by Grant Allen
Colonel Clay on his side was all sweet reasonableness. “Now, my dear sir,” he expostulated, one hand held palm outward, “Do you think it probable I would kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, with so little compunction? No, no, Sir Charles Vandrift; I know too well how much you are worth to me. I return you on my income-tax paper as five thousand a year, clear profit of my profession. Suppose you were to die! I might be compelled to find some new and far less lucrative source of plunder. Your heirs, executors, or assignees might not suit my purpose. The fact of it is, sir, your temperament and mine are exactly adapted one to the other. I understand you; and you do not understand me — which is often the basis of the firmest friendships. I can catch you just where you are trying to catch other people. Your very smartness assists me; for I admit you are smart. As a regular financier, I allow, I couldn’t hold a candle to you. But in my humbler walk of life I know just how to utilise you. I lead you on, where you think you are going to gain some advantage over others; and by dexterously playing upon your love of a good bargain, your innate desire to best somebody else — I succeed in besting you. There, sir, you have the philosophy of our mutual relations.”
He bowed and raised his cap. Charles looked at him and cowered. Yes, genius as he is, he positively cowered. “And do you mean to say,” he burst out, “you intend to go on so bleeding me?”
The Colonel smiled a bland smile. “Sir Charles Vandrift,” he answered, “I called you just now the goose that lays the golden eggs. You may have thought the metaphor a rude one. But you are a goose, you know, in certain relations. Smartest man on the Stock Exchange, I readily admit; easiest fool to bamboozle in the open country that ever I met with. You fail in one thing — the perspicacity of simplicity. For that reason, among others, I have chosen to fasten upon you. Regard me, my dear sir, as a microbe of millionaires, a parasite upon capitalists. You know the old rhyme:
Great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em,
And these again have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum!
Well, that’s just how I view myself. You are a capitalist and a millionaire. In your large way you prey upon society. YOU deal in Corners, Options, Concessions, Syndicates. You drain the world dry of its blood and its money. You possess, like the mosquito, a beautiful instrument of suction — Founders’ Shares — with which you absorb the surplus wealth of the community. In my smaller way, again, I relieve you in turn of a portion of the plunder. I am a Robin Hood of my age; and, looking upon you as an exceptionally bad form of millionaire — as well as an exceptionally easy form of pigeon for a man of my type and talents to pluck — I have, so to speak, taken up my abode upon you.”
Charles looked at him and groaned.
The young man continued, in a tone of gentle badinage. “I love the plot-interest of the game,” he said, “and so does dear Jessie here. We both of us adore it. As long as I find such good pickings upon you, I certainly am not going to turn away from so valuable a carcass, in order to batten myself, at considerable trouble, upon minor capitalists, out of whom it is difficult to extract a few hundreds. It may have puzzled you to guess why I fix upon you so persistently. Now you know, and understand. When a fluke finds a sheep that suits him, that fluke lives upon him. You are my host: I am your parasite. This coup has failed. But don’t flatter yourself for a moment it will be the last one.”
“Why do you insult me by telling me all this?” Sir Charles cried, writhing.
The Colonel waved his hand. It was small and white. “Because I love the game,” he answered, with a relish; “and also, because the more prepared you are beforehand, the greater credit and amusement is there in besting you. Well, now, ta-ta once more! I am wasting valuable time. I might be cheating somebody. I must be off at once.... Take care of yourself, Wentworth. But I know you will. You always do. Ten per cent is more usual!”
He rowed away and left us. As the boat began to disappear round the corner of the island, White Heather — so she looked — stood up in the stern and shouted aloud through her pretty hands to us. “By-bye, dear Sir Charles!” she cried. “Do wrap the rug around you! I’ll send the men to fetch you as soon as ever I possibly can. And thank you so much for those lovely flowers!”
The boat rounded the crags. We were alone on the island. Charles flung himself on the bare rock in a wild access of despondency. He is accustomed to luxury, and cannot get on without his padded cushions. As for myself, I climbed with some difficulty to the top of the cliff, landward, and tried to make signals of distress with my handkerchief to some passer-by on the mainland. All in vain. Charles had dismissed the crofters on the estate; and, as the shooting-party that day was in an opposite direction, not a soul was near to whom we could call for succour.
