CHAPTER XIV.

THREE MEN OF MILLIONS.

Marcus Meyer, head of the wealthy firm of jewelers who did business under the name of the Meyer Diamond Company, was pacing restlessly up and down his luxuriously fitted up private office on the third floor of the Commercial Building in Denver.

He was a smooth-shaven, alert Hebrew of about thirty-nine or forty, well groomed and clothed with a fastidious taste, which was almost foppish, in garments of the very latest cut and material. In reality, however, there was nothing of the fop or fool about Marcus Meyer. He was a keen, quick-witted business man of extraordinary cleverness, and had the reputation of knowing more about the inside conditions of the diamond industry than any other individual west of the Alleghenys, save only the great Herman Spreckles, of Chicago.

As he walked restlessly from end to end of the long room, his troubled eyes sought the ornate clock which slowly ticked away the minutes on a mantel of carved marble, and every now and then his slim, well-manicured fingers strayed to his smooth, black hair in an unconscious gesture of impatience.

Presently he stopped at one end of the long mahogany table, which was set around with heavy leather-cushioned chairs, and occupied the centre of the room. Seated in one of these chairs was a man of about fifty-five. Short, stout, and comfortable of build, round-faced and rosy-cheeked, with light-blue eyes in which was a look of almost infantile innocence, one would never have guessed him to be the Philander Morgan who held a controlling interest in so many corporations on the Pacific Coast, and who was reputed to be the wealthiest man in San Francisco.

“I can’t understand why he doesn’t come,” complained Meyer, in his quick, nervous manner. “The train was due at nine-fifteen, and here it is nearly ten.”

He took out a handkerchief and passed it over his moist forehead.

Philander Morgan eyed him quizzically, with a slight pursing of his lips.

“Ah, you young men!” he said placidly. “How much vital energy you waste in worry! You prance about, tear your hair, and get hot and unpleasantly moist; and what do you gain by making yourself uncomfortable? Nothing. Spreckles will come because he said he would, and I have never known him to break his word. There are such an infinite number of reasons why he should be late that it is useless to speculate. Take my advice and make yourself comfortable until he appears.”

He folded his plump hands and gazed meditatively at the ceiling.

“I know it’s absurd,” Meyer replied, with a harassed smile; “but I can’t help it. Besides, I have so much more at stake than you. In comparison to all the other irons you have in the fire, your interest in the diamond trade is insignificant. But should this monstrous, incredible thing prove true, I shall be ruined--totally ruined.”

Philander Morgan withdrew his eyes from the ceiling and puffed out his fat cheeks.

“Tut! tut!” he protested. “Don’t speak of it. Surely you have not allowed yourself to credit for an instant this wild rumor. It’s absurd--impossible.”

The Hebrew tapped nervously with his finger nail on the polished surface of the table.

“That’s what I told myself at first,” he said slowly. “I snapped my fingers at them--I laughed. It was inconceivable, beyond the bounds of reason. But later, every evidence seemed to point----”

A loud knock sounded at the door and he broke off abruptly.

“Come in!” he cried, springing to his feet.

The door slowly opened and an old man appeared on the threshold. He was very tall and very thin, with narrow, drooping shoulders and a slow, almost shambling step. His clothes were mussed and almost threadbare; but, in spite of that, it needed no more than a glance at the wrinkled face, the great mane of snow white hair brushed straight back from a high, broad forehead, the piercing eyes, bright as live coals, gleaming through big spectacles with rims of tortoise shell, to tell that he was somebody.

Such a man was Herman Spreckles, of Chicago. Rumor had it that, besides his many other interests, he was the moving spirit of a gigantic secret combination of jewelers which ruled the diamond market of the United States with a rod of iron.

Marcus Meyer hurried forward with both hands outstretched.

“My dear Mr. Spreckles!” he cried joyfully. “I am very glad to see you. We were beginning to fear that you had missed your train.”

The tall man sniffed scornfully as he took one of the Hebrew’s hands.

“Huh! Did you ever know me to miss a train, Meyer?” he inquired.

Then he looked out in the hall.

“Come in, Pickering--come in!” he said sharply. “Don’t dawdle out there.”

He moved away from the door, and a slim, alert-looking man of about forty appeared, at the sight of whom Marcus Meyer’s eyes sparkled.

“Ah--Pickering!” he exclaimed with satisfaction. “I’m glad you’re here. We shall need the skill of the best diamond expert in the country before we’re through, or I’m very much mistaken.”

Meanwhile Herman Spreckles had advanced to the table, where Philander Morgan arose ponderously to greet him.

