“But why,” demanded Anthony Trent, “does a man like that risk his money if he’s so keen on conserving it? One would think he wouldn’t take out more than his car fare for fearing either of being robbed or borrowed from.”
“As for robbing,” Clarke returned, “he’s a great husky beast although he’s nearly sixty. And as to being borrowed from, that’s why he takes it out. He belongs to a lot of clubs—not the Knickerbocker type—but the sort of clubs where rich young fellows go to play poker. They know old Drummond can lend ’em the ready cash without any formalities any time they wish it. Ever sit in a poker game, son, and get a hunch that if you were able to buy just one more pile of chips you’d clean up?”
“I have,” said the other smiling, “but my hunch has generally been wrong.”
“Most hunches are,” Clarke commented. “Theirs are, too, but that old scoundrel makes thousands out of just such hunches. He puts it up to the borrower that it’s between club members and so forth, not a money lending transaction. Tells ’em he doesn’t lend money as a rule, and so forth and so on. I know he was asked to resign from one club for it. He’s a bloodsucker and if I had an automobile I’d watch for him to cross the street and then run him down.”
“Has he ever stung you?” Trent asked.
“Me? Not on your life. He specializes in rich men’s sons. He wouldn’t lend you or me a nickel if we were starving. You remember young Hodgson Grant who committed suicide last year. They said it was the heat that got him. It was William Drummond.”
“Why does he keep up a house on such a street as he does? I should think he’d live cheaper.”
“A young second wife. Threw the old one away, so to speak, and got a high stepper that makes him speed up. She thinks she will get into society. Not a chance, son, not a chance. I know.”
It was on some of William Drummond’s money that Anthony Trent had set his heart. It salved what was still a conscience to know that he was taking back profits unlawfully made, bleeding a blood sucker.
Owing to the second Mrs. Drummond’s desire to storm society she cultivated publicity. There were pictures of herself and her prize winning Red Chows in dog papers. In other magazines she was seen driving her two high stepping hackneys, Lord Ping and Lady Pong, at the Mineola Horse Show. Also, there was an article on her home in a magazine devoted to interior decoration. A careful study of it answered every question concerning its lay-out that the most careful cracksman needed to know. Trent spent a week in learning how Drummond occupied his time. The banker invariably left his most profitable club at midnight, never earlier. By half past twelve he was in his library smoking one of the cigars that had been given him that night. Then a drink of gin and water. Afterwards, bed. The house was protected by the Sherlock system of burglar alarm, a tiresome invention to those who were ignorant of it. Anthony Trent regarded it as an enemy and had mastered it successfully for there were tricks of lock opening not hard to one as mechanically able as he and many a criminal had talked to him openly when he had covered police headquarters years before.