I climbed down again to Charles. The evening came on slowly. Cries of sea-birds rang weird upon the water. Puffins and cormorants circled round our heads in the gray of twilight. Charles suggested that they might even swoop down upon us and bite us. They did not, however, but their flapping wings added none the less a painful touch of eeriness to our hunger and solitude. Charles was horribly depressed. For myself, I will confess I felt so much relieved at the fact that Colonel Clay had not openly betrayed me in the matter of the commission, as to be comparatively comfortable.
We crouched on the hard crag. About eleven o’clock we heard human voices. “Boat ahoy!” I shouted. An answering shout aroused us to action. We rushed down to the landing-place and cooee’d for the men, to show them where we were. They came up at once in Sir Charles’s own boat. They were fishermen from Niggarey, on the shore of the Firth opposite.
A lady and gentleman had sent them, they said, to return the boat and call for us on the island; their description corresponded to the two supposed Grantons. They rowed us home almost in silence to Seldon. It was half-past twelve by the gatehouse clock when we reached the castle. Men had been sent along the coast each way to seek us. Amelia had gone to bed, much alarmed for our safety. Isabel was sitting up. It was too late, of course, to do much that night in the way of apprehending the miscreants, though Charles insisted upon dispatching a groom, with a telegram for the police at Inverness, to Fowlis.
Nothing came of it all. A message awaited us from Lord Craig-Ellachie, to be sure, saying that his son had not left Glen-Ellachie Lodge; while research the next day and later showed that our correspondent had never even received our letter. An empty envelope alone had arrived at the house, and the postal authorities had been engaged meanwhile, with their usual lightning speed, in “investigating the matter.” Césarine had posted the letter herself at Fowlis, and brought back the receipt; so the only conclusion we could draw was this — Colonel Clay must be in league with somebody at the post-office. As for Lord Craig-Ellachie’s reply, that was a simple forgery; though, oddly enough, it was written on Glen-Ellachie paper.
However, by the time Charles had eaten a couple of grouse, and drunk a bottle of his excellent Rudesheimer, his spirits and valour revived exceedingly. Doubtless he inherits from his Boer ancestry a tendency towards courage of the Batavian description. He was in capital feather.
“After all, Sey,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “this time we score one. He has not done us brown; we have at least detected him. To detect him in time is half-way to catching him. Only the remoteness of our position at Seldon Castle saved him from capture. Next set-to, I feel sure, we will not merely spot him, we will also nab him. I only wish he would try on such a rig in London.”
But the oddest part of it all was this, that from the moment those two people landed at Niggarey, and told the fishermen there were some gentlemen stranded on the Seamew’s island, all trace of them vanished. At no station along the line could we gain any news of them. Their maid had left the inn the same morning with their luggage, and we tracked her to Inverness; but there the trail stopped short, no spoor lay farther. It was a most singular and insoluble mystery.
Charles lived in hopes of catching his man in London.
B
ut for my part, I felt there was a show of reason in one last taunt which the rascal flung back at us as the boat receded: “Sir Charles Vandrift, we are a pair of rogues. The law protects you. It persecutes me. That’s all the difference.”
THE EPISODE OF THE GERMAN PROFESSOR
That winter in town my respected brother-in-law had little time on his hands to bother himself about trifles like Colonel Clay. A thunderclap burst upon him. He saw his chief interest in South Africa threatened by a serious, an unexpected, and a crushing danger.
Charles does a little in gold, and a little in land; but his principal operations have always lain in the direction of diamonds. Only once in my life, indeed, have I seen him pay the slightest attention to poetry, and that was when I happened one day to recite the lines: —
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
He rubbed his hands at once and murmured enthusiastically, “I never thought of that. We might get up an Atlantic Exploration Syndicate, Limited.” So attached is he to diamonds. You may gather, therefore, what a shock it was to that gigantic brain to learn that science was rapidly reaching a point where his favourite gems might become all at once a mere drug in the market. Depreciation is the one bugbear that perpetually torments Sir Charles’s soul; that winter he stood within measurable distance of so appalling a calamity.
