ONE CHANCE IN A MILLION
As the traveler, turning his back to the setting sun, descends into Paradise Valley, there spreads before him a brilliant checker-board of orchard and vineyard. Beyond this an extensive and picturesque group of red buildings gleams still ruddier, and upon one corner of the roof of the principal structure a small house of glass glistens like a huge jewel in the sunset glow. Approaching nearer, the buildings are seen to be surrounded by parks and gardens, where men and women are amusing themselves with golf and baseball, croquet and tennis, under the watchful eyes of discreet attendants.
Here is the home of many a human wreck, cast upon the shores of mental oblivion in the strenuous struggle of life—the man who, during the gold fever of '49, found fortune to lose all else, he who sacrificed everything and gained nothing, and hundreds of others, men and women, who have proved unequal to the strain on nerve and brain imposed by the stress of an unkindly Fate.
Walking apart from these groups may be seen a white-haired man of melancholy mien, who pauses occasionally and makes a peculiar motion with his hands, as if in the act of cutting with an imaginary pocket knife. This man is the sole occupant of the glass house on the roof, which is always brilliantly lighted, blazing all night with electric lamps. At intervals of a few months, he is visited by two ladies, who seem extremely solicitous for his welfare, and twice a year a noted alienist from Paris comes to study this interesting case. Here is the story of this peculiar patient:
Anyone with a sweet tooth and a good memory will recall the curious little pear-shaped sweetmeats which were so popular thirty years ago and then suddenly dropped out of sight. Everyone bought and talked of the new candy, which was small, apple-green and translucent, with a curious red streak in the core. It was not only very delicious to the taste, but produced a strange effect of mental and physical stimulation, of buoyancy—almost of intoxication. Totally different from the action of any known drug, however, and especially from alcohol, it had absolutely no deleterious reaction, but on the contrary seemed to exercise a tonic influence upon the nervous system. Joy Drops, as they were called, were carried in school-children's satchels, sold on trains, taken as a "pick-me-up" by men, ordered by society ladies for their "functions" and consumed by shop-girls by the ton.
The enormous profits from their sales were not divided among shareholders, but all went to one man, Walter H. Torreton, the inventor and manufacturer, who, starting in a small way, had constantly increased his business and incidentally the fame of the Lake city where he lived. There he bought the handsomest estate on Park Avenue and built extensive conservatories, giving much personal attention to a unique species of lily, which had never before been seen, called by him the multi-bloom.
As the fame of Torreton's confectionery spread, other manufacturers put imitations on the market, but without success. Though their candy looked much the same, it wholly lacked the peculiar qualities of the genuine Joy Drops, in which analysis had failed to reveal anything more than sugar, a little fruit flavoring and the merest trace of some quite unknown but very volatile essence, which appeared to be located in the red central stripe.
Torreton received large offers for the use of his secret formula, but these he promptly declined, and went on enlarging his business. Then his competitors began a systematic endeavor to steal what they could not buy. Information was lodged with the internal revenue officers that the candy contained alcohol, but this was disproved by the government analysis, which, however, utterly failed to show the nature of the characteristic ingredient. Torreton often found spy-glasses and cameras levelled upon his laboratory windows from buildings across the way. Repeated attempts were made to bribe his workmen, but they only served to bring out the fact that no one knew the secret but Torreton himself. Then complaint was brought against him for violating the fire regulations, and among the inspectors who came when an investigation was ordered he recognized a chemist from Chicago. But even this spy, after gaining access to the citadel, and peering and sniffing about the premises, could find no clue but a strange aroma which he could not identify. Some express packages which arrived at the factory were traced back to Amsterdam, where, after a tedious search, it was found that they had been originally shipped across the ocean by Torreton himself, merely as a blind. When it seemed as if persecution and inquisition could go no further, the inventor, one evening on leaving the factory, discovered a small balloon anchored over his laboratory skylight!
Not long after this, a real estate firm, acting, it was surmised, for a foreign syndicate, bought a vacant tract of land on the outskirts, commonly known as Sumach Park. On the high ground in the centre a large brick building was erected and enclosed by a high brick wall like those which give privacy to many English estates. The building itself was surmounted by a glass structure, somewhat like the lantern of a lighthouse, and was the cause of much curiosity. This curiosity was partially gratified eventually, and the story of a foreign syndicate shattered by the following notice, which appeared one evening in all the papers:
ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD will be paid by the undersigned to the person who first brings news to his residence on Park Avenue that the electric light has gone out in the cupola of the new Torreton Confectionery Works, in Sumach Park.
