"You see he didn't slip on the ice, Michel. You were quite wrong. It was the avalanche. It was no fault of his."

"I was wrong," said Michel, and he took Chayne by the arm lest he should fall; and these two men came long after the others into Chamonix.

CHAPTER IV

MR. JARVICE

The news of Lattery's death was telegraphed to England on the same evening. It appeared the next morning under a conspicuous head-line in the daily newspapers, and Mr. Sidney Jarvice read the item in the Pullman car as he traveled from Brighton to his office in London. He removed his big cigar from his fat red lips, and became absorbed in thought. The train rushed past Ha.s.socks and Three Bridges and East Croydon. Mr.

Jarvice never once looked at his newspaper again. The big cigar of which the costliness was proclaimed by the gold band about its middle had long since gone out, and for him the train came quite unexpectedly to a stop at the ticket platform on Battersea Bridge.

Mr. Jarvice was a florid person in his looks and in his dress. It was in accordance with his floridness that he always retained the gold band about his cigar while he smoked it. He was a man of middle age, with thick, black hair, a red, broad face, little bright, black eyes, a black mustache and rather prominent teeth. He was short and stout, and drew attention to his figure by wearing light-colored trousers adorned with a striking check. From Victoria Station he drove at once to his office in Jermyn Street. A young and wizened-looking clerk was already at work in the outer room.

"I will see no one this morning, Maunders," said Mr. Jarvice as he pressed through.

"Very well, sir. There are a good number of letters," replied the clerk.

"They must wait," said Mr. Jarvice, and entering his private room he shut the door. He did not touch the letters upon his table, but he went straight to his bureau, and unlocking a drawer, took from it a copy of the Code Napoleon. He studied the doc.u.ment carefully, locked it up again and looked at his watch. It was getting on toward one o'clock. He rang the bell for his clerk.

"Maunders," he said, "I once asked you to make some inquiries about a young man called Walter Hine."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you remember what his habits were? Where he lunched, for instance?"

Maunders reflected for a moment.

"It's a little while ago, sir, since I made the inquiries. As far as I remember, he did not lunch regularly anywhere. But he went to the American Bar of the Criterion restaurant most days for a morning drink about one."

"Oh, he did? You made his acquaintance, of course?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you might find him this morning, give him some lunch, and bring him round to see me at three. See that he is sober."

At three o'clock accordingly Mr. Walter Hine was shown into the inner room of Mr. Jarvice. Jarvice bent his bright eyes upon his visitor. He saw a young man with very fair hair, a narrow forehead, watery blue eyes and a weak, dissipated face. Walter Hine was dressed in a cheap suit of tweed much the worse for wear, and he entered the room with the sullen timidity of the very shy. Moreover, he was a little unsteady as he walked, as though he had not yet recovered from last night's intoxication.

Mr. Jarvice noted these points with his quick glance, but whether they pleased him or not there was no hint upon his face.

"Will you sit down?" he said, suavely, pointing to a chair. "Maunders, you can go."

Walter Hine turned quickly, as though he would have preferred Maunders to stay, but he let him go. Mr. Jarvice shut the door carefully, and, walking across the room, stood over his visitor with his hands in his pockets, and renewed his scrutiny. Walter Hine grew uncomfortable, and blurted out with a c.o.c.kney tw.a.n.g--

"Maunders told me that if I came to see you it might be to my advantage."

"I think it will," replied Mr. Jarvice. "Have you seen this morning's paper?"

"On'y the 'Sportsman'."

"Then you have probably not noticed that your cousin, John Lattery, has been killed in the Alps." He handed his newspaper to Hine, who glanced at it indifferently.

"Well, how does that affect me?" he asked.

"It leaves you the only heir to your uncle, Mr. Joseph Hine, wine-grower at Macon, who, I believe, is a millionaire. Joseph Hine is domiciled in France, and must by French law leave a certain portion of his property to his relations, in other words, to you. I have taken some trouble to go into the matter, Mr. Hine, and I find that your share must at the very least amount to two hundred thousand pounds."

"I know all about that," Hine interrupted. "But as the old brute won't acknowledge me and may live another twenty years, it's not much use to me now."

"Well," said Mr. Jarvice, smiling suavely, "my young friend, that is where I come in."

Walter Hine looked up in surprise. Suspicion followed quickly upon the surprise.

