Trent looked up. There were three men advancing. One was a heavily built man of late middle age with a disagreeable face, dominant chin and hard gray eyes. The other two were younger and had that alert bearing which men gain whose work requires a sound body and courage.
“Are they arresting him?” Parker demanded. He noticed that they were very close to the elder man. They might be Central Office men.
“Arresting him?” Weems whispered, still excitedly, “I should say not. You don’t know who he is.”
“I only know that he must be rich,” Trent returned.
“That’s one of the wealthiest men in the country,” Weems told him. “That’s Jerome Dangerfield.”
“Your news leaves me unmoved,” said the other. “I never heard of him.”
“He hates publicity,” Weems informed him. “If a paper prints a line about him it’s his enemy, and it don’t pay to have the enmity of a man worth nearly a hundred millions.”
“What’s his line?” Trent demanded.
“Everything,” Weems said enthusiastically. “He owns half the mills in New Bedford for one thing. And then there’s real estate in this village and Chicago.” Weems sighed. “If I had his money I’d buy a paper and have myself spread all over it. And he won’t have a line.”
“I’m not sure he has succeeded in keeping it out. I’d swear that I’ve read something about him. It comes back clearly. It was something about jewels. I remember now. It was Mrs. Jerome Dangerfield who bought a famous ruby that the war compelled an English marchioness to sell.” The thing was quite clear to him now. He was on his favorite topic. “It was known as the Mount Aubyn ruby, after the family which had it so long.” He turned to look at the well-guarded financier. “So that’s the man whose wife has that blood-stained jewel!”