Chapter Twenty Six.
A Millionaire’s Tactics.
Mr Morgan-Mason, the Member for South-West Norfolk, sat alone in his gorgeous gilt and white dining-room with the remains of dessert spread before him. A coarse-faced, elderly man with grey side-whiskers, a wide expanse of glossy shirt-front, and a well-cut dinner coat, he was twisting his wineglass between his fingers while a smile played about his lips. His obese figure, with shoulders slightly rounded, a bull neck, and gross, flabby features, gave one the impression that he lived for himself alone, that his life was a selfish, idle one.
His house in town and his place in the country were the typical abodes of a nouveau riche. His motors, his yacht, and his racehorses were the very best that money could command, and yet with all his display of wealth he still carried the tenets of the counting-house into his private life. He gave “fifty-guinea-a-head” dinners at the Carlton, it was true, but his entertainments were not on a large scale. He lent the aristocracy money, and allowed them to entertain him in return. He considered it an honour to be made use of by the hard-up earl or by the peeress whose debts at bridge were beyond her means. A knighthood had been offered him, but he had politely declined, letting it be distinctly known to the Prime Minister that nothing less than a peerage would be acceptable; and this had actually been half promised! He was the equal, nay, the superior, of those holders of once-exclusive titles who left their cards upon him and who shot his grouse; for, as a recent writer has declared, the god Mammon is to-day gradually drawing into its foetid embrace all the rank and beauty and nobility that once made England the glorious land she is.
He had taken a telegram from his pocket, and re-read it—a message from a woman bearing one of the noblest titles in the English peerage, asking audaciously for a loan, and inviting him up to her country-house in Durham, where an exclusive party was being entertained. He smiled with gratification, for the sovereign was among her ladyship’s guests.
He touched the bell, and in answer the butler entered. “Tell Macbean to come here,” he ordered, without looking up. “And give me a liqueur. I don’t want coffee to-night.”
The elderly, grave-faced servant served his master obsequiously, and noiselessly disappeared.
A few minutes later there came a light rap at the door and George Macbean entered.
“Just reply to this wire,” the millionaire said, handing it to his secretary. “Tell her ladyship that I’ll leave King’s Cross at eleven to-morrow, and that what she mentions will be all right. You need not mention the word loan; she’ll understand. I can’t dictate to-night, as I’m going to the club. Be here at seven in the morning, and I’ll reply to letters while I’m dressing.”
Macbean took the telegram and hesitated.