Books: The Lion and the Mouse

C >> Charles Klein >> The Lion and the Mouse

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He wondered what Shirley was doing. Where had she gone, what was
this mysterious work of which she had spoken? He only realized
now, when she seemed entirely beyond his reach, how much he loved
her and how empty his life would be without her. He would know no
happiness until she was his wife. Her words on the porch did not
discourage him. Under the circumstances he could not expect her to
have said anything else. She could not marry into John Ryder's
family with such a charge hanging over her own father's head, but,
later, when the trial was over, no matter how it turned out, he
would go to her again and ask her to be his wife.

On arriving home the first person he saw was the ubiquitous Mr.
Bagley, who stood at the top of the first staircase giving some
letters to the butler. Jefferson cornered him at once, holding out
the newspaper containing the offending paragraph.

"Say, Bagley," he cried, "what does this mean? Is this any of your
doing?"

The English secretary gave his employer's son a haughty stare, and
then, without deigning to reply or even to glance at the
newspaper, continued his instructions to the servant:

"Here, Jorkins, get stamps for all these letters and see they are
mailed at once. They are very important."

"Very good, sir."

The man took the letters and disappeared, while Jefferson,
impatient, repeated his question:

"My doing?" sneered Mr. Bagley. "Really, Jefferson, you go too
far! Do you suppose for one instant that I would condescend to
trouble myself with your affairs?"

Jefferson was in no mood to put up with insolence from anyone,
especially from a man whom he heartily despised, so advancing
menacingly he thundered:

"I mean--were you, in the discharge of your menial-like duties,
instructed by my father to send that paragraph to the newspapers
regarding my alleged betrothal to Miss Roberts? Yes or No?"

The man winced and made a step backward. There was a gleam in the
Ryder eye which he knew by experience boded no good.

"Really, Jefferson," he said in a more conciliatory tone, "I know
absolutely nothing about the paragraph. This is the first I hear
of it. Why not ask your father?"

"I will," replied Jefferson grimly,

He was turning to go in the direction of the library when Bagley
stopped him.

"You cannot possibly see him now," he said. "Sergeant Ellison of
the Secret Service is in there with him, and your father told me
not to disturb him on any account. He has another appointment at
three o'clock with some woman who writes books."

Seeing that the fellow was in earnest, Jefferson did not insist.
He could see his father a little later or send him a message
through his mother. Proceeding upstairs he found Mrs. Ryder in her
room and in a few energetic words he explained the situation to
his mother. They had gone too far with this matchmaking business,
he said, his father was trying to interfere with his personal
liberty and he was going to put a stop to it. He would leave at
once for Europe. Mrs. Ryder had already heard of the projected
trip abroad, so the news of this sudden departure was not the
shock it might otherwise have been. In her heart she did not blame
her son, on the contrary she admired his spirit, and if the
temporary absence from home would make him happier, she would not
hold him back. Yet, mother like, she wept and coaxed, but nothing
would shake Jefferson in his determination and he begged his
mother to make it very plain to his father that this was final and
that a few days would see him on his way abroad. He would try and
come back to see his father that afternoon, but otherwise she was
to say good-bye for him. Mrs. Ryder promised tearfully to do what
her son demanded and a few minutes later Jefferson was on his way
to the front door.

As he went down stairs something white on the carpet attracted his
attention. He stooped and picked it up. It was a letter. It was in
Bagley's handwriting and had evidently been dropped by the man to
whom the secretary had given it to post. But what interested
Jefferson more than anything else was that it was addressed to
Miss Kate Roberts. Under ordinary circumstances, a king's ransom
would not have tempted the young man to read a letter addressed to
another, but he was convinced that his father's secretary was an
adventurer and if he were carrying on an intrigue in this manner
it could have only one meaning. It was his duty to unveil a rascal
who was using the Ryder roof and name to further his own ends and
victimize a girl who, although sophisticated enough to know
better, was too silly to realize the risk she ran at the hands of
an unscrupulous man. Hesitating no longer, Jefferson tore open the
envelope and read:

My dearest wife that is to be:

I have arranged everything. Next Wednesday--just a week from to-
day--we will go to the house of a discreet friend of mine where a
minister will marry us; then we will go to City Hall and get
through the legal part of it. Afterwards, we can catch the four
o'clock train for Buffalo. Meet me in the ladies' room at the
Holland House Wednesday morning at 11 a.m. I will come there with
a closed cab. Your devoted

FITZ.

