Raphael Craig went on, looking at Richard: ‘These great financiers, Redgrave—you see they are not so great after all. The genius of Simon Lock in juggling with other people’s money is supposed to be transcendent, yet how easily I have juggled with his! It is not more than three months ago that I first saw my opportunity of working on a big scale. I obtained information about the probable tactics of the people in charge of Princesse shares, and I took my measures accordingly. By the way, it is surprising the number of people in the City who were delighted to assist me in ruining Simon Lock. The most staid persons seemed to take a fiendish glee in it.’
Simon Lock smiled rather grimly, and Raphael Craig pursued his way:
‘I knew that the great Lock group were selling Princesse shares for the fall. It was very silly of them, though, to sell more than they could deliver, especially as there doesn’t happen to have been a fall.’
‘I am sure,’ said Simon Lock, ‘that you won’t mind telling me who disclosed the nature of our operations in the matter of the Princesse shares.’
‘With the greatest pleasure in the world,’ said Raphael Craig. ‘It was one of your own intimate gang—your private secretary, Oakley. I bought him, body and soul, for a thousand pounds.’
‘And he sold you to me for ten thousand,’ murmured Simon Lock, half to himself. ‘I am well rid of him. And now’—he turned to Craig, and put some firmness into his voice—do, please, come to some arrangement.’
‘Arrangement!’ exclaimed Raphael. ‘A good joke! Certainly we will come to some arrangement. But first I must tell Redgrave, who has the right to know, the history of the girl he is about to marry. I will tell him in your presence, and when I make any error of fact you can correct me. Many years ago, Richard, I was engaged to a beautiful girl, a native of Limerick. She was an orphan, and had lived with friends until she became a school-teacher, when she lived by herself. She had some aristocratic Spanish blood in her veins through her mother’s father, who had married her grand-mother in Buenos Ayres. I met her in Limerick when I was a clerk in the bank there. I fell in love with her. I asked her to be my wife, and she consented. We were to be married as soon as my salary had sufficiently increased. I then had an offer of a situation in the British and Scottish, just starting on its successful career, and I removed to London. We arranged that I should save every possible penny, and that we should get married in about two years’ time. It was from motives of economy that I allowed a whole year to pass without revisiting Limerick. I continually received letters from my fiancee, and though their tone was never excessively warm, it was always tender, and it satisfied me. As for me, I was passionately in love. I had never seen such an adorable creature as my betrothed—her name was Juana—and I have never since seen her equal. For me she was, and always will be, the world’s jewel.... Well, a change came over the scene. I noticed something in her letters—something which I could not define. Then, after an interval of silence, came a letter saying she could not marry me. I got leave of absence—not without a great deal of difficulty—and hastened over to Limerick. Juana had left Limerick. I found her at length in a remote mountain village, and I drew from her her story. It was a shocking one. A man—a stranger from London—who must have been a highly plausible person in those days, whatever he is now—had dazzled her by his professions of admiration and love. He was a rich man even then, and he made her a brilliant offer of marriage. The poor girl was carried off her feet. Unduly urged, and her mind poisoned by his lies concerning myself, her faith in me shaken by the stoppage for some weeks of my letters, she consented to marry this man. She married him. They lived together for a brief period. And all this time she had not courage to write and confess to me the truth. Then the man left her, and coolly informed her that the marriage was a bogus marriage from beginning to end—that he was, in fact, already married. He said he wished to have nothing more to do with her, and gave her a bank-note for a thousand pounds to solace her wounded feelings, which bank-note she flung into the fire. You may ask why this man was not prosecuted for bigamy. I will tell you. The matter was kept quiet in order to spare the feelings of my poor deluded Juana. Think what the trial would have meant to her. I myself arranged with the priest and one or two other officials that the whole thing should be buried in oblivion. I had reserved my own punishment for the villain who thus escaped the law. To proceed, Juana had two children—twins. They were named Juana and Teresa. Shortly after their birth their mother died. But before she died—on her death-bed—I married her. I had begged to do so before, but she had declined. I swore to her that I would regard Juana and Teresa as my own children, but of my intended vengeance against her murderer I said nothing. Hers was a gentle heart, and she might have put me on my oath to abandon that vengeance. From the day of her death I lived for nothing save the punishment of a villain. It was my one thought. I subordinated everything to it. It made my temper uncertain; it involved me in endless difficulties; it estranged me from my dear one’s elder daughter, and often I felt that I was harsh to Teresa, my favourite and the last-born. But I could not do otherwise. I was a monomaniac. I dreamt only of the moment when I should see my enemy at my feet, begging for mercy. That moment has come. He is here. Watch him. He could only be wounded in one place—his pocket. His pocket is the heel of this noble Achilles, and it is his pocket that my sword has pierced.’
With outstretched finger Raphael Craig pointed with passionate scorn at the figure of Simon Lock.
‘Beg for my mercy,’ Craig commanded.,
And to Richard’s amazement Simon Lock answered: