Читать книгу Sands of Fortune - Alan Sullivan - Страница 4

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IT will be understood that the atmosphere of the Crewe house was distinctly strained, and three members of the family took each their own way of escape. The little man voyaged to his phantom plantation, and juggled the temperature of his hero against the fluctuating price of rubber. But the story dragged, and his tilting keys seemed full of mockery. Joan made her way to the pillar box, and dropped in her letter to Stephen. She imagined it nestling among other letters, perhaps from lover to lover, posted in anticipation and happiness, with promises and half-divulged secrets. Then she went moodily back to the house and found her mother on the doorstep.

Mrs. Crewe regarded her daughter with the maternal solicitude of one who knows that her offspring believes herself to be a burnt offering on the family altar.

“Won’t you come with me, dear?”

“Where to?”

“Oxford Street.”

Joan shook her head. “I thought I’d just look in at that antique shop again—just in case.”

“Shall I go with you?”

“No thanks, mother.”

Mrs. Crewe knew better than to say more, and went off on a pilgrimage that to-day would have a very poignant interest. She had acquired the habit of walking up Bond Street, along to Oxford Circus, and down Regent Street on what she privately called imaginary shopping expeditions. This had become rather a science. To begin with, she would, so to speak, credit herself with an imaginary sum—quite a large one if she felt metaphorically rich—moderate if she felt poor. She would look for bargains, mentally wrangle for and buy them, be more or less contented and definitely tired by one o’clock, then take a bus back to Acacia Villa and tot up her purchases on the way. In this fashion she must have acquired enough to furnish several country mansions, and the tragic thing about it was that she did, in actuality, discover amazing bargains. This morning, however, she had to give up early. The thing became too unbearable.

Joan walked toward the antique shop in Fulham Road, in case she might yet discover something about it that was preferable to Stephen Hollis. Nearly there, she saw his thick-set figure approaching, and, not wanting to meet him yet, turned to stare into a shop window.

“Hullo! What luck!” His voice boomed over her shoulder, and a smiling face appeared in the glass.

She tried to behave as a girl should when she meets the man she had decided to marry, but the attempt fell short. It had just occurred to her that she was by no means playing the game with Stephen. He sent her a quick glance.

“I say, are you all right?”

“Yes—perfectly. Why?”

“I thought you looked a bit down.”

“Nothing to be down about,” she parried.

“Joan—my letter—did you get it?”

She nodded nervously, trying not to meet his eyes. They were very bright and penetrating. Queer that she couldn’t love a man like him, with his steadiness, qualities, and the suggestion of reserve force that sometimes peeped out and surprised her.

“Yes—and I’ve just posted one to you.”

“By Jove—I—I——”

He got quite pale, and his voice trailed out. She saw his hand tighten over his stick till the knuckles stood out in hard, white hillocks.

“What about it, darling?”

That nearly did for her. Why couldn’t she love him? Perhaps had he been less devoted—if he had vagaries that puzzled without antagonising her—if she had been able to see him less clearly—if there had been another girl—this affair might have had a taste it lacked from the beginning. There was no electricity about it—no spark.

“I wrote that if—if we saw less of each other for six months—I don’t mean deliberately avoid each other—but not write and—and just meet in the ordinary way—that then perhaps I’d feel more sure.”

“Six months?” he said huskily.

Compunction stirred in her heart. “Would you still want me even if I didn’t feel about you as you do about me?”

He sent her a look. “I don’t believe that anyone has felt what I do.”

After that she did not venture further, but got away, not allowing him to follow, and with a sense of having been lowered in her own opinion. The stuff in Stephen was too good to be used for such purposes as hers. The antique shop seemed preferable to a marriage like this. At that she felt rather dizzy, and turned homeward. It was the first time that home had ever looked like a harbour of refuge.

The cup of the family of Crewe was not yet quite full. Three days later came a note from Mr. Ralph Simonds from Paris.

“Dear James,—

Without any desire to pry into your affairs, I have been wondering whether you finally declined that offer. If you have, permit me to say that it was interesting to meet a man who put so high a value on something so intangible as his soul.

