Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  Ezra looked at his father in considerable surprise and some admiration. “Why, damn it!” he exclaimed, “it’s dishonest. I’m not sure that it’s not actionable.”

  “Dishonest! Pooh!” The merchant snapped his fingers. “It’s finesse, my boy, commercial finesse. Who’s to trace it, I should like to know. I haven’t worked out all the details — I want your co-operation over that — but here’s a rough sketch of my plan. We send a man we can depend upon to some distant part of the world — Chimborazo, for example, or the Ural Mountains. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it is out of the way. On arriving at this place our agent starts a report that he has discovered a diamond mine. We should even go the length, if he considers it necessary, of hiding a few rough stones in the earth, which he can dig up to give colour to his story. Of course the local press would be full of this. He might present one of the diamonds to the editor of the nearest paper. In course of time a pretty coloured description of the new diamond fields would find its way to London and thence to the Cape. I’ll answer for it that the immediate effect is a great drop in the price of stones. We should have a second agent at the Cape diamond fields, and he would lay our money out by buying in all that he could while the panic lasted. Then, the original scare having proved to be all a mistake, the prices naturally go up once more, and we get a long figure for all that we hold. That’s what I mean by making ‘a corner in diamonds.’ There is no room in it for any miscalculation. It is as certain as a proposition of Euclid, and as easily worked out.”

  “It sounds very nice,” his son remarked thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure about its working, though.”

  “It must work well. As far as human calculation can go there is no possibility of failure. Besides, my boy, never lose sight of the fact that we shall be speculating with other people’s money. We ourselves have nothing to lose, absolutely nothing.”

  “I am not likely to lose sight of it,” said Ezra angrily, his mind coming back to his grievance.

  “I reckon that we can raise from forty to fifty thousand pounds without much difficulty. My name is, as you know, as good as that of any firm in the City. For nearly forty years it has been above stain or suspicion. If we carry on our plans at once, and lay this money out judiciously, all may come right.”

  “It’s Hobson’s choice,” the young man remarked. “We must try some bold

  stroke of the sort. Have you chosen the right sort of men for agents?

  You should have men of some standing to set such reports going.

  They would have more weight then.”

  John Girdlestone shook his head despondingly. “How am I to get a man of any standing to do such a piece of business?” he said.

  “Nothing easier,” answered Ezra, with a cynical laugh. “I could pick out a score of impecunious fellows from the clubs who would be only too glad to earn a hundred or two in any way you can mention. All their talk about honour and so forth is very pretty and edifying, but it’s not meant for every day use. Of course we should have to pay him.”

  “Them, you mean?”

  “No, we should only want one man.”

  “How about our purchaser at the diamond fields?”

  “You don’t mean to say,” Ezra said roughly, “that you would be so absurd as to trust any man with our money. Why, I wouldn’t let the Archbishop of Canterbury out of my sight with forty thousand pounds of mine. No, I shall go myself to the diamond fields — that is, if I can trust you here alone.”

  “That is unkind, Ezra,” said his father. “Your idea is an excellent one. I should have proposed it myself but for the discomforts and hardships of such a journey.”

  “There’s no use doing things by halves,” the young man remarked. “As to our other agent, I have the very man — Major Tobias Clutterbuck. He is a shrewd, clever fellow, and he’s always hard up. Last week he wanted to borrow a tenner from me. The job would be a godsend to him, and his social rank would be a great help to our plan. I’ll answer for his jumping at the idea.”

  “Sound him on the subject, then.”

  “I will.”

  “I am glad,” said the old merchant, “that you and I have had this conversation, Ezra. The fact of my having speculated without your knowledge, and deceived you by a false ledger, has often weighed heavily upon my conscience, I assure you. It is a relief to me to have told you all.”

  “Drop the subject, then,” Ezra said curtly. “I must put up with it, for I have no redress. The thing is done and nothing can undo it; but I consider that you have willfully wasted the money.”

