Chapter One.
By a Thread

It was a long, thin, white finger, one which had felt the throbbing of hundreds and thousands of pulses, and Doctor Praed, after viciously flicking at a fly which tried persistently to settle upon his ivory-white, shiny, bald head, hooked that finger into Clive Reed’s button-hole, just below the white rosebud Janet had given him a little earlier in the evening.

“Mind the flower.”

“All right, puppy. Come here. I want to talk to you.”

“About Janet?”

“Pish! mawkish youth. Great ugly fellow like you thinking of nothing else but Janet. Wait till you’ve been her slave as I have for eighteen years.”

“Pleasant slavery, Doctor,” said the young man, smiling, as he allowed himself to be led out on to the verandah just over the gas-lamp which helped to light up Great Guildford Street, W.C.

“Is it, sir? You don’t know what a jealous little she-tartar she is.”

“I warn you I shall tell her every word you say, Doctor. But it’s of no good. I shall not back out. Look at her dear face now.”

Reed caught the little Doctor by the shoulder, and pointed to where his daughter sat with the light of one of the shaded lamps falling upon her pretty, animated face, as she laughed at something a sharp-looking, handsome young man was saying – an anecdote of some kind which amused the rest of the group in old Grantham Reed’s drawing-room.

“Oh yes, she’s pretty enough,” said the Doctor testily. “I wish she weren’t. Don’t let that brother of yours be quite so civil to her, boy. I don’t like Jessop.”

“Nor me?” said the young man, smiling.

“Of course I don’t, sir. Hang it all! how can a man like the young scoundrel who robs him of his child’s love?”

“No, sir,” said Clive Reed gravely; “only evokes a new love that had lain latent, and offers him the love and respect of a son as well.”

Doctor Praed caught the young man’s hand in his and gave it a firm pressure. Then he cleared his throat before he spoke again, but his voice sounded husky as he said —

“God bless you, my dear boy.”

And then he stopped, and stood gazing through the window at the pleasant little party, as two neatly-dressed maids entered and began to remove the tea-things, one taking out the great plated urn, while the other collected the cups and saucers.

“The old man hasn’t bad taste in maids,” he said, with his voice still a little shaky, and as if he wanted to steady it before going on with something he wished to say. “Why don’t he have men?”

“He will not. He prefers to have maids about.”

“Then he ought to have ugly ones,” continued the Doctor, who keenly watched the movements of the slight, pretty, fair girl who was collecting the cups, and who exchanged glances with Jessop Reed as she took the cup and saucer he handed her. “A man who has two ugly scoundrels of sons has no business to keep damsels like that.”

“This ugly scoundrel is always out and busy over mining matters; that ugly scoundrel is living away at chambers, money-making at the Stock Exchange,” said Clive, smiling.

“Humph! Mining and undermining. Well, young men like to look at pretty girls.”

“Of course, Doctor,” said Clive. “I do. I’m looking now at the prettiest, sweetest – ”

“Don’t be a young fool,” cried the Doctor testily. “I can describe Janet better than you can. Now, look here, boy; I’ve got two things to say to you. First of all, about this ‘White Virgin’.”

“Yours?” said Clive, still glancing at Janet, over whom his brother was now bending, as the maid who carried the tray made the cups dash as she opened the door, and then hurried out as if to avoid a scolding.

“No, young idiot; yours – your father’s,” said the Doctor, rather sharply. “Hang that organ!”

“Yes, they are a nuisance,” said the younger man, as one of the popular tunes was struck up just inside the square.

“Well, what about the mine, sir?”

“Only this, my lad: I’ve got a few thousands put aside; you know that.”

“Yes, sir; I supposed you had.”

“Oh, you knew,” said the Doctor suspiciously.

“Yes; I think I heard something of the kind.”

“Humph!”

“There, Doctor, don’t take up that tone. Give me Janet, and leave your money to a hospital.”

