"Why it is Arthur," cried the stout woman. "How fortunate. Arthur, we have come to see Mr. Collins, such a terrible thing has happened."

The unfortunate Jones now perceived that the lady with the huge hat was the bird woman, the elderly gentleman he had never seen before, but the elderly gentleman had evidently often seen him, was most probably a near relative, to judge by the frigidity and insolence of his nod and general demeanour. This old person had the Army stamp about him, and a very decided chin with a cleft in it.

"Better not talk out here," said he, "come in, come in and see Collins."

Jones did not want in the least to go in and see Collins, but he was burning to know what this dreadful thing was that had happened. He half dreaded that it had to do with Rochester's suicide. He followed the party, and next moment found himself again in Collins' room, where the lawyer pointed out chairs to the ladies, closed the door, and came back to his desk table where he seated himself.

"Oh, Mr. Collins," said the elderly lady, "such a dreadful thing has happened--coal--they have found coal." She collapsed.

The old gentleman with the cleft chin took up the matter.

"This idiot," said he, indicating Jones, "has sold a coal mine, worth maybe a million, for five thousand. The Glanafwyn property has turned up coal. I only heard of it last night, and by accident. Struthers said to me straight out in the club, 'Do you know that bit of land in Glamorgan, Rochester sold to Marcus Mulhausen?' Yes, I said. 'Well,' said he, 'it's not land, it's the top of the biggest coal mine in Wales, steam coal, and Mulhausen is going to work it himself. He was offered two hundred and fifty thousand for the land last week, they have been boring there for the last half year,' that's what he told me, and I verified it this morning. Of course Mulhausen spotted the land for what it was worth, and laid his trap for this fool."

Jones restrained his emotions with an effort, not knowing in the least his relationship to the violent one. Mr. Collins made it clear.

"Your nephew has evidently fallen into a trap, your Grace," said he.

Then turning to Jones:

"I warned you not to sell that land--Heaven knows I knew little enough of the district and less of its mineral worth; still, I was adverse from parting with land--always am--and especially to such a sharp customer as Mulhausen. I told you to have an expert opinion. I had not minerals in my mind. I thought, possibly, it might be some railway extension in prospect--and it was your last bit of property without mortgage on it.

Yes, I told you not to do it, and it's done."

"Oh, Arthur," sighed the elderly woman. "Your last bit of land--and to think it should go like that. I never dreamed I should have to say those words to my son." Then stiffening and turning to Collins. "But I did not come to complain, I came to see if justice cannot be done. This is robbery. That terrible man with the German name has robbed Arthur. It is quite plain. What can be done?"

"Absolutely nothing," replied Collins.

"Nothing?"

"Your ladyship must believe me when I say nothing can be done. What ground can we have for moving? The sale was perfectly open and above board. Mulhausen made no false statement--I am right in saying that, am I not?" turning to Jones.

Jones had to nod.

"And that being the case we are helpless."

"But if it can be proved that he knew there was coal in the land, and if he bought it concealing that knowledge, surely, surely the law can make him give it back," said the simple old lady, who it would seem stood in the place of Rochester's unfortunate mother.

Mr. Collins almost smiled.

"Your ladyship, that would give no handle to the law. Now, for instance, if I knew that the Canadian Pacific Railway, let us say, had discovered large coal bearing lands, and if I used that private knowledge to buy your Canadian Pacific stock at, say, one hundred, and if that stock rose to three hundred, could you make me give you your stock back? Certainly not. The gain would be a perfectly legitimate product of my own sharpness."

"Sharpness," said the bird woman, "that's just it. If Arthur had had even sense, to say nothing of sharpness, things would have been very different all round--all round."

She protruded her head from her boa and retracted it. Jones, furious, dumb, with his hands in his pockets and his back against the window, said nothing.

He never could have imagined that a baiting like this, over a matter with which he had nothing to do, could have made him feel such a fool, and such an a.s.s.

He saw at once how Rochester had been done, and he felt, against all reason, the shame that Rochester might have felt--but probably wouldn't.

His uncle, the Duke of Melford, for that was the choleric one's name, his mother, the dowager Countess of Rochester, and his sister, the Hon.

Venetia Birdbrook, now all rose up and got together in a covey before making their exit, and leaving this bad business and the fool who had brought it about.

You can fancy their feelings. A man in Rochester's position may be anything, almost, as long as he is wealthy, but should he add the crime of poverty to his other sins he is lost indeed. And Rochester had not only flung his money away, he had flung a coal mine after it.