It happened after this manner.
We were strolling along Piccadilly towards Charles’s club one afternoon — he is a prominent member of the Croesus, in Pall Mall — when, near Burlington House, whom should we happen to knock up against but Sir Adolphus Cordery, the famous mineralogist, and leading spirit of the Royal Society! He nodded to us pleasantly. “Halloa, Vandrift,” he cried, in his peculiarly loud and piercing voice; “you’re the very man I wanted to meet to-day. Good morning, Wentworth. Well, how about diamonds now, Sir Gorgius? You’ll have to sing small. It’s all up with you Midases. Heard about this marvellous new discovery of Schleiermacher’s? It’s calculated to make you diamond kings squirm like an eel in a frying-pan.”
I could see Charles wriggle inside his clothes. He was most uncomfortable. That a man like Cordery should say such things, in so loud a voice, on no matter how little foundation, openly in Piccadilly, was enough in itself to make a sensitive barometer such as Cloetedorp Golcondas go down a point or two.
“Hush, hush!” Charles said solemnly, in that awed tone of voice which he always assumes when Money is blasphemed against. “Please don’t talk quite so loud! All London can hear you.”
Sir Adolphus ran his arm through Charles’s most amicably. There’s nothing Charles hates like having his arm taken.
“Come along with me to the Athenæum,” he went on, in the same stentorian voice, “and I’ll tell you all about it. Most interesting discovery. Makes diamonds cheap as dirt. Calculated to supersede South Africa altogether.”
Charles allowed himself to be dragged along. There was nothing else possible. Sir Adolphus continued, in a somewhat lower key, induced upon him by Charles’s mute look of protest. It was a disquieting story. He told it with gleeful unction. It seems that Professor Schleiermacher, of Jena, “the greatest living authority on the chemistry of gems,” he said, had lately invented, or claimed to have invented, a system for artificially producing diamonds, which had yielded most surprising and unexceptionable results.
Charles’s lip curled slightly. “Oh, I know the sort of thing,” he said. “I’ve heard of it before. Very inferior stones, quite small and worthless, produced at immense cost, and even then not worth looking at. I’m an old bird, you know, Cordery; not to be caught with chaff. Tell me a better one!”
Sir Adolphus produced a small cut gem from his pocket. “How’s that for the first water?” he inquired, passing it across, with a broad smile, to the sceptic. “Made under my own eyes — and quite inexpensively!”
Charles examined it close, stopping short against the railings in St. James’s Square to look at it with his pocket-lens. There was no denying the truth. It was a capital small gem of the finest quality.
“Made under your own eyes?” he exclaimed, still incredulous. “Where, my dear sir? — at Jena?”
The answer was a thunderbolt from a blue sky. “No, here in London; last night as ever was; before myself and Dr. Gray; and about to be exhibited by the President himself at a meeting of Fellows of the Royal Society.”
Charles drew a long breath. “This nonsense must be stopped,” he said firmly— “it must be nipped in the bud. It won’t do, my dear friend; we can’t have such tampering with important Interests.”
“How do you mean?” Cordery asked, astonished.
Charles gazed at him steadily. I could see by the furtive gleam in my brother-in-law’s eye he was distinctly frightened. “Where is the fellow?” he asked. “Did he come himself, or send over a deputy?”
“Here in London,” Sir Adolphus replied. “He’s staying at my house; and he says he’ll be glad to show his experiments to anybody scientifically interested in diamonds. We propose to have a demonstration of the process to-night at Lancaster Gate. Will you drop in and see it?”
Would he “drop in” and see it? “Drop in” at such a function! Could he possibly stop away? Charles clutched the enemy’s arm with a nervous grip. “Look here, Cordery,” he said, quivering; “this is a question affecting very important Interests. Don’t do anything rash. Don’t do anything foolish. Remember that Shares may rise or fall on this.” He said “Shares” in a tone of profound respect that I can hardly even indicate. It was the crucial word in the creed of his religion.
“I should think it very probable,” Sir Adolphus replied, with the callous indifference of the mere man of science to financial suffering.
