X A Payment on Account
I
“Excuse me, but could you give me some idea as to where I am? I have a shrewd notion that it’s Devonshire, but——”
The speaker, holding a dilapidated cap in his hand, broke off as the girl sat up and looked at him. He was a dishevelled-looking object, covered with dust, and—romance may be great, but truth is greater—it was only too obvious to the girl that he was very hot. Perspiration ran in trickles down his face, ploughing dark furrows through the thick stratum of road dust which otherwise obscured his features. His collar was open, his sleeves rolled back from his wrists, and on his back was strapped a small knapsack. An unlit pipe, which he had removed from his mouth on speaking to her, in one hand, and a long walking-stick in the other, completed the picture.
“You don’t look as if you’d been flying,” she remarked, dispassionately. “It’s Devonshire all right.”
“That’s a relief.” She had a fleeting glimpse of a flash of white teeth as he smiled. “I had an idea it might be Kent. Or even farther. Have you ever been on a walking tour?”
“That’s what you’re doing, is it?”
“You know,” remarked the man, “I think even Watson would regard you with scorn. And our one and only Sherlock would burst into tears.” He leaned over the railings and commenced to fill his pipe. The little garden in which the girl was sitting seemed delightfully cool and shady; the girl herself, in her muslin frock, looking at him with an amused twinkle in her eyes seemed almost too good to be true. After that interminable road, with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky. With a sigh of relief he passed the back of his hand across his forehead, and the girl laughed.
“I wouldn’t do it by bits if I were you. It makes you look rather like a zebra.”
“Don’t mock at me,” he implored, “or I shall burst into tears. It’s the very first time I’ve ever done anything of this sort, I promise you. I will go farther. It’s the very last as well.”
“But if you don’t like walking—why walk?”
“How like a woman!” He fumbled in his pocket for a box of matches and lit his pipe. “How exactly like! Have you never felt an irresistible temptation to do something wild and desperate? Something which is painted in glowing colours by some scoundrel, who revenges himself on humanity by foully inducing innocent people to follow his advice?”
“I once tried keeping bees,” she murmured, thoughtfully.
“There you are!” exclaimed the man, triumphantly. “You see you are in no position to point the finger of scorn at me. You were led away by fictitious rubbish on the bee as a household pet. You expected honey: you obtained stings. I was likewise led away, by a scoundrel who wrote on the delights of walking. He especially roused my expectation by the number of times he threw himself down on the soft, sweet-smelling turf while the gentle wind played round his temples and the lazy beat of the breakers came from the distant Atlantic. I tried that exercise the very first day. Net result. I landed on a thistle and winded myself.”
She gurgled gently. “At any rate, I’ll bet he told you that you ought to come with a map.”
“Wrong again. He especially stipulated that you should have no set route. Just walk and walk; and then, I suppose, when a kindly death intervenes, your relatives can’t find you, and your funeral expenses fall on the parish in which you expire.”
He straightened up as the door of the house opened and a charming, grey-haired woman came slowly down the path. She glanced at him quickly—a courteous but shrewd look; then she looked at the girl.
“Sheila, dear, who——?”
“A gentleman on a walking tour, mother, who has lost his way.”
“You’re not far from Umberleigh,” said the elder woman. “Where are you making for?”
“Nowhere in particular, as I’ve been explaining to your daughter, madam,” smiled the man. “Finally, however, I shall take the train and arrive in London and slaughter the man who wrote the article which appeared in the paper.”
“Sounds like the house that Jack built,” laughed the girl. “Anyway, you’d better stop to lunch.”
The man glanced at her mother, who seconded the invitation with a gracious smile.
“My name is Hewson,” he remarked. “Charles Hewson.” He glanced at them as he spoke, and gave a little sigh of relief: evidently the name meant nothing to them. “And I don’t always look like a zebra.”
He followed them slowly up the shady path, and the girl laughed again.
“Doesn’t matter what you look like,” she cried, “as long as you know something about postage-stamps.”
“Do you collect?” he asked.
“No—but daddy does. He’s partially insane on the subject.”
