profit; but I was too greedy, and too much afraid Chicago would learn
the real state of the crops. I expected the news to be out long before
now; but instead of that the papers are blowing about full crops,
which either shows that they don’t know what they are talking about, or
there’s a nigger in the fence somewhere.”

“What makes you so very sure the crop’s a partial failure?”

“Because it’s my business to know, for one thing. I have travelled from
Chicago clear through to the Pacific coast; south as far as wheat is
grown; and up north into Canada. I don’t need to ask a farmer what
crop he expects; I can see with my own eyes the state of affairs. I was
brought up on wheat; I ploughed the fields and sowed the grain, and I
may say I was cradled in wheat, if you’ll forgive a farmer’s pun. Wheat?
Why, I know all about wheat on the field, even if I don’t recognise it
in the Chicago pit. You see, my business is looking after freight, and
the chief freight of our road is wheat. Therefore, wherever wheat grows
I must visit that spot, and I have done so. I give you my oath that
wheat is bound to be a dollar a bushel before two months are past. It’s
under seventy-five cents now, and it doesn’t take much figuring to show
the possibilities of the situation. Three things are wanted: knowledge,
courage, money. I have given you the knowledge; do you possess the other
two requisites?”

“Tom, I esteem you very much--more so now than when you came in; but,
after all’s said and done, I’d be simply banking on one man’s word.
Suppose I go in half a million dollars? You say that knowledge is the
first requisite. Have I got that knowledge? I have not. I have merely
your word that you have the knowledge.”

“Yes, that’s a good point to make,” said Tom imperturbably. “You don’t
know me well enough to risk it. That’s all right. Now, I see on your
wall the big map of our road, which I suppose you have kept as a relic
of your connection with the Wheat Belt Line. It’s a lovely map, with the
Wheat Belt Line in heavy black as the great thing, and the United States
sort of hung around it as a background. There,” continued Tom, waving
his hand towards the huge map on the wall, “coloured yellow by Rand,
McNally and Co., are the wheat-producing districts of the United States
and Canada. Now, I’ve been all over that yellow ground. I assert that in
no part of it is the wheat crop normal. You pick out at random five or
six spots in that yellow ground, and I’ll tell you just what percentage
of failure there’ll be in those places you select. Then get on the train
and visit them, question the farmers, and find out if they corroborate
my statement. If they do, the chances are strong I am right about every
other district.”

John Steele got up and began pacing the floor, his hands thrust in his
trousers pockets, his forehead wrinkled with a frown.

“Tom, that’s pretty straight talk,” he said at last. “I haven’t been
following the wheat-market--it’s out of my line; but I dimly remember
seeing in the papers not very long ago an estimate that we were going to
have the most profitable wheat crop of recent years. Of course, that
may be newspaper talk; but if recollection serves, it was backed up by
telegrams from all over the West. How do you account for that?”

“I don’t account for it. I am merely stating what I know. If the papers
made such an estimate they were wrong, that’s all.”

Steele stopped in his walk and touched an electric button on his desk. A
young man appeared in response.

“Holmes,” said Steele, “there was an account of the wheat crop all over
the country in the papers the other day--occupied a page, I think. Go to
the nearest newspaper office and get a copy. As you go out, tell Bronson
to come in here.”

When Bronson appeared, Steele said sharply: “Find out for me, from some
reliable source, the lowest price of wheat for the last ten years.”

In an amazingly short space of time Holmes reappeared with a newspaper
a week old, and laid it on Mr. Steele’s desk, and Bronson brought in an
array of figures.

“Here we are!” cried Steele, jerking open the crackling sheet.
“‘Wonderful harvests ahead! Tremendous wheat crops!’ Of course, it must be
remembered that prophesying prosperity is always popular, and newspapers
like that sort of news. Now, I shall select twenty-five places named in
this paper. The useful Bronson will find out for me a reliable man
in each place, and I will telegraph him. By to-morrow we should have
replies from some fifteen or twenty of them; and if the majority say
that the wheat crop is a failure, then I think we may rely on your
forecast. Now, let us see what Bronson’s figures are. Sixty-five,
sixty-two and a half, sixty-four and an eighth, fifty-three and
five-eighths, forty-eight and three-quarters--gee-whillikins, that’s
getting down to bedrock!--fifty, fifty-four and nine-eighths, sixty-nine
and one-eighth, eighty-five--ah! that’s something like--seventy-four and
a quarter, and so on. Why, it seems from this that no man is safe in
buying for a rise if he pays more than fifty cents a bushel, while you
have bought at seventy-eight! Septimus Severus! I admire your nerve, but
not your judgment. Well, drop in to-morrow, about two, and we’ll see
what the telegrams bring us.”

“Suppose, meanwhile, wheat falls another cent or two, what am I to do?”

“Oh, they can’t hurt you to-day--it’s after four o’clock; and to-morrow
we’ll see what is best to be done. It is useless to conceal from you
the fact that there is an unholy gulf between seventy-eight at which you
bought, and fifty, to which wheat has on more than one occasion fallen.
That means a little deficit of two hundred and eighty thousand dollars
on your gentle flutter.”

“The truth must come out soon, Mr. Steele, and it may be published any
morning. When that happens, wheat will go up like a balloon.”

“All right, Tom, I can say nothing further just now. To-morrow you will
find me brimful of information, and quite decided as to the course I
shall take.”

With this the visitor had to be content. Next day he arrived at Steele’s
office in a more cheerful frame of mind. Wheat had closed the day before
one-eighth stronger than it was in the morning. The conference this
time was short, sharp, and decisive. Steele was thoroughly the man of
business.

“I received seventeen replies,” he said, “and they all corroborate your
forecast. Now, what do you wish me to do with the little parcel of wheat
standing against your name?”

“I thought that in return for the tip you might relieve me of
three-quarters of it.”

“I’ll relieve you of it all. I’ve given orders to my brokers to buy a
pretty large slice of the wheat crop. This purchase may perhaps send up
the price to the seventy-eight at which you purchased. If it does, I’ll
sell out your lot and send you the money, which I advise you to invest
in gilt-edged securities and leave wheat alone.”

“All right,” said Tom. “I know when I’ve had enough. Nevertheless, it’s
a sure thing, and I hate to let go.”

“If it’s a sure thing,” said Steele, “I’ll hand over to you a percentage
of what I win, in return for the information you have given me. You
go straight home, taking this newspaper with you. Write out a report
similar in length to these Press Alliance telegrams, giving name of
locality and the actual state of the crop in each district. Let nobody
know what you are doing, and work all night, if necessary, until the
report is complete. Then bring it to me, and I’ll have it typewritten in
this office. Now, this is my busy day. Clear out. Goodbye.”

Steele’s buying took the market by surprise. No one knew, of course,
who the purchaser was, but the price rose rapidly, point by point, until
seventy-eight was again reached, and then Steele instantly gave orders
for the sale of the million bushels that stood in Tom’s name, for the
double purpose of getting the man his money, and lowering the price
so that his own purchases might be accomplished at a less figure
than seventy-eight. The sale took place an hour before the closing of
business, and chanced to be just in the nick of time. Orders to sell
came in from somewhere--supposedly from New York, and wheat was offered
in any quantity at practically any price the buyers liked to pay.
Someone was hammering down the market. A fight was on between two
unknowns, and pandemonium was let loose in Chicago. The pit went wild,
and prices came down with a run. Steele had already stopped his buyers,
and he stood from under. Closing prices for wheat were sixty-five,
three-eighths. John Steele did some deep thinking and close figuring
that night. In spite of his purchases of the day, he had still a million
dollars left to gamble with.

“My friend the bear,” he said to himself, “is very likely to keep up his
antics to-morrow, to frighten the opposition. If he squeezes down prices
to sixty, I’ll buy five million bushels. Every cent of a drop will mean
a loss of fifty thousand dollars. It reached fifty in ‘94, and next
year a cent and a quarter less, but this price has never on any other
occasion been touched in the last forty years. Even if it drops to that,
I’ll have lost half a million or so, but I can still hang on. I’m not
trying to corner the market; so, Mr. Bruin, go ahead, and let us see
what happens.”

Next day the panic and the slump continued. Wheat fell to fifty-nine,
and between that price and sixty-one John Steele secured his five
million bushels.

Who were the operators? That was what the papers wanted to know. Was it,
as surmised, a contest between New York and Chicago? All the well-known
dealers were interviewed, but each and every one insisted he was merely
an interested spectator, holding an umbrella over his head. There was
going to be a blizzard, so everybody had his eye on the cyclone cellar.
Experts said it was a good time to seek cover.

Of course, John Steele might have rested on his oars. He was reasonably
safe--in fact, he was perfectly safe if he merely held on, which was
a good position to be in. But he had a plan of his own, although he
resolved not to buy further unless wheat reached the low limit of half a
dollar. In that case he feared he would plunge. This night, however, he
proceeded to carry out his plan, which led to amazing results. He put
Tom’s report of the wheat crop’s condition, now nicely typewritten, into
his inside pocket, and locked up his office.

All the upper windows of a commodious business block were aglow with
electric light. It was the home of the Press Alliance, with telegraphic
nerves reaching to the furthermost parts of the earth. Its business
was to gather news, which it furnished to journals belonging to the
Alliance. John Steele was acquainted with Simmonds, the manager,
and resolved to pay him an evening call at what was certainly a most
inopportune moment. The great hive was a-hum with activity. The wild
day on the Stock Exchange was enough of itself to keep it throbbing.
Simmonds was a busy man, but he received John Steele, who came in cool
and self-possessed, with courtesy and respect.

“Well, Simmonds, I suppose you’re just rushed to death, so I’ll not
detain you a moment. I want to see one of your men who is less busy, if,
indeed, he is here to-night.”

“We’re all here to-night, Steele. I hope you’ve not been dabbling in
wheat?”

[Illustration: 0201]

“Me? No fear. Wheat’s rather out of my line.”

“Somebody’s going to get badly hurt before the week is out.”

“So I understand,” said Steele nonchalantly, as if it were none of his
affair. “By the way, talking of wheat, you gather statistics of the
crops from all over the country, don’t you--your company, I mean?”

“Oh, yes, several times a year.”

“From what office is that done, New York or Chicago?”

“Chicago, of course.”

“Who is in charge of that department?”

“Nicholson. Why?”

“I should like to have a chat with him if he’s not too busy.”

“Well, you’ve mentioned the one man who isn’t busy to-night. You see,
his work is a daylight job.”

“What sort of a fellow is he?”

“He’s a new man--at least, he’s been with us only six months--that is,
at this office. He came on from New York. Splendid fellow, though, and
well up to his work.”

“Good. May I see him?”

“I’ll find out if he’s in his room.”

Simmonds spoke through a telephone, and then said:

“Yes, Mr. Nicholson will see you; but I say, Steele, don’t meddle with
wheat. If you want any information from him, remember he can’t give it
out, except to the morning papers.”

“Oh, I shan’t buy a bushel of wheat; don’t be frightened.”

“This boy will take you to Mr. Nicholson’s room. Good night.”

Nicholson proved to be a man of uncertain age. His hair was closely
cropped, his face smoothly shaven, bearing a look of determination and
power, which one might not have expected to find in a mere subordinate.

“Is this Mr. John Steele,” he asked pleasantly, “the Napoleon of finance
who stood out against Rockervelt?”

“Well, I don’t know about the Napoleon part of it, Mr. Nicholson, but
Rockervelt and I had a little negotiation a while ago which I trust
ended in our mutual advantage. Now, Mr. Nicholson,” continued Steele,
sitting down in the chair offered him, “if you are not too busy I should
like to ask you a few questions.”

“I am not very busy, Mr. Steele, and shall be pleased to answer any
question you ask, so long as the information sought belongs to me, and
not to my employers.”

“Who is your employer, Mr. Nicholson?”

“My employer? Why, the Press Alliance, of course.”

“The Press Alliance is one of your employers, I know. Your nominal
employer, let us say. It pays you to collect accurate information. Who
pays you for disseminating false news in the daily journals of this
country?”

If John Steele expected a start of guilty surprise or a flash of anger
or a demand for explanation, he was disappointed. The impassive face
remained impassive. The piercing eyes narrowed a little, perhaps, but
he could have sworn that the faint glimmer of a smile hovered about the
firm lips. The voice that spoke was under perfect control.

“They say that all things come to him who waits, and here is an
illustration of it. The man for whom every reporter in Chicago is
searching, and whom I am most desirous to meet, walks right into my
office. How many million bushels of wheat did you buy to-day, Mr.
Steele?”

John Steele was a much more genial person than this man from New York.
He threw back his head and laughed.

“Mr. Nicholson, I am delighted to have made your acquaintance. Your wild
guess that I am the buyer of wheat is really flattering to me. Yet your
own reference to my little contest with Rockervelt should have reminded
you that I deal in railways, and not in grain.”

“The reason I wished to meet you,” went on Mr. Nicholson, as if the
other had not spoken, “is because I have a message to you from my
chiefs.”

“Yes, but you have not mentioned who your chiefs are.”

“There is no need to mention them, Mr. Steele. When I tell you they own
banks in every city in the United States; that the income of the head of
our combination is fifty million dollars a year from merely one branch
of his activity; that we have employees in the United States Treasury
powerful enough to cause the funds of this country to be placed for
safety in our banks; that my principals can, if they wish, gamble
with the savings of the people of the United States deposited in their
keeping; that they have agents in every part of the world, and that
there is not a country in Europe, Asia, or Africa which does not pay
tribute to them; when I have said all this, Mr. Steele, I think two
things may be taken for granted--first: no names need be mentioned;
second: you are opposed to a power infinitely greater than that of Mr.
Rockervelt or any other financial force which the world contains.”

