“Why?”
“I don’t know. I suspect the Manasquale properties, which I brought into the combine, have some value, which no one but Roebuck, and perhaps Langdon, knows about—and that I in some way was dangerous to them through that fact. They haven’t given me time to look into it.”
A grim smile flitted over his face. “You’ve been too busy getting married, eh?” And I then thought that the grim smile was associated with his remark. I was soon to know that it was an affirmation of my shrewd guess about Manasquale.
“Exactly,” said I. “It’s another case of unbuckling for the wedding feast and getting assassinated as a penalty. Do you wish me to explain anything on that list—do you want any details of the combine—of the Coal stocks there?”
“Not necessary,” he replied. As I had thought, with that enormous machine of his for drawing in information, and with that enormous memory of his for details, he probably knew more about the combine and its properties than I did.
“You have heard of the lockout?” I inquired—for I wished him to know that I had no intention of deceiving him as to the present market value of those stocks.
“Roebuck has been commanded by his God,” he said, “to eject the free American labor from the coal regions and to substitute importations of coolie Huns and Bohemians. Thus the wicked American laborers will be chastened for trying to get higher wages and cut down a pious man’s dividends; and the downtrodden coolies will be brought where they can enjoy the blessings of liberty and of the preaching of Roebuck’s missionaries.”
I laughed, though he had not smiled, but had spoken as if stating colorless facts. “And righteousness and Roebuck will prevail,” said I.
He frowned slightly, a sardonic grin breaking the straight, thin, cruel line of his lips. He opened his table’s one shallow drawer, and took out a pad and a pencil. He wrote a few words on the lowest part of the top sheet, folded it, tore off the part he had scribbled on, returned the pad and pencil to the drawer, handed the scrap of paper to me. “I will do it,” he said. “Give this to Mr. Farquhar, second door to the left. Good-morning.” And in that atmosphere of vast affairs, speedily dispatched, his consent without argument did not stir suspicion in me.
I bowed. Though he had not saved me as a favor to me, but because it fitted in with his plans, whatever they were, my eyes were dimmed. “I shan’t forget this,” said I, my voice not quite steady.