Part 19

He entered the room and took in its character at one glance, just as Tom had done. He became cool, watchful, alert, and observing, as he always did when he went into a fight. He looked at the man who was said to be the brother of the woman who had leased the house--the woman who had a daughter she wished to marry to a blond with money and position.

The man had a square chin and, even in repose, suggested power and self-control. Mr. Merriwether met the remarkably steady, unblinking gaze of two extremely sharp eyes, and recognized without any particular motion that he confronted a man of strength and resource, who, moreover, had the double strategical advantage of being in his own house and of not having sought this interview.

“Be seated, sir,” said the man, in the calm voice of one who is accustomed to obedience, even in trifles.

Mr. E. H. Merriwether sat down. He noticed little things, as well as big. He noted, for instance, that he had begun by doing exactly what this man told him to do. The man intelligently waited for Mr. E. H. Merriwether to speak. Mr. E. H. Merriwether did so. He said:

“I called to see Madam Calderon.”

“About?” The man spoke coldly.

Mr. E. H. Merriwether raised his eyebrows. He did it in order not to frown. There is no wisdom in needless antagonisms. His only son was concerned.

“About my son,” he said.

“Tommy?”

The great railroad magnate, accustomed to the deference even of the self-appointed owners of the United States, flushed with anger. Had things gone so far that such intimacy existed?

“I understand,” he said, trying to speak emotionlessly, “that my son visits this house.”

“Of his own volition, sir.”

“I did not think there was physical coercion; but, of course, as his father--” He stopped in the middle of the sentence.

This never before had happened to this man, who always knew what to do and what to say, and always did it and said it with the least expenditure of time and words; but, as a matter of fact, what could he say, and how?

“That relationship,” the man said, calmly, “often interferes with the exercise of what people formerly called common sense. Will you please do me a very great favor, sir?”

“A favor?” Mr. Merriwether, skilful diplomatist though he could be at times, now frowned in advance.

“Yes, Mr. Merriwether--indeed, two favors; or rather, three. First: Will you please ask me no questions now? Second: Will you please return to this house at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning? And third: Will you promise not to speak to your son about your visit here until after you have paid your second call, to-morrow?”

It flashed through Mr. Merriwether's mind that to grant the favors might expedite Tom's appalling marriage. He said, decisively:

“I cannot promise any of the things you ask.”

“Very well,” said the man, composedly. “Then, I take it, there is nothing more to be said.”

He rose politely, and as he did so pressed a button on the table. The footman appeared and held the door open for Mr. Merriwether to pass out.

The autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, with unlimited credit in the money-markets of the world, was not accustomed to being treated like this: but, precisely because he felt hot anger rising in tidal waves to his brow, he instantly became cool.

He remained sitting, and said, very politely:

“If you will allow me, sir, to tell you that my reasons--”

The man, who was still standing, held up a hand and broke in:

“And if you will allow me to tell you that I am neither a criminal nor a jackass I shall then proceed to say that nobody in this house has any intention of entering into any argument or controversy with you. I am actuated much less by personal considerations of my own than by a desire to avert from you eternal regrets and--er--unseemly displays of temper.”

E. H. Merriwether knew exactly what he would like to do to this man. What he said--very mildly--was:

“You must admit, sir, that your requests might be interpreted--”

“Oh, I see!” And the man smiled very slightly. “Well, suppose you take Tom to your office with you to-morrow morning, and keep him there while you come here? Tell him to wait for you, because you wish to have luncheon with him. I do not care to discuss my reasons--for example--for not wishing you to speak to Tom about this visit. I do not wish to wound your feelings; but I am not sure that you know Tom as well as a father ought to know his only son. And there are times when a man must be more than a father, when he must be a tactful man of the world, and a psychologist.”

Mr. Merriwether realized the force of this so clearly that he winced, but said nothing, since he could not admit such a thing aloud. The man proceeded coldly:

“If you are both an intelligent man and a loving father, you will promise what I ask--not for my sake, for yours. There are many things, Mr. E. H. Merriwether, that money does not cure, and that not even time can heal. Ask me nothing now; come here at eleven to-morrow morning, and in the mean time do not speak to Tom about himself--or your fears.”

