Part 9

“I never thought of that side of it. But I can see there is much in what you say. I should like to put the gold in the VanTwiller Trust Company.”

“Fine! I think I can help you. I'll call up our Wall Street man and he will make the trust company take it--unless he thinks there is another still better. Let's go to your room and telephone from there; and we'll tell Stewart to tell the telephone operator not to bother us--what?”

J. Willoughby intended that Jemingham should be the sole and exclusive property of the _Planet_. From Jerningham's sumptuous room he called up the office, ordered a corps of photographers to the battlefield to take pictures of sundry loads of gold on trucks on their way to the great vaults, escorted by the _Planet's_ special commissioner in one of the armored automobiles which the _Planet_ supplied to its bright young men.

Then he called up Amos F. Kidder, the _Planet's_ financial editor; and Kidder, who, of course, knew the president of the VanTwiller Trust Company, Mr. Ashton Welles, hustled thitherward and made all arrangements, including the securing of the trucks owned by Tommy O'Loughlin, who did all the gold-trucking for W. H. Garrettson & Company, Wolff, Herzog & Company, and other gold-shipping banking firms. Photographers were duly stationed at the various points by which the aureate procession would pass.

Mr. J. Willoughby Parkhurst had the boxes of gold-dust taken out by the ash-and-cinder exit, caused his fellow-reporters to be “tipped off” by hall-boys that the gold would be taken away at twelve-thirty sharp to the Metropolitan National Bank vaults, and then took Jerningham in the _Planet's_ automobile and followed the trucks.

In Wall Street Parkhurst introduced Jerningham to the waiting Kidder, and Kidder introduced Jerningham to the waiting Mr. Welles. The gold was carried down to the vaults. Jerningham separated twenty boxes from the heap.

“I'd like to have these cashed,” he said, with that delightful humor of all very rich men. And everybody within hearing laughed, as everybody always laughs at the so-delightful humor of all very rich men. There was not a clerk in the trust company who did not repeat the historic remark at home that night.

Word of what was happening went about, and soon the great little narrow street was blocked by people who wished to see six or eight millions go into a place where there were one hundred and fifty. But there was this difference--the one hundred and fifty already there would stay there; but a handful or two of the six or eight might be distributed among those present by the latest Coal-Oil Johnny from the Klondike. The hope of a stray nugget or two kept two thousand busy people about the doors of the VanTwiller Trust Company nearly two hours.

As for Jerningham, the trust company was to send the twenty boxes of gold-dust to the Assay Office and credit Mr. Jerninghan's account with the proceeds of the sale thereof. Two days later Mr. Alfred Jerningham had to his credit in the VanTwiller Trust Company $1,115,675.28; and in the vaults boxes containing, as per his most conservative estimates, gold-dust valued at six millions and a half. And everybody knew it--the Planet saw to that. Great potentialities in that golden fame of Jerningham's--what?

III

The _Planet's_ official version of the Jerningham affair, and the flood of sensational literature turned loose on the community by the other papers, made the Klondiker's name as familiar to New-Yorkers as a certain breakfast-food advertisement.

His daily mail was enormous, especially after the newspapers said that he was looking for a house in which to entertain. “The richest bachelor in the world,” he was called, and the real-estate agents acted accordingly. So did no end of unattached females of dubious age, but of not at all dubious intentions. Also it became known that he needed a social secretary to guide him in two things--the two things being whom to invite and how to spend six hundred thousand dollars a year in entertaining those who were invited by the social adviser.

The applications came by the dozen--in the strictest confidence. If somebody had said this aloud in the hearing of society, society would have laughed scornfully. A gentleman was always a gentleman, and could never, never be secretary to a parvenu! But, for all that, there were scores of well-born men who appeared willing enough--don't you know?--to help spend the six hundred thousand a year. Or else some historic names were forged by dastards. The _Planet's_ society editor, who would never allow herself to be called editress, proved invaluable as a living Who's Who, and demonstrated her worth to her paper by making connections that would further her work; for she was much sought by people who wished introductions to Mr. Jerningham.

They would trade with her--items for letters.