“Sheila!” reproved her mother.
“Well, he is, darling, you know. You always say so yourself.”
For a moment the elder woman’s eyes met the man’s over the girl’s head. And in that momentary glance the whole story of the house and its inmates seemed to stand revealed. The perfect love and happiness that breathed through the place; the certainty that it was the girl who was really the head of the little kingdom, with a sweet mother and an unpractical father as her adoring subjects; the glorious unworldliness of his surroundings struck the man like a blow. The contrast was so wonderful—the contrast to his own life. If only—— Unconsciously his glance rested on the slim figure in the muslin frock. If only—— Why not?
“I beg your pardon.” He turned apologetically to the mother.
“I only said that our name was Crossley, Mr. Hewson. And I wondered if you would care to have a bath.”
Charles Hewson looked at her gravely. “Are you always so charming, Mrs. Crossley, to the stranger within your gates? Especially when he’s a dirty-looking tramp like me.” Then he smiled quickly; it was a trick of his, that sudden, fleeting smile. “I can think of nothing I’d like more than a bath, if I might so far trespass on your hospitality.”
II
Lunch confirmed his diagnosis of the Crossley household. The girl’s father fitted in exactly with his mental picture; an utterly lovable, white-haired man of about sixty, and as unsophisticated as a child. Time, and the stress of things worldly, seemed to have passed over the little house near Umberleigh, leaving it untouched and scathless. And once again the contrast struck him, and he wondered, just a little bitterly, whether after all it was worth it. The instant decisions, the constant struggle, the ceaseless strain of his life—and then, this. Country cousins, vegetating in obscurity. It struck Charles Hewson that he wouldn’t object to being a vegetable for a while. He was tired, and he realized it for the first time. The last year had tried even him.
It was a sudden impulse that made him suggest it, just as luncheon was over.
“Is there a decent inn here, Mrs. Crossley, where I could put up for a bit? I’ve fallen in love with this place, and I want a rest.”
“You look tired,” she answered, kindly. “And this is a wonderful place for a rest cure. But I’m afraid the inn is a long way off. If you care to”—she paused for a moment—“we could put you up for a few days.”
“I think you’re the kindest people I’ve ever met,” said Hewson, and for a moment his eyes ceased to look tired. “And I warn you I’m not going to give you the chance of reconsidering your offer.”
“You’ll find it very dull,” warned the girl.
He laughed as he rose from the table. “I’m open to a small bet that you’ll have to drive me away. I shall become a fixture about the house.”
He followed them into the low, old-fashioned hall, and stood for a while drinking in the homeliness of it all. That was what it was—homely; and in London Charles Hewson lived in rooms and fed at his club or a restaurant.
“I don’t know if you’re any judge of pewter, Mr. Hewson,” said his host, “but we’ve got some nice bits here and in my study.”
“One step from that to postage-stamps,” laughed the girl. “You’ve got to come and do a job of work in the garden later, Mr. Hewson, don’t forget. I’ll come and rescue you in half an hour or so.”
He watched her go upstairs, then with a little sigh of pure joy he followed the old man into his study.
“Are you interested in philately, by any chance?” inquired Mr. Crossley, eagerly.
Hewson shook his head. “I’m afraid I know nothing about it,” he answered. “I was once commissioned by a young nephew to send him all the stamps I could find which had pretty pictures on them. You know, harbours, and mountains, and elephants. I found them in all sorts of outlandish places when I was going round the world.” He gave one of his quick smiles. “But I’m afraid that is the extent of my knowledge.”
“The schoolboy collection.” The other waved a tolerant hand. “Now I’m sure that that would have bored him.”
With reverent hands he lifted a card and handed it to Hewson. “Look at that, sir; look at that. The complete set of New Brunswick—the first issue, unused.”
Hewson gazed dispassionately at ten somewhat blotchy pieces of paper, and refrained from heretical utterance. To his Philistine eye the set he had bought in Samoa or elsewhere depicting jaguars and toucans were infinitely more pleasing.
“Valuable, I suppose?” he hazarded.
