after him somewhat gloomily, took a turn about the room, and stopped in front of the young man. At sight of his doleful countenance, his own face brightened.
“Well?” he demanded.
Van Ingen looked sheepish. “I give up!” he replied. “The rascal’s as deep as a well. But he seemed to me to be telling the truth.”
“He was!” agreed the ambassador promptly.
“He is a great man — and a dangerous one. He has an unquenchable spirit.”
He took out his watch. “Smith has failed us,” he remarked. “But it is no matter. He sent in this morning his detailed report. I will turn that over to you, my boy, since you have volunteered your services in this business. Read it with care — it contains some remarkable statements — and return it to Mr. Smith, in person. Why not drop around to his chambers, this evening and see what has detained him? Wait! I’ll give you a line to him.”
He scribbled a note hastily, and thrust it and the report into the young man’s hands. “And now, clear out!” He waved his hands laughingly.
“Don’t return until you can explain — everything! Off with you!”
On the way out, Cord paused to examine his mail. One letter was from Doris. He broke the seal with fingers that trembled slightly. It contained but a single sentence.
“Can you come to me at nine o’clock? DORIS.”
Despite his joy at receiving such a token of friendship, his face clouded. Nine o’clock! It was an awkward hour. He had planned to spend the entire evening with the detective. He determined to read the report, dine with Smith, if he could catch him, and go on later to Lady Dinsmore’s. His spirits rose with a bound at the prospect.
But he was destined to disappointment. Mr. Smith was not to be found at his chambers, nor at Scotland Yard, nor in any of his accustomed haunts. Nor had he left any instructions with his man. At five o’clock, after repeated attempts, Cord gave up the project, somewhat sulkily, and sent two messages. He would stay for a short half-hour with Doris, and then drive around to the apartment of the detective, trusting that he might have returned.
That evening, at nine o’clock, he was ushered into Lady Dinsmore’s drawingroom by a deferential footman, who went to announce his presence. Cord moved about restlessly. His forehead throbbed madly with overwrought nerves, for, since the reading of the report, he had felt wildly excited. It was safely folded away in an inner pocket, together with a telegram from T.B. Smith, bearing the single word, “Delighted!”
When at length Doris appeared, Cord was struck with the pallid beauty of the girl. Her animation and glow had departed, and her red lips, usually a Cupid’s-bow of laughter, drooped pitifully at the corners. Her high-necked gown of deepest black gave her the look of a sorrowing nun. Nor did her manner reassure him; it was vague and remote, and Cord, who had meant to pour out his heart in sympathy, found himself chilled, and stammering forth absurd inanities. The half-hour passed on leaden foot. Doris explained, in a listless voice, that she was leaving soon, with her aunt, for the Continent, to travel indefinitely. She had meant to go away, quietly, without a word, but she found that she wished to see him once more — she faltered piteously.
Cord stood up abruptly. The interview had suddenly become unendurable to him.
“I shall see you again tomorrow!” he assured her.
She shook her head sadly. “This is the end, dear Cord. Our paths lie apart in the future. Yours is a fair, shining one, with success just ahead. Mine— “She gave a gesture of despair. “Goodbye!”
Cord took both her hands in his. “Goodnight! I shall come again in the morning.” He felt an almost overmastering desire {o take her into his arms, to whisper into her ear the secret of the report.
She walked with him to the outer door and let him out into the cool darkness of the night.
“Goodbye!” she said again. She seemed vaguely uneasy, and bent forward, peering about her. “Is that your taxicab?” she asked sharply. Cord reassured her.
“I — I have a presentiment that something is going to happen.” She spoke in a low voice, full of emotion. “You will be careful — for my sake?”
Cord laughed, with a commingling of the joy and tender pride which a man feels toward the anxiety of the one woman in the world.
“I will be most careful,” he promised, “and I will report my welfare to you in the morning!”
The door closed between them, and he went down the steps, whistling cheerfully.
The taxicab drew alongside. He gave the address to the driver, and sprang in, triumphant, hopeful. In front of the house of the detective, he descended and halted a moment upon the pavement, searching in an inner pocket for change. Something rushed upon him from behind; he swerved, instinctively, and received a stinging blow across the head and neck. As he sank helplessly to his knees, blinded by pain, but still conscious, a hand from behind inserted itself into his pocket. Cord resisted with all his strength. “Smith!” he shouted. Something heavy descended upon his head. There was a sudden blaze of falling stars all about him, — and then blackness, oblivion. When he regained consciousness, he was lying upon a couch, and Smith was bending over him.
“That was a narrow squeak, my friend!” he said cheerfully. “You may thank your lucky stars that you missed the full force of that first blow.” Van Ingen blinked feebly. There was still a horrid buzzing in his ears, and Smith’s voice sounded as from a great distance. The room swam in great circles around him.
“The report?” he asked faintly.
“They got it!” admitted Smith, who did not seem deeply downcast at its loss. “But they didn’t get you, my boy! So that I think we may regard their job as a failure.”
9. Introducing t.b.smith
In the month of May the market, that unfailing barometer of public nerves, moved slowly in an upward direction.
If the “House” was jubilant, the “Street” was no less gratified, for since the “Baggin Failure” and financial cataclysm, which dragged down the little investors to ruin, there had been a sad flatness in the world of shares. There are many places of public resort where the “Street” people meet — those speculators who daily, year in and out, promenade the pavement of Throgmorton Street, buying and selling on an “eighth” margin. To them, from time to time, come the bareheaded clerks with news of this or that rise or fall, to receive instructions gravely imparted, and as gravely accepted, and to retire to the mysterious deeps of the “House” to execute their commissions.
The market was rising, steadily as the waters of a river rise; that was the most pleasant knowledge of all. It did not jump or leap or flare; it progressed by sixteenths, by thirty-seconds, by sixty-fourths; but all down the money columns in the financial papers of the press were tiny little plus marks which brought joy to the small investor, who is by nature a “bull.”
Many people who are not directly interested In finance regarded the signs with sympathy. The slaves of the street, ‘busmen, cabmen, the sellers of clamorous little financial papers,
