Part 4

_Dear Kidder,--I've given a letter of introduction to a Mr. James B. Robison, who comes originally from some manufacturing town in Massachusetts, like Lynn or Lowell--I've forgotten which. He is well liked by the colony here and, I am told, has been kind to poor art students and other self-deluded compatriots. He is queer; is suspected of being rich--which he must be because he never borrows, lives well, and says moneymaking is too easy to merit discussion when men can discuss the eternal feminine or the revival of cosmetics. His trip to New York is prompted, he tells me, by the receipt of a letter from an old flame of his whom he warned against marrying her present husband. She would not listen to Robison, accused him in choice Bostonian of being a short sport, and now after long years she writes him, asking for forgiveness, being at last convinced that her husband is all that Robison said--and then some. He is off to try to find her; she is somewhere in New York. Put him in touch with some private detective who won't rob him too ruthlessly._

_I don't think he'll want to borrow money, as I know he is taking a letter of credit on Towne, Ripley & Co. for fifty thousand pounds; and they told me at his bankers'--Madison & Co.--that he owns slathers of gilt-edged bonds and that they cash the coupons for him. They also tell me he carries more cash about him than is prudent. You might suggest to him that the New York banks are safe enough. You'll find him a character--odd but charitable. Knowing your fondness for fiction in real life I commend Mr. Robison to you. Regards to the boys. Why don't you make a million and come over to spend it in the company of Yours as ever,_

Lurton P. Smiley.

Richards handed the letter back. “He came here with ten ten-thousand-dollar gold certificates.”

“Yes; he got 'em from Towne, Ripley & Co. I went with him. They had instructions to pay any amount he might call for, and they did. He asked for large bills.”

“He got 'em!” said Richards, greatly relieved at seeing no necessity why he should refuse Robison's account.

“What's he going to do?” asked Kidder.

“I don't know. He told me he had found his old sweetheart and that he is going to give her all he makes in Wall Street. He expects to double the one hundred thousand dollars in a week.”

“For Heaven's sake, George, find out his secret! Half a million will do for me,” laughed Kidder.

“He gave me an envelope,” said Richards, taking it from his desk. On it was written:

PROPERTY OF JAMES B. ROBISON

To be Opened by Richards & Tuttle In Case of Sudden Death

“What do you think?” asked Richards.

“You really mean do I advise you to open it, don't you?” asked Kidder..

“Not exactly; but--”

“Of course,” said the newspaper man, “it does not say it is _not_ to be opened in case of _living_. That is sufficient excuse--that and your curiosity.”

“I don't like to open it,” said Richards, doubtfully.

“Don't!”

“Still, I'd like to know what's inside.”

“Then open it.”

“I don't think I have a right to.”

“Don't, then!”

“Oh, shut up! I won't open it! I don't know whether to take the account. You don't know anything about this man--”

“You broker fellows make me tired--posing as careful business men. All Robison has to do is to go to any of your branch offices or anybody's branch office, say his name is W. Jones and that he keeps a cigar-store in Hackensack or Flatbush, and your branch manager will never let him get away. And afore-mentioned manager will swear, if you should be so mean as to ask who W. Jones is, that he and W. J. went to school together--known him for years!”

“After all,” said Richards, a trifle defiantly, “there is no reason why I shouldn't do business for Robison that you know of?”

“Not that I know of--but if he buncoes you out of a big wad don't blame me.”

“He is welcome to anything he can make out of us,” smiled Richards, grimly, and Kidder laughed so heartily that the broker looked pleased with himself and his witticism. He rang for the cashier, gave him the one hundred thousand dollars, and had the amount credited to James B. Robison, address unknown.

II

After leaving the office of Richards & Tuttle Mr. James B. Robison went to the Subway station at Wall Street, rode up-town as far as Forty-second Street, walked to Sixth Avenue, took a surface car, jumped off at Forty-eighth, walked to Forty-ninth, waited there for the next car, and, being certain he was not shadowed, rode on to Fifty-sixth Street. He got off, walked north on the avenue and, half-way up the block, paused at the entrance of the employment agency of “_Jno. Sniffens, Established 1858_.” On the big slate by the door he read that there was wanted a coachman--careful driver; elderly man preferred.

He walked up-stairs one flight and accosted the agent.

“Good morning, Sniffens.”

“Good morning, Mr. Maynard,” answered Sniffens, son of the original Jno., very obsequiously.

“Are they here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many?”

“Seven.”

“I've seen fifty-six so far--haven't I?”

“No, sir,” contradicted Sniffens with the air of a man who will tell the truth even if death should resuit. “Fifty-five. You forget you saw the Swede twice.”

“That is true, Sniffens. You are an honest man! Here!” And he gave ten dollars to the agent. “Send in the men.”

He sat down in the inner office and Sniffens went out, presently to return with an elderly man. “This is Wilkinson--worked twenty-nine years--”

“Sorry. Won't do. Here, my man! Take this two-dollar bill for your trouble. Next!”

Much the same thing happened with the next four applicants. The fifth man, however, made Robison listen patiently while Sniffens finished his elaborately biographical introduction. The man's name was Thomas Gray; age fifty-eight; worked twelve years for General James Morris and fourteen for Stuyvesant R. Morris. Very careful. Excellent references. Morris family went abroad to live. Gray had not done anything for five years, but was willing and anxious to work.

Robison, who had been studying Gray keenly, said sharply, and not at all nasally:

“Height and weight?”

“Five foot eleven and a half inches; one hundred and seventy pounds, sir.”

“Deaf?”

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“No, sir; but I don't hear as well as I did.”

“Can you hear this?” And Robison whispered, “Constantinople!”

“Beg pardon, sir!” Gray looked at Mr. Robison's face intently, but Robison shook his head and said:

“No fair looking! That isn't hearing, but lipreading. Close your eyes and listen!” And he whispered, “Bab-el-Mandeb!” No one could have heard him three feet away and Gray was across the room. Robison raised his voice and said, “Did you hear that?”

There showed in Gray's blue eyes a pathetic struggle between telling the truth and getting the job. “I--I only heard a faint murmur, sir.”

“Try again. Listen!” Mr. Robison moved his lips soundlessly and asked, “What did I say, Gray?” The old man drew in a deep breath. It was not so much the money, for the Morris family gave him a pension; but he wished to feel that he was not yet useless, that he was still worth his keep. However, he shook his head and said, determinedly:

“I heard nothing.”

“Open your eyes! You get the job, Gray,” said Mr. Robison. “Come here!”

As Gray approached his new employer Sniffens left the room.

“You are not to tell any one for whom you are working, or where, or why, or for how long, or for what wages. There will be no night work. Are you very careful?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You'll have to take some children to school every day--poor children to a public school in the morning. You are not to ask their names. Do what you are told, no matter how queer it seems to you, so long as you are not asked to break the law of the land or the rules of the road.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I shall send people to ask you questions, and I warn you that I'm going to put you to various tests. I want a man who is honest enough to trust with valuables, wise enough to mind his own business, and faithful enough to do what his employer tells him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Until you prove you are the man I want you will be paid by the day--five dollars. You will feed yourself and sleep home. I supply the livery and a second man. If after one month's trial you are found satisfactory you will get your wages by the month. It's big wages, but I want an honest man!” He looked at Gray sternly.

“Yes, sir. I'm careful and honest, sir. I think you will find that to be true, sir.”

“I trust so. The stable is on Thirty-first Street, near Avenue B. Here is the number.” He gave a card to Gray. “Be there at eight sharp. You will drive a coupé; quiet horse; New York City.”

“Yes, sir. I'll be there, sir.”

“Here's five dollars for you. You don't have to pay any fee to Sniffens. I've paid him.”

“Thank you, sir. Good day, sir.”

At seven-thirty the next morning Gray was at the stable. It was not a very good-looking place. He rang the bell, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. No one answered. He rang a second and a third time, and still there was no answer. He listened, his ear close to the door. He heard the muffled sound of a horse pounding in a well-littered stall.

At eight o'clock--Gray heard a clock within chime the hour--the door opened. Gray entered. A man was hitching up a dark bay horse to a coupé. Mr. Robison was sitting in a sumptuous green-plush armchair in the carriage-room. Behind him, on a mahogany table, was a small valise, opened.

“Good morning, Gray,” said Robison.

“Good morning, Mr. Maynard,” said Gray, respectfully.

