The summer wore on. At the end of August Alice returned from Newport for a couple of days, having some shopping to do before she joined the Prentices at their camp in the Adirondacks.
Society had here a new way of enjoying itself. People built themselves elaborate palaces in the wilderness, and lived in a fantastic kind of rusticity, with every luxury of civilisation included. For this life one needed an entirely separate wardrobe, with doeskin hunting-boots and mountain-climbing skirts—all very picturesque and expensive. It reminded Montague of a jest that he had heard about Mrs. Vivie Patton, whose husband had complained of the expensiveness of her costumes, and requested her to wear simpler dresses. “Very well,” she said, “I will get a lot of simple dresses immediately.”
Alice spent one evening at home, and she took her cousin into her confidence. “I've an idea, Allan, that Harry Curtiss is going to ask me to marry him. I thought it was right to tell you about it.”
“I've had a suspicion of it,” said Montague, smiling.
“Harry has a feeling you don't like him,” said the girl. “Is that true?”
“No,” replied Montague, “not precisely that.” He hesitated.
“I don't understand about it,” she continued. “Do you think I ought not to marry him?”
Montague studied her face. “Tell me,” he said, “have you made up your mind to marry him?”
“No,” she answered, “I cannot say that I have.”
“If you have,” he added, “of course there is no use in my talking about it.”
“I wish you would tell me just what happened between you and him,” exclaimed the girl.
“It was simply,” said Montague, “that I found that Curtiss was doing, in a business way, something which I considered improper. Other people are doing it, of course—he has that excuse.”
“Well, he has to earn a living,” said Alice.
“I know,” said the other; “and if he marries, he will have to earn still more of a living. He will only place himself still tighter in the grip of these forces of corruption.”
“But what did he do?” asked Alice, anxiously. Montague told her the story.
“But, Allan,” she said, “I don't see what there is so very bad about that. Don't Ryder and Price own the railroad?”
“They own some of it,” said Montague. “Other people own some.”
“But the other people have to take their chances,” protested the girl; “if they choose to have anything to do with men like that.”
“You are not familiar with business,” said the other, “and you don't appreciate the situation. Curtiss was elected a director—he accepted a position of trust.”
“He simply did it as a favour to Price,” said she. “If he hadn't done it, Price would only have got somebody else. As you say, Allan, I don't understand much about it, but it seems to me it isn't fair to blame a young man who has to make his way in the world, and who simply does what he finds everybody else doing. Of course, you know best about your own affairs; but it always did seem to me that you go out of your way to look for scruples.”
Montague smiled sadly. “That sounds very much like what he said, Alice. I guess you have made up your mind to marry him, after all.”
Alice set out, accompanied by Oliver, who was bound for Bertie Stuyvesant's imitation baronial castle, in another part of the mountains. Betty Wyman was also to be there, and Oliver was to spend a full month. But three days later Montague received a telegram, saying that his brother would arrive in New York shortly after eight that morning, and to wait at his home for him. Montague suspected what this meant; and he had time enough to think it over and make up his mind. “Well?” he said, when Oliver came in. “It's come again, has it?”
“Yes,” said Oliver, “it has.”
“Another 'sure thing'?”
“Dead sure. Are you coming in?” Oliver asked, after a moment.
Montague shook his head. “No,” he said. “I think once was enough for me.”
“You don't mean that, Allan!” protested the other.
“I mean it,” was the reply.
“But, my dear fellow, that is perfectly insane! I have information straight from the inside—it's as certain as the sunrise!”
“I have no doubt of that,” responded Montague. “But I am through with gambling in Wall Street. I've seen enough of it, Oliver, and I'm sick of it. I don't like the emotions it causes in me—I don't like the things it makes me do.”
“You found the money came in useful, didn't you?” said Oliver, sarcastically.
“Yes, I can use what I've got.”
“And when that's gone?”
“I don't know about that yet. But I'll find some way that I like better.”
“All right,” said Oliver; “it's your own lookout. I will make my own little pile.”
They rode down town in a cab together. “Where does your information come from this time?” asked Montague.
“The same source,” was the reply.
“And is it Transcontinental again?”
“No,” said Oliver; “it's another stock.”
“What is it?”
“It's Mississippi Steel,” was the answer.
Montague turned and stared at him. “Mississippi Steel!” he gasped.
“Why, yes,” said Oliver. “What's that to you?” he added, in perplexity.
“Mississippi Steel!” Montague ejaculated again. “Why, didn't you know about my relations with the Northern Mississippi Railroad?”
“Of course,” said Oliver; “but what's that got to do with Mississippi Steel?”
“But it's Price who is managing the deal—the man who owns the Mississippi Steel Company!”
“Oh,” said the other, “I had forgotten that.” Oliver's duties in Society did not give him much time to ask about his brother's affairs.
“Allan,” he added quickly, “you won't say anything about it!”
“It's none of my business now,” answered the other. “I'm out of it. But naturally I am interested to know. What is it—a raid on the stock?”
“It's going down,” said Oliver.
Montague sat staring ahead of him. “It must be the Steel Trust,” he whispered, half to himself.
“Nothing more likely,” was the reply. “My tip comes from that direction.”
“Do you suppose they are going to try to break Price?”
“I don't know; I guess they could do it if they made up their mind to.”
“But he owns a majority of the stock!” said Montague. “They can't take it away from him outright.”
