Читать книгу The Running Fight - William Hamilton Osborne - Страница 4

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However successful Ilingsworth believed he had been in his effort to persuade himself that his intuitive faculties had been at fault, when they warned him of some alien presence in the room, it must be acknowledged that he continued to look a little tentatively. At length, however, his uneasiness wore off, and his manner, while again holding out the picture for Leslie to look upon, softened so perceptibly that it would have given one the impression that his visit there was more in the nature of a social call than the tempestuous errand of business vengeance that it was.

"I wish you had known her," Ilingsworth said; "and I'm rather surprised that you don't. We're Morristown people, you know, and Elinor, well, Elinor's friends are all very nice people. Even in New York, she——"

Leslie's eyes sought the ground.

"We go out very little here," she said. "Of course I have my friends, and there was a time.... But since my father married a second time, why——" This girlish confidence trailed off into uncertainty. She handed back the photograph. "But I should like to know her," she declared with sincerity.

"I wish you did," he began, and then added, "even in the light of present things, I wish you did."

In the silence that followed Leslie fell to wondering about the man before her, and it did not take her long to decide that she liked him. He was not, it is true, of the same shrewd, practical mould as her father. But she recognised that he had the high-strung temperament, so often a characteristic of the aristocrat. The sense of fear was fast leaving her.

"I—I'm going to apologise," he began at length, "for the fright I've given you, though my purpose hasn't flagged. And if I had a man to deal with—if I had met Peter V. Wilkinson, face to face again, who knows but the demon in me would come once more to the fore. You say you can't understand. Let me explain to you how it was: Up to thirteen months ago we, Elinor and I, had a quarter of a million dollars—that means nearly fifteen thousand dollars a year. And fifteen thousand in Morristown means decent living—even here in New York it would mean that. Then I met Wilkinson." His face grew livid, his hand clenched. "May heaven forgive me, why didn't I understand it was my quarter of a million that this vampire——"

The girl drew herself up and quickly interrupted him.

"Mr. Ilingsworth, I must remind you that you are speaking of my father."

There was no mistaking her anger. Her eyes blazed, and it seemed to rouse the tiger in him.

"Yes, I'm speaking of your father!" he cried. "And if you've never heard the truth before, you will hear it now. Moreover, if I am any judge of human nature, you'll know whether I am stating facts or otherwise. Thirteen months ago Peter V. Wilkinson sought me out. I thought I was seeking him,"—he laughed bitterly,—"but I was wrong. He sought me out and placed me high up in his companies. I was successful—which meant that he had succeeded in his scheme. I did not see it then; but now I know that the man who is willing to stoop low enough to rope in the pennies of the Bridgets, the Michaels, the Lenas, and the Gustaves, of this world, is a man who would spend his time and money to get my quarter of a million—mine and Elinor's—in his grasp. But then I was flattered. It meant big salary and big dividends for me, at least, so I was assured."

He faltered for an instant, and then went on:

"I was a fool—a fool, not to see it all before. The result is that now I haven't got a dollar—we're penniless."

"My father," returned the girl, calmly enough, "will have less than that, when all is said and done. This house, though it's in the name of Mrs. Wilkinson, will have to be sold, I presume. I don't see why you make a fuss over it—it was the panic, wasn't it? Everybody went down before it. That is, a great many Wall Street men are bankrupt. So, why do you complain?"

"I complain because your father has got my quarter of a million—either he's got it, or you have."

"I told you before that I have none of my father's money. I have my mother's money only—less than a million, that's all."

"The panic!" went on Ilingsworth bitterly, ignoring her protest. "Yes, that's just like Wilkinson to lay it to the panic! That's what they all do! I tell you the panic was not the cause; it was the excuse. I wonder if you have ever stopped to realise what a trust company is for?"

"Why, to save people's money, of course," was the girl's ready answer. "Just like a bank, isn't it?"

Ilingsworth almost snorted. It was a strange colloquy, this conversation between the man of middle age and the girl. It had a curious interest that neither could have defined. The girl, on her part, felt that Ilingsworth represented, somehow, the criticism and abuse that the world was heaping on Peter V. Wilkinson. She wanted to estimate its full force, to weigh its import, and then to defend her father with every fibre of her being; Ilingsworth, on the other hand, felt the need of a confidant who would understand, for Elinor of the wistful eyes could only sympathise. This young woman knew what he was talking about.

"Miss Wilkinson," he burst out now, "you surprise me! I thought you were more of a business woman than I am a business man. But I find you're not. Let me explain it to you. Jones wants to run a factory; Smith wants to speculate in real estate; Robinson wants to buck the Wall Street game. Now they haven't got a dollar, so what do they do? They buy a trust company."

The girl opened her eyes wide.

