The Curious Quest E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Edward Phillips Oppenheim (1866-1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction. This novel is an Oppenheim classic from 1919 about a high society villain: characteristic of Oppenheim’s typical works, with the characters living in luxury, and a very flowing and exact story. Much of Oppenheim’s work possesses a unique escapist charm, featuring protagonists who delight in Epicurean meals, surroundings of intense luxury, and the relaxed pursuit of criminal practice, on either side of the law. „The Curious Quest” is a lovely tale of a rich man having to spend a year earning his own money because he is bored and ill. Full of action and scams.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER I

Mr. Ernest Bliss descended from the eighty-horsepower motor- car which had been the pride of a recent exhibition and languidly rang the bell of a large house in. Harley Street, which was the professional residence of Sir James Aldroyd, M.D. He was admitted almost at once by a solemn-visaged butler, and was escorted into the waiting room in which three other people were already seated. He turned to the servant with a frown.

“I wrote to Sir James for an appointment at eleven o’clock,” he said. “My name is Bliss–Mr. Ernest Bliss. Please let Sir James know I am here.”

“I am sorry, sir, but Sir James sees his patients strictly in the order of their arrival,” the man replied regretfully. “I don’t think that he will be very long this morning.”

“Do you mean that I have to wait my turn?”

“I am afraid there is no other way of seeing Sir James,” the servant confessed.

Bliss seated himself disconsolately in an easy-chair and resigned himself to wait with an ill grace which he took no particular pains to conceal. He was a very spoilt young man, and he was inclined to resent this treatment from a physician whom he was proposing to honour by his patronage. Each time the butler entered the room he half rose, expecting to hear his name called–and each time he was disappointed. It was not until his turn arrived that he was shown into the presence of the physician.

Sir James Aldroyd was seated before the writing table, making some notes in a diary concerning the patient who had just left him. Bliss crossed the room and, without waiting for an invitation, sank into the chair which he rightly conceived to be the resting place of the doctor’s patients.

“My name is Bliss,” he began. “I wrote you–”

“Wait just a moment, please,” the physician interrupted brusquely.

Bliss stared at him with his mouth still open. He was not in the habit of giving way to his emotions, but he was beginning to be conscious of a distinct sense of annoyance. He made no protest, however; the physician’s personality was, in its way, overpowering. He sat still and waited. Presently Sir James finished writing in his diary and drew an open letter towards him. He glanced it through without any marked indication of interest. His new patient’s symptoms apparently failed to move him.

“Mr. Ernest Bliss?” he remarked, swinging round on his chair and taking up a stethoscope. “You wish me to examine you? Very well. Stand up and take off your coat and waistcoat, please.”

Bliss obeyed at once and submitted himself to the usual routine. Ten minutes later, he sank back into his chair with ruffled hair and a general sense of having been subjected to many personal ignominies. He slowly buttoned up his waistcoat and watched the physician’s face.

“What made you come to me?” the latter asked.

“Can’t say, exactly,” was the listless reply. “Felt out of sorts and thought I had better see some one. I heard Dicky Senn talking about you one day.”

“Are you alluding to Mr. Richard Senn of the Shaftesbury Theatre?”

“Chap who does the ragtime dance in the second act,” the young man assented. “He was cracking you up all over the shop. Said you were the only doctor in England who combined a certain amount of skill in his profession with a reasonable leaven of common sense. Not trying to butter you up, you know, but these were Dicky’s own words, and Dicky knows things.”

Sir James Aldroyd laid down his stethoscope and, leaning back in his chair’, looked steadfastly at his visitor. His hard, clean-cut face, with its massive forehead and strenuous lips, was not in any way an expressive one, but it was obvious that he was regarding his new patient with a certain amount of disfavour. His eyes were cold and critical, his tone distant.

“Let me see, what did you say your name was?” he asked.

“Ernest Bliss.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“What is your profession?”

“Profession? I haven’t one,” the young man replied.

“Your occupation, then,” the physician continued impatiently. “You do something, I suppose?”

Bliss shook his head and glanced toward his questioner, as though doubtful concerning the effect of his next words.

“No necessity,” he replied. “My father was Bliss, the ship owner. He left me three quarters of a million. Since then, my uncle has left me best part of another million.”

Sir James played with his pencil for a moment and looked down at the table. As a matter of self-discipline, he was anxious to keep a certain expression from his face.

“So you do nothing because you are wealthy?” he remarked. “What are your tastes? Are you a sportsman?”

“I don’t know whether I can exactly call myself that,” the young man replied; “I have done the usual grind, of course. I have eight thousand acres of shooting in Norfolk, and a grouse moor in Scotland. Then I went out to Abyssinia last year with some fellows after big game. I’ve a hunting box at Melton Mowbray. Can’t say I’m very keen about it.”

“Not one of these–er–occupations affords you any particular interest at the present moment, then?” Mr. Ernest Bliss shook his head.

“Fed up with them all,” he declared. “I do a bit of motoring, but I’m off that at present.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“You keep late hours?”

“Always. It doesn’t seem worth while getting up till dinner time. Every one’s grumpy till the evening, and there isn’t a thing to do in the daytime.”

“And you have no appetite, you say?”

“None at all,” the patient assented. “I seem to have lost all taste for ordinary food. To keep myself going at all, I have to hunt around for something outrageous. My breakfast yesterday was caviare and a brandy and soda. I dined off bacon and eggs at the Ritz, and had a kippered herring for supper at the Savoy.”