“Not if he's got it locked up in his safe,” was the reply; “and if he's got no debts or obligations. But suppose he's overextended; and suppose some bank has loaned him money on the stock—what then?”
Montague was now keenly interested. He went with his brother while the latter drew his money from the bank, and called at his brokers and ordered them to sell Mississippi Steel. The other was called away then by an engagement in court, which occupied him for several hours; when he came out, he made for the nearest ticker, and the first figures he saw were Mississippi Steel—quoted at nearly twenty points below the price of the morning!
The bare figures were eloquent to him of many tragedies; they brought before him half a dozen different personalities, with their triumphs and despairs. He could read in them the story of a Titan struggle. Oliver had made his killing; but what of Price and Ryder? Montague knew that most of Price's stock was hypothecated at the Gotham Trust. And now what would become of it? And what would become of the Northern Mississippi?
He bought the afternoon papers. Their columns were full of the sensational events of the day. The bottom had dropped out of Mississippi Steel, as they phrased it. The wildest rumours were afloat. The Company was known to be making enormous extensions, and it was said to have overreached itself; there were whispers that its officers had been speculating, that the Company would be unable to meet the next quarterly payment upon its bonds, that a receivership would be necessary. There were hints that the concern was to be taken over by the Trust, but this was vigorously denied by officers of the latter.
All of which had come like a bolt out of the blue. To Montague it was an amazing and terrible thing. It counted little to him that he was out of the struggle himself; that he no longer had anything to lose personally. He was like a man who had been through an earthquake, and who stood and stared at a gaping crack in the ground. Even though he was safe at the moment, he could not forget that this was the earth upon which he had to spend the rest of his life, and that the next crack might open where he stood.
Montague could not see that there was the least chance for Price and Ryder; he pictured them bowled clean out, and he would not have been surprised to read that they were ruined. But apparently they weathered the storm. The episode passed with no more than a crop of rumours. Mississippi Steel did not go back, however; and he noticed that Northern Mississippi stock had also “gone off” eight or ten points on the curb.
It was a period of great anxiety in the financial world. Men felt the unrest, even though they could not give definite reasons. There had been several panics in the stock market throughout the summer; and leading financiers and railroad presidents seemed to have got the habit of prognosticating the ruin of the country every time they made a speech at a banquet.
But apparently men could not agree about the causes of the trouble. Some insisted that it was owing to the speeches of the President, to his attacks upon the great business interests of the country. Others maintained that the world's supply of capital was inadequate, and pointed out the destruction of great wars and earthquakes and fires. Others argued that there was not enough currency to do the country's business. Now and again there rose above the din the shrill voice of some radical who declared that the stock collapses had been brought about deliberately; but such statements seemed so preposterous that they were received with ridicule whenever they were heeded at all. To Montague the idea that there were men in the country sufficiently powerful to wreck its business, and sufficiently unscrupulous to use their power—the idea seemed to him sensational and absurd.
But he had a talk about it one evening with Major Venable, who laughed at him. The Major named half a dozen men—Waterman and Duval and Wyman among them—who controlled ninety per cent of the banks in the Metropolis. They controlled all three of the big insurance companies, with their resources of four or five hundred million dollars; one of them controlled a great transcontinental railroad system, which alone kept a twenty-or thirty-million dollar “surplus” for stock-gambling purposes.
“If any two or three of those men were to make up their minds,” declared the Major, “they could wreck the business of this country in a day. If there were stocks they wanted to pick up, they could knock them to any price they chose.”
“How would they do it?” asked the other.
“There are many ways. You noticed that the last big slump began with the worst scarcity of money the Street has known for years. Now suppose those men should gradually accumulate a lot of cash in the banks, and make an agreement to withdraw it at a certain hour. Suppose that the banks that they own, and the banks where they own directors, and the insurance companies which they control—suppose they all did the same! Can't you imagine the scurrying around for money, the calling in of loans, the rush to realise on holdings? And when you have a public as nervous as ours is, when you have credit stretched to the breaking-point, and everybody involved—don't you see the possibilities?”
“It seems like playing with dynamite,” said Montague.
“It's not as bad as it might be,” was the answer. “We are saved by the fact that these big men don't get together. There are too many jealousies and quarrels. Waterman wants easy money, and gets the Treasury Department to lend ten millions; Wyman, on the other hand, wants high prices, and he goes into the Street and borrows fifteen millions; and so it goes. There are a half dozen big banking groups in the city—”
“They are still competing, then?” asked Montague.
“Oh, yes,” said the Major. “For instance, they fight for the patronage of the out-of-town banks. The banks all over the country send their reserves to New York; it's a matter of four or five hundred million dollars, and that's an enormous power. Some of the big banks are agents for one or two thousand institutions, and there's the keenest kind of struggle going on. It's not an easy thing to follow, of course; but they offer all kinds of secret advantages—there's more graft in it than you'd find in Russia.”
“I see,” said Montague.
“There's only one thing about which the banks are agreed,” continued the other. “That is their hatred of the independent trust companies. You see, the national banks have to keep twenty-five per cent reserve, while the trust companies only keep five per cent. Consequently they do a faster business, and they offer four per cent, and advertise widely, and they are simply driving the banks to the wall. There are over fifty of them in this city alone, and they've got over a billion of the people's money. And, mark my word, that is where you'll see blood spilled before long.”
And Montague was destined to remember the prophecy.
A couple of days later occurred an incident which gave him a new light upon the situation. His brother came around one afternoon, with a letter in his hand. “Allan,” he said, “what do you make of this?”
Montague glanced at it, and saw that it was from Lucy Dupree.
“My dear Ollie,” it read. “I find myself in an embarrassing position, owing to the fact that some business arrangements upon which I had counted have fallen through. The money which I brought with me to New York is nearly all gone, and, as you can understand, my position as a stranger is a difficult one. I have a note which Stanley Ryder gave me for my stock. It is for a hundred and forty thousand dollars, and is due in three months. It occurred to me that you might know someone who has some ready cash, and who would like to purchase the note. I should be very glad to sell it for a hundred and thirty thousand. Please do not mention it except in confidence.”
“Now, what in the world do you suppose that means?” said Oliver.
The other stared at him. “I am sure I can't imagine,” he replied.
“How much money did Lucy have when she came here?”
“She had three or four thousand dollars. But then, she got ten thousand from Stanley Ryder when he bought that stock.”
“She can't have spent any such sum of money!” exclaimed Oliver.
“She may have invested it,” said the other, thoughtfully.
“Invested nothing!” exclaimed Oliver.
“But that's not what puzzles me,” said Montague. “Why doesn't Ryder discount the note himself?”
“That's just it! What business has he letting Lucy hawk his notes about the town?”
“Maybe he doesn't know it. Maybe she's trying to keep her affairs from him.”
“Nonsense!” Oliver replied. “I don't believe anything of the sort. What I think is that Stanley Ryder is doing it himself.”
“How do you mean?” asked Montague, in perplexity.
“I believe that he is trying to get his own note discounted. I don't believe that Lucy would ever come to us of herself. She'd starve first. She's too proud.”
“But Stanley Ryder!” protested Montague. “The president of the Gotham Trust Company!”
“That's all right,” said Oliver. “It's his own note, and not the Trust Company's; and I'll wager you he's hard up for cash. There was a big realty company that failed the other day, and I saw that Ryder was one of the stockholders. And he's been hit by that Mississippi Steel slump, and I'll wager you he's scurrying around to raise money. It's just like Lucy, too. Before he gets through, he'll take every dollar she owns.”
Montague said nothing for a minute or two. Suddenly he clenched his hands. “I must go up and see her,” he said.
Lucy had moved from the expensive hotel to which Oliver had taken her, and rented an apartment on Riverside Drive. Montague went up early the next morning.
She came and stood in the doorway of the drawing-room and looked at him. He saw that she was paler than she had been, and with lines of pain upon her face.
“Allan!” she said. “I thought you would come some day. How could you stay away so long?”
“I didn't think you would care to see me,” he said.
She did not answer. She came and sat down, continuing to gaze at him, with a kind of fear in her eyes.
Suddenly he stretched out his hands to her. “Lucy!” he exclaimed. “Won't you come away from here? Won't you come, before it is too late?”
“Where can I go?” she asked.
“Anywhere!” he said. “Go back home.”
“I have no home,” she answered.
“Go away from Stanley Ryder,” said Montague. “He has no right to let you throw yourself away.”
“He has not let me, Allan,” said Lucy. “You must not blame him—I cannot bear it.” She stopped.
“Lucy,” he said, after a pause, “I saw that letter you wrote to Oliver.”
“I thought so,” said she. “I asked him not to. It wasn't fair—”
“Listen,” he said. “Will you tell me what that means? Will you tell me honestly?”
“Yes, I will tell you,” she said, in a low voice.
“I will help you if you are in trouble,” he continued; “but I will not help Stanley Ryder. If you are permitting him to use you—”
“Allan!” she gasped, in sudden excitement. “You don't think that he knew I wrote?”
“Yes, I thought it,” said he.
“Oh, how could you!” she cried.
“I knew that he was in trouble.”
“Yes, he is in trouble, and I wanted to help him, if I could. It was a crazy idea, I know; but it was all I could think of.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Montague.
“And don't you see that I cannot leave him?” exclaimed Lucy. “Now of all times—when he needs help—when his enemies have surrounded him? I'm the only person in the world who cares anything about him—who really understands him—”
Montague could think of nothing to say.
“I know how it hurts you,” said Lucy, “and don't think that I have not cared. It is a thought that never leaves me! But some day I know that you will understand; and the rest of the world—I don't care what the world says.”
“All right, Lucy,” he answered, sadly. “I see that I can't be of any help to you. I won't trouble you any more.”
Another month passed by. Montague was buried in his work, and he caught but faint echoes of the storm that rumbled in the financial world. It was a thing which he thought of with wonder in future times—that he should have had so little idea of what was coming. He seemed to himself like some peasant who digs with bent head in a field, while armies are marshalling for battle all around him; and who is startled suddenly by the crash of conflict, and the bursting of shells about his head.
There came another great convulsion of the stock market. Stewart, the young Lochinvar out of the West, made an attempt to corner copper. One heard wild rumours in relation to the crash which followed. Some said that a traitor had sold out the pool; others, that there had been a quarrel among the conspirators. However that might be, copper broke, and once more there were howling mobs on the curb, and a shudder throughout the financial district. Then suddenly, like a thunderbolt, came tidings that a conference of the big bankers had decreed that the young Lochinvar should be forced out of his New York banks. There were rumours that other banks were involved, and that there were to be more conferences. Then a couple of days later came the news that all the banks of Cummings the Ice King were in trouble, and that he too had been forced from the field.