“You are right in both surmises, Mr. Nicholson, and I experience that
keen joy which warriors feel with foemen worthy of their steel--if you
will excuse the apparent pun on my own name. I am really quoting from
Scott, not the railway man of that name, but the poet. And now for your
message, Mr. Nicholson.”

“You admit, then, that you are the buyer?”

“I’ll admit anything in the face of such a formidable rival.”

“Very well. My chiefs are the most generous of men.”

“Oh, we all know that.”

“If you have lost money these last two days, they will refund it. They
are even willing to allow you a reasonable profit, and I am empowered to
negotiate regarding the figures.”

“And all this for pure philanthropy, Mr. Nicholson?”

“All this if you will merely stand aside and not interfere in a market
you do not understand, and complicate a situation that is already
somewhat delicate.”

“And if I refuse to stand aside?”

“If you refuse, they will crush you, as they have crushed many a
cleverer man.”

“Ah! that’s not tactful, Nicholson, and I’m sure it would not meet
the approval of your employers. Your last remark is apt to provoke
opposition rather than compliance. Would it surprise you to know that I
possess a more potent backer than even your distinguished chief?”

“More potent? Yes, it would surprise me. Have you any reluctance in
mentioning the name?”

“Not the slightest--it’s a lady.”

“A lady?”

“Yes. Dame Nature--a charming old woman if you stand in with her; a blue
terror if you go against her. The wheat crop in America this year will
be only three-quarters of the normal yield, if it is that much. You can
juggle with the fact for a little time, but you can’t conceal it. Even
the great firm on Broadway cannot make a blade of wheat grow where one
has been killed by the frost--not in the same year, at least. So you
may telegraph to your distinguished principals and tell them that
John Steele and Dame Nature are going to dance a minuet with those two
Corsican brothers of New York, and your fraternal friends will find
some difficulty in keeping pace with the music. And so good-bye, Mr.
Nicholson.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Steele. I am very sorry we cannot come to terms.”

Once outside, Steele hailed a cab and drove to the Chicago Daily Blade
building. Here, as at the Press Alliance, everyone was hard at work; but
Steele’s name was good for entrance almost anywhere in Chicago, and the
managing editor did not keep him waiting.

“Good evening, Stoliker,” began Steele. “I have got in my pocket the
greatest newspaper ‘beat’ that has ever been let loose on Chicago since
the night of the Brooklyn Theatre Fire.”

“Then, Steele, you’re as welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring.
Out with it.”

“There’s been a gigantic conspiracy to delude the Press and people of
the United States.”

“Oh, they’re always trying that,” said Stoliker indifferently.

“Yes, but this time they’ve succeeded, up to this evening. Just cast
your eye over this document.”

A managing editor is quick to form an accurate estimate of the
proportions of a piece of news submitted to him.

“If anyone else had brought this in,” said Stoliker slowly, “do you know
what I should have thought?”

“Yes, you would think it an attempt of the bulls to get in out of the
rain.”

“Exactly. You’ve hit it the first time. Can you vouch for the accuracy
of this?”

“I can.”

“You won’t be offended, Steele, if I ask you one more question, only
one?”

“I know what the question is.”

“What is it?”

“You are going to ask if I have been buying wheat?”

“Well, you seem to know exactly what’s in my mind. Conversation is
rather superfluous with so sharp a man as you are. _Have_ you been
buying wheat?”

“Yes, I’m the person who caused the flutter in the market these last two
days.”

“If I publish this, the price of wheat will instantly jump up.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Oh, that’s the evident object of the whole thing. If I prove that the
wheat crop of America is from twenty-five to thirty per cent, short, up
goes the price of wheat.”

“My dear Stoliker, your paper will sell like hot cakes, but no one will
believe a word you say. Everyone on ’Change will think exactly as you
do--that this is a device of the bulls, and so the price of wheat is
likely to remain stationary for some hours. But this sensational and
categorical statement is bound to make everybody uneasy, and there will
be a good deal of telegraphing going on during the forenoon. By the time
the evening papers are out, it will begin to dawn on commercial Chicago
that you’ve done the biggest thing that’s been done for years. After
that, every moment will enhance your reputation.”

“Quite so, _if_--and that ‘if’ is the biggest word in the dictionary
just now--if this article is accurate. If it isn’t, then the reverse of
all you have predicted will happen.”

“My dear Stoliker, I was quite prepared for this unbelief, I therefore
took the precaution before the bank closed to get a certified cheque
for a hundred thousand dollars, and here it is. Pay this into your bank
tomorrow, and offer in your paper a hundred thousand dollars to anyone
who will prove the report inaccurate. It has been compiled by a man I
can vouch for, in the employ of the Wheat Belt Line, who has visited
every spot mentioned in the report. Now, time is precious; I give you
five minutes in which to make up your mind.”

“I don’t need them; my mind is made up. I’ll print it.”

Next day, events proved that Steele was no false prophet. Wheat
fluctuated for a time up and down, then began to rise steadily, and at
last shot up like a rocket, ending at eighty-three and a quarter. Before
the week was out it was well over the dollar mark, and John Steele was
richer by more than three millions of dollars. The night of the day
in which he sold out he strolled into the Press Alliance offices and
visited his perturbed friend Simmonds.

“I would like to see Mr. Nicholson again,” he said.

“Oh, curse him!” cried Simmonds, “he’s gone to New York; and I wish he
had never left there. I suppose you don’t know what a hole he put us
into, because you’re not interested in wheat.”

“Really? Why, I was tremendously impressed by Nicholson’s manner and
appearance!”

“Oh, his manner and appearance were all right. He came here with the
very highest recommendations--in fact, he was the one man in our employ
of all the hundreds here that I had orders from headquarters not to
dismiss on any account. I was as much taken with his looks as you were.
I would have sworn he was true to his employers, yet I have not the
slightest doubt he sold them as if they were a flock of sheep.”

“You are mistaken, Simmonds. He was perfectly true to his employers.”

CHAPTER XII--THE EMBODIMENT OF MAMMON

THERE now projects across these pages the sinister shadow of a man. He
was one seldom seen except by his immediate business associates, and yet
seldom has a newspaper been issued that did not contain his name.
This was Peter Berrington, the greatest financial brain the world had
hitherto produced--the modern embodiment of Mammon. In early life there
had occurred to him the obvious proposition that if any one man could
control the manufacture and sale of some simple article in universal
use, he would secure a fortune greater than that of all the monarchs on
earth put together. Peter Berrington chose soap as his medium, and the
world-renowned trust called Amalgamated Soap has been the outcome. His
methods were as simple as his products. He offered what he considered a
fair price to a rival for his business and if that rival refused, Peter
crushed him by a competition the other could not withstand. Berrington
seemed to act on one fixed rule in life, which was to avoid the law
courts wherever possible; yet, nevertheless, he was haled to the bar on
many occasions, but invariably he escaped unscathed, without a stain on
his character, as if the soap he supplied to the universe had removed
even the suspicion of dishonesty from himself. It pleases the world to
buy soap under different titles, but it is all manufactured by the same
company. Berrington’s air-tight monopoly finally produced an annual
income in excess of the fortune any man on earth possessed twenty-five
years ago. With this ever-increasing income he bought banks, first in
New York, then in every other great city, and finally in the larger
towns. He purchased trust companies and insurance associations. He
bought railways and steamship lines, also city councils and State
legislators, judges, juries and senators. He was now the guardian and
manipulator of the people’s savings, and his banks had the handling of
all the money the United States Government possessed. Magazines printed
vivid articles exhibiting the dark points of his career. Peter never
entered a protest. Powerful newspapers hurled vigorous denunciations
against him, but Peter never replied. The few who knew him in private
life described him as a quiet, timorous man, apparently without opinions
of his own, who was withal deeply religious. Yet all the histories
printed of him never contained the record of any man who had defeated
him.

It was but natural, then, that the Chicago papers should make much of
John Steele’s encounter with this giant of the financial world. Steele
had met him on the battle-ground of the Chicago wheat-pit, and had
routed him, horse, foot and dragoons. _The Daily Blade’s_ exposure of
the real wheat situation of the country had been so sudden that the
barrels of money which Peter Berrington kept in readiness to buy the
whole crop, when he had hammered the price low enough, remained unopened
and unexpended.

Berrington would have made billions at one fell swoop had not this man
Steele blindly, quite unwittingly, stumbled across his path and tripped
him up. The newspapers exaggeratingly credited Steele with making many
more millions than he had actually secured, and it was only when the
anxious three days of panic had ended that Steele himself realised
what a tremendous fortune had been within his grasp if he could have
commanded the capital to manipulate the situation, or even if he had
risked all he actually possessed. Indeed, Steele perceived when too late
that he had blundered into the biggest deal ever projected upon this
earth, and while he undoubtedly spoiled the game for its inaugurates,
he did not himself profit nearly as much as might have been the case. He
began to question his own judgment, and the uneasy thought came to him
that if he had made terms that night with Nicholson in the office of the
Press Alliance, he might have made from ten to twenty millions instead
of three or four. Yet he was consoled by the belief that Peter would
have been true to no bargain he might have made, and in the end
would have robbed him of the agreed share. In spite of his religious
reputation, Peter was accredited with no qualms of conscience in a
business transaction.

The Western newspapers re-recited Steele’s brief besting of Rockervelt,
which was now utterly eclipsed by his victory over Berrington, and they
jocularly advised New York rustics to stay at home and not venture into
a real city like Chicago. In face of all this ridicule, and in spite of
accusations and denunciations levelled against him for his efforts to
mislead a free and incorruptible Press, Peter Berrington made no sign,
and New York silently swallowed up the mysterious Nicholson. A few
wiseacres in Chicago shook their heads as they read the laudations
of Mr. John Steele, saying the young man was not yet done with Peter
Berrington; and later events proved the correctness of their surmise.

Steele himself was not particularly frightened at the outlook, but
neither was he extremely pleased. He was sorry that Fate had brought him
into opposition with Peter Berrington, but he had learned that fact too
late to withdraw. When he met Nicholson, and became aware that the Great
Bear was Amalgamated Soap, he was already committed too deeply for half
measures to aid him. He had acted at once, decisively and successfully,
and would have been relieved had he merely got out even. It was his
usual luck that he came away with large profits, and for that he thanked
Fate, because he knew his enemy was ruthless. Success did not turn his
head in the least. He was a cool thinker and detested all this newspaper
notoriety. He knew fortunes were not made by the beating of drums, and
he kept very quiet until the hubbub was over, refusing to see reporters
or say anything about the matter, save to his most intimate friends. He
hoped that some fresh sensation would speedily drive his name from the
columns of the Press, and until that time came he sought shelter, doing
nothing. He comforted himself with the thought that Peter Berrington,
while merciless to an opponent, was merciless merely to acquire that
opponent’s business. He believed the great man to be entirely without
sentiment, and therefore surmised he would not seek revenge when an act
was once completed and done with. Nevertheless, he resolved to keep his
weather eye open, which was wise.

The new celebrity he had attained brought all sorts and conditions of
men to his offices. He began to think that every wild-cat scheme in the
country was placed before him. Letters poured in from various parts of
the world, and he was offered gold mines, patents, railways, steamship
lines, industrial enterprises and what not. He took larger offices and
protected himself from intrusion. He became a much more difficult man to
see than even the President of the United States--or perhaps it would
be more fitting to say than Mr. Peter Berrington, for Peter allowed no
outsider to penetrate to his den.

There was one man, however, who succeeded in reaching the inner room of
John Steele, and his card bore the name of William Metcalfe. This card
had been preceded, however, by some excellent letters of introduction,
and so John Steele made an appointment with him. He was favourably
impressed by the appearance of Mr. Metcalfe, who did not look like
a city man, but rather a cross between a bluff farmer and a shrewd
manufacturer--which, indeed, he turned out to be. After seating himself,
William Metcalfe plunged directly into the heart of his business,
without preliminary, which also pleased John Steele.

“I know your time is valuable,” he said; “so is mine. I have undertaken
an operation that proves too big for me, and I want you to help me carry
it out.”

“I have three rules, Mr. Metcalfe, which I rarely break. In the first
place, I never finance anything. If, for instance, you wish to build a
factory, or to exploit a patent, it is useless coming to me expecting
help.”

“I have no factory to build and no patent to exploit,” said Metcalfe.

“My second rule is that the man with whom I go in, must be prepared
to put up dollar for dollar with me in hard cash, and not in future
prospects.”

“I am prepared to do that,” rejoined Metcalfe.

“My third rule is that I must see for myself and understand the business
offered. I do not give a hang for the opinions of experts. If the
proposal is complicated beyond my comprehension, I don’t go in.”

“Quite right,” commended Metcalfe. “None of your three rules will be
in the least infringed by me. Do you know anything of the beet-sugar
business?”

“I do not.”

“Did you ever hear of Bradley, of Bay City?’

“I did not.”

“Well, what Bradley accomplished may be understood by a ten-year-old
boy. He went over to Germany, and came back with a parcel of seeds in
his handbag, which seeds he planted. From that parcel has grown the
beet root industry of Michigan. There are now factories in that State
capitalised at ten millions of dollars. There are nearly a hundred
thousand acres of Michigan land in beets. Ten years ago I hadn’t a
penny; to-day I think I could put as much money on the table as you, and
all on account of those seeds Bradley brought from Germany. I own three
big factories in Michigan, and four others in States further west. You
hinted that you didn’t wish to deal in probabilities; but, if you will
forgive me for saying it, there is no industry in this country at the
present moment which offers greater promise than the manufacture of
sugar out of beetroot.”

