 CHAPTER IX The little glass that had held the fin-champagne stood on the table, the door was shut, voles was gone, and the incident was ended. Jones, for the first time in his life, felt the faintness that comes after supreme exertion. He could never have imagined that a thing like this would have so upset him. He was unconscious during the whole of the business that he was putting out more energy than ordinary. He knew it now as he contemplated the magnitude of his victory, sitting exhausted in the big saddle-bag chair on the left of the fireplace and facing the door. He had crushed the greatest rogue in London, taken from him eight thousand pounds of ill-gotten money, and freed himself of an incubus that would have made his position untenable. Rochester could have done just the same, had he possessed daring and energy and courage enough. He hadn't, and there was an end of it. At this moment a knock came to the door, and a flunky, a new one, appeared. "'Dinner has served, my lord!' Jones sat up in his chair. "'Dinner!' said he. "'I'm not ready for it yet. Fetch me a whiskey and soda. Look here. Tell Mr. Church I want to see him.' "'Yes, my lord!' Jones, as stated before, possessed that very rare attitude, an eye for men. It was quite unknown to him. Up to this he had been condemned to take men as he found them. The pressure of circumstances alone had made him a business partner with Aaron Stringer. He had never trusted Stringer. Now, being in a position of command, he began to use this precious gift, and he selected Church for a first officer. He wanted a henchman. The whiskey and soda arrived, and almost immediately on it, Church. Jones, placing the half-empty glass in the table, nodded to him. "'Come in,' said he, and shut the door. Church closed the door and stood at attention. This admirable man's face was constructed not with a view to the easy interpretation of emotions. I doubt if an earthquake in Carleton House Terrace and the vicinity could have altered the expression of it.' He stood as if listening. "'Jones began. I want you to go to-morrow at eight o'clock to number 12B Germine Street to get some documents for me. They will be handed to you by A. S. Voles.' "'Yes, my lord. You will bring them back to me here.' "'Yes, my lord. I have just seen the gentleman, and I have just dealt with him. He is a very great rogue, and I had to call an officer, a constable in. I settled him.' Mr. Church opened his mouth as though he were going to speak. Then he shut it again. "'Go on,' said Jones. "'What were you going to say?' "'Well, your lordship. I was going to say that I am very glad to hear that. When you told me four months ago, in confidence, what Voles was having out of you, you will remember what advice I gave your lordship.' "'Don't be squeezed,' I said. Squeeze him.' "'Your lordship's solicitor, Mr. Mortimer Collins, I believe, told you the same.' "'I have taken your advice. I find it so good that I am going to ask your advice often again. Do you see any difference in me, Mr. Church?' "'Yes, my lord. You have changed. If your lordship will excuse me for saying so.' "'How?' "'You have grown younger, my lord, and more yourself, and you speak different. Sharper, so to say. These words were bomb of Gilead to Jones. He had received no opinion of himself from others till now. He had vaguely mistrusted his voice, unable to estimate in how much it differed from Rochester's. The perfectly frank declaration of church put his mind at rest. He spoke sharper. That was all. "'Well,' said he, "'things are going to be different all around. Better, too.' He turned away towards the bureau, and Church opened the door. "'You don't want me any longer, my lord? Not just now.' He opened Kelly's directory, and looked up the solicitors till he came to the name he wanted. Mortimer Collins, ten sergeants in Fleet Street. "'That's my man,' said he to himself. And to-morrow I will see him.' He closed the book and left the room. He did not know the position of the dining-room, nor did he want to. A servant seeing him and taking it for granted that at this late hour he did not want to dress, opened the door. Next minute he was seated alone at a large table, stared at by defunct Rochester's and their wives, and spreading his table napkin on his knees. The dinner was excellent, though simple enough. English society has drifted a long way from the days when Lord Palmerston sat himself down to devour two helpings of turtle soup, the same of cod and oyster sauce, a huge plateful of York ham, a cut from the joint, a liberal supply of roast pheasant, to say nothing of kick-shaws and sweets, the days when the inside of a nobleman after dinner was a provision store floating in sherry, hawk, champagne, old port, and punch. Nothing acts more quickly upon the nervous system than food. Before the roast chicken and salad was served, Jones found himself enjoying his dinner, and more than that enjoying his position. The awful position of the morning had lost its terrors. The fog that had surrounded him was breaking. Wrecked on this strange, luxuriant, yet hostile coast, he had met the natives, fed with them, fought them, and measured their strengthened cunning. He was not afraid of them now. The members of the senior conservative club camp had left him unimpressed, and the wild beast voles had bequeathed to him a lively contempt for the mental powers of the man he had succeeded. Rightly or wrongly, all lords caught a tinge of the lurid light that shooed up Rochester's want of vim and mental hitting-power. But he did not feel a contempt for lords as such. He was longing to appreciate the fact that to be a lord was to be a very great thing, even a lord who had left his estates run to ruin, like himself. A single glass of iced champagne, he allowed himself only one, established this conviction in his mind, also the recognition that the flunkies no longer oppressed him. They rather pleased him. They knew their work and performed it perfectly. They hung on as every word and movement. Yesterday, sitting where he was, he would have been feeling out of place, and irritable and awkward. Even a few hours ago he would have felt oppressed and wanting to escape somewhere by himself. What lent him this new magic of assurance and sense of mastery of his position? Undoubtedly it was his battle with voles. Coffee was served to him in the smoking-room, and there, sitting alone with a cigar, he began clearly and for the first time to envisage his plans for the future. He could drop everything and run. Book a passage for the United States. Enter New York as Lord Rochester, just as a diver enters the sea, and emerge as Jones. He could keep the eight thousand pounds with a clear conscience, or couldn't he? This point seemed a bit obscure. He did not worry about it much. The main question had not to do with money. The main question was simply this. Shall I be Victor Jones for the future, or shall I be the Earl of Rochester, the twenty-first Earl of Rochester? Shall I clear out, or stick to my guns? Remain boss of this show and try to make something of the wreckage, or sneak off with nothing to show for the most amazing experience man ever underwent? Rochester had sneaked off. He was a quitter. Jones had once read a story in the popular magazine in which a railway manager had cast scorn on a ne'er-do-well. God does surely hate a quitter, said the manager. These words always remained with him. They had crystallized his sentiments in this respect. The quitter ranked in his mind almost with a sharper. All the same the temptation to quit was strong, even though the temptation to stay was growing. A loophole remained open to him. It was not necessary to decide at once. He could throw down his cards at any moment and rise from the table if the game was getting too much for him, or if he grew tired of it. He saw difficult times ahead for him in the mess in which Rochester had left his affairs. That was, perhaps, his strongest incentive to remain. He was roused from his reverie by voices in the hall. Loud, cheery voices. A knock came to the door, and a servant announced, Sir Hugh Spicer and Captain Stark to see you, my lord? Jones sat up in his chair. Show the men, said he. The servant went out, and returned, ushering in a short, bibulous-looking young man in evening dress, covered with a long fawn-colored overcoat. This gentleman was followed by a half-balled, evil-looking man of fifty or so, also in evening attire. This latter wore a monocle in what Jones afterward mentally called his twisted face. Look at him! cried the young man, sitting in his blessed arm-chair and not dressed. Look at him! He lurched slightly, as he spoke, and brought up at the table, where he hit the ink-stand with the cane he was carrying, sending ink-spot and pens flying. Jones looked at him. This was Huey, pillar of the Criterion Bar, president of the Ragtag Club, baronet and detrimental, and all at twenty-three. Leave it alone, Huey, said Stark, going to the silver cigar box and helping himself. Less of that