The other waved a deprecating hand. “Several hundred—if I chose to sell. Mercifully,” he went on after a little pause, “it wasn’t necessary.”
For a second Hewson’s shrewd eyes were fixed on him; then he resumed his study of the rarities. Money trouble, was there?
“Now this was unique—this set.” His host was looking regretfully at another card. “Mauritius. And then I had to dispose of the penny orange-red. Worth the better part of a thousand pounds alone.” He laid down the card. “Oh! I do hope I shall be able to get it back. I sold it to a dealer in the Strand, and I told him at the time that I should want to buy it back again. That was a month ago, and I thought I should have been able to by now.”
Once again Hewson’s keen eyes were fixed on the other.
“Expecting a legacy?” he remarked, casually.
“A legacy! Oh! no!” The old man smiled. “But I had a very wonderful chance, given me by an acquaintance, of doubling my small capital.” For a moment Hewson stopped smoking: chances of doubling capital are not handed round as a rule by acquaintances. “And I seem to have done it,” continued Mr. Crossley, rubbing his hands together. “I seem to have turned my five thousand pounds into ten. In a month. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Very,” commented the other. “Have you got the money?”
“No: that’s what I can’t understand. I suppose it must be something to do with settling day—or whatever they call it.” He beamed at his listener. “I’m afraid I’m very ignorant on these matters, Mr. Hewson, but it seems almost too good to be true. I wanted the extra money so much—to give my little girl a better time. It’s dull for her here, though she never complains. And if only I could get it now, I could buy back that penny Mauritius, and invest the other nine thousand.” In his excitement he walked up and down the room, while his listener stared fixedly at a number of blotchy pieces of paper on a card. “Do you know anything about stocks and shares, Mr. Hewson?”
“Quite a lot,” said Hewson. “In my er—small way, I dabble in them.”
“Ah! then perhaps you can tell me when I can expect the money.” Mr. Crossley sat down at his desk, and opened a drawer. “It was a month ago that I paid five thousand pounds for shares in the Rio Lopez Mine.”
“In the what?” Hewson almost shouted.
“The Rio Lopez Mine,” repeated the other. “You’ve heard of it, of course. The shares were standing, so my friend told me, at two pounds, so I got two thousand five hundred shares. Now, yesterday I happened to buy the Times, and I looked up the Stock Exchange quotations. You can judge of my delight, Mr. Hewson, when I actually saw that the shares were standing at four pounds three shillings.”
“Rio Lopez four pounds!” said Hewson, dazedly. “May I see the paper?”
He took it and glanced at the Supplementary List.
“MINES—MISCELLANEOUS.
“Rio Lopez Deep—4/3.”
The old man was still talking gaily on, but Hewson hardly heard what he said. From outside the lazy hum of a summer afternoon came softly through the open window, and after a while he laid down the paper and commenced to refill his pipe. Such colossal innocence almost staggered him. That there could be anybody in the world who did not know that the figures meant four shillings and threepence, left him bereft of speech. And then his feeling of amazement gave way to one of bitter anger against the scoundrel who had unloaded a block of shares in a wild-cat mine, at the top of an extremely shady boom, on such a man as Mr. Crossley.
“Well, when do you think I may expect the money?” The question roused him from his reverie.
“It’s hard to say, Mr. Crossley,” remarked Hewson, deliberately. “Different firms have different arrangements, you know.”
“Of course—of course. I’m such a baby in these things. But I do want to get my penny Mauritius back before it’s sold.”
Hewson bent forward suddenly, ostensibly to examine his pipe. For the first time for many years he found a difficulty in speaking; there had been no room for sentiment in his career. Then he straightened up.
“I quite understand, Mr. Crossley,” he said, slowly. “And perhaps the best thing to do would be to put the matter in my hands. It has occurred to me since lunch that I’ve really got no clothes at all here. And so I thought I’d run up to Town and get a few and then return. While I’m up there I could look into things for you.”
“But I really couldn’t worry you, Mr. Hewson,” protested the other.
“No worry at all. It’s my work. I shall charge you commission.” Hewson was lighting his pipe. “You have the certificate, I suppose.”
