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The Moneychangers

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So he sat down and wrote a note to Messrs. Smith and Hanson, and
said that he would like to have a consultation with a member of
their firm. He sent this note by messenger, and an hour or so later
a wiry little person, with a much-wrinkled face and a shrewd look in
his eyes, came into his office and introduced himself as Mr. Hanson.

"I have been talking with my client about the matter of the Northern
Mississippi stock," said Montague. "You know, perhaps, that this
road was organised under somewhat unusual circumstances; most of the
stockholders were personal friends of our family. For this reason my
client would prefer not to deal with an agent, if it can possibly be
arranged. I wish to find out whether your client would consent to
deal directly with the owner of the stock."

Montague finished what he had to say, although while he was speaking
he noticed that Mr. Hanson was staring at him with very evident
astonishment. Before he finished, this had changed to a slight
sneer.

"What kind of a trick is this you are trying to play on me?" the man
demanded.

Montague was too much taken aback to be angry. He simply stared. "I
don't understand you," he said.

"You don't, eh?" said the other, laughing in his face. "Well, it
seems I know more than you think I do."

"What do you mean?" asked Montague.

"Your client no longer has the stock that you are talking about,"
said the other.

Montague caught his breath. "No longer has the stock!" he gasped.

"Of course not," said Hanson. "She sold it three days ago." Then,
unable to deny himself the satisfaction, he added, "She sold it to
Stanley Ryder. And if you want to know any more about it, she sold
it for a hundred and sixty thousand dollars, and he gave her a six
months' note for a hundred and forty thousand."

Montague was utterly dumfounded. He could do nothing but stare.

It was evident to the other man that his emotion was genuine, and he
smiled sarcastically. "Evidently, Mr. Montague," he said, "you have
been permitting your client to take advantage of you."

Montague caught himself together, and bowed politely. "I owe you an
apology, Mr. Hanson," he said, in a low voice. "I can only assure
you that I was entirely helpless in the matter."

Then he rose and bade the man good morning.

When the door of his office was closed, he caught at the chair by
his desk to steady himself, and stood staring in front of him. "To
Stanley Ryder!" he gasped.

He turned to the 'phone, and called up his friend.

"Lucy," he said, "is it true that you have sold that stock?"

He heard her give a gasp. "Answer me!" he cried.

"Allan," she began, "you are going to be angry with me--"

"Please answer me!" he cried again. "Have you sold that stock?"

"Yes, Allan," she said, "I didn't mean--"

"I don't care to discuss the matter on the telephone," he said. "I
will stop in to see you this afternoon on my way home. Please be in,
because it is important." And then he hung up the receiver.

He called at the time he had set, and Lucy was waiting for him. She
looked pale, and very much distressed. She sat in a chair, and
neither arose to greet him nor spoke to him, but simply gazed into
his face.

It was a very sombre face. "This thing has given me a great deal of
pain," said Montague; "and I don't want to prolong it any more than
necessary. I have thought the matter over, and my mind is made up,
so there need be no discussion. It will not be possible for me to
have anything further to do with your affairs."

Lucy gave a gasp: "Oh, Allan!"

He had a valise containing all her papers. "I have brought
everything up to date," he said. "There are all the accounts, and
the correspondence. Anyone will be able to find exactly how things
stand."

"Allan," she said, "this is really cruel."

"I am very sorry," he answered, "but there is nothing else that I
can do."

"But did I not have a right to sell that stock to Stanley Ryder?"
she cried.

"You had a perfect right to sell it to anyone you pleased," he said.
"But you had no right to ask me to take charge of your affairs, and
then to keep me in the dark about what you had done."

"But, Allan," she protested, "I only sold it three days ago."

"I know that perfectly well," he said; "but the moment you made up
your mind to sell it, it was your business to tell me. That,
however, is not the point. You tried to use me as a cat's-paw to
pull chestnuts out of the fire for Stanley Ryder."

He saw her wince under the words. "Is it not true?" he demanded.
"Was it not he who told you to have me try to get that information?"

"Yes, Allan, of course it was he," said Lucy. "But don't you see my
plight? I am not a business woman, and I did not realise--"

"You realised that you were not dealing frankly with me," he said.
"That is all that I care about, and that is why I am not willing to
continue to represent you. Stanley Ryder has bought your stock, and
Stanley Ryder will have to be your adviser in the future."

