AMAN walked into the office of Richards & Tuttle, bankers and brokers, members of the New York Stock Exchange. All he could see was a ground-glass partition, with little windows only a trifle larger than peepholes, over which he read, “deliveries,” “comparisons,” “telegrams,” and “cashier.” If you had business to transact you knew at which window to knock. If you had not you should not disturb the unseen clerks by asking questions that took valuable time to answer. It was a typical, non-communicative, non-confiding Wall Street office.
The man approached the “cashier” window because it was open. He was tall and well built, with unmyopic eyes that looked through tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. The brim of his high hat, the cut of his coat, the hang of his trousers, the hue of his necktie and the gray, waxed, needle-pointed mustaches proclaimed him unmistakably Parisian.
“I wish to see Mr. Richards,” he said, in a nasal voice, so like the twang of a stage Yankee that the cashier frowned and twisted his neck to see if some down-easter were not hiding behind the Frenchman.
“You what?” asked the cashier, and looked watchful.
“I wish to see,” repeated the stranger, with a formal precision meant, to be rebuking, “Mr. George B. Richards, senior member, I believe, of this firm.”
The cashier, with a frown that belied the courtesy of his words, said:
“Would you be kind enough to tell me the nature of your business, sir?”
Gourley, the cashier, insanely hated book agents, and his one pleasure in life consisted of violently ejecting them from the office. When a man clearly established his innocence Gourley never forgave him for cheating him out of the kicking.
The stranger said, very slowly:
“The nature of my business with Mr. Richards is private, personal, and urgent!”
The stranger might, be a customer, and customers make brokers rich and give wages to cashiers.
“Mr. Richards is very busy just now, sir, with an important conference. It would be a favor if you could let me have your name.”
“He doesn't know me and he has never heard my name.”
“Would any one else do?”
The stranger shook his head. Then:
“Say to Mr. Richards that a gentleman from Paris wishes to give to him—personally—ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one life secret.” The man's gaze was fixed frowningly on Gourley.
“Ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one life secret!” repeated Gourley, dazedly. “Here, Otto. Hold the fort. I'll go myself.”
The cashier's place was promptly occupied by a moon-faced Teuton. Presently Gourley, whose misanthropy had in this instance merely made an office-boy of him, returned to the window and said, in the insolent tones of a puglisticagent provocateur:
“He says to send in the letters of introduction.”
“My friend,” said the stranger, so impressively that the cashier was made uneasy, “are you sure Mr. Richards said that?”
“Well—ah—he said,” stammered Gourley, “to ask you—er—would you please send in the letters. He will read them, and as soon as possible he will—ah—see you.”
“H'm!” muttered the stranger, skeptically. Then, as a man rids himself of angry thoughts, he shook his head and, without another word, went out.
“Ha! I knew it all along,” said Gourley, triumphantly, to his assistant, Otto. “It beats the Dutch what schemes these damned book agents get up to see people during business hours. But I called his bluff that time!”
Less than ten minutes later the French-looking man with the down-east voice opened the door, tapped at the cashier's window, and told Gourley, sternly:
“Here are the ten letters and the one card. They are very important! I'll be obliged, sir, if you will yourself give them into Mr. Richards's own hands. The life secret I, of course, will impart to him myself. Make haste, please. I have only five business days and three hours left.”
Gourley laid the letters on Mr. Richards's desk and said, in the accusing tone old employees use when they are in the wrong: “Here are the letters of introduction from the book agent I spoke to you about. He acts damned impudent to me, but I didn't want to make any mistake.”
Richards, a man of fifty, fastidiously dressed, but relieved from even the implication of foppishness by a look in his eyes at once shrewd and humorous, said, with a smile, “Well, he certainly has enough letters to be anything, even a rich man.”
“Funny letters of introduction,” said the cashier—“all sealed and—” His jaw dropped. That made him cease talking.
Mr. Richards had taken from the first envelope not a letter, but a ten-thousand-dollar gold certificate!
The cashier closed his mouth with a click. “What the—!” he muttered.
“Next!” said George B. Richards, cheerfully. He opened envelope number two and pulled out another ten-thousand-dollar bill. One after another he opened the letters until he had laid in a neat pile on his desk ten ten-thousand-dollar notes.
“The letters of introduction are from the Treasury Department,” said Richards, laughing. “Now let us see whom the card is from.”
“I don't care whom the card is from. I know the man is crazy,” said Gourley, in the defiant tone of one who expects not logic, but contradiction. “It is as plain as the nose on your face.”
“Maybe they are counterfeit,” teased Richards; he knew they were not.
The cashier snatched one from the desk, looked at the vignette of Jackson, and examined the back. “It's good,” he said, gloomily.
Richards opened the eleventh envelope and took out a card.
“From Amos Kidder, of the Evening Planet,” he told Gourley, and read aloud:
Dear George,—The bearer, Mr. James B. Robison, of Paris, France, a friend of Smiley, our correspondent there, asked me to recommend some highly intelligent stock-brokers. I, of course, at once thought of you. Deal with him as you do with
Yours,
Amos F. Kidder.
“Maybe it's a set of those French books that are awful until you've signed the contract and Volume I. comes, and they are not awful at all. Those fellows,” said the cashier, indignantly, “will do anything to get your money.”
“You forget I've got his,” suggested Richards.
“That's a new one on me, I admit,” said the cashier; “but I'll bet a ten-spot—”
“I'll have no gambling in this office! Send in Mr. Robison; and if Kidder should happen in, tell him I'd like to see him.”
The waxed-mustached man, preceded by Otto, the moon-faced clerk, entered the private office of Mr. George B. Richards, who rose and smiled pleasantly even as his keen eyes quickly inventoried Mr. Robison.
“Mr. Richards?” twanged the stranger. That Yankee voice issuing from between those unmistakably French mustaches made Richards start; and yet the vague atmosphere of disquietude and suspicion that the ten letters of introduction had created seemed to be dispelled by the man's Yankee twang. It was so genuinely down-east that it humanized Mr. Robison and made his eccentricity less eccentric. Also, the eyes gleamed not with the fire of insanity, but with a great earnestness.
“Yes. And this is Mr. Robison?”
“Yes, sir!” Mr. Robison bowed very low, like a man who has lived abroad many years.
“Won't you be seated, sir?”
“Thank you, sir.” There was another bow of gratitude, and Mr. Robison sat down by Richards's flat-topped desk.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Robison?” asked Richards, amiably polite. His course of action would be determined by the stranger's own words.
“You can help me if you will.” Mr. Robison spoke very earnestly, after the manner of strong, self-reliant men when they ask for favors.
“We shall be glad to if you will tell me how.”
“By being patient. That's how.”
Richards laughed uncertainly. Mr. Robison held up a hand as if to check unseemly merriment and said, very seriously:
“I have lived alone too long to be politic or diplomatic or evasive. I wish to ask you a question.”
“Ask ahead,” said Richards, with an encouraging recklessness.
“Tell me, Mr. Richards—what is the most difficult thing in the world?”
Mr. Robison was looking intently at the broker's face, as if he particularly desired to detect any change in expression. This intentness disconcerted Richards, who had at first intended to answer jocularly. He now said, distinctly apologetic:
“There are so many very difficult things!”
“Yes, there are—a great many indeed. But of all things, which is by far the most difficult?” His eyes held Richards's.
“I shall have to think a little before I can answer that question.”
“Take all the time you wish!” and Mr. Robison leaned back in his chair, his attitude somehow suggesting a Gibraltar-like ability to withstand a three years' siege.
It made Richards do much thinking very quickly: Here was a man who was not crazy; who had lying on the desk a hundred thousand dollars in cash to which he had not even casually referred; who probably intended to do business that would prove a source of profit to the firm of Richards & Tuttle. He might be a crank or a crook, but against either contingency the firm could and would protect itself. It was just as well to humor this man until he proved himself unworthy of humoring. The problem of the moment, therefore, became how to raise the siege politely.
“I suppose,” began Richards, trying to look philosophical, “that telling the truth always and every-, where is about as difficult a thing as—”
“It isn't a question,” interrupted Robison, with a polite regret, “of as difficult a thing as any, but of the most difficult of all!”
“I am afraid I'll have to ask you to tell me what you consider the most difficult thing in the world.”
Brokers have to earn their money in more complicated ways than by shouting “Sold!” or “Take it!” on the floor of the Stock Exchange. They have to listen to potential customers.
“The most difficult thing in the world, Mr. George B. Richards, is for a man to give money—in cash—to a woman who is not his wife or his mistress or a blood-relation or a pauper!”
“Thatisdifficult!” acquiesced the broker.
“It is what I have to do. That is why I am here.”
“You mean you wish us to give this money—”
“No—no! How can you, pray, give money to a lady any better than I?”
“I wondered,” said Richards, patiently. He was beginning to fear that Robison might be one of those mysterious people out of whom no money is to be made.
“Would you mind hearing my story?” Mr. Robison looked at Richards pleadingly.
“Not at all,” politely lied the broker.
“There is a lady in New York—to be explicit, an old sweetheart—” Mr. Robison paused, bit his lip, looked away, bit his lip again and cleared his throat loudly. He did all these things so untheatrically that they thrilled the keen-eyed Wall Street man. Presently Mr. Robison went on in that Yankee nasal voice of his that somehow sounded like the extreme antithesis of sentiment: “The only woman I ever loved! I have never married! She did—unfortunately; and now, this girl, this woman, accustomed to every comfort and every refinement, has to earn her own living! She has five children and she is earning her living!” He rose and walked up and down the office like a caged wild animal. Then he sat down again and said, determinedly, “Of course I simply have to do something for her!”
“I appreciate your position,” said Richards, tenderly. He was a very good stock-broker.
“Thank you. You cannot imagine what she was to me! I came to America to find her. I have found her. I wish to give her money or securities that will insure a comfortable income, and I have to do it circuitously. I'd give half a million to anybody who killed her damned husband! Yes, I would!” He looked at Richards with a wild hope in his eyes. He calmed himself with an obvious effort and proceeded: “Knowing her as I do, and because of—of certain circumstances of our early affair, I know she will never accept any help directly from me. Last night I was calling on her. Other friends of hers were present, among them a man who called himself a lawyer. His name is W. Bailey Jackson. Know him?”
“No, I don't. I think I've heard of him, though.” Richards lied from sheer force of professional habit.
“Well, I led the conversation round to Wall Street and incidentally said I didn't know which was easier for a man, to be a fool or to make money in the stock-market. I, myself, I hastened to add, had always found folly extremely easy—but successful stock speculation infinitely easier. That, I may remark to you in passing, sir, is gospel truth.”
“You are right,” agreed Richards, heartily. It did not behoove a stock-broker to point out the difficulty of making money in Wall Street. Moreover, Mr. Robison showed so quiet a confidence that Richards had lightning flashes of memory, and recollected every story he had ever heard about queer characters who had taken millions out of the Street.
“This Mr. W. Bailey Jackson jeered and sneered, however, until I said I would bet him fifty dollars to fifty cents that I could double a sum of money in the Street in one week, in a reputable broker's office, operating on the New York Stock Exchange in a reputable and active stock—no bucket-shop, no mining-stock, and no pool manipulation. But I made this point: The trick was so easy that it was not interesting. I didn't wish to do it to make money, but if Mrs.—if my friend would accept the profits, I would prove that I knew what I was talking about; and, besides, would keep the children in candy for a month. And, of course, everybody laughed and urged her to consent—especially the Jackson person. In the end she gave in, doubtless thinking I'd win a few dollars—if I won at all. Also my offer was accepted in the presence and by the advice of men and women who could stop Mrs. Grundy's mouth.”
“Very clever!” said Richards, with the enthusiasm of a man who sees commissions coming his way.
“It was love that made me so ingenious,” explained. Mr. Robison, very simply. “I've got her written acceptance in my pocket as well as that damned W. Bailey Jackson's bet, duly witnessed by the two gossipiest women there. And in this envelope you will find instructions for your guidance in case of my sudden death. So I now wish to double the money.”
He looked inquiringly at Richards, who thereupon felt the pangs of disappointment. Neither crank nor crook, decided the broker, but simplySuckerius Americanus; genusD. F.
