Jacob's Ladder

Jacob sipped his wine, unmoved.

“It was really the only thing left for him,” was his brief comment.

Dauncey was once more the melancholy man.

“I hope that all your interventions, or whatever you may call them,” he said, “won’t end in the same way.”

Jacob’s eyes looked through the walls of the restaurant. A sudden impulse of fancy had carried him forward into that land of adventure to which he held the golden key. He felt the thrill of danger, the mystery of unknown places. He passed from palace to hovel. He heard the curse of the defeated schemer, he felt the warmth and joy of gratitude. All these figures, save one, were imaginary, and that one was always there, always watching, always with that look of reproach which he seemed already to see in her cold blue eyes. He fancied himself pleading with her, only to be scorned; hiding from the dangers she invoked; fancied her the protectress of his enemies, the evil genius of those whom he would have befriended. And all the time there lingered in the background of his mind the memory of that single evening when, angered by her father’s condescension, she had chosen to be kind to him; had shown him the secret places in that wonderful garden, glorious with budding rhododendrons, fragrant with the roses drooping from the long pergola,—a little scene out of fairyland, through which he had walked under the rising moon like a man bewildered with strange happiness.

Richard leaned forward in his place.

“Are you seeing ghosts?” he asked curiously.

Jacob was suddenly back from that unreal world into which his magical prosperity had pitchforked him. He drained the glass which he raised to his lips with firm fingers.

“Ghosts belong to the past,” he answered. “All that we have any concern with is the future.”

CHAPTER V

The reply came by return of post. It was dated from the late Mr. Bultiwell’s house, a few miles farther down the line than Marlingden.

Jacob read the letter as he sat out amongst his roses, with the engine of his motor-car purring in the street, waiting to take him to town. For a few moments all the joy of his new prosperity seemed to slip away from him. The perfume of his cherished flowers lost its sweetness; the pleasant view of spreading meadows, with their background of dim blue hills, faded from before his eyes. He remembered the girl’s face as he had first seen and afterwards dreamed of it, the eyes shining with kindliness, the proud lips smiling encouragement, her tone purposely softened, leading him on to talk about himself, his pleasant hobbies, his dawning ambitions. And then again he thought of her as she must have looked when she sat down to write that letter, amidst the discomfort of a dismantled home, embittered and saddened by the sordid approach of ignominious poverty. He shivered a little and looked up as Dauncey approached.

“I almost wish,” he declared, “that I had bought that old swindler’s business. It wouldn’t have cost me a tenth part of what I am worth.”

“Has the girl been unkind?” his friend asked.

Jacob showed him the letter.

“She’s not generous,” was Dauncey’s comment, as he returned it.

“She’s loyal, at any rate,” Jacob replied.

Dauncey’s face suddenly softened. His wife was leaning over the gate waving her hand. His eyes watched her retreating figure until she disappeared.

“Somehow or other,” he ventured a little hesitatingly, as he turned back to Jacob, “I can’t help thinking that the tone of that letter isn’t altogether womanly. She must know the truth about her father’s position. It doesn’t seem fair to blame you for your perfectly reasonable attitude.”

“Why, even you thought I was hard at the time,” Jacob reminded him.

“You were hard but you were just, and your offer to the young lady and her mother should certainly have evoked some feeling of gratitude. I don’t like a woman to be too independent.”

“You’ve never seen her,” Jacob groaned.

“Not to speak to, but I’ve seen her once or twice on the platform with her father. She is very good-looking, of course,” Dauncey continued hesitatingly, “although she always reminded me of one of the conventional pictures of the birth or purse-proud young women which adorn the illustrated papers.”

“You’ve never seen her smile,” Jacob said gloomily, as he rose to his feet. “However, she may get more reasonable after the first shock has passed away.... Time we started for the City, eh, Dick?”

They motored through the old-fashioned villages and along the quiet country lanes, towards where the wide-flung arms of the great city crept out like tentacles of hideous brick and mortar, to gather in her children. This morning ride was to both of them a never-ending source of delight. Jacob especially had the air of a schoolboy when he remembered the punctual train, his punctual appearance at the dingy warehouse in Bermondsey Street, his inevitable sallying forth, half-an-hour later, with a list of names in his pocket, a few samples of leather in his bag, and the stock phrases of the market packed into his head by the never-satisfied Mr. Smith.

“A free man, Dick,” he observed, taking his cigar from his mouth and drawing a long breath of content. “A free man at thirty-four years of age. It’s wonderful!”

“If it only lasts!” Dauncey muttered, with a touch of his old pessimism.

“You can cut that out, old fellow,” Jacob insisted firmly. “I gave Pedlar a cheque for thirty-eight thousand pounds yesterday, and that left me fifty-five thousand of the original hundred thousand. Since then I have received bonds to the registered par value of four hundred thousand pounds, which are being sold to-day in New York at eight times their par value. Then there was a quarterly dividend cheque yesterday for nine thousand pounds. You’ll admit the money’s there.”

“Can’t deny facts,” Dauncey agreed, with returning cheerfulness.

“As regards your personal position,” Jacob went on, “I made my will yesterday and I left you five hundred a year.”

“Jacob!”

Jacob patted his friend on the shoulder.

“I’ve only told you this, old chap,” he went on, “because I want you to lift up your head when you walk, remember that you owe nobody anything, and that, whatever measure of bad luck you may have, you are outside all risk of financial trouble for the rest of your life. It’s a wonderful feeling, that, Dick. Half the men you meet in life admit that they have their fits of depression, their dark days, their anxieties. If you analyse these, you will find that nearly every one of them is financial. The man who is free from all financial cares for himself and his family should walk about with a song on his lips the whole of the day. You and I are in that position, Dick, and don’t let us forget it.”

