Читать книгу Lord Stranleigh, Philanthropist - Robert Barr - Страница 3

Table of Contents

There comes a period in the life of every man when, no matter how successful he may have been, he thinks for the moment he has chosen the wrong career. The comedian yearns to play Hamlet, and the world-renowned portrayer of the melancholy prince imagines he could set audiences in a roar of laughter. The carpenter regrets that he did not select the trade of blacksmith, and the blacksmith, as he mops his perspiring brow over red-hot irons, hankers for the ice business, while the ice man wishes he dealt in coal.

Young Lord Stranleigh began to realise the futile part he played in the affairs of the world at the ​time his friend and colleague, Mackeller, broke down in health. Now, Mackeller was a much more stalwart man than the slim and elegant Stranleigh, yet a London specialist informed him that his nerves were gone; that worry and anxiety had for the last few years so strained the heart that the price of prolonged existence was complete cessation from work, and withdrawal from business of any kind.

An English specialist who has successfully attended a member of the Royal Family, thus attaining instantaneously a European fame that years of hard work would never have achieved, does not temper the wind to the shorn lamb, but states the result of his diagnosis with a terseness that rather appals the ordinary man. The blow in Mackeller's case was softened by the fact that the big-boned Scotchman did not believe a word the expert said. There was nothing the matter with him, he averred, but an occasional distressing shortness of breath. His trouble was bronchial, and not cardiac, he insisted. The famous physician shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"If you know so much of your own condition, why trouble coming to me?" he asked, with some show of reason.

"It is quite impossible for me," continued ​Mackeller, "to cease work at a moment's notice, as you suggest. Very large interests are involved, and any neglect of them might be ruinous."

"That's what every business man says," replied the doctor. "In your case, keep on as you are doing, and you have less than six months to live."

Peter Mackeller listened to this sentence of death with bowed head and furrowed brow, still incredulous; nevertheless, being an intensely practical man, his mind at once took up a search for an alternative. Perhaps, after all, this gruff medico might know what he was talking about. Never during his strenuous life had Peter experienced a single day's illness. The strong physique which his Highland ancestry had transmitted to him could surely not break down thus completely before he reached middle life. Most of his forefathers had died young at a hundred. Peter muttered to himself, rather than addressed the doctor—

"Perhaps Stranleigh would take charge of my affairs for a while."

"Do you refer to Lord Stranleigh?" asked the expert.

"Yes; he's an old friend of mine. He has got me out of trouble several times; I mean, of course, financial trouble."

​"You say Earl Stranleigh of Wychwood is a friend of ours?"

"Yes."

"Well, if any man in England can afford monetary aid without feeling it, it is his wealthy lordship. I should be glad if you would bring him here one day, when I could discuss your case with him more freely than I can with you."

"There has been no lack of definiteness about your statements to me," said Mackeller, looking up. "You need not reproach yourself on that score."

The great man smiled for the first time. He had been visibly impressed by the friendship with Lord Stranleigh, for, after all, even the Royalties he attended were paupers compared with the youthful earl, and money talks in London as is its garrulous habit elsewhere.

"You see, it's like this, Mr. Mackeller. Your heart is racing along at ninety-five beats to the minute, when it should be contenting itself with from sixty to sixty-five. Roughly speaking, every four beats of the heart require one inspiration of air to the lungs. Your conservative lungs are vainly endeavouring to keep pace with your radical heart. The late Sir Henry Irving did me the honour to call ​at these rooms, and I told him exactly what I have told you. By a curious coincidence, his answer and yours were almost identical. He said it was impossible for him to stop work at the moment, because of numerous engagements he had accepted, and further stated that the only inconvenience he suffered was an increasing shortness of breath. In six months he would knock off for a while, but he could not do it then. Before six months were past, he was in Westminster Abbey. I suggest that you consult your friend, Lord Stranleigh, and bring him here, say a week from to-day, at this hour."

