XII
Whenever a full realization of the fact that he had actually embarked upon a business career came to him, Allen was completely overpowered by his sense of its importance. He blessed books and book agents, since they had been the indirect means to this much-desired end. His chance had come to him just when his optimism had begun to waver, with the hydra's heads multiplying beyond belief; and he proposed to show Alice especially, and Mr. Gorham incidentally, that he was no mere callow youth idly waiting by the wayside. There could be no doubt whatever regarding his intentions, but a captious critic might have suggested that it would have been the part of wisdom to allow himself ample time for demonstration. Rome was not built in a day, nor does history record that youth ever acquired the experience of ripe middle age in a like space of time; but Allen's instructors at college would have given testimony that he was not strong in history. So it was that he bruised his head frequently at first against the stone wall of precedent and practice, in this particular instance made less yielding by the fact that the vice-president of the Consolidated Companies distinctly resented his addition to the office force.
These first busy weeks were giving Allen ample opportunity to gain experience. The impetuosity of youth would require time before it became tempered to the degree which would make it wholly reliable; but his enthusiasm, his indefatigable energy, and, above all, his absolute belief in and loyalty to the head of the Companies and the corporation itself were elements of genuine promise. There were moments which tried the patience, but Allen's mistakes were so much the result of over-eagerness and consequent over-reaching that Gorham's annoyance was always short-lived. Even the errors gave evidence that underneath the boyish irresponsibility lay excellent material for the elder man to mould.
"Once upon a time"—Gorham put the words in the form of a parable—"there was a boy who was ambitious to jump a very long distance. On the day of the contest, in order to make sure of accomplishing his purpose, he took an extra long start, and ran so hard that when he reached the mark from which he was to jump he had spent his strength."
Stephen Sanford had not disappointed Gorham in the attitude he took when he first learned that Allen had been given a position with the Consolidated Companies. The letter which he wrote to his old friend contained accusations of the basest treachery which one man could show toward another: Gorham had deliberately planned to separate father and son; he had discovered the boy's rare business qualifications and taken advantage of them for his own personal ends. The act was in keeping with the basis upon which his whole company was founded. Gorham's good-nature was taxed to its utmost, but he fully realized how deeply his old friend was wounded; and the knowledge that his own interest in Allen was in reality a genuine service to Sanford himself served to blunt the force of the attack.
Allen, oblivious to everything except the present opportunity to prove himself to Alice and to be near Alice, plunged ahead until Gorham was forced to change his words of caution into actual commands.
"You are trying to put the head of the wedge in first, my boy," the older man told him. "You are using twenty pounds of steam to do the work of two, and that does no credit to your judgment."
Covington was negatively antagonistic from the start in that quiet, skilful way which kept his animosity from any specific expression. Allen felt it, and reciprocated the feeling with an intensity not lessened by the knowledge that Covington and Alice were thrown together almost daily by this business arrangement which seemed to him the height of absurdity. He did not approve of the business manners which the girl delighted to assume with him when they chanced to meet, and he watched for an opportunity to tell her so.
As the opportunity seemed slow in coming, with characteristic energy he made one to order. Gorham required some important papers which he had left at his house the night before, and the boy so arranged his arrival that he had the pleasure of seeing Covington depart, although he himself was unobserved. He found Alice deep in the mysterious detail of her growing responsibility, but not at all disturbed to be discovered at her work. The desk which had been placed in her father's library was as near a duplicate of his in reduced size as could be found. A bunch of letters covered one end of it, while a neatly arranged pile of checks directly in front of her showed that the contents of her mail had proved profitable. She told Riley to bring Allen here, and the boy stood regarding her for a moment before she looked up.
"Don't let me disturb you, Miss—Manager," he said, loftily, as he caught her eye. "We magnates become peeved by interruptions—I always do myself."
Alice laughed as Allen unlocked the drawer in Gorham's desk and placed the desired papers in his pocket.
"Isn't it fun?" she asked, merrily.
"Isn't what fun?" was the unresponsive reply. "I haven't burst any buttons off my waistcoat watching you and Mr. Covington do the turtle-dove act while I drag out a tabloid existence in a two by twice hall bedroom, and stay tied down to my desk all day. Where does the fun come in?"
The girl looked at him in complete surprise. "What in the world—" she began.
"Oh, I mean it—every word!" he insisted. Now that he had plunged in there was no retreating. "I say, are you going to marry him?"
"I'd be angry with you if you weren't so terribly amusing, Allen," she replied, smiling again after the first shock of his outburst. "Truly, you don't know how funny you are when you try to be serious. It doesn't fit."
Allen bit his lip. "I'm a joke still, am I?" he asked, without looking at her. "I thought it was the pater's prerogative to consider me that, but I see he didn't get it patented."
"Is it being a 'joke' when you ask questions which you have no right to ask?"
"If you knew how I feel inside you'd think I had a right."
The girl relented a little. "You know as well as I do that Mr. Covington comes here simply to help me in my business education."
"Business fiddlesticks!" he interrupted, crossly. "You're not engaged to him yet, are you?"
There was so pathetic a tone of entreaty in Allen's voice that Alice could not deny herself the pleasure of being mischievous.
"Not to him alone," she answered, demurely.
"What do you mean?" Allen demanded, now thoroughly alarmed.
"Don't you think it is better for a girl to make a number of men comparatively happy by being engaged to them than one man supremely miserable by marrying him?"
He looked at her aghast. "Who are some of the others?" he asked, with despair written on every feature. "Is Joe Whitney one of them?"
"Joe Whitney!" Alice laughed merrily. "Mercy, no! Joe is entirely without resources. If it wasn't for his family troubles, I shouldn't know what in the world to talk to him about."
Allen began to be suspicious. The girl's manner was far too flippant to be genuine, but he would not for the world give her the satisfaction of knowing that she had worried him.
"If you have so many, why can't you add me to the list?"
"You? Oh, that would never do! You would be sure to think I meant it, and the first thing I knew you would try to make me marry you."
"Of course I should. Don't you want to be married?"
"Marriage is an institution for the blind," she laughed back at him.
"Then that's where I want to be confined."
Alice sat up very straight. "Then you had better run right along and find your guardian," she urged. "We business women have no time for such trifles."
"So you shirk your responsibility, do you?" Allen looked at her so reproachfully, and spoke with such quiet firmness that she ceased her bantering.
"What responsibility am I shirking?" she demanded.