Mr. Robison evidently was going to ask Richards & Tuttle to take the one hundred thousand dollars and double it for him, which meant that Mr. Richards would have to inform Mr. Robison that the firm was not in the miracle business; and that would make Mr. Robison go away mad. Total—no commissions!
“Well,” Richards said, just a trifle coldly, “did you come to us to ask us to double your money for you?”
“No, indeed,” answered Robison; “I came here to do it.”
“When?”
“In one week—or, rather, in five days and two hours.”
“How are you going to do it?” The broker's curiosity was not feigned.
“I propose to study the Menagerie.”
Richards said nothing, but looked “Lunatic!”
“That way inevitably suggests the combinations to you.” Mr. Robison nodded to himself.
Richards, to be on the safe side, did likewise and muttered, absently, “That's so!”
“Do you care to come with me?” asked Mr. Robison, with a politeness that betrayed effort. “Thank you, no. I am very busy, and—”
“And you didn't cut me short!” said Robison, his voice ringing with remorse. “I'll come in tomorrow morning. Good afternoon—and please forgive my theft of your time, Mr. Richards.”
“One moment. Do you wish this money—”
“I'll get the receipt to-morrow. I am going to see Kidder now. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time.” And before the banker could stop him Mr. James B. Robison was out of the inner office and out of the outer office and out of the building and out of the financial district.
Shortly afterward Amos F. Kidder, financial editor of theEvening Planet, west into Richards's office. He was thirty-five years old, a trifle under six feet, had light-brown hair and the eyes of a man who is a cynic by force of experience and an optimist by reason of a perfect liver—the kind of man who is fooled by strangers never and by intimate friends always. If what he had seen of Wall Street gave him a low opinion of men's motives he had the defect of steadfast loyalty. Having imagination and a profound respect for statistics, he wrote what might be called skilful articles on finance.
“Your friend Robison was here to-day. What do you know about him?” asked Richards. He would not take a stranger's account, but he did not relish losing an account he already had.
Kidder took a letter from his pocket, gave it to the stock-broker, and said:
“Smiley gave him a letter to me and in addition sent me that one by mail.”
Richards read:
The New York Planet, 5 Rue de Provence.
Paris, February 18, 1912.
Dear Kidder,—I've given a letter of introduction to a Mr. James B. Robison, who comes originally from some manufacturing town in Massachusetts, like Lynn or Lowell—I've forgotten which. He is well liked by the colony here and, I am told, has been kind to poor art students and other self-deluded compatriots. He is queer; is suspected of being rich—which he must be because he never borrows, lives well, and says moneymaking is too easy to merit discussion when men can discuss the eternal feminine or the revival of cosmetics. His trip to New York is prompted, he tells me, by the receipt of a letter from an old flame of his whom he warned against marrying her present husband. She would not listen to Robison, accused him in choice Bostonian of being a short sport, and now after long years she writes him, asking for forgiveness, being at last convinced that her husband is all that Robison said—and then some. He is off to try to find her; she is somewhere in New York. Put him in touch with some private detective who won't rob him too ruthlessly.
I don't think he'll want to borrow money, as I know he is taking a letter of credit on Towne, Ripley & Co. for fifty thousand pounds; and they told me at his bankers'—Madison & Co.—that he owns slathers of gilt-edged bonds and that they cash the coupons for him. They also tell me he carries more cash about him than is prudent. You might suggest to him that the New York banks are safe enough. You'll find him a character—odd but charitable. Knowing your fondness for fiction in real life I commend Mr. Robison to you. Regards to the boys. Why don't you make a million and come over to spend it in the company of Yours as ever,
Lurton P. Smiley.
Richards handed the letter back. “He came here with ten ten-thousand-dollar gold certificates.”
“Yes; he got 'em from Towne, Ripley & Co. I went with him. They had instructions to pay any amount he might call for, and they did. He asked for large bills.”
“He got 'em!” said Richards, greatly relieved at seeing no necessity why he should refuse Robison's account.
“What's he going to do?” asked Kidder.
“I don't know. He told me he had found his old sweetheart and that he is going to give her all he makes in Wall Street. He expects to double the one hundred thousand dollars in a week.”
“For Heaven's sake, George, find out his secret! Half a million will do for me,” laughed Kidder.
“He gave me an envelope,” said Richards, taking it from his desk. On it was written:
To be Opened by Richards & Tuttle In Case of Sudden Death
“What do you think?” asked Richards.
“You really mean do I advise you to open it, don't you?” asked Kidder..
“Not exactly; but—”
“Of course,” said the newspaper man, “it does not say it isnotto be opened in case ofliving. That is sufficient excuse—that and your curiosity.”
“I don't like to open it,” said Richards, doubtfully.
“Don't!”
“Still, I'd like to know what's inside.”
“Then open it.”
“I don't think I have a right to.”
“Don't, then!”
“Oh, shut up! I won't open it! I don't know whether to take the account. You don't know anything about this man—”
“You broker fellows make me tired—posing as careful business men. All Robison has to do is to go to any of your branch offices or anybody's branch office, say his name is W. Jones and that he keeps a cigar-store in Hackensack or Flatbush, and your branch manager will never let him get away. And afore-mentioned manager will swear, if you should be so mean as to ask who W. Jones is, that he and W. J. went to school together—known him for years!”
“After all,” said Richards, a trifle defiantly, “there is no reason why I shouldn't do business for Robison that you know of?”
“Not that I know of—but if he buncoes you out of a big wad don't blame me.”
“He is welcome to anything he can make out of us,” smiled Richards, grimly, and Kidder laughed so heartily that the broker looked pleased with himself and his witticism. He rang for the cashier, gave him the one hundred thousand dollars, and had the amount credited to James B. Robison, address unknown.
After leaving the office of Richards & Tuttle Mr. James B. Robison went to the Subway station at Wall Street, rode up-town as far as Forty-second Street, walked to Sixth Avenue, took a surface car, jumped off at Forty-eighth, walked to Forty-ninth, waited there for the next car, and, being certain he was not shadowed, rode on to Fifty-sixth Street. He got off, walked north on the avenue and, half-way up the block, paused at the entrance of the employment agency of “Jno. Sniffens, Established 1858.” On the big slate by the door he read that there was wanted a coachman—careful driver; elderly man preferred.
