassis put his finger tips together and remarked:
"Recklessness is a luxury we can't afford."
"I'm prepared to take chances," said Barraclough.
Mr. Torrington quoted:
"'On the sand drift, on the veldt side, in the fern scrub we lay.That our song might follow after by the bones on the way.'"
"That's all very well," said Cassis sourly, "but our sons won't be able to follow after so long as Barraclough obstinately determines to keep the secret entirely to himself."
"Pooh! pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Torrington. "That was understood."
"It was," said Barraclough and swivelled round to face Cassis. "I've said frankly that until I get the concession no one but myself will be told the map reference. That's absolute."
Cassis sniffed.
"It was a pity you didn't get the concession when you made the discovery."
"You know quite well that I wasn't sure. A false move might have brought every prospector in the world to the place—would have done. Besides with all this post-war territorial shuffle it was pretty nearly impossible to say which government actually owned the land. Been jolly if we'd got a title too soon and from the wrong people."
"But the territorial point has been cleared up now, hasn't it?" Cassis put the question shrewdly.
Barraclough shut up like a clam and made no answer.
Lord Almont butted in.
"Still you're pretty confident of getting the concession if you manage to get clear."
Barraclough nodded.
"If I can slip through and they don't stop me I'll be back with the whole thing settled in three weeks from the hour of starting."
"And during those three weeks," said Cassis sourly, "Van Diest and his crowd will subject us to an intensive course of financial buffeting. As matter of fact he has begun already."
"Well, it was no fault of mine the other side knew anything about it," said Barraclough. "If your confidential secretary had kept his mouth shut——"
"There is no use in discussing that," said Cassis.
Mr. Torrington swept the cards into a heap and shuffled them to and fro like a cook making pastry.
"Getting very active is Van Diest," he remarked. "Not a good loser, poor fellow. Quite set his heart on getting into our little syndicate. Started unloading American Rails yesterday afternoon—broke the market badly. I had to reciprocate by selling Dutch Oils. Our losses on the day were about equal."
Lord Almont remarked that his broker had rang him up to tell him of a fuss. Had no idea Van Diest was at the back of it. Cost him about ten thousand but he held on.
"Quite so and it's all very well if we are going to get a return for our losses," said Cassis. "But so long as Barraclough is held by the heels we become a mere kicking post for the opposition. Not good enough."
"Any suggestions?" said Barraclough.
"Yes. I suggest under the seal of confidence you inform us of the exact location of this field and we dispatch a trustworthy servant to carry out the necessary negotiations."
Barraclough remained silent.
"If you refuse to adopt that view all I can see for it is either to drop the whole thing or to let Van Diest come in and split the profit."
For one instant the placid blue eyes of Mr. Torrington were lit with a shiny white fire.
"Van Diest will not be in this, Cassis," he said.
"But look here, dear old Mr. Torrington," Lord Almont exclaimed."Surely you agree that Barra ought to give us his trust."
The old man smiled whimsically.
"Think so?" he said.
"I mean to say, we're not the kind of people to take advantage of a man."
"Nonsense! Of course we are," came the answer.
"That's honest," Barraclough laughed.
"Not at all, my dear boy, it's a confession of dishonour of which I am heartily ashamed."
Cassis could not leave the subject alone. Tenacity was one of his strong points.
"Suppose you were killed," he suggested. "The secret would be lost for all time. And where should we stand?"
"Several degrees better than myself," was the answer. "You'll come out with your lives."
"That's not the point. Our involvement is equivalent to yours. Your risk is physical, ours financial, and of the two, in my own opinion——"
"I know," Barraclough cut in. "Our views are opposed about that. I made the find and as soon as I have turned it into actual possession, you will have the chance to exploit it, but until——"
"Yes, but half a shake, old son," said Lord Almont. "How about the marvellous healing properties—all the jolly old hospitals we were going to endow. One doesn't want to be a dog in the manger."
Barraclough grinned. Whatever other qualities Nature had bestowed upon the ebullient peer philanthropy was not outstanding.
"I notice in this argument," he said, "money came over the horizon before the hospitals showed their smoke."
"Then deposit the map reference in a safe place so we can get hold of it if you break up."
"And where it will be at the mercy of the first man with a jimmy and a blow lamp. No, thanks."
There are certain types of stubbornness that increase in direct ratio to the pressure applied. To this type Barraclough belonged. He had yet to find the man who could induce him to talk against his will. Woman? Ah, that's a different matter. The argument took an angry turn.