"Me; I am the greatest responsibility you have, and you are neglecting me shamefully."
Alice gave evidence of becoming amused again, but he gravely checked her.
"For once I am serious, if you can be made to believe it. When we met so accidentally in Washington—well, I was a joke then, I admit; but it's different now. You gave me some new ideas to think about, and the more I've thought about them the more I've seen things your way. And ever since then I've tried hard to do what I thought would please you. But now I'm sick of the whole thing. It may be all my fault; but, anyhow, I wish I were well out of it."
"Why, Allen Sanford!" Her voice showed astonishment and reproach.
"I do," he insisted. "I'd give a whole lot right now if I knew that I never had to go back to the office again."
Alice was genuinely shocked. "I can't understand you," she said, soberly. "If you had felt this way at the beginning, I shouldn't have been so much surprised; but now, just when you are getting to a point where you could be useful to father and to yourself, you begin to show the white feather."
"You mustn't say that, Alice," the boy replied, quickly, his tone showing that she hurt him. "It isn't quitting; it's a question of whether or not I am fitted for business—but you mustn't say that I am showing the white feather. I shan't let even you say that."
"Father says you are making a splendid start." She tried to atone in part for her severity. "That ought to mean a lot to you, for he is a hard man to satisfy."
"Did he say that?" Allen replied, temporarily mollified. "That does mean a whole lot to me; but it's all your doing, and you must take the responsibility. Good or bad, I'm your business creation, and you must stand by it."
"No, Allen; you mustn't put it that way. You settled the matter for yourself when you took the stand you did with your father. Of course I'm more than interested to see you make good, but it isn't for me to accept either the responsibility or the credit."
"We never should have had that scrap if it hadn't been for you. I shouldn't have had the nerve."
"Oh, don't say that," she begged.
"It was a good thing all right," he hastened to reassure her. "Except for that, I should still be wearing pinafores, and it's as much better for the pater as it is for me to have shed them. I'd probably like business all right if I understood the blamed thing; but it isn't the whole show, you know."
"Isn't the business end enough?" she asked, quietly. "It is for me. I can't tell you how much real pleasure I'm getting out of this little scheme father has turned over to me. It makes all the other things which I had tired of seem more interesting."
"Business is all right, of course," he admitted. "You don't get much idea of it just going through those letters, but the real thing is the biggest kind of a game you ever saw. It's a finesse here and a forcing of the opponent's hand there, but it can never be the whole game with me."
"It ought to be. You have your chance right before you now, and you ought not to need anything else to urge you on. Just think, you've got to make good to justify your own position and to keep daddy from having made a mistake."
The boy rose from the arm of the great chair on which he had been resting and advanced to the little desk behind which Alice sat. With his hands on the end, he leaned forward until his face was near hers, looking straight into her eyes.
"Perhaps I don't need anything else," he said in a low, firm tone, "but it wouldn't be honest not to tell you that the same something which I had in mind before I started in business has been there ever since. The game is enough in itself, of course, if that's all it can be. But don't you see what a different proposition it is when a fellow sees a dear girl's face ahead of him in the distance just beyond each obstacle which he has to meet? Don't you know how much better you always play a game when there's something up on it?"
Alice was plainly disappointed. "But you are playing for high stakes always, Allen; there's success for the winner and failure for the loser."
"With a big side wager in the dear girl's face just ahead," he added. "I've got to keep that hope in my heart, Alice, to help me to make good quickly; even though you tell me not to, I can't help it. Why, I have done it so long that even if I knew this minute you were going to marry that Covington person, I believe I'd keep right on—hoping to get a chance to be your second husband."
This was too much for the girl's equilibrium, and she laughed in spite of herself. She failed to sense the personal side of Allen's declaration. He was developing, and this to her was only a phase.
"You are simply impossible," she replied; "but we might as well understand each other right now. I have no idea of marrying any one. Perhaps some day I shall change my mind if the man comes along who is enough stronger than I am to sweep away all the objections."
"Does Mr. Covington seem likely to be that man?" Allen asked, pertinently.
"I have no more idea of marrying him than he has of marrying me," Alice stated, flatly. "I admire him extravagantly. He is a self-made man—"
"The good Lord must be pleased to be relieved of that responsibility,"
Allen interrupted, ill-naturedly.
"You mustn't be so prejudiced against him," she reproved him. "He is one of the ablest business men in New York—daddy has told me that—yet, out of respect to my father and kindness to me, he is giving me more of his time, I know, than he can spare. I am very grateful to him."
"Well"—Allen started to take his departure—"we don't seem to have made much progress; but, at any rate, you know where I stand. I shan't buy any crêpe until I receive the wedding cards, and in the mean time"—he bowed very low—"please don't overlook the fact that yours truly is your greatest responsibility, and one which you can't shake off."
Standing in the hall at the foot of the stairs, Allen discovered a figure militant awaiting his descent. Patricia was indignant and excited.
"Hello, Lady Pat!" cried Allen. "What's happened?"
Patricia stamped her foot. "Alice is a naughty, naughty girl," she cried, with tears in her eyes. "I don't love her any more."
"Tut, tut." Allen sat on the lowest step and soothed the child. "Alice is all right."
"No, she isn't," Patricia insisted. Then she pulled away from him and again stood very straight, immaculate in her white frock. "I've been listening up-stairs."
"Oh, ho!" Allen shook his finger reproachfully. "Was that a nice thing to do?"
"It was my duty," the child responded, impressively. "I always do that, and I heard what she said; but I will make it up to you."
"That's awfully good of you, Lady Pat."
"You may kiss me." She held her face forward, with her hands still behind her.
Allen drew her into his lap. "There's one for the lips, and one for each eye, and one for each cheek," suiting the action to the word. Patricia worked herself free.
"Now we're engaged," she announced. "You may marry me as soon as you like."
Allen concealed his amusement. "I can't marry you because I've made a vow to marry Alice, and it would never do to break a vow, would it?"
"But if the lady won't marry you, then you are released from your vow," Patricia explained, showing perfect familiarity with the laws of chivalry.
"Not until she marries some one else," he corrected.
"That's all right," the child assented, cheerfully; "until then you can be my Knight." Then she majestically untied the ribbon in her hair and held it out to him.
"What's this for?" he inquired.
"For you—to wear always. Every knight in my Round Table book has a token from his lady-love."
"I shall wear it next my heart," Allen told her. "And now, fair Lady
Pat, good-bye."