He walked up-stairs one flight and accosted the agent.
“Good morning, Sniffens.”
“Good morning, Mr. Maynard,” answered Sniffens, son of the original Jno., very obsequiously.
“Are they here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“I've seen fifty-six so far—haven't I?”
“No, sir,” contradicted Sniffens with the air of a man who will tell the truth even if death should resuit. “Fifty-five. You forget you saw the Swede twice.”
“That is true, Sniffens. You are an honest man! Here!” And he gave ten dollars to the agent. “Send in the men.”
He sat down in the inner office and Sniffens went out, presently to return with an elderly man. “This is Wilkinson—worked twenty-nine years—”
“Sorry. Won't do. Here, my man! Take this two-dollar bill for your trouble. Next!”
Much the same thing happened with the next four applicants. The fifth man, however, made Robison listen patiently while Sniffens finished his elaborately biographical introduction. The man's name was Thomas Gray; age fifty-eight; worked twelve years for General James Morris and fourteen for Stuyvesant R. Morris. Very careful. Excellent references. Morris family went abroad to live. Gray had not done anything for five years, but was willing and anxious to work.
Robison, who had been studying Gray keenly, said sharply, and not at all nasally:
“Height and weight?”
“Five foot eleven and a half inches; one hundred and seventy pounds, sir.”
“Deaf?”
“No, sir.”
“No?”
“No, sir; but I don't hear as well as I did.”
“Can you hear this?” And Robison whispered, “Constantinople!”
“Beg pardon, sir!” Gray looked at Mr. Robison's face intently, but Robison shook his head and said:
“No fair looking! That isn't hearing, but lipreading. Close your eyes and listen!” And he whispered, “Bab-el-Mandeb!” No one could have heard him three feet away and Gray was across the room. Robison raised his voice and said, “Did you hear that?”
There showed in Gray's blue eyes a pathetic struggle between telling the truth and getting the job. “I—I only heard a faint murmur, sir.”
“Try again. Listen!” Mr. Robison moved his lips soundlessly and asked, “What did I say, Gray?” The old man drew in a deep breath. It was not so much the money, for the Morris family gave him a pension; but he wished to feel that he was not yet useless, that he was still worth his keep. However, he shook his head and said, determinedly:
“I heard nothing.”
“Open your eyes! You get the job, Gray,” said Mr. Robison. “Come here!”
As Gray approached his new employer Sniffens left the room.
“You are not to tell any one for whom you are working, or where, or why, or for how long, or for what wages. There will be no night work. Are you very careful?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You'll have to take some children to school every day—poor children to a public school in the morning. You are not to ask their names. Do what you are told, no matter how queer it seems to you, so long as you are not asked to break the law of the land or the rules of the road.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I shall send people to ask you questions, and I warn you that I'm going to put you to various tests. I want a man who is honest enough to trust with valuables, wise enough to mind his own business, and faithful enough to do what his employer tells him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Until you prove you are the man I want you will be paid by the day—five dollars. You will feed yourself and sleep home. I supply the livery and a second man. If after one month's trial you are found satisfactory you will get your wages by the month. It's big wages, but I want an honest man!” He looked at Gray sternly.
“Yes, sir. I'm careful and honest, sir. I think you will find that to be true, sir.”
“I trust so. The stable is on Thirty-first Street, near Avenue B. Here is the number.” He gave a card to Gray. “Be there at eight sharp. You will drive a coupé; quiet horse; New York City.”
“Yes, sir. I'll be there, sir.”
“Here's five dollars for you. You don't have to pay any fee to Sniffens. I've paid him.”
“Thank you, sir. Good day, sir.”
At seven-thirty the next morning Gray was at the stable. It was not a very good-looking place. He rang the bell, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. No one answered. He rang a second and a third time, and still there was no answer. He listened, his ear close to the door. He heard the muffled sound of a horse pounding in a well-littered stall.
At eight o'clock—Gray heard a clock within chime the hour—the door opened. Gray entered. A man was hitching up a dark bay horse to a coupé. Mr. Robison was sitting in a sumptuous green-plush armchair in the carriage-room. Behind him, on a mahogany table, was a small valise, opened.
“Good morning, Gray,” said Robison.
“Good morning, Mr. Maynard,” said Gray, respectfully.
Robison took a clean white-linen handkerchief from his pocket and said:
“See that brick over there?” He pointed to a common red brick on a little shelf near the street door.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, wrap it up in this handkerchief—here on this table. No—don't dust it. Just as it is!” He watched Gray's face keenly. The old man's countenance remained English and impassive.
“Put it in the valise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In yonder box you'll find some tenpenny nails. Fetch three and wrap them up in the sheet of paper you'll find in the valise. Then lay them on top of the brick.”
Gray did as he was bid. If he thought his employer was crazy he did not look it.
Robison then took from his pocket a sealed envelope, threw it into the valise, and closed the valise.
“You will find your livery in the dressing-room—door to your left. Put it on. Then drive so as to be before 197 West Thirty-eighth Street at exactly nine minutes after nine. Compare your watch with that clock. Wait there—Thirty-eighth Street—until a footman in dark-green livery comes out alone. If he asks you, 'James, did Ben win?' you will say to him, 'The answer is inside. Take it!' You will then return to this stable, fasten the horse to that chain, put on your street clothes, go home, and return to-morrow at eight sharp. But—” He paused.
“Yes, sir.”
“Pay attention, Gray! If, instead of the servant alone, the servant comes out of, 197 West Thirty-eighth Street accompanied by a gentleman who gets in, you will drive him to my office.”
“Where, sir?”
“This is my office—here. You will drive back here quickly and disregard everything your passenger may say or whatever orders he may give you. You understand? These are your orders that I now give you. They are not to be changed under any circumstances, no matter what happens. Have you understood?”
“Yes, sir. I'll follow orders, Mr. Maynard.”
“See that you do.” And Mr. Robison walked out of the stable.