“I’ve this paper,” answered Mr. Crossley. “Is that what you mean?”
“That’s it. Will you trust it to me? I can give you any reference you like, if you care to come with me as far as Barnstaple. They know me at the bank. I shall have to join the main line there.”
“Well, perhaps——” The old man paused doubtfully. “You see, Mr. Ferguson told me to keep this most carefully.”
“Was Mr. Ferguson the man who sold you the shares?”
“Yes. Mr. Arthur Ferguson, of 20, Plumpton Street, in the City. He was stopping down here for a few days, and he dined with us once or twice.”
Hewson rose abruptly and went to the window. He had not the pleasure of Mr. Arthur Ferguson’s acquaintance, but he was already tasting die pleasures of his first—and last—interview with that engaging gentleman. Dined—had he?
“Will you come over with me to Barnstaple this afternoon?”
“Good heavens, daddy!” came a voice from outside. “What are you going to Barnstaple for? You know this heat will upset you.”
Hewson swung round as the girl came in from the garden. She was wearing a floppy sun-bonnet, and it suddenly struck him that she was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen. No wonder the old chap had tried to get a bit more money with the idea of giving her a good time.
“I’ve got to go up to London, Miss Crossley——” was it his imagination, or did her face fall a little?—“to get some more clothes. And there’s a little matter of business I’m going to attend to for your father. The point is that he doesn’t know me—none of you know me. And in the hard-headed, suspicious world in which I live, before you entrust a valuable document to another man you want to know something about him. Now, the bank manager at Barnstaple does know me, and I suggested that your father should come over and see him.”
“It sounds very mysterious,” laughed the girl. “But all I know is that if daddy goes to Barnstaple in this heat, he’ll have the most awful head. Suppose—” she paused doubtfully—“suppose I came? Daddy could give me the document, and then when I’d seen the bank manager I could give it to you.”
Hewson turned away to hide the too obvious delight he felt at the suggestion, and glanced inquiringly at his host.
“Perhaps that would be the best solution, Mr. Crossley,” he murmured. “If it isn’t troubling your daughter too much.”
The old man chuckled. “If she only knew what it was for, she wouldn’t mind the trouble. It’s a secret, don’t forget, Mr. Hewson. Now, girlie, take that envelope, and when the bank manager has told you that our kind friend here isn’t a burglar, or an escaped convict”—he chuckled again—“give it to him to take to London. But you’re not to look inside.”
She kissed him lightly, and turned to Hewson.
“We can just catch the local train,” she said, a trifle abruptly. “We’ll go through the short cut.”
She was silent during the walk to the station, and it was not until they were in the train that she looked at him steadily and spoke.
“What is this mystery, Mr. Hewson?”
“I think your father said it was a secret, didn’t he?” he answered, lightly.
“Is it something to do with money?”
“It is.”
She stared out of the window: then impulsively she laid a hand on his arm.
“He’s such a darling,” she burst out, “but he’s so innocent. He doesn’t know anything about money or the world.”
“Do you?” asked Hewson, gently.
“That doesn’t matter. A girl needn’t. But I know he’s just mad to get more money—not for himself—but for me. He wants to give me a good time—like other girls, he says.” She paused a moment, and frowned. “There was a man here—a few weeks ago—and daddy met him. He came to dinner. I didn’t trust him, Mr. Hewson; there was something—oh! I don’t know. I suppose I’m very ignorant myself. But I’m certain that he persuaded daddy to do something with his money. He was always going to the bank, and sending registered letters, after the man left. And he’s been worried ever since—until yesterday—when he recovered all his old spirits.”
The train was already running into Barnstaple—the quickest journey that Charles Hewson had ever made in his life.
“I don’t think,” he said, gravely, “that I shall be letting out the secret if I tell you that my visit to London concerns that man, and some money he invested for your father. There’s a little delay in the business—and I’m going to see about it.”
They walked out of the station towards the bank, the girl clasping the precious envelope tightly.
“I want to see the manager,” said Hewson to the cashier. “Hewson is my name.”
With astonishing alacrity the manager appeared from his office.