“Ha! You here, too?” inquired the older man, peering through his spectacles. “This begins to look serious.”

He shook hands with the stout man and dropped into a chair.

“Well, Meyer, let us get to business at once,” he said briskly. “I must take the early afternoon train back. What’s this cock-and-bull yarn you’ve been writing me about. Begin at the beginning and let us get through with it. Sit down, man--sit down! You make me nervous stamping up and down that way.”

The Hebrew dropped upon a chair and passed his hand over his hair with a nervous gesture.

“You both had my letters in cipher,” he began quickly. “You know about the mysterious diamonds which have been coming in to me for the past few months with such amazing regularity.”

Spreckles nodded.

“Exactly,” he said impatiently. “You purchased them on my instructions at the prevailing price, and I wired you to ascertain where they came from. Have you done so?”

Marcus Meyer made a gesture with his hands.

“I have, so far as has been in my power. There was no difficulty in finding out who they came from. Their original source remains as much a mystery as it was in the beginning. Perhaps, in order that we may have all the facts clearly, I had better tell the whole story briefly.”

He looked questioningly at the white-haired Spreckles, who nodded silently.

“On the third of March,” Meyer began, “a man came to me and asked whether I wished to buy some diamonds. I told him, of course, that I should have to examine them first, whereupon he promptly pulled out of his pocket an oblong package wrapped in white tissue paper. Imagine my astonishment when I unrolled it and found within, twenty perfect stones ranging from one to five carats in weight. They were flawless and of that exquisite blue-white color which, as you both know, is so sought after and so rare. I have sold no better stones than those for five hundred dollars a carat.”

“And the man?” Herman Spreckles asked quickly. “Where did he say they came from?”

“He would not say,” Meyer answered. “He would tell me nothing. He said that if I did not care to buy them he would go elsewhere. I finally paid him three hundred and fifty dollars a carat--a great bargain. As soon as he had gone, I sent for a detective and had inquiries made. The fellow was one Johnson, a native of Denver, who had been in a variety of enterprises, none of which were very successful. For the past year he had apparently done nothing at all, though the report had it that he lived very well, in a comfortable place on the outskirts of the city, where he kept an expensive motor car, among other luxuries. His only intimate was an eccentric fellow named Randolph, who came here from the East some seven years ago, built an extraordinary fortified dwelling in the mountains, and has lived there a recluse ever since, supposedly dabbling in chemical experiments of some sort.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Spreckles. “You had this fellow Randolph looked up?”

“Not at once,” returned Meyer. “At the time it seemed to me that he could have no connection with the diamonds. It was much more probable that Johnson had stolen or smuggled them; but as the weeks passed no stones of that description were reported missing, and inquiry at Washington revealed the fact that there had been no suspicious purchasing abroad. The day after I received that letter, Johnson appeared with another packet, which, on opening, I found to be in every way identical with the first. There were twenty stones of the same blue-white color, and they weighed, to a fraction of a carat, exactly what the first had weighed.

“I was dumfounded. It seemed incredible that such stones as those could have been brought into the country without my knowing it. I was positive they had not been stolen. Johnson persisted in his absolute silence regarding the source from which they came, he was even loath to let them remain in my hands for three days while my experts made an exhaustive examination of them. It was then that I wrote to you. I had already paid out nearly twenty-five thousand dollars for the first lot, and dared not sink any more money without your sanction.”

“Quite so,” nodded Spreckles. “You sent on one of the stones, and I wired you to purchase as many of them as you could, and to find out their source.”

“Exactly,” returned Marcus Meyer. “I paid the man and at once set the detectives on the trail of Randolph, for the thing was becoming too serious to neglect any clue, however slight. The report they turned in was singularly complete in some respects, and disappointingly lacking in others. Scott Randolph is a man of about thirty-two or three. He comes from a good New England family, and, while he was still in college, his father died and left him about seventy-five thousand dollars. He appears not to have any near relatives and but few friends. He graduated from Yale, and then spent three years at the Sheffield school of science, where he paid particular attention to chemistry and mechanics. After leaving New Haven he came directly to Denver, bought a tract in the mountains and built there a stone house which is absolutely impregnable. The windows are guarded with iron bars and steel shutters, the door is of steel like a safe, and, so far as I could discover, no human being but this Johnson has ever been inside. His provisions are brought to the door and left there; apparently he does his own cooking, for there are no servants around.”

Herman Spreckles lifted a thin, wrinkled hand.