Dauncey drew in a deep breath of realisation, and his face for a moment glowed.

“Jacob,” he confided, “I don’t feel that I could ever be unhappy again. I have what I always dreamed of—Nora and the kids and freedom from anxiety. But you—where will life lead you, I wonder? I have reached the summit of my ambitions. I’m giddy with the pleasure of it. But you—it would be horrible if you, with all your money, were to miss happiness.”

Jacob smiled confidently.

“My dear Dick,” he said, “I am happy—not because I have twelve suits of clothes coming home from Savile Row to-day, not because of this Rolls-Royce car, my little flat at the Milan Court, my cottage at Marlingden, with Harris there for gardener now, and Mrs. Harris with not a worry in the world except how to make me comfortable. I am happy not because of all these things, but because you and I together are going to test life. I have the master key to the locked chambers. I am ready for adventures.”

“I have about as much imagination as an owl,” Dauncey sighed.

Jacob’s eyes were fixed upon the haze which hung over the city.

“When I speak of adventures,” he went on, “I do not mean the adventures of romance. I mean rather the adventures of the pavement. Human beings interest me, Dick. I like to see them come and go, study their purposes, analyse their motives, help them if they deserve help, stand in their way if they seek evil. These are the day-by-day adventures possible to the man who is free from care, and who mixes without hindrance with his fellows.”

“I begin to understand,” Dauncey admitted, “but I still don’t quite see by what means you are sure of coming into touch with interesting people.”

Jacob knocked the ash from his cigar.

“Dick,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “you are a very superficial student of humanity. A story such as mine attracts the imagination of the public. Every greedy adventurer in the world believes that the person who has acquired wealth without individual effort is an easy prey. I expect to derive a certain amount of amusement from those who read of my good fortune and seek to profit by it. That is why I had no objection to telling my story to the reporters, why I let them take my photograph, why I gave them all the information they wanted about the payment of my creditors in full and my sudden wealth. All that we need now is the little West End office which I am going to take within the next few days, and a brass plate upon the door. The fly will then sit still and await the marauding spiders.”

Dauncey smiled with all the enthusiasm of his new-found sense of humour.

“Five hundred a year,” he murmured, “to be henchman to a bluebottle!”

CHAPTER VI

“Nothing but begging letters again this morning,” he announced; “four hospitals; the widow of an officer, still young, who desires a small loan and would prefer a personal interview; and the daughter of a rural dean down in the country, pining for London life, and only wanting a start in any position where good looks, an excellent figure, and a bright and loving disposition would be likely to meet with their due reward.”

“Hm!” Jacob muttered. “Pitch ’em into the waste-paper basket.”

“There are a packet of prospectuses—”

“Send them along, too.”

“And a proposal from a Mr. Poppleton Watts that you should endow a national theatre, for which he offers himself as actor manager. You provide the cash, and he takes the whole responsibility off your shoulders. The letter is dated from the Corn Exchange, Market Harborough.”

“Scrap him with the rest,” Jacob directed, leaning back in his chair. “Anything more you want for the place, Dick?”

The two men looked around. There were rows of neatly arranged files, all empty; an unused typewriter; a dictaphone and telephone. The outer office, where Dauncey spent much of his time, was furnished with the same quiet elegance as the inner apartment. There seemed to be nothing lacking.

“A larger waste-paper basket is the only thing I can suggest,” Dauncey observed drily.

Then came the sound for which, with different degrees of interest, both men had been waiting since the opening of the offices a fortnight before. There was a tap at the outer door, the sound of a bell and footsteps in the passage. Dauncey hurried out, closing the door of the private office behind him. His chief drew a packet of papers from a receptacle in his desk, forced a frown on to his smooth forehead, and buried himself in purposeless calculations.

Dauncey confronted the visitors. There were two of them—one whose orientalism of speech and features was unsuccessfully camouflaged by the splendour of his city attire, the other a rather burly, middle-aged man, in a worn tweed suit, carrying a bowler hat, with no gloves, and having the general appearance of a builder or tradesman of some sort. His companion took the lead.

“Is Mr. Jacob Pratt in?” he enquired.

“Mr. Pratt is in but very busy,” Dauncey answered doubtfully. “Have you an appointment?”

“We have not, but we are willing to await Mr. Pratt’s convenience,” was the eager reply. “Will you be so good as to take in my card? Mr. Montague, my name is—Mr. Dane Montague.”

Dauncey accepted the mission after a little hesitation, knocked reverently at the door of the inner office, and went in on tiptoe, closing the door behind him. He presented the card to Jacob, who was busily engaged in polishing the tip of one of his patent shoes with a fragment of blotting paper.

“A full-blown adventure,” he announced. “A man who looks like a money-lender, and another who might be his client.”

“Did they state the nature of their business?” Jacob demanded.

“They did not, but it is written in the face of Mr. Dane Montague. He wants as much of your million as he can induce you to part with. What his methods may be, however, I don’t know.”

“Show them in when I ring the bell,” Jacob directed, drawing the packet of papers once more towards him. “Extraordinarily complicated mass of figures here,” he added.

Dauncey withdrew into the outer office, closing the door behind him and still walking on tiptoe.

“Mr. Pratt will see you in a few minutes,” he said, with the air of one who imparts great news. “Please be seated.”

The two men subsided into chairs. Dauncey thrust a sheet of paper into a typewriter and desperately dashed off a few lines to an imaginary correspondent. Then the bell from the inner office rang, and, beckoning the two men to follow him, he opened the door of Jacob’s sanctum and ushered them in. Mr. Dane Montague advanced to the desk with a winning smile.