It helped all concerned that not only Parkhurst, but the rest of the kind-hearted space-grabbers, informed the world that the possessor of the income of six hundred thousand a year was a fount of erudition, and withal a man of the world, with exquisite manners--invulnerable to the optical artillery of the fairest sirens on earth. And always the six hundred thousand dollars a year to spend, so that the beastly stuff would not accumulate and choke up the passages of the palace he proposed to build! That was how Francis Wolfe came to be introduced to Mr. Jerningham by J. Willoughby Parkhurst, and how the position was delicately offered to him, and how F. Wolfe delicately accepted.

A fine-looking, well-built young fellow, this Frank--dark-eyed, black-haired, with a wonderfully clean pink but virile complexion that made him physically very attractive. In those Broadway restaurants that have become institutions Francis Wolfe was himself an institution. His debts were discussed as freely as the cost of gasoline. And yet the chorus contingent and their lady friends, consisting of the most beautiful women in all the world, not only preferred, but publicly and on the slightest provocation proclaimed their preference for, Frank Wolfe penniless to almost any one else--short of millions. But if Frank Wolfe was the chorus-girls' pet, Mr. Francis Wolfe was the only brother of Mrs. John Burt and Mrs. Sydney Walsingham, and favorite nephew of old Mrs. Stimson. And everybody knew what that meant!

J. Willoughby Parkhurst left them alone, even if he was a reporter.

“If you do not mind talking business,” said Jerningham, with a deprecatory smile.

“Not at all,” eagerly said young Wolfe, who was consumed by curiosity to listen to the golden statistics. “In fact,” he added, with a burst of boyish candor, “I'd be glad to have you.”

“You are a nice boy!” said Jemingham, so gratefully and non-familiarly that Frank could not find fault with him.

“I need a friend,” continued Jerningham. “I know friendship cannot be bought. It grows--but there must be a seed. It may be that after you know me better you will give me your friendship. That is for the future. I also need a man! A man whom I can trust! A man, young Mr. Francis Wolfe,” he said, with a sternness that impressed young Mr. Francis Wolfe, “who will not laugh at me!”

Frank was not an intellectual giant, but neither was he an utter ass. He said, very seriously, “Go on!”

“I am willing to pay such a man twenty-five thousand a year--” He paused and almost frowned.

“Go on!” again said young Mr. Wolfe, looking the Klondiker straight in the eyes.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars--to begin with!”

“Yes?” said young Mr. Wolfe, quite calmly.

“The duties of such a man--and keep in mind I mean a man when I say a man!--entail nothing whatever of a menial or dishonorable character; nothing to which a gentleman could possibly object. But it would necessitate a certain spirit of good-will toward me. I am not only willing, but even anxious, to pay twenty-five thousand dollars a year, and all traveling expenses, to a clean-minded young man who, for all his wild-oat sowing, is a gentleman and will learn to like me enough not to laugh at me when I intrust him with the secret desire of my heart.”

Before Frank's thoughts could crystallize into the definite suspicion that Jerningham wanted to be helped to climb socially, Jemingham went on so coldly that again young Wolfe was impressed:

“You will admit, Mr. Wolfe, that a man who has prospected all over North America from the Rio Grande to the Arctic Circle, and who has, unfortunately, been compelled”--he rose, went to his bureau, brought out two revolvers of a rather old-fashioned kind--“compelled against his will to draw first”--he showed the young man about a dozen notches in the handle of one of them--“one who fears no man and no government and no blackmailer; who owns the richest placer mines in the world--is not apt to be an emotional ass!” There was a pause. But Jemingham continued before young Wolfe could speak: “Neither is he a damned fool--what?”

Mr. Francis Wolfe felt he had to say something, so he said, “I shouldn't think so.”

He felt that Jemingham was not a man to trifle with--a tough customer in a rough-and-tumble fight; a man who had taken life in preserving his own; altogether a man, a character, who would make an admirable topic of conversation with both men and women--therefore a man to be interested in.

“Do you know Mr. Ashton Welles?” asked Jer-ningham, almost sharply.

“Not intimately.”

“Do you know Mrs. Ashton Welles?”

“Same answer.”

“Ever dine at their house?”

Frank thought a moment. He had dined at so many people's houses. “No,” he answered, finally. “Could you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Are your relations with Welles such, or could they be cultivated so, as to make him invite you--not me--you!--to dine at his house?”