blessed cane, Huey. Why, Jollops, what ails you? He stared at Jones as he lit a cigar. Jones looked at him. This was Spencer Stark, late captain in his Majesty's Black Cousards, gambler, penniless, always well-dressed and always well fed. Terrible. Just as beetles are beetles, whether dressed in tropical splendor or the funeral-black of the English type, so are detrimendals, detrimendals. Jones knew his men. I beg your pardon, said he. Did you mean that name for me? He rose as he spoke, and crossing to the bell rang it. They thought he was speaking in jest and drinking for drinks. They laughed, and Huey began to yell, yell, and slash the table with his cane in time to what he was yelling. This beast, who was never happy unless smashing glasses, making a noise or tormenting his neighbors, who had never been really sober for the space of some five years, who had destroyed a fine estate and broken his mother's heart, seemed now endeavouring to break his wangy cane on the table. The noise was terrific. The door opened and calves appeared. Throw that ruffian out, said Jones. Out with him, cried Huey, throwing away his cane at this joke. Come on, Stark, let's shove old jollops out of doors. He advanced to the merry attack, and Stark, livened up by the other, closed in, receiving a blow in the midriff that seated him in the fender. The next moment Huey found himself caught by a firm hand, that had somehow managed to insert itself between the back of his collar and his neck, gripping the collar. Choking and crowing he was rushed out of the room and across the hall to the front door, a running footman preceding him. The door was opened and he was flung into the street. The ejection of Stark was an easier matter. The hats and coats were flung out and the door shut finally. If either of those guys comes here again, said Jones to the acolyte, call an officer, I mean a constable. Yes, my lord. I wonder how many more people I will have to fling out of this house, said he to himself as he returned to the smoking-room. My God! What a mess that chap Rochester must have made all around. Bar-bummers like those. He ordered the ink to be cleared up and then he sent for Mr. Church. He was excited. Church, said he, I've shot out two more of that carrion. You know all the men I have been fool enough to know. If they come here again tell the servants not to let them in. But he had another object in sending for Church. Where's my checkbook? He asked. Church went to the bureau and opened a lower drawer. I think you placed it here, my lord. He produced it. When he was gone Jones opened the book. It was one of coutes. He knew his banker now as well as his solicitor. Then he sat down and taking Rochester's note from his pocket began to study the handwriting and signature. He made a hundred imitations of the signature and found for the first time in his life that he was not bad at that sort of work. Then he burnt the sheets of paper he had been using, put the checkbook away and looked at the clock. It pointed to eleven. He switched out the lights and left the room taking his way upstairs. He felt sure of being able to find the bedroom he had left that morning and coming along the softly lit corridor he had no difficulty in locating it. He had half dreaded that the agile valet in the sleeve jacket might be there waiting to tuck him up, but to his relief the room was vacant. He shut the door and going to the nearest window pulled the blind up for a moment. The moon was rising over London and casting her light upon the green park. A huge summer moon, the sort of moon that conjures up ideas about guitars and balconies. Jones undressed and putting on the silk pajamas that were laid out for him got into bed, leaving only the light burning by the bedside. He tried to recall the details of that wonderful day, failed utterly, switched out the light and went to sleep. CHAPTER X The most curious thing in the whole of Jones's extraordinary experiences was the way in which things affecting Rochester affected him. The coldness of the club members was an instance and point. He knew that their coldness had nothing to do with him, yet he resented it practically just as much as though it had. Then again the case of Voles. What had made him fight Voles with such vigor? It did not matter to him in the least whether Voles gave Rochester away or not. Yet he had fought Voles with all the feeling of the man who was attacked, not of the man who was defending another man from attack. The attitude of Spicer and the other scamp had roused his ire on account of its want of respect for him, the supposed Earl of Rochester. Rochester's folly had inspired that want of respect. Why should he, Jones, bother about it? He did. It hit him just as much as though it were leveled against himself. He had found, as yet to a limited degree, but still he had found that anything that would hurt Rochester would hurt him, that his sensibility was just as acute under his new guise, and, wonder of wonders, his dignity as a Lord just as sensitive as his dignity as a man. If you had told Jones in Philadelphia that a day would come when he would be angry if a servant did not address him as my Lord, he would have thought you mad. Yet that day had come, or was coming, and that change in him was not in the least the result of snobbishness. It was the result of the knowledge of what was due to Rochester, Arthur Connings v. Delamere, 21st Earl of, from whom he could not disentangle himself whilst acting as part. He was awakened by Mr. Church pulling up his window-blinds. He had been dreaming of the boarding-house in Philadelphia where he used to live, of Miss Wyebrow, the proprietress, and the other guests, Miss Sparrow, Mr. Mose, born Moses, Mr. Hoffman, the part-proprietor of Sharp's drugstore, Mrs. Bertine, and the rest. He watched whilst Mr. Church passed to the door, received the morning tea-tray from the servant outside, and placing it by the bed withdrew. This was the only menial service which Mr. Church ever seemed to perform, with the exception of the stately carrying in of papers and letters at breakfast time. Jones drank his tea. Then he got up, went to the window, looked out at the sunlit green park, and then rang his bell. He was not depressed nor nervous this morning. He felt extraordinarily fit. The powerful good spirits natural to him, a heritage better than a fortune, were his again. Life seemed wonderfully well worth living, and the game before him the only game worth playing. Then the mechanism came into the room, and began to act. James was the name of this individual. Dumb and serious and active as an insect, this man always filled Jones's mind with wonderment. He seemed less a man than a machine, but at least he was a perfect machine. Fully dressed now, he was preparing to go down when a knock came to the door, and Mr. Church came in with a big envelope on a salver. This is what you requested me to fetch from Germine Street, my Lord. Oh! you've been to Germine Street? Yes, my Lord, directly I had served your tea at quarter to eight. I took a taxi. Good! said Jones. He took the envelope, and Church and the mechanism having withdrawn, he sat down by the window to have a look at the contents. The envelope contained letters. Letters from a man to a woman. Letters from the Earl of Rochester to Saphir, a Plin Lyman. The most odiously and awfully stupid collection of love letters ever written by a fool to be read by a Whigged Council in a divorce court. They covered three months and had been written two years ago. They were passionate, idealistic in parts, driveling. He called her his ickle, teeny, weeny treasure. Baby language. Jones almost blushed as he read. He sure was molting, said he, as he dropped letter after letter on the floor. And he paid eight thousand to hold these things back. Well, I don't know, maybe I'd have done the same myself. I can't fancy seeing myself in the Philadelphia ledger with this stuff tacked on to the end of my name. He collected the incriminating documents, placed them in the envelope, and came downstairs with it in his hand. First was an almost exact replica of the meal of yesterday. The pile of letters brought in by church was rather smaller, however. These letters were a new difficulty. They would all have to be answered, the ones of yesterday and the ones of today. He would have to secure the services of a typist and a typewriter. That could be arranged later on. He placed them aside and opened a newspaper. He was accustomed enough now to his situation to be able to take an interest in the news of the day. At any moment his environment might split to admit of a new voles or spicer, or perhaps some more dangerous specter engendered from the dubious past of Rochester. But he scarcely thought of this. He had gone beyond fear. He was up to the neck in the business. He glanced at the news of the day, looking as he ate. Then he pushed the paper aside. The thought had just occurred to him that Rochester had paid that eight thousand, not to shield a woman's name, but to shield his own. To prevent that gibberish being read out against him in court. This thought dimmed what had seemed a brighter side of Rochester. That obscure thing which Jones was condemned to unveil little by little and bit by bit. He pushed his plate away and at this moment Mr. Church entered the breakfast room. He came to the table and, speaking in half-lowered voice, said, Lady Plin Lyman to see you, your lordship. Lady Plin Lyman? Yes, your lordship. I have shown her into the smoking room. Jones had finished breakfast. He rose from the table, gathered the letters together, and with them in his hand followed Church from the breakfast room to the smoking room. A big woman in a big hat was seated in the armchair facing the door. She was forty if an hour. She had a large, unpleasant face, a dominating face, fat-featured, selfish, and made up by art. Oh, here you are! said she as he entered and closed the door. You see, I'm out early. Jones nodded, went to the cigarette-box, took a cigarette and lit it. The woman got up and did likewise. She blew the cigarette smoke through her nostrils, and Jones, as he watched, knew that he detested her. Then she sat down again. She seemed nervous. Is it true what I hear that your sister has left you and gone to live with your mother? Yes, said Jones, remembering the bird-woman of yesterday morning. Well, you'll have some peace now, unless you let her back. But I haven't come to talk of her. It's just this. I'm in a tight place. Oh! A very tight place. I've got to have some money. I've got to have it to-day. Oh! Yes, I ought to have had it yesterday, but a deal I had on fell through. You've got to help me, Arthur. How much do you want? Fifteen hundred. I'll pay it back soon. Fifteen hundred pounds? Yes, of course. A great white light, cold and clear as the dawn of truth, began to steal across the mind of Jones. Why had this woman come to him this morning so quickly after the defeat of Voles, who held her letters? How had Voles obtained those letters? This question had occurred to him before, and this question seemed to his practical mind pregnant now with possibilities. What do you want the money for? asked he. Good heavens! What a question! What does a woman want money for? I want it. That's enough. What else will you ask? What was the deal you expected money from yesterday? A stock exchange business. What sort of business? She crimsoned with anger. I haven't come to talk of that. I came as a friend to ask you for help. If you refuse, well, there that ends it. Oh, no it doesn't, said he. I want to ask you a question. Well, ask it. It's a simple question. Go on. You expected to receive fifteen hundred pounds yesterday. I did. Did you expect to receive it from Mr. A. S. Voles? He saw at once that she was guilty. She half rose from her chair, then she sat down again. What on earth do you mean? she cried. You know quite well what I mean, replied he. You would have had fifteen hundred of Voles takings on those letters. You heard last night I had refused to part. He was only your agent. There's no use in denying it. He told me all. Her face had turned terrible, white as death with the ruse showing on the white. It is all untrue, she stuttered. It is all untrue. She rose staggering. He did not want to pursue the painful business. The pursuit of a woman was not in his line. He went to the door and opened it for her. It is all untrue. I'll write to you about this. Untrue. She uttered the words as she passed out. He reckoned she knew the way to the hall door and shutting the door of the room he turned to the fireplace. He was not elated. He was shocked. It seemed to him that he had never touched and handled wickedness before. And this was a woman in the highest ranks of life. He had trapped Rochester into making love to her and used voles to extort eight thousand pounds from him on account of his letters. She had hypnotized Rochester like a fowl. She was that sort. Held the divorce court over him as a threat. Could humanity descend lower? He went to who's who and turned up the peas till he found the man he wanted. In Lyman, Third Baron, created 1831, Albert James, born March 10, 1862, O.S. of Second Baron and Julia, daughter of J.H. Thompson of Clifton, married Saphira, daughter of Marcus Mulhausen, educated privately, address the roost, tight street, Chelsea, thus spake who's who. I bet my bottom dollar that chap's been in it as well as she, said Jones, referring to Plin Lyman, Albert James. Then a flash of humor lit the situation. Jones had returned eight thousand pounds. As an agent he had received twenty-five percent, say, therefore he stood to lose at least six thousand. This pleased Jones more even than his victory. He had a racial, radical, soul-rooted antipathy to voles. Not an anger against him, just an antipathy. Now, said he as he placed who's who back in the bureau, let's get off and see Mortimer Collins. He left the house and, calling a taxi cab, ordered the driver to take him to Sargent's Inn. He had no plan of campaign as regards Collins. He simply wanted to explore and find out about himself. Much to him, in his extraordinary position, was Armour. And he wanted all the Armour he could get, fighting, as he was, not only the living present but also another man's past, and another man's character, or want of character. CHAPTER X Sargent's Inn lies off Fleet Street. A quiet court surrounded with houses, given over to the law. The law has always lived there ever since that time when, as Stowe quaintly put it, there is in and about the city, a whole university, as it were, of students, practicers and pleaders, and judges of the laws of this realm. Not living of common stipends, as in other universities it is for the most part done, but of their own private maintenance, as being fed either by their places or practices, or otherwise by their proper revenue, or exhibition of parents or friends. Of their houses there be at this day fourteen in all, whereof nine do stand within the liberties of this city, and five in the suburbs thereof. His inn stood within the liberties, and there to-day it still stands, dusty, sedate, once the abode of judges and sergeants, now the home of solicitors. On the right of entrance lay the offices of Mortimer Collins, an elderly man, quiet, sub-fusk and hue, tall, sparsely bearded, a collector of old prints in his spare hours, and one of the most respected members of his profession. His practice lay chiefly amongst the nobility and landed gentry, a fact vaguely hinted at by the white or yellow lettering on the tin deed-boxes that lined the walls of his offices, setting forth such names and statements as The Cave Estate, Sir Jardine Jardine, The Blundell Estate, and so forth and so on. He knew everyone, and everything about everyone, and terrible things about some people, and he was to be met with at the best houses. People liked him for himself, and he inspired the trust that comes from liking. It was to this gentleman that Jones was shown in, and it was by this gentleman that he was received, coldly it is true, but politely. Jones, with his usual directness, began the business. "'I have come to have a serious talk with you,' said he. "'Indeed,' said the lawyer. "'Has anything new turned up?' "'No. I want to talk about my position, generally. I see that I have made a fool of myself.' The man of law raised his hands lightly with finger-spread. The gesture was eloquent. "'But,' went on the other, "'I want to make good. I want to clear up the mess. The lawyer sighed. Then he took a small piece of chamois leather from his waistcoat pocket and began to polish his glasses. "'You remember what I told you the day before yesterday?' said he. "'Have you determined to take my advice?' "'Then you had nothing to offer me but some wild talk about suicide.' "'What advice?' Collins made an impatient gesture. "'Advice! Why do emigrate and try your luck in the colonies?' "'Hmmm,' said Jones. "'Yes, I remember. But since then I have been thinking things out. I'm going to stay here and make good.' Again the lawyer made a gesture of impatience. "'You know your financial position as well as I do,' said he. "'How are you to make good,' as you express it, against that position? "'You can't. You're hopelessly involved, held at every point. A month ago I told you to reduce your establishment and let Carleton House terrace. You said you would and you didn't. That hurt me. I would much sooner you would refuse the suggestion. Well, the crash, if it does not come today, will come tomorrow. You are overdrawn at Coutts. You can raise money on nothing. Your urgent debts to tradesmen and so forth amount, as you told me the day before yesterday, to over two thousand five hundred pounds. See for yourself how you stand.' "'I say again,' said Jones, "'that I am going to make good. All these affairs seem to have gone to pieces because I have been a fool. I am glad you recognize that. But I'm a fool no longer. You know that business about voles?' The man of affairs nodded. "'Well, what