At nine-nine sharp Gray stood in front of 197 West Thirty-eighth Street. At nine-fifteen a footman in dark-green livery came out of the house. He was followed by Mr. Robison himself. The man opened the door of the carriage and Gray's employer got in.
“Will you go to the office, sir?” asked the footman. Gray heard him.
“No! Metropolitan Museum!” answered their master, distinctly.
“Metropolitan Museum!” said the footman to the coachman.
Gray was torn by doubt, anger, and fear. Should he drive to the Metropolitan or back to the stable?
He decided to go back to the stable. If he were discharged he would not regret losing so unsatisfactory a job. If, on the other hand, driving back should prove to be the right thing he would greatly strengthen his position.
He arrived at the stable, fastened the horse to the chain, and went to change his clothes. He heard Mr. Robison tap on the glass of the door and saw him beckon to him and then heard him shout, “Open the door!” But Gray went to the dressing-room and changed his clothes. As soon as he was done the second man came in, showed him two envelopes, and said:
“You win! You get the ten dollars! I get the five-spot. That's how he pays. You obeyed orders. You are the first man that's succeeded in holding the job over one day. The Lord only knows what test Mr. Maynard will prepare for you to-morrow! It may be the children's lunch stunt or the runaway lunatic. Run out! Mr. Maynard won't like you to be here when he comes in. You can go out into the street by that door without going through the carriage-room.”
Gray put the ten dollars in his pocket and walked out. “Rum go, that!” he muttered. It was indeed. He nodded his head with a sad sort of triumph to show that though he had not solved the mystery he had at all events grasped the situation and was, moreover, ten dollars to the good.
It was after the opening of the stock-market and most of the early orders had been executed. The rush had given place to the calm efficiency of a well-organized broker's office. Mr. Robison walked into the Customers' Room, approached Gilbert Witherspoon, a valued customer, touched his hat-brim with two fingers in the French military fashion, and said:
“Please, where's Mr. Richards?” His nasal twang and his Parisian appearance produced the usual impression of striking incongruity upon all men within hearing distance. Everybody frankly listened.
“That's his private office,” answered Witherspoon, non-committally, pointing his finger at a door.
“Thank you very much!” said Robison and bowed. Then he knocked, heard a peremptory “Come in!” and disappeared within.
Witherspoon, who cultivated a reputation as a wit—there is a buffoon in every stock-broker's office—shrugged his shoulders Frenchily, and, in a nasal voice obviously in imitation of Robison, said:
“Another world-beater!”
“You never can tell,” retorted Dan McCormack, oracularly. He was fat, always played “mysteries” in the market—traded in those stocks the movements in which were unaccounted for—and he did not like Witherspoon.
Inside Mr. Robison had said “Bon jour!”and bowed so very low that Mr. Richards immediately thought of the language of a fashionable bill of fare.
“Wie geht's?” retorted Richards, jocularly. Then, nicely serious, “How are you this morning?”
“Don't I look it?” said Mr. Robison. “I am, of course, perplexed.”
“What's the trouble?”
“The usual trouble when I try to beat the stock-market—embarras de richesses.”
“It is an embarrassment that most people would welcome.”
“Tut! The more elaborate the menu is in a good restaurant the greater your indecision as to which particular dish you will order! Well, I went through the Menagerie!” There was a catarrhal despair in his voice.
“Yes?”
“And I am undecided between four.”
Robison looked anxiously at the broker, and Richards felt such an annoyance as a man might feel if compelled at the point of a pistol to listen to the reading of one hundred pages of the city directory. But he smiled tolerantly, for he had the professional amiability indispensable to men whose business consists of making money and of consoling clients for losing money.
“Four what?” he asked.
“Four sure ways.”
“Which four?” asked Richards. He managed to convey both that he was dying to listen and that the rest of the world did not exist for him.
“The Ant, the Spider, the Beaver, and the Lion. Out of the nineteen combinations in the Menagerie I've narrowed my choice to these four. You know conditions better than I and probably have seen the Cribbage Board. Have you a choice?” He looked at Richards so eagerly, and withal so shrewdly and sanely, that in self-defense the broker said:
“I can't say that I have. Of course I am bullish—”
“Of course. But the question is: Which—in a week?”
Richards had no idea what was meant by this man with the sane eyes who said crazy things through his nose—a man who had one hundred thousand dollars to his credit with the firm. Perplexed to the verge of exasperation, Richards was stock-broker enough—when in doubt, bluff!—to say, with a frown, “Yes, that's the question: Which—in a week?” He shook his head as though he were trying to pick out the best for his beloved Robison.
“I never was so puzzled in my life, and I want you to know that I've made money even in Rumanian bonds!”
“I'm afraid I can't help you much.”
“What does the I. S. Board say?”
“Mr. Robison, exactly what do you mean by the I. S. Board?”
“What? You don't know the International Syndicate Cribbage Board! Then how in Hades do you pick your combinations?”
“We buy and sell stocks on our judgment of basic conditions or for special reasons.”
“Ah, yes—like the public. You base your trades on gas and guess. Well,Idon't! I'd play the Ant, but I don't see the Granary full in a week. Jay Gould had a perfect mania for it; it was an obsession with him. And yet he seldom won commensurately with his risks. In the Northwest corner he was tied up over a year and lost more than a million. I guess we'll dispense with the Ant, though it looks so safe for the Granger group.”
Robison seemed to be thinking aloud rather than asking for advice. But Richards, who was a Wall Street man to his finger-tips, said, gravely, “I think you are right.”
Robison nodded, to show he had heard, and went on: “The situation in the Pacific Coast, of course, suggests the Beaver at once. I can see the Dam in Union Pacific; but I don't like to try it so soon after the Rothschilds worked it so openly in Berlin over the Agadir excuse. Too many people who have access to the Menagerie remember it. I realize all this, but,” he finished, with profound regret, “itissuch a cinch!”
“Yes. But—” Richards shook his head in sympathy. He felt that he ought to humor this man; moreover, business was quiet, and this man was saying incomprehensible things that would be repeated by Richards, with sensational success, at luncheons and dinners for weeks.