“I dare say,” remarked Steele indifferently. “I am quite willing to
applaud the excellent Bradley, who made millions of beets grow where
none had grown before. I admire such a man exceedingly, even though
unprepared to follow in his steps. You see, Mr. Metcalfe, I am not a
useful citizen like yourself and Mr. Bradley. I simply make a raid at
some project, filch what I can, and get back into my den. As I told you,
I am not building factories, not even those that squeeze the succulent
beet. I squeeze my opponents on the Stock Exchange. My motto is large
profits and quick returns.”

“I am here to offer you immense profits and immediate returns. I
understand the sugar business down to the ground, and have realised its
possibilities for several years past. Therefore I determined to combine
all the big sugar factories at present existing in the United States.
Rapidly as I myself have acquired wealth, the sugar business has been
growing too quickly for me, and at the beginning of this year I saw
I had to put my project into action, or else interest a body of
financiers, which I did not wish to do, for my ambition is to control
the sugar-beet industry of the United States, and ultimately of the
world.”

“Ah, you hope to become a sort of sweetened Peter Berrington,” said
Steele, with a smile, and he thought of this remark somewhat grimly
later on.

“Exactly,” said Metcalfe seriously, without duplicating the other’s
smile. “As I told you, I own outright seven factories. I secured options
on all the rest, and in each case have paid down a forfeit, for I shall
be compelled to buy outright within the next month if I am to hold them.
Now, the total cost of all the factories in the States at present, built
or building, comes to almost double the capital I possess. If you will
put up dollar for dollar with me, we will purchase these factories
outright. Then we will form the whole into a gigantic company. When this
is done, you can withdraw your money, and probably as much more as you
put in. If the public does not subscribe the full amount we demand, I
will guarantee to relieve you at par of all the shares that may fall to
your portion.”

“How can you guarantee to do that when at the present moment you have
not got more than half the necessary capital for forming the company?”

“I can guarantee it because I am certain the public will subscribe; but
even if they do not, the moment the company is formed there is a bank in
this city willing to advance me cash to the amount of three-quarters of
our capital. Therefore I can guarantee that you will double your money
within a month--that is, within a month of your putting it in. You say
you care nothing for the opinions of experts; neither do I, therefore
I propose that you become my guest for two weeks, and visit most of the
factories now under my control. You can see the books and balance-sheets
of my own concerns, and from what you learn under my tuition you will
be able to form a very good estimate of how the other factories are
placed.”

“I understand very little about company promoting,” said Steele
dubiously.

“I understood just as little a short time since, but it was necessary
that I should learn, and I have learnt. Besides, I have secured letters
of introduction to Far-well Brothers, the most substantial and honest
firm connected with that business in Chicago. The same people introduced
me to them that introduced me to you. Suppose, for instance, the
combined factories were to cost us ten million dollars. With such
prospects as there are ahead, we would be quite justified in forming a
company for twenty millions. If the public subscribed only half of what
we demanded, we would have our factories for nothing, and still control
the combination.”

“How about your working capital?”

“We don’t need working capital. Every factory is making money.”

“Well, candidly, Mr. Metcalfe, that project seems too easy and simple
to be entirely feasible. There must be something lying in wait to wreck
it.”

“Nothing so far as I can see,” said Metcalfe confidently.

“What if the public do not subscribe a penny?”

“Oh, I’ve looked out for that. When I got the options, there was, of
course, no longer any need for keeping the affair secret, and I have
already been promised subscriptions to the new company to the extent of
one-third the proposed capital of twenty millions. That one-third will
be subscribed in Michigan and Wisconsin alone, without touching the
State of Illinois or the capitalists of Chicago.”

“Very well, Mr. Metcalfe, you appear to have thought of everything. I’ll
accept your invitation, so long as it binds me to nothing, and will
go wherever you lead me, beginning, let us say, with one of your own
factories. I understand figures, and I shall want to see the books
and make a somewhat thorough search into the income of at least the
principal factories. You have no objection to that, I suppose?”

“No, not in the least. Big as our capitalisation will be, this is a
thoroughly sound industrial proposition, and before five years are over
I am certain that we will be justified in doubling our normal capital
if we wish to do so, and paying a mighty good percentage on the same.
Of course, I stand by the business. I suppose you wish to pull out as
quickly as possible.”

“Yes, that’s the idea. I hope you have not offered extravagant prices
for these factories?”

“That’s just the point. I have not. You see, as I told you, I am
thoroughly acquainted with the business. A capitalist from New York or
Chicago might have been deluded, but they cannot delude a practical man
like myself. Indeed, to convince you of the confidence that others show
in the proposed company, I may tell you that the capital promised comes
largely from the present owners of those factories, who appreciate the
economies to be inaugurated by combination, and who in some instances
are putting back into the new company the entire amount I shall pay
them.”

“Do they know you intend to capitalise for double what the property has
cost?”

“Naturally not, Mr. Steele. Of course they understand I am not in this
business entirely for my health; but apart from that, anyone conversant
with the progress the beet industry has made during the last four or
five years is well aware that the developments of the next five or six
will be something enormous.”

“All right, Mr Metcalfe I’m ready to go with you to-morrow, if that is
not too soon for you.”

John Steele’s visits to the beet-sugar district more than corroborated
all that Mr. Metcalfe had told him. Quietly he studied his host and
guide during the excursion, and the more he saw of him the better he
liked him. If there was an honest man in the country, that man appeared
to be William Metcalfe, in spite of his determination to capitalise the
properties for double what he paid for them. John’s own conscience was
not supersensitive on this point, and his private opinion would have
been that a man was a fool not to take all he could get. So, before they
returned to Chicago, he had quite made up his mind to become a partner
with William Metcalfe in forming the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company,
Metcalfe having no domicile in Chicago, the headquarters of the
new trust was the private office of John Steele and the apartments
adjoining. These adjoining apartments were occupied by William Metcalfe,
upon whose shoulders naturally fell the bulk of the work. It was he who
saw the lawyers to whom he had been introduced; who negotiated with
the bank and made such outside arrangements as were necessary in the
launching of so gigantic a scheme. Steele was more and more impressed
with the business capacity of his new partner as the days went on, and
he congratulated himself on being in conjunction with so capable a man.
Notwithstanding his increasing confidence he never for a moment relaxed
his vigilance, nor was anything done without his sanction and approval,
and he allowed no obscure point to pass without thoroughly mastering
it. Towards the conclusion of preliminary arrangements, he saw with some
apprehension that this project would involve every penny of capital he
possessed, and this, of course, was cause for anxiety, though not for
alarm, because all the omens were favourable. Yet his vigilance might
have been of little avail had not chance played into his hands. Steele
was constantly in the office; Metcalfe was frequently called elsewhere,
and in one of his absences a telegraph-boy brought in a message.

“Any answer?” asked the lad.

Steele tore open the envelope and gazed at the telegram for a moment,
uncomprehending. It was in cipher. Then he looked at the envelope and
saw it was addressed to his partner.

“No answer,” said Steele to the boy; “but look here, my lad, do you want
to earn fifty cents?”

“Sure,” replied the messenger.

“Very well, get me another envelope from the nearest telegraph-office. I
see this is for my partner, not for me.”

He threw half-a-dollar on the table, which the boy grasped eagerly.

“Be as quick as you can,” cried Steele, before he reached the door.

The cipher telegram was a long one, but speedily Steele wrote it out on
a sheet of paper. When the boy returned with the envelope, Steele placed
the telegram within it, sealed it, and addressed it in imitation of the
telegraphic clerk. Then he walked into the adjoining office and placed
the resealed telegram on Mr. Metcalfe’s desk.

“Now, why does honest William Metcalfe receive a long telegram in cipher
from New York?” said Steele to himself, knitting his brows. “He has
never even mentioned New York to me, yet he is in secret communication
with someone there. Lord! one can never tell when the biggest sort of
crank will not suddenly loom up as the most useful man in the world!”
 cried Steele, as he suddenly bethought himself of Billy Brooks, a
jocular person who bored all Chicago with his knowledge of cipher,
claiming there was nothing he couldn’t unravel except the Knock Alphabet
cipher of the Russian Nihilists. And Billy had his office in the
fifteenth storey of the adjoining block. Steele shoved the copy of the
telegram in his trousers’ pocket, put on his silk hat, went down one
elevator, and up another, in almost less time than it takes to tell
about it.

“Say, Billy, I’ve got a cipher here that you can’t decode, and I’ve got
twenty dollars to bet on it.”

“Let’s see your cipher,” cried Billy, his eyes sparkling. “All ciphers
fall into seven distinct classes. These classes are then sub-divided
into----”

“Yes, I know, I know!” cried Steele impatiently. “Here’s the message.”

Billy glanced at it.

“Hand over your twenty dollars, Steele.”

“What! you haven’t solved it already?”

“No, but I see at a glance it falls into division three and into
sub-division nineteen. I’ll decode it within an hour. Shall I bring it
over to your office?”

“No, Billy, I’ll sit down right here, even if you are six hours at it.
I herewith place two ten-dollar bills on your desk, and if this proves
important, which it may or may not, I’ll multiply those bills by ten;
and for that number of days, at least, I shall require the utmost
secrecy.”

“All right, John, sit down and keep quiet, and there’s the latest
evening paper.”

There was silence in the room as Billy opened a bookcase and took down
one bulky tome, two medium-sized books, and a number of smaller volumes
that looked like dictionaries. Turning to his desk, he wrote the message
in a variety of different ways, on as many sheets of paper. For nearly
three-quarters of an hour no sound was heard but the scratching of a pen
now and then, and the rustle of leaves. Then the stillness was broken by
a war-whoop.

“Here you are, John, my boy; and I’ll take my Bible oath on its
accuracy. Couldn’t be such a series of coincidences as to run so
smoothly otherwise.

                   “Precious greenbacks! Loot divine!

                   Twenty dollars, you are mine!”

Billy jubilantly grasped the currency and shoved it into his pocket,
handing the sheet of paper to Steele, who read: “I shall occupy room
one hundred and fifty at the Grand Pacific Hotel on Thursday, the
twenty-seventh, at eleven a. m. Do not ask for me at the office, nor
take the elevator, but come up the stair, and rap twice. Wait two
minutes, and rap a third time. Bring all documents with you.”

There was no signature.

“Billy,” said Steele rather seriously, “we will now burn all your
figuring, if you don’t mind, and then I wish you to obliterate this from
your memory. I cannot tell until after Thursday whether it is important
or not. I think, however, if you keep mum, this will be worth an extra
two hundred dollars to you.”

“You can depend on me, John. We’re not all making money as fast as you
are. Of course, I know that financial ciphers are usually important.
Here’s the _débris_; burn it on the oilcloth, near the register.”

Steele’s investigation of the Grand Pacific Hotel floor occupied by room
one hundred and fifty showed him that this apartment was well chosen,
for neither of the rooms on either side had a communicating door.
However, he engaged room one hundred and forty-nine, on the opposite
side of the hall, and before ten o’clock on the twenty-seventh he took
up his position inside that apartment. When eleven o’clock approached,
he locked his door, shoved the table against it, stood thereon, and
looked through the transom into the hall. He darkened his own window so
that he could not be observed by anyone glancing up outside. He heard
the first knock, then cautiously peered down and recognised William
Metcalfe standing there, facing the opposite door, with a bundle under
his arm. After the third knock, Metcalfe entered, but opened the door
so slightly that Steele could see nothing within, nor did he hear any
greeting voice. A full hour passed with not a sound from the closed
room, then Metcalfe came out again, with the bundle still under his arm,
and walked quietly away, leaving his partner on watch at the transom.
Time goes slowly for a man on tip-toe with eyes strained, but at last
his patience was rewarded. The door opposite opened, and the head of
Nicholson appeared. He glanced quickly up and down the hall, and as the
way was apparently clear, stepped out and vanished. John Steele came
down from the table, drew aside the curtains, and let the light into
the darkened room. He poured some water from the carafe into a tumbler,
swallowed the liquid at a gulp, then sank into the arm-chair beside
the bed. He gave utterance to an uneasy laugh, then muttered a sentence
which might be called unexpected: “Billy Brooks, my boy, you’ll get your
two hundred dollars!”

Drawing a deep breath, he then concentrated his mind on the crisis with
which he was confronted. Metcalfe was probably the owner of the sugar
factories, and was, as he had said, a well-known business man in
Michigan; but, nevertheless, here was undoubted proof that he was a
minion of Amalgamated Soap, a mere pawn in the hands of Peter Berrington
and his strong colleague, Nicholson. Every penny John Steele possessed
was sunk in Consolidated Sugar, and that these men meant to ruin him
he had not the slightest doubt. The question was, How could they do it?
Even if Metcalfe’s books had been false, even if a hundred per cent,
too much had been paid for the factories, there would still be something
left for him out of the wreck. Yet from the moment he saw the face of
Nicholson at that door, he knew Amalgamated Soap had determined to
strip him of every _sou_ he possessed. The first obvious suggestion
that occurred to him was that here was the occasion for consulting a
first-class lawyer, yet what could a lawyer do for him? He had no money
to fight. The more he thought of the situation, the worse it appeared.
No doubt Farwell Brothers were employees of Amalgamated Soap. No
doubt the bank in which his funds were deposited belonged to the same
all-embracing combination. There were a hundred perfectly legal methods
by which the amount lodged there could be tied up, while, if he appealed
to the law, the expense would be tremendous, and he might be dragged
from court to court; new trial could follow new trial, and appeal tread
on the heels of appeal until his millions had vanished into thin air. He
was as entirely in the hands of Amalgamated Soap as if he had been
tied in a bundle and presented to that celebrated company. Terror was
imported into the situation by his uncertainty as to what method these
financial buccaneers would adopt. Yet at that distressful moment his
mind wandered to the comic opera of the “Mikado,” and a smile came to
his lips. Would it be long and lingering, with boiling oil at the end of
it, or would it be the short, sharp shock of the executioner’s stroke?
His resentment turned more against the apparently honest Metcalfe
than toward even Nicholson or Peter Berrington. He would have liked
to throttle that man, but he knew that, whatever the outcome, he must
retain his grip on himself and present an impassive exterior to his
colleague and the world.

