“There is a lady in New York—to be explicit, an old sweetheart—” Mr. Robison paused, bit his lip, looked away, bit his lip again and cleared his throat loudly. He did all these things so untheatrically that they thrilled the keen-eyed Wall Street man. Presently Mr. Robison went on in that Yankee nasal voice of his that somehow sounded like the extreme antithesis of sentiment: “The only woman I ever loved! I have never married! She did—unfortunately; and now, this girl, this woman, accustomed to every comfort and every refinement, has to earn her own living! She has five children and she is earning her living!” He rose and walked up and down the office like a caged wild animal. Then he sat down again and said, determinedly, “Of course I simply have to do something for her!”
“I appreciate your position,” said Richards, tenderly. He was a very good stock-broker.
“Thank you. You cannot imagine what she was to me! I came to America to find her. I have found her. I wish to give her money or securities that will insure a comfortable income, and I have to do it circuitously. I'd give half a million to anybody who killed her damned husband! Yes, I would!” He looked at Richards with a wild hope in his eyes. He calmed himself with an obvious effort and proceeded: “Knowing her as I do, and because of—of certain circumstances of our early affair, I know she will never accept any help directly from me. Last night I was calling on her. Other friends of hers were present, among them a man who called himself a lawyer. His name is W. Bailey Jackson. Know him?”
“No, I don't. I think I've heard of him, though.” Richards lied from sheer force of professional habit.
“Well, I led the conversation round to Wall Street and incidentally said I didn't know which was easier for a man, to be a fool or to make money in the stock-market. I, myself, I hastened to add, had always found folly extremely easy—but successful stock speculation infinitely easier. That, I may remark to you in passing, sir, is gospel truth.”
“You are right,” agreed Richards, heartily. It did not behoove a stock-broker to point out the difficulty of making money in Wall Street. Moreover, Mr. Robison showed so quiet a confidence that Richards had lightning flashes of memory, and recollected every story he had ever heard about queer characters who had taken millions out of the Street.
“This Mr. W. Bailey Jackson jeered and sneered, however, until I said I would bet him fifty dollars to fifty cents that I could double a sum of money in the Street in one week, in a reputable broker's office, operating on the New York Stock Exchange in a reputable and active stock—no bucket-shop, no mining-stock, and no pool manipulation. But I made this point: The trick was so easy that it was not interesting. I didn't wish to do it to make money, but if Mrs.—if my friend would accept the profits, I would prove that I knew what I was talking about; and, besides, would keep the children in candy for a month. And, of course, everybody laughed and urged her to consent—especially the Jackson person. In the end she gave in, doubtless thinking I'd win a few dollars—if I won at all. Also my offer was accepted in the presence and by the advice of men and women who could stop Mrs. Grundy's mouth.”
“Very clever!” said Richards, with the enthusiasm of a man who sees commissions coming his way.
“It was love that made me so ingenious,” explained. Mr. Robison, very simply. “I've got her written acceptance in my pocket as well as that damned W. Bailey Jackson's bet, duly witnessed by the two gossipiest women there. And in this envelope you will find instructions for your guidance in case of my sudden death. So I now wish to double the money.”
He looked inquiringly at Richards, who thereupon felt the pangs of disappointment. Neither crank nor crook, decided the broker, but simply Suckerius Americanus; genus D. F.