Robison took a clean white-linen handkerchief from his pocket and said:

“See that brick over there?” He pointed to a common red brick on a little shelf near the street door.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, wrap it up in this handkerchief--here on this table. No--don't dust it. Just as it is!” He watched Gray's face keenly. The old man's countenance remained English and impassive.

“Put it in the valise.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In yonder box you'll find some tenpenny nails. Fetch three and wrap them up in the sheet of paper you'll find in the valise. Then lay them on top of the brick.”

Gray did as he was bid. If he thought his employer was crazy he did not look it.

Robison then took from his pocket a sealed envelope, threw it into the valise, and closed the valise.

“You will find your livery in the dressing-room--door to your left. Put it on. Then drive so as to be before 197 West Thirty-eighth Street at exactly nine minutes after nine. Compare your watch with that clock. Wait there--Thirty-eighth Street--until a footman in dark-green livery comes out alone. If he asks you, 'James, did Ben win?' you will say to him, 'The answer is inside. Take it!' You will then return to this stable, fasten the horse to that chain, put on your street clothes, go home, and return to-morrow at eight sharp. But--” He paused.

“Yes, sir.”

“Pay attention, Gray! If, instead of the servant alone, the servant comes out of, 197 West Thirty-eighth Street accompanied by a gentleman who gets in, you will drive him to my office.”

“Where, sir?”

“This is my office--here. You will drive back here quickly and disregard everything your passenger may say or whatever orders he may give you. You understand? These are your orders that I now give you. They are not to be changed under any circumstances, no matter what happens. Have you understood?”

“Yes, sir. I'll follow orders, Mr. Maynard.”

“See that you do.” And Mr. Robison walked out of the stable.

At nine-nine sharp Gray stood in front of 197 West Thirty-eighth Street. At nine-fifteen a footman in dark-green livery came out of the house. He was followed by Mr. Robison himself. The man opened the door of the carriage and Gray's employer got in.

“Will you go to the office, sir?” asked the footman. Gray heard him.

“No! Metropolitan Museum!” answered their master, distinctly.

“Metropolitan Museum!” said the footman to the coachman.

Gray was torn by doubt, anger, and fear. Should he drive to the Metropolitan or back to the stable?

He decided to go back to the stable. If he were discharged he would not regret losing so unsatisfactory a job. If, on the other hand, driving back should prove to be the right thing he would greatly strengthen his position.

He arrived at the stable, fastened the horse to the chain, and went to change his clothes. He heard Mr. Robison tap on the glass of the door and saw him beckon to him and then heard him shout, “Open the door!” But Gray went to the dressing-room and changed his clothes. As soon as he was done the second man came in, showed him two envelopes, and said:

“You win! You get the ten dollars! I get the five-spot. That's how he pays. You obeyed orders. You are the first man that's succeeded in holding the job over one day. The Lord only knows what test Mr. Maynard will prepare for you to-morrow! It may be the children's lunch stunt or the runaway lunatic. Run out! Mr. Maynard won't like you to be here when he comes in. You can go out into the street by that door without going through the carriage-room.”

Gray put the ten dollars in his pocket and walked out. “Rum go, that!” he muttered. It was indeed. He nodded his head with a sad sort of triumph to show that though he had not solved the mystery he had at all events grasped the situation and was, moreover, ten dollars to the good.

III

It was after the opening of the stock-market and most of the early orders had been executed. The rush had given place to the calm efficiency of a well-organized broker's office. Mr. Robison walked into the Customers' Room, approached Gilbert Witherspoon, a valued customer, touched his hat-brim with two fingers in the French military fashion, and said:

“Please, where's Mr. Richards?” His nasal twang and his Parisian appearance produced the usual impression of striking incongruity upon all men within hearing distance. Everybody frankly listened.

“That's his private office,” answered Witherspoon, non-committally, pointing his finger at a door.

“Thank you very much!” said Robison and bowed. Then he knocked, heard a peremptory “Come in!” and disappeared within.

Witherspoon, who cultivated a reputation as a wit--there is a buffoon in every stock-broker's office--shrugged his shoulders Frenchily, and, in a nasal voice obviously in imitation of Robison, said:

“Another world-beater!”