“If you were only not so--er--well, so damned mysterious--” And Mr. Merriwether forced himself to smile pleasantly.

“Ah--if!” exclaimed the man, nodding. “Do you promise?”

“Yes!” answered Mr. Merriwether.

He had made up his mind that Tom would not be abducted. As for worse things, if Tom had not already committed matrimony, he could not very well do it in his father's private office. It was wise to keep Tom virtually a prisoner without his knowledge. And parental opposition has so often served merely to add gasoline to the flame of love that one father would not even whisper his objections.

He bowed and left the room, angry that nothing had been accomplished, relieved that within twenty-four hours the matter would probably be settled, and not quite so confident of the power of money as he had been for many years.

IX

Tom arrived at his home early enough to have his bath at the usual hour. Though he had never been asked to account for his movements, he nevertheless made it a point to breakfast with his father. He would do so to-day. There was no occasion to say he had been to Boston or that he had slept in a Pullman.

As a matter of fact, he had not slept well. The stateroom seemed full of those elusive flower-fragrances that always made him think of her, particularly sweet peas--a beautiful flower, and of such delicate colors, he now remembered, who had not thought of them for years. He really loved them, he now discovered. Their odor always tinged his. thoughts with a vague spirit of romance; and this, in turn, in some subtle way, rendered him more susceptible to the lure of adventure. It almost made him feel like a boy.

For all the stimulating reaction of his cold plunge, Tom looked a trifle tired about the eyes at breakfast.

Mr. Merriwether looked at his son with eyes that also looked tired; said, “Good morning, Tom!” in his usual tone of voice, and hid behind his newspaper. Instead of reading about the absurd demands of the railroad workers all over the United States for higher wages, he was thinking that he had never allowed anybody to do his work for him, because he had always intended that Tom should succeed him. He had at one time fully intended to train Tom for the succession, to have him learn railroading from brake-man up.

Indeed, the boy after leaving college had seemed much taken with the idea and listened with interest to his father's talks about his plans and desires and hopes. But with the great boom, that wonderful era of amazing reorganizations and stupendous consolidations, the great little man had been swamped by the flood of gold that poured into Wall Street.

And gold, as usual, had been ruthless in its demands on the great little man's time. For years he had averaged a net personal profit of a million a month; but it was not that he wished to make more money. It was that his time no longer belonged to himself; it was not his family's, but his associates'--not his only son's, but his many syndicates'. And he had devoted himself to the welfare of his syndicates and had written a dazzling page in the annals of Wall Street.

But what about his son's present and the future of the Merriwether roads? If Tom died, the Merri-wether dream would follow him, but that would be a natural death at the hands of God. If Tom lived and refused to be a Merriwether, the death of the Merriwether dreams would be by slow strangulation. In short, hell!

His promise to the brother of the woman who had a daughter that might prove to be the executioner of his dreams stared him in the face. The situation called for tact and skill and superhuman self-control. He liked to fight in the open; but this was not a battle for more millions; it involved more than the deglutition of a rival railroad.

McWayne had reported that Tom had acted like a lunatic when he could not secure the room in the Hotel Lorraine that had been engaged by Mrs. Calderon and daughter. The only ray of light was that Tom had not talked to the ladies.

“Tom,” asked Mr. Merriwether, casually, “have you anything on special for this morning?”

Tom had in mind a visit to 777 Fifth Avenue, at which he promised himself to end the affair; but he answered:

“N-no.”

“I mean,” said the father, speaking even more casually, because he noted the hesitancy, “anything that could not be done just as well in the afternoon.”

“Oh no, I have nothing special; in fact, nothing at all,” said Tom.

Mr. Merriwether saw in his reply merely Tom's way of not declaring his intention to see the girl.

“Then I wish you would come down-town with me. I have some papers I want you to look over, and we'll have luncheon together. What do you say?”

A prisoner accused of murder in the first degree does not listen to the jury's verdict with more interest than E. H. Merriwether waited for Tom's reply, for at this crisis he realized that he had not been in his son's confidence in those other important little crises of boyhood that breed in sons the habit of confiding in fathers.

