It could only have been about an hour and a half later that a rubicund, wiry-looking Englishman, whose hair and whiskers were of a reddish sandy tint, and who wore a loud check tourist suit of original and surpassing hideousness, appeared at the inn of another village not far from the station at which the Polish gentleman had got out, but not connected with the railway. His arm was in an extemporised sling, and he was carrying a knapsack with some difficulty. It seemed that he had been on a walking tour, and had received an injury to his arm when trying to separate two men who had drawn their knives in a drunken brawl at his inn the night before, which had led him to determine to drive the remainder of the way to Vienna. A carriage was soon forthcoming, and after a meal at the inn, he proceeded on his journey to the capital, where he took up his quarters at one of the leading hotels, produced a passport, in perfect order, made out in the name of Ivory White, Esq., of Lowburn, Homeshire, England, and allowed it to become evident that he had plenty of money, although he did not care to lavish any of it on Vienna tailors. As soon as the formalities requisite before he could be considered a bonâ fide traveller in the Austrian understanding of the term were completed, he asked the porter for the address of the Chevalier Goldberg, whom he mentioned that he had met in England, and without seeing whom he refused even to pass through Vienna. The porter smiled incredulously as he marched off in the direction indicated, observing the manners and customs of the natives with the dispassionate criticism of an intelligent Briton in foreign parts, and quite unconscious of the amused or shocked glances levelled at his knickerbockers, his Norfolk jacket, his cap, and his gaiters.
“They are all mad, these English!” said the hotel autocrat meditatively; “but a madman’s money is as good as any one else’s, nicht wahr?”
Arrived at the appartement of the Chevalier Goldberg, which was situated on the second floor of a palatial building largely inhabited by co-religionists of the owner, Mr White found that it was by no means such an easy matter as he had considered it to obtain an interview with the millionaire. It was evident that the plea of friendship was too common to admit an unaccredited stranger to the presence of the great financier, and it was only by dint of a stolid refusal to leave without seeing him that the Englishman succeeded in meeting even the Chevalier’s secretary, an accomplished Hebrew, who lavished all the resources of eloquence and mendacity on the task of getting him to go away, but in vain.
“Take him my card, and see what he says. If he prefers not to see me, of course I shall not force myself upon him; but I am convinced he would never forgive me if he knew that I had been in Vienna and not paid him a visit,” was Mr White’s ultimatum.
“But the honourable gentleman has given me a blank card!”
“Of course I have. That’s my little joke—my name is White, don’t you see? The Chevalier will know it at once. Sir Raphael Meldola and he have had many a laugh over it with me in the smoking-room.”
With a sour smile at the Englishman’s childishness, the secretary carried off the card, and informed his employer that there was a madman in the anteroom who insisted on sending in a blank card. Would it not be advisable to send for the police, without irritating the lunatic or allowing him to suspect anything? But the Chevalier Goldberg astonished him by taking the card from his hand and scrutinising it carefully, even lighting a match and holding it close to it. Then, apparently satisfied, he allowed the card to catch fire, and held it in his fingers until it was almost consumed.
“Bring Mr White in,” he said. “He is my very good friend.”
Deeply disgusted, the secretary obeyed, hearing the visitor’s hearty English accents as he closed the door of the great man’s sanctum upon him.
“Well, Chevalier, and how are you? I couldn’t bring myself to pass through Vienna without looking you up. All right, eh?”