I enclose fifteen pounds, five each for your wife, Joan, and Humphrey. It may purchase a few moments’ forgetfulness of a situation of which they do not seem to approve—although I did not see Humphrey.”

Mr. Crewe missed nothing of this thrust, but was thankful it came in with the afternoon Continental mail, and not in the morning. He disliked those breakfast letters. Of course Ralph Simonds had no soul himself, but certainly got on amazingly well without one. The little man, rubbing the sheet slowly between his fingers, experienced that greater irony that life sometimes exhibits when the world is out of joint and one’s finer sensibilities seem only targets for other folk to shoot at. Far better if he had said nothing about his immortal soul but simply that he could not write as required and to order.

He was, in truth, in deep water. The present story hung fire, and the hero would long since have died of fever. Mr. Crewe was definitely out with his wife and Joan. For the very first time they put him down as selfish and inconsiderate. And when adjectives like this are applied to one who has anchored himself to a battered typewriter for the sake of others it means that seeds of discord are being sown.

Mrs. Crewe took her five pounds with something more than resentment. Existence had been embittered. She would never forget that offer. It was graven on her heart in letters of biting acid. As to Joan, she took hers, trying to look ennobled and exalted by the sacrifice she contemplated making, but only succeeded in looking grumpy and unmarriageable. She was aware of this, and it made her grumpier than ever. The thought occurred that Stephen might notice it, and not want to carry on.

Humphrey took his, engaged a corner table at a fashionable restaurant, and had a family dinner-party. He felt that something should be done to slacken the tension, and could think of nothing better. His mother and Joan were in a flutter, as they had never been to the place before, while Mr. Crewe was rather timorous about the velvet collar on his evening dress coat—which had been quite the thing—once. But he soon became absorbed in his surroundings. How pretty his wife was! How fresh and young Joan looked! What a fine sturdy chap was Humphrey! He forgot all about Mr. Ralph Simonds, and touched his wife’s arm with a sort of delicate pleasure.

“My dear, this is going to be a great help.”

“How, James?”

“Well, you see I’ve often wanted to use a scene like this, but never felt quite at home. It’s the little gestures and mannerisms of such people that go so far to make them live on paper.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Mrs. Crewe did not want to be reminded of fiction while surrounded by so many absorbing facts. The frocks, absolutely first-rate—minimum of material—maximum of cut—the art of them—the jewels, not too many but all good—the stockings and the sheen of them—the complexions—she thought the marble-white was striking, but one would tire of it. And there was not a woman in the place who felt more exactly what suited her and what to avoid than herself. She knew this instinctively, and sighed. Then Humphrey danced with Joan.

“Well matched, I think—yes—very—how nicely they dance. We should be proud of them, eh, my dear. Do you see that woman in the far corner—the very dark one with the violet eyes—I think I’ll use her for a type. What a different world this is!”

She did not want to be cross, but every word he said had an unsuspected edge. Just then he gave an exclamation.

“Next table but one—the man who is turning—know who that is?”

“No.”

“Ephraim Manners—the author. His last book sold fifty thousand copies in England alone and twice that in America.”

“Do you know him?”

Mr. Crewe shook his head regretfully, and eyed the demigod with reverence.

“Unfortunately, no. My circle is very modest—too modest for him. He’s not in town much, but lives in the country—where I would like to——” He stopped, with a vague gesture.

“You never said that before, James: and what would I do in the country?”

“Well, if I could afford to live there, you could afford to be in town as much as you wished, and look me up—er—at week-ends.” He said this with a little flourish because it seemed suited to the present atmosphere.

But he had made a bull’s-eye. That would have suited her exactly. No eternal click—no half-digested plots at breakfast—James where he ought to be—herself where she wanted to be—free—well dressed—her own circle—enough good works to establish her with a certain set—enough entertaining to enable her to mingle with another—a car—a maid! It all rolled in on her, so that any intelligible reply was out of the question. Her husband was looking at her, puzzled, when Humphrey came back with Joan and insisted on dancing with his mother.

“But, Humphrey, I don’t know how.”

He laughed. “Come along. You have the best figure in the room and your feet will take care of themselves.”