The child made a magnificent courtesy. "Good-bye, Sir Launcelot, 'til death asunder."
XIII
John Covington's mind had been fully occupied during the few days which succeeded Harris's call. Inwardly he blamed himself as a bungler not to have covered his footsteps with greater skill; outwardly he was as unruffled and self-satisfied as ever. He called on Brady with Harris, as he promised. He allowed them both to explain their plans with even greater detail than Harris's previous disclosures. He listened, calmly and unprotestingly, to their confident statements as to what they proposed to make him, as a director in the Consolidated Companies, do for them. Then with equal serenity he flatly declined to yield to the pressure brought to bear upon him.
"I suppose you understand what this means to you," Brady snapped, angered by the unexpected refusal.
"Better than you do, I feel certain."
"What will the virtuous Mr. Gorham say when he finds out that you hold all that stock?"
"He will give your statement no credence whatever."
"But we can prove it to him."
"On the contrary, you will find yourself unable to do this."
"Didn't Harris show you that list?"
"Yes; but that was some days ago."
"You've unloaded, eh? That won't help you any. We'll find out who's got it."
"You need not take any trouble about the matter, as I am quite ready to give you the necessary information. Miss Gorham now holds the shares."
"Gorham's daughter?" queried Harris. "Does he know it?"
"I really don't know whether Miss Gorham has advised her father or not; that is her affair."
"Well, we'll see that he does know it," stormed Brady; "and will also see that he knows how you've unloaded it on her."
"You may find some difficulty," Covington replied, suavely. "The certificates, you know, never stood in my name. I simply acted as the young lady's agent. If you can make any capital out of that, you are at perfect liberty to do so. Was there any other detail in connection with this matter which you wished to discuss with me? Mr. Harris and you have been most confidential, and I might possibly feel inclined to reciprocate."
"You know too damned much already," retorted Brady, savagely. "I was a fool not to put the deal through before Gorham got into the game. After that it was too late—the stockholders would never have stood for our extra rake-off after he put them wise."
Harris's face paled. "You don't mean that there's danger of our getting thrown down, do you?" he queried in a tense voice. "I've put every dollar I own and some I don't own into this pool with you."
Brady struck him familiarly on the back and laughed. "You are in hard when you show the white feather like that. Cheer up. There's no question of being thrown down. What do you take me for? It's only a question of whether or not we can get all there is in it—that's what I'm worrying about. Gorham's been getting next to Littleton and Graham all summer. I've tried to find out just what he was up to, but he's smarter in covering his tracks than I am to uncover 'em, even if he ain't quite so smart in some other directions. He's been in to see me several times, and there hasn't been a word to make me think that things ain't going through just as we planned 'em; but if they are, what's he monkeying round with those other fellows for? That's what I want to know. If our friend here feels like reciprocating, as he says he does, now's his chance."
Covington watched the two men closely. He may have enjoyed the fact that the course of the conversation had turned, but if so he gave no evidence of it.
"You have placed me in possession of certain information which obviously would not assist in carrying out your plans," he remarked, suggestively. "Now, this whole transaction, as I informed Mr. Harris, is in Mr. Gorham's hands. Under certain conditions, I might not feel it incumbent upon me to interfere."
"And those are?" asked Harris.
"That you forget my insignificant part in the purchase of Miss Gorham's stock," he replied. "It is not of great concern to me, and you are perfectly free to communicate it to Mr. Gorham if you choose; but in view of certain things which have occurred since, I should be glad to have the matter dropped if agreeable to you."
"That's easy enough," Brady remarked, showing signs of relief. "Is that all?"
"Yes," Covington replied; "I am not as avaricious as you are in exacting my pound of flesh. Now, one other thing in order to give good measure: it may interest you to know that Mr. Gorham went over the contract with me yesterday in detail, and he is going to accept it as it stands, paying you the price you named."
"You saw what it stipulated, Covington? It covers everything just as we turn it over. He can find out all in good time what three lines ain't included, and also the price his precious Companies will have to pay for them."
"He appeared to be perfectly satisfied," Covington continued, calmly. "I should judge that everything was all right."
"Then he's been wastin' time," growled Brady, "and he can have all the pink teas he wants with Littleton and Graham. We directors have the authority, anyhow; nobody could stop us. Who the devil is Gorham to dictate to me? He thinks he's the whole show, he does. It makes me sick to see him swellin' around with that girl wife of his. She's a stunner all right, and I don't blame him; but who the devil is she? Somebody's divorced wife, ain't she, Covington? Does anybody know anything about her? He ain't so much." He took out his watch and looked at it mechanically. "I guess I'm gettin' old to have these nervous spells—it ain't like me."
Covington bade them good-morning and returned to his office fairly well satisfied. The danger of the present situation had been minimized. He felt sure that Alice would not go out of her way to acquaint her father with the name of the stock by which her property would be handsomely increased, and he knew that Gorham's mind was too full of other matters to press her for the details unless she volunteered them. But he must be more discreet, this he realized. If the matter could be dropped here, he would have learned a useful lesson; and then, too, the interview had not been without a suggestion which was well worth following up. It occurred to Covington, in view of Brady's remark, that he had been unpardonably obtuse in neglecting to acquaint himself with the details of Mrs. Gorham's early life. He knew vaguely that she had been the victim of unpleasant experiences before her present marriage, but what they were he had never learned. There might be something in them which it would be to his advantage to know, and it could surely do no harm to make a quiet investigation.
On the following day, Covington found himself in front of an old-fashioned brick building standing almost significantly in the shadow of the Tombs. He paused for a moment to wonder at the enormous gaudy sign, "Levy & Whitcher's Law Offices," running across the front and side of the edifice, which impressed him with a sense of its vulgarity. The door creaked as Covington opened it and passed on into the dingy offices—even dingier than the nature of the business done in them required, because of the dirt-trodden floors and their unwashed windows. He pushed his way through the bunch of process-servers, messengers, and clerks who littered up the outer office, almost tripping over a torn law-book on the floor, and finally found his way to the waiting-room of Mr. Levy's private sanctum in the rear. Here he was subjected to a careful scrutiny by the lawyer's "secretary," whose personal appearance seemed to indicate greater familiarity with the prize ring than with clerical labors. There may have been method in his selection, as Mr. Levy was a gentleman whose professional life had been spent in undertakings which a conservative insurance company might classify under "hazardous risks."
