Ainslee's Magazine/Winged Victory/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten o'clock. Sir Richard Sinclair considered the timepiece thoughtfully, as if the passing of the hour suggested something pleasant to him. His round, rubicund face, lit by the reflection of the firelight, bore an expression of large complacency that made it a kind of living comment on the handsome, luxurious room and the pervading atmosphere of somewhat pompous opulence. Care, if it had ever entered into the neatly woven web of Sir Richard's life, had left but few gray threads to mark its passage. Success, won on the easy lines of heritage, was written everywhere.
Presently, as a servant entered. with a tray, Sir Richard started up from his drowsy meditations.
“Oh, it's you, Harrison? Yes, put the things over there. I want the table for my papers. I'm expecting a visitor.”
“Mr. Corodo has just arrived, Sir Richard.”
“Very well, then. Show him up at once. And bring another glass.”
“Yes, Sir Richard.”
A minute or two later the door opened again, and Sir Richard got up and composed himself before the fire in an attitude of kindly dignity. He was conscious that he was what is vulgarly described as “a fine figure of a man,” and the knowledge added to the cordiality of his manner. He advanced with outstretched hand.
“Ah, how do you do, Corodo? Delighted to see you.”
The newcomer bowed gravely.
“It was kind of you to receive me at this unusual hour, Sir Richard.”
“Not at all. My daughter and son-in-law are at Admiral Raeburn's. I am quite free, and glad of your company. A lonely, old man sometimes, Corodo, a lonely, old man.” He laughed in contradiction of his own words, and motioned his visitor to the fire. “Sit down. You're not looking well. Anything the matter?”
The other shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“There's always something the matter with me, Sir Richard. I'm a patched-up wreck that the doctors keep afloat, Heaven knows how! I'm accustomed to the condition. If I look troubled, it is less on my account than” He stopped short, as if on the brink of an indiscretion, and frowned at the firelight, his pale, heavily bearded face almost sinister in its power and concentration. “I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Sir Richard,” he finished quietly.
Sir Richard looked blank. Bad news, save as a far-off eventuality connected with other mortals, was unknown to him, and the idea of it left him unmoved. He pushed a box of cigars across the table.
“Help yourself. Bad news? Oh, come, I don't suppose it's as bad as all that?”
“It's about as bad as it can be.”
“Indeed! I'm sorry to hear it.” His tone was still that of a man contemplating his neighbor's troubles, himself invulnerable, and Jabez Corodo turned to him with a stern movement of finality.
“The North Remonto Diamond Mine has gone smash, Sir Richard,” he said. “It's best that I should be frank and brief. From the telegram, I judge that there is no hope of a reopening—that there's nothing more to be got out of it. The shareholders will have to bear the brunt.”
Sir Richard's raised hand relaxed. The glass it had held dropped with a crash upon the fender.
“It's not true!” he said slowly. “It's not true—I mean, it's impossible! I, as director, must surely be better informed”
“There are directors and directors, Sir Richard,” was the cynical interruption. “There are the real organizers and the figureheads. I need not point out to you that it was not for your business abilities that you were asked to take a seat at the board.”
“You dare say that—you dare come here and tell me I've been duped—tricked—that my good name has been dragged in the mud to trick others? My God, sir, I won't believe it—I won't! You advised me yourself—you”
“I advised you to follow my example, Sir Richard. Remember you are not the only one.”
The quiet suggestion did not reach the baronet's consciousness. He stood upright, his round, wide-open eyes fixed in front of him in blank, pitiful incredulity. His florid face had become purple and swollen with the violence of a hitherto unknown emotion. Then he laughed—the wavering, silly laugh of a man thrown suddenly off his balance.
“You must be mad, Corodo!” he said. “You don't understand. Three-quarters of my money is in that mine. It must be there—it must be somewhere!”
“Undoubtedly, Sir Richard. But if the 'somewhere' is another man's pocket, the fact will not help either of us.