“My name is Dane Montague,” he announced, ostentatiously drawing off his glove and holding out a white, pudgy hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Pratt. This is my friend, Mr. James Littleham. The name may be known to you in connection with various building contracts.”

Jacob thrust away the papers upon which he had been engaged, with an air of resignation.

“Pray be seated, gentlemen,” he invited. “My time is scarcely my own just now. May I ask you to explain the nature of your business in as few words as possible?”

“Those are my methods exactly,” Mr. Dane Montague declared, throwing himself into the client’s chair, balancing his finger tips together, and frowning slightly. It was in this position that he had once been photographed as the organiser of a stillborn Exhibition.

“My friend Littleham,” he continued, “is a builder of great experience. I am, in my small way, a financier. We have called to propose a business enterprise to you.”

“Go on,” Jacob said.

“You are doubtless aware that large sums of money have recently been made by the exploitation in suitable spots of what have become known as Garden Cities.”

Jacob gave a noncommittal nod and his visitor cleared his throat.

“Mr. Littleham and I have a scheme which goes a little further,” he went on. “We have discovered a tract of land within easy distance of London, where genuine country residences can be built and offered at a ridiculously moderate cost.”

“Land speculation, eh?”

“Not a speculation at all,” was the prompt reply. “A certainty! Littleham, please oblige me with that plan.”

Mr. Littleham produced an architect’s roll from his pocket. His companion spread it out upon the desk before Jacob and drew an imitation gold pencil from his pocket.

“All along here,” he explained, tapping upon the plan, “is a common, sloping gently towards the south. The views all around are wonderful. The air is superb. There are five hundred acres of it. Here,” he went on, tapping a round spot, “is a small town, the name of which we will not mention for the moment. The Great Central expresses stop here. The journey to town takes forty minutes. That five hundred acres of land can be bought for twenty thousand pounds. It can be resold in half-acre and acre lots for building purposes at a profit of thirty or forty per cent.”

“The price of the land, if it is according to your description, is low,” Jacob remarked. “Why?”

Mr. Dane Montague flashed an excellently simulated look of admiration at his questioner.

“That’s a shrewd question, Mr. Pratt,” he confessed. “We are going to be honest and aboveboard with you. The price is low because the Urban Council of this town here”—tapping on the plan—“will not enter into any scheme for supplying lighting or water outside the three-mile boundary.”

“Then what’s the use of the land for building?” Jacob demanded.

“I will explain,” the other continued. “Situated here, two miles from our land, are the premises, works and reservoir of the Cropstone Wood, Water and Electric Light Company. They are in a position to supply everything in that way which the new colony might desire.”

“A going concern?” Jacob enquired.

“Certainly!” was the prompt reply. “But it is in connection with this Company that we expect to make a certain additional profit.”

Jacob glanced at the clock.

“You must hurry,” he enjoined.

“The Cropstone Wood Company,” Mr. Dane Montague confided, “is in a poorish way of business. The directors are sick of their job. They know nothing about our plan for building on the estate, and, to cut a long story short, we have secured a six months’ option to purchase the whole concern at a very low price. As soon as the building commences on the common, we shall exercise that option. We shall make a handsome profit on the rise in the shares of the Cropstone Wood Company, but our proposal is to work the company ourselves. At the price we can offer them at, it is certain that every building lot will be sold. Mr. Littleham here has prepared a specification of various forms of domiciles suited to the neighbourhood.”

Mr. Littleham, in a remarkably thick voice, intervened.

“I can run ’em up six-roomers at three hundred quid; eight and ten at five; and a country villa, with half an acre of garden, for a thousand,” he announced, relapsing at the conclusion of his sentence into his former state of sombre watching.

“There’s a very fair profit to be made, you see,” Mr. Dane Montague pointed out, “on the sale of the land and houses, without going more closely into the figures, but we want to be dead straight with you, Mr. Pratt. There should be an additional profit on the electric light and water which we supply from the Cropstone Wood Company.”

“I see,” Jacob remarked thoughtfully. “When they’ve bought their land, and the houses are beginning to materialise, you can charge them what you like for the water and lighting.”

Mr. Dane Montague beamed, with the air of one whose faith in the shrewdness of a fellow creature has been justified.

“You’ve hit the bull’s-eye,” he declared. “We’ve got the cost of service all worked out, and, added to the price we’ll have to pay for the Company, it don’t come to more than forty thousand pounds. Then we shall have the whole thing in our own hands and can charge what we damned well please.”

Jacob leaned back in his chair and surveyed his two visitors. There was a gleam in his eyes which might have meant admiration—or possibly something else. Neither of the two men noticed it.

“It’s quite a scheme,” he remarked.

“It’s a gold mine,” Mr. Dane Montague pronounced enthusiastically.

“There’ll be pickings every way,” the builder murmured thickly, with a covetous gleam in his eyes.

Jacob glanced at his watch.

“I’ll see the property this afternoon,” he promised. “If your statement is borne out by the facts, I am willing to come in with you. How much money do you require from me?”

Mr. Dane Montague coughed. Mr. Littleham looked more stolid than ever.

“The fact of the matter is,” the former explained, “Mr. Littleham here is tied up with so much land that he has very little of the ready to spare at present. Personally, I have been so fortunate lately in the City, had so many good things brought to me by my pals, that I am pretty well up to the neck until things begin to move.”

Jacob studied the speaker thoughtfully. He was an observant person, and he noticed that Mr. Dane Montague’s glossy hat showed signs of frequent ironing, that there were traces of ink at the seams of his black coat, and the suggestion of a patch on the patent boot which lingered modestly under his chair.