"Phew!" Jefferson whistled. A close shave this for Senator
Roberts, he thought. His first impulse was to go upstairs again to
his mother and put the matter in her hands. She would immediately
inform his father, who would make short work of Mr. Bagley. But,
thought Jefferson, why should he spoil a good thing? He could
afford to wait a day or two. There was no hurry. He could allow
Bagley to think all was going swimmingly and then uncover the plot
at the eleventh hour. He would even let this letter go to Kate,
there was no difficulty in procuring another envelope and
imitating the handwriting--and when Bagley was just preparing to
go to the rendezvous he would spring the trap. Such a cad deserved
no mercy. The scandal would be a knock-out blow, his father would
discharge him on the spot and that would be the last they would
see of the aristocratic English secretary. Jefferson put the
letter in his pocket and left the house rejoicing.

While the foregoing incidents were happening John Burkett Ryder
was secluded in his library. The great man had come home earlier
than usual, for he had two important callers to see by appointment
that afternoon. One was Sergeant Ellison, who had to report on his
mission to Massapequa; the other was Miss Shirley Green, the
author of "The American Octopus," who had at last deigned to
honour him with a visit. Pending the arrival of these visitors the
financier was busy with his secretary trying to get rid as rapidly
as possible of what business and correspondence there was on hand.

The plutocrat was sitting at his desk poring over a mass of
papers. Between his teeth was the inevitable long black cigar and
when he raised his eyes to the light a close observer might have
remarked that they were sea-green, a colour they assumed when the
man of millions was absorbed in scheming new business deals. Every
now and then he stopped reading the papers to make quick
calculations on scraps of paper. Then if the result pleased him, a
smile overspread his saturnine features. He rose from his chair
and nervously paced the floor as he always did when thinking
deeply.

"Five millions," he muttered, "not a cent more. If they won't sell
we'll crush them--"

Mr. Bagley entered. Mr. Ryder looked up quickly.

"Well, Bagley?" he said interrogatively. "Has Sergeant Ellison
come?"

"Yes, sir. But Mr. Herts is downstairs. He insists on seeing you
about the Philadelphia gas deal. He says it is a matter of life
and death."

"To him--yes," answered the financier dryly. "Let him come up. We
might as well have it out now."

Mr. Bagley went out and returned almost immediately, followed by a
short, fat man, rather loudly dressed and apoplectic in
appearance. He looked like a prosperous brewer, while, as a matter
of fact, he was president of a gas company, one of the shrewdest
promoters in the country, and a big man in Wall Street. There was
only one bigger man and that was John Ryder. But, to-day, Mr.
Herts was not in good condition. His face was pale and his manner
flustered and nervous. He was plainly worried.

"Mr. Ryder," he began with excited gesture, "the terms you offer
are preposterous. It would mean disaster to the stockholders. Our
gas properties are worth six times that amount. We will sell out
for twenty millions--not a cent less."

Ryder shrugged his shoulders.

"Mr. Herts," he replied coolly, "I am busy to-day and in no mood
for arguing. We'll either buy you out or force you out. Choose.
You have our offer. Five millions for your gas property. Will you
take it?"

"We'll see you in hell first!" cried his visitor exasperated.

"Very well," replied Ryder still unruffled, "all negotiations are
off. You leave me free to act. We have an offer to buy cheap the
old Germantown Gas Company which has charter rights to go into any
of the streets of Philadelphia. We shall purchase that company, we
will put ten millions new capital into it, and reduce the price of
gas in Philadelphia to sixty cents a thousand. Where will you be
then?"

The face of the Colossus as he uttered this stand and deliver
speech was calm and inscrutable. Conscious of the resistless power
of his untold millions, he felt no more compunction in mercilessly
crushing this business rival than he would in trampling out the
life of a worm. The little man facing him looked haggard and
distressed. He knew well that this was no idle threat. He was well
aware that Ryder and his associates by the sheer weight of the
enormous wealth they controlled could sell out or destroy any
industrial corporation in the land. It was plainly illegal, but it
was done every day, and his company was not the first victim nor
the last. Desperate, he appealed humbly to the tyrannical Money
Power:

"Don't drive us to the wall, Mr. Ryder. This forced sale will mean
disaster to us all. Put yourself in our place--think what it means
to scores of families whose only support is the income from their
investment in our company."