“Look here, Mr. Jerningham,” and young Mr. Wolfe's face flushed, “a fellow doesn't do some things for money; and this is one--”

“I know it! Not for money. For friendship, yes! That's why--you understand now, don't you?” He looked so earnestly at young Wolfe that Frank absolved him of wrong-doing.

“No, I don't!” said the young man.

“Did you ever know Randolph Deering, who used to be president of the VanTwiller Trust Company?”

“Do you mean Mrs. Welles's father?”

“Yes.”

“I don't recall speaking to him more than to say 'How do you do?' I don't remember when or how I met him.”

“Do you know Mrs. Deering, Mrs. Welles's mother?”

“No.”

“Do you know anybody who does?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Anybody who would give you a letter of introduction?”

“I don't know. If my aunt or my sisters know her it would be easy. But, of course, I should have to know first why I should want to meet her.”

“Of course. Did you ever hear anything about Mrs. Welles's sister, Naida Deering?”

“Didn't know she had a sister.”

“Then, of course, you never saw her.”

Francis Wolfe thought a long time. His mind did not work very quickly at any time. At length he said: “I don't think there could have been a sister, for I never heard of her having any; indeed, I distinctly remember hearing that she was an only child. Maybe she was a cousin or--er--something of the sort.”

“No; Naida was a sister; a good deal older and--But we are drifting away from business. Will you accept my proposition to be my--er--adviser in certain matters on which I think you are qualified to give advice, and accept twenty-five thousand dollars a year?”

“Do you mind if I speak frankly?”

“Certainly not. Speak ahead.”

“Are you offering me this--er--salary when, of course, I know I am not worth a da--a cent in business; I mean, isn't it really in exchange for what I may be able to do for you in a--a social way? You know what I mean.”

“No, sir!” said Jerningham, decisively. “Not for an instant! I do not, dear Mr. Wolfe, give an infinitesimal damn for what is called society.”

“But I thought Jimmy Parkhurst told me--”

“I cannot help what Jimmy Parkhurst told you; but I tell you that I like interesting people, and I don't care who or what they are socially. I hate bores--whether they are hod-carriers or dukes. If I can meet people who will instruct me when I want to learn, or amuse me when I want to laugh, I'm satisfied. And I can always meet that kind without anybody's help. You know how it is.” Then he spoke perhaps thirty words in a foreign language that Frank thought must be Hungarian. “You remember your Latin, of course. That's from Petronius.”

“I thought so!” said Frank Wolfe, the pet of the chorus-girls, laughing to himself. Remember his Latin! He? Haw!

“It is from his 'Cena Trimalchionis.' The _arbiter elegantiarum_ knew what social climbers might be expected to do, though I neither boast of my money nor do I eat with my knife. The Latin of the 'Cena' is difficult--too slangy, full of the _sermo plebeius_.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Frank, so gravely that it was all he could do to keep from laughing at himself. This Klondiker was not only a gun-fighter and richer than Croesus, but also a highbrow! Could you beat it?

“Will you accept my offer? Will you try to be my friend?”

“Suppose I find I can't?”

“I'll be sorry. The money is nothing. The inability to make a friend will be my real loss.”

“Well, we might try six months.” He looked inquiringly at Jerningham. “I don't exactly know what you wish me to do.”

“Become my friend! You yourself said some things cannot be done for money by a gentleman; but there is nothing--so long as it is not dishonorable--that a gentleman may not do for a friend. Shall I explain a little more?” He looked anxiously at young Mr. Wolfe.

“Yes--do,” said Frank. It occurred to him that this singular man was in reality proceeding with a curious delicacy.

“Just as soon as you feel you know me I will ask you to help me. Mrs. Deering is now abroad. Mrs. Welles may be of help to us. Mr. Wolfe, now that I am not so poor as I was, I want to find Naida Deering, the only woman I ever loved--and, God help me, the only woman I still love!”

Jerningham rose hastily and walked up and down the room, his face persistently turned away from Wolfe. He walked to a window and stared at the sky a long time. Finally he turned to the young man, who was watching him, and said, with profound conviction:

“_Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur!_”

Young Mr. Wolfe at first felt like saying, “Yes, indeed!” which would, as a matter of fact, have been a very pat retort. But he weakened and said, “What is that quotation from?”