With that Mackeller took his leave, still wondering how much truth, if any, there was in the doctor's prognostications. He stepped into the electric brougham awaiting him in Harley Street, and curtly ordered his man to drive him to the office. Seated in the noiseless vehicle, he endeavoured to throw from his mind all thought of the doctor's doleful diatribe, and concentrate his attention on the business now awaiting him. He was disquieted to find that in spite of himself the sentence of six months kept running through his head like a recurring decimal. Suddenly he touched the electric button, and as the driver slowed down, directed him to turn round and proceed to Stranleigh House.

​Although half the world had done half a day's work, the energetic Mackeller found, as he expected, that the easy-going young nobleman had just finished breakfast.

"Ah, Peter," cried his lordship, "there is little use in wishing you the top of the morning, for you have always transmuted the early golden hours into coin of the realm before one sees you! As the old adage says, 'Satan finds some mischief still'—no, no, that's the wrong one. Truth is, I'm hardly awake yet. What I wished to lay my hands on was, 'How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour,' and gather money all the day, etc., etc. You've come in the nick of time for a sweet-when-the-morn-is-grey cigarette; or perhaps you prefer a fragrant Havana?"

"No, thank you, Stranleigh. I've knocked off smoking."

"Really! Since when?"

"Since ten o'clock this morning. I have just come from a Harley Street specialist in heart disease. My own physician made an appointment with him for me at half-past nine. He is a man with more patients than he can rightly look after, and grants consultations at odd hours as if he were conferring a favour."

​"Oh, I'm sorry to hear you are feeling seedy! What did the specialist say?"

"He said I must instantly cease work, and this command comes at a most inconvenient time. It seems I need to undergo a complete rest for an indefinite period, so I wondered whether you would take charge of my business, pro tem."

"Certainly," said Stranleigh, the half-bantering, humorous expression disappearing from his face, giving way to a look of deep concern. "What did the doctor say was the trouble?"

"My heart has gone all wrong."

"Ah! the heart is a most important organ, which must be taken care of. It slumbers not, nor sleeps."

"The specialist tells me," replied the matter-of-fact Mackeller, "that the heart sleeps in that fraction of a second which occurs between beats."

"Really! I am profoundly ignorant about these things, but I keep a walking cyclopædia in the person of my friend Ponderby. What course of treatment does the doctor recommend?"

"We did not get that far. Probably I shall retire to my place in the country, where I can secure rest and quiet. He suggested that I should bring you with me a week from to-day, at nine-thirty."

​"Why does he wish you to take me at that unearthly hour?"

"Oh, I suppose," replied Mackeller, with impatience, "that everyone wishes to see the great Lord Stranleigh."

"Ah, yes; I had forgotten! Quite natural, quite natural. Did the doctor counsel your country place as a sanatorium?"

"No; that was my own idea."

"I believe your country house is connected with the city office by telephone?"

"Yes; it has that advantage."

"Pardon me, Peter: you mean disadvantage, and a very vital disadvantage, too. However, let us summon authority to our aid, for, as I tell you I am profoundly ignorant."

He touched the bell, whereupon the grave and dignified Ponderby appeared silently as a genie responding to the rubbing of a lamp.

"Ponderby, when a man is afflicted with an affection of the heart—I refer to a physical affection—what should he do?"

"It depends, my lord, upon whether he prefers to reside in France, Belgium, or Germany."

"He prefers, Ponderby, to live in England, but that is not the point. His chief desire is to live."

​"The strongest waters for the purpose, my lord, are those at Bad-Nauheim, in Germany, a pretty little village to the east of the Taunus Mountains, twenty-three miles north of Frankfort-on-the-Main. The next strongest are those of Royat, in the centre of France, although the wells of Spa, in Belgium, are about equal in strength to the French waters."

"What do you mean by strength, Ponderby? Salt, sulphur, or what?"

"There is a very large proportion of salt in the waters at each place, but the strength I referred to, which has proved so beneficial in cardiac troubles, is carbonic acid gas, held in solution by the waters of each district."