“Come in, Mr. Hewson—come in.” He stepped aside as the girl, followed by Hewson, entered his sanctum.
“I am doing some business for Mr. Crossley, of Umberleigh,” said Hewson, quietly. “This is his daughter, Miss Crossley. It concerns some shares—the certificate of which I propose to take to London with me. Would you be good enough to assure Miss Crossley that I am a fit and proper person to be entrusted with such a matter? I happen to be a stranger to them.”
The manager’s face had changed through various stages of bewilderment while Hewson was speaking, but he was saved the necessity of an immediate answer by the girl. Charles Hewson—the Charles Hewson—coming to him to be vouched for!
“This is the paper.” The girl handed it over to him, and a little dazedly he took the certificate from the envelope.
“A very admirable security,” said Hewson, deliberately, “bought by Mr. Crossley a month ago.”
“Very admirable!” spluttered the manager, only to relapse into silence under the penetrating stare of Hewson’s eye.
“And if you will just vouch for me to Miss Crossley, I don’t think we need detain you further.”
“With pleasure.” Matters were completely beyond him: but, at any rate, he could do that. “You can place things in Mr. Hewson’s hands with absolute confidence, Miss Crossley.”
“Thank you,” said the girl, and they all rose. He opened the door and she passed into the bank. For one moment the two men were alone, and Hewson seized the manager by the arm.
“Not a word,” he whispered. “They don’t know who I am. Father been swindled by some swine in London.”
Nodding portentously, the worthy manager followed them to the door. Assuredly one of the most remarkable episodes that had come his way, during thirty years’ experience. Rio Lopez! Two thousand five hundred of them! And he was still staring dazedly at a placard extolling Exchequer Bonds, which adorned his office wall, when the London train steamed slowly out of the station. Its departure had been to the casual eye quite normal: but the casual eye is, as its name implies, casual. The departure had been far from normal.
It was just as the guard was waving his flag that a man, leaning our of the window of a first-class carriage, spoke to a girl standing on the platform.
“You say you didn’t trust the man, Miss Crossley. Do you—trust me?”
“Naturally,” she answered demurely, “after what the bank manager said.”
“It rests on the bank manager, does it?”
She blushed faintly. “No, Mr. Hewson, it doesn’t. One doesn’t need a bank manager to confirm—a certainty.”
And then the fool engine-driver had started his beastly machine. But to call it a normal departure is obviously absurd.
III
“Good-morning. Mr. Ferguson, I believe?”.
Hewson entered the office at 20, Plumpton Street, and bowed slightly to the man at the desk. As he had expected, the type was a common one—one, incidentally, with which he had had a good deal to do himself. Mr. Arthur Ferguson could be placed at once in the category of men who consider that in business everything is fair, and that if they can get the better of another man the funeral is his. And as an outlook on life there is nothing much to be said against it, provided the other man is of the same kidney.
“Yes.” Ferguson indicated a chair. “What can I do for you, Mr.——” He paused, interrogatively.
“I have come to have a short talk with you on a little matter of business.” Hewson took the proffered chair, while Ferguson glanced at him covertly. Who the deuce was the fellow? His face seemed vaguely familiar.
“Delighted!” he murmured. “Have a cigar?”
“Thank you—no. I have just come from Umberleigh, in Devonshire, Mr. Ferguson.”
A barely perceptible change passed over the other’s face.
“Indeed,” he said, easily. “I was there myself a little while ago.”
“So I understood,” remarked Hewson. “A Mr. Crossley told me that you had been good enough to sell him some shares while you were there—a packet of Rio Lopez, to be exact.”
“I did,” answered Ferguson. “Though I hardly see what concern it is of yours.”
“All in good time,” said Hewson, taking the certificate from his pocket. “Two thousand five hundred, I see, when they were standing at two pounds. And to-day they’re a shade over four shillings—to-morrow, quite possibly, sixpence.”
“Everything is down,” remarked Ferguson with a wave of his hand. “Sorry for Mr. Crossley.”