Next morning John Steele met his partner as usual with a smile on his
face.

“Well, Metcalfe, how are things going?”

“Oh, everything’s coming our way,” said Metcalfe. “This trick will be
done so easily that you’ll wonder you ever doubted its success.”

“Well, I hope so, I hope so,” replied Steele, the possible double
meaning of his partner’s phrase striking him like a blow in the face;
but the smile never wavered.

Technically the company had already been formed--that is to say, a
number of clerks in Steele’s office, together with the brothers Farwell,
had constituted themselves the Consolidated Sugar Beet Company, with
various powers duly set forth, organised under the laws of the State of
New Jersey, and when officers were selected, the beet sugar factories
were bought by this company at just double the price Steele and Metcalfe
had paid for them. Then the officials resigned in a body, when cheques
had been passed and everything done with beautiful legality, while
Steele and Metcalfe and their nominees took their places on the board.
It was arranged that there should be seven directors. Steele was to
nominate two, and Metcalfe was to nominate two, while they were to agree
mutually on the chairman. Metcalfe had proposed that the elder Farwell
should be chairman, and he nominated the younger as his colleague on the
board. Farwell, who knew every intricacy of company law, was accepted by
Steele, and there was still one nomination open to Metcalfe, which
name he excused himself at this time from proposing, as he was not well
enough acquainted with business men in Chicago to fill the place at the
moment. He even intimated that he was willing to accept a nominee of
Steele’s, and this seemingly friendly suggestion had prevented any
suspicion of the board being packed against him, arising in Jack
Steele’s mind. He remembered this now with bitterness, when it was too
late for remedy. Steele and his two colleagues could tie the vote of
Metcalfe and his colleagues, but the chairman would have the casting
vote. Since he had seen the determined face of Nicholson in the corridor
of the Grand Pacific, he had no doubt that the Farwell brothers were the
minions of Peter Berrington.

At last the trap laid for the public was sprung, and the public, as
usual, was nipped. The success of the flotation was immediate, although
applications did not come within a million of the sum asked for. After
the flotation, Metcalfe’s manner changed perceptibly. Steele watched
him as a cat watches a mouse, and saw that he was now perturbed and
apparently dissatisfied.

“Why!” cried Steele to him, the morning after the figures were known to
them, “you don’t seem nearly so happy as I expected. You surely did not
look for the shares to be subscribed twice over?”

“No,” said Metcalfe gloomily, “but the amount that has been subscribed
shows what vitality there was in the scheme.”

“Vitality!” cried Steele. “Bless my soul! you never doubted it, did
you?”

“Oh, no, no,” said Metcalfe hastily. “No. I told you we were dead sure
of a third, and the actual subscriptions have more than justified my
forecast.”

“They have indeed!” cried Steele enthusiastically.

“I tell you what it is, Metcalfe, you’re one of the first financiers of
this country.”

“Oh, nonsense!” cried Metcalfe, in no way cheered by the compliment.

“It isn’t nonsense,” said the genial Steele. “You’ve taken lessons from
a first-rate master, for I look on Nicholson as one of the best men in
the business.”

When John Steele had plumped a similar pointed remark at Nicholson, not
the slightest change of expression had disturbed that individual’s
calm visage. William Metcalfe kept his countenance under less perfect
restraint. Steele’s smile was gentle and friendly, but his keen eyes
missed no note of the other’s face. He watched a ruddy flush mount
into his partner’s cheeks. He noticed the embarrassed hesitation that
accompanied his utterance.

“Mr. Nicholson! Ah, yes, certainly, certainly. He’s not a friend of
mine, of course, only a slight and recent acquaintance. Not the sort of
man, Nicholson, to form friendships easily.”

“Really?” asked Steele. “I met him only once, but he seemed rather
genial.”

“A great business man, a great business man,” hurriedly muttered
Metcalfe, obviously trying to get himself under control once more,
playing for time, and not quite knowing what he was saying.

“So I have been informed,” remarked Steele with easy carelessness. “One
of the Amalgamated Soap group, I understand.”

“Quite so,” rejoined Metcalfe, his own man once more. “You see, Mr.
Steele, I thought it would strengthen us tremendously if I could get a
man like Nicholson to become interested in our project. The mere rumour
that Amalgamated Soap was behind us would have been worth millions to us
at the present juncture.”

“I quite agree with you, Metcalfe. Amalgamated Soap is a name to conjure
with. The public worship success, and there you have success in its
most highly developed form. Why didn’t you let me know? I might have
been of some assistance to you.”

“Well, in the first place, I did not wish to mention so important
a matter until I was sure of carrying it through. No use of giving
promises that you cannot make good. In the second place, I was not aware
that you knew Nicholson.”

“Oh, you were quite right; it was just a casual meeting, when we were
introduced by a mutual friend. I don’t flatter myself that my views
would have any influence upon a man of Nicholson’s standing in the
financial world. But there is another part I don’t quite understand. I
admit the value of Nicholson’s name to us, but why wasn’t his connection
divulged in time to influence subscriptions?”

“You see, it was like this,” hesitated Metcalfe, for a liar must be a
most agile person, and Steele’s questions had a fashion of touching the
spot. “It was like this. I did not really conclude my arrangement with
Nicholson until this morning. He’s a very difficult man to handle, and
he knows as well as anyone his own value. I imagine he wished to see
which way the cat was going to jump before he committed himself.”

“Well, Metcalfe, the cat has jumped entirely our way, even if the
leap did not reach the furthest mark we staked out. The success of the
subscriptions, then, induced Nicholson to join us?”

“Quite so, quite so, with the proviso that he is to have the vacant seat
at the board, unless you have any objection.”

“Objection? Certainly not. I am highly delighted with our acquisition.
Besides, the seat at the board is entirely in your gift. I have no right
to object, even if I wished to do so.”

This was said with such an air of childlike simplicity that the
perturbed Metcalfe, who seemingly still retained some remnants of
conscience, showed confusion.

“True enough,” he murmured. “Still, I should not like to nominate anyone
who might be personally distasteful to you.”

“I cannot imagine, Metcalfe, why you should suppose Nicholson could be
distasteful to anyone. He is a tower of strength. I am overjoyed that
you have induced him to join us.”

“I am very much relieved to hear you say so,” rejoined Metcalfe, who
seemed bewildered at the turn things had taken.

The preliminary meetings of the company had all been held in Steele’s
offices. This afternoon, however, the directors were to forgather at
the board-room of the bank in which the deposits of the subscribers were
lodged. Steele was thus to beard the lion in the lion’s own den, for
he now no longer doubted that this bank was owned by Peter Berrington,
Nicholson and their colleagues. The appointed hour was three o’clock,
and John Steele arrived on the stroke, the last man to appear. Nicholson
stood in the centre of the group. Metcalfe, who had quite recovered his
composure, said with a fine air of good comradeship:

“I think you two gentlemen have met before, so a formal introduction is
not necessary between Mr. Steele and Mr. Nicholson.”

“I had the somewhat chastened satisfaction of encountering Mr. Steele
once under conditions I am not likely to forget,” said Nicholson
quietly, with impressive geniality. “I count myself one of Mr. Steele’s
numerous admirers.”

“It is kind of you to say that, Mr. Nicholson,” replied John, extending
his hand, while that winning smile of his played about his lips. “On
the occasion to which you refer, I was so unhappy as to be placed in
opposition to Amalgamated Soap. I am the more gratified, therefore, to
find myself in some measure a colleague of so distinguished a coterie,
even if I am admitted into but an outer temple, as it were.”

“Your gratification, Mr. Steele, is as nothing compared to my own at
seeing you here amongst us.”

John Steele bowed his acknowledgment. It was if the lion had begun by
complimenting Daniel.

“Gentlemen, I think the hour has struck,” said the grave Farwell senior,
taking his seat at the head of the long table.

The directors ranged themselves on either side, Nicholson at the right
hand of the chairman, Metcalfe next him, and the younger Farwell the
third on that side. Opposite Nicholson sat John Steele, and beside him
his two nominees. Thus quietly the lines of battle were formed and to
all outward appearance the meeting resembled a love-feast. Bunches of
papers were heaped before the chairman, while writing-pads, pens and
ink were placed in front of each director. Steele, assuming a negligent,
unconcerned air that was admirably put on, wondered what particular
battery Nicholson would unmask. The latter’s eyes were bent on his
writing-pad, and he tried one nib after another, as if to find a pen to
his satisfaction. The chairman, in droning voice, recited the history of
the company up to its going before the public, read documents, and gave
various figures which it might be supposed were familiar to all there
assembled. There was silence around the table. Nicholson never looked up
until the chairman announced the amount of public subscription.

“What’s that, Mr. Farwell?” he asked quietly, raising his head. “What
are the figures?”

Farwell repeated them.

“And how much do you say is the authorised capital of the company?”

Farwell named the sum.

“Then we are a million short?”

“Nearly so, Mr. Nicholson.”

Nicholson’s face became set and stern. Slowly he turned towards Metcalfe
on his right hand, whose eyes shifted uneasily from one to another
without ever resting on John Steele.

“I understood, sir,” said Nicholson very slowly, as if weighing his
words, “that all the money was in the bank?”

“I told you, sir,” replied the hesitating Metcalfe, “that there was in
the bank all the capital we thought necessary.”

“Necessary?” echoed Nicholson, in cold, even tones. “We make a demand
upon the public. We state that the value of our property is so much. The
public responds by offering us a million less. Necessary? I have
never yet had anything to do with a company whose capital was not
over-subscribed. I have never yet sanctioned the sending out of letters
of allotment unaccompanied by letters of regret.”

John Steele had difficulty in keeping the smile from his lips. The tones
of righteous indignation were not in the least overdone. The expression
of virtuous disapproval at being tricked, on the splendidly chiselled,
clear-cut face, was marvellous in its reserve; in its hint of unlimited
power behind. Steele felt, rather than saw, the uneasiness of the two
colleagues by his side, who realised, without exactly understanding why,
that things were going desperately wrong, like an engineer who sees an
open bridge in front of him, and finds the brakes will not work.

“Admirably acted,” said Steele to himself. “We pay good money to visit
the theatre, and yet there is such histrionic talent as this in the
business world.”

Then aloud, in a voice mildly protesting, he said: “Nevertheless, Mr.
Nicholson, the million shares left on our hands are quite marketable. We
have ample capital to go on with, and Mr. Metcalfe will assure you that
the factories themselves are all on a paying basis. You cannot surely
mean that having arrived at this stage, we are not to proceed to
allotment, Mr. Nicholson?”

“That is exactly what I _do_ mean,” replied Nicholson, speaking as
mildly as his opponent had done. “My colleagues would never consent to
admit connection with a company formed in the circumstances now before
us. Our duty to the public----”

“Mr. Nicholson, I quite appreciate your position, and that of your
colleagues, Mr. Peter Berrington and the rest. The public would indeed
be shocked to learn that Peter, one of our religious pillars, could
be guilty of anything in the least oblique. As cleanliness is next to
godliness, we are all aware that Amalgamated Soap stands close to the
Pearly Gates, and the only thing we fear about Peter is that when he
gets to heaven he shall find another saint of the same name there before
him, which may lead to confusion of identity. I take it for granted, Mr.
Nicholson, that you are about to move a resolution requiring all this
money to be returned to the subscribers. If you will propose such a
motion, I shall be very happy to second it.”

An electric silence fell on the group, the kind of silence which on a
hot summer’s night precedes a clap of thunder. Nicholson drew a long
breath and squared his shoulders. Metcalfe gazed in fascinated dismay
at John Steele. Even the Farwells showed traces of human interest.
Nicholson did not venture to challenge a vote. After a few moments of
this embarrassing stillness he said gently:

“Perhaps Mr. John Steele has something else to propose?”

“No, I have not,” said Steele; “but with the chairman’s permission,
there being no motion before the house, I should like to make a personal
explanation which may save you future trouble.”

The chairman nodded permission, and Nicholson said:

“We shall be interested to hear anything you say, Mr. Steele.”

“To return the money is, of course, to wreck the company. Hitherto this
company has been associated with the names of John Steele and William
Metcalfe. Tomorrow the sensation of the daily journals all over the
country will be the collapse of the big scheme which those two men
undertook to float. Mr. William Metcalfe is unknown in Chicago; is but
a stool-pigeon well paid for the part he has enacted, and he disappears
from the scene. John Steele stands the brunt. All the funds he possesses
are in Amalgamated Soap’s bank. His affairs are in the hands of
Amalgamated Soap lawyers. One legal difficulty after another comes up;
there is a long fight over the remains, and at last Amalgamated Soap
steps in and sweeps up the _débris_. They are in possession of valuable
property scattered throughout the West in the beet-sugar line; they
announce their possession and the reconstruction of the company, and
everything is beautiful, but John Steele is mangled in the collision,
with no insurance, even for his relatives.