He had not meant to discuss the matter with her any further, but he
saw how profoundly he had hurt her, and the old bond between them
held him still.

"Can't you understand what you did to me, Lucy?" he exclaimed.
"Imagine my position, talking to Mr. Hanson, I knowing nothing and
he knowing everything. He knew what you had been paid, and he even
knew that you had taken a note."

Lucy stared at Montague with wide-open eyes. "Allan!" she gasped.

"You see what it means," he said. "I told you that you could not
keep your doings secret. Now it will only be a matter of a few days
before everybody who knows will be whispering that you have
permitted Stanley Ryder to do this for you."

There was a long silence. Lucy sat staring before her. Then suddenly
she faced Montague.

"Allan!" she cried. "Surely--you understand!"

She burst out violently, "I had a right to sell that stock! Ryder
needed it. He is going to organise a syndicate, and develop the
property. It was a simple matter of business."

"I have no doubt of it, Lucy," said Montague, in a low voice, "but
how will you persuade the world of that? I told you what would
happen if you permitted yourself to be intimate with a man like
Stanley Ryder. You will find out too late what it means. Certainly
that incident with Waterman ought to have opened your eyes to what
people are saying."

Lucy gave a start, and gazed at him with horror in her eyes.
"Allan!" she panted.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Do you mean to tell me that happened to me because Stanley Ryder is
my friend?"

"Of course I do," said he. "Waterman had heard the gossip, and he
thought that if Ryder was a rich man, he was a ten-times-richer
man."

Montague could see the colour mount swiftly over Lucy's throat and
face. She stood twisting her hands together nervously. "Oh, Allan!"
she said. "That is monstrous!"

"It is not of my making. It is the way the world is. I found it out
myself, and I tried to point it out to you."

"But it is horrible!" she cried. "I will not believe it. I will not
yield to such things. I will not be coward enough to give up a
friend for such a motive!"

"I know the feeling," said Montague. "I'd stand by you, if it were
another man than Stanley Ryder. But I know him better than you, I
believe."

"You don't, Allan, you can't!" she protested. "I tell you he is a
good man! He is a man nobody understands--"

Montague shrugged his shoulders. "It is possible," he said. "I have
heard that before. Many men are better than the things they do in
this world; at any rate, they like to persuade themselves that they
are. But you have no right to wreck your life out of pity for Ryder.
He has made his own reputation, and if he had any real care for you,
he would not ask you to sacrifice yourself to it."

"He did not ask me to," said Lucy. "What I have done, I have done of
my own free will. I believe in him, and I will not believe the
horrible things that you tell me."

"Very well," said Montague, "then you will have to go your own way."

He spoke calmly, though really his heart was wrung with grief. He
knew exactly the sort of conversation by which Stanley Ryder had
brought Lucy to this state of mind. He could have shattered the
beautiful image of himself which Ryder had conjured up; but he could
not bear to do it. Perhaps it was an instinct which guided him--he
knew that Lucy was in love with the man, and that no facts that
anyone could bring would make any difference to her. All he could
say was, "You will have to find out for yourself."

And then, with one more look at her pitiful face of misery, he
turned and went away, without even touching her hand.






CHAPTER VIII





It was now well on in May, and most of the people of Montague's
acquaintance had moved out to their country places; and those who
were chained to their desks had yachts or automobiles or private
cars, and made the trip into the country every afternoon. Montague
was invited to spend another week at Eldridge Devon's, where Alice
had been for a week; but he could not spare the time until Saturday
afternoon, when he made the trip up the Hudson in Devon's new
three-hundred-foot steam-yacht, the Triton. Some unkind person had
described Devon to Montague as "a human yawn"; but he appeared to
have a very keen interest in life that Saturday afternoon. He had
been seized by a sudden conviction that a new and but little
advertised automobile had proven its superiority to any of the
seventeen cars which he at present maintained in his establishment.
He had got three of these new cars, and while Montague sat upon the
quarter-deck of the Triton and gazed at the magnificent scenery of
the river, he had in his ear the monotonous hum of Devon's voice,
discussing annular ball-bearings and water-jacketed cylinders.

One of the new cars met them at Devon's private pier, and swept them
over the hill to the mansion. The Devon place had never looked more
wonderful to Montague than it did just then, with fruit trees in
full blossom, and the wonder of springtime upon everything. For
miles about one might see hillsides that were one unbroken stretch
of luscious green lawn. But alas, Eldridge Devon had no interest in
these hills, except to pursue a golf-ball over them. Montague never
felt more keenly the pitiful quality of the people among whom he
found himself than when he stood upon the portico of this house--a
portico huge enough to belong to some fairy palace in a dream--and
gazed at the sweeping vista of the Hudson over the heads of Mrs.
Billy Alden and several of her cronies, playing bridge.