Levy had reached a point in his career when he could afford to keep his clients waiting. He and his partner, during the twenty-five years they had been together, had prospered even beyond their early dreams of avarice. It was their boast that during their partnership it had not been necessary to open a law-book three times. There was always a way to beat a case "on the facts," and they had learned the way. They kept no books, and the pleasantest part of each day's business was the five-o'clock adjournment to a neighboring saloon, where the partners had punctiliously divided the millions which came to the firm during the years of their successful association.
After a delay which proved more or less aggravating to Covington, he was ushered into the presence of the "great" man. Levy endeavored to be courteous in his reception, but Covington showed scant interest in conventions. He plunged at once into the nature of his business, finding Levy an interested and sympathetic listener. It was some minutes after his caller ceased speaking that the silence was broken.
"Well," Covington said at length, coldly, "does the matter interest you?"
"I was deliberating," the lawyer rejoined, almost as if in apology.
"Do you think you can discover anything of interest?"
Levy smiled blandly. "How can I say as yet?" he replied, conservatively. "There are certain elements which might contain interesting and promising details—a famous man married to a divorced woman twenty-five years his junior. We might easily find enough so that if you cared to push it he would prefer to make some concessions rather than suffer any unpleasant notoriety; and she may have a past which she would do much to keep forgotten. Yes, there are possibilities. Do you wish me to investigate?"
"How long will it take?"
"It may require a fortnight; it may take six months."
"By that time you would know whether there was anything in it?"
"Assuredly."
"Then you may proceed. Advise me when you are ready to talk and I'll come in again."
"There is one other matter," added Levy. "In case the affair develops, it may be fairly expensive."
Covington looked at him curiously. "I presume so," he said. "Before we get into it too far, I shall insist upon some understanding. I am not your debtor yet, am I?"
"The investigation will entail some expense and time," Levy continued, thoughtfully. "You might pay me—say, five thousand as a retainer."
"This is a business proposition, Mr. Levy," Covington reminded him, sharply. "Thus far I have looked upon myself as a possible plaintiff in the affair—not as a defendant. I am not obliged to proceed in the matter, and will drop it right here if you propose to start in by trying extortion on me."
Levy was grieved that any one should so misconstrue his motives. "This isn't a childish play we're going into, Mr. Covington," he replied, mildly. "Gorham is big game, and I presume you expect to gain something out of this little affair."
"You presume too much," Covington said, shortly. "Comments are neither asked for nor desired. If you wish to do this work for me, I will pay you a fair price—yes, a high price—for your services, but no blood-money. I'll pay you a thousand dollars now as a retainer; I'll pay all reasonable expenses and four thousand dollars more in case you find anything of interest to me. Then, if I decide to use the information later, I'll make a trade with you at that time on the basis of what it is worth. Do you care to accept the case on these terms?"
"The conditions are most unusual," Levy wavered.
"The case itself is an unusual one," Covington replied. "The chances are a hundred to one that you find nothing, in which case you will have earned your fee easily. Beyond this the odds are at least as great that I shall make no use of what you find out, anyway, which means that I shall have paid a large price to gratify my whim."
"There is something in what you say," admitted Levy.
"Then you will undertake it on my terms?"
"Yes; give me your check for a thousand dollars and I'll start the ball rolling."
"My check?" queried Covington. "I have no doubt currency will be equally acceptable."
"Thank you very much," Levy replied, genially, placing the bills carefully within a capacious wallet against the happy hour of five o'clock in Mulligan's conveniently located saloon.
XIV
The merger of the New York street railways, which occurred three weeks later, was Gorham's first chance to demonstrate to the public what the Consolidated Companies could accomplish in handling a great metropolitan transportation problem. The further he got into it, however, the more serious the problem became, and he had moved slowly to prevent any possible mistake. But now he was ready to proceed without further delay to complete his previous negotiations to secure the traction franchise for which Collins had bribed the Aldermen, and for a part interest in which Brady had intimidated Collins. It had been a nauseating piece of work even to Gorham, who had become only too familiar with the particular grade of business "morality" permeating those possessed of opportunity and fortified by responsibility. Covington was never able to reconcile Gorham's willingness to do business with men of this stamp, and the apparent personal stand which he took against both their practices and their methods.
"It is all perfectly consistent," Gorham assured him on more than one occasion. "It is often necessary to walk through filth and slime in order to reach high ground. It is a serious fault in our business system that these crimes can be committed, but the Consolidated Companies is not responsible for the system. To accomplish its own high ends, the Companies must possess itself of certain properties. These properties are at present in the hands of dishonest stewards, but these same dishonest stewards are legally authorized to sell them. The Companies buys, therefore, from those who have to sell, and its moral responsibility begins only upon its acquisition."
The transaction, large as it was, proved not a lengthy one. The franchise was formally made over to the Consolidated Companies, and the controlling stock in the New York Street Railways Company changed ownership. Properly certified checks for the franchise and for the stock were duly delivered into Brady's hands, and the business of the conference seemed to be completely settled to the satisfaction of all concerned. Still, Mr. Gorham and those who had come with him showed no disposition to depart.
"There ain't anything more, is there?" asked Brady, eager to terminate the conference, "except to congratulate the Consolidated Companies on acquirin' a damned valuable property."
"Only a little more," Gorham replied, quietly. "I have asked my friends, Mr. Littleton and Mr. Graham, to be present this morning, as I found that they, like the other and smaller stockholders, had very little knowledge of how their affairs were being handled for them by their directors. They have received their dividends regularly and promptly and were satisfied."
"What in hell is this a preamble to?" Brady whispered to Harris. "My nerves ain't quiet yet, even with the cash in my jeans."
But Gorham was still talking in the same low, quiet voice.
"These gentlemen," he was saying, "have honored the Consolidated Companies by becoming stockholders, so I thought it might be illuminating for them to be present at this conference, which will serve, I believe, as well as any to demonstrate the methods which the Consolidated Companies is obliged to meet and those which it proposes to employ."
"I don't know that this interests me much," interrupted Brady, ill-humoredly. "Our business is done, ain't it?"
"Not quite," Gorham continued, scarcely heeding the break. "On behalf of the Consolidated Companies, and exercising the rights vested in me by my Board of Directors, I have just handed to you, Mr. Brady, a certified check for one hundred thousand dollars. Why it should go to you instead of to Mr. Collins you probably know better than I—it is enough that you have his authority to receive it. I happen to be aware that this check represents fifty thousand dollars more than Mr. Collins paid to get the franchise through the Board of Aldermen, so it is fair to assume that the price of twelve city fathers is the same as two private citizens."
Harris found some difficulty in restraining Brady at this point, but their joint uncertainty regarding Gorham's ultimate purpose resulted in preserving silence.
"In addition to the check for the franchise," he continued, "I have also handed to Mr. Brady other certified checks for some twenty million dollars beyond the par value of the stocks of the various companies included in the merger which has just been consummated."
"What are you kickin' about?" demanded Brady. "Ain't that the price you agreed to?"
"It is; and I consider the properties worth the price or I should not have agreed to it."
"The stockholders ought to be satisfied, hadn't they? They're gettin' good returns."
"Yes, they ought to be satisfied, and I have no doubt they are."
"Then what's the point, friend—what's all this palaver?"
"I was just coming to that. There are three short lines which are not mentioned in that contract. May I ask if there was any special reason for their omission?"
"That's our business," snarled Brady.
"I know it is," Gorham replied, sharply, "and I'm going to ask you to attend to it right now."
"We'll attend to it when we get good and ready." Brady squared himself for the issue. "If you was as smart as you think you are, you'd have thought of those three lines before you cashed up."
"I didn't overlook them," Gorham replied. "I can buy them cheaper now."
Brady was amused and showed his appreciation of the speaker's humor in his sidelong glance at Harris.
"You think so, do you?" he calmed himself enough to reply. "I presume you've settled on the price you're goin' to pay?"
"I have," answered Gorham; "but I'm not quite ready to quote it. The stockholders of these small companies understood that you were purchasing their stock to be merged with the New York Street Railways Company, didn't they?"
"It don't make a damned bit of difference what they thought. We paid 'em their price."
"And the stockholders of the New York Street Railways Company thought you were buying this stock to be merged with theirs, didn't they?"
"We used our own money to buy that stock. You can't find a thing about it that ain't straight."
"Very good. Now I'll name my price for the three lines. The Consolidated
Companies will pay you fifty thousand dollars for them."
"Fifty thousand!" gasped Brady. "Why, we paid two hundred thousand."
"Thank you. I had wondered what you did pay for them, and this information is no doubt authentic. The stockholders made a better thing out of it than you will."
"But we won't sell at anything like that figure."
"Oh, yes, you will if you sell at all," Gorham rejoined. "One method by which the Consolidated Companies has succeeded is that of taking the public into its confidence whenever there is need of it. To-morrow we shall announce the birth of the Manhattan Traction Company, explaining its inception and its intentions. We shall show that, although we have paid an enormous price for the purchase of the properties, we shall capitalize at one-half the amount originally planned by those who would have carried through the merger if our Companies had not stepped in. We shall announce an increase of transfer privileges and a reduction of fares. We shall guarantee better equipment and better service. We shall also carefully explain that one of the reasons we can do this is that the company will be run in the interests of the public and the stockholders instead of in the interests of a few individuals; and we shall quote, in proof of this, that we purchased the three lines referred to for fifty thousand dollars when it was originally planned to have them cost the Companies something over two millions."
"They will still cost the Companies 'something over two millions,'" shouted Brady, "and the public be damned."
"Our slogan is, 'The public be pleased,'" smiled Gorham. "The offer of the Consolidated Companies will hold for twenty-four hours only," he continued, rising. "The franchise, you will perhaps remember, grants full privileges for the construction of further subway connections. Under these circumstances, we do not urge you to accept our offer—we merely invite your consideration. Now, gentlemen"—Gorham placed a peculiar emphasis on the word—"I believe our business is completed. The time limit on our offer will expire at noon to-morrow."
Covington was an interested spectator throughout the conference, and Gorham's supreme command of the situation won from him his silent but profound admiration. He rejoiced that this force was directed against others rather than himself, and he realized more than ever the importance of taking no chances of coming into conflict with this man who swept everything before him. He had enjoyed watching the faces of Brady and Harris as the game progressed, but his enjoyment encouraged him to remain too long after the departure of the others. Harris was cowed and frightened and seemed almost ready to break into tears, but Brady assumed an attitude which fitted him singularly well. It was not dismay, it was not chagrin—he was angry to the point of bursting. To Brady the one sin more flagrant than all others in the category of crime was failure, and in order to relieve his own conscience from the pollution of having failed he saw fit to attribute the entire responsibility to Covington.
"You damned skunk!" he cried, "you've sold us out after promisin' not to, that's what you've done! But I'll get back at you if it costs me ten years in Sing Sing!"
Covington for a second time went directly from Brady's office to his own, but the former complacency was replaced by a vague apprehension. A threat from Brady was worthy of consideration. Among the personal mail which he found upon his desk was a plain envelope, which, for some unknown reason, attracted his attention enough to cause him to open it before the one which lay on top. The signature interested him even more, particularly at the present moment, with his thoughts filled with what had recently passed. It is a precaution of the experienced mariner to inspect his lifeboats with especial care as he passes by a dangerous reef. The letter read:
"The divorce papers prove to be shockingly irregular, and there are developments in the early life. Please call at your convenience."
Covington crushed the paper in his hand and turned toward his desk with a changed expression. He smiled as he looked forward into space—the first smile which had lighted up his face for several days. Then he brought his clenched fist down hard on the desk for no apparent reason and muttered something to himself.
XV
As evidenced in the message received by Covington, Levy had not been neglectful of the case which had been intrusted to him by his new client. Without much difficulty Buckner was located in New Orleans, and identified as the proprietor of a low dive which had become the rendezvous for the most vicious outcasts of the city. Drink and debauchery had long since destroyed the physical advantages he had possessed over other men at the time of his marriage. The death of his child, to whom he had given as much affection as his nature possessed, the stern arraignment of the neighbor who helped him to his ranch and later brought him the tragic news, and the consciousness of his own responsibility in the accident, all combined to drive him almost immediately away from the scenes which reminded him of it; and as time passed the bitterness turned to resentment against his wife. If she had not left the ranch that day, he argued to himself, the accident would never have happened. She had loathed him for months before the final separation, and he had resented the disgust which she made no effort to conceal. There had been enough manhood left in him then to feel it and to resent it.
When he first heard that she had instituted divorce proceedings his anger returned, and he determined to hold her to the unwelcome bonds if for nothing else than to know that she still suffered; but a consultation with an attorney showed him the futility of any defence, so he simply held this up against her as another affront to be wiped out if the time ever came which gave him the opportunity.
But he had long since given up all hope that this time would ever come. During the years which had elapsed he had drifted from one city to another, each time taking a stand a degree lower than the preceding. In New Orleans he had succeeded in getting a little better living than heretofore, so he had settled down there with the idea of making it a permanency.
It was a welcome break in the monotony for him to receive a call from Levy's agent, and the fact that the visitor felt inclined to provide liquid refreshment of a grade considerably higher than he had been able to indulge himself in for many years did not detract from his welcome. As the evening wore on he was quite willing—almost eager—to tell the story of his life to this agreeable and sympathetic listener, so Levy had been materially assisted in the preliminary investigation of his case. Nor was the welcome any less cordial when the agent appeared for a second time, on this occasion offering Buckner five hundred dollars in exchange for his "time and trouble." He was given no intimation regarding the nature of his errand; he really had little curiosity. It was enough that it paid what was now to him a princely sum, and also guaranteed him an attractive experience at some one else's expense.
On his arrival Levy gave Buckner a welcome which raised his self-esteem almost to the bursting-point. A box of costly cigars and a decanter of fine brandy close at his elbow appeared to him as the height of hospitality, as one gentleman would extend it to another. And when he found that his new host manifested even as deep an interest in his previous life as his earlier friend who had provided the money, he was prepared to reciprocate in every way that lay in his power.
With the preliminary acquaintance thus happily and firmly established,
Levy opened up for business.
"In this suit for divorce which your wife brought," he asked, "the summons was never served on you, was it?"
"Why, yes," Buckner replied, slowly refilling his glass from the decanter; "it was served on me by a man named Murray, at Colorado Springs."
"Oh, dear; oh, dear!" groaned Levy, with a mixture of pathos and incredulity, "what an unfortunate memory you have! There was no one else in Colorado Springs who knew about it, I presume?"
"Not there," Buckner answered; "I sent the paper to a lawyer in Denver named Jennings."
"But there was no correspondence between you?"
"Yes; there were two or three letters."
"Where is Jennings now?"
"Dead, for all I know," he responded, with a cheerfulness which came from his comfortable environment rather than from any particular pleasure from the possible demise of the gentleman in question. "He moved away from Denver later, and I haven't heard of him since."
Levy was absorbed in his own thoughts for several moments, which time was profitably employed by Buckner again to replenish his glass, and to help himself to a fresh cigar.
"Look here, Buckner." Levy spoke so suddenly that his companion guiltily replaced the unlighted cigar in the box. "How difficult would it be for you to forget that you ever had a summons served on you, provided there was enough in it to make it worth while?"
Buckner boldly placed the cigar between his lips and straightened up.
"What's the game?" he asked. "Tell me what's up, and perhaps we can make a trade."
"I have a client who might like to see that divorce decree set aside,"
Levy began.
"Another friend of mine, eh?" Buckner laughed at his own joke. "Never knew before I was so popular." The brandy was getting in its work. "Every one is interested in my marriage troubles, and here's one wants to give me back my wife!"
"Never mind that," Levy stopped him. "This client of mine isn't interested in you or in your wife, but he evidently has a private spite against Gorham, who married her. He may not care to push it, but, if he does, do you see what the game is?"
"Sure I do, sure I do," Buckner answered, thickly. "Damned good game—I'll play it with you. It would hit her hard, too, wouldn't it?"
"What do you care if it does?"
"I don't care—glad of it—that's the special reason why I'm willing to play the game."
"All right; we'll get down to business. I'm going to draw up an affidavit that, as far as the divorce proceedings are concerned, you never retained any lawyer, and never were served with a summons, either in Colorado Springs or anywhere else; that you never knew of the pending of the action, nor that this suit was to be brought to trial. And you are to swear to this, do you understand?"
Buckner whistled suggestively. "What's the financial proposition?"
"Five thousand dollars if I use it; five hundred if I don't."
"Suppose Jennings turns up with those letters. There's a penalty for that, isn't there?"
"We'll take good care that Jennings doesn't turn up," Levy assured him, "and we would be taking all the risk."
It was Buckner's turn to become absorbed, and this time it was Levy who refilled his glass.
"It would be a lot of money," he muttered to himself, as he nervously gulped the brandy down, "and it would hit her hard. Go ahead, Levy. Draw up your damned paper and I'll sign it. Never knew I was so popular, anyhow."
Levy left him for a few moments while he dictated the affidavit, returning to his private office while the stenographer was writing out her notes.
"I don't suppose you know anything about the personal affairs of Mrs.
Buckner-Gorham which would be of assistance to us in this case, do you?"
Buckner thought hard. Ideas came slowly to him in his present condition, but at last he looked up with an expression which interested the lawyer.
"She thought herself too good for me," he muttered, "but there is something I should like to have her explain," he said.
"And what is that?" Levy asked, quickly jumping at a possible clew.
"After she found me in the trail she disappeared for two weeks before she returned to her father's ranch, and I should like to know where she spent that time."
"Where do you think she spent it?"
"I don't know for sure, but there are people who say she was with a prospector in his shack four or five miles from my ranch. I didn't hear about it until afterward; but, anyhow, there was a man rode back with her to her father's ranch who got her into the hospital in Denver after she found her father was dead. She thinks she's better than I am, but, just the same, I'd like to know who that man was."
Levy quickly made a few notes. "I think I may be able to assist you in gratifying that desire," he remarked.
* * * * *
The next day after receiving the message, Covington again found himself within Levy's dingy offices, and this time he experienced no delay in being conducted to the sanctum in the rear, where he found the lawyer ready to receive him with a genial smile and a cordiality which expressed itself in the briskness with which he rubbed his hands together.
"I think you will be well pleased with the rapid progress of our investigations," Levy began.
"I judged so by your letter." Covington was noncommittal.
"There will be no difficulty in having the divorce decree granted to Mrs. Buckner—now Mrs. Gorham—set aside whenever you say the word. Here is the affidavit of Buckner himself, and the fellow is not only willing but eager to push the case through."
Covington took the document in his hand and examined it carefully.
Then: "How would you undertake to do it?" he asked.
"It is a principle of our firm not to discuss methods with our clients. Results are what count, and our reputation for securing these is perhaps a sufficient guarantee that my statement is based on facts."
"Your position is undoubtedly fully justified," Covington replied, a slight expression of amusement showing in his face. "We hardly need to discuss that phase of it, however, as this is probably as far as I shall ask you to go."