  “Believe me, I have tried to act for the best. The good name of our firm is everything to me. I have spent my whole life in building it up, and if the day should come when it must go, I trust that I may have gone myself. There is nothing which I would not do to preserve it.”

  “I see they want our premiums,” Ezra said, glancing at the open letter upon the table. “How is it that none of those ships go down? That would give us help.”

  “Hush! hush!” John Girdlestone cried imploringly. “Speak in a whisper when you talk of such things.”

  “I can’t understand you,” said Ezra petulantly. “You persistently over-insure your ships, year after year. Look at the Leopard; it is put at more than twice what she was worth as new. And the Black Eagle, I dare say, is about the same. Yet you never have an accident with them, while your two new uninsured clippers run each other down.”

  “Well, what more can I do?” replied the merchant “They are thoroughly rotten. I have done nothing for them for years. Sooner or later they must go. I cannot do any more.”

  “I’d make ‘em go down quick enough,” muttered Ezra, with an oath.

  “Why don’t you make old Miggs bore a hole in them, or put a light to a

  barrel of paraffin? Bless your soul! the thing’s done every day.

  What’s the use of being milk-and-watery about it?”

  “No, no, Ezra!” cried his father. “Not that — not that. It’s one thing letting matters take their course, and it is another thing giving positive orders to scuttle a ship. Besides, it would put us in Miggs’ power. It would be too dangerous.”

  “Please yourself,” said Ezra, with a sneer. “You’ve got us into the mess and you must take us out again. If the worst comes to the worst I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll marry Kate Harston, wash my hands of the firm, leave you to settle matters with the creditors, and retire with the forty thousand pounds;” with which threat the junior partner took up his hat and swaggered out of the office.

  After his departure, John Girdlestone spent an hour in anxious thought, arranging the details of the scheme which he had just submitted to his son. As he sat, his eye chanced to fall upon the two letters lying on his desk, and it struck him that they had better be attended to. It did not suit his plans to fall back upon his credit just yet. It has been already shown that he was a man of ready resource. He rang the bell and summoned his senior clerk.

  “Good morning, John,” he said affably.

  “Good morning, Mr. Girdlestone, good morning, sir,” said wizened little John Gilray, rubbing his thin yellow hands together, as a sign of his gratification.

  “I hear, John, that you have come into a legacy lately,” Mr. Girdlestone said.

  “Yes, sir. Fifteen hundred pounds, sir. Less legacy duty and incidental expenses, fourteen hundred and twenty-eight six and fourpence. My wife’s brother Andrew left it, sir, and a very handsome legacy too.”

  John Girdlestone smiled with the indulgent smile of one to whom such a sum was absolutely nothing.

  “What have you done with the money, then, John?” he asked carelessly.

  “Banked it, sir, in the United Metropolitan.”

  “In the United Metropolitan, John? Let me see. Their present rate of interest is three and a half?”

  “Three, sir,” said John.

  “Three! Dear me, John, that is poor interest, very poor indeed. It is most fortunate that I made these inquiries. I wa
s on the point of drawing fourteen hundred pounds from one of my correspondents as a temporary convenience. For this I should pay him five per cent. I have no objection, John, as you are an old servant of the firm, to giving you the preference in this matter. I cannot take more than fourteen hundred — but I shall be happy to accommodate you up to that sum at the rate named.”

  John Gilray was overwhelmed by this thoughtful and considerate act. “It is really too generous and kind, sir,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it, John,” the senior partner said grandly. “The firm is always glad to advance the interests of its employees in any reasonable manner. Have you your cheque-book with you? Fill it up for fourteen hundred. No more, John; I cannot oblige you by taking any more.”

  The head clerk having made out his cheque for the amount, and having signed his name to it in a cramped little quaint handwriting, which reminded one of his person, was duly presented with a receipt and dismissed to his counting-house. There he entertained the other clerks by a glowing description of the magnanimity of his employer.