"That's nonsense!" she exclaimed. "How can anyone buy a trust company without a dollar!"

Ilingsworth's smile was full of meaning.

"It's the kind of nonsense your own father has been dealing in for years," he returned, placing his hand upon her arm. "They buy the trust company, and put up its own stock as security for the purchase price—then they go ahead. Jones runs his factory; Smith buys and sells real estate; Robinson bucks the game upon the Street...."

"And without money?" reiterated the girl, still incredulous.

"With money," corrected Ilingsworth, his voice even and unexcited now, "with the money of Mike and Bridget and Carl and Sophy, depositors who put their hard-earned dollars in to get a few cents interest—two per cent., to be exact—while Jones and his crowd are making two hundred per cent. on the money. But Jones isn't through—he wants more. So he and his crowd buy another trust company, put up the stock of the first as collateral, or any way you please,—there's no end to the game,—and this crowd go on with their speculation, using the people's money, and gathering in the cream. They never stop; and just so long as everything is prosperous, so long are the trust companies sound. Then, in the fulness of time, comes the panic,"—and with his clenched hands he smote the top of the desk,—"smash!"

The girl showed that she had been following him closely when she maintained:

"Still, that's only your point of view. At any rate, it was a venture, and when the panic came—everybody goes under. These people don't create the panic."

Ilingsworth gritted his teeth.

"I haven't finished!" he cried. "Out of all this crowd of Jones, Smith and Robinson, there is always one man who understands the game. He owns seventeen trust companies; he's milked them dry. He's been waiting for a panic; the panic comes. Now he throws up his hands, tells the people he's been a fool with the rest, and shows up worthless stock—waste-paper by the ton that he has bought for just nothing a pound. But he's got all that the people haven't got, and he's salted it away. And that man's name is Peter V. Wilkinson."

Leslie's face paled.

"Mr. Ilingsworth," she cried sharply, "do you really believe all that you've been telling me?"

Ilingsworth stared her wearily in the face.

"The Norahs and the Ludwigs, perhaps, don't mind losing their few dollars," he replied vaguely; "but I want to tell you that when I—when Elinor and I lose fifteen thousand a year—and how many years there are ahead of us—it's killing! Killing! And you ask do I believe all that I've been telling you?" He roused himself to sudden energy. "Believe? Why, heavens and earth, I know, I know...."

There was a pause in which Ilingsworth's eyes sought the floor. Presently he looked up and held out his hand.

"Miss Wilkinson," he said contritely, "for what I've done, or tried to do this afternoon, I suppose you could have me put in jail—in an asylum. If I had only myself to think of, I shouldn't mind. However, I beg you to keep it to yourself, if you feel you can. I see things clearer now...."

Leslie took the offered hand.

"But you weren't going to shoot Leslie Wilkinson, if he'd been a man?"

Ilingsworth shook his head.

"To tell the truth, Miss Wilkinson, I wasn't. My intention was to frighten him...."

"You succeeded admirably," she answered, with a frank laugh. Then she added: "What were you going to frighten him into doing?"

Ilingsworth's hand strayed to his forehead.

"I was going to compel him to sign a check, turn over stock, restore to me my quarter of a million, somehow."

The girl smiled as she asked:

"But how could he do it in this room? Surely you didn't expect him to have any stocks or money here? And if he gave a check, you know payment on it could be stopped the instant you had left. And, anyway, how could you get out unscathed? I can't just see how you could...."

Ilingsworth stared at her, fascinated. He felt his vision clear. He realised now that she was right; that for weeks he had suffered the curse of, the desperate; that he had been robbed of the one thing that the desperate man needs—deliberation. He had possessed purpose, force—the purpose to force the issue at the point of a murderous revolver, but when it came to the execution.... And what about the result? To what end would it all tend? Until now he had never thought of that.

"I believe you're right, after all," he said somewhat sheepishly, and started toward the door. "May I ask you for your promise not to expose me," he entreated, "for the sake of Elinor?"

Leslie bowed her head. Now that it was all over, she was on the verge of hysteria. "Mr. Ilingsworth, I won't say a word about it," she promised, "unless the time comes when I think it necessary.... This panic seems to have made us all half crazy—even my father seems so most of the time. Good-bye!"

Somewhat incoherently Ilingsworth murmured some grateful words, and immediately after Leslie watched him silently and carefully unlock the door and open it. The hall was deserted save for the presence of a footman near the front entrance, and to him this long interview behind closed doors was as nothing. These were parlous times in the house of Wilkinson; strange goings and comings were the rule, not the exception. Nothing was unusual. And so Ilingsworth passed out in safety, carrying his purpose with him to the free air outside.