“Sure thing!” said Tom', cheerfully.

Though thus relieved of some of his fears, there remained with E. H. Merriwether the determination that Tom had not volunteered any information. The little czar of the Pacific & Southwestern was so intelligent that in general he was fundamentally just. He did not exactly blame Tom for not confiding in him, but, also, he did not blame himself. And this was because he had habituated himself to paying for his mistakes in dollars. What could not be paid off in dollars was never a mistake, though it might well be a misfortune.

They went down-town together. Mr. Merriwether took Tom into one of his half-dozen private offices, made him sit down in one of those over-comfortable arm-chairs that you paradoxically find in busy Wall Street offices, and said to him very seriously:

“My son, here is the history of the Pacific & Southwestern system from its very start. It goes back to the early stage-line days and is brought up to to-day. I had it prepared in anticipation of an ill-advised Congressional investigation. I have thus far succeeded in staving off the investigation, not because I was afraid of it or because it might hurt me, but because the market was in bad shape to stand the alarmist rumors and canards and threats that always go with such affairs. Other people would have quite unnecessarily lost money. As soon as the investigation cannot be used as a bear club I'll let up opposing it. I'll even help it.” He paused and gave to Tom a book bound in limp black morroco. “I want you to read this book because it is written with complete frankness in order to spike certain political guns. You will get in it the full story of what has been done and what we hope still to be allowed to accomplish. When you get through with it you'll know as much about the system as I do!”

The old man had spoken quietly and impressively. Tom was so pleased at having something to occupy his mind and keep it from dwelling on the girl he had never seen and the exasperating scoundrel at 777 Fifth Avenue that his face lighted up with joy.

“You could not have given me anything to do that I'd like better, dad!” he said, with such obviously sincere enthusiasm that Mr. Merriwether felt profoundly grateful for this blessing.

Then came the inevitable reaction and with it the thought: “Have I gained a successor only to lose him to some--”

He shook his head, clenched his jaws, and looked at his watch. It was not yet time to go to fight for the possession of his son. He had much to do before he left his office to go to 777 Fifth Avenue.

“Tom,” he said, “'you stay here until I return--will you?”

“You bet!” smiled Tom, looking at the thickness of the system's history.

“I have a meeting or two before luncheon, but I'll try not to let them interfere.”

“Any time before three, boss,” said his son, cheerfully.

His heir and successor, but, above all and everything, his son! There was no sacrifice he would not make for this boy to keep him from blighting his own career--and his father's hopes, he added, with the selfishness of real love.

Knowing that Tom was safely imprisoned and could not marry at least for a few hours, he was able to concentrate his mind on his railroad's affairs. He disposed of the more urgent matters. At ten-forty he sent for McWayne.

“I'm going to 777 Fifth Avenue.”

“Again?” inadvertently said the private secretary.

Mr. Merriwether looked at him.

McWayne went on to explain: “I've had a man watching it since we found Tom called there, just before going to Boston.”

“Right! I expect to be back in time to lunch with Tom; but if I should be delayed--” He paused.

“Yes, sir?”

“--delayed beyond one o'clock have luncheon brought from the Meridian Club and tell Tom I wish him to stay until I return. This is important.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think that is all.”

“If no word is received from you by--” McWayne paused.

Mr. Merriwether finished. “By two o'clock, come after me. But always remember the newspapers!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll telephone before two in case I expect to stay beyond that hour.”

“Very well, sir.”

E. H. Merriwether put on his hat, familiar to the world through the newspaper caricaturists--and walked toward the door. Then he did what he never before had done--he repeated an order! He said to McWayne, “Look after Tom!”

“Yes, sir.”

Then he went to 777 Fifth Avenue to learn whether Tom was to be his pride and successor or his sorrow and dream-slayer.

X

E. H. Merriwether drove to the house of mystery in his motor, told the chauffeur to wait, and rang the bell. One of the over-intelligent-looking footmen opened the door.

“I wish to see Mr.--whoever is master in this house.”

“Yes, sir!”