"Thank you, Ponderby."

Ponderby bowed, and vanished as silently as he had appeared.

"Well, Peter, there you are, with a choice of three nationalities, and of three charming health resorts. Which do you prefer?"

"I should say Nauheim. As it possesses the strongest waters, the cure would probably take the shortest time," replied the practical Mackeller.

"That appears reasonable; still, we'd better make sure."

He touched the bell once more.

​"Ponderby, I forgot to ask you, does one drink the waters at these places, or merely bathe in them?"

"In each locality, my lord, there are waters to drink, but the sprudel, or carbonic acid waters, are bathed in."

"Mackeller suggests that the waters at Nauheim being the strongest, a cure may be more quickly accomplished there."

"Not necessarily, my lord, for sprudel baths in their full strength are rarely administered at Nauheim. At each place treatment lasts from twenty-one days to six weeks, and it begins not with the carbonic acid waters, but with salt baths in ever-increasing strength. All but the most serious cases yield to treatment in any of the three towns."

"That being so, Ponderby, it doesn't seem to matter much which an invalid chooses."

"I would not go so far as to say that, my lord," replied Ponderby in a tone of profound deference. "His most gracious Majesty King Edward visited Royat once or twice while Prince of Wales."

"Thank you, Ponderby, that is an unanswerable argument. Royat for Royalty, as one may say."

For the second time the loyal Ponderby disappeared. When he had gone, Stranleigh laughed a little.

​"Have you made your choice, Peter?" he asked, and Peter, apparently resenting the laugh when his case was so serious, replied with sullen Scotch stubbornness, "I shall go to Nauheim."

"Right you are," cried his lordship, "and I'll go with you!"

Mackeller glanced up at him in astonishment.

"You promised to look after my business while I was absent."

"Of course."

"But you can't do it if you are absent with me."

"Didn't you hear Ponderby say that Nauheim was only twenty-three miles away from Frankfort?"

"What has that to do with the matter?"

"Don't you know that Frankfort is the greatest financial city in Germany, if not in Europe? It is the town from which we draw, if not our Stranleighs, at least our Rothschilds, who have been reasonably successful commercially."

"I still don't see what connection that has with the affair in hand."

"Peter, if I am to take charge of your business, I must do it my own way. As I believe in going to the best spot for the cure of heart disease, I have made it my habit to select the best man I can find to transact each of the various concerns with which ​I deal. As you know, I employ twelve of the shrewdest business men I can secure. To the chief of these I shall turn over the general direction of your interests, and he will distribute the different sections among the eleven others."

This by-proxy proposal did not commend itself to Mackeller, who sat glum and depressed while the scheme was explained to him. Stranleigh, however, continued unperturbed—

"Of course, Peter, if you'd like to have the business conducted as you would do it yourself——"

"That's exactly what I wanted, if possible," interrupted Mackeller, "but I suppose such a condition of things is not to be hoped for."

"Oh, bless you, yes, it is! Anything may be accomplished if a man really makes up his mind to it. Instead of employing twelve competent men, I'll substitute for two or three of them an equal number of ordinary, fussy individuals who will muddle whatever is put in their charge, and thus reduce the average of excellence to your liking."

Peter scowled darkly at him.

"What we wish to attain," Stranleigh went on, ignoring his displeasure, "is, first of all, the restoration of your health. Quite a secondary consideration is the carrying on of your business. A doctor will ​tell you that during your cure you must not worry about temporal matters. Such advice is quite futile, because his patient is as unable to help worrying about things which may go wrong in his absence as he is to cure himself by an effort of will. Now, I can do for you what the doctor can't. I can control your affairs under a guarantee, my guarantee being that if money is lost in any transaction carried out on your behalf, I will make good the deficiency. If money is gained, it goes into your treasury. So, then, cast away all thought of business, knowing that if you were in the most superb health you could not accomplish more than I shall by giving you such a security."