“You mean, I suppose, that you wish me to provide the whole of the capital?” Jacob remarked.

Mr. Dane Montague coughed.

“You happen to be the only one of the trio who has it in fluid form,” he pointed out. “It would suit us better to recognise you a little more generously in the partition of the profits as the land is sold, and for you to finance the whole thing.”

“I have no objection to that,” Jacob decided, “provided I am satisfied in other respects. How far is this delectable spot by road?”

“Twenty-two miles,” Mr. Littleham replied. “Barely that if you know the way.”

“I will inspect the property this afternoon,” Jacob announced.

“Capital!” Mr. Dane Montague exclaimed. “You are a man after my own heart, Mr. Pratt. You strike while the iron’s hot. Now what about a little lunch, say at the Milan, before starting?”

“On condition that I am allowed to be host,” Jacob stipulated, “I shall be delighted.”

Mr. Dane Montague chuckled. The suggestion relieved him of a certain disquietude regarding the contents of his pocketbook.

“No objection to that, I am sure, Mr. Pratt,” he declared. “Eh, Littleham? At one o’clock at the Milan Grill, then.”

“You can rely upon me,” Jacob promised.

He entertained his two new friends to a very excellent lunch, but he insisted upon bidding them au revoir on the threshold of the restaurant. Jacob had views of his own about inspecting the Cropstone Wood Estate.

“I wish to form a wholly unbiased opinion as regards the value of the property,” he declared, “and I should much prefer to walk over it alone. Besides, if we are all of us seen there together—”

“I quite understand,” Mr. Dane Montague interrupted. “Not another word, Mr. Pratt. Littleham, direct Mr. Pratt’s driver,” he added. “I have never been down by road myself.”

Littleham entered into explanations with the chauffeur, and Mr. Montague conversed in low but earnest tones with Jacob upon the pavement.

“Don’t think, Mr. Pratt,” he said, “that we are asking you to take part in a speculation, because we are not. That land at forty pounds an acre is a gift. You could buy it and forget all about it for ten years, and I wouldn’t mind guaranteeing that you doubled your capital. It’s just one of those amazing chances which come now and then in a man’s lifetime. The only thing that rather put us in a corner was the fact that the money has to be found within forty-eight hours. That won’t worry you, Mr. Pratt.”

“It will make no difference to me,” Jacob admitted.

“Then good luck to you and a pleasant journey,” was Mr. Montague’s valediction.

Jacob called for Dauncey, and after an hour’s ride they had tea in a small country town and walked along the edge of the common which Mr. Dane Montague had described. From the top of the ridge they obtained a fair view of the entire property. Jacob sat upon a boulder, lit a cigarette and contemplated it thoughtfully. He confessed himself puzzled.

“They look wrong ’uns, those two,” he observed, “but this land’s all right, Dauncey. It’s a capital building site.”

Dauncey plucked at his lower lip.

“I don’t know anything about property,” he admitted. “Never owned a yard of land in my life. Yet it seems to me there must be a hitch somewhere.”

A young man came strolling along the path, apparently on his way to the town. Jacob accosted him politely.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening,” the other replied, a little gloomily.

“Fine view here,” Jacob observed.

“Not bad,” the newcomer answered, without enthusiasm.

Jacob produced his case, and the young man accepted a cigarette.

“Are you a resident in these parts, may I ask?” Jacob enquired.

“For my sins. I’ve just set up an office in Cropstone.”

“Are you, by any chance, a lawyer?”

The young man laughed.

“Do I carry my profession about with me to that extent? Yes, I’m a lawyer. Mark Wiseman, my name is.”

“Not too many clients yet, eh?” Jacob asked kindly.

The aspirant to legal fame made a grimace.

“Too near London.”

Jacob looked down the ridge.

“Fine building property this seems,” he observed.

The other assented. “It’s for sale, I believe.”

“I happen to know that it’s for sale,” Jacob continued, “and at a very low price, too. What’s the drawback? The soil looks all right.”

“The soil’s good,” the young man acquiesced. “Everything’s good, I believe. The great drawback is that it’s just over three miles from Cropstone, where the lighting and water would have to come from.”

“And what about that?”

“They won’t supply it, that’s all.”

Jacob pointed to where an ornamental chimney, a power shed and a gleam of water appeared on the other side of a small wood.

“Isn’t there a private company there?” he asked.

“Practically defunct. They used to supply Cropstone, but the Urban Council there are running a show of their own.”

“Water good?” Jacob enquired.

“I’ve never heard any complaints.”

Jacob glanced at his watch.

“If you would be so good as to call at the White Hart Hotel at half past six this evening,” he said, “and ask for Mr. Jacob Pratt, there is a small matter of business I should like you to undertake for me in this neighbourhood.”

The young lawyer’s alacrity was not to be mistaken.

“I will be there without fail,” he promised.

At eleven o’clock precisely, the next morning, Mr. Dane Montague presented himself for the second time at Jacob’s offices, accompanied this time by a smaller, darker and glossier duplicate of himself, whom he introduced as Mr. Sharpe, his solicitor. Jacob did not keep them long in suspense.

“I have inspected the Cropstone Wood Estate,” he announced, “and I am willing to advance the twenty thousand pounds for its purchase.”

Mr. Montague moistened his already too rubicund lips.

“I felt certain that you would not neglect such an opportunity,” he said.

“The profits on the sale of the land in lots,” Jacob continued, “are, I presume, to be divided equally amongst the three of us. As regards the houses which Mr. Littleham proposes to build, I will advance whatever money is necessary for these, on mortgage, at six per cent interest, but the profit on the sale of these I should expect to divide.”

Mr. Montague showed some signs of haste.

“I don’t object,” he assented suavely. “Littleham and I will take the other half. It is a great relief to me to get this matter settled quickly,” he continued, “as I have an exceedingly busy day. There just remains one rather important point, Mr. Pratt. My offer of the property expires to-morrow, and the vendors might or might not be disposed to extend the time. In any case, it would be better not to ask them. Would it be possible to clinch this matter to-day?”

“Bring your agreement here,” Jacob directed, “at three o’clock, and I will give you my cheque for the amount.”

Mr. Sharpe reached for his hat.

“I can manage it,” he said, in reply to a look from Montague, “but I shall have to get along at once.”

At a quarter past three that afternoon, Jacob wrote his cheque for twenty thousand pounds, received a signed copy of the agreement with Messrs. Littleham and Montague, and sat by himself, whistling softly and listening to their retreating footsteps. Dauncey came in, a few moments later, with a perplexed frown upon his forehead.

“Please may I look through the agreement?” he begged.

Jacob passed it over to him. He read it through slowly and carefully.

“Anything troubling you?” Jacob asked.

“I don’t know what it is,” Dauncey confessed. “The agreement seems all right, but I saw their faces when I let ’em out. I can’t see the flaw, Jacob, but it’s not an honest deal. They’ve got something up their sleeve.”

Jacob smiled.

“Perhaps you’re right, Dick,” he answered. “Anyway, lock the agreement up in the safe and don’t worry.”

CHAPTER VII

Jacob found life, for the next few months, an easy and a pleasant thing. He took a prolonged summer holiday and made many acquaintances at a fashionable French watering place, where he devoted more time to golf than gambling, but made something of a reputation at both pursuits. He came back to London bronzed and in excellent health, but always with a curious sense of something wanting in his life, an emptiness of purpose, which he could never altogether shake off. He was a liberal patron of the theatres, but he had no inclinations towards theatrical society, or the easy Bohemian circles amongst which he would have been such a welcome disciple. He was brought into contact with a certain number of wealthy men in the city, who occasionally asked him to their homes, but here again he was conscious of disappointment. He enjoyed wine, cigars and good food, but he required with them the leaven of good company and good fellowship, which somehow or other seemed to evade him. Dauncey remained his chief and most acceptable companion, a rejuvenated Dauncey, who had developed a dry fund of humour, a brightness of eye and speech wholly transforming. There were many others who offered him friendship, but Jacob’s natural shrewdness seemed only to have increased with his access of prosperity, and he became almost morbidly conscious of the attractions to others of his ever-growing wealth. He had joined a club of moderate standing, where he met a certain number of men with whom he was at times content to exchange amenities. He had a very comfortable flat in the Milan Court, a country cottage at Marlingden, now his own property, with a largely increased rose garden, and half an acre of forcing houses, over which domain Mr. and Mrs. Harris reigned supreme. He possessed a two-seater Rolls-Royce, which was the envy of all his acquaintances, and a closed car of the same make. He belonged to a very good golf club near London, where he usually spent his week-ends, and his handicap was rapidly diminishing. And he had managed to preserve entirely his bland simplicity of manner. Not a soul amongst his acquaintance, unless specially informed, would have singled him out as a millionaire.

It was about six months after his first visit from Mr. Dane Montague, when Dauncey one morning brought in a card to his chief. Jacob was no longer under the necessity of resorting to imaginary labours on such occasions. There were tiers of black boxes around the room, reaching to the ceiling, on which were painted in white letters—The Cropstone Wood Estates Company, Limited. There were two clerks in the outside office, in addition to an office boy.

“Young lady to see you,” Dauncey announced quietly.

Jacob glanced at the card and forgot all about the Cropstone Wood Estates Company, Limited. His fingers shook, and he looked anxiously at his secretary.

“Did she ask for me by name?”

“No. She asked for the Chairman of the Company.”

“You don’t think she knows who I am, then?”

“From her manner, I should imagine not,” Dauncey replied. “As a matter of fact, she asked first to whom she should apply for information respecting the Company. I thought you might like to see her yourself, so I told her the Chairman.”

“Quite right,” Jacob approved. “Show her in and be careful not to mention my name.”

Jacob’s precaution was obviously a wise one. The young lady who was presently ushered into the office paused abruptly as she recognised him. Her expression was first incredulous, then angry. She turned as though to leave.

“Miss Bultiwell,” Jacob said calmly, as he rose to his feet, “I understand that you desire information respecting the Cropstone Wood Estates. I am Chairman of the Company and entirely at your service.”

She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders, swung across the room, and threw herself into the client’s chair with a touch of that insolent grace which he had always so greatly admired.

“I had no idea whom I was coming to see,” she told him.

“Or you would not have come?”

“I most certainly should not.”

The light died from his eyes. He felt the chill of her cold, contemptuous tone.

“Can you not remember,” he suggested, “that you are here to see an official connected with the Cropstone Wood Estates Company and forget the other association?”

“I shall try,” she agreed. “If I had not made up my mind to do that, I should have walked straight out of your office directly I recognised you.”

“You will pardon my saying,” he ventured, “that I consider your attitude unnecessarily censorious.”

She ignored his remark and turned to the business in hand.

“My mother and I,” she said, “have of course left the Manor House. We are in lodgings now and looking for a permanent abode near London. The idea of a residence at Cropstone Wood appeals to my mother. She has friends in the neighborhood.”

Jacob inclined his head.

“I assure you the Estate is everything that we claim for it.”

“Most of the enquiries I have made have been satisfactorily answered,” she admitted. “I have found only one person who has had any criticism to make. He says that, before buying property there, one ought to have definite information about the water and lighting.”