  John Girdlestone took some sheets of blue official paper from a drawer, and his quill pen travelled furiously over them with many a screech and splutter.

  “Sir,” he said to the bank manager, “I enclose fourteen hundred pounds, which represents the loose cash about the office. I shall make a heavy deposit presently. In the meantime, you will, of course, honour anything that may be presented. — Yours truly, JOHN GIRDLESTONE.”

  To Lloyd’s Insurance Agency he wrote:—”Sir, — Enclosed you will find cheque for 241 pounds seven shillings and sixpence, being amount due as premium on the Leopard, Black Eagle, and Maid of Athens. Should have forwarded cheque before, but with so many things of importance to look after these trifles are liable to be overlooked.”

  These two epistles having been sealed, addressed, and despatched, the elder Girdlestone began to feel somewhat more easy in his mind, and to devote himself once more to the innocent amusement of planning how a corner might best be created in diamonds.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  SHADOW AND LIGHT.

  John Girdlestone’s private residence in Eccleston Square was a large and substantial house in a district which the wave of fashion had passed over in its westward course. It might still, however, be said to be covered by a deposit of eminent respectability. The building was stern and hard, and massive in its external appearance, but the interior was luxury itself, for the old merchant, in spite of his ascetic appearance, was inclined to be a sybarite at heart, and had a due appreciation of the good things of this world. Indeed, there was an oriental and almost barbarous splendour about the great rooms, where the richest of furniture was interspersed with skins from the Gaboon, hand-worked ivory from Old Calabar, and the thousand other strange valuables which were presented by his agents to the African trader.

  After the death of his friend, Girdlestone had been as good as his word. He had taken Kate Harston away from the desolate house at Fulham and brought her to live with him. From the garrets of that palatial edifice to the cellars she was at liberty to roam where she would, and do what she chose. The square garden too, with its smoke-dried trees and faded lawn, was at her disposal, in which she might walk, or work, or read. No cares or responsibilities were imposed upon her. The domestic affairs were superintended by a stern housekeeper, who bore a quaint resemblance to Girdlestone himself in petticoats, and who arranged every detail of housekeeping. The young girl had apparently only to exist and to be happy.

  Yet the latter item was not so easy as it might seem. It was not a congenial atmosphere. Her whole society consisted of the stern, unemotional merchant and his vulgar, occasionally brutal, son. At first, while the memory of her father was still fresh, she felt her new surroundings acutely, contrasting, as they did, with her happy Fulham home. Gradually, however, as time deadened the sting, she came to accommodate herself to circumstances. The two men left her very much to her own devices. Girdlestone was so engrossed in his business that he had little time to inquire into her pursuits, and Ezra, being addicted to late hours, was seldom seen except at breakfast-time, when she listened with awe to his sporting slang and cynical comments upon men and manners.

  John Girdlestone had been by no means overjoyed upon the return of the Dimsdales from Edinburgh to learn that his ward had been thrown into the company of her young cousin. He received her coldly and forbade her to visit Phillimore Gardens for some time to come. He took occasion also to speak of Tom, and to assure her that he had received very serious accounts as to his spiritual state. “He is addicted to all manner of debasing pursuits,” he remarked, “and it is my particular wish that you should avoid him.” Learning that young Dimsdale was in London, he even took the precaution of telling off a confidential footman to walk behind her on all occasions, and to act either as an escort or as a sentry.

  It chanced, however, that one day, a few weeks after her return, Kate found an opportunity of recovering her freedom. The footman had been despatched upon some other duty, so she bethought herself that a book was to be bought and some lace to be matched, and several other important feminine duties to be fulfilled. It happened, however, that as she walked sedately down Warwick Street, her eyes fell upon a very tall and square-shouldered young man, who was lounging in her direction, tapping his stick listlessly against the railings, as is the habit of idle men. At this Kate forgot incontinently all about the book and the lace, while the tall youth ceased to tap the railings, and came striding towards her with long springy footsteps and a smiling face.