do you think of that?' He took Volze's check from his pocket and laid it before the lawyer. "'Why, what is this?' said the other. "'Eight thousand pounds.' "'He called on me for more blackmail,' replied Jones, "'and I squeezed him, called in a policeman, made him disgorge, and there's his check. Do you think he has money enough to meet it?' "'Oh, yes, he is very wealthy. But you told me distinctly he had only got a thousand out of you.' Jones swore mentally. "'To take up the life and past of a rogue is bad. To take up the life and past of a weak need and shifty man is almost worse.' "'I told you wrong,' said he. Collins suppressed a movement of irritation and disgust. He was used to dealing with humanity. "'What can a doctor do for a patient who holds back essential facts?' asked he. "'Nothing. How can I believe what you say?' "'I don't know,' replied the other. "'But I just ask you to.' "'I ask you to believe I'm changed. I've had a shock that has altered my whole nature. I'm not the same man who talked to you the day before yesterday.' Collins looked at him curiously. "'You have altered,' said he. "'Your voice is different somehow, too. I'm not going to ask you what has brought about this change in your views. I only trust it may be so, and permanent.' "'Bedrock,' said Jones. "'I'm going to begin right now. I'm going to let that caravan—' "'Caravan!' "'The Carleton House plays. Your idea is good. Will you help me through with it? I don't know how to start letting places.' "'I will certainly assist you. In fact, I believe I can get you a tenant at once. The brace-bridges want just such a house—furnished. I will get my clerk to write to them, if you really mean it.' "'I mean it.'" "'Well, that's something. I pressed the point about you are really meaning it, because you were so violently opposed to such a course when I spoke of it before. In fact, you were almost personal, as though I had proposed something disgraceful. Though it was true you came to agree with me at last.' "'I guess the only disgrace is owing money and not being able to pay,' said the present Lord Rochester. I've come to see that now.' "'Thank God!' said Collins. "'I'll take rooms at a quiet hotel,' went on the other. "'With this eight thousand and the rent from that gazebo, I ought to tide over the rocks.' "'I don't see why not. I don't really see why not,' replied Collins cheerfully, "'if you are steadfast in your purpose. Fortunately your wife's property is untouched. And how about her?' "'Yes,' said Jones, with a cold shiver. "'The love of a good wife,' went on the other, is a thing not to be bought. And I may say I have very good reason to believe that, despite all that has occurred, you still have your wife's affection. Leaving everything else aside, I think your greatest mistake was having your sister to live with you. "'It does not do. And considering Miss Burbrook's peculiar temper, it especially did not do in your case. "'Now that things are different, would you care to see your wife and have a quiet talk over matters?' "'No,' said Jones hurriedly. "'I don't want to see her, at least not yet.' "'Well, please yourself,' replied the other. "'Perhaps later on you will come to see things differently.' "'The conversation then closed, the lawyer promising to let him know should he secure an offer for the house. "'Jones, so disturbed by this talk about his wife, that he was revolving in his mind, plans to cut the whole business,' said goodbye and took his departure. "'But he was not destined to leave the building just yet. "'He was descending the narrow old stairs when he saw some people coming in. "'A stout lady led the way and was followed by an elderly gentleman and a younger lady in a large hat.' "'Why, it is Arthur!' cried the stout woman. "'How fortunate! Arthur, we have come to see Mr. Collins. Such a terrible thing has happened!' The unfortunate Jones now perceived that the lady with the huge hat was a woman with a large hat. The elderly gentleman he had never seen before, but the elderly gentleman had evidently often seen him, was most probably a near relative to judge by the frigidity and insolence of his nod and general demeanor. This old person had the army stamp about him and a very decided chin with a cleft in it. "'Better not talk to him. "'This old man is a man with a large hat. There's a cleft in it. "'Better not talk out here,' said he. "'Come in, come in and see Collins.' Jones did not want in the least to go in and see Collins, but he was burning to know what this dreadful thing was that had happened. He half-dreaded that it had to do with Rochester's suicide. He followed the party, and next moment found himself again in Collins' room, where the lawyer pointed out chairs to the ladies, closed the door, and came back to his desk table where he seated himself. "'Oh, Mr. Collins,' said the elderly lady, such a dreadful thing has happened. Coal! They have found coal!' She collapsed. The old gentleman with the cleft chin took up the matter. "'This idiot,' said he, indicating Jones, "'has sold a coal mine, worth maybe a million, for five thousand. The Glynathuan property has turned up coal. I only heard of it last night, and by accident. Struthers said to me straight out in the club, do you know that bit of land in Glamorgan Rochester sold to Marcus Mulhausen?' "'Yes,' I said. "'Well,' said he, "'it's not land. It's the top of the biggest coal mine in Wales, steam coal, and Mulhausen is going to work it himself.' He was offered two hundred and fifty thousand for the land last week. They have been boring there for the last half year. That's what he told me, and I verified it this morning. Of course Mulhausen spotted the land for what it was worth, and laid his trap for this fool. Jones restrained his emotions with an effort, not knowing in the least his relationship to the violent one. Mr. Collins made it clear. "'Your nephew has evidently fallen into a trap, your grace,' said he, then turning to Jones. "'I warned you not to sell that land. Heaven knows I knew little enough of the district and less of its mineral worth. Still I was adverse from parting with land, always am, and especially to such a sharp customer as Mulhausen. I told you to have an expert opinion. I had not minerals in my mind. I thought possibly it might be some railway extension in prospect. And it was your last bit of property without mortgage on it. Yes, I told you not to do it, and it's done.' "'Oh, Arthur,' sighed the elderly woman, your last bit of land, and to think it should go like that. I never dreamed I should have to say those words to my son.' Then stiffening and turning to Collins. "'But I did not come to complain. I came to see if justice cannot be done. This is robbery. That terrible man with the German name has robbed Arthur. It is quite plain. What can be done?' "'Absolutely nothing,' replied Collins. "'Nothing?' "'Your ladyship must believe me when I say nothing can be done. What ground can we have for moving?' The sail was perfectly open and above board. Mulhausen made no false statement. I am right in saying that. Am I not?' Turning to Jones. Jones had to nod. "'And that being the case, we are helpless.' "'But if it can be proved that he knew there was coal on the land, and if he bought it concealing that knowledge, surely, surely the law can make him give it back,' said the simple old lady, who it would seem stood in the place of Rochester's unfortunate mother. Mr. Collins almost smiled. "'Your ladyship, that would give no handle to the law. Now, for instance, if I knew that the Canadian Pacific Railway, let us say, had discovered large coal-bearing lands, and if I used that private knowledge to buy your Canadian Pacific stock at, say, one hundred, and if that stock rose to three hundred, could you make me give you your stock back? Certainly not. The gain would be a perfectly legitimate product of my own sharpness.' "'Sharpness!' said the bird-woman. "'That's just it. If Arthur had had even sense, to say nothing of sharpness, things would have been very different, all around—all round!' She protruded her head from her boa and retracted it. Jones, furious, dumb, with his hands in his pockets and his back against the window, said nothing. He never could have imagined that a baiting like this, over a matter with which he had nothing to do, could have made him feel such a fool and such an ass. He saw at once how Rochester had been done, and he felt, against all reason, the shame that Rochester might have felt, but probably wouldn't. His uncle, the Duke of Malford, for that was the caloric one's name, his mother, the Dowager Countess of Rochester, and his sister, the Honorable Venetia Birdbrook, now all rose up and got together in a covey before making their exit, and leaving this bad business and the fool who had brought it about. You can fancy their feelings. A man in Rochester's position may be anything, almost, as long as he is wealthy. But should he add the crime of poverty to his other sins, he is lost indeed. And Rochester had not only flung