“Of course!” cried Oliver. “But what can you tell about it? You’ll be like a child in other people’s hands, and they’ll be certain to rob you. And why in the world do you want to take risks when you don’t have to?”
“I have to put my money somewhere,” said Montague.
“His first fee is burning a hole in his pocket!” put in Reggie Mann, with a chuckle. “Turn it over to me, Mr. Montague; and let me spend it in a gorgeous entertainment for Alice; and the prestige of it will bring you more cases than you can handle in a lifetime!”
“He had much better spend it all for soda water than buy a lot of coal chutes with it,” said Oliver: “Wait awhile, and let me find you some place to put your money, and you’ll see that you don’t have to take any risks.”
“I had no idea of taking it up until I’d made certain of it,” replied the other. “And those whose judgment I took would, of course, go in also.”
The younger man thought for a moment. “You are going to dine with Major Venable to-night, aren’t you?” he asked; and when the other answered in the affirmative, he continued, “Very well, then, ask him. The Major’s been a capitalist for forty years, and if you can get him to take it up, why, you’ll know you’re safe.”
Major Venable had taken quite a fancy to Montague—perhaps the old gentleman liked to have somebody to gossip with, to whom all his anecdotes were new. He had seconded Montague’s name at the “Millionaires’,” where he lived, and had asked him there to make the acquaintance of some of the other members. Before Montague parted with his brother, he promised that he would talk the matter over with the Major.
The Millionaires’ was the show club of the city, the one which the ineffably rich had set apart for themselves. It was up by the park, in a magnificent white marble palace which had cost a million dollars. Montague felt that he had never really known the Major until he saw him here. The Major was excellent at all times and places, but in this club he became an edition de luxe of himself. He made his headquarters here, keeping his suite of rooms all the year round; and the atmosphere and surroundings of the place seemed to be a part of him.
Montague thought that the Major’s face grew redder every day, and the purple veins in it purpler; or was it that the old gentleman’s shirt bosom gleamed more brightly in the glare of the lights? The Major met him in the stately entrance hall, fifty feet square and all of Numidian marble, with a ceiling of gold, and a great bronze stairway leading to the gallery above. He apologized for his velvet slippers and for his hobbling walk—he was getting his accursed gout again. But he limped around and introduced his friend to the other millionaires—and then told scandal about them behind their backs.
The Major was the very type of a blue-blooded old aristocrat; he was all noblesse oblige to those within the magic circle of his intimacy—but alas for those outside it! Montague had never heard anyone bully servants as the Major did. “Here you!” he would cry, when something went wrong at the table. “Don’t you know any better than to bring me a dish like that? Go and send me somebody who knows how to set a table!” And, strange to say, the servants all acknowledged his perfect right to bully them, and flew with terrified alacrity to do his bidding. Montague noticed that the whole staff of the club leaped into activity whenever the Major appeared; and when he was seated at the table, he led off in this fashion—“Now I want two dry Martinis. And I want them at once—do you understand me? Don’t stop to get me any butter plates or finger-bowls—I want two cock-tails, just as quick as you can carry them!”