She danced, loving it, while with every step the fascination of the place grew on her. She wondered if Humphrey felt the same, and concluded he did not, being too young to taste the joys of feeling younger. When she came back to her husband her cheeks were flushed.

“You look just as you did twenty years ago,” he said, quite happy because he had stored up a number of most useful types.

She gave a little sigh. The sight of him reminded her of facts to which she was about to return. She did not dream that this was selfish and narrow, but seeing herself revolving in the tall mirrors about the room had had a poignant significance. What a wonderful thing to be like James, perfectly content with the same thing year after year and not caring how old one got.

On the way home her eyes met those of Joan in silent agreement. Humphrey’s evening had been almost too much of a success—perfect while it lasted, but with a sweetness that would be paid for later on.

It must be that the gods who sit in high places and concern themselves with the affairs of men have certain human attributes of humour and whimsicality, for how else can be explained those confusing transitions to which this life is so subject. Be that as it may, they gave the cards another shuffle, when four months later another letter lay beside the breakfast plate of Mr. James Crewe.

Again Mrs. Crewe inspected it first, deciding that it looked ominous. No name on the flap and thick, substantial paper. Joan and Humphrey saw it, but as it could not be more demoralising than a certain other one they experienced a vague hope. By common consent nothing was said. Then Mr. Crewe, looking tired. The story had dragged dreadfully.

He said good morning in a toneless voice, saw the letter, and put it in his pocket. As a result he got at his toast before it was quite cold. Humphrey chuckled. Mrs. Crewe and Joan sipped their tea, eyes meeting over their cups. Then curiosity, the undying element in human nature that survives all shock and disaster, got to work. Mrs. Crewe put down her cup.

“Well, James?”

He coughed slightly. “My dear, I have doubts about opening any more of my letters at the table. It is not long since I committed a tactical error, and there was rather a scene. I’m sorry, but you see it was not my practice to keep anything from the family.”

Humphrey was the only one whose mental condition harboured no resentment whatever, and it was he who spoke.

“Why have any now, Dad? What happened a while ago wasn’t your fault.”

Mrs. Crewe felt that this was a thrust at her, but smothered a protest, because her husband’s hand was sliding into his pocket. He meant what he said about the family, and hated any kind of secret. Then he opened the letter with a good deal of indifference. It was a three-page affair. Watching him, they saw his face change.

Surprise—a queer sort of surprise—a hasty glance at the signature—a gasp—a knitting of small brows—frantic concentration—another gasp—a long, long breath! All these were registered in turn. Finally he looked round the table, his eyes full of awe.

“For Heaven’s sake, James, what is the matter?” quavered his wife.

Mr. Crewe put down the letter. “What would you all do if you had all the money you wanted?” he said in a thin, squeaky voice.

Their first sensation was one of anxiety, so odd were his eyes, so altered his face. Perhaps he saw this, for after a little choky sound he began again in a good deal steadier voice.

“A few months ago you thought I was mad, but I wasn’t—nor am I now.” He tapped the letter. “This proves it.”

“What did you mean by what you said?” asked Mrs. Crewe, utterly bewildered.

“Exactly what I did say. What would you do if you had all the money you wanted? I’d like to know before giving it to you.” He chuckled, regarding his toast with an enquiring gaze.

“How much?” faltered Joan. “Two thousand a year?”

Mr. Crewe waved his hand. “Far, far more than that.” He was now enjoying himself exceedingly.

“I think,” said his wife, with an effort at control, “it would be better to tell us exactly what has happened.” Then she added “My dear” in a tone of decided affection.

He nodded, fingering the letter. “I think Ralph must be dead.”

The family blinked simultaneously.

“Listen to this!”

“Dear Sir,—

Some months ago we received from Mr. Ralph Simonds, who was then in France, a letter instructing us to pay to you the income from securities lodged with us, and that——”

“He’s off his head!” exploded Humphrey.

Mr. Crewe only looked at him.

“——and that this should continue until notice from him cancelling such instructions. The desire thus expressed was, in our opinion, so unlike our client that we felt bound to make sure that this letter was genuine, and sent our representative to France to interview Mr. Simonds in person. We may say——”

“James—it can’t be true!”

“Please, Matilda, do not interrupt.”