his money away, he had flung a coal mine after it. No wonder that his uncle did not even glance at him again as he left the room, shepherding the two women before him. It's unfortunate, said Collins, when they found themselves alone. It was the mildest thing he could say, and he said it. End of Chapter 11 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 12 of The Man Who Lost Himself This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Man Who Lost Himself by H. DeVere Stackpool Chapter 12 The Girl in the Victoria When Jones found himself outside the office at last, and in the bustle of Fleet Street, he turned his steps westwards. He had almost forgotten the half-formed determination to throw down his cards and get up from this strange game, which he had formed when Collins had asked him whether he would not have an interview with his wife. This coal mine business pushed everything else aside for the moment. The thought of that deal galvanized the whole business side of his nature, so that, as he would have said himself, Bristle stood on it. A mine worth a million pounds traded away for twenty-five thousand dollars. He was taking the thing to heart as though he himself had been tricked by Mulhausen. And now, as he walked, a block in the traffic brought him back from his thoughts, and suddenly a most appalling sensation came upon him. For a moment he had lost his identity. For a moment he was neither Rochester nor Jones, but just a void between these two. For a moment he could not tell which he was. For a moment he was neither. That was the terrible part of the feeling. It was due to over-taxation of the brain in his extraordinary position, and to the intensive manner in which he had been playing the part of Rochester. It lasted perhaps only a few seconds, for it is difficult to measure the duration of mental processes, and it passed as rapidly as it had come. Seeing a bar, he entered it, and a small glass of brandy closed the incident and made him forget it. He asked the way to Couch's bank, which, in 1692, was situated at the three crowns in the Strand, next door to the Globe Tavern, and which still holds the same position in the world of commerce, and nearly the same in the world of Brits and Mortar. He reached the door of the bank and was about to enter, when something checked him. It was the thought that he would have to endorse the check with Rochester's signature. He had copied it so often that he felt competent to make a fair imitation, but he had begun life in a bank and knew the awful eye a bank has for a customer's signature. His signature, at least Rochester's, must be well known at Couch's. It would never do to put himself under the microscope like that besides, and this thought only came to him now. It might be just as well to have his money in some place unknown to others. Collins and all that terrible family knew that he was banking at Couch's. Even might arise when it would be very necessary, too, for him to be able to lay his hands on a secret store of money. He had passed the National Provincial Bank in the Strand. The name sounded safe, and he determined to go there. He reached the bank, sent his name into the manager, and was at once admitted. The manager was a solid man, semi-balled, with side whiskers, and an air of old English business respectability, delightful in these new and pushing days. He received the phantom of the Earl of Rochester with the respect due to their mutual positions. Jones, between Couch's and the National Provincial, had done a lot of thinking. He foresaw that, even if he were to give in a passable imitation of Rochester's signature, all checks signed in future would have to tally with that signature. Now a man's handwriting, though varying, has a personality of its own, and he doubted very much as to whether he would be able to keep up that personality under the microscopic gaze of the bank people. He decided on a bold course. He would retain his own handwriting. It was improbable that the National Provincial had ever seen Rochester's autograph. Even if they had, it was not a criminal thing for a man to alter his style of writing. He endorsed the Czech Rochester, gave a sample of his signature, gave directions for a checkbook to be sent to him at Carleton House Terrace, and took his departure. He had changed Rochester's five-pound note before going to Collins, and he had the change in his pocket, four pounds, sixteen and six pence. Five pounds less the price of a cigar at the tobacconists where he had changed his note, the taxi to Sargent's Inn, and the glass of liquor brandy. He remembered that he still owed for his luncheon yesterday at the senior conservative, and he determined to go and pay for it, and then lunch at some restaurant. Never again would he have luncheon at that conservative caravan Sarai, so he told himself. With this purpose in mind he was standing, waiting to cross the road near Southampton Street, when a voice sounded in his ear, and an arm took his. Hello, Rachie, said the voice. Jones turned and found himself arm in arm with a youth of eighteen, so he seen a gilded youth, if there ever was a gilded youth, immaculately dressed, cheery, and with a frank face that was entirely pleasing. Hello, said Jones. What became of you that night, asked the cheery one, as they crossed the road still arm in arm. Which night? Which night? Why the night they shot us out of the ragtag club. Are you a sleep-rogester, or what ails you? Oh, I remember, said Jones. They had unlinked now, and walking along together they passed up Southampton Street, and threw Henrietta Street towards Leicester Square, the unknown doing all the talking, a task for which he seemed well qualified. He talked of things, events, and people, absolutely unknown to his listener, of horses, and men, and women. He talked Jones into Bond Street, and Jones went shopping with him, assisting him in the choice of two dozen-colored socks at Beale and Inmans. Outside the hosiers the unknown was proposing luncheon, when a carriage, an open Victoria, going slowly on account of the traffic, drew Jones's attention. It was a very smart turnout, one horse, but having two liveried service, on the box. A coachman and a footman with powdered hair. In the Victoria was seated one of the prettiest girls ever beheld by Jones. A lovely creature, dark, with deep, dreamy, vague, blue-gray eyes, and a face. Ah, what pen could describe that face? So mobile, peckant, and filled with light and inexpressible charm. She had caught Jones's eye. She was gazing at him curiously. Half mirthfully, half wrathfully, it seemed to him. And now, to his amazement, she made a little movement of the head, as if to say, come here. At the same moment she spoke to the coachman. Portman, stop, please! Jones advanced, raising his hat. I just want to tell you, said the beauty, leaning a little forward, that you are a silly old ass. Venetia has told me all. It's nothing to me, but don't do it. Portman, drive on. Good Lord! said Jones as the vehicle passed on its way, bearing off its beautiful occupant, of whom nothing could now be seen but the lace-covered back of a parasol. He rejoined the unknown. Well, said the latter, what has your wife been saying to you? My wife, said Jones. Well, your late wife, though you ain't divorced yet, are you? No, said Jones. He uttered the word mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was saying. That lovely creature, his wife? Rochester's wife? Get in, said the unknown. He had called a taxi. Jones got in. Rochester's wife? The contrast between her and Lady Plin Lyman suddenly arose before him, together with the folly of Rochester seemed gigantically and in a new light. The taxi drew up in a street off Piccadilly. They got out. The unknown paid and led the way into a house, whose front door presented a modest brass door plate inscribed with the words Mr. Carr. They passed along a passage and then downstairs to a large room, where small card-tables were set out. An extraordinary room, for occupying nearly half of one side of it, stood a kitchen range over which a cook was engaged broiling chops and kidneys and all the other elements of a mixed grill. Old-fashioned pictures of sporting celebrities hung in the walls, and opposite the range stood a dresser laden with priceless old-fashioned crockery-wear. Off this room lay the dining-room, and the whole place had an atmosphere of comfort, and the days gone by when days were less laborious than our days, and comfort less allied to glitter and tinsel. This was Carr's Club. The unknown sat down before the visitor's book, and began to write his own name and the name of his guest. Jones, looking over his shoulder, saw that his name was Spence, Patrick Spence. Sir Patrick Spence, for one of the attendants addressed him as Sir Patrick. A mixed grill, some cheese and draft beer and heavy pewter tankards, constituted the meal, during which the location Spence kept up the conversation. I don't want to poke my nose into your affairs, said he, but I can see