Читать книгу Ambition's Slave - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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WHEN Minter had stopped Maude and Clifford Desborough, the latter seemed to resent the intrusion of his host. He had taken Maude aside to put his fortune to the test. Ambitious, pushing, clever, absolutely certain of cabinet rank, there was one thing which the lawyer required, and that was a wife with plenty of money.

How necessary this was, he alone knew. The man was desperately in need of money. He stood on the narrow edge of ruin, it needed but a touch to send him either way. He might yet attain dizzy heights; on the other hand, if bankruptcy overtook him his political career was ended.

Therefore he kept his temper. It does not do to quarrel with millionaires who seem to require one's services urgently. Perhaps here there was a chance to lay hands upon the cash that Desborough so sorely needed.

He looked around him hurriedly. He was about to say something to Maude Beaumont, but she had already slipped away. He saw her stopped by a masked figure that he recognized as Kit Clive, and something like an oath rose to his lips.

"If the matter is urgent," he said, "why—?"

"Nothing more urgent under the sun," said Minter. "Come along! What do you and I care for all this tomfoolery?"

Desborough forced a laugh. The money wasted here to-night would have made him a free man, and absolutely assured his future. A feeling of envy assailed him as he looked at the flowers and the pictures, and caught the distant flood of melody. A single word from Minter would have put him right. He wondered if his host was aware how desperate were his circumstances.

"We all like to relax at times," he said. "Lead the way—"

Minter turned into a little room at the end of the corridor that chanced to be empty. He locked the door, and signified to Desborough to lay aside his mask. The latter accepted the proffered cigarette.

"What do you want me for?" Desborough asked.

Minter looked him straight in the face. There was a fighting gleam in his eyes, a hard expression on the bulldog mouth.

"I'll come to the point at once," he said. "I'm not one of those men who waste a lot of valuable time on what they call diplomacy. You have a big case coming on tomorrow—Mackness against the Certified Company. As you are aware, I am practically the company."

"So I understand," said Desborough. "And you are going to lose. Will that make any great difference to you?"

Minter's great jaw came out with an ugly sweep.

"All the difference," he said hoarsely. "Connect us with those smuggled arms and we forfeit our trading rights with all the South American States you know of. I've got every penny I can scrape together wrapped up in that business. If we fail now, down goes the whole house of cards."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Desborough said politely. "Your connexion with those smuggled arms is not on the face of my instructions, but I am going to prove it out of the mouth of one of your witnesses—Ericsson."

"Ah, that is as I suspected! Now, listen to me. If you made it easy for Ericsson your clients would be none the wiser. It would be at worst no more than an error of judgment on your part. Nobody could blame you."

"The mere suggestion is absurd," Desborough said coldly. "People might say I had made a mistake, that is all—as you say, a mere error of judgment. Why?"

"Because you are going to commit that error of judgment."

The words came out with a hoarse growl from Minter's lips. There was no suggestion of compromise about him, no gilding of the pill. He was commanding Desborough to betray his client's case, and abandon his own honour. Desborough stepped forward, thrilled to the finger-tips.

"I am going to sell my brief!" he gasped. "You scoundrel!"

Minter smiled. He was not in the least moved.

"Hard words break no bones!" he said. "I'm in a hole, my friend, an infernally deep hole. And you are in the same place. You get out on my shoulders, and then you pull me up afterwards. Or we are both ruined."

"And why should I do this?" Desborough sneered.

"Upon my word—"

"Oh, drop it," Minter said impatiently. "I've got you on the hip. For months you have been dealing with the money-lenders. You are hopelessly ruined. All those documents you have signed—those little bills—are in my hands. See."

He held out the long slips of blue paper that Bigglestone had given him. He slapped the pile with a vicious hand.

"See here—and here," he cried, "your signatures to all of them. I bought them up as a speculation. They are mine, you understand. Fourteen thousand pounds' worth, and every penny overdue. My future Home Secretary, you are in my hands. I can make your fortune or I can make you bankrupt on Monday morning."

Desborough staggered back. The full force of it utterly overcame him.

"Good Heavens," he said hoarsely. "I can't find as many shillings, man; have you no feeling, no sense of honour?"

His face was pale, the beads were running down his forehead. Minter thrust the suggestion aside with hard contempt.

"Don't prate to me," he said. "What are you trying to do? To catch a girl you care nothing about for the sake of her money. And you are right because money is everything, and truth and honour mere empty sounds. The people who come here sneer at me, but they would black my boots for a scrap of early information. I could walk on a carpet of coronets if I liked."

Desborough paced backwards and forwards. He was like a rat caught in a trap. He knew this man would have no more mercy on him than a terrier with the rat aforesaid. The steady eye and the cruel jaw showed that.

"Well, get on," Minter said impatiently. "You are perfectly safe. You said just now that the omission of a few questions would not be deemed anything more than an error of judgment. It would make no difference to you. It would leave me as I stand instead of stripping me of everything."

"I am thinking," Desborough said slowly.

"Then let me think for you," Minter replied with an oath. "Think of the place that you have so fairly won filled by another. Think of your smug constituency holding up their hands in horror at the news that their respected member has lost over five thousand pounds on the turf. A bankrupt! After that there would be no fresh start, no whitewashing for you. The people I mention are the backbone of your following: oily Pharisees, who may yet force you on to the Premiership. Think of the honour and glory that lies before you, all for a few minutes of discreet silence. Think—but I am wasting time. Why parley with me, why juggle with what you call a conscience? You have made up your mind already."

"If you gave me time."

"Not an hour, not a moment," cried Minter instantly, following up his advantage. "You can't find the money to pay me off. It is only when a man starts to borrow that he discovers how lonely he is. Do you accept my terms or not?"

Minter put the question in a hoarse whisper. He bent forward, with his eyes almost glaring into those of his unhappy victim. There was no disguise about him. He was proposing a vile and dishonourable course, and he took no shame in it.

And the worst of it was, Desborough was perfectly safe. Nobody would find out what he was going to do.

"I have only your word to rely on," he said feebly.

"To-morrow these bills shall be passed over to you. As to my word—why, you have got to accept what I offer you."

Desborough lunged out desperately at his tempter. In a sudden despairing fury he reached for the door, turned the key, and rushed down the corridor. All his emotion was absolutely lost on Minter. He followed a moment later until he came to the spot where he hoped to meet the disguised Bigglestone. The latter rose from behind a cluster of waving palms.

"Well!" he asked breathlessly. "Well?"

"Gone off in a fury," Minter chuckled. "But he didn't defy me, and I moved him as he has never been moved before."

"Then you didn't come to any arrangement?"

"Not definitely," Minter replied, with the same diabolical chuckle. "but for all that the thing is as good as done."