* * *

After luncheon, he went for a stroll with Alice, and she told him
how she had been passing the time. "Young Curtiss was here for a
couple of days," she said.

"General Prentice's nephew?" he asked.

"Yes. He told me he had met you," said she. "What do you think of
him?"

"He struck me as a sensible chap," said Montague.

"I like him very much," said Alice. "I think we shall be friends. He
is interesting to talk to; you know he was in a militia regiment
that went to Cuba, and also he's been a cowboy, and all sorts of
exciting things. We took a walk the other morning, and he told me
some of his adventures. They say he's quite a successful lawyer."

"He is in a very successful firm," said Montague. "And he'd hardly
have got there unless he had ability."

"He's a great friend of Laura Hegan's," said Alice. "She was over
here to spend the day. She doesn't approve of many people, so that
is a compliment."

Montague spoke of a visit which he had paid to Laura Hegan, at one
of the neighbouring estates.

"I had quite a talk with her," said Alice. "And she invited me to
luncheon, and took me driving. I like her better than I thought I
would. Don't you like her, Allan?"

"I couldn't say that I really know her," said Montague. "I thought I
might like her, but she did not happen to like me."

"But how could that be?" asked the girl.

Montague smiled. "Tastes are different," he said.

"But there must be some reason," protested Alice. "For she looks at
many things in the same way that you do. I told her I thought she
would be interested to talk to you."

"What did she say?" asked the other.

"She didn't say anything," answered Alice; and then suddenly she
turned to him. "I am sure you must know some reason. I wish you
would tell me."

"I don't know anything definite," Montague answered. "I have always
imagined it had to do with Mrs. Winnie."

"With Mrs. Winnie!" exclaimed Alice, in perplexing wonder.

"I suppose she heard gossip and believed it," he added.

"But that is a shame!" exclaimed the girl. "Why don't you tell her
the truth?"

"_I_ tell her?" laughed Montague. "I have no reason for telling her.
She doesn't care anything in particular about me."

He was silent for a moment or two. "I thought of it once or twice,"
he said. "For it made me rather angry at first. I saw myself going
up to her, and startling her with the statement, 'What you believe
about me is not true!' Then again, I thought I might write her a
letter and tell her. But of course it would be absurd; she would
never acknowledge that she had believed anything, and she would
think I was impertinent."

"I don't believe she would do anything of the sort," Alice answered.
"At least, not if she meant what she said to me. She was talking
about people one met in Society, and how tiresome and conventional
it all was. 'No one ever speaks the truth or deals frankly with
you,' she said. 'All the men spend their time in paying you
compliments about your looks. They think that is all a woman cares
about. The more I come to know them, the less I think of them.'"

"That's just it," said Montague. "One cannot feel comfortable
knowing a girl in her position. Her father is powerful, and some day
she will be enormously rich herself; and the people who gather about
her are seeking to make use of her. I was interested in her when I
first met her. But when I learned more about the world in which she
lives, I shrank from even talking to her."

"But that is rather unfair to her," said Alice. "Suppose all decent
people felt that way. And she is really quite easy to know. She told
me about some charities she is interested in. She goes down into the
slums, on the East Side, and teaches poor children. It seemed to me
a wonderfully daring sort of thing, but she laughed when I said so.
She says those people are just the same as other people, when you
come to know them; you get used to their ways, and then it does not
seem so terrible and far off."

"I imagine it would be so," said Montague, with a smile.

"Her father came over to meet her," Alice added. "She said that was
the first time he had been out of the city in six months. Just fancy
working so hard, and with all the money he has! What in the world do
you suppose he wants more for?"

"I don't suppose it is the money," said he. "It's the power. And
when you have so much money, you have to work hard to keep other
people from taking it away from you."

"He certainly looks as if he ought to be able to protect himself,"
said the girl. "His face is so grim and forbidding. You would hardly
think he could smile, to look at him."

"He is very pleasant, when you know him," said Montague.

"He remembered you, and asked about you," said she. "Wasn't it he
who was going to buy Lucy Dupree's stock?"

"I spoke to him about it," he answered, "but nothing came of it."