"Mr. Herts," replied Ryder unmoved, "I never allow sentiment to
interfere with business. You have heard my terms. I refuse to
argue the matter further. What is it to be? Five millions or
competition? Decide now or this interview must end!"

He took out his watch and with his other hand touched a bell.
Beads of perspiration stood on his visitor's forehead. In a voice
broken with suppressed emotion he said hoarsely:

"You're a hard, pitiless man, John Ryder! So be it--five millions.
I don't know what they'll say. I don't dare return to them."

"Those are my terms," said Ryder coldly. "The papers," he added,
"will be ready for your signature to-morrow at this time, and I'll
have a cheque ready for the entire amount. Good-day."

Mr. Bagley entered. Ryder bowed to Herts, who slowly retired. When
the door had closed on him Ryder went back to his desk, a smile of
triumph on his face. Then he turned to his secretary:

"Let Sergeant Ellison come up," he said.

The secretary left the room and Mr. Ryder sank comfortably in his
chair, puffing silently at his long black cigar. The financier was
thinking, but his thoughts concerned neither the luckless gas
president he had just pitilessly crushed, nor the detective who
had come to make his report. He was thinking of the book "The
American Octopus," and its bold author whom he was to meet in a
very few minutes. He glanced at the clock. A quarter to three. She
would be here in fifteen minutes if she were punctual, but women
seldom are, he reflected. What kind of a woman could she be, this
Shirley Green, to dare cross swords with a man whose power was
felt in two hemispheres? No ordinary woman, that was certain. He
tried to imagine what she looked like, and he pictured a tall,
gaunt, sexless spinster with spectacles, a sort of nightmare in
the garb of a woman. A sour, discontented creature, bitter to all
mankind, owing to disappointments in early life and especially
vindictive towards the rich, whom her socialistic and even
anarchistical tendencies prompted her to hate and attack. Yet,
withal, a brainy, intelligent woman, remarkably well informed as
to political and industrial conditions--a woman to make a friend
of rather than an enemy. And John Ryder, who had educated himself
to believe that with gold he could do everything, that none could
resist its power, had no doubt that with money he could enlist
this Shirley Green in his service. At least it would keep her from
writing more books about him.

The door opened and Sergeant Ellison entered, followed by the
secretary, who almost immediately withdrew.

"Well, sergeant," said Mr. Ryder cordially, "what have you to tell
me? I can give you only a few minutes. I expect a lady friend of
yours."

The plutocrat sometimes condescended to be jocular with his
subordinates.

"A lady friend of mine, sir?" echoed the man, puzzled.

"Yes--Miss Shirley Green, the author," replied the financier,
enjoying the detective's embarrassment. "That suggestion of yours
worked out all right. She's coming here to-day."

"I'm glad you've found her, sir."

"It was a tough job," answered Ryder with a grimace. "We wrote her
half a dozen times before she was satisfied with the wording of
the invitation. But, finally, we landed her and I expect her at
three o'clock. Now what about that Rossmore girl? Did you go down
to Massapequa?"

"Yes, sir, I have been there half a dozen times. In fact, I've
just come from there. Judge Rossmore is there, all right, but his
daughter has left for parts unknown."

"Gone away--where?" exclaimed the financier.

This was what he dreaded. As long as he could keep his eye on the
girl there was little danger of Jefferson making a fool of
himself; with her disappeared everything was possible.

"I could not find out, sir. Their neighbours don't know much about
them. They say they're haughty and stuck up. The only one I could
get anything out of was a parson named Deetle. He said it was a
sad case, that they had reverses and a daughter who was in Paris--
"

"Yes, yes," said Ryder impatiently, "we know all that. But where's
the daughter now?"

"Search me, sir. I even tried to pump the Irish slavey. Gee, what
a vixen! She almost flew at me. She said she didn't know and
didn't care."

Ryder brought his fist down with force on his desk, a trick he had
when he wished to emphasize a point.

"Sergeant, I don't like the mysterious disappearance of that girl.
You must find her, do you hear, you must find her if it takes all
the sleuths in the country. Had my son been seen there?"

"The parson said he saw a young fellow answering his description
sitting on the porch of the Rossmore cottage the evening before
the girl disappeared, but he didn't know who he was and hasn't
seen him since."