“No; hang me if I do! I haven’t patience with them, sir. The way in which hospitals are imposed upon is disgraceful. People who ought to be able to pay for medical and surgical advice go and sponge upon hospitals in a way that – Oh, hang it, that’s not what I wanted to say. Look here, Clive, if this new mine – ”

“No, sir: very old mine.”

“Well, very old mine – is a good thing, I should like to have a few thousands in it. Now, then, would it be safe? Stop, confound you! If you deceive me, you shan’t have Janet.”

“If ever I’m ill, I shall go to another doctor,” said Clive quietly.

“Yes, you’d better, sir! He’d poison you.”

“Well, he wouldn’t insult me, Doctor.”

“Bah! nonsense; I was joking, my dear boy. Come, tell me. Here, feel the pulse of my purse, and tell me what to do.”

“I will,” said the younger man. “Wait, sir. I don’t know enough about it yet to give a fair opinion. At present everything looks wonderfully easy. It’s a very ancient mine. It was worked by the Romans, and whatever was done was in the most primitive way, leaving lodes and veins untouched, and which are extending possibly to an immense depth, rich, and probably containing a very large percentage of silver.”

“Well, come, that’s good enough for anything.”

“Yes, but I am not sure yet, Doctor. I’m not going to give you advice that might result in your losing heavily, and then upbraiding me for years to come.”

“No, dear boy. You would only be losing your own money; for, of course, it will be Janet’s and yours.”

“Bother the money!” said the young man shortly. “Look here, Doctor; as a mining engineer, I should advise every one but those who want to do a bit of gambling, and are ready to take losses philosophically, to have nothing to do with mines. If, however, I can help you with this, I will tell you all I know as fast as I learn it.”

“That’ll do, boy. Now about the other matter. You know I make use of my eyes a good deal.”

“Yes,” said the young man anxiously.

“Then, to put it rather brutally and plainly, boy, I don’t like the look of the old dad.”

“Doctor Praed!” cried the young man in a voice full of agony, as he turned and gazed anxiously into the drawing-room, where Grantham Reed, one of the best known floaters of mining projects in the City, sat back in his chair, holding Janet Praed’s hand, and patting it gently, as he evidently listened to something his elder son was relating. “Why, what nonsense! I never saw him look better in my life.”

“Perhaps not – you didn’t,” said the Doctor drily.

“I beg your pardon. But has he complained?”

“No; he has nothing to complain of, poor fellow; but all the same, we doctors see things sometimes which tell us sad tales. Look here, Clive, my boy. I speak to you like a son, because you are going to be my son. I can’t talk to your brother, though he is the elder, and ought to stand first. I don’t like Jessop.”

“Jess is a very good fellow when you know him as I do,” said Clive coldly.

“I’m very glad to hear it, boy,” said the Doctor. “But look here; your father’s in a very bad way, and he ought to be told.”

“But are you sure, sir?” said Clive, in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes, I am sure,” said the Doctor. “I have been watching him for the past six months in doubt. Now I know. Will you tell him, or shall I?”

“Tell him!” faltered Clive.

“Yes; a man in his position must have so much to do about his money affairs – winding up matters, while his mind is still strong and clear.”

“But he is well and happy,” said Clive. “How could I go to him and say – ”

“Here, where’s that Doctor?” came from within, in a strong voice. “Oh, there you are! It’s going on for ten, and I must have one rubber before you start.”

Five minutes later four people were seated at a card-table, one of whom was Clive Reed, whose hands were cold and damp, as he felt as if he were playing for his father’s life in some great game of chance, while in the farther drawing-room Janet Praed was singing a ballad in a low, sweet voice, and Clive’s sharp-looking, keen-eyed brother was turning over the music leaves and passing compliments, at which his sister-in-law elect uttered from time to time in the intervals of the song a half-pained, half-contemptuous laugh.

Chapter Two.
Arch-Plotters

“Hullo, my noble! what brings you here?”