“So am I,” said the other. “It seems hard luck on an innocent old man like that to be left to carry the baby. He apparently placed such reliance on your judgment, Mr. Ferguson. Moreover, I gather you dined with him two or three times.”
“Well, what if I did?” He leaned back in his chair impatiently. “Might I suggest that time is money to some of us, and that I’m rather busy this morning? I’d be obliged if you’d get to the point.”
“Certainly,” said Hewson, quietly. “I have a nice little bunch of two thousand five hundred Rio Lopez which I shall be delighted to sell you, on behalf of Mr. Crossley—at two pounds a share.”
For a moment or two Mr. Ferguson seemed to have difficulty in breathing.
“Buy Rio Lopez at two!” he gasped. “Are you insane?”
“Not at all,” murmured Hewson, lighting a cigarette. “That is my offer.”
“Good-morning,” laughed the other. “You know the way out, don’t you? And another time, my dear sir, you’d better learn a little more about the ways of finance before you waste your own and other people’s time coming up from the wilds of Devon.” He pulled a paper towards him and picked up his pen. It struck him as one of the richest things he’d ever heard—a jest altogether after his own heart. And it was just as the full beauty of it was sinking in, that his eye caught the card which his visitor had pushed along the writing-desk.
“Mr. Charles Hewson.” Blinking slightly he stared at it, then he put down his pen. “Mr. Charles Hewson.”
“You may know the name, Mr. Ferguson,” remarked the other, quietly. “And I can assure you that your solicitude for my knowledge of finance touches me deeply.”
“But, I don’t understand, Mr. Hewson. I had no idea who you were, but now that I do know it makes your suggestion even more amazing.”
“In an ordinary way of business, certainly,” agreed Hewson. “This is not quite ordinary. Without mincing words, I consider that you played Mr. Crossley an extremely dirty trick—considering that he’d opened his house to you, and was quite obviously as ignorant of business as a child. Why—the poor old chap saw the price in the paper the other day and thought they were standing at four pounds three shillings.” He was staring at Ferguson with level eyes as he spoke. “I give you the chance of returning him the money he gave to you. If you do—the matter is ended. If you don’t—I shall pay it myself. But—and this is the point, Mr. Ferguson, which you had better consider—if I pay that money, I shall recover it from you. Is it worth your while to have me for an enemy? As surely as I’m sitting here, by the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll not have lost five thousand—you’ll have lost fifty.”
“It wouldn’t be worth your while,” blustered Ferguson, though the hand which held his cigar shook a little.
“Worth is a comparative term,” said Hewson, calmly. “Financially, I agree: you’re not big enough to worry over. But it will afford me great pleasure and amusement, Mr. Ferguson—and from that point of view it will be worth while.” He took out his watch. “I’ll give you two minutes to decide.”
He got up and strolled round the room, glancing every now and then at the man sitting at the desk. In advance, he knew the answer: any man in Ferguson’s place would think twice and then again before he deliberately took up such a challenge. And quite accurately he read the thoughts that were passing in the other’s mind. Dare he gamble on the possibility of Hewson—as time went by—forgetting his threat, and letting the thing drop? That was the crux. It was an insignificant amount to a man like Hewson, but—was it the money that was at the bottom of it? While a man in Hewson’s position might well forget five thousand pounds, there might be some other factor which would not slip his mind. It suddenly occurred to Mr. Arthur Ferguson that there was a singularly attractive girl in the Crossley household. And if she was the driving factor... One thing was perfectly certain; he would willingly pay five thousand to escape a relentless vendetta with Charles Hewson as his enemy. It was no idle threat on the latter’s part: if he chose to he could ruin him.
“Well?” With a snap Hewson closed his watch. “What is it to be?”
By way of answer Ferguson took out his cheque-book.
“Good. Make your cheque payable to Mr. Crossley, and make it for ten thousand. I will give you a cheque for five. You can notify the company as to the transfer.”
He drew his own cheque-book from his pocket.
“And another time, Mr. Ferguson, leave the Crossleys of this world alone. Good-morning.”
Mr. Arthur Ferguson was still staring dully out of the window when Charles Hewson entered a stamp shop in the Strand in search of a penny Mauritius.
IV
“I can hardly believe it. In just over a month. And the stamp as well. Mr. Hewson—I can never thank you sufficiently.”
Back in the sunny study at Umberleigh, Mr. Crossley stared dazedly—first at his precious stamp, then at the cheque.
“Ten thousand pounds! I must write him a letter and thank him.”
“I’m sure Mr. Ferguson would like that,” murmured Hewson. “But if I may give you a word of advice, Mr. Crossley, I wouldn’t try a gamble like that again. Mines are precarious things—very precarious.”
“You mean, I might have lost my money?” said the old man, nervously.
“Such things have been known to happen,” said Hewson, gravely. “By the way, is your daughter not at home?”
“She has gone over to Barnstaple with her mother. I’m expecting them back at any moment. Won’t they be delighted?” He chuckled gleefully, and produced the precious card containing the Mauritius set. And with a quiet smile on his face Charles Hewson watched him from the depths of an arm-chair. What a child he was: what a charming, lovable child!
“There: the complete set again.” In triumph he held up the card for Hewson’s inspection, and at that moment Mrs. Crossley and the girl came through the window.
The good news poured out in a torrent, while Hewson stood almost forgotten in the background.
Ten thousand pounds—two thousand five hundred shares—capital doubled in a month—and the stamp. The old man brandished the cheque in his excitement, and, at length, Mrs. Crossley turned to Hewson with a smile.
“We seem to have entertained an angel unawares,” and her eyes were a little misty. “Thank you, Mr. Hewson.”
“No need to thank me, Mrs. Crossley,” he laughed. “These things just happen.”
He glanced at the girl, who had so far said nothing. She was staring at him steadily, and there was no answering smile on her face.
“Did you say two thousand five hundred shares, daddy?” Her voice was quite expressionless, as she turned to her father.
“That’s it, little girl,” he cried. “Sold at over four pounds a share. Now you’ll be able to have some more frocks!”
He kissed her lovingly, and followed his wife from the room, still chuckling and rubbing his hands together.
“Would you explain, please, Mr. Hewson?” said the girl, in a flat, dead voice as the door closed.
“Explain, Miss Crossley! How do you mean? Your father acquired some shares a little while ago—two thousand five hundred, as he told you—which have just been sold at rather over four pounds a share. Hence the stamp—and a cheque for ten thousand.”
“I went into the bank at Barnstaple this afternoon,” said the girl, dully, “and I happened to speak to the cashier. He told me who you were. You’re a multi-millionaire, aren’t you?”
Charles Hewson shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I am,” he laughed. “Is that what you want me to explain?”
“Don’t laugh, please,” said the girl, quietly. “I said that you’d been good enough to do some business for us—something to do with Rio Lopez shares. He said, ‘Good heavens! Miss Crossley, surely Mr. Hewson hasn’t put you into Rio Lopez?’ I said, ‘Why not—aren’t they good shares?’ You see, I didn’t know what the business was you were doing. He said, ‘Good! Why the blessed things aren’t worth much more than the paper they’re written on. Standing about four shillings, I think.’ And now you tell me you’ve sold two thousand five hundred of them at over four pounds.” Slim and erect she stood there facing him. “I don’t know anything about business: but I’m not a fool. So will you please explain?”
If there was anything really in the absent-treatment business, an unsuspecting and well-meaning cashier would have fallen dead in the bank at that moment.
“Will you come into the garden, Miss Crossley?” said Hewson, gravely. “I could explain better out-of-doors.”
In silence she followed him, and they found two chairs under a shady tree.
“Ferguson,” he began, quietly, “the man who was down here a month ago, was a pretty smart gentleman. He did a business deal with your father which, legally speaking, was quite in order. He possessed two thousand five hundred Rio Lopez, which, at that time, were standing at two pounds. He sold these shares to your father knowing perfectly well that they were only standing at such a figure because of a distinctly shady artificial boom which had been given them. He knew they were bound to slump—that is, fall in price. So he—finding your father supremely ignorant of finance—unloaded those shares on to him, and left him—as the saying goes—to carry the baby. In other words, shares that your father paid two pounds each for, he would only get four shillings for to-day. This morning I interviewed Mr. Ferguson in his office. And I persuaded him—how, is immaterial—to refund your father the money. That’s all there is to it.”