“When I learned the other week that Mr. Nicholson was interested in
this company, I felt like the man who had gone down into a cave and
unexpectedly clutched a huge bear at the black bottom of it. That man
did not stop to question the intentions of the bear; he simply got out.
I followed his example. In the wheat deal Mr. Nicholson knows of, I made
several millions, and ever since then certain capitalists in this city
have begged me if I fell in with a similar good thing not to hug it all
to myself, but allow them to come in on the ground floor, and I promised
to do so. The moment I knew Mr. Nicholson was to have something to
do with the beet-sugar project, I went directly to these capitalists,
pledged them to secrecy, guaranteed that Amalgamated Soap was head and
shoulders in this deal, and that no less a person than Mr. Nicholson
himself would assume charge of the company. Gentlemen, they bit
instantly. I sold out my share to them for the money it had cost me,
and fifty per cent, additional; and, furthermore, I got the cash. Now
I shall read you a letter which will appear in the Chicago newspapers
to-morrow morning.”

To the Editor:

Sir--The Consolidated Beet Sugar Company, with which my name has
hitherto been associated, and which has been so splendidly supported by
Western capital, as indicated by the subscriptions now in the bank,
will hereafter be in charge of the eminent financiers associated
with Amalgamated Soap. I am pleased to state that this will be almost
entirely a Chicago enterprise, and that some of the best men in this
city have bought out my interests therein. I have only to add that Mr.
Nicholson himself is now a member of the board of directors, and nothing
further need be said to assure all concerned of the immense prosperity
which awaits this company, and the far-reaching advantages it will offer
both to agriculture and manufacture in the West.

Yours sincerely,

John Steele.

“And now, gentlemen,” said Steele, as he folded up the copy of this
letter and placed it in his inside pocket, “nothing remains for me to
do but to resign my seat on the board, as I have no longer the slightest
interest in this company. But before handing in my formal resignation, I
shall be pleased to second any motion Mr. Nicholson cares to propose.”

“Mr. Chairman,” said Nicholson, quite unruffled, “I move we now proceed
to allotment.”

“I have pleasure in seconding the motion,” said John Steele, rising,
bowing to the company, and leaving the room.

CHAPTER XIII.--PERSONALLY CONDUCTED BY A GIRL

SUGAR is a fattening product, and the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company
waxed fat and prospered. Its shares stood high on the Stock Exchange,
and the members of the syndicate to whom John Steele had sold his
portion were exuberantly grateful to the young man for the opportunity
he had given them. His reputation of possessing a keen financial brain
was enhanced by the forming of this company; for it was supposed that
it was he who had induced Amalgamated Soap to take it up. It was
erroneously surmised that the great Peter Berrington and his colleagues
had been so much impressed by Steele’s genius in the wheat deal, where
he was opposed to them, that they now desired the co-operation of this
rising young figure in the commercial world. No hint of the momentary
death-struggle in the board-room of the bank had ever leaked out through
the solid doors. Steele was now one of the men to be counted with in
the large affairs of the Western metropolis. Everything he touched was
successful. Personally he was liked, and great social success might have
been his had he cared for society, which he did not. He was commonly
rated as being worth anywhere from six to ten millions, and the world
looked upon him as the most fortunate of men. It did him no harm to
be thought to enjoy the backing of the powerful Peter Berrington, and
probably not more than half-a-dozen men knew that such was far from
being the case. He did not bask in Peter’s smile, but, on the contrary,
shivered in his shadow.

The one man who had no delusions on the subject was John Steele himself.
For the second time he had been entirely victorious over Nicholson and
the gigantic coterie behind him; but this, strange as it may appear,
gave him no satisfaction. If he had won the determined fight through his
own superior skill, or because of some great display of mental power,
he might have rested more at ease. Had that been the case, he would
have awaited the next onslaught with more equanimity than he at present
possessed; but he knew that his victory came to him through chance;
chance multiplied again and again. It was chance that his partner had
been out of his room when the messenger-boy brought the telegram. It was
chance that Steele had opened the envelope. It was chance that he knew
a man who could decode the cipher before it was too late for him to take
action on the information it carried. After these three lucky throws of
the dice, he admitted to himself that he had handled the situation
with diplomatic success; but it disturbed him to remember that all his
vigilance would have proved unavailing, had not pure luck stood his
friend. Yet, after all, the initial mistake was Nicholson’s, who should
not have sent a cipher telegram to the office of the man he intended to
destroy. Nicholson presumably did not know that his agent was actually
housed with Steele, and it was a mistake on Metcalfe’s part not to have
furnished his chief with this information. But even putting the best
face upon the matter, he could not conceal from himself the large part
that luck had played in compassing his salvation.

This never-lifted shadow of the silent Peter Berrington began to produce
its effect upon him. He became timourous--afraid to venture in any
large concern. He knew he was wasting time in pottering with small
affairs--street railways in outside towns, the installing of electric
light here and there, and such enterprises, which furnished only a
moderate revenue to an enterprising speculator. Time and again he
refused chances involving large amounts which turned out tremendously
lucrative to the promoters, but which he had been afraid to touch,
fearing the grip of Peter Berrington’s unseen hand on his throat. He
began to acquire the unexpected reputation of being an over-cautious
capitalist, and finally well-known people, who formerly professed much
admiration for him, ceased to come to his office with their schemes.
Steele laughed uneasily to himself as he thought that Peter Berrington
might perhaps accomplish his purpose by the gradual wearing down of his
courage. Of course, the fact that a project became successful was no
proof that the hand of Nicholson was not concealed somewhere within its
intricacies to clutch at John Steele if he had become involved. He
tried to shake off this depression, and once or twice plunged rather
recklessly, only to become nervous before the climax arrived and sell
out, sometimes at a small profit and sometimes at a loss.

At last he came to the conclusion that it was not Peter Berrington at
all, or his shadow, that was affecting him, but the usual breakdown
which afflicts strenuous business men in the stimulating atmosphere of a
great American city.

“My nerve’s gone; that’s what’s the matter with me,” he said to himself.
“I must go and rough it for a summer in the mountains, or else take a
trip to some spa in Europe. If I keep on like this, I shall be utterly
useless in a live city like Chicago.”

He consulted several of his friends--many of them, in fact--and told
them he was feeling far from fit. His complaint was common enough, and
every man to whom he spoke suggested a remedy. Some advised the plunging
into dissipation at a fashionable health resort, and some recommended
various medicinal springs in Europe which would work wonders; but the
majority counselled him to take rod and gun, and get into the Rocky
Mountains, camp out, and live like an Indian.

“Then,” they said jocularly, smiting him on the back, “you’ll be all
right, and come back yearning for scalps on the Stock Exchange.”

The newspapers mentioned the fact that John Steele was going into the
Rockies to hunt and fish and camp out for a month or more to recover
tone.

It was at this interesting juncture that Alice Fuller called to see
him. Now, John Steele was the most susceptible of men, and one reason he
shunned society was because he knew he would surely fall a victim to the
first designing pretty girl who laid a trap for him--if, indeed,
pretty girls ever do lay traps for men said to possess from six to ten
millions. His weakness in this line was exemplified by his impetuous
proposal to Dorothy Slocum in the environs of Bunkerville, as has
already been stated. But Alice Fuller was not the commonplace young
person Dorothy Slocum had been. He often thought of his proposal to
Dorothy with a shudder, and accounted it a narrow escape, which, indeed,
it was not, for Dorothy was thoroughly devoted to her station-master,
and never gave even a thought to Mr. John Steele of Chicago.

Alice Fuller was a blonde, and she brought in with her to the
conventional private office of John Steele, with its extremely modern
fittings of card indices, loose-leaf ledgers, and expanding office
furniture, an air of breezy freshness that hinted of the mountainous
West. Although dressed as any Chicago woman might be, there was,
nevertheless, something about her costume which suggested the riding of
mountain ponies and even the expert handling of a rifle.

The glory of a woman is her hair, and in truth Miss Fuller’s golden
tresses were glorious enough; but her eyes were the most distinguished
and captivating features of a face sufficiently beautiful to attract
attention anywhere. They were of a deep, translucent blue, darkening now
and then into violet, like a pair of those limpid mountain lakes in the
Rockies whose depths are said to be unfathomable. It was impossible to
look into those honest orbs without trusting the clear purity of
the soul behind them, and Steele, whose nerves were unstrung, almost
shivered with apprehension when they were turned full upon him.

“Lord save me!” he thought with a gasp. “If this girl wants to sell
shares in the most bogus company afloat, I’m her victim. John Steele,
if your bank account is to remain intact, now is the time to play St.
Anthony.”

But aloud he said calmly enough: “Pray be seated, madam,” and she sank
gracefully into a chair on the opposite side of the flat-topped desk
behind which he was entrenched, although small protection the barricade
afforded him against such artillery as a handsome young woman might
bring to bear upon the position.

“It is so good of you to see me,” said the girl. “I have read much of
you in the newspapers, and I know that your time is valuable, so I shall
take up as little of it as may be necessary to explain my business.”

Somehow this remark, although only introductory sparring, disappointed
young Mr. Steele. Nearly every stranger he met said the same thing in
almost identical words. They all referred to his newspaper reputation,
of which he was exceedingly tired, and nearly everyone spoke of the
value of his time, promised not to encroach upon it, and then stayed for
hours if they were permitted.

“My time is of little value at the present moment, Miss Fuller, because
I am doing nothing. For some months past I have been rather out of
health, and, in fact, within a few days I expect to leave Chicago.”

“Yes,” she rejoined, “I saw that also in the papers. I read that you
intended to go West among the mountains. Is that true?”

“Such are my present intentions, but they are always liable to change. A
man who is fighting his own nerves is rather capricious, you know.”

“Like a woman,” laughed Miss Alice. “Well, it is on account of the
statement in the Press that I am here. I have been thinking of calling
upon you for a long time, but it appears we have no mutual friends who
could give me an introduction, and so, seeing you were about to leave
the city, I said to myself: ‘It’s now or never.’The reference to the
mountains struck me as a lucky omen. You know we women are rather
superstitious, Mr. Steele, and I think it was that even more than your
impending departure which gave me courage to venture up here.”

“I am very glad you came,” said John Steele gallantly, “and I shall be
more than pleased if there is anything I can do for you.”

“My father is the owner of a gold-mine in the Black Hills. Do you know
anything of mines, Mr. Steele?”

John slowly shook his head. The mere mention of a gold-mine did
something to clarify his brain from the glamour that was befogging it.

“I know nothing whatever about mines, Miss Fuller, excepting the fact
that more gold has been sunk in goldmines than has ever been taken out
of them.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear you say that,” replied the girl, with a slight
tremor of apprehension in her voice, “and, furthermore, I do not in the
least believe it to be true. Indeed, it cannot be true, because it is
impossible to sink gold without first having mined it. Nothing can be
more lucrative than a good gold-mine, for its product is one of the
few things taken from the earth which do not fluctuate in value. With
copper, or silver, or iron, you are dependent on the market; not so with
gold.”

“You are a very eloquent advocate, Miss Fuller. Where is your father?”

The girl looked up quickly at this sudden change of subject, and once
more John fell under the fascination of those enchanting eyes.

“My father? He is in Chicago.”

“Then, Miss Fuller, the best plan will be to have him call upon me, and
we can discuss the mine together.”

“Alas!” said the young woman, with a mournful droop of the head, “if
that had been possible, I should not have been here. My father at the
present moment is very ill and quite unable to discuss business with
anyone. You are going from the city to the mountains in search of
health. He has come from the mountains to the city on the same quest.
The gold-mine is at once our hope and our despair. If it can be properly
worked, we are certain it will produce riches incalculable; but it takes
money to make money, and my father knows no wealthy people nor does
he possess the necessary capital for the preliminary outlay. We are
somewhat like King Midas, in danger of starving with gold all around
us.”

“Has the mine been opened, or is it only a prospective claim?”

“At the present moment there are from sixteen to twenty miners working
upon it. The shaft, I believe, is something like a hundred feet deep,
and one or two short galleries have been run. The ore assay is extremely
rich; I have not the figures with me, but can easily bring them; and the
reports are better and better as the miners proceed.”

“If that be the case, Miss Fuller, I see no reason why you should lack
for capital.”

“There are a hundred reasons, but one is sufficient. Every capitalist
shuns a gold-mine. They speak just as you spoke a moment ago. Then, you
see, our lives having been spent in the West, we know very few Eastern
people, and those few have no money. The great difficulty is not in
proving the wealth of the mine, but in getting a capitalist to listen.
If you promise to listen, I shall undertake to prove to you that this is
one of the most valuable properties in the world.”

“Well, Miss Fuller, I am listening; but, as I told you, I know nothing
whatever about gold-mines, and, indeed, am rather afraid of them. If the
mine is producing ore in paying quantity, why does not your father have
that ore crushed?--I suppose they could do that in the neighbourhood, or
at Denver, or wherever the nearest mining town is--and with the product
keep himself and pay his men?”