“Publilius Syrus. Mr. Wolfe, I must find her. And of course I can't employ a private detective. You understand?”

“Yes. That is true,” said Frank.

“In her youth something happened.” Young Mr. Wolfe sat up straight. Here at last was something really vital! Jerningham proceeded: “She was a high-strung girl--pure as gold. Her very innocence made her indiscreet. There was no scandal--no, indeed! But she disappeared. And now, when I have more than enough money for the two of us, I wish to find her. If I don't--of what possible good are my millions? Tell me that!”

Jerningham glared so angrily at young Mr. Wolfe that young Mr. Wolfe felt a slight spasm of concern. The Klondiker had a metallic gray eye that at times menaced like cold steel.

“Excuse me!” said Jerningham, contritely. “My dear boy, do you know what it is to go chasing over the landscape for years and years in the hope of striking it some day so as to be able to go back to your native city and marry the one woman in all the world--particularly when she was one whom her parents, not understanding her nature, practically disowned? In all my prospecting what I wanted was to find Naida's mine--gold by the ton--so I could buy back her place in society!”

There was such determination in Jerningham's voice and look that young Wolfe felt a thrill of admiration and, with it, a distinct masculine liking.

“That's a great story!” he said. “I never heard of your--er--Miss Naida. She never married, I suppose?”

“I don't know! I don't know! She promised to wait for me. The Deerings used to live in Jersey; and living in Jersey when I was a kid wasn't what it is to-day. They were not prominent in society. Of course the Deerings kept it quiet. I think Mrs. Welles may know where her sister is--the sister who is never mentioned by her own flesh and blood! Mrs. Deering, of course, does; but she is abroad somewhere. I must find Naida, I tell you--and--” Jerningham was silent, but Wolfe saw that he was breathing quickly, as though he had been running. Frank never read anything except the afternoon papers, love-letters, and the more romantic of the best-sellers. He now very laboriously constructed a romance of Jemingham's life that became so thrilling it took away his own breath. It made him feel very kindly toward the new Jerningham--everybody feels kindly toward his own creations; and so he said, in a burst of enthusiasm:

“By George! I'll help you!”

And thus was begun the pact between the two men.

IV

On the very, next morning Mr. Jerningham, instead of going to Wall Street as was his custom, went instead to Mrs. Charlton Morris's Agency for Trained Nurses.

An empress--no less--sat at a desk. She was not, however, one of those empresses who change the destiny of nations by their beauty. She had merely an arrogance more than royal.

“I should like to see Mrs. Charlton Morris,” said Jerningham, briskly.

“I am Mrs. Morris,” she said.

You at once perceived that she was even more than imperial. She was a woman of forty, dark, slender, with shell-rimmed, round lenses that gave her that look between a Chinese philosopher and an ancient owl, which those tortoise-shell goggles always do. You also obtained the impression that a completely successful operation had removed Mrs. Morris's sense of humor.

“I should like, if you please--” began Jerningham; but Mrs. Morris interrupted with an effect as of thrusting an icicle into the interior mechanism of a clock.

“I beg your pardon, but we must know with whom we are dealing. What is the name, please?”

“I prefer not to give you mine yet.”

“Oh no, sir; I must know.”

“Suppose I had given you a false one, how would you have been the wiser?”

“Oh, but also you must give me the name of your doctor.”

“He sent me here.”

“And who is he, sir?”

From her voice and her look you gathered that she was in charge of a hospital and was obtaining indispensable clinical data.

“Madam,” said Jemingham, very coldly indeed, “you talk like the census man. Would you also like to know my age, sex, and color?”

“We never,” retorted Mrs. Morris, imperturbably, “do business with strangers.”

“Do you want me to get a letter from the President of the United States? I know him pretty well. Or from my bankers? They are known even in Brooklyn.”

“We are here to supply trained nurses to people whose physicians we know.”

A trained nurse must have unfailing good humor--it is part of her professional requirements. But a purveyor of trained nurses may permit herself much dignity, as though her mission in life consisted, of fitting nurses to cases--the best nurse for the worst case.