Montague had never seen anything like the excitement in Wall Street. Everyone he met had a new set of rumours, wilder than the last. It was as if a great rift in the earth had suddenly opened before the eyes of the banking community. But Montague was at an important crisis in a suit which he had taken up against the Tobacco Trust; and he had no idea that he was in any way concerned in what was taking place. The newspapers were all making desperate efforts to allay the anxiety—they said that all the trouble was over, that Dan Waterman had come to the rescue of the imperilled institutions. And Montague believed what he read, and went his way.
Three or four days after the crisis had developed, he had an engagement to dine with his friend Harvey. Montague was tired after a long day in court, and as no one else was coming, and he did not intend to dress, he walked up town from his office to Harvey's hotel, a place of entertainment much frequented by Society people. Harvey rented an entire floor, and had had it redecorated especially to suit his taste.
“How do you do, Mr. Montague?” said the clerk, when he went to the desk. “Mr. Harvey left a note for you.”
Montague opened the envelope, and read a hurried scrawl to the effect that Harvey had just got word that a bank of which he was a director was in trouble, and that he would have to attend a meeting that evening. He had telephoned both to Montague's office and to his hotel, without being able to find him.
Montague turned away. He had no place to go, for his own family was out of town; consequently he strolled into the dining-room and ate by himself. Afterwards he came out into the lobby, and bought several evening papers, and stood glancing over the head-lines.
Suddenly a man strode in at the door, and he looked up. It was Winton Duval, the banker; Montague had never seen him since the time when they had parted in Mrs. Winnie's drawing-room. He did not see Montague, but strode past, his brows knit in thought, and entered one of the elevators.
A moment later Montague heard a voice at his side. “How do you do, Mr. Montague?”
He turned. It was Mr. Lyon, the manager of the hotel, whom Siegfried Harvey had once introduced to him. “Have you come to attend the conference?” said he.
“Conference?” said Montague. “No.”
“There's a big meeting of the bankers here to-night,” remarked the other. “It's not supposed to be known, so don't mention it.—How do you do, Mr. Ward?” he added, to a man who went past. “That's David Ward.”
“Ah,” said Montague. Ward was known in the Street by the nickname of Waterman's “office-boy.” He was a high-salaried office-boy—Waterman paid him a hundred thousand a year to manage one of the big insurance companies for him.
“So he's here, is he?” said Montague.
“Waterman is here himself,” said Lyon. “He came in by the side entrance. It's something especially secret, I gather—they've rented eight rooms upstairs, all connecting. Waterman will go in at one end, and Duval at the other, and so the reporters won't know they're together!”
“So that's the way they work it!” said Montague, with a smile.
“I've been looking for some of the newspaper men,” Lyon added. “But they don't seem to have caught on.”
He strolled away, and Montague stood watching the people in the lobby. He saw Jim Hegan come and enter the elevator, in company with an elderly man whom he recognised as Bascom, the president of the Empire Bank, Waterman's own institution. He saw two other men whom he knew as leading bankers of the System; and then, as he glanced toward the desk, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, who had been talking to the clerk, turn around, and reveal himself as his friend Bates, of the Express.
“Humph!” thought Montague. “The newspaper men are 'on,' after all.”
He saw Bates's glance sweep the lobby and rest upon him. Montague made a movement of greeting with his hand, but Bates did not reply. Instead, he strolled toward him, went by without looking at him, and, as he passed, whispered in a low, quick voice, “Please come into the writing-room!”
Montague stood for a moment, wondering; then he followed. Bates went to a corner of the room and seated himself. Montague joined him.
The reporter darted a quick glance about, then began hastily: “Excuse me, Mr. Montague, I didn't want anyone to see us talking. I want to ask you to do me a favour.”
“What is it?”
“I'm running down a story. It is something very important. I can't explain it to you now, but I want to get a certain room in this hotel. You have an opportunity to do me the service of a lifetime. I'll explain it to you as soon as we are alone.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Montague.
“I want to rent room four hundred and seven,” said Bates. “If I can't get four hundred and seven, I want five hundred and seven, or six hundred and seven. I daren't ask for it myself, because the clerk knows me. But he'll let you have it.”
“But how shall I ask for it?” said Montague.
“Just ask,” said Bates; “it will be all right.”
Montague looked at him. He could see that his friend was labouring under great excitement.
“Please! please!” he whispered, putting his hand on Montague's arm. And Montague said, “All right.”
He got up and strolled into the lobby again, and went to the desk.
“Good evening, Mr. Montague,” said the clerk. “Mr. Harvey hasn't returned.”
“I know it,” said Montague. “I would like to get a room for the evening. I would like to be near a friend. Could I get a room on the fourth floor?”
“Fourth?” said the clerk, and turned to look at his schedule on the wall. “Whereabouts—front or back?”
“Have you four hundred and five?” asked Montague.
“Four hundred and five? No, that's rented. We have four hundred and one—four hundred and six, on the other side of the hall—four hundred and seven—”
“I'll take four hundred and seven,” said Montague.
“Four dollars a day,” said the clerk, as he took down the key.
Not having any baggage, Montague paid in advance, and followed the boy to the elevator. Bates followed him, and another man, a little wiry chap, carrying a dress-suit case, also entered with them, and got out at the fourth floor.
The boy opened the door, and the three men entered the room. The boy turned on the light, and proceeded to lower the shades and the windows, and to do enough fixing to earn his tip. Then he went out, closing the door behind him; and Bates sank upon the bed and put his hands to his forehead and gasped, “Oh, my God.”
The young man who accompanied him had set down his suit-case, and he now sat down on one of the chairs, and proceeded to lean back and laugh hilariously.
Montague stood staring from one to the other.
“My God, my God!” said Bates, again. “I hope I may never go through with a job like this—-I believe my hair will be grey before morning!”
“You forget that you haven't told me yet what's the matter,” said Montague.
“Sure enough,” said Bates.
And suddenly he sat up and stared at him.
“Mr. Montague,” he exclaimed, “don't go back on us! You've no idea how I've been working—and it will be the biggest scoop of a lifetime. Promise me that you won't give us away!”
“I cannot promise you,” said Montague, laughing in spite of himself, “until you tell me what it is.”
“I'm afraid you are not going to like it,” said Bates. “It was a mean trick to play on you, but I was desperate. I didn't dare take the risk myself, and Rodney wasn't dressed for the occasion.”
“You haven't introduced your friend,” said Montague.
“Oh, excuse me,” said Bates. “Mr. Rodney, one of our office-men.”
“And now tell me about it,” said Montague, taking a seat.
“It's the conference,” said Bates. “We got a tip about it an hour or so ago. They meet in the room underneath us.”
“What of it?” asked Montague.
“We want to find out what's going on,” said Bates.
“But how?”
“Through the window. We've got a rope here.” And Bates pointed toward the suitcase.
Montague stared at him, dumfounded. “A rope!” he gasped. “You are going to let him down from the window?”
“Sure thing,” said Bates; “it's a rear window, and quite safe.”
“But for Heaven's sake, man!” gasped the other, “suppose the rope breaks?”
“Oh, it won't break,” was the reply; “we've got the right sort of rope.”
“But how will you ever get him up again?” Montague exclaimed.
“That's all right,” said Bates; “he can climb up, or else we can let him down to the ground. We've got rope enough.”
“But suppose he loses his grip! Suppose—”
“That's all right,” said Bates, easily. “You leave that to Rodney. He's nimble—he began life as a steeple-jack. That's why I picked him.”
Rodney grinned. “I'll take my chances,” he said.
Montague gazed from one to the other, unable to think of another word to say.
“Tell me, Mr. Bates,” he asked finally, “do you often do this in your profession?”
“I've done it once before,” was the reply. “I wanted some photographs in a murder case. I've often tried back windows, and fire-escapes, and such things. I used to be a police reporter, you know, and I learned bad habits.”
“But,” said Montague, “suppose you were caught?”
“Oh, pshaw!” said he. “The office would soon fix that up. The police never bother a newspaper man.”
There was a pause. “Mr. Montague,” said Bates, earnestly, “I know this is a tough proposition—but think what it means. We get word about this conference. Waterman is here—and Duval—think of that! Dan Waterman and the Oil Trust getting together! The managing editor sent for me himself, and he said, 'Bates, get that story.' And what am I to do? There's about as much chance of my finding out what goes on in that conference—”
He stopped. “Think of what it may mean, Mr. Montague,” he cried. “They will decide on to-morrow's moves! It may turn the stock market upside down. Think of what you could do with the information!”
“No,” said Montague, shaking his head; “don't go at me that way.”
Bates was gazing at him. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “but then maybe you have interests of your own; or your friends—surely this situation—”
“No, not that either,” said Montague, smiling; and Bates broke into a laugh.
“Well, then,” he said, “just for the sport of it! Just to fool them!”
“That's more like it,” said Montague.
“Of course, it's your room,” said Bates. “You can stop us, if you insist. But you needn't stay if you don't want to. We'll take all the risk; and you may be sure that if we were caught, the hotel would suppress it. You can trust me to clear your name—”
“I'll stay,” said Montague. “I'll see it through.”
Bates jumped up and stretched out his hand. “Good!” he cried. “Put it there!”
In the meantime, Rodney pounced upon the dress-suit case, and opened it, taking out a coil of wire rope, very light and flexible, and a short piece of board. He proceeded to make a loop with the rope, and in this he fixed the board for a seat. He then took the blankets from the bed and folded them. He took out a pair of heavy calfskin gloves, which he tossed to Bates, and a ball of twine, one end of which he tied about his wrist. He tossed the ball on the floor, and then turned out the lights in the room, raised the shade of the window, and placed the bundle of blankets upon the sill.
“All ready,” he said.
Bates put on the gloves and seized the rope, and Rodney adjusted the seat under his thighs. “You hold the blankets, if you will be so good, Mr. Montague, and keep them in place, if you can.”
And Bates uncoiled some of the rope, and passed it over the top of the large bureau which stood beside the window. He brought the rope down to the middle of the body of the bureau, so that by this means he could diminish the pull of Rodney's weight.
“Steady now,” said the latter; and he climbed over the sill, and, holding on with his hands, gradually put his weight against the rope.
“Now! All ready,” he whispered.