“You never can tell,” retorted Dan McCormack, oracularly. He was fat, always played “mysteries” in the market--traded in those stocks the movements in which were unaccounted for--and he did not like Witherspoon.

Inside Mr. Robison had said “_Bon jour!”_ and bowed so very low that Mr. Richards immediately thought of the language of a fashionable bill of fare.

“_Wie geht's?_” retorted Richards, jocularly. Then, nicely serious, “How are you this morning?”

“Don't I look it?” said Mr. Robison. “I am, of course, perplexed.”

“What's the trouble?”

“The usual trouble when I try to beat the stock-market--_embarras de richesses_.”

“It is an embarrassment that most people would welcome.”

“Tut! The more elaborate the menu is in a good restaurant the greater your indecision as to which particular dish you will order! Well, I went through the Menagerie!” There was a catarrhal despair in his voice.

“Yes?”

“And I am undecided between four.”

Robison looked anxiously at the broker, and Richards felt such an annoyance as a man might feel if compelled at the point of a pistol to listen to the reading of one hundred pages of the city directory. But he smiled tolerantly, for he had the professional amiability indispensable to men whose business consists of making money and of consoling clients for losing money.

“Four what?” he asked.

“Four sure ways.”

“Which four?” asked Richards. He managed to convey both that he was dying to listen and that the rest of the world did not exist for him.

“The Ant, the Spider, the Beaver, and the Lion. Out of the nineteen combinations in the Menagerie I've narrowed my choice to these four. You know conditions better than I and probably have seen the Cribbage Board. Have you a choice?” He looked at Richards so eagerly, and withal so shrewdly and sanely, that in self-defense the broker said:

“I can't say that I have. Of course I am bullish--”

“Of course. But the question is: Which--in a week?”

Richards had no idea what was meant by this man with the sane eyes who said crazy things through his nose--a man who had one hundred thousand dollars to his credit with the firm. Perplexed to the verge of exasperation, Richards was stock-broker enough--when in doubt, bluff!--to say, with a frown, “Yes, that's the question: Which--in a week?” He shook his head as though he were trying to pick out the best for his beloved Robison.

“I never was so puzzled in my life, and I want you to know that I've made money even in Rumanian bonds!”

“I'm afraid I can't help you much.”

“What does the I. S. Board say?”

“Mr. Robison, exactly what do you mean by the I. S. Board?”

“What? You don't know the International Syndicate Cribbage Board! Then how in Hades do you pick your combinations?”

“We buy and sell stocks on our judgment of basic conditions or for special reasons.”

“Ah, yes--like the public. You base your trades on gas and guess. Well, _I_ don't! I'd play the Ant, but I don't see the Granary full in a week. Jay Gould had a perfect mania for it; it was an obsession with him. And yet he seldom won commensurately with his risks. In the Northwest corner he was tied up over a year and lost more than a million. I guess we'll dispense with the Ant, though it looks so safe for the Granger group.”

Robison seemed to be thinking aloud rather than asking for advice. But Richards, who was a Wall Street man to his finger-tips, said, gravely, “I think you are right.”

Robison nodded, to show he had heard, and went on: “The situation in the Pacific Coast, of course, suggests the Beaver at once. I can see the Dam in Union Pacific; but I don't like to try it so soon after the Rothschilds worked it so openly in Berlin over the Agadir excuse. Too many people who have access to the Menagerie remember it. I realize all this, but,” he finished, with profound regret, “it _is_ such a cinch!”

“Yes. But--” Richards shook his head in sympathy. He felt that he ought to humor this man; moreover, business was quiet, and this man was saying incomprehensible things that would be repeated by Richards, with sensational success, at luncheons and dinners for weeks.

“Of course, the Spider is the oldest stand-by. Personally I never liked it. In the Governor Flower boom and, indeed, up to the Northern Pacific panic, its popularity was due to John W. Gates. But do you know, Mr. Richards, I have always believed that in the first two Steel and Wire coups and in the Louisville & Nashville affair, Gates hit upon it by accident. Else,” pursued Mr. Robison, controversially, “why was he pinched so badly in 1901 and again in 1907? He hit upon it, after he got out of Federal Steel, by accident, I tell you! He was a man of genius and courage, but it was all instinct with him. He was no student, sir--no student!”

“I've always said,” observed Mr. George B. Richards, “that Gates was not a student!” He glared, thereby successfully defying contradiction.

“It leaves the Lion!” muttered Robison. “Should I try it? And which Peg?”

“I'd try it!” counseled Richards, who was not only intelligent, but had a sense of humor.

“Would you, really?”

“Yes, I certainly would!” And the broker looked as if he certainly meant it.

“It's the Dutch favorite,” said Robison, musingly. “And they are a very clever people. You know Van Vollenhoven in his book says that once a year, for thirteen consecutive years, the great Cornelius Roelofs, of Amsterdam, made a million gulden in London by the Lion--the most hopeful pessimist in the history of stock speculation! It comes easy to the phlegmatic Hollanders, but Americans are too nervous to take kindly to it. I once begged the late Addison Cammack to join me in a Lion deal, but he didn't. He was not very well at the time. Anyhow, he was too American.”

“Did you know him?”

“Like a book! Dangerous man to follow! Cynicism sounds impressive, but is wind. You don't win in the stock-market with catch phrases, but with combinations.”

“Do you use charts?”

“A stock speculator is not a navigator, but all commission-houses should have a chart. With some customers, after you have exhausted every other invitation, you can use the chart to get them trading. But not for us, Mr. George B. Richards. I think you will soon realize that I am in this affair not to lose money, but to make it. I shall, therefore, either buy Dock Island, sell Middle Pacific, buy National Smelting, or sell Consolidated Steel. I'll have a pad of special order-slips made so you will not mistake my orders for those of any one else. You will execute for me no order that is not written and signed by me on such a slip. I'll keep up my margin. We'll operate on a ten-per-cent, basis; and I hereby authorize you to sell me out when my margin is down to six points. That gives you ample safety. It is really unnecessary, as I never lose; but I always protect the broker. The sudden death by heart disease of Baron Lespinasse in 1883 sent into bankruptcy the great firms of La Croissade et Cie. and Mayer, Dreyfus et Cie., of Paris, Ver-brugghe Frères, of Brussels, and about a dozen smaller houses. Mine, to be sure, is a trifling operation, designed to supply a modest income to an old flame. But I may--who knows?--decide to take a few millions back with me. And your firm, Mr. Richards, will be my principal brokers.”

Mr. Robison said this so impressively, so much as though he had made the firm of Richards & Tuttle rich beyond the dreams of avarice, that George B. found it easy to look grateful as he said, “Thank you, Mr. Robison.” It would be worth while watching this mysterious man, to see, first, if he made money; and if he did, how!

“I'll write it here and now. If my margins are down to six points at any time close me out, for I shall have been mistaken, which is a sign I've gone crazy; or I shall be dead, in which case protect yourself!”

Mr. Robison wrote out the instructions, signed them, and gave them to Mr. Richards. He must have noticed a look of uncertainty or dissatisfaction on the broker's face, for he said:

“I have no desire to pose before you as an unfailing winner, though I assure you I seldom lose. It is not brains, but carefulness. If you know nothing about the International Syndicate's information collecting machinery, why, just take my word for it that there are people in this world who don't work on the hit-or-miss plan. We don't eliminate all possibilities of failure; we merely reduce them to a negligible minimum. We cannot prevent all accidents, but we can and do foresee some of them. This sounds crazy to you, I know--no, don't deny it!--but all I can say is that your natural suspicions don't affect your kindness and courtesy, and I am more grateful than I can say. Of course, my own operations here will be conducted with your approval, in strict accordance with the rules of the New York Stock Exchange.”

“Oh, I am sure I haven't doubted your sanity,” said the broker, who had been much reassured by Mr. Robison's look of frankness and earnestness as he spoke. “I have merely suspected the depths of my own ignorance.”

“Your retort is both kind and clever. I thank you. I shall have to borrow one of your clerks or office-boys between nine-forty and ten a. m., to whom I may give my orders to bring to this office, and also ask you to recommend to me some young man who is intelligent but honest, wide awake but deaf to the ticker.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I shall need a young man who can watch certain developments and at the crucial moment will hasten to me without stopping on the way to take advantage in the stock-market of what he has learned while working for me.”

“I shall let you have one of my own clerks. He'll do as he is told.”