"Oh," said Mackeller, "I could not think of accepting so one-sided an arrangement as that! It is 'Heads I win, and tails you lose.'"

"Precisely; but the agreement lasts only for a short period, six weeks at the most. Whatever losses I incur during that forty-two days will not matter a button to me, while it is imperative that the primary condition of your cure shall be achieved. I defy even a pessimistic growler like you to worry when you have accepted so advantageous a bargain. Now, we will regard that as settled, and I refuse to discuss it any more."

​"My dear Stranleigh," said Mackeller, speaking with some difficulty, "Fate seems determined to place me under obligations to you that I can never repay."

"That's all right, Peter! Let us leave it with Fate. Now, will you be ready to depart with me for Nauheim to-morrow morning?"

"Oh, that is another thing I wish to speak to you about!" said Mackeller. "I cannot accept such a sacrifice on your part. You would be bored to death at a health resort filled with invalids. You must not accompany me to Nauheim."

"Friend Peter, I ask you to allow me to be a little selfish on occasion. I am going to Nauheim to prove whether or not it will cure me."

"Cure you! Why, there's nothing wrong with your heart, is there?"

"We read that the heart is deceitful, and desperately wicked, and that's what's the matter with mine. I learned its state, not from a doctor, but through introspection. An incident that occurred last week startled me. I engineered a deal against a man who asserted at the Camperdown Club that all the coups for which I had received credit were the result of luck and not of brains. I used to believe myself that it was luck, but I wasn't going to permit ​a man to state it publicly, so I gave him fair notice and attacked some of his favourite interests on the Stock Exchange. On Settlement Day he was thirty thousand pounds to the bad, while I was richer by that amount. This was all as it should be; nevertheless, I caught myself, for the first time in my life, feeling an unholy joy at the accumulating of money. That frightened me. I saw that if I went on I should become like all the rest, raking money together into my bank account not because I needed it, but for the mere pleasure of handling the rake. I also caught a glimpse of the haggard face of my opponent, and realised he had lost money he could not afford to lose, while I gained cash I didn't need. I understood for the first time the tension a man like my adversary must go through when a sum of even that size is in the balance. I had just determined before you came in to study the other side of the question.

"It is said that all the wrecks in the Atlantic ultimately gather in the Saragossa Sea. I resolved to find the Saragossa Sea of business, and observe the human wreckage accumulated there. I want to see the men of affairs who may have been successful or unsuccessful financially. I want to see them, not with a hawk-like predatory gleam in their eyes, as I have ​met them in London and New York, but when they are paying the price. I want to see them not when they are paying in cash, but when they are paying with life. I want to see them, not gambling on the Stock Exchange, but when the grim figure of Death puts up the opposing stake. I want to see those men, a mere rumour of whose ill-health sets Wall Street in a tremble. I want to study the face of such a man when a famous specialist tells him he must cease all connection with the affairs of the world if he is to remain in it for another half-year."

"My God!" groaned Peter, "that's what the doctor told me!"

"Oh, you're all right, Mac! I'm quite certain that before two months are past you will be as well as ever again. You are engaged in legitimate business, not in gambling. But now you know why I am going to Nauheim with you. Will the nine o'clock express from Charing Cross to-morrow morning be too early for you?"

"Too early for me?" cried Mackeller in amazement. "I should say not, but how about yourself?"

"Oh, I'll make the effort on an important occasion like this! That will enable us to catch the Ostend-Vienna train-de-luxe which will drop us off at ​Frankfort. Still, it is a bit early, now you call my attention to it. Wait till I consult Ponderby."

When this well-informed man came in, Stranleigh said ingratiatingly—

"As you are in a measure responsible for our journey to Nauheim, perhaps you would be good enough in your own interests, for you are coming with me, to mention what train you prefer. I have been suggesting the sumptuous and speedy Ostend Vienna express. If that train does not rise to your ideas of luxury, I shall be glad to engage a special."