“That is exactly what he has done, Mr. Steele, and a ruinous thing it
is to do. If it were not for that, we should have had to give up the
struggle long ago. But there are no mines within miles of us, and we are
two days and a half’s journey from the nearest railway. Ore is bulky and
heavy, and the transport alone over those mountain roads, which are not
roads at all, and scarcely even paths, is at once slow and expensive.
Railway freight is high, and when the ore gets to the reducing-plant,
we have to take exactly what is given us, because beggars cannot be
choosers. We need machinery at the mouth of the pit, and whoever will
furnish the money for that machinery is sure to reap a rich reward.”

“Nevertheless--” protested John, but the girl interrupted him, her eyes
aglow with fervour.

“You promised to listen, you know. There is another point I wish to put
before you. The ore is very rich, and if we ship much of it, there is
bound to be inquiry as to where it came from. Now, my father has been
able to stake out only a comparatively small claim. If once it becomes
known where this ore originates, there will be the usual rush. The rush
is ultimately inevitable in any case, but my father is anxious to be
fully secure before it comes.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Miss Fuller,” said John in a burst of
enthusiasm, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars; and if you make money out
of your mine, you can repay me at your leisure.”

Alice Fuller slowly shook her golden head.

“I could not accept money in that way,” she said. “It is like the giving
of charity when a pathetic tale is told. Besides, a thousand dollars
would be of no particular use; it would not purchase the stamp-mills, or
transport them to the mine. In two months, or three, we should be just
where we are now, and the thousand dollars would be gone.”

“What is it, then, you wish me to do, Miss Fuller?”

“I wish our transaction to be upon a sane business basis, and I don’t
want you to offer me a thousand dollars or twenty thousand dollars, or
two hundred thousand dollars again.”

“I beg your pardon. I had no thought of charity or anything of the sort
when I made my proposal.”

“I am sure you hadn’t,” said the girl, with a naïve confidence which
Steele found very charming. “I’ll tell you what I wish to suggest.
You are going to the mountains in any case. Very well, go to the Black
Hills; there you will find the air pure and bracing; there are wild
mountains and sparkling streams, and everything that a tired city
man could desire. I want you to camp near our mine and investigate it
thoroughly. If you are so satisfied with it as to justify the risk, I
ask you to be prepared to buy a half share for three hundred thousand
dollars.”

John Steele drew a long breath.

“My purpose in going to the mountains is to get away from business, and
not to take upon myself a new anxiety; to fish and shoot, not to pore
over gold-bearing ore.”

“Are you an enthusiastic sportsman, then?”

“Not at all. I was too busy when I was young to indulge in such
recreation, and too poor. Since then I have become busier still.”

“And too rich?” suggested the girl, with a smile.

“A man is never too rich, I am afraid.”

“If you are not an enthusiastic sportsman, a week in the woods will
prove more than enough for you. After that comes boredom, and a yearning
for the ticker and the morning newspaper.”

“I more than half believe you’re right,” said Steele ruefully.

“Of course I am right. Now, if you camp out beside the mine, you have
something to interest you. Don’t bother about it for the first week.
There is plenty of shooting and fishing in the neighbourhood.”

“I hate to put two and a half days between me and a telegraph-wire.”

“Then you had better leave mountains alone and stay in Chicago.”

John laughed.

“You are a very clever young lady, Miss Fuller, and I wonder you haven’t
made that gold-mine a success on your own.”

“I am doing it now,” she said with a flash almost of defiance from her
eyes.

Again the young man laughed.

“Are you?” he asked. “You women have us at a disadvantage when you talk
business, but I am going to get right down to plain facts, and speak to
you as if you were your own brother. You won’t be offended?”

“Not in the least.”

“Very well. Do you know what a salted mine is?”

“Certainly. I thought you said you knew nothing of mines? A salted mine
is one in which rich ore has been planted for the cheating of fools.”

“An admirable definition, Miss Fuller. Well, in the matter of mines
I’m a fool, and a salted mine would take me in as a gold brick on State
Street would delude an Illinois farmer.”

“Then induce an expert to go with you--a mining expert who knows pay ore
when he sees it.”

“I am more distrustful of mining experts than of salted mines.”

The girl sighed.

“I suppose all faith has left Chicago?”

“It has--in gold-mines.”

“Now, Mr. Steele, I’ll talk to you as if you were your own sister. Have
you ever done a stroke of useful toil since you were born?”

“Oh, yes; I worked on a railway.”

“Very well. Go to the Black Hills and take a miner’s outfit with you.
Become for the time one of my father’s workmen--or, rather, boss of the
gang, if you like. Go into that mine, and direct them where they are to
run the next level, and follow that level for a month, working with the
men and keeping clear of the blasts. After you have penetrated a month
in any direction you please, take the ore from the last blast and have
it assayed. A mine can’t be salted under those conditions. If that whole
mountain is salted with gold, you’d better buy it.”

“No one can gainsay the honesty of that, Miss Fuller; but, to tell you
the truth, I dread the two and a half days’ journey from the railway.”

“You don’t need to. I will be your guide.”

“What!” cried John, in amazement.

“I’ll take you from the railway to the Hard Luck mine. Will you go?” she
demanded with a touch of defiance.

“Go!” he cried, discretion struggling with enthusiasm. “Of course I’ll
go. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But, then, on the other
hand--you see--well--to speak quite frankly, for a young lady to--to, as
one might say, journey across the plains----”

“Yes, I know, I know. You are talking now, not to my brother, as you
remarked a while ago, but to my brother’s sister. All my life I have had
not only to take care of myself, but of my father as well. This project
is a matter of vital importance to me, and I cannot allow it to fail
merely because the rules of society would frown on what I intend to do.
I shall take with me my own tent, and an old man who was in my father’s
employ long before I was born. This is a cold business deal, and no
other consideration is going to enter into it. So let us brush aside
every other consideration and come down to plain facts. You offered me
a thousand dollars, and I refused it. If you will now give me the
necessary money, which may be anything from two hundred dollars upwards,
depending on what you want to take with you, I shall go at once to
Pickaxe Gulch, which is the nearest railway station to the Hard Luck
mine, and will collect what transport we need. There I shall await your
coming. Do you intend to take any servants with you?”

“I shall be accompanied by Sam Jackson, a negro man, who is the best
cook in this town.”

“Very well, you will need a horse for him, and one for yourself; I shall
need two horses; that’s four. Then if you will give me an idea of the
number of tents and boxes you require, I shall secure mules enough to
carry them. We shall want two or three men to look after the mules,
and you must give me a week at least to get this cavalcade together.
Sometimes there are neither animals nor men at Pickaxe Gulch, but I
intend to telegraph at once and secure whatever transport is available.”

John Steele smiled his appreciation of the capability displayed by the
fearless young woman, opened his drawer, and took out a cheque-book.

“Shall we say five hundred dollars?” he asked, looking across the desk
at her. “You must leave some money with your father, you know.”

“Five hundred will be ample,” she replied decidedly, and he wrote a
cheque for that amount.

Later on in his life Steele remembered that demand for money with
admiration. It was just one of those little points where a less subtle
person than Miss Fuller would have made a mistake, deluded by success
in getting him to promise to make the trip. But the young woman was
evidently shrewd enough to know that after she left he would wonder, she
having pleaded poverty, where the money came from to pay for so long
a railway journey and at the same time provide for an ailing father at
home. He always regarded that request for expenses as the climax of a
well-thought-out plan.

CHAPTER XIV--AN IMPORTANT CHAMPAGNE LUNCH.

WHEN John Steele stepped down from the sleeping-car in the early
morning at Pickaxe Gulch, he found Alice Fuller the sole occupant of the
platform. She welcomed him with the cordiality of good comradeship.
Her costume differed rather strikingly from the apparel she wore in his
office. She reminded him of one of those reckless female riders he had
seen at Buffalo Bilks Wild West Show, and he was forced to confess that
the outfit suited her to perfection. She was even more attractive than
when he had first seen her, and he could hardly have believed that
possible. Before he ventured to compliment the young woman on her
appearance, she complimented him on his.

“You are already looking very much better than you did in the city.”

“Yes!” he cried jubilantly. “Your visit did me ever so much good; and,
besides that, I am now out from under Peter’s shadow.”

“‘Peter’s shadow?’” she repeated. “What is that? The shadow of a
mountain?”

“In a way, yes,” laughed Steele, “and a gold-producing mountain at that.
I have been a rather anxious person these many months past; but
now, whether it is the exhilaration of the air in the West, or the
prospect”--he hesitated a moment, then continued--“of this journey, I
am quite my own man once more.”

Without reply she led the way to the dusty road which ran between two
rows of roughly built shanties.

“Did you breakfast on the train?” she asked.

“No.”

“I thought you might not have an opportunity to get anything to eat on
the train, as it stops here so early, and I have ordered a meal for you
at the one tavern in this place, which is far from being first-class.
However, possibly, you can endure such a repast for once and then we
will get on our way as soon as possible.”

“Oh, the cuisine of the West is no surprise to me,” said Steele. “I’ve
had a good deal of experience with it in my time.”

They walked up the street together, the negro cook following and
carrying Steele’s valise. At the tavern the caravan was collected, and
more than ever the resemblance to the Wild West Show impressed itself
upon the young man. The boxes had been sent on some days ahead, and were
now securely fastened to the backs of the mules. Four saddle-horses
were tied to the rude pillars of the verandah. Steele went inside the
building and partook of the breakfast, such as it was, and ten minutes
later the procession started north.

Their route lay across the plain, and during the forenoon the party
traversed a road of sorts, reasonably well defined. In the horizon
loomed low mountains, which did not seem perceptibly nearer when a halt
was called by the side of a stream to prepare lunch. Steele was more
accustomed to a street-car than to the back of a horse; but the way was
level, and the horse developed none of those buck-jumping peculiarities
which John, in his Eastern ignorance, had always associated with the
steeds of the Far West. His business heretofore had never taken him away
from a line of railway, and where it had been necessary to make a road
journey, the jaunt was accomplished in some sort of vehicle. However,
he soon became accustomed to his new method of locomotion and succeeded
better than he had anticipated.

Alice Fuller proved a most expert horse-woman, and her superb attitude
in the saddle still further enslaved this ardent young man, who began to
think he had never really lived until now. He was rather disappointed,
but rendered none the less eager, to find that he was not getting as
much of her company as he had hoped. In the beginning they rode side
by side in front of the cavalcade, to be out of the dust which the mule
train raised. But every now and then she wheeled her horse round and
allowed the procession to pass her, scanning each animal and its burden
with the eye of an expert, seeing that everything was in order. When
Steele expressed admiration of her capability, Miss Fuller told him
she had many times been in full charge of a similar expedition going
or coming from the mine; and once when he complained of lack of
companionship, she informed him that success depended a great deal on
the first few hours of the march, and it was her duty to see that none
of the animals fell lame, and that no burden shifted, thus causing a
mule to lag behind its fellows.

“To-morrow,” she said, “we shall be among the foothills, and even this
afternoon we shall be free of the road and the dust. Then, if everything
is going well, I may find plenty of time to talk to you, for I see you
are anxious to learn more about the mine before you reach it.”

Steele threw a free-hearted laugh on the echoless air. Any little
incident seemed now a fit subject for mirth. The clear atmosphere seemed
as exhilarating as wine, and there was the further intoxicant of the
girl’s alluring presence.

Lunch by the side of the stream more than made amends for the
unattractive breakfast. The efficient Jackson had caused each of the
numerous boxes to be numbered, and he began with Number One, which his
master said was a very good thing to look after. He produced a portable
stove, and a handful of coke performed miracles in the desert. It was
soon evident that John Steele had no intention of starving while he
wandered in the wilderness. He drew from its straw envelope a bottle of
prime champagne, a drink which doubtless had never quenched thirst
on that particular route before. Miss Fuller partook of the wine but
sparingly, and lifted her glass when he proposed the toast of success to
the expedition, thrilling him as she did so with those enthralling
eyes of hers, and the young man began to wonder whether he actually saw
heaven in their depths, or was looking at a desert mirage through an
atmosphere of sparkling wine.

He persuaded her to linger after the cavalcade had moved on, saying
they would overtake it at a gallop, and the young woman, with scarcely
concealed reluctance, acquiesced. He threw himself full length at her
feet and gazed up at her, while she watched, with the suggestion of a
frown on her smooth brow, the procession lessening in the distance. He
lit a cigarette, with her permission; and began the sort of conversation
which a young man in the early stages of fascination is prone to indulge
in. At first it seemed to him her thoughts were elsewhere, which was
not in the least flattering to a person who was doing his best. On his
chiding her for this, she drew a sharp breath and cast a glance upon him
which he fancied was the reverse of friendly. It was veiled an instant
after, and then, with something like a sigh, she appeared to accept the
situation.

[Illustration: 0261]

At this presaging of victory, John Steele’s conscience began to trouble
him. He guessed why she appeared so changeable. Her father’s future
and her own depended on the good-will of the young man stretched at
her feet. She was anxious not to offend him, and yet her reluctance to
remain alone with him, her absent-minded look, and the slight frown
that now and then marred her brow, were hints that his attentions
proved unwelcome. Steele surmised that any undue compliments or any too
palpable indulgence in sentiment at this particular moment might
prove disastrous to ultimate success. The resigned air with which she
endeavoured to face a _tete-a-tete_ not to her liking touched his pride,
and also made him rather ashamed of himself for taking advantage of one
who in the circumstances was helpless. He wondered if he could put
this girl more at ease by telling her he had quite made up his mind to
finance the mine, whether it proved all she said or the reverse. Yet
she might regard this statement as merely an unblushing bid for her
preference, for she knew that until he had examined the mine any such
avowal would be made merely because he thought it would please her.
While these thoughts ran through his mind, a silence had fallen between
them, which, however, the girl appeared not to notice, for her eyes were
fixed on the distant mountains. She was quite startled by the suddenness
with which he sprang to his feet.

