Part 2 (1/2)

”But this time you've hit the right nail on the head. There _is_ something you can do for me, if any one can. You can put me in the way of doubling a given sum in the shortest possible time.”

”That all?” answered the other, almost disappointedly. ”Reckon I can-- and I'd do more than that for you--as you know. Silas B. Mork.u.m ain't the boy to forget--well, we know what. Now let's hear all about it.”

Claverton told him. The tie of grat.i.tude to which Mork.u.m had referred went back to the time of the former's earlier wanderings, when our friend had by the merest chance been able to do him a most important service, and the American had never forgotten it. He was a curious unit. By profession broker, money-lender, and half-a-dozen other things; in reality, such of his dealings as were most remunerative were known only to himself and to those immediately concerned.

”Well, then,” he said, reflectively, lighting up a long Havana and pus.h.i.+ng the box across to his companion, ”well, then--you want to turn over this sum and ain't particular how?”

”Not in the least.”

”Then I can lay you on to something. But you are open to putting your hide pretty considerably in p.a.w.n?”

”Quite open. What is it? Mines in Sonora?”

”No. 'Tain't that. Two years ago I sent a party on that lay.

Twenty-three Western men, all well armed and mounted. Game chickens all round.”

”What then?”

”They are there yet. No one ever saw or heard of them again. Beckon the Apaches wiped 'em out. No. This is less risky; still, it is risky--tarnation so.”

”What is it?”

The other fixed his keen grey eyes upon Claverton for a moment. Then he delivered himself of just three words.

”The devil!” exclaimed Claverton, astonished, ”I thought that game was played out long ago.”

”No, it ain't; not a bit of it. And it's sure profits, quick returns; but-all-fired risk.”

”Well, let's hear all about it.”

The other left the papers which he had been sorting, and, drawing his chair to the fire, began to lay out his scheme. And at last the dingy office grew shadowy, and the boy came in to know if he shouldn't lock up.

”Yes,” a.s.sented Mork.u.m. ”Come along and dine somewhere, Claverton, and you shall tell me what you've been doing all this time. We can talk business to-morrow.”

The clocks were chiming a quarter to twelve as they separated at King's Cross Station.

”Going to walk home, are you?” said the American, reflectively. ”Queer city, this. Many a man disappears, and is never more heard of by his inquiring relatives.”

”It would be a precious risky job for any enterprising spirits to try and conceal my whereabouts. They'd get hurt,” answered Claverton, with a meaning laugh.

”That's right,” said the other, approvingly. ”Never have your hand far from your coat-pocket, and you'll do. Good-night.”

The wind howls dismally round a cosy old country rectory on this gloomy March evening, but, within, all is snugness and warmth. From one well-lighted room comes a sound of many cheerful voices; but pa.s.sing by this, let us take a look into the library, where sits a girl all alone.

She is a lovely girl, as far as we can see by the uncertain firelight, and may be nineteen or twenty. Her well-shaped head is crowned with an abundance of soft, dark hair, tinted with strange lights as the flickering glow plays upon it. Her sweet, l.u.s.trous eyes are gazing pensively at the clock on the mantelpiece, while the rain rolls in gusts against the old-fas.h.i.+oned cas.e.m.e.nt.

”Past six. Uncle George should be back by now. The train must be late.

Ah, there he is!” as the sound of wheels is audible on the gravel outside.