“——may say that he left us in no doubt whatever. He stated on this occasion that his action was decided by the fact that the attitude of his relatives toward himself was, with one exception, that of a lively anticipation of benefits to be received, and that you alone had displayed any independence.”

“James—you wonderful man!”

“We felt constrained to wait before acting, and subsequently tried to get in touch with our client again, but have failed completely. He had left the Riviera, unaccompanied, for a trip through the Maritime Alps, and has not been heard of since. This, of course, is not proof of death, but such proof may be forthcoming at any time. The income from the estate is approximately [here Mr. Crewe’s voice faltered for the first time] forty thousand pounds a year, and has been accruing to your credit for——”

Mrs. Crewe leaned back, stunned. “Forty thousand a year!” she gibbered.

“——credit for some months. Please communicate with us on receipt of this.”

“You mean,” asked Joan chaotically, “that your income amounts to more than three thousand a month?”

Mr. Crewe nodded. “Yes—and no. The income does, without question, because forty thousand a year,” he used the words quite lightly, “is rather more than a hundred a day—but what you say brings up another matter. I have been thinking of it while I talked. I cannot imagine myself in control of that sum, and it occurs that there are four of us, and four goes evenly into forty thousand, so that—well——”

His wife and daughter rushed at him, enveloped him, while Humphrey, who had not said a word, got up, his face rather red.

“Look here, Dad, that’s too much,” he stammered.

Mr. Crewe came to the surface, his cheeks quite rosy. “Let us look at it in this way. We all have our ambitions—that is why I asked you what I did to begin with. But you only asked ‘how much.’ So it seems to me that if we each had exactly the same amount with which to gratify those ambitions, the result should be very interesting. Such an arrangement would be quite in line with the—er—satirical comments of my cousin Ralph. He probably left us that money because he thought we would do less harm with it than any of the rest.”

His wife gazed at him with a sort of wild interest. He had been the rebel where Ralph was concerned; he had not kowtowed; he had declined to write sanguinary stories and then braved the subsequent storm; he had told Ralph that advice was not wanted. In other words, he had been honest with himself. As a result fortunes were thrown at his feet. Was it possible that she had been living with a hero like this for twenty years, and not known it? She tried to say something, failed completely, and a few tears trickled down.

Mr. Crewe came round and patted her shoulder. “My dear, I’m going upstairs for a while, and want to think. Perhaps we all do, and I’ll—ah—go on with my story in the meantime. I cannot leave that poor chap in his present condition any longer. To-night we shall talk. Humphrey, my boy, I’m very glad that should anything inviting come along now you will be free to act. Joan, my dear, you’ll feel—well—I can imagine that. Matilda, if I might have a cup of hot tea made, perhaps you’ll have it sent up, if it’s not too much trouble. Nothing to eat, thanks.”

He took an odd glance at the letter, folded and put it in his pocket, and went off very quietly. To the others it seemed that some new kind of deity had visited and just left the room. They stared at each other without speaking. Then Mrs. Crewe dabbed at her cheeks.

“Of course I can’t believe it yet, and none of us can, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t.”

Joan awoke as from a trance. “Ten thousand a year each!” she whispered.

“You can take the income tax off that,” said Humphrey, who had been doing mental arithmetic in figures of gold. “And did you ever hear of any father acting like him?”

“What a shame!” murmured his mother. “I mean the tax. How much will it leave?”

“Roughly, seven thousand.”

Mrs. Crewe thought this was robbery, then began spending what remained. No more imaginary shopping now. Joan was chiefly conscious that she had handled the Stephen Hollis affair very wisely, and got the credit for being ready to make a sacrifice that was now unnecessary. She smiled at having taken it so seriously. Then Humphrey jumped up with an exclamation.

“Lord—the office!”

“Humphrey, you’re not going——?”

“Why not?” He laughed contentedly. “I like my job, now that I needn’t worry about the pay. I’m glad it’s the kind it is, to keep me in balance. Remember that other letter the governor opened at breakfast?”

His mother nodded guiltily.

“Well, he’s been the same all the way through. That’s what I’d like about him, even if he weren’t my father.”

