Part 14

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?"

_*XI -- The Poser*_

No one could call Portsdown-on-Sea a fashionable place. To the chosen few it constituted the most delightful seaside resort in the south of England. But very few did know, and they guarded their secret jealously. They formed a clique--the Portsdown clique--and the stranger within their gates was not welcomed.

The Grand was their stronghold, and during the winter the hotel relapsed into sleep, wrapped in a drab garment of dust sheets and chair covers.

A few of the rooms were kept open all the year round for anyone who might have business in the town; or for stray, foolhardy golfers who found the grey scudding mist which whipped over the salt marshes a cure for the cobwebs of an office life. But their stay was never a long one. Three or four days, a week-end perhaps--and then once again the melancholy waiter would preside over an empty dining-room. He formed the nucleus of the staff--did John. Each spring he blossomed forth into a crowd of young and more or less disreputable minions; each autumn he shrank back again to his solitary grandeur. And Martha, the female representative of the establishment, did likewise amongst the chambermaid portion of the servants.