Ponderby's seriousness was in no way affected by his master's pretence that the servant's conduct was the chief consideration. He slightly inclined his head in acknowledgment of the persiflage, then replied soberly—

"I never recommend the Vienna express for any distance short of Nuremberg, where it arrives about eight in the morning. It reaches Frankfort at 3.29 a.m., an inconvenient——"

"That's quite enough, Ponderby," interrupted his lordship. "Although I might for once consent to reach Charing Cross at 9 a.m., I am jiggered if I'll alight at Frankfort at three in the morning. Trot us out another train, Ponderby."

"There's the afternoon train from Charing Cross, ​my lord, leaving at 2.20. Sleeping-car Ostend to Cologne. A run up the left bank of the Rhine by daybreak, arriving in Frankfort just before noon."

"That's all right, Ponderby! I need not ask you to have everything ready by two o'clock to-morrow afternoon."

"Thank you, my lord. Everything is ready at this moment."

"Ponderby is mistaken. I'm not ready," said Mackeller querulously.

Lord Stranleigh glanced at Peter with just the slightest touch of astonishment.

"Why, my dear Mac, I've given you five hours extra. I understood you were willing to take the nine o'clock train, and now you don't need to depart until two."

"Five hours are of no use to me; indeed, five days will probably prove inadequate. Half a dozen imperative affairs require my personal attention."

"What are they?" enquired Stranleigh, with mild indifference.

"I have points of disagreement with three men and two companies, any of which may lead to a suit at law unless diplomatically handled. If not settled before I leave, they will worry me all the time I am away."

​"Ah, we mustn't allow that," said his lordship. "Now, just oblige me with the names and addresses of your protagonists, the amount in dispute in each case, and also in each case the exact terms of a settlement satisfactory to you."

Reluctantly Mackeller did as requested, Ponderby providing him with paper and pencil, his lordship contenting himself by lighting cigarette after cigarette as an aid to business. While Mackeller wrote out his list, Stranleigh requested Ponderby to telephone solicitor number one, asking him to call immediately at Stranleigh House. When Mackeller handed the list to his host, the latter rose languidly, nevertheless with a distinct air of dismissal. He had had enough of that glum Scotchman for this particular occasion.

"Now, Peter," he said, "go home, and let nothing prevent your keeping the appointment with me at Charing Cross to-morrow afternoon at two. Bring your own valet with you. I am too selfish to spare Ponderby's ministrations. Besides, a crank like you would worry the sedate Ponderby into heart trouble before a week was past."

"I'm no crank," cried Mackeller angrily, "but a man of business who likes to see affairs carried on in a ship-shape way."

​"Pardon me," replied Stranleigh, with the utmost placidness. "Unfortunately spoken language does not differentiate between terms as the written word does. I'm not using American slang, but good solid German, when I call you a crank. I use a 'k,' not a 'c' The German word for a man who is ill is 'kranke.' More correctly at this moment you are a 'herzkranke.' Do brush up your German, Peter, but anyhow, don't fail me at Charing Cross."

"Oh, that's all very well, Stranleigh, but while I'm in danger of being dragged before the law-courts——"

"Within half an hour this possible litigation will be in the hands of the most competent solicitor in London, so I implore you, Peter, to go home, and allow me time to give a few orders. I must get into telegraphic communication with the German Government in order that my own comfort, and incidentally yours, shall be properly looked after."

Mackeller proved very difficult to manage, as, indeed, all strenuous men are when they only half believe what the doctor tells them, and feel irritated at the thought of even a temporary suspension of business. Stranleigh, however, was imperturbably good-natured, though he sighed with relief when finally he got Peter aboard the sleeping-car at Ostend.