But no sooner had he reached the middle of the sidewalk than there swooped down upon him a horde of vagabonds, infinitesimal specimens of humanity, and this mob of street gamins had but a single purpose, sang but a common song:

Tri-State Trust Company Closes Its Doors.

Biggest Smash on Record.

For weeks and months, perhaps, Ilingsworth had seen this coming, had known that it was inevitable, and here it was, thrust into his face in scare headlines that smelt to heaven! It smote him as with sudden lightning shock. But the public announcement did more than shock him, it turned him almost into a raving maniac. For an instant he stood silent, regarding the clamorous morsels of humanity all about him, clamorous for the smallest coin known to the Union. Then, with mighty swings of his arms, he swooped upon them, shrieking:

"Get out of my sight, get out of my sight, you ragamuffins!"

The newsboys fled as far as the next corner. There they stopped, clustered once again and jeered at him.

Turning, Ilingsworth again faced the house of Wilkinson.

"I'm tricked—tricked!" he cried. "Why did I give up so easy; why didn't I force the girl...." For a moment he checked his half-frenzied words, then he went on: "Peter V. Wilkinson, I'll even up with you, somehow, yet!"

In a few moments he had turned the nearest corner and disappeared.

Back in the Wilkinson household, Leslie, almost exhausted, sank into a chair. As she sat there, she perceived one of the footmen passing her, bound from the rear to the outer entrance.

"Jeffries," cried the girl, springing up, "tell Jordan that it will be quite unnecessary to mention Mr. Ilingsworth's call to anyone. He came to see me."

"Very good, ma'am," returned the footman, passing on.

"And Jeffries," she continued, "have you anything to do just now?"

"Nothing, Miss Leslie," answered the man, "except to obtain the latest extras for Mrs. Wilkinson. She's that particular about it."

"Are there any extras now?" inquired the girl.

The footman inclined his head toward the entrance to the house, through which Ilingsworth had just made his exit.

"Don't you hear them, Miss?" he asked.

And indeed, at that moment, the yelping of the young street wolves of Manhattan could plainly be heard. Leslie placed her hands over her ears and fled incontinently up the broad stairs, disdaining the services of the man at the lift, who rose expectantly as she started past him. On reaching the first landing, she met Roy Pallister—little Pallister, she always thought of him, and noting the consternation on his countenance, she could not refrain from bursting into laughter.

"Why, Mr. Pallister," she cried, "you look as if you had been shot out of a cannon!"

In a moment Pallister's look of worriment changed to one of temporary happiness. He was an undersized little fellow, doing the duties of his insignificant career with a gentle manner. He was her father's household secretary, amanuensis, a paid servant, it is true; but critics of the Wilkinson household always maintained two things: first, that there was only one gentlewoman there—Leslie; and only one gentleman—Pallister. Leslie liked him, yet she could not eradicate from the humorous part of her nature the fact that Pallister was ever like a shuttlecock, dancing his dignified but harried attendance now upon Peter V. and then upon another member of the household, whose demands were even more exacting.

"Have you been shot out of a cannon, Mr. Pallister?" she persisted.

Pallister turned his eyes away from hers: he didn't dare to look at Leslie too long. To him she was just a bit too bewildering. After a time his glance crept back to hers.

"Yes, Miss Wilkinson," he said nervously, "and what's more, I've got to come back directly and face the cannon's mouth again."

Leslie touched him lightly on the shoulder; a thrill passed through the young man's frame.

"Never mind," she said smilingly, "I'm going up to spike the cannon for you."

On reaching the second floor she knocked gently, but persistently, at a boudoir door.

"Oh, who is it now?" came in a petulant, nasal voice from within. "Come in, if you're coming; otherwise stay out!" And an expression of something like pain crossed the girl's face as she entered.

Sitting up in bed in a flowered-silk kimona, a lady was sipping a claret cup. Year after year, like the Wilkinson mansion, the lineaments and form of this lady had been portrayed in the press throughout the country; and long after she was entitled to any claim to comeliness, she had been heralded as one of the beauties of the universe. As a matter of fact, her delicate form—if delicate form she had ever possessed—had been wholly obliterated by a generous layer of avoirdupois—lumps wherever the lumps were the least needed.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" she snapped.

Leslie groaned inwardly as she looked at the woman before her; for this lady of leisure was the Maggie Lane mentioned by the megaphone—Margaret Lane Wilkinson now, but still Maggie by nature—and her step-mother! The girl's eyes moistened as she thought of her own mother that she had known, and who had died a short time ago. For in the case of Wilkinson the funeral baked meats had almost furnished the marriage feast.

"Anything I can do?" asked the young girl, forcing up the pleasant little smile that was always part and parcel of Leslie Wilkinson.

The lady of the flowered kimona did not respond at once, but kept her eyes fastened on the door.