Jessop Reed took off his glossy, fashionable hat, laid a gold-headed malacca cane across it as he placed it upon the table, and then shot his cuffs out of the sleeves of his City garments, cut in the newest style, and apparently fresh that day. Tie, collar, sleeve-links, pin, chain, tightly-cut trousers, spats, and patent shoes betokened the dandy of the Stock Exchange, and the cigar-case he took out was evidently the last new thing of its kind.

“Cigar?” he said, opening and offering it to the dark, sallow, youngish man seated at an office table, for he had not risen when his visitor to the office in New Inn entered.

“Eh? Well, I don’t mind. Yours are always so good.”

He selected one, declined a patent cutter, preferring to use a very keen penknife which lay on the table, but he accepted the match which his visitor extracted from the interior of a little Japanese owl, and deftly lit by rubbing it along his leg. The next minute the two men sat smoking and gazing in each other’s eyes.

“Well, my brilliant, my jasper and sardine stone, what brings you through grimy Wych Street to these shades?”

“You’re pretty chippy this morning, Wrigley. Been doing somebody?”

“No, my boy; hadn’t a chance. Have you come to be done?”

“Yes; gently. Short bill on moderate terms.”

“What! You don’t mean to say that you, my hero on ’Change, who are turning over money, as it were, with a pitchfork, are coming to me?”

“I am, though, so no humbug.”

“’Pon my word! A fellow with a dad like a Rothschild and a brother that – here, why don’t you ask the noble Clive?”

“Hang Clive!” snapped out Jessop.

“Certainly, my dear fellow, if you wish it,” said John Wrigley. “Hang Clive! Will that do?”

“I don’t care about worrying the old man, and there’s a little thing on in Argentines this morning. I want a hundred at once.”

“In paper?”

“Look here, Wrigley, if you won’t let me have the stuff, say so, and I’ll go to some one else.”

“And pay twice as much as I shall charge, my dear boy. Don’t be so peppery. Most happy to oblige you, and without consulting my friend in the City, who will have to sell out at a loss, eh? A hundred, eh?”

“Yes, neat.”

“All right!”

A slip of blue stamped paper was taken out of a drawer, filled up, passed over for signature, and as Jessop now took up a pen he uttered a loud growl.

“Hundred and twenty in four months! Sixty per cent. Bah! what a blood-sucker you are!”

“Yes, aren’t I?” said the other cheerily. “Don’t take my interest first, though, and give you a cheque for eighty, eh?”

He took the bill, glanced at it, and thrust it in a plain morocco case, which he replaced in a drawer, took out a cheque-book, quickly wrote a cheque, signed it, and looked up.

“Cross it?” he said.

“Yes. I shall pay it in. Thanks!”

“There you see the value of a good reputation, my dear Reed; but you oughtn’t to be paying for money through the nose like that.”

“No,” said the visitor, with a snarl, “I oughtn’t to be, but I do. If the dear brother wants any amount, there it, is; but if I want it – cold shoulder.”

“So it is, my dear fellow; some are favourites for a time, some are not: Let me see. He’s engaged to the rich doctor’s daughter, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes, bless me,” said Jessop. “All the fat and gravy of life come to him.”

The young lawyer threw one leg over the other and clasped his hands about his knee.

“Ah! yes,” he said seriously, “the distribution of money and honour in this world is very unequal. Clive is on that mine, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes; consulting engineer and referee scientific, and all the confounded cant of it. As for a good thing – well, I’m told not to grumble, and to be content with my commission and all the shares I can get taken up.”

“Does seem hard,” said Wrigley. “Only for a year or two, eh? And then a sale and a burst up?”

“Don’t you make any mistake about that, old man,” said Jessop sulkily. “It’s a big thing.”

“Then why wasn’t it taken up before?”

“Because people are fools. They’ve been so awfully humbugged, too, over mines. This is a very old mine that the governor has been trying to get hold of on the quiet for years, but he couldn’t work it till old Lord Belvers died. It has never been worked by machinery, and, as you may say, has only been skinned. There are mints of money in it, my boy, and so I tell you.”