“He is a very sensible man,” Jacob agreed.

“I have come here to ask about them.”

“The water and lighting,” Jacob announced, “will be undertaken by the Cropstone Wood, Water and Electric Light Company, a private enterprise close at hand. The charges will be normal and the supply adequate.”

“Thank you,” the girl said. “If you are sure of that it is all I came to ascertain.”

She rose to her feet. Jacob was desperately unwilling to let her go.

“Any direct transactions, of course, are undertaken with the city office,” he explained, “but if you will accept a letter from me to the manager, he will see that your application is promptly dealt with, and that you have all the choice of site that is possible. There is, as you may know, a great demand for the land.”

“Thank you,” she replied, “I will not trouble you.”

“Then again,” he went on, “there is the question of whether you want simply to buy the land and employ your own builder, or place the contract with Littleham, who has an office on the Estate. My advice to you would be to go to Littleham. He can show you a dozen plans of various sized residences, he has a stock of material close at hand—”

“I am very much obliged,” she interrupted. “My mother and I have already decided upon one of Mr. Littleham’s cottages. It was simply because we found his answers as regards the water and electric lighting a little indefinite, that I decided to come to you.”

“Indefinite?” Jacob murmured.

“Yes. He told us that the water and lighting were to be supplied by the private company you spoke of, but he seemed to have no idea as to what price they would be likely to charge.”

Jacob inclined his head thoughtfully.

“I think you may rest assured,” he told her, “that the charge will be normal.”

She turned away.

“You have given me the information I require,” she said. “Thank you once more, and good morning.”

Jacob lost his head for a moment. It was impossible to let her drift away like this.

“Miss Bultiwell,” he protested, “you are very hard on me. I wish you would allow me a few words of explanation. Will you—will you lunch with me?”

She looked him up and down, and not even the consciousness of those well-chosen and suitable clothes, of his very handsome bachelor flat at the Milan, his wonderful Rolls-Royce, and his summer retreat at Marlingden, with its acre of roses, helped him to retain an atom of self-confidence. He was no longer the man to whom the finger of envy pointed. The glance withered him as though he had indeed been a criminal.

“Certainly not,” she answered.

She made her way towards the door, and Jacob watched her helplessly. In her plain tweed coat and skirt, her sensible but homely shoes, her cheap little grey tam-o’-shanter hat, with its single yellow quill, she was just as attractive as she had been in the days when the first modiste in London had taken a pride in dressing her. She reached the door and passed out before Jacob had been able to make up his mind to step forward and open it for her. He gazed at the spot where she had disappeared, with blank face and unseeing eyes. Suddenly the door was reopened and closed again. She came towards him very deliberately.

“Mr. Pratt,” she said, “I am a very selfish and a very greedy person. I have lunched most days, for the last three months, at an A. B. C. shop opposite the office where I am working, and I hate the food and everything about that sort of place. If I accept your invitation, will you allow me to order exactly what I please, and remember that it is sheer greed which induces me even to sit down in the same room with you?”

Jacob sighed as he rose and stretched out his hand for his hat.

“Come on any terms you please,” he answered, with eager humility.

CHAPTER VIII

“I have not. I never could. I remember that I arrived on a bicycle, very hot and somewhat—er—inappropriately dressed. Your father, who had invited me over because at that time I was a useful business connection, took no particular pains to set me at my ease. I was very uncomfortable. You were exceedingly kind to me that evening.”

“Was I?” she asked indifferently.

Jacob took a sip of champagne and went on valiantly.

“I had never met any one like you before. I have never met any one like you since. Why should you treat me as though I were something entirely contemptible, because I refused to accept your father’s fraudulent balance sheet and put money into a ruined business?”

Sybil’s blue eyes, which, as he knew, alas! too well, were capable of holding such sweet and tender lights, flashed upon him with a single moment’s anger.

“I had hoped,” she said severely, “that you would have had the good taste to avoid this subject. Since you have opened it, however, let me remind you that I am a woman, and that feelings count for far more with me than arguments. You may have been perfectly justified in what you did. At the same time, you were the immediate cause of the tragedy surrounding my father’s death. For that I shall never forgive you.”

“It doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?” he complained, with a strange little quiver of his underlip.

“Women seldom are fair in their likes and dislikes,” she pronounced. “I hope you will not pursue the subject.”

“Is it permitted to ask you any questions with regard to your present avocation?” he ventured, a few minutes later.

“I have no objection to telling you what I am doing,” she replied. “I am taking a course of shorthand and typewriting at an office in Fleet Street.”

The horror of it chilled Jacob to the very soul. He had only that morning received a cheque from his brother for an unexpected bonus, which amounted to more than she would ever be able to earn in the whole course of her life.

“Is that absolutely necessary?” he asked.

“We have two hundred a year between us, my mother and I,” she answered drily. “Perhaps you can understand that an extra two or three pounds a week is desirable.”

“Damn!” Jacob muttered, under his breath.

“I really don’t see why you should be profane,” she remonstrated.

“It’s too absurd, your going out to work,” he insisted. “I had business connections in the old days with the house of Bultiwell, by which I profited. Why cannot I be allowed, out of the money I can’t ever dream of spending, to settle—”

“If you are going to be impertinent,” she interrupted coolly, “I shall get up and go out.”

Jacob groaned and cast about in his mind for a less intimate topic of conversation. The subject of theatre-going naturally presented itself. A momentary gleam of regret passed across her face as she answered his questions.

“Yes, I remember telling you how fond I always was of first nights,” she admitted. “Nowadays, naturally, we do not go to the theatre at all. My mother and I live very quietly.”