There was a moment's pause. "Allan," said Alice, suddenly, "what is
this I hear about Lucy?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"People are talking about her and Mr. Ryder. I overheard Mrs. Landis
yesterday. It's outrageous!"

Montague did hot know what to say. "What can I do?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Alice, "but I think that Victoria Landis is a
horrible woman. I know she herself does exactly as she pleases. And
she tells such shocking stories--"

Montague said nothing.

"Tell me," asked the other, after a pause, "because you've given up
Lucy's business affairs, are we to have nothing to do with her at
all?"

"I don't know," he answered. "I don't imagine she will care to see
me. I have told her about the mistake she's making, and she chooses
to go her own way. So what more can I do?"

* * *

That evening Montague found himself settled on a sofa next to Mrs.
Billy Alden. "What's this I hear about your friend, Mrs. Taylor?"
she asked.

"I don't know," said he, abruptly.

"The fascinating widow seems to be throwing herself away," continued
the other.

"What makes you say that?" he asked.

"Vivie Patton told me," said she. "She's an old flame of Stanley
Ryder's, you know; and so I imagine it came directly from him."

Montague was dumb; he could think of nothing to say.

"It's too bad," said Mrs. Billy. "She is really a charming creature.
And it will hurt her, you know--she is a stranger, and it's a trifle
too sudden. Is that the Mississippi way?"

Montague forced himself to say, "Lucy is her own mistress." But his
feeble impulse toward conversation was checked by Mrs. Billy's
prompt response, "Vivie said she was Stanley Ryder's."

"I understand how you feel," continued the great lady, after a
pause. "Everybody will be talking about it.--Your friend Reggie Mann
heard what Vivie said, and he will see to that."

"Reggie Mann is no friend of mine," said Montague, abruptly.

There was a pause. "How in the world do you stand that man?" he
asked, by way of changing the conversation.

"Oh, Reggie fills his place," was the reply. And Mrs. Billy gazed
about the room. "You see all these women?" she said. "Take them in
the morning and put half a dozen of them together in one room; they
all hate each other like poison, and there are no men around, and
there is nothing to do; and how are you to keep them from
quarrelling?"

"Is that Reggie's role?" asked the other.

"Precisely. He sees a spark fly, and he jumps up and cracks a joke.
It doesn't make any difference what he does--I've known him to crow
like a rooster, or stumble over his own feet--anything to raise a
laugh."

"Aren't you afraid these epigrams may reach your victim?" asked
Montague, with a smile.

"That is what they are intended to do," was the reply.

"I judge you have not many enemies," added Mrs. Billy, after a
pause.

"No especial ones," said he.

"Well," said she, "you should cultivate some. Enemies are the spice
of life. I mean it, really," she declared, as she saw him smile.

"I had never thought of it," said he.

"Have you never known what it is to get into a really good fight?
You see, you are conventional, and you don't like to acknowledge it.
But what is there that wakes one up more than a good, vigorous
hatred? Some day you will realise it--the chief zest in life is to
go after somebody who hates you, and to get him down and see him
squirm."

"But suppose he gets you down?" interposed Montague.

"Ah!" said she, "you mustn't let him! That is what you go into the
fight for. Get after him, and do him first."

"It sounds rather barbarous," said he.

"On the contrary," was the answer, "it's the highest reach of
civilisation. That is what Society is for--the cultivation of the
art of hatred. It is the survival of the fittest in a new realm. You
study your victim, you find out his weaknesses and his foibles, and
you know just where to plant your sting. You learn what he wants,
and you take it away from him. You choose your allies carefully, and
you surround him and overwhelm him; then when you get through with
him, you go after another."

And Mrs. Billy glanced about her at the exquisite assemblage in Mrs.
Devon's Louis Seize drawing-room. "What do you suppose these people
are here for to-night?" she asked.






CHAPTER IX





A weekor two had passed, when one day Oliver called his brother on
the 'phone. "Have you or Alice any engagement this evening?" he
asked. "I want to bring a friend around to dinner."

"Who is it?" inquired Montague.

"Nobody you have heard of," said Oliver. "But I want you to meet
him. You will think he's rather queer, but I will explain to you
afterwards. Tell Alice to take my word for him."

Montague delivered the message, and at seven o'clock they went
downstairs. In the reception room they met Oliver and his friend,
and it was all that Montague could do to repress a look of
consternation.

