At noon, Storm telephoned to the Belterre and asked for Monsieur du Chainat.
“This is Storm talking, Millard’s friend,” he answered. “I called up, Monsieur, to tell you that if by any chance the Whitmarsh deal falls through, I might consider your proposition myself . . . Yes, call me up at my rooms, 0519 Riverside, at six. Good-bye.”
He hung up the receiver slowly. Suppose, after all, the man should be an impostor? He would be risking all he had in the world in the event that Whitmarsh did not take the proposition; all that stood between him and the accursed treadmill of existence here within reach of the memories which thrust out their tentacles to crush him. If that Lille soap factory were a myth——!
He reached for the receiver once more and called the French consulate. Yes, Monsieur Henri Peronneau, of Lille, was well known to them. His son-in-law, Monsieur Maurice du Chainat, was now in this country negotiating a loan to reconstruct the Peronneau factory. If Mr. Storm were interested, a meeting could be arranged . . . .
Storm turned away from the booth with sparkling eyes. If Whitmarsh refused the loan he would take a chance! Luck must be with him still; that marvelous luck which had enabled him to elude the consequences of his crime was yet running strong, At six o’clock he would know!
Chapter XI.
Luck
Promptly at six that evening the telephone in Storm’s apartment shrilled, and it had scarcely ceased vibrating when he sprang to it and caught up the receiver.
He uttered a quick monosyllabic assent to some evident query, listened intently for a minute and then threw back his head in a smile of elation. The next instant he was speaking calmly, quietly.
“Too small a proposition for him to tackle, eh?” he observed. “Well, I’m not a magnate, Monsieur du Chainat, but I would like to talk it over with you. How about dining with me in an hour at the Rochefoucauld where we met last night? . . . . Bring along your papers, and we can come back here later and go into the details . . . . Very good, at seven.”
His luck was holding! Old Whitmarsh had turned the loan down as too petty a transaction to interest him. The chance was his now, make or break! But pshaw! he couldn’t lose; not if Du Chainat’s securities were all right. Past failures had made him skeptical, but now fortune had changed. A hundred and twenty thousand!