Part 1 (1/2)
Out of the Ashes.
by Ethel Watts Mumford.
I
Marcus Gard sat at his library table apparently in rapt contemplation of a pair of sixteenth century bronze inkwells, strange twisted shapes, half man, half beast, bearing in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s twin black pools. But his thoughts were far from their grotesque beauty--centered on vast schemes of destruction and reconstruction. The room was still, so quiet, in spite of its proximity to the crowded life of Fifth Avenue, that one divined its steel construction and the doubled and trebled casing of its many windows. The walls, hung with green Genoese velvet, met a carved and coffered ceiling, and touched the upper shelf of the breast-high bookcases that lined the walls. No picture broke the simple unity of color. Here and there a Donatello bronze silhouetted a slim shape, or a Florentine portrait bust smiled with veiled meaning from the quiet shadows. The shelves were rich in books in splendid bindings, gems of ancient workmans.h.i.+p or modern luxury, for the Great Man had the instinct of the masterpiece.
The door opened softly, and the secretary entered, a look of uncertainty on his handsome young face. The slight sound of his footfall disturbed the master's contemplation. He looked up, relieved to be drawn for a moment from his reflection.
”What is it, Saunders?” he asked, leaning back and grasping the arms of his chair with a gesture of control familiar to him.
”Mrs. Martin Marteen is here, very anxious to see you. She let me understand it was about the Heim Vand.y.k.e. I knew you were interested, so I ventured, Mr. Gard--”
”Yes, yes--quite right. Let her come in here.” He rose as he spoke, shook his cuffs, pulled down his waistcoat and ran a hand over his bald spot and silvery hair. Marcus Gard was still a handsome man. He remained standing, and, as the door reopened, advanced to meet his guest. She came forward, smiling, and, taking a white-gloved hand from her sable m.u.f.f, extended it graciously.
”Very nice of you to receive me, Mr. Gard,” she said, and the tone of her mellow voice was clear and decisive. ”I know what a busy man you are.”
”At your service.” He bowed, waved her to a seat and sank once more into his favorite chair, watching her the while intently. If she had come to negotiate the sale of the Heim Vand.y.k.e, let her set forth the conditions. It was no part of his plan to show how much he coveted the picture. In the meantime she was very agreeable to look at. Her strong, regular features suggested neither youth nor age. She was of the G.o.ddess breed. Every detail of the lady's envelope was perfect--velvet and fur, a glimpse of exquisite antique lace, a sheen of pearl necklace, neither so large as to be ostentatious nor so small as to suggest economy. The Great Man's instinct of the masterpiece stirred. ”What can I do for you?” he said, as she showed no further desire to explain her visit.
”I let fall a hint to Mr. Saunders,” she answered--and her smile shone suddenly, giving her straight Greek features a fascinating humanity--”
that I wanted to see you about the Heim Vand.y.k.e.” She paused, and his eyes lit.
”Yes--portrait? A good example, I believe.”
She laughed quietly. ”As you very well know, Mr. Gard. But that, let me own, was merely a ruse to gain your private ear. I have nothing to do with that gem of art.”
The Great Man's face fell. He was in for a bad quarter of an hour. Lady with a hard luck story--he was not unused to the type--but Mrs. Martin Marteen! He could not very well dismiss her unheard, an acquaintance of years' standing, a friend of his sister's. His curiosity was aroused.
What could be the matter with the impeccable Mrs. Marteen? Perhaps she had been speculating. She read his thoughts.
”Quite wrong, Mr. Gard. I have not been drawn into the stock market. The fact is, I _have_ something to sell, but it isn't a picture--autographs.
You collect them, do you not? Now I have in my possession a series of autograph letters by one of the foremost men of his day; one, in fact, in whom you have the very deepest interest.”
”Napoleon!” he exclaimed.
She smiled. ”I have heard him so called,” she answered. ”I have here some photographs of the letters. They are amateur pictures--in fact, I took them myself; so you will have to pardon trifling imperfections. But I'm sure you will see that it is a series of the first importance.” From her m.u.f.f she took a flat envelope, slipped off the rubber band with great deliberation, glanced at the enclosures and laid them on the table.
The Great Man's face was a study. His usual mask of indifferent superiority deserted him. The blow was so unexpected that he was for once staggered and off his guard. His hand was shaking, as with an oath he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the photographs. It was his own handwriting that met his eye, and Mrs. Marteen had not exaggerated when she had designated the letters as a ”series of the first importance.” With the shock of recognition came doubt of his own senses. Mrs. Martin Marteen blackmailing him? Preposterous! His eyes sought the lady's face. She was quite calm and self-possessed.
”I need not point out to you, Mr. Gard, the desirability of adding these to your collection. These letters give clear information concerning the value to you of the Texas properties mentioned, which are now about to pa.s.s into the possession of your emissaries if all goes well. Of course, if these letters were placed in the hands of those most interested it would cause you to make your purchase at a vastly higher figure; it might prevent the transaction altogether. But far more important than that, they conclusively prove that your company _is_ a monopoly framed in the restraint of trade--proof that will be a body blow to your defense if the threatened action of the federal authorities takes place.
”Of course,” continued Mrs. Marteen, as Gard uttered a suppressed oath, ”you couldn't foresee a year ago what future conditions would make the writing of those letters a very dangerous thing; otherwise you would have conducted your business by word of mouth. Believe me, I do not underrate your genius.”
He laid his hands roughly upon the photographs. ”I have a mind to have you arrested this instant,” he snarled.
”But you won't,” she added--”not while you don't know where the originals are. It means too much to you. The slightest menacing move toward me would be fatal to your interests. I don't wish you any harm, Mr. Gard; I simply want money.”
In spite of his perturbation, amazement held him silent. If a s.h.i.+ning angel with harp and halo had confronted him with a proposition to rob a church, the situation could not have astonished him more. She gave him time to recover.