Bates grasped the line, and, bracing his knees against the bureau, paid the rope out inch by inch. Montague held the blankets in place in the corner, and Rodney's shoulders and head gradually disappeared below the sill. He was still holding on with his hands, however.
“All right,” he whispered, and let go, and slowly the rope slid past.
Montague's heart was beating fast with excitement, but Bates was calm and businesslike. After he had let out several turns of the rope, he stopped and whispered, “Look out now.”
Montague leaned over the sill. He could see a stream of light from the window below him. Rodney was standing upon the cornice at the top of the window.
“Lower,” said Montague, as he drew in his head, and once more Bates paid out.
“Now,” he whispered, and Montague looked again. Rodney had cleverly pushed himself by the corner of the cornice, and kept himself at one side of the window, so that he would not be visible from the inside of the room. He made a frantic signal with his hand, and Montague drew back and whispered, “Lower!”
The next time he looked out, Rodney was standing upon the sill of the window, leaning to one side.
“Now, make fast,” muttered Bates. And while he held the rope, Montague took it and wound it again around the bureau, and then carried it over and made it fast to the leg of the bath-tub.
“I guess that will hold all right,” said Bates; and he went to the window and picked up the ball of cord, the other end of which was tied around Rodney's wrist.
“This is for signals,” he said. “Morse telegraph.”
“Good heavens!” gasped Montague. “You didn't leave much to chance.”
“Couldn't afford to,” said Bates. “Keep still!”
Montague saw that the hand which held the cord was being jerked.
“W-i-n-d-o-w o-p-e-n,” said Bates; and added, “By the Lord! we've got them!”
Montague brought a couple of chairs, and the two seated themselves at the window for a long wait.
“How did you learn about this conference?” asked Montague.
“Be careful,” whispered the other in his ear. “We mustn't make a noise, because Rodney will need quiet to hear them.”
Montague saw that the cord was jerking again. Bates spelled out the letters one by one.
“W-a-t-e-r-m-a-n. D-u-v-a-l. He's telling us who's there. David Ward. Hegan. Prentice.”
“Prentice!” whispered Montague. “Why, he's up in the Adirondacks!”
“He came down on a special train to-day,” whispered the other. “Ward telegraphed him—I think that's where we got our tip. Henry Patterson. He's the real head of the Oil Trust now. Bascom of the Empire Bank. He's Waterman's man.”
“You can imagine from that list that there's something big going on,” Bates muttered; and he spelled the names of several other bankers, heads of the most important institutions in Wall Street.
“Talking about Stewart,” spelled out Rodney.
“That's ancient history,” muttered Bates. “He's a dead one.”
“P-r-i-c-e,” spelled Rodney.
“Price!” exclaimed Montague.
“Yes,” said the other. “I saw him down in the lobby. I rather thought he'd come.”
“But to a conference with Waterman!” exclaimed Montague.
“That's all right,” said Bates. “Why not?”
“But they are deadly enemies!”
“Oh,” said the other, “you don't want to let yourself believe things like that.”
“What do you mean?” protested Montague. “Do you suppose they're not enemies?”
“I certainly do suppose it,” said Bates.
“But, man! I can give you positive facts that prove they are.”
“For every fact that you bring,” laughed the other, “I can bring half a dozen to show you they are not.”
“But that is perfectly absurd!” began Montague.
“Hush,” said Bates, and he waited while the string jerked.
“I-c-e,” spelled Rodney.
“That's Cummings—another dead one,” said Bates. “My Lord, but they did him up brown!”
“Who did it?” asked Montague.
“Waterman,” answered the other. “The Steamship Trust was competing with his New England railroads, and now it's in the hands of a receiver. Before long you'll hear that he's gathered it in.”
“Then you think this last smash-up was planned?” said he.
“Planned! My Heavens, man, it was the greatest gobbling up of the little fish that I have ever known since I've been in Wall Street!”
“And it was Waterman?”
“With the Oil Trust. They were after young Stewart. You see, he beat them out in Montana, and they had to buy him off for ten million dollars. But he was fool enough to come to New York and go in for banking; and now they've got his banks, and a good part of his ten millions as well!”
“It takes a man's breath away,” said Montague.
“Just save your breath-you'll need it to-night,” said Bates, drily.
The other sat in thought for a moment. “We were talking about Price,” he whispered. “Do you mean John S. Price?”
“There is only one Price that I know of,” was the reply.
“And you don't believe that he and Waterman are enemies?”
“I mean that Price is simply one of Waterman's agents in every big thing he does.”
“But, man! Doesn't he own the Mississippi Steel Company?”
“He owns it for Waterman,” said Bates.
“But that is impossible,” cried Montague. “Isn't Waterman interested in the Steel Trust? And isn't Mississippi Steel its chief competitor?”
“It is supposed to be,” said the other. “But that is simply a bluff to fool the public. There has been no real competition between them ever since four years ago, when Price raided the stock and captured it for Waterman.”
Montague was staring at his friend, almost speechless with amazement.
“Mr. Bates,” he said, “it happens that I was very recently connected with Price and the Mississippi Steel Company in a very intimate way; and I know most positively that what you say is not true.”