“My doctor,” said Jerningham, “is Dr. Jewett.” It was the name of a very great surgeon.

“Ah, yes. Surgical case! Yes! I have Miss Sennett and Miss Audrey. Dr. Jewett knows them very well.”

“Kindly wait a second! I must see them myself. And it is not a surgical case. It is no case at all--yet. Show me the girls!”

“Sir, this is not an intelligence-office; but--”

“I know there is no intelligence in this office. This is merely the anteroom of a hospital and you are the superintendent. By rights you ought to be on the faculty. I am perfectly willing to pay for any loss of time or trouble to which you and the young ladies may be put.”

“Must she be young?” asked Mrs. Morris.

Her voice was at least thirty degrees below zero, for all that there was no devilishness about Mr. Jerningham. He said:

“Yes; and good-looking--not a girl in her teens, but a young woman. I should say, without meaning to be personal, about your age, Mrs. Morris.”

It was plain that Mrs. Morris had almost superhuman control over her facial muscles--she did not beam on him!

“I understand,” she said, in a quite human voice. This man was, after all, neither rude nor blind. “A woman--”

“About thirty--or a little less,” said Jerningham. He looked at Mrs. Morris's face and nodded confirmatively.

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Morris, genially. First impressions are so apt to be unfair!

“I'll be more than satisfied with one of your age and good loo--and--er--appearance “--here the Morris smile irrepressibly made its début--“and also tactful. It is an unusual case. It will necessitate going to Europe.”

“With the patient?”

“For the patient,” said Jerningham, and waited.

“If you will tell me a little bit more about the case--” said Mrs. Morris, encouragingly. She had just taken a good look at the pearl in the scarf of this delightful judge of ages--at the lowest estimation, five thousand dollars!

“My--I--We have reason to believe that a--friend is ill in London. Kidneys. We wish her to take care of herself. She is a woman of fifty-odd. We want a nurse, refined, well-bred, good-looking, and competent--like yourself; so that she could be a companion and at home among wealthy people. You know what I mean.” He paused.

“Perfectly, sir!” said Mrs. Morris, veraciously. Did she not know Mrs. Morris?

“It would be nice to find such a nurse--and, if possible, also one to whom the fact that she is going to visit England, and possibly other countries, may be a sort of compensation for her sudden departure from New York. Of course she will be paid all her traveling and living expenses--first-class all through--and her regular honorarium. I believe it is thirty-five dollars a week. As I am leaving New York myself soon, I'll pay in advance, and will leave instructions with my bankers to honor any of your drafts, Mrs. Morris. It will be a good opportunity for the young lady to know London--and you know how attractive it is--and Paris!”

“Yes, indeed,” acquiesced Mrs. Morris, suddenly looking like Baedeker.

“The young lady--I am sorry you could not go in her place! Yes, I am!--will live at the same hotel with the patient and become acquainted with her--and advise her to see a physician regularly--a specialist in kidney diseases. We think her only daughter ought to be with her. But you can't say anything to either of them, because if the mother doesn't think she is ill the daughter cannot know it, either. We only suspect it is Bright's. You can't afford to wait until you have to go to bed with Bright's--can you?”

“No, indeed!” gravely agreed Mrs. Morris, specialist.

“So now you know what sort of a girl I wish--one who will be there if the trouble should take a sudden turn for the worse; one who will induce the old lady to consult a physician. Do I have to give a preliminary fee?”

“Not at all. Call this afternoon at four and I'll try to have one of my best nurses here. She is--well, quite young; in fact”--with what might be called a desiccated archness--“she is a little younger than I and quite pretty. I call her handsome!”

Some women are so sure of their own position that they do not fear competition.

“Thank you! I'll be here at four, sharp.” And Mr. Jemingham went away without having given his name to Mrs. Morris.

At four o'clock Mr. Jemingham called at Mrs. Charlton Morris's agency and had an interview with Miss Kathryn Keogh. Mrs. Morris gave them the use of her own little private office; Jemingham very impressively waited for Miss Keogh to sit down and then did so himself.

He threw at Miss Keogh one of those inventorying looks that women find so difficult to appear unconscious of, probably because they know their own weak points.