"It occurs to me," said Mr. Torrington sweetly, "it was a pity I deserted my greenhouses this morning. We remainin statu quo ante."
A reproach from Mr. Torrington seldom failed to reach its mark.
"I'm sorry," Barraclough apologised, "but I give you my solemn word that somehow I'll win you the purse."
"The purse," Mr. Torrington smiled. "One almost forgets the purse in a case like this. It is eclipsed by the will to succeed. Adventure! The one thing of which old people never tire."
And then it was that Cranbourne who, curled up in the window seat with his chin resting on his knees, had taken no part in the debate, made his first observation.
"If Barraclough is to succeed it will have to be in the next three days. At midnight on the 27th he is going to be kidnapped."
All eyes turned upon Cranbourne as he made this announcement.
"How the devil do you know that?" exclaimed Barraclough.
Nugent Cassis answered the question.
"We have our private information bureau in the opposite camp."
"Ah! Anyone I know?"
"That's immaterial."
"I think I deserve your confidence."
"Have you given us yours?"
Barraclough lit a cigarette.
"Oh, very well," he said. "So I'm to be kidnapped."
"At twelve precisely," Cranbourne nodded. "In the course of the next three days Van Diest will try the persuasion of bribes and failing success you disappear, my friend, for a short inquisition."
Barraclough shut his fists tight.
"By God," he said. "So that's the way of it. Three days, what! I'll break through that damned ring if it kills me."
"I wonder," murmured Mr. Torrington. "Quite a lot I wonder. Still it's great fun. Don't do anything in a hurry. Three days is a life time. Take my advice, go and sit with your girl and calm down."
"Good idea, I will. We shall meet again?"
"Surely."
"Au revoir then."
As Barraclough moved toward the door Cranbourne spoke.
"Why did you pass me by at the Berkeley last night?"
Barraclough wrinkled his forehead perplexedly.
"The Berkeley?"
"Yes, about ten thirty."
"At ten thirty I was plugging a man in the jaw at St. Pancras Station."
Cranbourne sprang to his feet.
"Honest?" he cried.
"Honest."
"And you never went to the Berkeley?"
"Nowhere near it."
A light of wild enthusiasm leapt into Cranbourne's eyes and he brought his hands together with a loud report.
"Got it," he cried. "Got it! Oh, what an idea!"
"What's up with you?"
The enthusiasm came under control but his voice still trembled.
"It's all right, gentlemen, I can see a way. With any luck we'll succeed. Don't do anything until eleven o'clock on the night of the 27th. I'm going to try and find someone." And he made for the door.
"But hang it all," Lord Almont shouted, "be a bit more explicit."
Cranbourne turned.
"Have you missed it," he said. "Then here's something to think about.Suppose Van Diest kidnaps the wrong man." The door slammed behind him.
Mr. Torrington laid a card on the table with careful deliberation. He was smiling.
"Great fun," he murmured to himself.
When Anthony Barraclough left the Mansions he walked up Park Lane and turned into Green Street. Before a house with a white front door he stopped and attacked the knocker. He was admitted by a parlourmaid and informed that Miss Irish was in the boudoir. This was good news because it meant sitting on the floor and lovers all the world over are at their happiest when they sit on the floor. There is something soothing and familiar about it. A man loves to sprawl and a woman is always at her best curled up among cushions. It is impossible to be disagreeable when you are sitting on the floor. You couldn't conceivably have a row in that position. Perhaps a little sulking might be done but very little and only of the kind that provokes pleasant makings-up. Altogether it is a jolly fine institution and the world would be a better place if there was more of it.
In the opinion of Anthony Barraclough no one sat on the floor so divinely as Isabel, and to tell the truth he rather fancied himself as her floor partner.
"Don't you bother," he said to the maid. "I'll make my own way up."
He handed over his hat and stick and mounted the stairs and knocked at a door on the second floor.
"May I come in?" he asked and did not wait for the reply.
Isabel was built in among a nest of squabs and cushions that circled the tiny grate.
"Nice!" she said with a grin. "I was beginning to think you were deserting me. Rang up three times yesterday I did."
"Awful busy I was," he returned and disposed himself luxuriously beside her. Then he said 'Please' and had every reason to say 'Thank you' only he preferred to express it otherwise.
"What you been doing?"
"Trous-sewing," she answered nodding at a small basket decorated with silk fruit and overflowing with pieces of flimsy needlework. "But I've been dull. Where were you yesterday?"