  “Why Cousin Tom, who would have thought of meeting you here?” she exclaimed, when the first greetings had been exchanged. “It is a most surprising thing.”

  It is possible that the incident would not have struck her as so very astonishing after all, had she known that Tom had spent six hours a day for the last fortnight in blockading the entrances to Eccleston Square.

  “Most remarkable!” said the young hypocrite. “You see, I haven’t anything to do yet, so I walk about London a good deal. It was a lucky chance that sent me in this direction.”

  “And how is the doctor?” Kate asked eagerly. “And Mrs. Dimsdale, how is she? You must give my love to them both.”

  “How is it that you have never been to see us?” Tom asked reproachfully.

  “Mr. Girdlestone thinks that I have been too idle lately, and that I should stay at home. I am afraid it will be some little time before I can steal away to Kensington.”

  Tom consigned her guardian under his breath to a region warmer even than the scene of that gentleman’s commercial speculations.

  “Which way are you going?” he asked.

  “I was going to Victoria Street to change my book, and then to Ford

  Street.”

  “What a strange thing!” the young man exclaimed; “I was going in that direction too.” It seemed the more strange, as he was walking in the opposite direction when she met him. Neither seemed inclined to make any comment upon the fact, so they walked on together. “And you have not forgotten the days in Edinburgh yet?” Tom asked, after a long pause.

  “No, indeed,” his companion answered with enthusiasm. “I shall never forget them as long as I live.”

  “Nor I,” said Tom earnestly. “You remember the day we had at the

  Pentlands?”

  “And the drive round Arthur’s Seat.”

  “And the time that we all went to Roslin and saw the chapel.”

  “And the day at Edinburgh Castle when we saw the jewels and the armoury. But you must have seen all these things many times before? You could not have enjoyed it as much as we did for the first time.”

  “Oh yes, I did,” Tom said stoutly, wondering to himself how it was that the easy grace with which he could turn compliments to maidens for whom he cared nothing had so entirely deserted him. “You see, Kate-well — you were not there when I saw them before.”

  “Ah,” said Kate demurely, “wh
at a beautiful day it is? I fancied in the morning that it was going to rain.”

  Tom was not to be diverted from his subject by any meteorological observations. “Perhaps some time your guardian will allow the dad to take you on another little holiday,” he said hopefully.

  “I’m afraid he won’t,” answered Kate.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he seemed so cross when I came back this last time.”

  “Why was he cross?” asked Tom.

  “Because—” She was about to say that it was because she had been brought in contact with him; but she recollected herself in time.

  “Because what?”

  “Because he happened to be in a bad temper,” she answered.

  “It is too bad that you should have to submit to any one’s whims and tempers,” the young man said, switching his stick angrily backwards and forwards.

  “Why not?” she asked, laughing. “Everybody has some one over them.

  If you hadn’t, you would never know right from wrong.”

  “But he is unkind to you.”

  “No, indeed,” said Kate, with decision. “He is really very kind to me. He may appear a little stern at times, but I know that he means it for my own good, and I should be a very foolish girl if I resented it. Besides, he is so pious and good that what may seem a little fault to us would appear a great thing in his eyes.”

  “Oh, he is very pious and good, then,” Tom remarked, in a doubtful voice. His shrewd old father had formed his own views as to John Girdlestone’s character, and his son had in due course imbibed them from him.

  “Yes, of course he is,” answered Kate, looking up with great wondering eyes. “Don’t you know that he is the chief supporter of the Purbrook Street Branch of the Primitive Trinitarians, and sits in the front pew three times every Sunday?”

  “Ah!” said Tom.

  “Yes, and subscribes to all the charitable funds, and is a friend of Mr. Jefferson Edwards, the great philanthropist. Besides, look how good he has been to me. He has taken the place of my father.”