​Peter did not sleep well during the early part of the night. He had looked up the route, and worried over the fact that he must rise before reaching Herbesthal, in order to pass his belongings through the German Customs. This ceremony, which would take place somewhere between four and five o'clock in the morning, he regarded as a stupid, thoroughly foreign proceeding, and furthermore, as the sleeping-car did not go beyond Cologne, at six o'clock he must get into the train for the left bank of the Rhine. Notwithstanding, during the long wait at Brussels he dropped off into a sort of stupor, having enjoyed little real slumber since learning the seriousness of his condition.

It was after nine o'clock when he woke with a jump, knowing that everything had gone wrong because of his temporary oblivion. His room was still dark, although sunshine struggled through chinks of the blinds. He turned on the electric light, and a glance at his watch threw him into a panic. The train was humming along merrily, and the Lord only knew in what direction it was going. More than three hours had elapsed since he should have changed carriages, and doubtless all his baggage was retained at the German frontier.

​Trembling with excitement, he wrapped a dressing-gown round him, and stepped out into the corridor, where he was met by the unruffled Ponderby.

"I must see Stranleigh at once," demanded Mackeller. "I wonder if he has the least notion into what part of Germany he has got us. And then there's the luggage: every stick of it held up at Herbesthal these four or five hours!"

"His lordship," responded Ponderby, pronouncing the title with gentle deference, "is not to be disturbed until eleven o'clock, as we approach Frankfort. This carriage goes through from Frankfort to Nauheim, as it came through Cologne for Frankfort. The luggage is all aboard, and has been examined. His lordship will breakfast between Frankfort and Nauheim, but I have orders to attend to your wants whenever you call. He recommends a nice fresh sole, which we took on at Ostend, or an excellent Rhine salmon, obtained at Cologne. His lordship is anxious to eliminate all cause of worry, and so empowered me to open and read to you any telegram that came from London. Already several messages have been received pertaining to his own affairs, but one arrived half an hour ago, at our last stop, which may interest you. All your threatened law cases have been ​settled at a figure ten per cent. higher than you had stipulated for. I may tell you privately that in each case his lordship gave your opponents the opportunity of compromising on this basis, or being involved in law proceedings with his lordship himself. Such is the power of money that in every instance his lordship's reputation as a very wealthy man carried the day. Did you say sole, or salmon, Mr. Mackeller?"

"A grilled sole," muttered Mackeller, who thereupon retired to dress. Ponderby's words were unexceptionable, but his tone implied a subtle condescension which Mackeller resented. It was only too evident that Stranleigh's valet regarded him as a fussy muddler of affairs, in no way to be compared with his slothful, but efficient master.

Mackeller 's medical examination at Nauheim resulted in his being ordered into a private sanatorium, where communication even with friends was forbidden, and Stranleigh felt a qualm of meanness at the relief caused by this announcement.

There was much to interest a stranger in Bad-Nauheim. At first sight it seemed exclusively the stamping ground of the rich, for its new bathing houses were models of modern convenience and luxury, while comfortable hotels, lavishness in well ​laid-out parks, and the general expensiveness of its Parisian shops, marked it as a resort of the wealthy. Soon, however, the young nobleman learned that great reductions were made to people whose income was less than two-thousand-five hundred marks a year, and that the Bath Direction, in extreme cases, remitted the fees altogether.

Lord Stranleigh's mind being turned in the direction of finding some means to do good with his money, other than by the haphazard charity in which he was accustomed to indulge, found himself confronted by an obstacle seemingly insurmountable. He felt a reluctance he could not overcome in approaching a person evidently poor, and scraping acquaintance with him. Such an action on his part seemed impudent; indelicate; an unwarrantable intrusion. He was therefore deeply gratified when a man undoubtedly in low financial condition made the first advance.

He had frequently observed this man, and wondered why he was poor, for his face was keen and vulpine, a countenance that betokened power if ever a countenance is any index of character. The eyes, however, were dull and expressionless, and Stranleigh thought that in spite of the masterful face they betokened a vacant mind. But once ​he caught them fastened on himself with such intensity that it almost made him shiver.

"That man's an anarchist," he decided, but the explanation came immediately.

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger, "but have you finished with that newspaper in your pocket?"

"Oh, quite," responded Stranleigh, "and you are very welcome to it."

"I only want a glance at the news. I'll give it back to you in a minute."

"I take only a glance at the news myself," replied Stranleigh, "so I don't wish it returned if you will be good enough to accept it."

"You are very kind. The truth is I can't afford to buy a paper in this town. I can get better dailies where I come from, for a cent, and here they charge four to six times that much."

Stranleigh sat down beside him on the bench. They were in the Parkstrasse, with many passers-by going up to the afternoon concert at the Kurhaus. The person who couldn't afford a newspaper showed great familiarity with the one presented to him. He scanned its columns with lightning rapidity, then folded it up, and handed it back. For a moment it seemed to Stranleigh that his threadbare ​acquaintance was already aware of the journal's contents, and had made his request merely as an opening for conversation.

"I am not well enough dressed," he demurred, when Stranleigh proposed they should go to the concert together, "to mix with you swells on the terrace, and though I understand the music is good, I don't care much for music."

"I'm no swell," said the younger man with a laugh, "and I've just invited you to come there with me."

"No swell!" cried the other. "Why, I heard a person who spoke English say, as he pointed you out, that you were Lord Stranleigh, and he added you were the richest man in Europe."

"Oh! I don't know about the richest, but my name happens to be Stranleigh."

"I didn't believe about the richest myself. If a man has a little money, people always call him a millionaire, and generally he isn't. But their calling you a lord interested me. I'd never seen a real live lord. I thought they didn't speak to ordinary folks."

"My fault," confessed Stranleigh, "lies rather in the opposite direction. I'm so anxious to talk to people, that I sometimes find a difficulty in getting them to talk to me."

​"Well, I resolved to make a move toward you, and then when I got back home I'd tell them that I'd talked with a genuine lord."

"Where is 'back home'?" asked Stranleigh.

"I guess I'd better introduce myself, as one good turn deserves another. My name's J. W. Garner. I'm clerk in a railway freight house, in Beloit, Wisconsin."

"Is that a remunerative occupation?"

"I can't say that it is, although I live fairly comfortable, and make enough money to come over here without asking anybody's help, and take the treatment without going on the pauper list. Still, it isn't in a freight house that big money is made in the railway business. Some chap on Wall Street, that never saw the railroad, will make more money on it in ten minutes than we clerks can in forty years."

"Yes; or lose it," said Stranleigh.

"Certainly, he runs that risk, but those chaps on the inside don't lose anything. E. L. Bannerdale, for instance."

"Curiously enough," replied Stranleigh, "I was just thinking of him. A great deal depends on the point of view in this world, and it occurred to me how much more lucky you were than Bannerdale."

​"Pshaw!" cried Garner, impatiently, "Bannerdale must be worth sixty million, if he's worth a cent."

"I daresay, but look at the unhappy man's position at the present moment. He has taken a house in Vienna that occupies a city square, and to keep away the reporters, has garrisoned it as if it were a fortress. Everyone knows he is stricken with a dangerous disease, and has come to Vienna for treatment, and we all are aware that a man in his condition needs quiet and rest; yet quiet is the one thing he can't buy. Stocks fluctuate up and down according to the rumours coming from that house of death, as it probably is, for he has been reported dead several times, and reported convalescent, and reported incurable: nobody really knows what his condition is except his physician. But to torture a very sick man in this way seems to me abominable."

J. W. Garner shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"They've got to have the news," he said, "and anyhow I guess there ain't much sympathy for old Bannerdale in the States. He looted too many people when he was well, and I expect there's a feeling of relief now that he's deadly ill. After all, I don't believe his death will make very much ​difference. He's sure to have things fixed up so that if he pegs out, affairs will go on pretty much as usual. He's an important man, I admit, but he's only one of a group, and the group won't let things go to smash."

"Why," said Stranleigh, "the very paper I handed to you just now says that his most intimate friends have turned traitors, and believing he cannot recover are buying, or selling, or doing something they shouldn't do."