Jacob cleared his throat.

“If,” he suggested, “a box at the theatre could be accepted on the same terms as this luncheon—for your mother and you, I mean,” he went on hastily, “I am always having them given me. I’d keep out of the way. Or we might have a little dinner first. Your mother—”

“Absolutely impossible!” she interrupted ruthlessly. “I really feel quite ashamed enough of myself, as it is. I know that I have not the slightest right to accept your very delicious luncheon.”

“You could pay for anything in the world I could give you, with a single kind word,” he ventured.

She sighed as she drew on her gloves.

“I have no feeling of kindness towards you, Mr. Pratt,” she said, “and I hate hypocrisy. I thank you very much for your luncheon. You will forgive my shaking hands, won’t you? It was scarcely in the bargain. And I must say good-by now. I am due back at the office at half-past two.”

So Jacob derived very little real pleasure from this trip into an imaginary Paradise, although many a time he went over their conversation in his mind, trying to find the slenderest peg on which he could hang a few threads of hope. He rang up the city office and made sure that Miss Bultiwell should be offered the most desirable plot of land left, at the most reasonable price, after which he invited Dauncey, who was waiting impatiently for an interview, to take an easy-chair, and passed him his favourite box of cigars.

“What is it, Dick?” he demanded. “Why bring thunderclouds into my sunny presence?”

“Not quite so sunny as usual, is it?” Dauncey remarked sympathetically. “How is Miss Bultiwell?”

“She is taking a course of shorthand and typing,” Jacob groaned.

“That seems harmless enough. Why shouldn’t she?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Jacob answered crossly. “Do you realise that my income is nearly fifty thousand a year, and she has to grind in a miserable office, in order to be able to earn two or three pounds a week to provide her mother with small luxuries?”

“From what I remember of Miss Bultiwell, I don’t think it will do her any harm,” Dauncey remarked doggedly.

“You’re an unfeeling brute,” Jacob declared.

Dauncey shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps so,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose I should like her any better if she came and ate out of your hand.”

“You must admit that she shows a fine, independent spirit,” Jacob insisted.

“Bultiwell obstinacy, I call it!”

Jacob knocked the ash from his cigar.

“Dick,” he asked quietly, “is there any sense in two men arguing about a girl, when one is in love with her and the other isn’t?”

“None at all,” Dauncey agreed.

“Then shut up and tell me what horrible tragedy you’ve stumbled upon. You’ve something to say to me, haven’t you?”

Dauncey nodded.

“It’s about Montague and Littleham. I have discovered the fly in the ointment. I thought those two would never be content with a reasonable land speculation.”

“Proceed,” Jacob said encouragingly.

“Most of the idiots who bought these plots of land,” Dauncey continued, “were content to know that the Cropstone Wood, Water and Electric Light Company was in existence and had commenced the work of connecting them up. Not one of them had the sense to find out what they were going to pay for their water and lighting.”

“Ah!”

“I’ve just discovered,” Dauncey continued, “that Dane Montague and Littleham have an option on the Water and Electric Light Company. I don’t suppose they said a word to you about that. You found the money to buy the land, all right, but they’re going to make the bulk of the profit out of the water and lighting. That young lawyer at Cropstone gave us a word of warning, you remember, the day we were over there.”

“So he did,” Jacob murmured reflectively. “I was a mug.”

“Not only that,” Dauncey reminded him, “but some of the people who’ve bought the land are your friends, aren’t they? What about Miss Bultiwell?”

Jacob knitted his brows.

“I don’t fancy the company will be able to charge whatever they like,” he argued. “There are some restrictions—”

“They’ve got an old charter which has another fourteen years to run,” Dauncey interrupted. “As they’ve made a loss ever since they’ve been in business, there’s nothing to prevent their recouping themselves now, on paper, by charging practically whatever they like. I warned you not to have anything to do with those fellows.”

“I was an ass,” Jacob admitted.

The critical note vanished from Dauncey’s tone. He laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault, Jacob,” he said. “We shall prove that you were never interested in the option and knew nothing about it. As for Miss Bultiwell, it won’t hurt you if you have to take that bit of land off her hands.”

Jacob shook his friend’s hand.

“Thank you, Dick.”

“And I should tackle those fellows at once, if I were you,” Dauncey added. “No good letting the matter drag on. Ask them what they’re going to charge. Say that one or two of the tenants have been making enquiries.”

“I will.”

“It’s a dirty business all round,” Dauncey declared. “They made you advance the whole of the money to buy the land, and they saved their bit for the waterworks and lighting company. It’s as plain as a pikestaff why they didn’t let you in on that. They knew perfectly well that you’d never be a party to such a low-down scheme as they had in view.”

Jacob swung round to his desk with an air of determination.

“I’ll tackle them within the next few days,” he promised.

CHAPTER IX

“By the bye,” he said, “I see that the Water Company is getting on very well with its connections. They must have several hundred men at work there.”

Mr. Montague appeared a little startled.

“Well, well! At any rate we shall be able to keep our word. Electric light and water will be ready for every house as it is built.”

“That reminds me of a question I was going to ask you,” Jacob went on. “What price are we going to charge for the electric light?”

“What price?” Montague murmured, balancing a knife upon his forefinger and watching it meditatively.

“The Company’ll have to fix that amongst themselves,” Littleham declared brusquely.

“One or two of the people who’ve bought plots have made enquiries,” Jacob continued, without noticing the last speaker. “I think they’ve begun to realise that they’re pretty well at our mercy—or rather at the mercy of the Company.”

“Well, that’s not our business, anyway,” Montague replied evasively. “I dare say it will be rather an expensive affair, connecting them all up.”