“It's very hard to answer a statement like that,” Bates responded. “I'd have to know just what your facts are. But they'd have to be very convincing indeed to make an impression upon me, for I ran that story down pretty thoroughly. I got it straight from the inside, and I got all the details of it. I nailed Price down, right in his own office. The only trouble was that my people wouldn't print the facts.”
It was some time before Montague spoke again. He was groping around in his own mind, trying to grasp the significance of what Bates had said.
“But Price was fighting Waterman!” he whispered. “The whole crowd were fighting him! That was the whole purpose of what they were doing. It had no sense otherwise.”
“But are you sure?” asked the other. “Think it over. Suppose they were only pretending to fight.”
There was a silence again.
“Mind you,” Bates added, “I am only speaking about Price himself. I don't know about any people he may have been with. He may have been deceiving them—he may have been leading them into a trap—”
And suddenly Montague clutched the arms of his chair. He sat staring ahead of him, struck dumb by the thought which the other's words had brought to him. “My God,” he gasped; and again, and yet again, “My God!”
It seemed to unroll before him, in vista after vista. Price deceiving Ryder! leading him into that Northern Mississippi deal; getting him to lend money upon the stock of the Mississippi Steel Company; promising, perhaps, to support the stock in the market, and helping to smash it instead! Twisting Ryder around his finger, crushing him—and why? And why?
Montague's thoughts stopped still. It was as if he had found himself suddenly confronted by a bottomless abyss. He shrank back from it. He could not face the thought in his own mind. Waterman! It was Dan Waterman! It was something which he had planned! It was the vengeance that he had threatened! He had been all this time plotting it, setting his nets about Ryder's feet!
It was an idea so wild and so horrible that Montague fought it off. He pushed it away from him, again and again. No, no, it could not be!
And yet, why not? He had always felt certain in his own mind that that detective had come from Waterman. The old man had set to work to find out about Lucy and her affairs, the first time that he had ever laid eyes on her. And then suddenly Montague saw the face of volcanic fury that had flashed past him on board theBrünnhilde. “You will hear from me again,” the old man had said; and now, all these months of silence—and at last he heard!
Why not? Why not? Montague kept asking himself. After all, what did he know about the Mississippi Steel Company? What had he ever seen to prove that it was actually competing with the Trust? What had he even heard, except what Stanley Ryder had told him; and what more likely than that Ryder was simply repeating what Price had said?
Montague had forgotten all about his present situation in the rush of thoughts which had come to him. The cord had been jerking again, and had spelled out the names of several more of the masters of the city who had arrived; but he had not heard their names. “What object would there be,” he asked, “in keeping the fact a secret—I mean that Price was Waterman's agent?”
“Object!” exclaimed Bates. “Good Heavens, and with the public half crazy about monopolies, and the President making such a fight! If it were known that the Steel Trust had gathered in its last big competitor, you can't tell what the Government might do!”
“I see,” said Montague. “And how long has this been?”
“Four years,” was the reply; “all they're waiting for is some occasion like this, when they can put the Company in a hole, and pose as benefactors in taking it over.”
“I see,” said Montague, again.
“Listen,” said Bates, and leaned out of the window. He could catch faintly the sounds of a deep voice in the consultation room.
“W-a-t-e-r-m-a-n,” spelled Rodney.
“I guess business has begun,” whispered Bates.
“Situation intolerable,” spelled Rodney. “End wildcat banking.”
“That means end of opposition to me,” was the other's comment.
“Duval assents,” continued Rodney.
The two in the window were on edge by this time. It was tantalising to have to wait several minutes, and then get only such snatches.
“But they'll get past the speech-making pretty soon,” whispered Bates; and indeed they did.
The next two words which the cord spelled out made Montague sit up and clutch the arms of his chair again.
“Gotham Trust!”
“Ah!” whispered Bates. Montague made not a sound.
“Ryder misusing,” spelled the cord.
Bates seized his companion by the arm, and leaned close to him. “By the Lord!” he whispered breathlessly, “I wonder if they're going to smash the Gotham Trust!”
“Refuse clearing,” spelled Rodney; and Montague felt Bates's hand trembling. “They refuse to clear for Ryder!” he panted.
Montague was beyond all speech; he sat as if turned to stone.
“To-morrow morning,” spelled the cord.
Bates could hardly keep still for his excitement.
“Do you catch what that means?” he whispered. “The Clearing-house is to throw out the Gotham Trust!”
“Why, they'll wreck it!” panted the other.
“My God, my God, they're mad!” cried Bates. “Don't they realise what they'll do? There'll be a panic such as New York has never seen before! It will bring down every bank in the city! The Gotham Trust! Think of it!—the Gotham Trust!”
“Prentice objects,” came Rodney's next message.
“Objects!” exclaimed Bates, striking his knee in repressed excitement. “I should think he might object. If the Gotham Trust goes down, the Trust Company of the Republic won't live for twenty-four hours.”
“Afraid,” spelled the cord. “Patterson angry.”
“Much he has to lose,” muttered Bates.
Montague started up and began to pace the room. “Oh, this is horrible, horrible!” he exclaimed.
Through all the images of the destruction and suffering which Bates's words brought up before him, his thoughts flew back to a pale and sad-faced little woman, sitting alone in an apartment up on the Riverside. It was to her that it all came back; it was for her that this terrible drama was being enacted. Montague could picture the grim, hawk-faced old man, sitting at the head of the council board, and laying down the law to the masters of the Metropolis. And this man's thoughts, too, went back to Lucy—his and Montague's alone, of all those who took part in the struggle!