there's something worrying you. You're not the same chap. Is it about the wife? No, said Jones. It's not that. Well, I don't want to dig into your confidences, and I don't want to give you advice. If I did, I'd say make it up with her. You know very well, Rache, you haven't led her the deuce of a dance. Your sister got me on about it the other night at the Vernons. We had a long talk about you, Rache, and we agreed you were the best of chaps, but too much given to gaiety and promiscuous larks. You should have heard me holding forth. But, joking apart, it's time you and I settle down, old chap. You can't put old heads on young shoulders, but our shoulders ain't so young as they used to be, Rache. And I want to tell you this. If you don't hitch up again in harness, the other party will do a bolt. I'm dead serious. It's not the thing to say to another man, but you and I haven't any secrets between us, and we've always been pretty plain one to the other. Well, this is what I want to say, and just take it as it's meant. Mantelov is after her. You know that, chap, the attaché at the Russian's embassy. Chap like a billiard marker, always at the other end of a cigarette. Other name's Boris. Hasn't a penny to bless himself with. I know he hasn't, for I've made kind inquiries about him through Louis, reason why. He wanted to buy one of my racers for export to Russia. Seven hundred down, and the balance in six months. Louis served up his pass to me on a charger. The chap's rotten with debt, divorced from his wife, and a punter at Monte Carlo. That's his real profession and card-playing. He's a sleepy slyve, and if he was told his house was on fire, he'd say the chevaux, meaning it don't matter. It's well insured. If he had a house to insure, which he hasn't. But women like him. He's that sort. But heaven help the woman that marries him. He'd take her money and herself off to Monte, and when he'd broken her heart and spoiled her life and spent her coin, he'd leave her and go off and be Russian attaché in Japan or somewhere. I know him. Don't let her do it, Rachy. But how am I to help it? asked the perplexed Jones, who saw the meaning of the other. It did not matter in reality to him whether a woman he had only seen once were to bolt with a Russian and find ruination at Monte Carlo. But this world is not entirely a world of reality, and he felt a surprisingly strong resentment at the idea of the girl in the Victoria bolting with a Russian. It will be remembered that in Colin's office the lawyers talk about his wife had almost decided him to throw down his cards and quit. This shadowy wife, first mentioned by the bird woman, had in fact been the one vaguely felt insuperable obstacle in the way of his grand determination to make good where Rochester had failed, to fight Rochester's battles, to be the Earl of Rochester permanently, maybe, or failing that, to retire and vanish back to the States with honorable pickings. The sight of the real thing had, however, altered the whole position. Romance had suddenly touched Victor Jones. The gorgeous but sorted veils through which he had been pushing had split to some mystic wand and had become the foliage of fairyland. I want to tell you, you are an old ass. Those words were surely enough to shatter any dream, to turn to pathos any situation. In Jones's case they had acted as a most potent spell. He could still hear the voice, wrathful, but with a tinge of mirth in it, golden, individual and trancing. How are you to help it? said Spence. Why, go and make up with her again. Kick old Nichevo. Women like chaps that kick other chaps. They pretend they don't, but they do. Either do that or take a gun and shooter should be better shot than with that fellow. He lit a cigarette and they passed into the card room, where Spence, looking at his watch, declared that he must be off to keep an appointment. They said good-bye in the street, and Jones returned to Carlton House Terrace. He had plenty to think about. The pile of letters waiting to be answered on the table in the smoking-room reminded him that he had forgotten a most pressing necessity, a typist. He could sign letters all right, with a very good imitation of Rochester's signature. But a holograph letter in the same hand was beyond him. Then a bright idea came to him. Why not answer these letters with six-penny telegrams, which he could hand in himself? He found a sheaf of telegraph forms in the bureau and sat down before the letters, dealing with them one by one and as relevantly as he could. It was a rather interesting and amusing game, and when he had finished he felt fairly satisfied. "'Offly sorry, can't come,' was the reply to the dinner invitations. The letter signed, children'sly, worried him, till he looked up the name in who's who, and found a lord answering to it at the same address as that in the note paper. He had struck by accident on one of the alleviations of a major misery of civilized life, replying to letters, and he felt like patenting it. He left the house with a sheaf of telegrams, found the nearest post-office, which is situated directly opposite to Charing Cross Station, and returned. Then, lighting a cigar, he took the friendly and indefatigable who's who upon his knee, and began to turn the pages indolently. It is a most interesting volume for an idle moment, full of scattered romance, tales of struggle and adventure, compressed into a few lines, peeps of history, and with epitaphs of still-living men. I want to tell you you are an old ass. The word still sounding in his ears made him turn again to the name Plin Lyman. The contrast between Lady Plin Lyman and the girl, whose vision dominated his mind, rose up again sharply at sight of the printed name. Ass! That name did not apply to Rochester. To fit him with an appropriate pseudonym would be impossible. Fool! Idiot! Sumpf! Jones tried them all on the image of the defunct, but they were too small. Plin Lyman, Third Baron, read Jones, created 1831, Albert James, born March 10, 1862. O.S. of Second Baron and Julia, daughter of J.H. Thompson of Clifton. Married Saphira, daughter of Marcus Mulhausen. Educated privately. Address The Roost, Tight Street, Chelsea. Mulhausen. He almost dropped the book. Mulhausen. Collins, his office, and that terrible family party all rose up before him. Here was the scamp who had diddled Rochester out of the coal mine, the father of the woman who had diddled him out of thousands. The paragraph in Who's Who turned from printed matter to a nest of wriggling vipers. He threw the book on the table, rose up, and began to pace the floor. The girl-wife in the Victoria, his own position. Everything was forgotten before the monstrous fact, half-guest, half-seen. Rochester had been plucked right and left by these harpies. He had received five thousand pounds for land worth a million from the father. He had paid eight thousand, or a good part of eight thousand, to the daughter. Find business that. I compared Jones, when he was fighting voles, to a terrier. He had a good deal of the terrier in his composition, the honesty, the rooting out instinct, and the fury before vermin. Men run in animal groups, and if you study animals, you will be surprised by nothing so much as the old race fury that breaks out in the most civilized animal before the old race quarry or enemy. For a few seconds, as he paced the floor, Jones was in the mental condition of a dog in proximity to a hutched badger. Then he began to think clearly. The obvious fact before him was that voles, the Plin Lymans and Mulhausens, were a gang. The presumptive fact was that the money paid in blackmail had gone back to Mulhausen, or at least a great part of it. Was Mulhausen the spider of the web? Were all the rest his tools and implements? Jones had a good deal of instinctive knowledge of women. He did not, in his heart, believe that a woman could be so utterly vile as to use love letters directed to her for the purpose of extracting money from the man who wrote them, or rather that, while she might use them, it was improbable that she would invent the method. The whole business had the stamp of a mind masculine and utterly unscrupulous. Even at first he had glimpsed this vaguely, when he considered it probable that Lord Plin Lyman had a hand in the affair. Now, thought Jones, if I could bring this home to Mulhausen, I could squeeze back that coal mine from him. I could, sure. He sat down and lit another cigar to assist him in dealing with this problem. It was very easy to say squeeze Mulhausen. It was a different thing to do it. He came to this conclusion after a few minutes' earnest concentration of mind on that problematical person. Hitherto he had been dealing with small men and wasters. Vols was a plain scoundrel, quite easily overthrown by direct methods. But Marcus Mulhausen he guessed to be a big man. The first thing to be done was to verify this supposition. He rang the bell and sent for Mr. Church. Come in, said he when the latter appeared, and shut the door. I want to ask you