This time there was no answer. Sir Richard turned heavily on his heel, his hands outstretched as if groping for support. They caught the edge of the mantelshelf, and he stood there with bowed head like some grand oak withered in a moment by a blasting flash of lightning.
Jabez Corodo rose. His powerful, commanding figure contrasted strikingly with the broken man before him. He laid his hand on the quivering shoulders.
“I'm sorry, Sir Richard. I understand what this must mean to you”
“You can't!” was the hoarse interruption. 'I'm beggared. That, perhaps, doesn't matter. I'm an old man. But my daughter—my son”
“I also have a son.”
“You?”
“And one for whom I have made sacrifice after sacrifice, and who will never thank me. We have each our own burden, Sir Richard. And then—perhaps Lieutenant Villiers can look after himself better than you think.”
“With his pay, perhaps?”
“Lieutenant Villiers has something to sell that many will want to buy.”
There was silence. Sir Richard Sinclair lifted his head, and the still-vacant eyes met the steady gaze of the man opposite him.
“I don't understand What are you suggesting?”
“Come, come, Sir Richard! We are both men of the world and accustomed to look facts in the face. You know very well that your son-in-law has made a valuable discovery. Hitherto, he has been able to ignore the monetary side of the business. Now things have changed. Where there are many bidders, the price rises. The hammer falls to the highest.”
“Are you—perhaps a bidder?”
The words came slowly, disjointedly. Unnoticed, Sir Richard's trembling hand steadied and contracted. Jabez Corodo made a movement of deliberate assent.
“I am empowered to make an offer,” he said. “If, influenced by you, Lieutenant Villiers accepts it, you need have no further cause for anxiety.”
The baronet did not answer directly. He drew himself up and crossed the room with a firm step. His heritage was strong in him as he turned, his hand upon the now open door, his head held high with the unshakable pride of race.
“Lieutenant Villiers serves one master!” he said clearly. “He is an honorable English gentleman. That's my answer—and his. You can go!”
The other bowed gravely.
“You are an admirable figurehead, Sir Richard,” he said, “but your business ability was worthy of the mine. It is to be regretted. I wish you a good night.”
There was neither insolence nor yet conscious defeat in his bearing as he passed out. The door closed sharply. Sir Richard still held himself erect. There was even a cold, contemptuous smile about his white lips as he stumbled back to the fireplace.
“The insolent hound—the”
His wandering fingers closed on the bundle of papers that Corodo had thrown on the table. He picked them up, staring at them, the smile fading to a piteous vacancy. Like a sleep-walker, he carried them with him to the telephone and took down the receiver. His hand shook, his voice sounded thin and weak like a tired child's.
“Mayfair, four-o-one-one-five. Ah—is that Admiral Raeburn's? Tell my son Yes, Sir Richard Sinclair Tell my son”
The voice trailed off. He could hear music, the low, continuous hum of gayety. He began to laugh again—then slowly, almost deliberately, slipped face downward to the floor.
At the same moment Jabez Corodo had passed out of the house. A handsomely appointed motor car waited for him at the opposite curb. He crossed and entered without a word. It was not till the machine had glided out of the street that he turned to the man who sat quietly in the far corner.
“Well?”
“I broached him,” was the answer, “but he smelled a rat at once. As things stand, we have no chance.”
“As things stand!” Corodo laughed to himself. “Well, to-morrow things may stand differently. What sort of a man is he?”
“Obstinate and ambitious.”
“His wife?”
“Vain chiefly; also pleasure loving.”
Corodo nodded and for a moment was silent. When he spoke again, it was in another tone and with an unusual hesitancy.
“Was—he there?”
“Yes.”
“How did he look?”
“Well and happy.” Rochefort leaned forward, looking closer into the hard face upon which the lamps of the street threw an uncertain light. “He is very fond of Mrs. Villiers,” he said softly.
“A brotherly affection?”
“I do not know. Perhaps he thinks so.”
Jabez Corodo drew out his cigarette case.
“This may prove interesting,” he said calmly. “The part of the deus ex machina is evidently allotted to me. Will you not smoke, Rochefort?”