“Hum-m!” said Cleek, stroking his chin. “Sounds interesting, at all events. Let’s have the facts of the case, please. But first, who was the victim? Anybody of importance?”
“Of very great importance—in the financial world,” replied Narkom. “He is—or, rather, was—an American multi-millionaire; inventor, to speak by the card, of numerous electrical devices which brought him wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, and carried his fame all over the civilized world. You will, no doubt, have heard of him. His name is Jefferson P. Drake.”
“Oho!” said Cleek, arching his eyebrows. “That man, eh? Oh, yes, I’ve heard of him often enough—very nearly everybody in England has by this time. Chap who conceived the idea of bettering the conditions of the poor by erecting art galleries that were to be filled and supported out of the rates and, more or less modestly, to be known by the donor’s name. That’s the man, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s the man.”
“Just so. Stop a bit! Let’s brush up my memory a trifle. Of English extraction, wasn’t he? And, having made his money in his own native country, came to that of his father to spend it? Had social aspirations, too, I believe; and, while rather vulgar in his habits and tastes, was exceedingly warm-hearted—indeed, actually lovable—and made up for his own lack of education by spending barrels of money upon that of his son. Came to England something more than a year ago, if I remember rightly; bought a fine old place down in Suffolk, and proceeded forthwith to modernize it after the most approved American ideas—steam heat, electric lights, a refrigerating plant for the purpose of supplying the ice and the creams and the frozen sweets so necessary to the American palate; all that sort of thing, and set out forthwith to establish himself as a sumptuous entertainer on the very largest possible scale. That’s the ‘lay of the land,’ isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s it precisely. The estate he purchased was Heatherington Hall, formerly Lord Fallowfield’s place. The entail was broken ages ago, but no Fallowfield ever attempted to part with the place until his present lordship’s time. And although he has but one child, a daughter, I don’t suppose that he would have been tempted to do so, either, but that he was badly crippled—almost ruined, in fact—last year by unlucky speculations in the stock market, with the result that it was either sell out to Jefferson P. Drake or be sold out by his creditors. Naturally, he chose the former course. That it turned out to be a most excellent thing for him you will understand when I tell you that Drake conceived an almost violent liking for him and his daughter, Lady Marjorie Wynde, and not only insisted upon their remaining at Heatherington Hall as his guests in perpetuity, but designed eventually to bring the property back into the possession of the original ‘line’ by a marriage between Lady Marjorie and his son.”
“Effective if not very original,” commented Cleek, with one of his curious one-sided smiles. “And how did the parties most concerned view this promising little plan? Were they agreeable to the arrangement?”
“Not they. As a matter of fact, both have what you may call a ‘heart interest’ elsewhere. Lady Marjorie, who, although she is somewhat of a ‘Yes, papa,’ and ‘Please, papa,’ young lady, and could, no doubt, be induced to sacrifice herself for the family good, is, it appears, engaged to a young lieutenant who will one day come in for money, but hasn’t more than enough to pay his mess bills at present, I believe. As for young Jim Drake—why, matters were even worse with him. It turns out that he’d found the girl he wanted before he left the States, and it took him just about twenty seconds to make his father understand that he’d be shot, hanged, drawn, quartered, or even reduced to mincemeat, before he’d give up that girl or marry any other, at any time or at any cost, from now to the Judgment Day.”
“Bravo!” said Cleek, slapping his palms together. “That’s the spirit. That’s the boy for my money, Mr. Narkom! Get a good woman and stick to her, through thick and thin, at all hazards and at any cost. The jockey who ‘swaps horses’ in the middle of a race never yet came first under the wire nor won a thing worth having. Well, what was the result of this plain speaking on the young man’s part? Pleasant or unpleasant?”
“Oh, decidedly unpleasant. The father flew into a rage, swore by all that was holy, and by a great deal that wasn’t, that he’d cut him off ‘without one red cent,’ whatever that may mean, if he ever married that particular girl; and as that particular girl—who is as poor as Job’s turkey, by the way—happened by sheer perversity of fortune to have landed in England that very day, in company with an eminent literary person whose secretary she had been for some two or three years past, away marched the son, took out a special license, and married her on the spot.”