The footman led the way. At the door of the library he knocked twice, sharply, then, after a pause, once, and then twice again. He waited; and presently, having evidently heard some answer not audible to the financier, he opened the door and announced:

“Mr. E. H. Merriwether!”

Why had there been any necessity for signals? Why such cheap theatrical claptrap? To make him think things? These questions in Mr. Merriwether's mind showed that the mysterious master of the house knew the advantage of suggesting the important sense of difference.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” answered E. H. Merriwether, and looked about the room.

No girl!

It began to irritate him. The man intensified the feeling by speaking very deliberately, as one to whom time is no object:

“Will you not be seated, Mr. Merriwether?”

“I am a very busy man,” began the autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad.

“Sit down, anyhow,” imperturbably suggested the man.

The autocrat sat down. He said, “But please understand that.”

“I won't keep you any longer because you are sitting. Shall we get down to business?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Merriwether”--the man spoke almost dreamily--“do you know why I asked you to call to-day at eleven?”

“No.”

“Because when you were here yesterday it was after banking hours.”

“And?” The little czar was in a hurry to finish.

“You, Mr. Merriwether, are one of those fortunate mortals about whom the newspapers do not lie.”

“Oh, am I? I take it you haven't seen a newspaper in twelve years.” Mr. Merriwether, after all, was an American. His sense of humor helped to make him great.

“I've read every line that has ever been printed about you--I had to, in order to study you exhaustively. I find that you are acknowledged by both friends and foes to be an intelligent man.”

“Oh yes!”

“A very intelligent man,” continued the man.

“And therefore?” said the very intelligent man.

“And, therefore, I now ask you to give me one million dollars.”

Mr. E. H. Merriwether never so much as batted an eyelid. He kept his eyes fixed on the stranger's eyes. He repeated, a trifle impatiently:

“And?”

“A certified check will do.”

“Come to the point. I am a busy man,” said Mr. Merriwether.

The man looked at the little financier admiringly. Then he said, “You mean you wish to know why you should give the million, or what you will get for it?”

“Either! Both!”

“You should give it because it is I who ask it. You will get for it what is very, very cheap at a million.”

“My dear sir, we'd do business quicker if you'd play show-down.”

Now that it was a matter of money, of paying, of trading, Tom's father felt a great sense of relief. Still, there was Tom's unhappiness to consider. Poor boy!

“I want you to give me a million so that in return I may give you a daughter-in-law.”

“You mean you will not give me a daughter-in-law if I give you a million, don't you?”

“I am in the habit of meaning what I say. The sooner you learn that, the quicker we'll close the deal. I mean that for a million dollars I'll give you a daughter-in-law.”

Mr. Merriwether shook his head. It was plainly to be seen on his face that every moment spent in this room was a sad waste of time.

“Isn't it worth a million to you?” asked the man, as if he knew it was.

Mr. Merriwether proceeded to look as though it were worth even less than a Santo Domingo mining concession. Then he said, with finality:

“No.”

The man rose.

“Then,” he spoke indifferently, “come back when it is. I'll ask you to excuse me. I, also, am a busy man. Good day, sir.”

Mr. Merriwether rose and bowed. He looked straight into the man's very shrewd eyes, smiled very slightly--and sat down again.

“Do you mean,” he asked, very pleasantly, for his bluff had been called, “Miss Calderon?”

The man sat down.

“Oh no!” he answered, unsmilingly.

“No? Then?” Mr. Merriwether was so surprised that he forgot not to show it.

“I am sorry you are a busy man, because what I have to say can not be hurried. First, you must chase from your mind all thoughts of Wall Street, high finance, railroad systems--and fill it with love!”

Mr. Merriwether looked alarmed. Would it all end with a Biblical text and an exhortation to endow some sort of a Home?

“You can do this,” pursued the man, imperturbably, “by thinking of your son Tom. He is your only son. You should love him. Once your mind is attuned to thoughts of love, you will be able to understand me more easily. Concentrate on love!” The man leaned back in his chair as though he were certain the attuning process would consume an hour, this being, alas! a Wall Street man; but Merriwether said, very promptly:

“I am ready for chapter two.”