"I told Jeffries to get those extras right away—he's been gone an hour," she complained.

Leslie could not suppress a smile when she saw the multitude of papers that bestrewed the bed and floor, and before she could speak, the elder woman went on, between sips of her claret cup, to say:

"Oh, the disgrace of these failures! The terrible charges that are made! I simply cannot stand it! A mere girl, like you, cannot appreciate the strain of this thing on my nerves. And everybody thinks of nothing but the strain on Peter; no one considers poor me——"

"Oh, but you must not take it so to heart," said the girl with well-feigned sympathy. "Everybody is failing now."

"But I have looked these papers through and through," Mrs. Peter V. went on, "and nowhere, nowhere have I been considered at all. Why, not one paper has even mentioned my name to-day. For a month not one of them has published a picture of me; yet they are full of pictures of Peter V., this house, and of the Tri-State Trust Company offices. It makes me sick—nobody thinks of me."

At this moment the footman knocked at the door. Leslie stepped forward and took the papers that he passed in, tossing them lightly on the bed.

"Oh! Oh!" wailed Mrs. Peter V. as her eye rested on the headlines. "The Tri-State has gone up! This is the end—the end of everything! Here, Leslie, you take this paper, and I'll take that—we'll see whether there isn't something in them about me."

On the floor below, no sooner had Leslie left the Den than there was a rustle behind the heavy curtains, in that room, and presently they were parted, and then, with a stealthy movement a woman stepped forth into the middle of the room.

Madeline Braine looked carefully about her, listened for an instant, and then advanced still further toward the door. Her attitude was watchfulness itself.

"His daughter Elinor, a girl who needs protection!" she cried, with an agitation born of fresh events, and then a half-sob broke from her lips. "There are other girls who should have had care just as much—and haven't had it."

She glanced at her watch and started forward once again.

"I can't wait!" she cried. "Why isn't Peter Wilkinson here?"

For a moment it occurred to her to cross the hall to the reception-room, and from there to summon a servant and give him a message. She had had her own reasons, in the first instance, for darting into Wilkinson's Den to hide. She well knew that her agreement with Wilkinson forbade her to cross his threshold; but she intended to make a crisis in her affairs as an excuse to him, and quite naturally decided that there would be much less danger in the Den of her being discovered by others than in the reception-room. Now, there were reasons why she must not be found within this room: the interview between Ilingsworth and Leslie Wilkinson made it impossible. And she started to leave, but suddenly drew back.

"Somebody's coming," she whispered to herself. And scarcely had she retreated once more behind the concealing curtains of the Den when Jeffries entered with an armful of the latest extras and laid them down upon the desk. After that, he passed out, but events happened with such unusual rapidity that Madeline Braine found herself again caught like a rat in a trap behind the heavy curtains in the room.

"It's just as well," she assured herself, as she waited there, every minute expecting to get a chance to escape; but as it turned out, it was not just as well for her.

Alone at last in the silence and solitude of her own apartments at the top of the house, Leslie sat for some moments on the window-seat, gazing out over the Hudson at the misty, dusky shore across the way.

"I wonder," she mused, "if what this man Ilingsworth says is true. Is it possible that my father——" she stopped abruptly. "No, no, it can't be true," she went on; "my father wouldn't...." But the face of Giles Ilingsworth rose before her, and she found herself searching his open, honest countenance for some loophole of escape. Now his words rang in her ears, and she felt that they were the words of a man who knew....

"Oh," she cried, "I must find out who is right, and who is wrong! I must know about my father, and what he has done!" Presently, she leaped to her feet, crossed to her dressing-table and picked up the photograph of a man—a young man with a square chin and wonderful eyes—so she thought—that looked her squarely in the face.

"Eliot," she said softly, to the picture, "you're always honest with me, are you not? You're honest with everybody. I wonder if you will find out for me—the truth about my father."

Now she drew the photograph nearer to her, and her eyes grew soft and tender, and, for the time being, she forgot Ilingsworth and his daughter Elinor; forgot the Tri-State Trust Company and its alleged iniquities; forgot even her father, Peter V. Wilkinson.

"Eliot, dear," she whispered, "I wonder what you would think of me, if you knew that I did this?" Whereupon, she pressed her soft, warm, young face against the pictured one. "Maybe you'll never know, though," she went on; "maybe you'll never take the trouble to find out."

Leslie laid down the photograph with a sigh, and, retracing her steps to the window, was just in time to see a big Mastodon bring up at the curb in the street below, from which four men alighted: Peter V. Wilkinson, her father, looking very much exercised and troubled; Flomerfelt, his confidential man; and, lastly, two Pinkerton detectives, recently-acquired guards who were never far away whenever he appeared in the open.