"That was my son, I'll wager. He knows where the girl is. Perhaps
he's with her now. Maybe he's going to marry her. That must be
prevented at any cost. Sergeant, find that Rossmore girl and I'll
give you $1,000."

The detective's face flushed with pleasure at the prospect of so
liberal a reward. Rising he said:

"I'll find her, sir. I'll find her."

Mr. Bagley entered, wearing the solemn, important air he always
affected when he had to announce a visitor of consequence. But
before he could open his mouth Mr. Ryder said:

"Bagley, when did you see my son, Jefferson, last?"

"To-day, sir. He wanted to see you to say good-bye. He said he
would be back."

Ryder gave a sigh of relief and addressing the detective said:

"It's not so bad as I thought." Then turning again to his
secretary he asked:

"Well, Bagley, what is it?"

"There's a lady downstairs, sir--Miss Shirley Green."

The financier half sprang from his seat.

"Oh, yes. Show her up at once. Good-bye, sergeant, good-bye. Find
that Rossmore woman and the $1,000 is yours."

The detective went out and a few moments later Mr. Bagley
reappeared ushering in Shirley.

The mouse was in the den of the lion.

CHAPTER XII

Mr. Ryder remained at his desk and did not even look up when his
visitor entered. He pretended to be busily preoccupied with his
papers, which was a favourite pose of his when receiving
strangers. This frigid reception invariably served its purpose,
for it led visitors not to expect more than they got, which
usually was little enough. For several minutes Shirley stood
still, not knowing whether to advance or to take a seat. She gave
a little conventional cough, and Ryder looked up. What he saw so
astonished him that he at once took from his mouth the cigar he
was smoking and rose from his seat. He had expected a gaunt old
maid with spectacles, and here was a stylish, good-looking young
woman, who could not possibly be over twenty-five. There was
surely some mistake. This slip of a girl could not have written
"The American Octopus." He advanced to greet Shirley.

"You wish to see me, Madame?" he asked courteously. There were
times when even John Burkett Ryder could be polite.

"Yes," replied Shirley, her voice trembling a little in spite of
her efforts to keep cool. "I am here by appointment. Three
o'clock, Mrs. Ryder's note said. I am Miss Green."

"You--Miss Green?" echoed the financier dubiously.

"Yes, I am Miss Green--Shirley Green, author of 'The American
Octopus.' You asked me to call. Here I am."

For the first time in his life, John Ryder was nonplussed. He
coughed and stammered and looked round for a place where he could
throw his cigar. Shirley, who enjoyed his embarrassment, put him
at his ease.

"Oh, please go on smoking," she said; "I don't mind it in the
least."

Ryder threw the cigar into a receptacle and looked closely at his
visitor.

"So you are Shirley Green, eh?"

"That is my nom-de-plume--yes," replied the girl nervously. She
was already wishing herself back at Massapequa. The financier eyed
her for a moment in silence as if trying to gauge the strength of
the personality of this audacious young woman, who had dared to
criticise his business methods in public print; then, waving her
to a seat near his desk, he said:

"Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," murmured Shirley. She sat down, and he took his seat
at the other side of the desk, which brought them face to face.
Again inspecting the girl with a close scrutiny that made her
cheeks burn, Ryder said:

"I rather expected--" He stopped for a moment as if uncertain what
to say, then he added: "You're younger than I thought you were,
Miss Green, much younger."

"Time will remedy that," smiled Shirley. Then, mischievously, she
added: "I rather expected to see Mrs. Ryder."

There was the faintest suspicion of a smile playing around the
corners of the plutocrat's mouth as he picked up a book lying on
his desk and replied:

"Yes--she wrote you, but I--wanted to see you about this."

Shirley's pulse throbbed faster, but she tried hard to appear
unconcerned as she answered:

"Oh, my book--have you read it?"

"I have," replied Ryder slowly and, fixing her with a stare that
was beginning to make her uncomfortable, he went on: "No doubt
your time is valuable, so I'll come right to the point. I want to
ask you, Miss Green, where you got the character of your central
figure--the Octopus, as you call him--John Broderick?"

"From imagination--of course," answered Shirley.

Ryder opened the book, and Shirley noticed that there were several
passages marked. He turned the leaves over in silence for a minute
or two and then he said:

"You've sketched a pretty big man here--"

"Yes," assented Shirley, "he has big possibilities, but I think he
makes very small use of them."