“Miss Fuller,” he cried, “I see you are anxious to be off towards the
hills, and it is selfish of me to detain you here.”

He held out his hand to her and helped her up. She smiled very sweetly
and said:

“I think it is time we were on our way again. We have further to go than
you suspect, before we reach the regular camping-ground.”

He had reason to congratulate himself on his intuition, for during
that journey she was kinder to him than she had ever been before, as if
anxious to make up for her former coldness.

The sun had gone down ere they reached the halting-station for the
night. They were now on an elevated plateau among the hills, and an
impetuous torrent near by gave forth the only sound that broke the
intense stillness. Tents were pitched, horses and mules tethered,
and Jackson set out a dinner which their keen appetites made doubly
memorable. Night came down, and the moon rose gloriously in the east.
Time and place were ideal for a lovers’ meeting, but the adage which
intimates that luck with gold does not run parallel with luck in
love proved true in this instance. Immediately after partaking of the
excellent coffee Jackson had brewed, the young woman rose and held out
her hand, pleading fatigue.

“I must bid you ‘Good night,’” she said shortly.

“Oh! won’t you stay a little while and enjoy this unexampled moonlight?
It seems as if I had never seen the moon before.”

The young woman smiled wanly, but shook her head.

“I’m really very tired,” she explained. “I have had a week of it at that
awful hotel in the Gulch. It is fearfully noisy at night with drinking
cowboys and miners, and so I have had scarcely any sleep for a long
while. If I have proved a dull companion to-day, that is the reason, and
I am sure you will excuse me now.”

“Miss Fuller, you could not be dull if you tried. I am sorry you should
have had so much trouble on my account at that terrible station. I
should have sent a man, but I could not guess the horrors of the place
before seeing it. Pray forgive my selfishness.”

“Oh, that was really nothing. I am quite accustomed to the life; but,
somehow, the first night in the mountains always leaves me stupid and
drowsy.”

“To-morrow night, then,” he said very quietly, “we may perhaps view the
moonlight together.”

“To-morrow night,” she murmured and was gone.

Steele threw himself into the canvas camp-chair, and, reclining, gazed
on the moonlit plain below and listened to the roar of the torrent.
Dreamily he fancied himself floating in the seventh heaven of bliss.

Next morning the camp was early astir, for a long day of mountaineering
lay ahead. The party numbered seven, all told, there being three men of
peaceable demeanour, but rough aspect, in charge of the pack-train. At
no time during that day did Steele secure an opportunity of speaking
with Alice Fuller alone. They could not ride together, as the mountain
path was too narrow. After dinner, at the final camping-place, a wild
spot in a profound valley, where John saw with dismay the moon would
not be visible, the girl seemed loth to keep him company as had been the
case the night before. She laughed somewhat harshly, he thought, when he
complained that she must have known they could not see the moon.

“You can study its rays on the northern peaks,” she said. “Who would
ever have expected a modern financier to yearn for the moon?”

“A modern financier is but a man, after all,” protested Steele.

“I have sometimes doubted it,” replied the girl cynically.

“Well, Miss Fuller, if you will sit down again, even in the absence of
moonlight, I think I can remove your doubts.”

She stood there hesitating for a few moments, but it was too dark to see
the expression on her face. Finally she sat down in the chair from which
she had risen.

“I am seated,” she said; “but not to talk of moonlight, merely to tell
you that I intend to go no farther. To-morrow morning we bid ‘Good-bye’
to each other. You go north, and I go south.”

“Oh, I say,” cried John reproachfully, “that’s contrary to contract. You
promised to lead me to the mine.”

“I know I did; but it is always a woman’s privilege to change her mind.
Perhaps you will understand I do not wish to influence you at all in the
decision you may come to about the mine.”

“Would it make you abjure your cruel resolve if I informed you that
I have quite determined to invest in the mine if it gives any show of
success, which I am sure it will do from what you have told me about
it?”

“The mine must plead its own cause,” she said, with an indifference that
amazed him. “You have no real need of me as a guide, for the three men
I engaged know the route as well as I do. They have been over it
often enough. I am really very anxious about my father. He promised to
telegraph me at Pickaxe Gulch, but has not done so. I sent a despatch
the day before you arrived, but no reply came, and it may be waiting for
me now at the office there.”

“Why not send back one of the men?”

“Because of my own anxiety. I fear the telegram may call me to his side.
I think you will understand now why I have been distraught while in your
company.”

“Miss Fuller, believe me, I am very sorry to hear that this worry
has been hanging over you. If I had known, I should have proposed our
remaining at Pickaxe Gulch until you had heard from your father. I fear
my own conduct and conversation may have added to your discomfort.”

“Oh, no, no,” said the girl, quickly rising again.

“Will you accept this trifle from me?”

He spoke hurriedly, and took from his waistcoat pocket something that
she knew to be a ring, for even in the dim light it sparkled as if fire
were playing from its facets.

“I’d rather not,” she replied, stepping back.

“It will bind you to nothing--nothing at all. It is simply to keep me in
your memory until we next meet.”

“Oh, I shall never forget you!” she cried, in a tone of bitterness that
startled him.

“It is a mere trinket,” he urged, “and I bought it for you before I
left civilisation. If you do not accept it, I shall throw it into the
darkness of the valley yonder.”

“That would be foolish, even for you.”

“Why, Miss Fuller, such a remark has a very dubious sound. What do you
mean by it? Do you think I am foolish?”

“Oh, I don’t think anything at all of either you or your folly. I tell
you I merely want to get away.”

“Won’t you take the ring with you?”

She stood for a long time with head bowed.

“I don’t suppose it makes any difference one way or the other,” she said
at last.

“Of course it doesn’t. I told you it wouldn’t.”

“Very well, I shall take the ring, if you will accept a much cheaper and
more significant present from me in the morning.”

“I shall accept gratefully anything you like to give me, Miss Fuller, in
the morning or at any future time.”

“I wonder,” was all her comment, as she took the ring and instantly
disappeared.

Somehow this night held none of the glamour that distinguished the
previous evening. The depth of the profound shadows surrounding him was
merely emphasised by the touch of cold moonlight on the hilltops far
away. John wondered if the exhilarating effect of the atmosphere had
departed, leaving him sober again. He felt strangely depressed, and
although he immediately entered his tent and flung himself, dressed
as he was, upon his canvas cot, he found it difficult to sleep. It was
after midnight before he dozed off, and then his slumber was troubled
and uneasy. Towards morning, however, a kind of stupor descended upon
him, leaving him dreamless and lost to the world. This was broken by
a sharp and angry voice, whose meaning did not at first reach his
consciousness; but the sentence lingered in his awakening mind and
at last became clear to him, as an image comes out during the gradual
development of a photographic plate.

“I tell you I will not leave until I bid ‘good-bye’ to Mr. Steele.”

It was Alice Fuller’s voice, and in an instant the young man was on
his feet and out of the tent. Day had just dawned, gray and chill, but
already the camp was astir and the young woman in her saddle.

“Did you call me?” he cried.

“No,” she answered; but he seemed to detect a tremor of fear in her
voice.

“I thought I heard you say you wished to bid ‘goodbye’ to me!”

“You must have been dreaming. But I do wish to bid you ‘good-bye.’”

Two of the muleteers stood near, and the old attendant, mounted, had
already started slowly on his way. John sprang to her side, and as he
came to a stand by the horse, she stooped and slipped a small box into
his coat pocket.

“Good-bye! good-bye!” she cried somewhat boisterously, with an
exclamation that seemed to be half sob and half laugh. “Go back to your
tent at once and brush your hair. It’s enough to frighten anyone,” and
now she laughed with unnecessary vehemence, the near mountains echoing
the peal with a strange mocking cadence that sent a chill up the spine
of one listener.

“What does this mean?” he asked himself.

The man at the bridle turned the horse’s head towards the distant
railway, and the other smote the steed on the flank.

“Let go my horse!” commanded Miss Fuller savagely. The man slouched
away. She touched the animal with her heel and galloped off, while
Steele stood in a daze watching her. Only once she looked back, then
made a quick motion to the pocket of her jacket and disappeared round
the ledge of rock. Jack remembered the packet she had dropped into his
pocket, and imagining her gesture might have reference to that, walked
to his tent to examine the present so surreptitiously given him,
remembering that she had said the night before it would prove more
significant than the ring she had so reluctantly accepted. It was a
little, square parcel, tied in a bit of newspaper with a red string. He
whisked this off, and held in his hand a box of white metal. Opening the
box he saw within it a simple cake of soap!

Steele held this on his open palm, gazing at it like one hypnotised.

“My God!” he groaned at last, “soap--Amalgamated Soap! Peter Berrington
and Nicholson! Trapped, as I am a fool and a sinner! These muleteers are
the real chiefs of this expedition. They saw Alice Fuller weakening;
but she weakened too late, and now they have sent her away. What’s
the object of all this? It is too fantastic to imagine that Nicholson
supposes he can exact all I possess as ransom. Even the Black Hills are
not the mountains of Greece. What is it, then? Murder? That’s equally
incredible, and yet possible. Here am I unarmed, rifles in the boxes,
no one with me but a cowardly nigger. Walked right into the trap with my
eyes open, like a gaping idiot! Well, John Steele, you deserve all you
will get! Let’s discover what it is.”

He strode out of the tent. The negro was preparing breakfast. The three
men stood in a group together, talking, but they looked round and became
silent as he approached.

“I have changed my mind,” said Steele; “we’re going back to the
railway.”

“Oh, no, we’re not,” said one of the men, stepping forward, and taking a
revolver from his hip pocket; “we’re going on to the mine.”

“Is there a mine?” asked Steele, with a sneering laugh.

“Oh, there’s a mine all right enough, and they’re waiting for you
there.”

“Who?”

“You’ll find out about twelve o’clock to-day.”

“See here, boys,” said Steele persuasively, “I’ll make you three the
richest men in this part of the country if you’ll accompany me safely
back to the railway.”

“We’ve heard that kind of talk before,” replied the man, “and have had
enough of it. You tell that to the boss of the gang at the mine; and
whatever he says, we’ll agree to.”

“Yes, but at the mine--How many are there, by the way?”

“You’ll see when you reach the spot.”

“Well, even if there’s one more, he divides the loot with you. You can
make better terms with me now than you can at the mine.”

“Chuck it, stranger. There ain’t no use giving us any more taffy. You’re
going on to the mine.”

“All right,” said Steele, turning on his heel. “I’ll have breakfast
first. Is the coffee ready, Jackson?”

“Yes, sir.”

The prisoner sat down at the collapsible table and enjoyed a hearty
meal.

At noon they reached the mine, and a dozen, gaunt, wild-eyed men, who
were sitting round, stood up when the riders came into sight. They gave
no cheer when they saw the captive, nor did their attitude of listless,
bored indifference change a particle as Steele stopped his horse and
dismounted.

“Here’s the goods,” said the leader of the muleteers, and the boss of
the mining gang nodded, but made no reply.

“Good day, gentlemen,” began Steele, a smile coming to his lips in spite
of the seriousness of the crisis, as he thought that this sombre, silent
gang in the midst of the mountains bore a comical resemblance to the
gnomes in Rip Van Winkle when that jovial inebriate appeared amongst
them. “I take it, sir, that you are leader here, and I think there has
been some mistake. During today’s journey I have been forced to travel
to this mine against my will. You seem to have been expecting me. Now,
what’s up?”

“You’ll be, in about ten minutes,” replied the boss. “Dakota Bill,
where’s your rope?”

“Here it is,” said Bill, stepping forward and exhibiting a slip-noose at
the end of about thirty feet of stout line.

“Now, stranger, if you’ve got any messages to leave your friends, we’ll
give you ten minutes to write or say them.”

“I’ve no messages, thank you, but I am disturbed by a lively curiosity
to know what all this means.”

“Oh, of course you’ve no suspicion about what it means, have you?”

“No, I have not.”

“You never saw your mine before, did you?”

“It isn’t my mine.”

“I knew you’d say that. Well, now, we’ve been left here for four months
without a markee of pay. For the last month we would have starved if it
hadn’t been for Dakota Bill’s good work with a rifle; but even the game
has fled from this accursed place and now we _are_ starving. You’re the
man responsible, and you know it. We’ve sworn to hang you, and we’re
_going_ to hang you.”

“My dear sir, your statement is definite and concise, without being as
illuminating as I should like. A mistake has been made, of which I am
the innocent victim. You are the victims, too, for that matter; because,
after all, it is not a mistake, but a conspiracy. I can see, however,
that nothing I may say will mitigate the situation in the slightest
degree. I shall, therefore, not indulge in useless declamation. Three
things are fixed. I am the owner of this mine. I have cheated you out of
your pay for four months, therefore I am to be hanged. There comes into
my mind at this moment something I have read somewhere about hangings
at Newgate prison in England. They drop a man, then all concerned go at
once to enjoy what is called the ‘hanging breakfast.’ The gruesomeness
of such a proceeding fastened the item in my mind. Let’s have a ‘hanging
lunch.’”

“Stranger, as I understand your remarks, the person turned off didn’t
attend that breakfast.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Very well, stranger, we’ll look after the lunch when you’re strung up.”