Walter H. Torreton.
As soon as the papers were on the street, men went out of their way to get a look at the new light. There it was, sure enough, and as the darkness gathered it displayed a beautiful green pear, with a red streak in the centre, a gleaming reproduction of the famous candy. It was pronounced a great advertisement, but one scarcely necessary in a locality where the confection itself was already in the mouth of everybody. However, the reward offered was tempting, and not only did every policeman and fireman immediately become a night watchman for the Torreton works, but every man and boy as well who could invent any pretext for being out.
But while thus, in one sense, subjected to closer espionage than ever, Torreton's factory was no longer troubled by the spies of his rivals, and his business increased even beyond his expectations. Still he labored regularly as ever, and lived with his wife and niece just as quietly, his only extravagance being frequent additions to his greenhouses.
The light in the cupola burned steadily, and the tempting reward seemed destined to remain unclaimed, until one evening more than two years after the completion of the building, when a newsboy lingering late in the endeavor to dispose of an overstock of "extrys" suddenly saw a blurred halo surrounding the green and red beacon. It trembled, grew pale and—
The light went out!
Dropping his papers, the boy took the shortest route to Park Avenue, but soon found he was not alone in the race for the Torreton residence, as he passed men and boys and even women, all silently striving for the promised reward. A watchful and active fireman was the first to arrive in the presence of Mrs. Torreton to claim it, and she, with her niece, who acted as confidential secretary to her uncle at the factory, were already in a carriage swinging out of the grounds when the great body of panting messengers arrived.
During the anxious drive to Sumach Park, the girl explained that, rather earlier than usual, her uncle told her he was going to the city and would not return to the works. When she started for home she had noticed that the door to a small inner laboratory vault, in which Mr. Torreton kept his most important chemicals and papers, was open. She had closed and locked it. What connection this incident might have with the extinguishing of the light she could not imagine, yet she felt that something was wrong, as any attempt to enter the building by night would put out the beacon and give an alarm.
Followed by Mrs. Torreton and a policeman from the crowd assembled about the factory, the niece led the way through the building. Although this was four stories high, all the stairways and elevators stopped at the third floor. The private laboratories on the top floor were never entered by any one but Torreton and his niece, who went there daily, drawing themselves up by an ingenious contrivance like a dumb waiter built into the wall and concealed behind a panel in the private secretary's office. To this she now went, and under her direction the others ascended one at a time to the floor above. The laboratory was in darkness, and the electric light would not work. But as they approached the door of the vault by lantern light, strange noises were heard. Tremblingly the girl worked the combination and released the heavy door. Torreton was there and alive, and without speaking he stumbled blindly toward the light, and then fell unconscious.
Before closing the vault again, the niece looked wonderingly in. Burned matches and paper ashes attracted her attention. They lay on the floor, beneath the electric light bracket. On a shelf lay a note hastily scrawled on a Joy Drop wrapper:
"Locked in—suffocating. Secret shall die with me. Have burned the formula. Wife has enough—she shall not be persecuted as I have been. Good-bye."
Beneath this was written:
"A thought has come to me that may save my life: I shall try to give the alarm by cutting the electric wires and putting out the cupola light."
He had indeed given the alarm in time to save his life, but his mind became a complete blank. The Torreton Joy Drops disappeared from the market, and the light in the cupola of the deserted works has never been relighted. Finally, even the family residence was given to the city for a hospital, but it was not until after the extensive greenhouses had been dismantled and their treasures scattered that it was suggested that they might have held the secret of the famous sweetmeat. That secret, with its possibilities, lies hopelessly buried in the darkened brain of Walter Torreton.
And it is darkness alone that disturbs him now. It was observed from the beginning of the attempts to treat his remarkable case that he displayed the utmost repugnance to darkness, and grew nervous, uneasy and wild as twilight came on. He is happy only in a glare of light, and it was upon the advice of an eminent Parisian specialist that he was finally removed to the beautiful California valley, where he lives, day and night, in a flood of radiance. His mind slipped a cog, the specialist says, which may slip back again, just as a train that has jumped the track may jump back—but it is one chance in a million.