Sir Charles was bland, but peremptory. “Now, observe,” he said, “a grave responsibility rests on your shoulders. The Market depends upon you. You must not ask in any number of outsiders to witness these experiments. Have a few mineralogists and experts, if you like; but also take care to invite representatives of the menaced Interests. I will come myself — I’m engaged to dine out, but I can contract an indisposition; and I should advise you to ask Mosenheimer, and, say, young Phipson. They would stand for the mines, as you and the mineralogists would stand for science. Above all, don’t blab; for Heaven’s sake, let there be no premature gossip. Tell Schleiermacher not to go gassing and boasting of his success all over London.”
“We are keeping the matter a profound secret, at Schleiermacher’s own request,” Cordery answered, more seriously.
“Which is why,” Charles said, in his severest tone, “you bawled it out at the very top of your voice in Piccadilly!”
However, before nightfall, everything was arranged to Charles’s satisfaction; and off we went to Lancaster Gate, with a profound expectation that the German professor would do nothing worth seeing.
He was a remarkable-looking man, once tall, I should say, from his long, thin build, but now bowed and bent with long devotion to study and leaning over a crucible. His hair, prematurely white, hung down upon his forehead, but his eye was keen and his mouth sagacious. He shook hands cordially with the men of science, whom he seemed to know of old, whilst he bowed somewhat distantly to the South African interest. Then he began to talk, in very German-English, helping out the sense now and again, where his vocabulary failed him, by waving his rather dirty and chemical-stained hands demonstratively about him. His nails were a sight, but his fingers, I must say, had the delicate shape of a man’s accustomed to minute manipulation. He plunged at once into the thick of the matter, telling us briefly in his equally thick accent that he “now brobosed by his new brocess to make for us some goot and sadisfactory tiamonds.”
He brought out his apparatus, and explained — or, as he said, “eggsblained” — his novel method. “Tiamonds,” he said, “were nozzing but pure crystalline carbon.” He knew how to crystallise it— “zat was all ze secret.” The men of science examined the pots a
nd pans carefully. Then he put in a certain number of raw materials, and went to work with ostentatious openness. There were three distinct processes, and he made two stones by each simultaneously. The remarkable part of his methods, he said, was their rapidity and their cheapness. In three-quarters of an hour (and he smiled sardonically) he could produce a diamond worth at current prices two hundred pounds sterling. “As you shall now see me berform,” he remarked, “viz zis simple abbaradus.”
The materials fizzed and fumed. The Professor stirred them. An unpleasant smell like burnt feathers pervaded the room. The scientific men craned their necks in their eagerness, and looked over one another; Vane-Vivian, in particular, was all attention. After three-quarters of an hour, the Professor, still smiling, began to empty the apparatus. He removed a large quantity of dust or powder, which he succinctly described as “by-broducts,” and then took between finger and thumb from the midst of each pan a small white pebble, not water-worn apparently, but slightly rough and wart-like on the surface.
From one pair of the pannikins he produced two such stones, and held them up before us triumphantly. “Zese,” he said, “are genuine tiamonds, manufactured at a gost of fourteen shillings and siggspence abiece!” Then he tried the second pair. “Zese,” he said, still more gleefully, “are broduced at a gost of eleffen and ninebence!” Finally, he came to the third pair, which he positively brandished before our astonished eyes. “And zese,” he cried, transported, “haff gost me no more zan tree and eightbence!”
They were handed round for inspection. Rough and uncut as they stood, it was, of course, impossible to judge of their value. But one thing was certain. The men of science had been watching close at the first, and were sure Herr Schleiermacher had not put the stones in; they were keen at the withdrawal, and were equally sure he had taken them honestly out of the pannikins.
“I vill now disdribute zem,” the Professor remarked in a casual tone, as if diamonds were peas, looking round at the company. And he singled out my brother-in-law. “One to Sir Charles!” he said, handing it; “one to Mr. Mosenheimer; one to Mr. Phibson — as representing the tiamond interest. Zen, one each to Sir Atolphus, to Dr. Gray, to Mr. Fane-Fiffian, as representing science. You will haff zem cut and rebort upon zem in due gourse. We meet again at zis blace ze day afder do-morrow.”