He went into the hall, paused at the hat-rack, and impulsively mounted the stairs, halting at Mr. Crewe’s door.

“Come in,” said the small voice.

The typewriter held a blank sheet of paper, and a cup of cold tea stood beside it. Mr. Crewe was leaning back, his body limp, and when Humphrey saw his face that looked very tired too.

“All right, Dad? I didn’t want to go off without saying how splendid you——”

Mr. Crewe lifted a narrow hand, the finger tips a little flattened from long hammering at his machine.

“Don’t, my son. We understand each other, and I’m thankful for that—very thankful. But do you know that since coming up here I’ve had a discomforting thought? It worries me.”

“What is it?”

“This—that when one comes to look at life it seems that it’s very often the lack of money—the having to do without things—that holds families together. If money comes—lots of it—they’re very apt to split up and go off on their own tangents. That’s not the view usually held, but I fear there’s something in it. If it works that way in our case it would upset me very much.”

Humphrey felt a lump in his throat, and put his big hand on the shoulder of this loving self-sacrificing little man who was full of so many surprises.

“Not enough money in the world to come between you and me, Dad.”

Then, moved by an impulse he did not attempt to control, he stooped, kissed his father’s brow, and went quietly out.

Mr. Crewe sat for a while, quite motionless. He had found it impossible to go on with the story, which now seemed tawdry and superficial. It was not the real life, that being the one he intended to live himself. His mind fell to wandering till, presently, the double bedroom faded away and he saw a study with panelled walls and——! At that he gave a gusty sigh of pure pleasure, put the typewriter back in its worn case—how well one knew the click of the catch—noted the address of Haskins and Butters, and, going out in rather a sheepish manner, took a bus in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn.

Joan heard the door close, and watched the small figure out of sight.

“Mother, Dad’s off to see the solicitors; what are you going to do?”

“I thought of a little shopping. Want to come?” Mrs. Crewe’s lips had quite a different curve from the usual one.

They exchanged glances, these two, glances that were very expressive. The first real shopping expedition without the brakes on. A new taste in life. Their appetites rose in prospect, and they visioned a Bond Street orgy, with lunch, say, at the Berkeley, Humphrey’s dinner being responsible for that. Mrs. Crewe settled her hat on with a reckless dig of the fingers, and hailed the first taxi. The sensation was worth anything.

“The Western County Bank on the Fulham Road,” she commanded, being about to draw twenty-five pounds—one day’s income—from the savings account. “If you want any cash, Joan, I can let you have it,” she added largely.

“Thanks—I was thinking about Stephen.”

“What about him, child?”

“Well—everything is changed now.”

“I don’t suppose he has.”

“I have. I mean there won’t be any more of that.”

“Are you going to tell him so?”

Joan hesitated. “I suppose I ought to.” She was thinking very hard, because Stephen had been obtruding himself with a certain persistency. Mrs. Crewe was thinking also; and the point in both minds, though neither voiced it, was that a girl with seven thousand a year, tax paid, was a different person from the Joan Crewe of twenty-four hours ago. Then Mrs. Crewe had an idea.

“I don’t think you’ll have to say a word.”

“Why not?”

“Well, Stephen is too delicate to press the matter now.”

“Because of the money?”

“Yes.”

“If he really loves me, and I believe he does, would the money make any difference?”

“Probably, with him. But it’s sure to attract the kind you should not marry.”

There was nothing depressing about that at the moment, and Joan smiled contentedly. She visualised a pleasing perspective of ardent young men—all with perfect manners—all in society—all vowing eternal devotion. How intriguing. In the middle of this the taxi stopped at the bank, Mrs. Crewe drew her money, and, coming out with a packet of crisp notes, pressed half of them into her daughter’s hand.

“You can pay me back later; and just to think that your father is probably talking to those solicitors now.”

They pictured him, and the respect with which he would be received, and the picture had nearly carried them to Bond Street when Mrs. Crewe tapped on the window and descended at the shop of a certain florist on Piccadilly.

“It’s about a wreath for your Uncle Ralph’s grave, if he has one,” she said cheerfully. “I rather want the first money we spend to be for that. If the poor man knows what’s going on I think he ought to be pleased.”