"All over the place. North, south, east and west and the nor'-nor's and the sou'-sou's into the bargain. It was a hectic day."
Something in the forced gaiety of his voice made her look at him critically.
"Anything wrong?" he asked. "I know I'm not handsome but——"
"I don't know yet," she continued looking, "but you've a kind of flat look at the corners of your eyes where the fun ought to be."
"Now what on earth do you mean by that?"
"A lot. Tony! Almost you've got the——"
"Well?"
"The money face."
"Money face?"
"Um! You mustn't laugh, it's a dreadful face. Daddy had it. He caught it during the rubber boom and it never went away. Are you still doing things with that beastly syndicate, Tony?"
"Here, chuck it," he implored humorously. "We're sitting on the floor, you know. 'Tisn't fair."
But her expression remained very grave.
"I sometimes believe," she said, "you think that's all I'm good for. You don't talk to me as I want you to talk. I'm not always sitting on the floor, Tony. It's lovely at times, but other times I'm different. I'm—oh, I'm a bit of a surprise really."
"What is it you want to know?"
"I want to be told what you're doing 'cos I've a funny feeling it isn't—oh! I don't know."
"You extraordinary child. It's perfectly all right. Rather important, that's all. There's nothing for you to bother about. I was going to tell you because I shall have to be away for three weeks and I thought——"
"Three weeks? But we were going to be married on——"
"Yes, that's rotten part. Still the invitations haven't gone out—and if we were to put it off ten days to be on the safe side——"
"Our wedding!" she said.
"I wouldn't have had it happen for the world. It's frightful bad luck but——"
Isabel drew up her knees. Very little and lovely she looked. Her big brown eyes were open wide and her lower lip was drawn in. A shock of chestnut hair framed the sweet oval of her face. Tony had said she was like a serious angel and he was right.
She nodded twice.
"It must be very important," she said, "if we have to postpone our wedding. I see."
"You don't see," he said edging closer to her. "You can't because I haven't wanted to worry you with details, but it is important—enormously important."
"More important than I am?"
"'Course not."
"Yet it takes you away from me."
"Only for a little while—and look, dear, I don't want you to tell anyoneI'm going."
"Why not?"
"Because—well, it mustn't be known."
"Tony, is—is what you have to do dangerous?"
He answered evasively.
"What I have to do—no."
"Then let me come too. We could be married first. I don't want a fashionable wedding. Let's do that."
He hesitated.
"Couldn't be done, dear. It wouldn't be——"
"Safe?"
"Practicable."
"You don't trust me."
"Of course I trust you," he said putting his arms round her. "I've trusted you from the moment we first met and I'm going on trusting you all the rest of my life. Isn't that good enough?"
"Not nearly," she answered and rose to her feet.
"Isabel," he said very seriously. "When I tell you that there are huge interests at stake—that all this is for something that—that defeats imagination, surely you will take my word."
She pressed a finger to her chin.
"Huge interests means money."
"It does," he replied, "but money on a colossal scale—illimitable.Doesn't that appeal to you?"
"No," she said. "I've all I want and you're well enough off. What's the good of more?"
"Just listen," he said. "If I bring off this deal there is no wish in the world one couldn't gratify, and bring it off I shall."
He started to pace up and down the narrow floor space of the tiny room, his hands opening and shutting and a light of enthusiasm dancing in his eyes. It was not the money face he wore as he spoke but the expression of the man of deeds, the man who joyed in accomplishment, in vanquishing difficulty, in facing long odds, buoyed up and carried along by the will to win.
"You can't understand, my dear, all this means to me and will mean to you. I haven't even imagined it myself. Think! We could buy islands, build hospitals, govern nations if the mood prompted us. And all for three weeks' work. Lord, it's—Oh! if I could make you see how big it is—how magnificent."
And womanlike she responded,
"I want you, Tony, the rest only frightens me."
"Forget the money," he said, "and bear this in mind. If I succeed the world will be richer by a tremendous healing force."
"A medicine?"
"Call it a medicine. It's lying out in the open within a little march of the common ways of men and women. I tumbled on the find by a stroke of luck and a little knowledge and a word inside me that whispered, 'Look, go and look.' You've read Kipling's 'Explorer'—I read it you. 'Something lost behind the ranges—something hidden, go you there.' It was like that with me—a pringly feeling—a kind of second sense—expectancy—belief—certainty. Nature has a trick of showing the combination of her treasure safe to one man before the rest—and I was the man."
The little chestnut head shook helplessly from side to side.