"Oh, on purely business terms, of course," said Jarvice. He took a seat and resumed gaily. "Now I am by profession--what would you guess? I am a money-lender. Luckily for many people I have money, and I lend it--I lend it upon very easy terms. I make no secret of my calling, Mr. Hine. On the contrary, I glory in it. It gives me an opportunity of doing a great deal of good in a quiet way. If I were to show you my books you would realize that many famous estates are only kept going through my a.s.sistance; and thus many a farm laborer owes his daily bread to me and never knows his debt. Why should I conceal it?"

Mr. Jarvice turned toward his visitor with his hands outspread. Then his voice dropped.

"There is only one thing I hide, and that, Mr. Hine, is the easiness of the terms on which I advance my loans. I must hide that. I should have all my profession against me were it known. But you shall know it, Mr.

Hine." He leaned forward and patted his young friend upon the knee with an air of great benevolence. "Come, to business! Your circ.u.mstances are not, I think, in a very flourishing condition."

"I should think not," said Walter Hine, sullenly. "I have a hundred and fifty a year, paid weekly. Three quid a week don't give a fellow much chance of a flutter."

"Three pounds a week. Ridiculous!" cried Mr. Jarvice, lifting up his hands. "I am shocked, really shocked. But we will alter all that. Oh yes, we will soon alter that."

He sprang up briskly, and unlocking once more the drawer in which he kept his copy of the Code Napoleon, he took out this time a slip of paper. He seated himself again, drawing up his chair to the table.

"Will you tell me, Mr. Hine, whether these particulars are correct? We must be business-like, you know. Oh yes," he said, gaily wagging his head and c.o.c.king his bright little eyes at his visitor. And he began to read aloud, or rather paraphrase, the paper which he held:

"Your father inherited the same fortune as your uncle, Joseph Hine, but lost almost the entire amount in speculation. In middle life he married your mother, who was--forgive me if I wound the delicacy of your feelings, Mr. Hine--not quite his equal in social position. The happy couple then took up their residence in Arcade Street, Croydon, where you were born on March 6, twenty-three years ago."

"Yes," said Walter Hine.

"In Croydon you pa.s.sed your boyhood. You were sent to the public school there. But the rigorous discipline of school life did not suit your independent character." Thus did Mr. Jarvice gracefully paraphrase the single word "expelled" which was written on his slip of paper. "Ah, Mr.

Hine," he cried, smiling indulgently at the sullen, bemused weakling who sat before him, stale with his last night's drink. "You and Sh.e.l.ley!

Rebels, sir, rebels both! Well, well! After you left school, at the age of sixteen, you pursued your studies in a desultory fashion at home. Your father died the following year. Your mother two years later. You have since lived in Russell Street, Bloomsbury, on the income which remained from your father's patrimony. Three pounds a week--to be sure, here it is--paid weekly by trustees appointed by your mother. And you have adopted none of the liberal professions. There we have it, I think."

"You seem to have taken a lot of trouble to find out my history," said Walter Hine, suspiciously.

"Business, sir, business," said Mr. Jarvice. It was on the tip of his tongue to add, "The early bird, you know," but he was discreet enough to hold the words back. "Now let me look to the future, which opens out in a brighter prospect. It is altogether absurd, Mr. Hine, that a young gentleman who will eventually inherit a quarter of a million should have to sc.r.a.pe through meanwhile on three pounds a week. I put it on a higher ground. It is bad for the State, Mr. Hine, and you and I, like good citizens of this great empire, must consider the State. When this great fortune comes into your hands you should already have learned how to dispose of it."

"Oh, I could dispose of it all right," interrupted Mr. Hine with a chuckle. "Don't you worry your head about that."

Mr. Jarvice laughed heartily at the joke. Walter Hine could not but think that he had made a very witty remark. He began to thaw into something like confidence. He sat more easily on his chair.

"You will have your little joke, Mr. Hine. You could dispose of it! Very good indeed! I must really tell that to my dear wife. But business, business!" He checked his laughter with a determined effort, and lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. "I propose to allow you two thousand pounds a year, paid quarterly in advance. Five hundred pounds each quarter. Forty pounds a week, Mr. Hine, which with your three will make a nice comfortable living wage! Ha! Ha!"

"Two thousand a year!" gasped Mr. Hine, leaning back in his chair. "It ain't possible. Two thou--here, what am I to do for it?"