“Of course, the Spider is the oldest stand-by. Personally I never liked it. In the Governor Flower boom and, indeed, up to the Northern Pacific panic, its popularity was due to John W. Gates. But do you know, Mr. Richards, I have always believed that in the first two Steel and Wire coups and in the Louisville & Nashville affair, Gates hit upon it by accident. Else,” pursued Mr. Robison, controversially, “why was he pinched so badly in 1901 and again in 1907? He hit upon it, after he got out of Federal Steel, by accident, I tell you! He was a man of genius and courage, but it was all instinct with him. He was no student, sir—no student!”
“I've always said,” observed Mr. George B. Richards, “that Gates was not a student!” He glared, thereby successfully defying contradiction.
“It leaves the Lion!” muttered Robison. “Should I try it? And which Peg?”
“I'd try it!” counseled Richards, who was not only intelligent, but had a sense of humor.
“Would you, really?”
“Yes, I certainly would!” And the broker looked as if he certainly meant it.
“It's the Dutch favorite,” said Robison, musingly. “And they are a very clever people. You know Van Vollenhoven in his book says that once a year, for thirteen consecutive years, the great Cornelius Roelofs, of Amsterdam, made a million gulden in London by the Lion—the most hopeful pessimist in the history of stock speculation! It comes easy to the phlegmatic Hollanders, but Americans are too nervous to take kindly to it. I once begged the late Addison Cammack to join me in a Lion deal, but he didn't. He was not very well at the time. Anyhow, he was too American.”
“Did you know him?”
“Like a book! Dangerous man to follow! Cynicism sounds impressive, but is wind. You don't win in the stock-market with catch phrases, but with combinations.”
“Do you use charts?”
“A stock speculator is not a navigator, but all commission-houses should have a chart. With some customers, after you have exhausted every other invitation, you can use the chart to get them trading. But not for us, Mr. George B. Richards. I think you will soon realize that I am in this affair not to lose money, but to make it. I shall, therefore, either buy Dock Island, sell Middle Pacific, buy National Smelting, or sell Consolidated Steel. I'll have a pad of special order-slips made so you will not mistake my orders for those of any one else. You will execute for me no order that is not written and signed by me on such a slip. I'll keep up my margin. We'll operate on a ten-per-cent, basis; and I hereby authorize you to sell me out when my margin is down to six points. That gives you ample safety. It is really unnecessary, as I never lose; but I always protect the broker. The sudden death by heart disease of Baron Lespinasse in 1883 sent into bankruptcy the great firms of La Croissade et Cie. and Mayer, Dreyfus et Cie., of Paris, Ver-brugghe Frères, of Brussels, and about a dozen smaller houses. Mine, to be sure, is a trifling operation, designed to supply a modest income to an old flame. But I may—who knows?—decide to take a few millions back with me. And your firm, Mr. Richards, will be my principal brokers.”
Mr. Robison said this so impressively, so much as though he had made the firm of Richards & Tuttle rich beyond the dreams of avarice, that George B. found it easy to look grateful as he said, “Thank you, Mr. Robison.” It would be worth while watching this mysterious man, to see, first, if he made money; and if he did, how!
“I'll write it here and now. If my margins are down to six points at any time close me out, for I shall have been mistaken, which is a sign I've gone crazy; or I shall be dead, in which case protect yourself!”
Mr. Robison wrote out the instructions, signed them, and gave them to Mr. Richards. He must have noticed a look of uncertainty or dissatisfaction on the broker's face, for he said:
“I have no desire to pose before you as an unfailing winner, though I assure you I seldom lose. It is not brains, but carefulness. If you know nothing about the International Syndicate's information collecting machinery, why, just take my word for it that there are people in this world who don't work on the hit-or-miss plan. We don't eliminate all possibilities of failure; we merely reduce them to a negligible minimum. We cannot prevent all accidents, but we can and do foresee some of them. This sounds crazy to you, I know—no, don't deny it!—but all I can say is that your natural suspicions don't affect your kindness and courtesy, and I am more grateful than I can say. Of course, my own operations here will be conducted with your approval, in strict accordance with the rules of the New York Stock Exchange.”
“Oh, I am sure I haven't doubted your sanity,” said the broker, who had been much reassured by Mr. Robison's look of frankness and earnestness as he spoke. “I have merely suspected the depths of my own ignorance.”
“Your retort is both kind and clever. I thank you. I shall have to borrow one of your clerks or office-boys between nine-forty and ten a. m., to whom I may give my orders to bring to this office, and also ask you to recommend to me some young man who is intelligent but honest, wide awake but deaf to the ticker.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I shall need a young man who can watch certain developments and at the crucial moment will hasten to me without stopping on the way to take advantage in the stock-market of what he has learned while working for me.”
“I shall let you have one of my own clerks. He'll do as he is told.”
“That is not always to be taken as praise—but I thank you. There will be some telegrams come for me. Will you kindly see that they are held? Good morning!” And he left the room.
An hour later cablegrams and telegrams by the dozen began to come in for Robison, care Richards & Tuttle. But Robison did not return to the office until after the close of the stock-market.
“Any messages?” he asked Richards.
“Not over a hundred!” answered the broker, smilingly. He felt less suspicious after the telegrams began to arrive; they were tools he understood.
“I used the Triple Three,” explained Robison, opening telegram after telegram; the cables he seemed to leave for the last. The telegrams were, as Richards later ascertained, from San Francisco, Seattle, Tacoma, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Vancouver, and other points west of the Rockies. Each contained but one word, but always the word ended in “less,” such, for example, as Headless, Toothless, Tailless, Nerveless. All were signed in the same way, to wit: Three-Three-Three.
“No Beaver! I'm just as glad,” Robison mused aloud and took up the cablegrams. They were from London, Paris, Berlin, Frankfort, and Amsterdam. They were in code, but he seemed to have the key by heart. The very last one made him thoughtful.
He handed the cablegram absently to Richards and said, “The Lion after all—and artificial at that!” He seemed to be lost in thought, oblivious of his whereabouts, as Richards read:
Robison, care Richtut:
Mogulgar wind Lloyd Vast Nigger Shaw twice home urban sweet Edward.
“Code, hey?”