Ryder appeared not to notice her commentary, and, still reading
the book, he continued:

"On page 22 you call him 'the world's greatest individualized
potentiality, a giant combination of materiality, mentality and
money--the greatest exemplar of individual human will in existence
to-day.' And you make indomitable will and energy the keystone of
his marvellous success. Am I right?" He looked at her
questioningly.

"Quite right," answered Shirley.

Ryder proceeded:

"On page 26 you say 'the machinery of his money-making mind
typifies the laws of perpetual unrest. It must go on,
relentlessly, resistlessly, ruthlessly making money-making money
and continuing to make money. It cannot stop until the machinery
crumbles.'"

Laying the book down and turning sharply on Shirley, he asked her
bluntly:

"Do you mean to say that I couldn't stop to-morrow if I wanted
to?"

She affected to not understand him.

"You?" she inquired in a tone of surprise.

"Well--it's a natural question," stammered Ryder, with a nervous
little laugh; "every man sees himself in the hero of a novel just
as every woman sees herself in the heroine. We're all heroes and
heroines in our own eyes. But tell me what's your private opinion
of this man. You drew the character. What do you think of him as a
type, how would you classify him?"

"As the greatest criminal the world has yet produced," replied
Shirley without a moment's hesitation.

The financier looked at the girl in unfeigned astonishment.

"Criminal?" he echoed.

"Yes, criminal," repeated Shirley decisively. "He is avarice,
egotism, and ambition incarnate. He loves money because he loves
power, and he loves power more than his fellow man."

Ryder laughed uneasily. Decidedly, this girl had opinions of her
own which she was not backward to express.

"Isn't that rather strong?" he asked.

"I don't think so," replied Shirley. Then quickly she asked: "But
what does it matter? No such man exists."

"No, of course not," said Ryder, and he relapsed into silence.

Yet while he said nothing, the plutocrat was watching his visitor
closely from under his thick eyebrows. She seemed supremely
unconscious of his scrutiny. Her aristocratic, thoughtful face
gave no sign that any ulterior motive had actuated her evidently
very hostile attitude against him. That he was in her mind when
she drew the character of John Broderick there was no doubt
possible. No matter how she might evade the identification, he was
convinced he was the hero of her book. Why had she attacked him so
bitterly? At first, it occurred to him that blackmail might be her
object; she might be going to ask for money as the price of future
silence. Yet it needed but a glance at her refined and modest
demeanour to dispel that idea as absurd. Then he remembered, too,
that it was not she who had sought this interview, but himself.
No, she was no blackmailer. More probably she was a dreamer--one
of those meddling sociologists who, under pretence of bettering
the conditions of the working classes, stir up discontent and
bitterness of feeling. As such, she might prove more to be feared
than a mere blackmailer whom he could buy off with money. He knew
he was not popular, but he was no worse than the other captains of
industry. It was a cut-throat game at best. Competition was the
soul of commercial life, and if he had outwitted his competitors
and made himself richer than all of them, he was not a criminal
for that. But all these attacks in newspapers and books did not do
him any good. One day the people might take these demagogic
writings seriously and then there would be the devil to pay. He
took up the book again and ran over the pages. This certainly was
no ordinary girl. She knew more and had a more direct way of
saying things than any woman he had ever met. And as he watched
her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her;
how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend. If
he did not, she would go away and write more such books, and
literature of this kind might become a real peril to his
interests. Money could do anything; it could secure the services
of this woman and prevent her doing further mischief. But how
could he employ her? Suddenly an inspiration came to him. For some
years he had been collecting material for a history of the Empire
Trading Company. She could write it. It would practically be his
own biography. Would she undertake it?

Embarrassed by the long silence, Shirley finally broke it by
saying:

"But you didn't ask me to call merely to find out what I thought
of my own work."

"No," replied Ryder slowly, "I want you to do some work for me."

He opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took out
several sheets of foolscap and a number of letters. Shirley's
heart beat faster as she caught sight of the letters. Were her
father's among them? She wondered what kind of work John Burkett
Ryder had for her to do and if she would do it whatever it was.
Some literary work probably, compiling or something of that kind.
If it was well paid, why should she not accept? There would be
nothing humiliating in it; it would not tie her hands in any way.
She was a professional writer in the market to be employed by
whoever could pay the price. Besides, such work might give her
better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was in
search. Gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from
the drawer, Mr. Ryder said:

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