“But, excuse me, the victim had a hearty breakfast _before_ he was
hanged. Now, I beg to point out to you that I drank my coffee just about
daybreak this morning, and since then I’ve travelled over the worst set
of mountains it has ever been my privilege to encounter. I’m as hungry
as a bear. I therefore insist on your lunching with me, and I shall give
you a meal such as you wouldn’t better at the Millionaire’s Club.
Before I left home, six manufacturers of portable stoves insisted on my
accepting one each, in the hope of getting an unsolicited testimonial.
I shall leave the stoves with you, and trust you will recommend them to
your friends. I don’t need them where I’m going.”

“No,” said one of the party, “they’d melt there.”

“Now, Jackson,” cried Steele enthusiastically, “set up the whole six
stoves. You’ve got to cook dinner for the party. But, meanwhile, open
some of those boxes of new sardines with the trimmings on, which they’ve
just sent across to us from Brittany. A little caviare also may be a
novelty in this district. I think we’ve plates enough to go round. If
not, use saucers or the tins. Gentlemen, I take it you don’t need an
appetiser, but what will you drink before we begin?”

“I admit, stranger, you’re a mighty plausible cuss, and we expected
that; but you don’t palaver this crowd. There’s no drinking till after
the ceremony.”

For the first time there was a murmur of disapproval at this, but the
leader held up his hand.

“See here, you fellows,” he said, “we’ve got to deal with a pretty
slippery customer. You know what them city men are. Now, there’s no
drinking till after the performance; you hear me. I’d string him up this
moment, only we’d scare his cook white, and then we’d have to eat things
raw.”

Jackson handed round sardines and other tempting extras, while Steele
put the collapsible table on its legs and opened various boxes, from one
of which he took out a case of champagne, and another of Scotch
whisky. Then, getting a large pitcher which had been intended as the
water-holder of his tent, he poured two bottles of Scotch whisky into
it, followed by bottle after bottle of champagne until the jug was
full. Meanwhile the busy negro had got the six stoves ablaze, and the
appetising smell that came from the utensils over the fires made the
starving miners oblivious to everything else. The first course was
devoured in silence.

“Although you may not care to consume intoxicating liquors, and I
quite agree with you that it is best to keep sober, I hope you have no
objection to temperance drinks. Who’ll have some cider?”

“Cider?” said the leader. “Have you got any?”

“Here’s a pitcher full.”

“That’s all right. Pour it out. I wish you had brought beer instead.
We’d risk beer.”

“Oh, well, you can risk the cider. I’m sorry I haven’t any beer,” and,
hungry as he was, the young man himself poured out full glasses to each.

“By jiminy crickets!” cried the leader, “that’s the best cider I ever
tasted.”

“It’s the very best cider made in this country,” said Steele earnestly,
“and thank goodness, I’ve got plenty of it.”

As course after course was served, and bumper after bumper was drunk,
the geniality of the crowd rose and rose, until Steele at last saw he
could possibly make terms with them, but he resolved not to chance that.
He determined to leave them so drunk that none could move; then he would
depart at his leisure. Under the exhilarating effects of the mixture he
poured out, all objections to intoxicating liquor fled from the jovial
assemblage, and Jackson now opened whisky bottle after whisky bottle.
The miners were laughing, singing, weeping on one another’s necks,
utterly oblivious of mine owners, lack of pay, lynching, or anything
else, when Steele and Jackson mounted their horses, the coloured cook
leading one of the mules laden with provisions ample for a week’s
journey.

When Steele reached Pickaxe Gulch, he thought he never should be so glad
to see a pair of rails again. He felt like throwing his arms round the
neck of the station-master, but instead asked that rough diamond if
there were any news.

“No, not much,” replied the station-master, “except that Peter
Berrington, the billionaire, is dead.”

“Thank God!” fervently ejaculated Steele, to the astonishment of the
station-master.

“Yes,” said the official, “he’s gone where his money won’t do him no
good. Found dead in his chair in his office in New York, two days ago.
There’s the paper, if you want to read about it.”

Steele went in and possessed himself of the paper.

“By Jove!” he muttered, as he gazed at the big, black headlines. “He or
his system sent a man to death when he ought to have been preparing for
death himself. That’s as it should be. Thank goodness the shadow has
lifted!”

John Steele forgot the words of Shakespeare:

                   “The evil that men do lives after them.”

CHAPTER XV--AN ATTEMPT AT AN ARMISTICE.

JOHN STEELE’S friends were amazed to find him back in town almost
within a week after he had left with such lavish preparations for a long
stay in the wilderness. It was difficult for him to offer an adequate
explanation, and it grew to be most annoying, once he had constructed
his excuses, to be compelled to repeat them to every friend he met, and
listen without cursing to the inane advice given by people who didn’t in
the least know what they were talking about.

“What! back already?” cried Philip Manson, who had offered to place
a private car at his disposal if he would keep close to the railway.
Manson held that camping out in a private car was the right way to do
it, and that a canvas tent was a delusion and a snare. “Back already?”
 exclaimed the general manager. “Why, John, you look as haggard as if
you’d been through a panic in the wheat market. Didn’t the Black Hills
agree with you?”

“No,” said John shortly and truthfully; “threatened to develop throat
trouble,” and he tapped his neck significantly.

“How long were you in the mountains?”

“Five days.”

“Oh, well, I told you how it would be before you left. That’s what
comes of sleeping in a cot-bed, over damp ground, under thin canvas. You
should have taken both my advice and my private car then you could have
carried all the comforts of town with you.”

Now that the immediate tension of the crisis had relaxed, John Steele
found himself very close to a mental and physical collapse. It was true
that the great Peter Berrington was dead, but the elation which that
startling piece of news had first caused subsided long before he
reached the city. Men die, but systems remain. Had the shadow of Peter
Berrington been lifted, after all, even though Peter himself was now a
shadow? The grotesque uncertainty of the situation was making rags of
John Steele’s nerves. Even as he walked through the crowded streets
he had to fight down an impulse to shriek aloud, raising his hands to
heaven and crying: “In God’s name, if you’re going to do anything, do it
_now_, and let’s have it over!”

It was not that he shrank from ruin, or even from death, both of which
he had faced within the past year. It was the uncertainty of when and
how the blow was to fall. He began to fear that something worse than
either ruin or death would overtake him. In the privacy of his own room
he would sometimes march up and down with set teeth and clenched fists,
saying to himself: “You must quit thinking of this, or you’ll go mad,”
 and yet with all his strength of mind he could not stop his planning to
circumvent the unseen danger which threatened him.

The fantastic nature of the peril that surrounded him was such that if
it were made public, he would be laughed at from one end of the country
to the other. In a busy, practical, work-a-day world, it was incredible
that a group of men, only one of whom he had ever seen, and that most
casually, should sit in a sky-scraper in New York and actually plan
the murder of a young man in Chicago; for this group of men were
churchgoers, Sunday-school teachers, philanthropists who had founded
colleges; bestowers of charity on a scale of munificence hitherto
unexampled. And yet more potent than all these things was the fact that
they were hard-headed business men, the most successful business men in
the world, intent on their own affairs, and naturally far removed
from any thought of revenge, for the simple reason that revenge is not
business, and there is no money in it. It was quite true that this same
group, in early days, had been accused of burning rival factories, of
inciting riots, and of many other crimes against the peace and security
of the commonwealth, but these things had never been legally proven or
brought home to the group by irrefutable evidence. Where investigation
had followed crime, and the inquiry was not quashed, it had always
been shown that the rash acts were the work of over-zealous employees
exceeding their instructions. The hands of the financial group in the
tall building on Broadway were clean. No band of Quakers were more
set against violence than these mild-mannered men in New York. If John
Steele had told the story of the attempted lynching among the Black
Hills, the incredulous public would have looked upon the affair as a
practical joke played by humourous mountaineers on a tenderfoot from the
East. No one knew better than John Steele that to connect Dakota Bill of
the Black Hills with Nicholson of New York was an impossibility. He was
certain the miners knew nothing of Nicholson; that they held a genuine
lynching grievance against the owner of the mine, whoever he was, and
that they were acting quite naturally according to their instincts when
this supposed owner had fallen into their hands.

Alice Fuller, who led him so easily into the trap, as the tame animal in
the stockyards leads its fellows to the slaughter-pen--she, of course,
knew for whom she was acting, but John doubted if this knowledge led by
any followable clue to Nicholson. When he thought of the handsome girl,
he shuddered; and, for ten thousand reasons, that episode must never
become public. To be hoodwinked by a pretty woman was merely to join
the procession of fools that extended from the time of Adam to the year
1905.

It was difficult for Steele to cease his thoughts of the Amalgamated
Soap combination, for the papers continued full of Peter Berrington and
the financial upheaval which his sudden death was certain to cause. The
imagination of the world was touched by the fact that this tremendous
power which Peter Berrington had wielded in ever-increasing force for
nearly half a century now lapsed into the hands of a girl, Constance
Berrington, aged twenty-four, the only child of the billionaire. The
newspapers printed column after column about this young lady, who
appeared to be even more of a recluse than her father was. They
published portraits of her, no two alike--pictures ranging from the most
beautiful woman in Christendom to the most gaunt and ugly hag; which
seemed to indicate that photographs of Miss Constance were unobtainable,
and that the artists drew on their imagination as well as on their
Whatman pads. She avoided society, was never seen at such resorts as
Newport or Lenox; she took no part in the festivities of a great city,
and believed that the door of a theatre was the gate of hell. Gossip
said she was haunted by a fear of being married for her money, and so at
this early age had become a man-hater. It was also alleged that she kept
a conscience, a possession with which her father had never been credited
even by the wildest imaginative writer. She was going to devote her life
and her billions as far as possible to the undoing of the harm which her
parent had accomplished.

“She is fanatically religious,” proclaimed one newspaper.

“She is a plain, commonplace girl,” said another, “whose father has
bequeathed her his cash, but not his brains.”

When John Steele found he could not cease thinking over his paralysing
situation, which had entirely emasculated his initiative and wrecked his
business career; when he feared lunacy awaited him, he resolved to
meet this girl, and persuade her, if he could, to stop the huge, golden
Juggernaut which threatened to crush the life or reason out or him. Yet
it seemed cowardly for a grown man to make such an appeal to a young
girl who was an entire stranger to him, and who, if he actually
succeeded in reaching her presence, would most likely consider herself
insulted that such crimes as he placed before her without the slightest
proof, should be attributed to her father. Thus the interview would
doubtless end with his being turned out of the house by the servants.
Then again, even if she believed him--and the chances were only as one
in ten thousand--did she possess the actual as well as the nominal power
to stop the persecution? Was she like the Czar of Russia, helplessly at
the head of an organisation over whose movements the supposed chief had
no control?

Yet, after all, Steele had not gone so far towards insanity as to be in
any error regarding the real mover in the conspiracies of which he was
the victim. Nicholson was the man; there could be no doubt of that.
Twice Steele had beaten Nicholson to the ground. In the great wheat deal
he had exposed his treachery and dishonesty; had publicly shown him to
be an unscrupulous scoundrel; had prevented him from making millions
in a single coup, which was all prepared and certain to succeed had not
Steele disarranged the machinery. He had humiliated the man personally,
wounding his pride and crushing his self-esteem. Was it possible, then,
ever to make terms with one naturally so embittered? Steele braced
himself and resolved to try. Twice he had defeated him, and there
remained in John’s hand the powerful weapon of publicity. After all,
could Amalgamated Soap risk such an exposure as it was in Steele’s power
to cast forth to the eager Press of the country? Was it so certain
that the public would not believe the story he might tell regarding
Amalgamated Soap? Even though Nicholson was imbued with malice, his
colleagues would be more reasonable, more amenable to persuasion. They
would undoubtedly try to induce this angry man to refrain from tempting
the avalanche. He resolved to propose a treaty of peace with Nicholson.
Then came the doubt. Should Nicholson agree to such a pact, would he
keep it? Would he merely use it as a sedative to lull his intended
victim into false security? Such an outcome was very likely; still,
a frank talk with Nicholson could do no harm, and Steele had not the
slightest intention of being lulled into security by anything Nicholson
might say. Recalling to his mind the stony countenance of that human
sphinx, Steele could not delude himself that any appeal to conscience or
any plea for mercy would have the least chance of success. Nicholson was
as unemotional as the Pyramids; Steele could make no bargain with such
a man unless he had something to offer. Therefore he did not go
impetuously to New York and fling himself at the feet of Nemesis, the
divinity of chastisement and vengeance. He set about the preparation of
the goods he would trade with, this white Indian. It gratified him to
think that after all these months of doubt and uncertainty he could at
last come to a definite decision about anything.

There were no women in John Steele’s office. His confidential
stenographer was a quiet man, a little older than himself, named Henry
Russell. Steele touched an electric button on his desk, and Russell came
in, notebook in hand.

“Sit down, Russell. If I remember rightly, you were connected with a
newspaper in your early days?”

“In a very humble capacity, sir; I was merely a reporter.”

“Oh, don’t say ‘merely.’ A reporter is ever so much more important than
an editorial writer. Have you ever attempted a novel?”

“No, sir.”

“Still, you know something of literary form and the way a book is put
together, I suppose?”

“I know nothing about the writing of books, sir. I think I have a fair
knowledge of how a sentence should read.”

“Well, that’s the main thing. Still, as a reporter you must have seen a
good deal of the seamy side of life, and later you have had to do with
important business affairs, ever since you came into my employ.”

“That is very true, Mr. Steele.”

“Don’t you think you could concoct the plot of a novel? A novel of
every-day business life, let us say, like one of those that have been so
successful lately--a book pulsating with the greed of gold, and all that