“Wait,” he said quickly. “What about the men who built the house?”

“All brought from a distance,” Meyer answered. “None of them could be located. I did, however, examine a teamster who carted his belongings from the freight office. This fellow saw a few rooms in the lower part of the house and confirms the general impression that the place is as difficult to get into as a fort. Randolph’s belongings were all carefully crated, but the teamster remembered that many of the crates were extraordinarily heavy; several, he knew, contained machinery.”

“At regular intervals Randolph disappears. At first it was supposed that he had left the house, since no amount of knocking or pounding could rouse him. After my detectives got on the trail, they kept a strict watch of the place day and night to catch him when he came forth or returned, in order to find out where he went. They finally came to the conclusion that he did not leave the house. He did not issue from any of the doors or windows. His motor car remained unused in a small shed to one side of the larger building. It was apparent, therefore, that he shut himself up alone for some purpose.”

He paused and looked from one to the other of the two men before him. They were both intensely interested in his recital. Philander Morgan’s fat face had lost the look of baby innocence, and had taken on a keen, alert expression, which quite transformed the man. Spreckles’ shaggy head was bent slightly forward and from beneath beetling brows his eyes gleamed like coals as he surveyed the Hebrew.

“Well,” he said sharply--“well, what was that purpose?”

Marcus Meyer hesitated, his slim hand straying again to the smooth head.

“I can think of but one solution,” he said slowly at length. “Wild, absurd, incredible as it may sound, I think the man has discovered the secret for which so many scientists have toiled in vain. I believe--he has found a way--of manufacturing diamonds!”

The stillness which followed the Hebrew’s amazing statement was so intense that the slow ticking of the clock on the mantel beat on the tense nerves of the waiting men like the strokes of a hammer. Suddenly Philander Morgan snorted incredulously.

“Ridiculous!” he cried in a shrill voice. “The thing’s impossible!”

Herman Spreckles made no reply, for several moments his piercing eyes remained fixed on Meyer’s pale face. Then he turned swiftly toward the man he had brought with him.

“Pickering!”

The name came snapping from his thin, straight lips like the shot of a pistol, and the young man sprang up from where he had been sitting at the far end of the table and came forward.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is such a thing possible--manufacturing diamonds, I mean.”

James Pickering hesitated an instant.

“It has been done,” he said slowly. “Both Edouard Fournier, of Paris, and Professor Hedwig, of Berlin University, have produced pure diamonds; but the process was so costly and the resulting stones so small, that their methods were not commercially practicable.”

Again silence fell. Spreckles was thinking, while Philander Morgan sat aghast, with pendulous cheeks and popping eyes. His expression of dismay would have been ludicrous had the situation not been so serious.

Marcus Meyer passed a crumpled handkerchief over his moist forehead; then he began again.

“I can think of no other explanation,” he said in a low, strained voice. “The man never leaves his house. His only known accomplice never leaves Denver. Yet, a few days after these regular periods of retirement, twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of exquisite diamonds are brought to me with the precision of clockwork. They are all of the same perfect quality and the carat weight of each package is identical. I could make out my check beforehand and it would be correct.”

“You have the stones?” Spreckles asked quickly.

Meyer nodded.

“All except those in the first lot, which I have sold.”

“Get them.”

The Hebrew arose from the table and went over to a great safe in the corner. Opening this, he took out a small drawer, which he carried back and placed before the other two men. The contents of the drawer were hidden by a folded square of black velvet, and when this was removed and spread out on the polished mahogany, five small, insignificant-looking packets of white tissue paper were revealed.

With fingers that trembled a little, Meyer took up one of these packets, and, unfolding the paper, poured the contents out on the velvet square.

There was a glittering cascade of light as they streamed down onto the velvet and lay against the black surface, a blazing mass, catching the light from a thousand facets, gleaming with a wonderful fire, until even Herman Spreckles could not suppress an exclamation of admiration, as he leaned forward and plucked one between thumb and forefinger.

“A diamond of the first water,” he said slowly, examining it intently. “And you tell me that has been made by the hand of man? I won’t believe it.”

He turned to Pickering, who stood behind his chair.

“Look it over, James,” he said, “and let us know what you think of it.”

The expert’s face was slightly pale and his eyes very bright, but otherwise he betrayed no signs of emotion as he took the stone from the old man’s hand and carried it over to one of the windows. Here he fixed a glass in one eye and began a thorough inspection of the diamond.

Philander Morgan clasped his chubby hands together nervously.