So on up Bond Street on foot, with the sun shining and opportunity opening wide. There was something curious about it all. They went into shops, examined lovely things, turning them over as Mrs. Crewe had so often done before, but when it came to buying, the desire was strangely absent. Joan had a grotesque thought that, after all, the things she most wanted, such as a sapphire necklet in Boucheron’s window, were still beyond her reach. Mrs. Crewe had similar sensations. The power to buy now existed, but the fancy had mysteriously dwindled. There came the premonition that they should not plunge, but wait a while till they got more used to the possession of wealth. Also there was a secret feeling that what they brought home should appeal to the judgment of husband and father. Queer that he loomed up with such importance at a time like this. Finally they compromised by buying presents for him, Humphrey, and each other, and Mrs. Crewe was amused to find that she had just enough left for lunch. It was at a corner table that she broached another idea.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “we ought to get someone to introduce you. I can’t.”

Joan pursed her lips. Here was another difficulty not solved by the mere possession of money. Odd to think of a mother not being able to introduce her own daughter.

“That’s easily arranged, isn’t it?”

“Yes—Personal Column of ‘The Times.’ I see it every day, and have always thought of you.”

“I wonder who those people really are?”

“Titled—almost all of them—lost their money and kept some of their friends. It’s a sort of marriage market to all intent, and they often get a commission on a good match.”

Joan played with her entrée. It was good to look forward to choosing instead of being chosen, and privately she scoffed at what she called the humility of so many women where men were concerned. Such views did not go with ten thousand a year.

“I want to express myself before I marry anyone.”

“How, Joan?” Self-expression was just what Mrs. Crewe intended for herself.

“Art.” The girl made a gesture as though the air was full of art and she could put her fingers on it.

Mrs. Crewe ordered a meringue, and looked unusually wise. “That’s all right for a while—even your art—but you’re not any different from other girls and you’ll need a husband, so it will be one of my first objects to find you one.”

“Thanks, mother, but I’m independent now.”

It was quite true. She was free to come and go as she pleased, and had as much money as any of them. All at once it seemed to Mrs. Crewe that her husband had been generous to the point of recklessness. Queer to have a daughter who could do as much as her mother. Then, to make sure that Joan did not contemplate anything silly, she went off on another track.

“A house—we’ll have to think of that at once.”

But she could not pin the girl down to anything. Joan was too conscious of the easy and opulent atmosphere around her, too reminiscent of her feeling on the first and only night she had dined here. She saw herself coming often, with a kind of young male god across the table, very smooth of face, sleek of hair, perfect of dress, the sort of god who said delightful things in a way that betrayed no desire to flatter, and suggested others that were a little intoxicating. She would dine and dance with him—with each of him—and at the end take the one that pleased her best. So it was no use her mother bringing up practical things at that moment. The golden gates had swung too wide.

Humphrey got through the morning mechanically. Just before noon the man who had a few weeks before invited him to put a hundred into a small syndicate, came to his desk. This was Newbold, one of the firm’s accountants, and considered a safe chap by those who knew him.

“That matter,” he said, “the one I spoke about a month ago. Do you remember?”

Humphrey remembered very distinctly.

“Well, Peters has to drop out—has to realise before the fruit is ripe. You can get his share for a hundred and fifty, and the assured profits so far are seventy-five pounds each—with more to come. I can place his share in ten minutes, but wanted to give you another chance.”

Humphrey felt a sort of inward glow. It was good to be thought of, better still to be able to act. He saw himself waving a careless hand and offering to take Peter’s share and any others he could get. Then, curiously, he felt a slight reaction. He did not understand it at the moment, but it was as though this were not his proper game and he had no use for it at present. There began to stir in him the conviction that he should husband his resources now that he had them, must not waste his time in small speculations, however promising, and must train his mind to bigger things. If these other fellows had done that, they might not be employees to-day. Strange that though the power had come he should feel a reluctance to use it!

“It’s awfully good of you,” he said slowly, “but really——”

Newbold slapped his shoulder. “That’s all right, old man, I quite understand. Lots of us in the same box. Perhaps something else—later on, eh?”

“Perhaps,” nodded Humphrey. “And thanks just the same.”