“Lion! Oh! Code, did you say? No. Code is too risky. Plain reading! Of course I have more practice than you. Give it to one of your office-boys to decipher. If he succeeds give him fifty dollars and charge it to my account. But what I can't tell is the politics of it. Is it collusion, philanthropy, or fear? Is it wise? After all, the unusual is not necessarily dangerous. I shall double my money within four days and you will make the commissions in a perfectly simple, legitimate way; and you will think I am a pretty sane lunatic; and you will respect me for having such sources of information; and if I can induce Mrs. Le—my friend to take it, I'll make a million for her in a month, and you will get the benefits accruing from having the market named after you—a Richards & Tuttle market, the papers will call it. Thank you very much for your kindness. I'll be down to-morrow before the opening. Good day, sir!”
And Mr. Robison left the office with a calm, confident look in his face. Richards gazed after him, a look of perplexity on his own face. Presently he shook his head. It meant that he gave up efforts to solve the puzzle, but that he would wait until commissions began.
From Richards & Tuttle's office Robison went to the nearest Western Union office and gave a letter to the manager.
“Send this at once! City editor,Evening World, Park Row. No answer. How much?”
The manager told him. Robison paid him and then went to the Postal-Telegraph office and sent a message to the city editor,Evening Journal. Inside of each envelope was a letter. Both read alike, as follows:
Dear Sir,—Three years ago one of your reporters did me a good turn. In return I promised to tip him off if ever I came across a big piece of news. He saved me from being wrongly sent to state prison. Things looked pretty black for me, though I was not guilty. I've forgotten his name. He looked to be twenty-eight or thirty years old, about five foot ten, not very heavy-built, smooth-shaven, dark-brown hair, and wore eyeglasses. He had on a dark-blue serge suit and was always smoking cigarettes. It happened on Chambers Street, not far from the Irving Bank. Ask him if he remembers my promise to pay him back for being good to me. Here is where I do it. Mr. W. H. Garrettson, the banker and promoter, is going to be kidnapped. The plans are all made. He will be held for one hundred million dollars ransom, and no harm will come to him, because he will be sure to pay.
Don't warn the police of this, because the other papers would get it and you would lose your scoop. You can warn Garrettson if you wish, but it will be useless, as in that event we should wait until vigilance relaxes, as it will surely do. Please do not think this is a crazy yan! Don't print anything now. Simply be ready, with photographs of Garrettson, his home, art-gallery, bank, list of his promotions, and corporations controlled by him, and so on. Keep this letter for reference, and just before you throw it into the waste-basket remember this: It costs you nothing; it commits you to nothing, involves no expense; there is no concealed dynamite and no fool joke. Remember my writing and my signature, and wait for the tip I shall send you if I possibly can, so that you alone publish the news.
Grateful Friend.
The city editors thought it was a crank's letter and threw it away, but each made a mental note—in case! Also they did not “tip off” anybody. They afterward stated that they said nothing to Garrettson, because if they acted on every freak missive they received half the city would not sleep. They thus were ready for the kidnapping of the great Garrettson.
At nine-forty-five on Tuesday morning Mr. James B. Robison, accompanied by an office-boy and an order-pad on which was printed “From J. B. R., for Richards & Tuttle,” went to the Broad Street entrance of the New York Stock Exchange. His gaze was fixed steadily on the Subtreasury, or so it seemed to the office-boy. At nine-fifty-two he exclaimed: “There he is!”
The office-boy, Sweeney, looking in the same direction, saw nothing but hurrying pedestrians and a carriage or two. Robison seemed so disappointed that the office-boy out of kindness asked, sympathetically, “Who, sir?”
“Nobody!” answered Mr. Robison, shortly. “Go back to the office and tell Mr. Richards to send me the clerk he promised me—the clerk with the ticker deafness, tell him. I'll wait here.”
The boy left and presently returned with one of the bookkeepers.
“Here is Mr. Manley,” the office-boy told Mr. Robison.
“Thank you. Here is something for you, my boy. Go back to the office.”
The office-boy put the five-dollar bill in his pocket, said “Thank you” in a voice celestial, and hurried away before the crazy Frenchman with the Cape Cod voice discovered the size of the tip. To Manley, the clerk, Mr. Robison said:
“Look across the street—W. H. Garrettson & Co. You can see Mr. Garrettson by the window. See him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, just you stay here and watch him; and if you see him do anything unusual or if anything happens in Garrettson's office that you think strange, run to our office and let me know. I'll be waiting for you. Don't be afraid to say so if you think something unusual is going on, because I tell you now that Mr. Garrettson never does anything unusual.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now what would you call unusual?”
“What would you?”
“If a bareheaded man came out of the office, stood at the head of the steps and threw an egg into the middle of the street, I'd call it unusual.”
“So would I.”
“Especially if I went up to the smashed egg and found the insides were of ink. It might be red ink or black.”
“That would be queer!”
“Exactly. You watch. Go to lunch at twelve-thirty and be back at one. Remember! Watch closely, and if anything unusual happens look carefully and then come and tell me. Here's ten dollars for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It's only a beginning,” smiled Mr. Robison, promisingly.
Manley, the clerk, put the money in his pocket and began to think he might be able to buy the motorboat next spring if this business kept up.
Between what Sweeney, the office-boy, suspected aloud and what Manley, the clerk, confirmed the office force of Richards & Tuttle discussed Mr. Robison with the zest of the deciding baseball game.
Richards had confided to his intimates some of his experiences, and Amos Kidder, theEvening Planetman, was as interested in the mystery as if he had not been the man who first let loose the flood of surmise by introducing Robison to the brokers.
Nothing happened on Tuesday more exciting than keeping tally on the telegrams and cables received by Mr. Robison, which amounted to thirty-seven in all. The object of so much conjecture—and hero of the office-boy's improvised dime novel—spent the day in an arm-chair looking at the blackboard, making elaborate calculations that convinced other customers he must be a “chart fiend.” At three o'clock sharp he went home.