“I doubt it. Love! The love of father for son, of son for mother, of son for wife, of son for father!”

“I understand. My mind works quickly. Go on!”

“Do you by any chance happen to know that your son is in love?”

“Yes. Where is the girl?”

“It isn't the girl. It's just girl.”

“Oh, hell! Quit vaudevilling!”

“There is no girl who is the girl. There never was. There doesn't have to be any!”

Quite obviously this man was a lunatic--with the eyes of a particularly sane person. If there was no girl Tom was in no danger of marriage. A million for not marrying an undesirable person, yes, but a million for a daughter-in-law, when Tom was not in love!

“Only,” thought Mr. Merriwether, “in case I have the selecting of her! And if I pick her I don't have to pay.”

“And yet,” said the man, musingly, “Tom loves her!”

Mr. Merriwether's perplexity was fast rising to the dignity of anger.

“If there had been a girl of Tom's own class,” the man went on, as if talking to himself, “why shouldn't he have been seen in public with her?” Mr. Merriwether was listening now with his soul. “And if this girl were of the other class--that financial geniuses, alas! sometimes have to accept for daughters-in-law--a nice, vivacious chorus-lady, or a refined Reno graduate, or worse--she would have insisted on being seen in public with Tom, to show her power and to raise the paternal bid-price for a trip to Europe--alone!”

The man ceased to speak and began to nod his head slowly, his gaze on the rug at his feet. Mr. Merriwether could stand it no longer.

“If there is no girl, what in blazes do I get for my million?”

“Your pick of eight.”

“Eight what?”

“Eight perfect daughters-in-law!”

A thought shot through Mr. Merriwether's mind: Was any form of insanity contagious? He looked at the lunatic. The eyes were sane, cold, shrewd, mind-reading eyes full of a sardonic humor.

“They are all,” added the man, as if he wished to dispel unworthy suspicion, “in love.”

“With Tom?”

“With love--like Tom!”

“With love--like Tom!” helplessly repeated Mr. E. H. Merriwether.

“Your mind”--the man spoke very slowly and distinctly, as if he wished to deprive Mr. Merriwether of every excuse for not understanding him--“does not seem to be working this morning with its usual efficiency!”

“No!” admitted Mr. Merriwether, sadly. “If you'd only use words of one syllable I think I could follow you better.”

“It isn't that. It is that your mind was not attuned in the beginning to the thought of love, and, therefore, could not follow my words. You compel me to spend time in explaining the obvious. Listen! If you wish Tom to become the heir to your name, to your railroad, to your work, and to all the dreams you have dreamed about your work and about your son; if you want him to be your successor, to continue your work, to perpetuate the name and influence of Merriwether in his country--I say, if you wish all this, he must do one thing, and you must see that he does it. And that one thing, Mr. Merriwether, is for him to marry wisely. Do you get that?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Merriwether, very simply.

“If he doesn't, it will be death to your hopes, a tragic break in the Merriwether succession. No, don't shake your head. Admit it. Face it frankly. I know it. I know that you also know it. Can you expect me to believe that you want Tom to be the fool husband of a fool girl whose influence on him--”

“Tom isn't that kind,” interrupted E. H. Merri-wether.

“All men are that kind. Does history record the case of a man, greater even than E. H. Merriwether, who, when it came to women, was an utter ass? Yes, of a thousand; in fact, the stronger the man, the weaker she makes him--the better his brain, the worse his folly. And the cure? When an intelligent man realizes that he is a hopeless ass over one woman he realizes that his only escape is by the suicide route. No! It's much cheaper for you to pay the million. Oblige me by thinking. Isn't it cheaper to pay a million?”

He held up a silencing hand, as though he wished Mr. Merriwether to spend a full hour thinking of the bargain he was getting. Mr. Merriwether thought--quickly and accurately as was his wont. And he admitted to himself that it was indeed cheap at a million. But there must be value received. Promises, however plausible, are no more to be capitalized blindly than threats. It depends on who promises, and why; and also on what is promised. He thought of offering a smaller sum and of going through the usual preliminaries of a trade, but decided to be frank.