“A very rich man is pestered to death,” the wise Weems said. “Cranks try to interest him in all sorts of fool schemes and crazy men try to kill him for being a capitalist. And then there’s beggars and charities and blackmailers. Nobody can get next to him. I know. I’ve tried. I’ve never seen him in the subway before. I guess his car broke down and he had to come with the herd.”
“So you tried? What was your scheme?”
“I forget now,” Weems admitted. “I’ve had so many good things since. I followed out a stunt of that crook, Conway Parker, you used to write about. In one of your stories you made him want to meet a millionaire and instead of going to his office you made him go to the Fifth Avenue home and fool the butlers and flunkeys. It won’t work, old man. I know. I handed the head butler my hat and cane, but that was as far as I got. There must be a high sign in that sort of a house that I wasn’t wise to.” Weems mused on his defeat for a few seconds. “I ought to have worn a monocle.” He brightened. “Anyway just as I came out of the door a lady friend passed by on the top of a ’bus and saw me. Now you’re a good looker, old man, and high-class and all that, but you and I don’t belong in places like Millionaires’ Row.”
“Too bad,” said Trent, smiling.
He wondered what Weems would have said if he had known that his friend had within the week been to a reception in one of the greatest of the Fifth Avenue palaces and there gazed at a splendid ruby—not half the size of the Mount Aubyn stone—on the yellowing neck of an aged lady of many loves.
When Weems was shaken off, Dangerfield and his attendants vanished, and Trent had placed an order with his brokers he walked over to Park Row, where he had once worked as a cub reporter. Contrary to his usual custom, he entered a saloon well patronized by the older order of newspapermen, men who graduated in a day when it was possible to drink hard and hold a responsible position. He had barely crossed the threshold when he heard the voice of the man he sought. It was Clarke, slave to the archdemon rum. He was trying to borrow enough money from a monotype man, who had admitted backing a winner, to get a prescription filled for a suffering wife. The monotype man, either disbelieving Clarke’s story or having little regard for wifely suffering, was indisposed to share his winnings with druggist or bartender.
It was at this moment that Clarke caught sight of his old reporter and more recent benefactor. He dropped the monotype man with all the outraged pride of an erstwhile city editor and shook Trent’s hand cordially. His own trembled.
“That might be managed,” said Trent, listening to his request gravely, “but first have a drink to steady your nerves.”
They repaired to a little alcove and sat down. Clarke was not anxious to leave so pleasant a spot. He talked entertainingly and was ready to expatiate on his former glories.
“By the way,” said Trent presently, “you used to know the inside history and hidden secrets of every big man in town.”