something. Yes, my lord. It's just this. I want you to tell me what you think of Lord Plin Lyman and what you have heard said about him. I have my own opinions. I want yours. Well, my lord, began Church. It's not for me to say anything against his lordship. But since you asked me, I will say that it's generally the opinion that his lordship is a bit soft. Do you think he's straight? Yes, my lord. That is to say. Spit it out, said Jones. Well, my lord, he owes money. That's well known. And I've heard it said a good deal of money has been lost at cards in his house, but not through his fault. Indeed, you yourself said something to me to that effect, my lord. Yes, so I did. But what I want to get at is this. Do you think he's a man who would do a scoundrel-y thing that's plain? Oh, no, my lord. He's straight enough. It's the other party. Meaning his wife? No, my lord. Her brother, Mr. Julian. Ah! Church warmed a bit. He's always about there. Lives with them mostly. You see, my lord, he has no what you may call status of his own. But he manages to get known to people through her leadership. Kind of sucker, said Jones. Mr. Church assented. The expression was new to him, but it seemed to apply. Then Jones dismissed him. The light was becoming clearer and clearer. Here was another member of the gang, another instrument of Marcus Mulhausen. Tomorrow, said Jones to himself, I will go for these chaps. Voles is the key to the lot of them, and I have voles completely under my thumb. Then he put the matter from his mind for a while, and fell to thinking of the girl, his wife, or Rochester's wife. The strange thought came to him that she was a widow and did not know it. He dined out that night, going to a little restaurant in Soho, and he returned to bed early, so as to be fresh for the business of the morrow. He had looked himself up again in who's who, and found that his wife's name was Teresa. Teresa. The name pleased him vaguely, and now that he had captured it, it struck like a burr in his mind. If he could only make good over the Mulhausen proposition, recapture that mind, prove himself. Would she, if he told her all, would she? He fell asleep murmuring the word Teresa. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 13 Of The Man Who Lost Himself This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Man Who Lost Himself By H. DeVere Stackpole Chapter 13 Teresa He woke up next morning to find the vision of Teresa, Countess of Rochester, so he called her, standing by his bedside. Have you ever, for a moment, considered the influence of women? Go to a public meeting composed entirely of men, and see what a heavy affair it can be, especially if you are a speaker. Sprinkle a few women through the audience, and behold the livening effect. At a party or a public meeting in the wheat pit or the battlefield, women, or the recollection of a woman, form or forms one of the greatest liveners to conversation, speech, or action. Most men fight the battle of life for a woman. Jones, as he sat up and drank his morning tea, gazing the while at the vision of Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had found, almost unknown to himself, a new incentive to action. The position yesterday had begun to sag. Very little would have made him quit, take a hundred pounds from the eight thousand, and a passage by the next boat to the States. But that girl in the Victoria, those eyes, that voice, those words, they had altered everything. Was he in love? Perhaps not, but he was fascinated, held, dazzled. More than that, the world seemed strange, brighter. He felt younger, filled with an energy of a new brand. He whistled as he crossed the floor to look out of the window, and as he tubbed, he splashed the water about like a boy. It was easy to see that the unfortunate man had tumbled into a position more fantastic and infinitely more dangerous than any position he had hitherto occupied since setting foot in the house of Rochester. That vanished and fantastic humorist would have found plenty to feed his thoughts, could he have returned. The checkbook from the National Provincial Bank arrived by the first post, and after breakfast he put it aside in a drawer of the Bureau in the smoking room. He glanced through the usual sheaf of letters from unknown people, tradesmen whose accounts were marked account-rendered, and gentlemen who signed themselves with the names of counties. One of the latter seemed indignant. I take this damn bad of you, Rochester, said he. I've found it out at last. You are the man responsible for that telegram. I lost three days and a night's sleep rushing up to Cumberland on a wild goose chase, and I'm telling people all about it. Someday you'll land yourself in a mess. Jokes that may be funny amongst board-school boys are out of place amongst men. Langwith B. Jones determined to send Langwith B a telegram of apology when he had time to look his name up in who's who. Then he put the letters aside, called for his hat and cane, and left the house. He was going to Vols first. Vols was his big artillery. He guessed that the fight with Marcus Mulhausen would be a battle to the death. He reckoned a lot on Vols. In Trafalgar Square he called a taxi and told the driver to take him to Germine Street. End of Chapter 13 Recording by Roger Maline Part 3 Chapter 14 Of The Man Who Lost Himself This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Man Who Lost Himself by H. Devere Stackpole Part 3 Chapter 14 The Attack A. S. Vols, moneylender and bill-discounter, lived over his business. That is to say his office was his dining-room. He owned the house in Germine Street. Jones, dismissing the taxi, rang the bell and was admitted by a man-servant, who, not sure whether Mr. Vols was in or not, invited the visitor into a small room on the right of the entrance hall and closed the door on him. The room contained a desk-table, three chairs, a big-scale map of London, a Phoenix Insurance Almanac, and a photographure reproduction of Mona Lisa. The floor was covered with linoleum and the window gave upon a blank wall. This was the room where creditors and stray visitors had to wait. Jones took a chair and looked about him. Humanity may be divided into three classes. Those who, having seen a door, those who tolerate and those who detest Mona Lisa. Jones detested her. That leery, slurry, slippery, poisonous face was hateful to him as the mask of a serpent. He was looking at the lady when the door opened and in came Vols. Vols looked yellower and older this morning, but his face showed nothing of resentment. The turning of the Earl of Rochester upon him had been the one great surprise of his life. He had always fancied that he knew character, and his fancy was not ill-founded. His confidence in himself had been shaken. Good morning, said Jones. I have come to have a little talk with you. Sit down, said Vols. They seated themselves, Vols before the desk. I haven't come to fight, said Jones, just to talk. You know that Marcus Mulhausen has got that Welsh land from me for five thousand, and that it is worth maybe a million now? Vols nodded. Well, Mulhausen has to give that property back. Vols laughed. You needn't laugh. You have seen my rough side. I'm holding the smooth towards you now, but there is no occasion to laugh. I'm going to skin Mulhausen. Well, said Vols, what have I to do with that? You are the knife. Oh? Yes, indeed. Let's talk. When you got that eight thousand from me, you were only the agent of the Plin Lyman woman, and she was only the agent of Marcus. She got something, you got something, but Marcus got the most. Julian got something too, but it was Marcus got the joints. He gave you three the head and the hoofs and the innards and the tail. I've had it out with the Plin Lyman woman, and I know. You were a gang. Vols heaved up in his chair. What more have you to say? asked he, thickly. A lot. There is nothing more difficult to get at than a gang, because they cover each other's traces. I pay you a certain sum and cash. You deduct your commission and hand the remainder over to the Plin Lyman woman. She pays her pa, and gets a few hundred to pay her milliner. Who's to prove anything? No checks have passed. Just so, said Vols. I'm glad you see my point, replied Jones. Now, if you can't untie a knot, you can always cut it, if you have a knife, can't you? Vols shrugged his shoulders. Well, I said you were a knife, didn't I? And I'm going to cut this knot with you. See my point? Not in the least. I'm sorry, because that makes me speak plain, and that's unpleasant. This is my meaning. I have to get that property back, or else I will go to the police and rope in the whole gang. Tell the whole story. I will accuse Marcus. Do you understand that? Marcus and Marcus's daughter and Marcus's son and you. And I won't do that tomorrow. I'll do it today. Tonight the whole caboodle of you will be in jail. You said you hadn't come to fight, cried Vols. What do you want? Haven't you had enough from me? Yet you drive me like this. It's dangerous. I have