"Oh, Mr. Covington, you wouldn't drop a nice case like this, would you?"
Levy begged. "There is a lot of money in it for both of us."
Covington answered him, coldly: "I believe the terms of our business arrangement were clearly understood at the beginning."
"Yes, but it is such a nice case," Levy still pleaded. "You need not appear in it at all if you don't want to. Mr. Buckner can become the plaintiff, and it need not cost you anything. We can make Mr. Gorham pay all the bills."
"That's enough of that," was the sharp reply. "Now, what was it that you found out about Mrs. Gorham's early history?"
Levy accepted the inevitable with equanimity, contenting himself with a gesture which expressed more than words.
"I have learned that after her child's death Mrs. Gorham, then Mrs. Buckner, disappeared for a period of two weeks, during which time she is alleged to have lived in a prospector's shack alone with him. Do you catch the significance?"
Covington again held out his hand, taking the second affidavit, which he scrutinized with the same care he gave the first.
"This is merely the unconfirmed statement of a prejudiced party," he remarked; "it is of no value unless you could prove it."
Levy smiled. "My dear Mr. Covington, we can prove anything—that is our business."
"Well"—Covington rose—"you seem to have carried out your end of the affair." He drew a roll of bills from his pocket. "Here is the balance due you. If I decide to make use of these documents, I will see you again and make a trade. Kindly give me an acknowledgment of my payment."
Levy held up a hand protestingly. "I explained before that we never give receipts—"
"Oh, yes; it had slipped my mind," Covington acquiesced.
"I hope to see you again soon, Mr. Covington," Levy said in parting. "It is a nice case, such a nice case."
The departing client gave no evidence that he heard the words, but after pushing his way to the street he drew a long breath, which might have indicated relief after sitting in the close office, or satisfaction that he held in his possession new weapons which could easily be made useful in case of need.
XVI
The mail-order business came to an abrupt end three months after Alice Gorham became its head. This in no way reflected upon its management, but it was too trifling an enterprise for the Consolidated Companies to retain. Covington was enthusiastic in his reports to Mr. Gorham regarding Alice's proficiency and natural ability along business lines. This experience had been an interesting and valuable one to her, he explained, but would it not accomplish the same purpose and be better for Miss Gorham—still, of course, under his guidance—to take personal charge of her own property and thus become thoroughly familiar with the various investments?
Gorham heartily approved of Covington's suggestion, and so did Alice. To the former it seemed to offer a natural vent for his daughter's desires; to the girl it appeared as a real promotion. It was not necessary for Covington to explain to his chief that the arrangement actually went into effect several weeks before it was submitted to him for his approval, nor did he take any credit to himself for the handsome profit in certain street railways stock, which netted Alice thirty thousand dollars as a result of her first investment. In fact, he modestly cautioned his pupil to say nothing about it, on the ground that the next investment might show a loss, and her father would be interested only in final results.
During the weeks which succeeded the merger of the New York street railways, Covington was more assiduous than ever in his attentions to Alice, yet, even with Allen's jealous suggestions, the girl saw in them nothing more than a continuation of their previous relations. His skill in manipulating her securities increased her admiration, and the incredible success filled her with joy. She was bursting with enthusiasm, and longed for an opportunity to share her happiness at least with Eleanor; but since the first confidences with her, she had become convinced that her preceptor's restrictions included Eleanor as well.
In spite of the care with which he selected the moment and the words, when Covington actually declared himself it came to Alice not only as a surprise, but as a distinct shock. At first she could not believe him sincere, but he succeeded in convincing her on this point. He interpreted her long silence and evident surprise as the natural expression of a young girl face to face with the most vital problem which ever comes to her. As a matter of fact, had Alice analyzed her feelings, the compound would have proved to be made up in equal parts of gratification, astonishment, and a broken idol. She was flattered that this man should really wish to marry her, she was amazed that his declaration did not arouse in her all those sentimental emotions which she had associated with a moment such as this; and she instinctively felt that he could not possibly be the great man she had considered him, to desire what he had asked.
"I thought you and I had decided that I was to be a business woman,"
Alice said at last, questioningly.
"Only for the time being," Covington smiled, well satisfied. "That is all right as a pastime, and you shall indulge in it as much as you like, but Mrs. John Covington will have more of a position to live up to even than Miss Alice Gorham."
"That's just it," she said, slowly. "It doesn't seem to me that I am ready to assume any 'position,' as you call it. Until you and daddy gave me this chance to do something else besides dances and theatre-parties and all those things we girls fill our time with, I was drifting hopelessly. This tiny bit of responsibility has been just the anchor I needed. What I read means so much more to me, what people talk about is of increased interest because I am just that much more conversant with what is going on; and the dances and the theatre-parties are lots more fun too. What you have asked, Mr. Covington, is enough to make any girl feel proud and happy, but—I don't believe I'm ready yet to give up my girlhood now when I am enjoying it most."
"There need be no haste in your decision," he said, graciously.
"Needn't there? Then you will give me a long time to think it over?"
"Not too long, I hope," he answered, significantly.
"But, truly," Alice's pout was exceedingly becoming, "I don't want to be married at all. Why should I when I am so happy?"
"Isn't that an unusual position for a young girl to take?"
"Perhaps it's because I am young," she admitted, smiling. "But I see so many—what shall I call them?—semi-detached couples, that it makes me wonder."
"Semi-detached?" Covington queried.
"Why, yes," she explained; "you know what I mean: the only way they can live happily together is to live apart."
"You are not very complimentary to me."
"Oh, please!" Alice interrupted quickly. "But you've noticed it, haven't you?"
"We notice many things which do not require personal application. In the present instance I think we possess so many interests in common that our marriage would be considered an ideal one. It would make me very happy."
"You have been so kind," Alice said, looking at him gratefully. "You know that I appreciate it, don't you? But I had no idea—you quite took my breath away, you are so much older than I am, and—"
"Am I so terribly old?"
"Oh, no; I mean it is I who am so terribly young. I never felt quite so young before. I suppose it is the surprise of it all. But you said I might have a long time. I must talk with daddy and Eleanor, you know. And I shall think it all over most carefully, please believe me." Alice held out her hand cordially. "Will you excuse me now—I really must see Eleanor."