He stopped long enough to send by messenger-boy a letter to the city editor of theEvening Worldand another to the city editor of theEvening Journal.They bore the same message and said:
Refer to my letter of yesterday. To-night W. H. Garrettson goes to the opera to see “The Jewels of the Madonna.” He will leave the Metropolitan in his automobile. In it will be his wife, his daughter, and his friend, Harry Willett. And he will not arrive at his house—Lexington Avenue and Thirty-eighth Street. Somewhere between the Opera House and his residence he will vanish! It will be the most mysterious kidnapping on record. Follow the Garrettson motor and have your reporters watch carefully.
Grateful Friend.
Whatever the city editors may have intended to do in the matter is of no consequence, because at seven o'clock messages were received as follows:
Kidnapping of W. H. G. postponed. Will keep you posted.
Grateful Friend.
At nine-forty-five on Wednesday morning Mr. James B. Robison entered the office of Richards & Tuttle, sought the senior partner, and said:
“I shall both buy and sell Con. Steel—or possibly sell first and buy later. The order clerk knows about my printed slips. The orders will go to you first. If at any time you are worried about margin, remember to tell me at once, because, as you know, I have not yet used half of my letter of credit; and, besides, the cables are working. I'd like to see Amos Kidder.”
“He's in his office.”
“Would you mind having some one telephone to him? Thank you.”
Mr. Robison promptly left the office, followed by his faithful attendant Sweeney, the office-boy. They took their stand just north of the Broad Street entrance of the Stock Exchange.
It was not long before Amos Kidder, of theEvening Planet, who had received the message, found Mr. Robison in the act of gazing unblinkingly toward the Subtreasury.
“Good morning, Mr. Robison.”
Mr. Robison started as if he had been rudely awakened out of a profound reverie.
“Oh! Kidder! How d'ye do? Ah, yes! Ah—I'd like you to dine with me and a few friends—interesting people. You will—don't be offended!—you will learn why all newspaper articles on the stock-market arouse mirth among the people who pull the wires. What do you say?”
“I say,” replied Kidder, with a good-natured smile, “just this: When and where?” His smile ceased. Mr. Robison had turned his back on his friend. Kidder heard a nasal mumble and made out:
“Here in eight minutes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I shall learn if the Lion ate the man or if it's a case of another day.”
“Mr. Robison, I don't understand—”
“I beg your pardon. I was thinking of the old man who was seen in a front seat at the circus every day. They asked him what he found so interesting, and he said that some day the lion would eat the man and he wanted to be a spectator. Well, one day he was sick. That day the lion ate the lion-tamer. Well, I am here waiting to see Garrettson come out of the cage.”
“Garrettson?”
“The great W. H. Garrettson! I am planning a campaign in Con. Steel. Garrettson's health is important. I must consider the state of his liver as carefully as the condition of the iron trade, because it is not only a question of the dividend rate, but of the price per share—not alone an investment, but a speculation. You can't lose all your mills and furnaces in one minute and you can't destroy all your customers overnight; but Garrettson can die in a second!”
“Of course that contingency has been provided for. His firm would undoubtedly be on the job.”
“So would the undertaker. As a matter of fact everything to-day depends upon the character of Garrettson's life. Have you ever stopped to think of how much depends upon the character of his death?”
“All deaths are alike. You talk like a novelist unaware of the resources of a firm like Garrettson's.”
“And you talk like a plain ass or a bank president, my boy. Is there no difference to the stock-market between the death of Garrettson by pneumonia and his death by lynching at the hands of a thousand indignant fellow-citizens? Stop and think.”
“Oh, well, that will never happen.”
“I cannot swear that it will, but you cannot guarantee that it never will. Stranger things have come to pass. By Jingo! it's three minutes to ten! Would it not be curious if something had happened?”
“How do you mean?”
“I have studied the great Garrettson and his habits, that I may, in my operations in Con. Steel, know on what to bank and against what to guard. He leaves his Lexington Avenue house every morning at nine and arrives at his office not later than nine-fifty. He is like the clock. All his life he has come down-town in his coupé, driven by a coachman who has been in his employ thirty years. In this age of novelties that old-fashioned coupé suggests a stability and solid respectability comparable toFounded 1732!on a firm's letter-head. However, just as the wireless has introduced a new element into maritime life, so has the automobile changed the character of street traffic. Do you remember the case of James M. Barrier, the famous sculptor, smashed in his taxicab on his way to his studio? You remember the insurance advertisements, and how he carried a two-hundred-and-seventeen-thou-sand-dollar accident policy? Well, it's ten o'clock. In one minute, if Garrettson is not here, I shall sell short one thousand shares of Con. Steel. For each delay of one minute, one thousand shares.”
Robison looked impressive, but the newspaper man was unimpressed.
“You'll have the pleasure of covering when he arrives as usual. Your operation is of the kind that sounds wise.”
“How much do I stand to lose by covering, say, in a few minutes? A fraction! How much do I stand to gain if something has happened? Five or ten points! It's a fifty-to-one shot. I'll take it every time. Here, boy, rush this to the office and hurry back. Tell Mr. Richards I shall need another boy besides you, for a few minutes only.”
Young Sweeney hurried away with Robison's order to sell one thousand shares of Con. Steel “at the market.”
“There are men who will risk money on the shadow cast by a human hair,” observed Kidder, pleasantly. “In assuming that disaster has overtaken Garrettson—”
“I assume nothing. I know that something unusual has happened! What the nature of it is I know not—nor whether it is capitalizable, sight unseen. Here, boy!” Sweeney had returned with a colleague and Robison sent the new boy back with an order to sell two thousand shares of Steel. Watch in hand, Robison stood staring unblinkingly toward the north. Kidder also looked up Nassau Street, expecting and—such, alas, is human nature!—hoping to see Garrettson's familiar coupé.
“Here, boy!” And Robison sent off another selling-order. He kept this up until he had put out a short line of ten thousand shares.
At ten-fifteen he said to Kidder:
“Let us go over to Garrettson's office. His nonarrival is news, Kidder.”
“He may have stopped on the way to do some shopping—”
“Well, that's a story! Any deviation from the normal is, even though it may not be tragedy. The delay may mean—”
“Nothing whatever,” finished Kidder, a trifle exultingly. “There comes Garrettson's carriage. I guess you'd better cover!”
And thePlanetman laughed.