“Waterman protect Prentice,” spelled Rodney. “Insist turn out Ryder. Withdraw funds.”
“There's no doubt of it,” whispered Bates; “they can finish him if they choose. But oh, my Lord, what will happen in New York to-morrow!'
“Ward protect legitimate banks,” was the next message.
“The little whelp!” sneered Bates. “By legitimate banks he means those that back his syndicates. A lot of protecting he will do!”
But then the newspaper man in Bates rose to the surface. “Oh, what a story,” he whispered, clenching his hands, and pounding his knees. “Oh, what a story!”
Montague carried away but a faint recollection of the rest of Rodney's communications; he was too much overwhelmed by his own thoughts. Bates, however, continued to spell out the words; and he caught the statement that General Prentice, who was a director in the Gotham Trust, was to vote against any plan to close the doors of that institution. While they were after it, they were going to finish it.
Also he caught the sentence, “Panic useful, curb President!” And he heard Bates's excited exclamations over that. “Did you catch that?” he cried. “That's Waterman! Oh, the nerve of it! We are in at the making of history to-night, Mr. Montague.”
Perhaps half an hour later, Montague, standing beside Bates, saw his hand jerked violently several times.
“That means pull up!” cried he. “Quick!”
And he seized the rope. “Put your weight on it,” he whispered. “It will hold.”
They proceeded to haul. Rodney helped them by catching hold of the cornice of the window and lifting himself. Then there was a moment of great straining, during which Montague held his breath; after which the weight grew lighter again. Rodney had got his knees upon the cornice.
A few moments later his fingers appeared, clutching the edge of the sill. He swung himself up, and Montague and Bates grasped him under the arms, and fairly jerked him into the room.
He staggered to his feet; and there was a moment's pause, while all three caught their breath. Then Rodney leaped at Bates, and grasped him by the shoulders. “Old man!” he cried. “We landed them! We landed them!”
“We landed them!” laughed the other in exultation.
“Oh, what a scoop!” shouted Rodney. “There was never one like it.”
The two were like schoolboys in their glee. They hugged each other, and laughed and danced about. But it was not long before they became serious again. Montague turned on the lights, and pulled down the window; and Rodney stood there, with his clothing dishevelled and his face ablaze with excitement, and talked to them.
“Oh, you can't imagine that scene!” he said. “It makes my hair stand on end to think of it. Just fancy—I was not more than twenty feet from Dan Waterman, and most of the time he seemed to be glaring right at me. I hardly dared wink, for fear he'd notice; and I thought every instant he would jump up and run to the window. But there he sat, and pounded on the table, and glared about at those fellows, and laid down the law to them.”
“I've heard him talk,” said Bates. “I know how it is.”
“Why, he fairly knocked them over!” said the other. “You could have heard a pin drop when he got through. Oh, it was a mad thing to see!”
“I've hardly been able to get my breath,” said Bates. “I can't believe it.”
“They have no idea what it will mean,” said Montague.
“They know,” said Rodney; “but they don't care. They've smelt blood. That's about the size of it—they were like a lot of hounds on the trail. You should have seen Waterman, with that lean, hungry face of his. 'The time has come,' said he. 'There's no one here but has known that sooner or later this work had to be done. We must crush them, once and for all time!' And you should have seen him turn on Prentice, when he ventured a word.”
“Prentice doesn't like it, then?” asked Montague.
“I should think he wouldn't!” put in Bates.
“Waterman said he'd protect him,” said Rodney. “But he must place himself absolutely in their hands. It seems that the Trust Company of the Republic has a million dollars with the Gotham Trust, and that's to be withdrawn.”
“Imagine it!” gasped Bates.
“And wait!” exclaimed the other; “then they got on to politics. I would have given one arm if I could have got a photograph of Dan Waterman at that moment—just to spread it before the American people and ask them what they thought of it! David Ward had made the remark that 'A little trouble mightn't have a bad effect just now.' And Waterman brought down his fist on the table. 'This country needs a lesson,' he cried. 'There's been too much abuse of responsible men, and there's been too much wild talk in high places. If the people get a little taste of hard times, they'll have something else to think about besides abusing those who have made the prosperity of the country; and it seems to me, gentlemen, that we have it in our power to put an end to this campaign of radicalism.'”
“Think of it, think of it!” gasped Bates. “The old devil!”
“And then Duval chimed in, with a laugh, 'To put it in a nutshell, gentlemen, we are going to smash Ryder and scare the President!'”
“Was the conference over?” asked Bates, after a moment's pause.
“All but the hand-shakes,” said the other. “I didn't dare to stay while they were moving about.”
And Bates started suddenly to his feet. “Come!” he said. “We haven't any time to waste. Our work isn't done yet, by a long sight.”
He proceeded to untie the rope and coil it up. Rodney took the blanket and put it on the bed, covering it with the spread, so as to conceal the holes which had been worn by the rope. He wound up the ball of cord, and dropped it into the bag with the rest of the stuff. Bates took his hat and coat and started for the door.
“You will excuse us, Mr. Montague,” he said. “You can understand that this story will need a lot of work.”
“I understand,” said Montague.
“We'll try to thank you by and by,” added the other. “Come around after the paper goes to press, and we'll have a celebration.”