Wrigley smiled.

“What is your commission on all the shares you place?”

“Precious little. Eh? Oh, I see; you think I want to plant a few. Not likely. If you wanted a hundred, I couldn’t get them for you.”

“No, they never are to be had.”

“Chaff away. I don’t care. You know it’s a good thing, or else our governor wouldn’t have put his name to it and set so much money as he has.”

“To come up and bear a good crop, eh? There, I won’t chaff about it, Jessop, boy. I know it’s a good thing, and you ought to make a rare swag out of it.”

“So that you could too, eh?”

“Of course; so that we could both make a good thing out of it. One is not above making a few thou’s, I can tell you. Lead, isn’t it?”

“Yes, solid lead. None of your confounded flashy gold-mines.”

“But they sound well with the public, Jessop. Gold – gold – gold. The public is not a Bassanio, to choose the lead casket.”

“It was a trump ace, though, my boy.”

“So it was. But you are only to get a little commission out of sales over this, eh?”

“That’s all; and it isn’t worth the candle, for there’ll be no more to sell. The shares are going up tremendously.”

“So I hear – so I hear,” said Wrigley thoughtfully; “and you are left out in the cold, and have to come borrowing. Jessop, old man, over business matters you and I are business men, and there is, as the saying goes, no friendship in business.”

“Not a bit,” said Jessop, with an oath.

“But we are old friends, and we have seen a little life together.”

“Ah! we have,” said Jessop, nodding his head.

“And, as the world goes, I think we have a little kind of pleasant feeling one for the other.”

“Humph! I suppose so,” said Jessop, watching the other narrowly with the keen eye of a man who deals in hard cash, and knows the value of a sixteenth per cent, in a large transaction. “Well, what’s up?”

“I was thinking, my dear fellow,” said the young lawyer, in a low voice, “how much pleasanter the world would be for you and me if we were rich. But no, no, no. You would not care to fight against your father and brother.”

“Perhaps before long there will only be my brother to fight against,” said Jessop meaningly.

The lawyer looked at him keenly.

“You should not say that without a good reason, Jessop.”

“No, I should not.”

“Well, I don’t ask for your confidence, so let it slide. It was tempting; but there is your brother.”

“Curse my brother!” cried Jessop savagely. “Is he always to stand in my light?”

“That rests with you.”

“Look here, what do you mean?”

“Do you wish me to state what I mean?”

“Yes,” said Jessop excitedly.

“Then I meant this. Your father is very rich, and knows how to protect his interests.”

“Trust him for that.”

“Your brother is well provided for, and can make his way.”

“Oh, hang him, yes. Fortune’s favourite, and no mistake.”

“Then what would you say if – But one moment. You tell me, as man to man, to whom the business would be vital, that the ‘White Virgin’ mine is really a big thing?”

“I tell you, as man to man, that it will be a tremendously big thing.”

“Good!” said the lawyer slowly, and in a low voice. “Then what would you say if I put you in the way of making a few hundred thousand pounds?”

“And yourself too?”

“Of course.”

“Then never mind what I should say. Can you do it?”

“Yes. You and I are about the only two men who could work that affair rightly; and as the whole business is to others a speculation, if they lose – well, they have gambled, and must take their chance.”

“Of course. But – speak out.”

“No, not out, Jessop; we must not so much as whisper. I have that affair under my thumb, and there is a fortune in it for us – the stockbroker and the lawyer. Shall we make a contract of it, hand in hand?”

“Tell me one thing first – it sounds impossible. What would you do?”

“Simply this,” said Wrigley, with a smile. “I tell you because you will not go back, neither could I. There’s my hand on it.”

Jessop eagerly grasped the extended hand.

“It means being loss to thousands – fortune to two.”

“Us two?” said Jessop hoarsely.

“Exactly! It is in a nutshell, my boy. All is fair in love, in war, and money-making, eh? Here is my plan.”