Covington watched the girl in amazement as she hastily withdrew her hand and fled from the room. The self-possessed young woman whom he had met day after day had vanished, and in her place he saw the youthful school-girl, frightened into a loss of self-control by the offer of marriage he had just tendered her. Yet the whole episode amused him hugely. He smiled as he thought of his wife-to-be—the future Mrs. John Covington—running like a frightened deer from the first situation which took her by surprise! It was not as he had pictured it, but youth is a malady from which one's convalescence is ever speedy, and he could enjoy it while it lasted. He found his way to the front door unguided, where he paused for a moment and looked back, as if expecting to see the lithe form of the girl peering over the banister; but no sound came from the floor above, and the staircase was vacant.
"An amusing little minx," he laughed to himself, as he passed out of the house.
Alice lost no time in seeking Eleanor, eager to pour into her sympathetic ears the new problem which had presented itself. Instead, she found Patricia, curled up in an easy-chair, rereading her Knights of the Round Table with renewed interest. She bent over to kiss her, but the child drew away.
"I don't love you any more," she announced.
"You don't!" asked Alice, taken by surprise.
"No; you're so mean to Allen."
The girl laughed. "Don't be silly, Pat. Why, Allen is only a kid, like you. Where's mamma Eleanor?"
"Lying down in her room; but he isn't a kid—he's my Knight."
"All right; you may have him," Alice answered, lightly, turning toward the door.
"Alice!"
The older girl turned. "Well?" she interrogated.
"Is Mr. Covington a cat?"
"What do you mean?"
"Allen said to me the other day, 'Listen to him purr.'"
"Allen ought to have his ears boxed."
"No, he oughtn't"—but the door had slammed, and Patricia was alone with her Knights.
Alice tiptoed into Mrs. Gorham's room, then started to withdraw as
Eleanor appeared to be asleep, but the older woman stopped her.
"Come in, dear," she said; "I am only resting."
"Are you ill?" the girl asked, anxiously, all thought of her errand vanishing; "you were looking very tired at breakfast."
"I did not sleep last night," she replied, rising wearily from the bed, and pressing her hands against her temples as she sat down. "I am so perplexed that I don't know which way to turn. I wonder if you could advise me, Alice?"
"If only I could be of help to you!" the girl exclaimed, drawing another chair close to Eleanor's, and taking both her hands in her own.
Eleanor made no reply for several moments. "I don't know what to do," she said simply at last. "I want to have my life an open book to your father, yet in this one instance I can't see my way clear."
"Why, Eleanor!" cried the girl, surprised, "how can that be possible?"
"I don't wonder you ask; that is the question I have set myself to answer. I saw Ralph Buckner yesterday as I was driving up Fifth Avenue, and the sight of him filled me with apprehension."
"Your first husband—in New York?" Alice asked, surprised.
"Yes—what can he be doing here?"
"You don't know that it has anything to do with you, do you?"
"No; but I am so apprehensive that I imagine everything."
"But the past is dead, Eleanor dear. To have it recalled is of course painful, but why should you dread it?"
Mrs. Gorham did not answer at once, and the girl was amazed to witness the conflict of emotion which her face expressed. At last Eleanor raised her eyes.
"The past is not wholly dead," she said, in a low voice. "That is the unfortunate part. There is one event which happened back there in Colorado, right after Carina was killed, which has never—can never be explained. It is the only detail of that awful tragedy which I have not told your father, and I could not even tell you."
"Can't you tell me enough so I can really help you, Eleanor?"
"No, not even as much as that. The appearances were all against me. I know that nothing occurred of which I need feel ashamed, but the circumstantial evidence is so strong that it would be beyond human possibility to expect any one, even one as generous as your father, to accept my unsupported statement."
"Has this to do with your first husband?"
"I fear that if he has come in possession of the facts he may intend to use them against me."
"Then the only thing for you to do is to see father at once, and to tell him everything yourself before that horrid man has the opportunity. There is nothing, Eleanor, which you could tell him which he would not accept exactly as you stated. Why, of course there isn't."
"I wish I had your confidence, dear," Eleanor sighed, "but that would be asking too much."
"Was Mr. Buckner concerned in it?"
"No; it was another man—the only other man I ever met except your father whom I would include among God's noblemen."
"Some one you loved, Eleanor?" the girl asked, hesitatingly.
"No, dear, not that!" she cried, hastily. "I was in no condition at that time to love any one. It was, as I told you, right after Carina's death. He was the friend who protected me and who helped me at that time—I told you about it—but who would believe that it was simply an act of humanity?"
"Father would believe it, Eleanor," the girl cried, firmly. "You must tell him, and you must tell him now—now—he is in the library."
"Oh, I cannot!" cried Eleanor, shrinking; "Robert is so much to me that I cannot run the risk of having even a doubt disturb the perfect understanding that has always existed between us."
"You must, Eleanor," insisted Alice, rising and urging Mrs. Gorham to her feet. "You must—shall I go with you?"
"No, dear," Eleanor replied. "I will go"; and with slow footsteps she left the room.
* * * * *
Gorham was well satisfied with the successful formation of the Manhattan Traction Company, as he was also with the general progress of the Consolidated Companies. Its expansion and success were phenomenal, and it was, of a certainty, coming into its own. The volume of business had quadrupled; its list of stockholders was nearly complete, and already included a sufficient proportion of those who controlled the world's pulse to make the acquisition of the others certain; its political strength, exercised under his firm hand for peace always, even now exceeded any similarly exerted power the world had known.
It was natural that Gorham should be filled with a certain sense of satisfaction that his work was bearing such magnificent fruit. One by one the necessities of life were being given to the public at a lower cost; one by one the luxuries, which had previously been denied them, were being brought within their reach. Wars had been prevented and taxation reduced. Everywhere the Consolidated Companies was looked upon as the people's friend, and those connected with it as public benefactors. And yet—the profits were increasing so rapidly that before long they bade fair to defy human computation!
For the first time since he began his work of forming the corporation Gorham gave himself up to day-dreams. Sitting back in an easy-chair in his library he watched the smoke curl upward from his cigar, and gave his mind free rein. With the momentum now acquired, nothing could stem the triumphal advance. The business scope had extended nearly as far as he would let it go—he would confine it to public utilities and public necessities. In the future, it might break beyond the confines he had set for it, and even become the single employer of all labor, but for his own time he would keep it within his limitations, so that he might devote his thought and energy to the development of its political power. Why should he not eventually succeed even in forcing a disarmament of nations, relieving the people of their most grievous burden, and insuring peace by the absolute control the Companies was certain to acquire of foodstuffs and the munitions of war? Then, indeed, his life would not have been in vain!