Jacob smiled knowingly.

“No need for us to bluff one another,” he remarked, dropping his voice a little. “We all three know what’s in front of those unfortunate tenants. Serves ’em right for trying to buy the land too cheap. By the bye, Montague, there’s no mistake about that option?”

Mr. Montague coughed.

“None at all,” he answered.

“When do you want my share of the purchase money?”

Mr. Dane Montague and his friend exchanged surreptitious glances.

“Presently ... presently,” the former replied. “The option doesn’t expire for two months yet. But there is another little matter concerning which Littleham and I have a proposition to make to you.”

“Go ahead,” Jacob invited.

“Every plot of land on the Cropstone Wood Estate has now been sold,” Montague continued. “The purchase price provided by you was twenty thousand pounds. The land has been sold for thirty-five thousand, of which sum twenty per cent has been received.”

“Precisely,” Jacob agreed. “We have fifteen thousand pounds, less expenses and interest, to divide between the three of us as the money comes in.”

“In the ordinary course of events,” Mr. Montague proceeded, “it will no doubt be a year at least before the depositors will have paid up in full and a correct balance can be arrived at. Now Littleham and I are scarcely in your position. We need to turn our money over quickly. We therefore make to you the following proposition. Let the accounts be made out at once, allow six per cent interest upon all sums still owing from depositors, give us a cheque for the whole amount of our shares on that basis, and Littleham and I are willing to pay you five hundred pounds each for the accommodation.”

“A dissolution of partnership, in fact?”

“Precisely,” Montague assented.

“There’s the taking over of the Electric Light and Water Company,” Jacob remarked reflectively. “I suppose you want that kept entirely separate.”

Montague coughed.

“Entirely,” he agreed.

“Supposing some of the purchasers should fail to make good their deposits?”

“Then the deposit would belong to you,” Montague pointed out, “and the land could be resold elsewhere.”

“Plenty of applicants for the land still,” Littleham interposed gruffly.

Jacob sipped his champagne and found it excellent.

“Very well,” he assented, “make it fifteen hundred between you and I’ll take the whole thing over.”...

Mr. Montague and his companion sat for an hour over another bottle of wine after their guest had departed. The faces of both were flushed and their voices were a little husky, but they were filled with the complacency of men who have come out on the right side of a deal. Only Mr. Montague, every now and then, gave voice to some faint regret.

“He’s such a prize mug, James,” he said. “It seems a shame we couldn’t have handled him for something bigger.”

“What are you grumbling at?” Mr. Littleham replied, letting loose another button of his waistcoat. “We’re getting four thou apiece profit on the sale of the land, and he’s standing the racket for all of ’em who don’t pay up, and there’ll be a good few more of them than he fancies. Then by this time next week we can take up our option on the Cropstone Wood, Water and Electric Light Company, and if Mr. Jacob Pratt thinks he’s in on that deal, he’s making the mistake of his life. I ain’t surprised so much at the land purchasers,” the builder went on reflectively. “They’re all the same. They buy a plot of land, and they think the Lord will send them gas and water and that sort of thing, and that the price is fixed by Act of Parliament and they can’t be diddled. But a man like Pratt, laying out the money he has, and simply knowing that there was a water and electric light plant on which you and I had an option, and imagining we should take him in without an agreement or even a letter—take him in on a proposition likely to pay at least thirty per cent—well, it’s a fair knockout!”

“We ought to have made our fortunes out of a jay like that,” Mr. Montague agreed, with a shade of sadness in his tone.

About a fortnight later, two very agitated looking visitors burst precipitately into Jacob’s outer office. Mr. Montague’s complexion was of that pasty hue described as chalky white. He was breathing heavily, and he had lost all that nice precision of speech intended to convey the suggestion that in his leisure hours he was a man of culture. Mr. Littleham was still more out of breath. His necktie had disappeared around his neck, and beads of perspiration were standing out upon his forehead.

“Where’s the guv’nor?” Mr. Montague almost shouted.

“Boss in?” Mr. Littleham demanded simultaneously.

Dauncey rose from his seat and eyed the visitors coldly.

“Have you an appointment with Mr. Pratt?” he asked.

“Appointment be damned!” the builder began. “We want—”

“Look here,” Mr. Montague interrupted, the methods of his race asserting themselves in his persuasive tone, “it is most important that we should see Mr. Pratt at once.”

“Nothing wrong Cropstone way, is there?” Dauncey enquired. “I thought you were out of that now.”

“Is the guv’nor in or isn’t he?” Littleham demanded, mopping his forehead.

Dauncey spoke through an office telephone, and after a very brief delay threw open the door of the private office and ushered in the two callers. Jacob looked up from some papers as they entered and stared at them a little blankly.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I thought we’d parted company for a time.”

Littleham, usually the silent partner, asserted himself then. He pushed the trembling Montague to one side and stood squarely before the desk.

“Look here, Pratt,” he demanded, “have you bought the Cropstone Wood, Water and Electric Light Company?”

“Certainly I have,” Jacob replied. “What about it?”

“When?”

“Oh, within a few days of your first coming to me.”

“Within a few days?” Mr. Montague almost shrieked.

Jacob leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and glanced with a momentary satisfaction at his well-polished brown shoes and white gaiters.

“My good friends,” he said, “you could scarcely expect me to put down twenty thousand pounds for land, without making arrangements for the water supply and lighting? I went into the matter with a local solicitor and found that, as the Company was practically moribund, the best way was to buy it outright. I am going to incorporate it with the Cropstone Wood Estates and make one concern.”

“You bought the Water Company behind our backs and never said a word about it?” Montague demanded thickly.