GRINNELL-ROBINSON.—On Tuesday, September 12, by the Rev. DeLancy Williamson, at his residence, Margaret, daughter of Thomas M. Robinson, to George Kitchell Grinnell. Middletown, N. Y., and Youngstown, O., papers please copy.
“Robinson?” said Mellen quickly. He answered an unspoken question of his own: “But he hasn’t so much.”
Dawson knew what he meant. He shook his head and said with a slight frown: “I doubt if he has even ten millions. I know he sold out all his Consolidated Steel during the boom but that couldn’t have been more than five millions. I don’t think so.” He looked ill at ease.
“We must see Grinnell at once,” said the richest man in the world, speaking quickly. “If Robinson knows what Grinnell is doing—” He checked himself with a frown. A great anger filled his very soul to overflowing: Always Grinnell came before him—an obstacle to plans, enveloped by doubt-breeding mystery, surrounded by an uncertainty which, by not openly revealing dangers, made the young man a ceaseless menace.
“Mr. Grinnell is now at Wolff, Herzog’s office,” said Costello. “He’s been going there every day for a week.”
“I knew it!” said the richest man in the world explosively. He sat down in an armchair and leaned back, breathing quickly.
“We must make sure,” said Dawson. He sat down at his desk and took up the telephone. Then he said to Costello: “Anything else?”
“No, sir. He went into Mr. Herzog’s private office. The door-keeper told me he was a very rich man and that he came there every day.”
“Very well,” said Dawson, dismissingly. The detective left the room. Mellen stretched his right hand toward Dawson and opened his mouth. But he said nothing. His hand dropped and he stared intently at a paper weight on the president’s desk.
Dawson took up the telephone.