“More,” Macheson answered. “I was at Oxford when I understood exactly the whole business, and it seemed like nothing but a curse to me. Then I talked to the dear old professor, and he showed me the way. I can honestly say that not one penny of that money has ever been spent, directly or indirectly, upon myself. I believe that if the old man could come to life and read my bank-book he’d have a worse fit than the one which carried him off. I appointed myself the trustee of his fortune, and it’s spread pretty well all over the world. I’ve never refused to stand at the back of any reasonable scheme for the betterment of our fellow-creatures. There have been a few failures perhaps, but many successes. The Davis buildings are mine—in trust, of course. They’ve done well. I’ve a larger scheme on hand now on the same lines. And in spite of it all the money grows! I can’t get rid of it. The old man chose his investments well, and many of our purely philanthropic schemes are beginning to pay their way. It isn’t that I care a fig about the money, but you must try to make these things self-supporting, or you injure the character of those who benefit by them. Now I’ve told you all the truth, but don’t let it go out of this room. You can consider yourselves fellow-trustees with me, if you like. Show me an honest way to use money for the real benefit of the world’s unfortunates, and it’s yours as much as mine.”
“It’s magnificent,” Franklin murmured.
“It’s justice,” Macheson answered. “The money was wrung from the poor, and it goes back to them. Perhaps it’s a saner distribution, for it’s the improvident and shiftless of the world who go to the money-lender.”
There was a knock at the door. The hall-porter of the club in which they were holding their informal meeting entered and addressed Macheson.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but there is a young man here who wants to see you at once. He would not give his name, but he says that his business is urgent.”
“Where is he?” Macheson asked.
“In the smaller strangers’ room, sir.”
Macheson excused himself, and, crossing the hall, entered the barely furnished apartment, on the left of the entrance. A young man was walking up and down with fierce, restless movements. He was pale, untidily dressed, and in his eyes there was a curious look of terror, as though all the time he saw beyond the walls of the room things which kept him breathless with fear. Macheson, pausing for a moment on the threshold, failed on the instant to recognize him. Then he closed the door and advanced into the room.
“Hurd!” he exclaimed. “What do you want? What is the matter?”