“I see,” said the girl. “It was very good of you. But if my father only paid two pounds for each share—that makes five thousand. The cheque he’s got is for ten. How did he double his capital?”
Hewson bit his lip: how indeed?
“Oh! please be frank, Mr. Hewson. Have you given my father five thousand pounds?”
His fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of his chair.
“Yes,” he said at length. “I have. The dear old man thought the shares were standing at four pounds: he read the four and threepence in the paper as four pounds three shillings. And,” he turned appealingly to the girl, “if you could only dimly guess what pleasure it’s given me, Miss Crossley.”
“Oh! stop, please.” With a little cry that was half a sob she rose. “I suppose you meant it for the best: thought you were being kind. I don’t suppose you realized your—your impertinence. Because we offer you lunch, Mr. Hewson, it gives you no right to dare to give my father money. And now it’s going to be doubly hard for him—when I tell him. He’ll be so—so ashamed.”
She turned away, hiding her face in her hands, and for a while there was silence in the sunny garden. And in that moment the man knew that the quest was over, the quest—conscious or unconscious, it matters not—that has been man’s through the ages. But no hint of it sounded in his level voice as he spoke: the time for that was not yet.
“And so, Miss Crossley, you propose to tell your father?”
“What else can I possibly do?” She turned on him indignantly.
“Of course you must decide,” he continued, quietly. “I quite see how the matter looks to you: I wonder if you are being equally fair to me. I come here: I meet your father. I find that he has been swindled by a man in London—a moral swindle only possible because of your father’s charming innocence. I wonder if you can realize what the atmosphere of this place means to me—an atmosphere which must depend, to a large extent, on the happiness and joy of you three.”
She was watching him now, and suddenly his swift smile flashed out. “Don’t you understand, Miss Crossley, that all money is relative? I’m going to allude purposely to my disgusting wealth. You wouldn’t think much of paying five shillings for pleasure, would you? Well, five thousand pounds means no more to me. And I’ve bought myself pleasure with that money such as I don’t think you can begin to conceive of.” Again he smiled: then before she could reply he went on. “So I want you to remember, when you make your decision, what you are going to sacrifice on the altar of pride. My feelings don’t matter: but are you going to deliberately prick the bubble of your father’s happiness and change him in a moment from a delighted child into a broken and worried old man?”
The girl bit her lip and stared over the rambling garden with troubled eyes. How could she let her father take the money: how could she? And then she heard his voice again from close behind her.
“I’m going back to London,” he said, deliberately, “and I would ask you to keep this as our secret. I hadn’t intended to go back yet: but now that you have found out—perhaps it’s better. I’ll leave you free to puzzle the thing out by yourself: only I want to make one condition.”
“What’s that?” whispered the girl.
“I want to come back for my promised visit later.” Gently he swung her round and his eyes—tender and quizzical—rested on the lovely face so close to his. “And when I come back, I’m going to ask you a question, which, if you can see your way to answering with a yes, will make me your father’s debtor for life. And then we could consider the five thousand as a payment on account, which would completely and finally settle the matter.”
Almost against her will, a faint smile began to twitch round the girl’s lips.
“Of course I’m not much good at business, as I said, but I didn’t know that anybody ever paid on account until he had, at any rate, the promise of the goods.”
“In these days of competition,” murmured Hewson, “one sometimes has to pay for the right of the first refusal.”
The smile was twitching again. “That right is yours without payment.”
“Then I’d better get it over quickly. Sheila—will you marry me?”
“Mr. Hewson—I will not. Where are you going?”
Charles Hewson turned half-way across the lawn. “Up to London. I want to find a man there, and give him the best dinner he’s ever had in his life.”
“What man?”
“The sportsman who wrote that article about walking tours.” It was then the smile broke bounds.
“We’ve got some topping peaches in the garden. Couldn’t you send him some of those as—a payment on account?”