For a moment he stands meditating in the middle of the room. Kings are tottering on their thrones. Empires hang upon his nod. What will he decide? Suddenly he blows a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and rushes to the telephone.
"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?…What are Margarine Prefs. at?… What?… No, Margarine Prefs., idiot…. Ah! Then sell. Keep on selling till I tell you to stop…. Yes."
He hangs up the receiver. For two minutes he paces the room, smoking rapidly. He stops a moment … but it is only to remove his cigar–band, which is in danger of burning. Then he resumes his pacings. Another minute goes rapidly by. He rushes to the telephone again.
"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?…What are Margarine Prefs. down to now?… Ah! Then buy. Keep on buying…. Yes."
He hangs up the receiver. By this master–stroke he has made a quarter of a million. It may seem to you or me an easy way of doing it. Ah, but what, we must ask ourselves, of the great brain that conceived the idea, the foresight which told the exact moment when to put it into action, the cool courage which seized the moment—what of the grasp of affairs, the knowledge of men? Ah! Can we grudge it him that he earns a quarter of a million more quickly than we do?
Yet Mr. Felix Mountenay is not happy. When we have brought off a coup for a hundred thousand even, we smile gaily. Mr. Mountenay did not smile. Fiercely he bit another inch off his cigar, and muttered to himself.
The words were "Leo Abraham! Wait!"
This is positively the last row of dots. Let us take advantage of them to jump forward another month. It was October 1st, 19—. (If that was a Sunday, then it was October 2nd. Anyhow, it was October.)
Mr. Felix Mountenay was sleeping in his office. For once that iron brain relaxed. He had made a little over three million in the last month, and the strain was too much for him. But a knock at the door restored him instantly to his own cool self.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said his secretary, "but somebody is selling zinc."
The word "zinc" touched a chord in Mr. Mountenay's brain which had lain dormant for years. Zinc! Why did zinc remind him of Leo Abraham?
"Fetch the Encyclopedia Britannica, quick!" he cried.
The secretary, a man of herculean build, returned with some of it. With the luck which proverbially attends rich men, Mr. Mountenay picked up the "Z" volume at once. As he read the Zinc article it all came back to him. Leo Abraham had owned an empty zinc–mine! Was his enemy in his clutches at last?
"Buy!" he said briefly.
In a fortnight the secretary had returned.
"Well," said Mr. Mountenay, "have you bought all the zinc there is?"
"Yes, sir," said the secretary. "And a lot that there isn't," he added.
"Good!" He paused a moment. "When Mr. Leo Abraham calls," he added grimly, "show him up at once."
It was a month later that a haggard man climbed the stairs of No. — Throgneedle Street, and was shown into Mr. Mountenay's room.
"Well," said the financier softly, "what can I do for you?"
"I want some zinc," said Leo Abergavenny.
"Zinc," said Mr. Mountenay, with a smile, "is a million pounds a ton. Or an acre, or a gallon, or however you prefer to buy it," he added humorously.
Leo went white.
"You wish to ruin me?"
"I do. A promise I made to your wife some years ago."
"My wife?" cried Leo. "What do you mean? I'm not married."
It was Mr. Mountenay's turn to go white. He went it.
"Not married? But Miss Sloan―"
Mr. Leo Abergavenny sat down and mopped his face.
"I don't know what you mean," he said. "I asked Miss Sloan to marry me, and told her I was changing my name to Abergavenny. And she said that she was changing hers to Moses. Naturally, I thought―"
"Stop!" cried Mr. Mountenay. He sat down heavily. Something seemed to have gone out of his life; in a moment the world was empty. He looked up at his old rival, and forced a laugh.
"Well, well," he said; "she deceived us both. Let us drink to our lucky escape." He rang the bell.
"And then," he said in a purring voice, "we can have a little talk about zinc. After all, business is still business."
The Doctor
His slippered feet stretched out luxuriously to the fire, Dr. Venables, of Mudford, lay back in his arm–chair and gave himself up to the delights of his Flor di Cabajo, No. 2, a box of which had been presented to him by an apparently grateful patient. It had been a busy day. He had prescribed more than half a dozen hot milk–puddings and a dozen changes of air; he had promised a score of times to look in again to–morrow; and the Widow Nixey had told him yet again, but at greater length than before, her private opinion of doctors.
Sometimes Gordon Venables wondered whether it was only for this that he had been the most notable student of his year at St. Bartholomew's. His brilliance, indeed, had caused something of a sensation in medical circles, and a remarkable career had been prophesied for him. It was Venables who had broken up one Suffrage meeting after another by throwing white mice at the women on the platform; who day after day had paraded London dressed in the costume of a brown dog, until arrested for biting an anti–vivisector in the leg. No wonder that all the prizes of the profession were announced to be within his grasp, and that when he buried himself in the little country town of Mudford he was thought to have thrown away recklessly opportunities such as were granted to few.
He had been in Mudford for five years now. An occasional paper in The Lancet on "The Recurrence of Anthro–philomelitis in Earth–worms" kept him in touch with modern medical thought, but he could not help feeling that to some extent his powers were rusting in Mudford. As the years went on his chance of Harley Street dwindled.
"Come in," he said in answer to a knock at the door.
The housekeeper's head appeared.
"There's been an accident, sir," she gasped. "Gentleman run over!"
He snatched up his stethoscope and, without even waiting to inquire where the accident was, hurried into the night. Something whispered to him that his chance had come.
After a quarter of an hour he stopped a small boy.
"Hallo, Johnny," he said breathlessly, "where's the accident?"
The boy looked at him with open mouth for some moments. Then he had an idea.
"Why, it's Doctor!" he said.
Dr. Venables pushed him over and ran on….
It was in the High Street that the accident had happened. Lord Lair, an eccentric old gentleman who sometimes walked when he might have driven, had, while dodging a motor–car, been run into by a child's hoop. He lay now on the pavement surrounded by a large and interested crowd.
"Look out," shouted somebody from the outskirts; "here comes Doctor."
Dr. Venables pushed his way through to his patient. His long search for the scene of the accident had exhausted him bodily, but his mind was as clear as ever.
"Stand back there," he said in an authoritative voice. Then, taking out his stethoscope, he made a rapid examination of his patient.
"Incised wound in the tibia," he murmured to himself. "Slight abrasion of the patella and contusion of the left ankle. The injuries are serious but not necessarily mortal. Who is he?"
The butcher, who had been sitting on the head of the fallen man, got up and disclosed the features of Lord Lair. Dr. Venables staggered back.
"His lordship!" he cried. "He is a patient of Dr. Scott's! I have attended the client of another practitioner! Professionally I am ruined!"
Lord Lair, who was now breathing more easily, opened his eyes.
"Take me home," he groaned.