not come to fight, at least not you. On the contrary, when I get this property back, if it turns out worth a million, I'll maybe pay you your losses. You've been paying the piper for Marcus, it seems to me. I have, groaned Vols. The two words proved to Jones that he was right all through. Well, it's Marcus I'm up against, and you have to help me. Then Vols began to speak. The something oriental in his nature, the something that had driven him rushing without spread arms at the constable that evening, began now to talk. Help against Marcus! What could he do against Marcus? Why, Marcus Mulhausen held him in the hollow of his hand. Marcus held everyone, his daughter, her husband, his own son Julian, to say nothing of A.S. Vols and others. Jones listened with patient attention to all this, and when the other had finished, and wiped the palms of his hands on his handkerchief, said, But all the same, Marcus is held by the fact that he forms one of a gang. Vols made a movement with his hand. Don't interrupt me. The head of a shark is the cleverest part of it, but it has to suffer with the body when the whole shark is caught. That's the fix Marcus is in. When I close on the lot of you, Marcus will be the first to get into the jug. Now, see here, you have got to take my orders. They won't be hard. What are they? You have got to write me a note, which I will take to Marcus, telling him the game's up, the gang's burst, and to deliver. Why, damn it, what ails you, said Vols? What ails me? You aren't talking like yourself. You have never been like yourself since you've taken this line. Jones felt himself changing color. In his excitement, he had let his voice run away with him. It doesn't matter a button whether I'm like myself or not, said he. You've got to write that note and do it now while I dictate. Vols drummed on the desk with his fingers, then he took a sheet of paper and an envelope from a drawer. Well, said he, what is it to be? Nothing alarming, said the other. Just three words. It's all up. How do you address him? Without reply, Vols wrote. Dear M, it's all up. That'll do, said Jones. Now sign your name and address the envelope. Vols did so. Jones put the letter in his pocket. Well, said he, that ends the business. I hope with this, and what I have to say to him, Marcus will part, and as I say, if things turn out as I hope, maybe I'll write your losses. I have no quarrel with you, only Marcus. Suddenly Vols spoke. For God's sake, said he, mind how you deal with that chap. He's never been got the better of, curse him. Go cautiously. You never fear, said Jones. End of chapter 14, recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 15 of The Man Who Lost Himself This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Man Who Lost Himself, by H. Devere Stackpole Chapter 15 The Attack, Continued Jones had already obtained Marcus Mulhausen's address from the invaluable Kelly. Mulhausen was a financier. A financier is a man who makes money without a trade or profession. And Mulhausen had made a great deal of money, despite this limitation, during his twenty years of business life, which had started humbly enough behind the counter of a pawnbrokers in the minarees. His offices were situated in Chancery Lane. They consisted of three rooms, an outer waiting-room, a room inhabited by three clerks, that is to say, a senior clerk, Mr. Aronson, and two subordinates, and an inner room where Mulhausen dwelt. Jones, ungiving his name, was shown at once into the inner room where Mulhausen was seated at his desk. Mulhausen was a man of sixty or so, small, fragile looking, with gray side whiskers and drowsy, heavy-lidded eyes. He nodded to Jones and indicated a chair. When he finished his work, the reading of a letter, placed it under an agate paperweight, and turned to the newcomer. What can I do for you this morning? asked Mulhausen. You can just read this letter, said Jones. He handed over Vols's letter. Mulhausen put on his glasses, opened the letter, and read it. Then he placed the open letter on top of the one beneath the agate paperweight, tore up the envelope, and threw the two fragments into the waste-paper-basket behind him. Anything more? asked he. Yes, replied the other. A lot more. Let us begin at the beginning. You have obtained from me a piece of real estate worth anything up to a million pounds. You paid five thousand for it. Yes. You have got to hand me that property back. I beg your pardon, said Mulhausen. Do you refer to the Glynofwin lands? Yes. I see. And I have to hand those back to you. Anything more? No, that's all. I received your daughter's letters back from Vols yesterday. Let's be plain with one another. Vols has confessed everything. I have his confession under his own handwriting. You are all in a net, the whole gang of you. You, your daughter, your son, and Vols. You plucked me like a turkey. You know the whole affair as well as I do, and if I do not receive that property back before five o'clock to-day, I shall go to the nearest police office and swear an information against you. I see, said Mulhausen, without turning a hair. You will put us all in prison, will you not? That would be very unpleasant. Very unpleasant indeed. He rose, went to some tin boxes situated on a ledge behind him, took out his keys, and opened one. Jones, fancying that he was going to produce the title deeds, felt a little jump at his thyroid cartilage. This was victory without a battle. But, Mr. Marcus Mulhausen took no title deeds from the box. He produced a letter case, came back with it to the table, and sat down. Then, holding the letter case before him, he looked at the letter case before him, he looked at Jones over his glasses. You rogue! said Mulhausen. This was the most terrific moment in Jones's life. Mulhausen, from a criminal, had suddenly become a judge. He spoke with such absolute conviction, ease, sense of power and scorn, that there could be no manner of doubt he held the winning cards. That was the letter case and produced a paper. Here is the bill of exchange for two hundred and fifty pounds, to which you forged Sir Playdell Tufnell's name, said Marcus Mulhausen, spreading the paper before him. That was two years ago. We all know Sir Playdell and his easy-going ways. He is so careless you thought he would never find out. So good he would never prosecute. But it came into my hands. It is my property, and I have no hesitation in dealing with rogues. Now do you suppose for a moment that if I were moving against you in any unlawful way, which I deny, I would have done so without a protector? Could you find a better protection than this? The punishment for forgery, let me remind you, is five years' penal servitude at the least. He looked down at the document with a cold smile, and then he glanced up again at his victim. Jones saw that he was done. Done not by Marcus Mulhausen, but by Rochester. He had tripped over a kink in Rochester's character, just as a man trips over a kink in a carpet. Then rage came to him. The sight of the horrible scoundrel with whiskers, triumphant and gloating, roused the dog in his nature and all the craft that lay hidden in him. He heaved a sigh, rose brokenly, and approached the desk and the creature behind it. You are a cleverer man than I am," said he. Shake hands and call it quits. Next moment he had snatched the paper from the fingers that held it, crumpled it, crammed it into his mouth. He rushed to the door and locked it, whilst Mulhausen, screaming like a woman, reached him and clutched him by the shoulders. Then, swiftly turning, Jones gripped the financier by both arms and held him so, chewing, chewing, chewing, mute and facing the shouting other one. They were hammering at the door outside. Mr. Aronson and the clerks, useless people for breaking down door purposes, were assisting their employer with their voices. Mainly the whole block of offices was raised, and the boys and telephones were summoning the police. Meanwhile, Jones was chewing, and the bill was slowly being converted into what the physiologist terms a bolus. It took three minutes before the bolus, properly salivated and raised by the tongue, passed the anterior pillars of the fosses, then the epiglottis shut down, and the bolus, slipping over it and seized by the muscles of the esophagus, passed to its destined abode. Jones had swallowed Rochester's past, or at least a most important part of it. The act accomplished. He sat down as a boar constrictor recoils itself, still gulping. Marcus Mulhausen rushed to the door and opened it. A vast policeman stood before him. Behind the policeman crowded Mr. Aronson and the clerks. And behind these a dozen or two of the block dwellers, eager for gory sights at a distance. Marcus looked round. What's all this? said he. There is nothing wrong. Just a little dispute with a gentleman. It is all over. Mr. Aronson, clear the office. Constable, here is two shillings for your trouble. Good day. He shut the door on the disappointed crowd and turned to Jones. The battle was over.