It was at lunch that the big idea came to him. He was in a position now to talk to anyone, and no better man presented himself than Cassidy, for whom he worked. Cassidy was junior partner in the firm, an Anglo-Irishman with a quick brain, an amazing memory, and a “market” sense that was not his least asset. He had always been decent to the staff. How would Cassidy see a thing like this?

Humphrey plugged away methodically till the exchange closed, then tapped on a door marked “private.”

“Can you give me a few minutes, sir?”

“Yes, lad, what is it? Sit down.” Cassidy had had a good day and felt amiable.

Humphrey sat, took the bit in his teeth, and drove ahead. He gave it all, witholding nothing of his own instincts in this affair—his feeling that he did not want to fritter away his time—his refusal of an offer just made—his desire to be wise and do the best with what he had. Cassidy listened, studying the square young face and strong skin. There was that about Humphrey which inspired interest, the sort of fellow one liked to have about the place.

“You’ll be leaving us, then?” asked the junior partner.

“I don’t know even that. I’m not long in the business and haven’t learned much of it. The wise thing—that’s what I’m after, and”—he added with a grin—“that’s why I’m here.”

“Thanks,” said Cassidy. “I began with three thousand capital and no other income at all, at all. That isn’t a patch on what you have without moving a foot.”

This, from such a source, meant a good deal, and Humphrey got his first real glimpse of the significance of wealth.

“It’s a sort of financial father you’re looking for?” went on the other man, his eyes twinkling.

“Or perhaps brother,” said Humphrey with a sort of inspiration.

Cassidy stared at him. “ ’Twas that brought you in here?”

“Yes, if you like, sir. Nothing would please me better.”

“A partnership?”

Humphrey had not imagined such a thing, but the idea appealed to him vividly. “I didn’t know if—if you would care for that.”

As a matter of fact Cassidy did care. Humphrey’s youth—his sincerity—his modesty—and, above all, the compliment he implied—these struck Cassidy very forcibly. There ensued a little silence. Then Humphrey went on, speaking slowly and thinking hard.

“I know I’m not qualified to be anyone’s partner yet, but if you thought there was something in it I might go on working here, while you see that I get all the experience possible—and after a while—well—the partnership.”

Cassidy grinned broadly. “Faith, but your head is screwed on right. Your solicitors—mind if I have a chat?”

“No, I’d like it—they’re Haskins and Butters. Shall I speak to them first?”

Cassidy nodded. “Yes—and while it’s not necessary, I’d like to meet your father. He must be a remarkable man.”

“You will, and he is,” said Humphrey with earnestness.

“Nothing else you want to ask about?”

“I don’t think of anything, sir.”

“Bedad, but you take a lot for granted about myself.”

Humphrey laughed. “I was going by what others think of you and what you are here.”

Cassidy almost blushed. As it happened, he had been extraordinarily interested for the last ten minutes. There were four partners in the firm, and he the youngest. A long way yet to the top. The feel of the market was in him, he was innately shrewd, entirely honest, and very ambitious. So while Humphrey’s brain unrolled itself, Cassidy’s was working very rapidly.

“That’s a good word for anyone to hear,” he said quietly, “but I’d ask you to have your solicitors investigate me before anything is done.”

“I was going to do that, anyway,” chuckled Humphrey.

Then they shook hands very heartily.

That was Humphrey’s morning. Mr. Crewe, for his part, betook himself to the solicitors, where he was indeed received with great deference, and shortly found himself looking over a list of securities. These were solid, substantial, rock-bottomed shares representing the best England had to offer. Nothing questionable here—though he didn’t know that—but the sort of capital one might sleep on and not worry. It interested him, a total abstainer, to note that much of his money was in breweries. And to think that he had never tasted beer.

He had finished the reading of this list, which left him quite confused, when Mr. Butters leaned forward, and asked in what way he could be of immediate service. He had been studying Mr. Crewe with considerable interest, and was vastly intrigued to learn that the income was to be divided equally amongst the family. Quite mad, he thought, but smelled the possibility of more legal work as a result.

“Well,” said Mr. Crewe, “you mentioned that if I was—er—in need of——”

“Quite, sir; I quite understand. Would, say, two thousand suit?”