The name of the personage was Mr. Gamble. He was a little man, a
trifle over five feet high, and so fat that one wondered how he
could get about alone; his chin and neck were a series of rolls of
fat. His face was round like a full moon, and out of it looked two
little eyes like those of a pig. It was only after studying them for
a while that one discovered that they twinkled shrewdly.

Mr. Gamble was altogether the vulgarest-looking personage that Alice
Montague had ever met. He put out a fat little hand to her, and she
touched it gingerly, and then gazed at Oliver and his brother in
helpless dismay.

"Good evening. Good evening," he began volubly. "I am charmed to
meet you. Mr. Montague, I have heard so much about you from your
brother that I feel as if we were old friends."

There was a moment's pause. "Shall we go into the dining-room?"
asked Montague.

He did not much relish the stares which would follow them, but he
could see no way out of the difficulty. They went into the room and
seated themselves, Montague wondering in a flash whether Mr.
Gamble's arms would be long enough to reach to the table in front of
him.

"A warm evening," he said, puffing slightly. "I have been on the
train all day."

"Mr. Gamble comes from Pittsburg," interposed Oliver.

"Indeed?" said Montague, striving to make conversation. "Are you in
business there?"

"No, I am out of business," said Mr. Gamble, with a smile. "Made my
pile, so to speak, and got out. I want to see the world a bit before
I get too old."

The waiter came to take their orders; in the meantime Montague
darted an indignant glance at his brother, who sat and smiled
serenely. Then Montague caught Alice's eye, and he could almost hear
her saying to him, "What in the world am I going to talk about?"

But it proved not very difficult to talk with the gentleman from
Pittsburg. He appeared to know all the gossip of the Metropolis, and
he cheerfully supplied the topics of conversation. He had been to
Palm Beach and Hot Springs during the winter, and told about what he
had seen there; he was going to Newport in the summer, and he talked
about the prospects there. If he had the slightest suspicion of the
fact that all his conversation was not supremely interesting to
Montague and his cousin, he gave no hint of it.

After he had disposed of the elaborate dinner which Oliver ordered,
Mr. Gamble proposed that they visit one of the theatres. He had a
box all ready, it seemed, and Oliver accepted for Alice before
Montague could say a word for her. He spoke for himself,
however,--he had important work to do, and must be excused.

He went upstairs and shook off his annoyance and plunged into his
work. Sometime after midnight, when he had finished, he went out for
a breath of fresh air, and as he returned he found Oliver and his
friend standing in the lobby of the hotel.

"How do you do, Mr. Montague?" said Gamble. "Glad to see you again."

"Alice has just gone upstairs," said Oliver. "We were going to sit
in the cafe awhile. Will you join us?"

"Yes, do," said Mr. Gamble, cordially.

Montague went because he wanted to have a talk with Oliver before he
went to bed that night.

"Do you know Dick Ingham?" asked Mr. Gamble, as they seated
themselves at a table.

"The Steel man, you mean?" asked Montague. "No, I never met him."

"We were talking about him," said the other. "Poor chap--it really
was hard luck, you know. It wasn't his fault. Did you ever hear the
true story?"

"No," said Montague, but he knew to what the other referred. Ingham
was one of the "Steel crowd," as they were called, and he had been
president of the Trust until a scandal had forced his resignation.

"He is an old friend of mine," said Gamble; "he told me all about
it. It began in Paris--some newspaper woman tried to blackmail him,
and he had her put in jail for three months. And when she got out
again, then the papers at home began to get stories about poor
Ingham's cutting up. And the public went wild, and they made him
resign--just imagine it!"

Gamble chuckled so violently that he was seized by a coughing spell,
and had to signal for a glass of water.

"They've got a new scandal on their hands now," said Oliver.

"They're a lively crowd, the Steel fellows," laughed the other.
"They want to make Davidson resign, too, but he'll fight them. He
knows too much! You should hear his story!"

"I imagine it's not a very savoury one," said Montague, for lack of
something to say.

"It's too bad," said the other, earnestly. "I have talked to them
sometimes, but it don't do any good. I remember Davidson one night:
'Jim,' says he, 'a fellow gets a whole lot of money, and he buys him
everything he wants, until at last he buys a woman, and then his
trouble begins. If you're buying pictures, there's an end to it--you
get your walls covered sooner or later. But you never can satisfy a
woman.'" And Mr. Gamble shook his head. "Too bad, too bad," he
repeated.

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