“But what are we going to do?” he asked plaintively. “If this man can make diamonds, the bottom will fall out of the market in no time. We’ll be ruined. Our stock will be worthless. What are we going to do?”

Herman Spreckles surveyed him with a cynical gleam in his black eyes.

“Don’t cry before you’re hurt, Morgan,” he said sarcastically. “Even if you lose your diamond stock, I hardly think you’ll be a candidate for the poor house. Besides the stock has not depreciated yet, and it is our business to see that it does not.”

He glanced up from under his shaggy brows at the expert, who was coming back from the window.

“Well, Pickering, what’s the verdict?”

“It’s a diamond, all right, Mr. Spreckles,” the man said decidedly. “I’ll stake my reputation on that. It has all the fire and color of the best products of the Kimberly mines, and is absolutely flawless. It’s worth easily five hundred dollars a carat. Whether it is a natural or manufactured product I cannot tell. Had I not heard the story Mr. Meyer has just told, I would have sworn that this came from South Africa. As it is, I frankly confess I am puzzled. If this Randolph has discovered a process whereby diamonds like this can be made, he has done something which will cause a world-wide stir, and very probably world-wide ruin to a vast industry.”

Philander Morgan moaned a little and wiped his fat face with a large handkerchief. Marcus Meyer was biting his finger nails nervously. Only the grim Chicago magnate remained apparently unmoved.

“Select some from the other packets,” he said tersely, “and examine them carefully. We must be sure of the facts before we act.”

The expert selected two stones at random from each of the four unopened packages, and retired with them to the window.

Spreckles leaned back in his chair and put the tips of his skinny fingers together.

“This Randolph,” he began slowly, “receives mail, I suppose--parcels by express and by freight?”

“Very little mail,” the Hebrew answered. “Most of it is apparently from chemical supply houses and other dealers. He seems to have no personal correspondence. It is also rare that anything comes to him by express; but he has a good many pieces of freight, which are invariably delivered by Johnson. So far as I have been able to discover, they also come from supply houses and seem to contain chemicals of some sort.”

“We must make sure,” Spreckles said significantly. “From this moment Randolph must receive nothing into that house which we do not know of. Above all, his letters must be examined carefully.”

Marcus Meyer’s face paled a little.

“But the government----” he protested.

“Tut, tut, my dear Meyer!” Spreckles said calmly. “You are a sensible man, and a clever one. Don’t let us have any foolish qualms when a matter of such moment is at stake. There are plenty of ways in which this can be done quietly and safely by a man of your ability. I leave the details to you, who are on the ground. But I repeat that neither Randolph nor this man Johnson must receive anything which you have not previously read or examined. Well, Pickering?”

The diamond expert returned the stones to their original packets and faced his employer.

“They are identical with the first one,” he said quietly. “Perfect, flawless, and of equal value. I think there can be no question that their source is the same.”

“I expected as much,” Spreckles said quietly. “Though I am not an expert like Pickering, my eyes are still pretty fair, and I have examined a goodly number of diamonds in my life. That will be all for the present, James. Be good enough to wait for me downstairs. I will be through directly and we can take lunch and return on the early train.”

As the door closed behind the diamond expert, Herman Spreckles bent forward a little and fixed his eyes keenly on Marcus Meyer.

“In addition to the precautions I have suggested,” he said quietly, “it is absolutely necessary for us to obtain an entrance to this house of Randolph’s and make a thorough examination. That is the most important step of all. It would be more satisfactory if you yourself could be present, but I doubt whether that is possible. However, pick your detectives intelligently, tell them exactly what you want to know, and the result should be adequate.”

The Hebrew’s face turned pale and he twisted his fingers nervously together.

“But think of the risk,” he objected. “That’s a criminal proceeding. It’s breaking and entering.”

The older man waved away his objection impatiently.

“Don’t be a child, Meyer,” he snapped. “Everything, in this world is a risk. Do you realize that your very existence is at stake? If we don’t get at the bottom of this business and stop it, you will be ruined, and Morgan and I will be severely crippled. Let us have no more of this foolish squeamishness. Do as I tell you, and do it at once.”

As he arose, his gaunt height towered above his companions.

“One more thing,” he went on. “Don’t let the man suspect. Buy all the diamonds which are offered, and above all keep silent about them. Should a whisper of this get abroad, a tremendous slump in our stocks will follow. Keep me advised daily as to your progress. I am taking the two-fifteen train back. Don’t hesitate to draw on me for money if you need it. Good-by.”

He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, leaving Philander Morgan and Marcus staring at one another with expressions of the deepest anxiety and concern.