Mr. Crewe looked surprised. “Is that available already?”

Mr. Butters smiled. “You are in the fortunate position of not having to worry about that. Two thousand—yes—certainly—with pleasure. We are happy to oblige. May we expect to hear from your solicitors?”

“I never had any,” said Mr. Crewe. “I thought that perhaps you might act for me too. Would you?”

Mr. Butters, concealing his joy, and exhibiting only a certain well-bred acquiescence, agreed at once. Then a cheque was passed across the desk, the biggest cheque the little man had ever seen in his life, and his counsel asked if Mr. Crewe would do him the honour of taking a glass of sherry. Mr. Crewe was about to decline, but a new instinct bade him accept. Evidently a formality, he argued, and one that could hardly be avoided when it signalised the acquisition of forty thousand a year. So the sherry was brought in by a head clerk who looked like a bishop and was as superior as an American ambassador.

Mr. Crewe, putting the glass to his lips, felt a bit of a dog, and wished Mr. Butters a very good health. He was aware of a delicate glow in the central part of his person.

“Do you know,” he said thoughtfully, “that’s the first glass of wine I ever drank?” Then, as though to justify his downfall, he added, “But, of course, it’s the first fortune I ever came into.”

“I hope it won’t be the last, sir.”

Mr. Crewe found himself in Oxford Street West a few moments later, wondering whether Mr. Butters referred to the wine or the fortune. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Then he had lunch, and on account of those brewery investments indulged in a half-pint of ale that happened to be very old. So out again. What a corking day! How warm was the sun for November. Perhaps he had been a bit bigoted in the matter of total abstinence.

Pausing at a corner, he glanced up Great Portland Street, the cheque seeming to crackle in his pocket. As far as he could see the roadside was lined on both sides with motor-cars, a perspective of glistening bodies and shining tonneaus. Thousands of them! More cars—any number of them—their noses poking out of wide-open doors as though lying in wait for the unwary stranger—as indeed they were. The scene attracted him, and he walked slowly along in a sort of mechanical dream till one car looked exactly like another. Then more cars, vistas and battalions of them, shepherded by sleek young men. There was a faint smell of petrol. His brain began to whirl, and he felt in the grip of some unseen power, having never dreamed of owning a car till this moment. He paused opposite a glittering monster from whose bowels came a low, rhythmical purr, and touched its nose with his stick.

“How much?”

Its sleek young man—he had the Oxford manner—sized up Mr. Crewe on the instant and added fifty pounds. “Nothing better on the road,” he added, and went off into a rhapsody about gears, magnetos, and valves. “Like a trial run, sir?”

Mr. Crewe, knowing he was doomed, nodded automatically. He was quite ignorant of the make of the car, but liked the shape of the doors, the electric cigar-lighter, and the thing that wiped the rain off the wind shield, so he seated himself beside the sleek young man, was wafted luxuriously toward Regent’s Park, and, once there, found himself hurled through the air at what he considered a frightful speed. Houses and trees were reeling by when he touched the driver’s arm.

“I—I rather think this car is too fast for me.”

The young man smiled and subsided to walking speed. “You won’t think so out in the country, sir.”

“You see,” went on Mr. Crewe, “I don’t know anything about cars, but liked the shape of this one.”

“You know enough, sir, to have selected the biggest bargain in the market.”

That settled it, and the seats were certainly most comfortable. Mr. Crewe invited the young man to drive to the Western County Bank on the Fulham Road, deposited his cheque in the most offhand manner possible—told the manager he might expect more later—made another cheque in payment for the car—arranged for driving lessons and was wafted toward Acacia Villa.

“Mind waiting a minute?” he asked, and descended like a homing pigeon.

His wife and Joan were in the living-room. They smiled and regarded him with affectionate interest.

“Well, James, you saw the solicitors?”

“Yes, my dear. Everything is in order. And you—what have you been doing?”

“I arranged for some flowers to be sent to Ralph’s grave—when we know where it is—and just a few odds and ends.” Mrs. Crewe was keeping the presents till Humphrey came home.

The little man smiled, led her to the window, and made an imperious gesture:

“See what I got!”