Garner laughed harshly.

"Then God pity them," he said, "if old Bannerdale gets well!"

"Doesn't the career of a man like Bannerdale create dissatisfaction and arouse envy among the less fortunate of his fellow citizens?"

"Oh, I don't know. I guess not much. I never felt envious of anybody, because I knew if I got a chance I'd do the same thing."

"You never had the chance, then?"

"Oh, I have had thousands of chances. In one way or other I secured information that would have made my fortune had I possessed the money to buy at the proper time; that would have made dozens of fortunes with one rich man to back me."

​"Did you ever try persuading the rich man?"

"Lord bless you! yes, but the difficulty is to get the start. Nobody will listen unless you've put through a deal that's been successful. You see, everybody's singing the same song. You can't meet a man who won't agree to make you rich if you'll just grub-stake him with a few thousand dollars."

"Have you given up hope of finding your rich man?"

"No; I'm at it just now. That's why I scraped acquaintance with you."

"All right, Mr. Garner. You've got me persuaded, so here's your chance at last, with a man who doesn't care a rap whether he wins or loses."

"Well, sir, that's the kind of man I'd like to do business with. I should hate to lose money for anybody, just as I'd hate to lose it myself, if I had some. Now, what I wanted that paper of yours for was to see whether the stock of the Great South-Western Short Line had gone up or not. Instead of going up, it's dropped down. If I had money, I'd put every cent of it in that road."

"Do you mind telling me why?"

"Oh, you want to back out!"

"I never back out. I'll give you the money ​now, if you're in doubt. How much do you need? A hundred pounds, or a thousand?"

"Well, I guess I don't want any money at all, but I'd like you to take as much stock as you care to handle, and just hold it for a week or two. If my tip isn't any good, then you don't owe me anything: if it is good, I'm content to take whatever you think it worth."

"Well, if you would trust me that far, it's funny you won't say why you expect this stock to rise."

"I don't mind telling you, but if I were you, I wouldn't talk about it. This is the road that Bannerdale nearly had possession of at the time he broke down, and his doctors told him to go to Europe and quit business entirely. He must have absolute rest, they said. All right. He goes and barricades himself up, then his partners, thinking he isn't going to get well, begin to sell, and the stock goes down. Now, Bannerdale held an option on the majority of that stock, an option that doesn't expire for another month. He depended on certain banks and trust companies and financial friends to furnish the money, but the moment exaggerating newspapers said that Bannerdale was a dying man, they all deserted him, and he couldn't get a cent. When he actually left for Europe, all ​Bannerdale stocks dropped six points, and they've been going down ever since, especially when it became known his partners were selling. Now, I believe Bannerdale will secure that road, sick or well."

"You're betting, then, on Bannerdale's life or death?"

"Exactly."

"You think he is going to live?"

"I do. He's a tough nut, is old Bannerdale."

Stranleigh rose to his feet. "Very good, Mr. Garner. Tell me exactly what to do."

"You see that place opposite?" said Garner, pointing to a broker's office on the business side of Parkstrasse. "You go over there, and tell them to put you on to the chief office in Frankfort by telephone; buy as much stock of the Great South-Western Short Line as you care to carry."

"Shall I do this in my own name, or in yours?"

"In your own name, of course. You'll be giving them a cheque for the amount. Besides, as I said, I'm quite willing to take whatever you allow me, and we don't need any documents about it."

"Right," said Stranleigh. "Here is my address, and whenever you wish me to sell, drop in on me and give the order. Good afternoon."

Nearly a week passed, but Stranleigh saw nothing ​of his dilapidated client. He began to wonder whether the man was a swindler of some sort, but for the life of him he could not see how Garner was to make any money out of the deal Stranleigh had put through in his own name. Enlightenment came to him one morning at breakfast, when he opened the Paris New York Herald. The headlines were sufficient, and ran as follows:—