No wonder that his uncle did not even glance at him again as he left the room, shepherding the two women before him.

"It's unfortunate," said Collins, when they found themselves alone. It was the mildest thing he could say, and he said it.

CHAPTER XII

THE GIRL IN THE VICTORIA

When Jones found himself outside the office at last, and in the bustle of Fleet Street, he turned his steps west-wards.

He had almost forgotten the half formed determination to throw down his cards and get up from this strange game, which he had formed when Collins had asked him whether he would not have an interview with his wife. This coal mine business pushed everything else aside for the moment; the thought of that deal galvanized the whole business side of his nature, so that, as he would have said himself, bristles stood on it. A mine worth a million pounds, traded away for twenty five thousand dollars!

He was taking the thing to heart, as though he himself had been tricked by Mulhausen, and now as he walked, a block in the traffic brought him back from his thoughts, and suddenly, a most appalling sensation came upon him. For a moment he had lost his ident.i.ty. For a moment he was neither Rochester nor Jones, but just a void between these two. For a moment he could not tell which he was. For a moment he was neither. That was the terrible part of the feeling. It was due to over taxation of the brain in his extraordinary position, and to the intensive manner in which he had been playing the part of Rochester. It lasted perhaps, only a few seconds, for it is difficult to measure the duration of mental processes, and it pa.s.sed as rapidly as it had come.

Seeing a bar he entered it, and a small gla.s.s of brandy closed the incident and made him forget it. He asked the way to Coutts' Bank, which in 1692 was situated at the "Three Crowns" in the Strand, next door to the Globe Tavern, and which still holds the same position in the world of commerce, and nearly the same in the world of bricks and mortar.

He reached the door of the bank and was about to enter, when something checked him. It was the thought that he would have to endorse the cheque with Rochester's signature.

He had copied it so often that he felt competent to make a fair imitation, but he had begun life in a bank and he knew the awful eye a bank has for a customer's signature. His signature--at least Rochester's--must be well known at Coutts'. It would never do to put himself under the microscope like that, besides, and this thought only came to him now, it might be just as well to have his money in some place unknown to others. Collins and all that terrible family knew that he was banking at Coutts', events might arise when it would be very necessary too for him to be able to lay his hands on a secret store of money.

He had pa.s.sed the National Provincial Bank in the Strand, the name sounded safe and he determined to go there.

He reached the bank, sent his name into the manager, and was at once admitted. The manager was a solid man, semi-bald, with side whiskers, and an air of old English business respectability delightful in these new and pushing days, he received the phantom of the Earl of Rochester with the respect due to their mutual positions.

Jones, between Coutts' and the National Provincial, had done a lot of thinking. He foresaw that even if he were to give in a pa.s.sable imitation of Rochester's signature, all cheques signed in future would have to tally with that signature. Now a man's handwriting, though varying, has a personality of its own, and he very much doubted as to whether he would be able to keep up that personality under the microscopic gaze of the bank people. He decided on a bold course. He would retain his own handwriting. It was improbable that the National Provincial had ever seen Rochester's autograph; even if they had, it was not a criminal thing for a man to alter his style of writing. He endorsed the cheque Rochester, gave a sample of his signature, gave directions for a cheque book to be sent to him at Carlton House Terrace, and took his departure.

He had changed Rochester's five pound note before going to Collins, and he had the change in his pocket, four pounds sixteen and sixpence. Five pounds, less the price of a cigar at the tobacconist's where he had changed his note, the taxi to Sergeants' Inn, and the gla.s.s of liqueur brandy. He remembered that he still owed for his luncheon yesterday at the Senior Conservative, and he determined to go and pay for it, and then lunch at some restaurant. Never again would he have luncheon at that Conservative Caravanserai, so he told himself.

With this purpose in mind, he was standing waiting to cross the road near Southampton Street, when a voice sounded in his ear and an arm took his.

"h.e.l.lo, Rochy," said the voice.

Jones turned, and found himself arm in arm with a youth of eighteen--so he seemed, a gilded youth, if there ever was a gilded youth, immaculately dressed, cheery, and with a frank face that was entirely pleasing.

"h.e.l.lo," said Jones.

"What became of you that night?" asked the cheery one, as they crossed the road still arm in arm.

"Which night?"

"Which night? Why the night they shot us out of the Rag Tag Club. Are you asleep, Rawjester--or what ails you?"

"Oh, I remember," said Jones.