"What is it you've found?" said Isabel.
He looked at her searchingly and hesitated.
"If I tell you you'll keep it secret?"
"Yes."
"Honest?"
"Honest."
He dropped his voice.
"It's radium," he said.
She repeated the word dully.
"Radium as it never had been found before. A—whew! an inexhaustible supply. Look—look here!"
He drew from his pocket a small black cylinder with a glass peephole at the top, protected by a circular cap of a dark substance.
"It's the finest piece of radium ever found," he said, "and where I got it, at a single dip of the shovel—but never mind that. See, protect it with your hand so, and look through that eyehole."
At the bottom of the cylinder was a luminous speck like a fire seen from a long way off. Waves and jags of angry light burst from it ceaselessly, this way and that. The restless mass was alive, active, burning. Infinitesimal though its dimensions were it gave a sense of illimitable force and power, a prodigious energy.
Isabel returned the cylinder with a nervous shudder.
"I don't like it," she said. "It—it's horrid somehow—wicked looking." She shot a quick glance at him. "You say this is going to be of value to the world!"
He nodded.
"Then why are you in danger? Why aren't you protected as someone who—Why are you in danger?"
He didn't answer at once and again she repeated the question.
"It's this way, dear," he said. "When anything great enough is discovered there is bound to be competition. I found the stuff but I haven't the capital to exploit it. I took my samples to a ring of financiers who are backing me."
"Mr. Torrington? Mr. Cassis?"
"Cranbourne—Frayne—that crowd. By sheer bad luck another ring got news of what was going on and are moving heaven and earth to get a share in the plunder."
"So it's plunder now," she said.
"From their point of view."
"And from yours?"
"Achievement—a game."
"That you're willing to risk your life for."
"One doesn't think of that," he answered.
"I do," she said.
"Wish I could give you some of my enthusiasm. What is it old Kipling says again:
'The game is more than the Player of the Game'And the ship is more than the crew.'"
"Old Kipling, as you call him, wrote for men. What did he know aboutme?"
"Enough to guess you wouldn't have much use for us if we shirked standing our chances."
"The chances being?"
"The assault or favour of the other side."
"Favour?" she repeated.
Barraclough nodded and took from his pocket a folded sheet of notepaper.
"Listen to this," he said and read: "'Dear Mr. Barraclough, if you would grant me ten minutes private conversation, at your own convenience, I should be pleased to reward the courtesy with a sum of twenty-five thousand pounds. Faithfully yours, Hugo Van Diest.' And that's only ground bait."
"Did you meet him?"
"No fear."
Isabel rubbed her forehead perplexedly.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, "I don't understand. But if this radium belongs to your side already——"
"That's just it," he explained. "I haven't got the concession yet. They know that—it's what makes 'em so devilish active. You'll understand they'll do their best to prevent me getting to the place."
Her eyes opened very wide.
"Their best? D'you mean they'd——"
"Lord, no. There'd be no point in that unless they had the map reference first."
"You'll be gone three weeks?"
"That's all."
"They'll follow you?"
"You bet they'll try."
"Suppose they got you! Tony!Tony, they might try and make you speak."
He did his best to calm her but she went on furiously.
"It's true. Men are brutes—vile beasts—where money is concerned. Oh, I hate this—hate every bit of it. Power—healing—it's only another name for the money grab—the horrible cutthroat money grab. Tony, you shan't go—I won't let you go—I'll prevent you by every means——"
"Now, my dear," he begged, putting his arms about her, "be a good sensible little girl—be a baby for three weeks. You've all your trousseau to get—heaps of people to see. Why not run over to Paris for a week? Then there's my mother in Devon. She'd be tremendously bucked if——"
"Is this place abroad?" said Isabel.
"I can't tell that even to you."
"When are you starting?"
"Probably in three days' time—latish."
"You're determined to go?"
"I must."
"Nothing I can say will prevent you?"
"I'm sorry, dear."
"Hm!" said Isabel. "Then I suppose we'd better make the most of the time that's left."
And very slowly she subsided on the Cushion pile in the corner, her chin resting on his shoulder and her left hand playing idly with a long gold tassel.
"Oh, you angel," he exclaimed, "I knew you wouldn't really make any difficulties. And there's no need to be frightened because they're fixing me up the easiest get-away in the world."
"I haven't promised anything," she answered noncommittally. Her eyes flashed up to his and in them shone the sweetest light imaginable. "But just for now I'm sitting on the floor again."
They forgot all about lunch.