The physician leaned a little further back in his chair and regarded his visitor thoughtfully. The young man’s appearance was not altogether unprepossessing. He was short–if anything below medium height, and inclined to be thin. His fashionable clothes concealed his shoulders if he had any. His carriage was indifferent, and although his head was not ill shaped, his features were marred by a certain vagueness of outline and expression. His complexion was grey and unwholesome; the hand which rested upon the table was trembling slightly. His eyes, however, were good, and there was some suggestion of undeveloped humour about the lines of his mouth.

“You are suffering,” the physician pronounced quietly, “from dyspepsia, nervous indigestion, and from what my fashionable friend in the next street would call neurasthenia. You are suffering in the same way, from an entirely different cause, as the man who comes to me broken down with work. Of the two, yours is the more difficult case to deal with. So much for the medical side.”

“Just so,” the young man murmured. “Now for the common sense. What am I to do?”

“Your cure,” Sir James said, “is in your own hands. No one else can help you. If you wish to enjoy good health, you must completely change your manner of living for a time, and wear the sackcloth and ashes of the sanitary penitent. You have had unlimited opportunities of gratifying every whim in life, and you have used–or rather misused–them. Now you have got to pay.”

Mr. Ernest Bliss sat a little more erect in his chair. Something in his companion’s tone, perfectly controlled though it was, seemed to have roused him.

“There is nothing really the matter with me, then? I have told you what I feel like; nervous, giddy, absolutely faint sometimes in the morning. Seemed to me my heart must be dicky.”

“There’s nothing whatever the matter with your heart,” the doctor assured him. “You have a fair constitution which you are doing your best to ruin at the present moment. You are sound enough. You will have good health or not for the rest of your life according to how you treat yourself. Go on living in your present manner, and you will be a poor sort of creature in ten years’ time. Strike out a new line–drink beer instead of champagne, and water instead of beer occasionally; take real exercise, do some honest work, and you will soon lose those symptoms you were speaking of.”

“Is that all the advice you can give me?”

“I can give you a prescription, but the medicine won’t do you any good,” the physician replied. “Drugs are no good to people in your condition except to drag them down a little sooner.”

“It’s all very well,” Bliss remarked discontentedly, “but I hoped you might be able to give me more definite advice. There’s no work I can do, and beer disagrees with me horribly. I might ride in the mornings, but I’m not keen on the idea. You can’t imagine, Sir James, how bored I really am with life. Not a soul I care about, not a thing I could take any interest in doing. When I wake in the morning, I feel as though I’d just as soon be going to bed. Rotten, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Sir James replied drily. “You want more definite advice, did you say?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Bliss admitted.

“You shall have it, then,” Sir James continued. “You say there is not a single thing in your present life which you find attractive. I gather that you have no real friends, that there is no one with whom you care to spend your time. Break away from it, then. Disappear. Let it be known amongst your acquaintances that you have gone abroad for a time. Get into the City or some country town and earn your own living. Earn a pound a week, if you can find any one who thinks you worth as much, and live on it. A very interesting experiment and one which would certainly better your physical condition.”

Mr. Ernest Bliss rose slowly to his feet.

“So that is your common sense, is it, Doctor?” he remarked.

“It is the soundest common sense you ever heard in your life,” the physician answered briskly. “Of course you won’t appreciate it. You are the fourth or fifth young man who has been to see me during the last few days, practically in your condition.”

Bliss held out his hand.

“Not at all sure,” he remarked languidly, “that I won’t take your advice some day. Good morning.”

Sir James was in a rather irritable mood, and he had conceived a most unprofessional dislike for his patient. It was seldom he gave way to his prejudices. For once in his life, he did. He looked at Bliss’ hand and, taking up his notebook, ignored it.

“Good morning,” he said shortly.

The young man’s cheeks were suddenly flushed. His outstretched hand fell back to his side. It was the first time in his life he had met with such treatment. Nevertheless, he stood his ground.

“You don’t seem to like me, Doctor,” he remarked.

“To be perfectly frank with you, I do not,” Sir James answered brusquely. “I will go a little further and tell you that you are not the sort of patient I care to encourage or waste my time over.”

“Why not?” Bliss demanded.

“Because the world is full of genuine suffering,” the physician replied, “of men and women who drift into ill health through no fault of their own, sometimes from overwork, sometimes from want of the necessaries of life, sometimes from their too great devotion to others. These are the sort of patients I desire to cultivate, to whose relief I like to dedicate my skill. As for you,” he continued, a note of contempt creeping into his voice, “you have no moral stamina. You might practise self-denial for a week–that would be about your limit. Young men of your type have not learned how to persevere. They make a half-hearted effort to do something and relapse before they know where they are into their old ways.–Will you shut the door after you as you go out, please?”

Bliss remained motionless. His lips had come together in a manner which seemed to give a new expression to his face.

“So that is what you think about me, is it?” he said, with a curious new virility in his tone. “Very well, then. Now that you have had your say, perhaps you will listen to me. Dicky Senn tells me that you used to be a bit of a sportsman at Oxford. I’ll make a bet with you. You are the boss at St. James’ Hospital, aren’t you?”

“I am chairman of the governing board of that institution,” Sir James replied stiffly.

“It was your name I saw at the bottom of a circular the other day,” Bliss continued. “You’re cadging for a new wing and general laboratory, aren’t you? It’s twenty-five thousand pounds you want, isn’t it? Now listen to me. I’ll lay that twenty-five thousand to a shake of the hand and an honest apology from you that I start out to-day with a five-pound note and live for a year on what I earn. Do you hear that?”

“I hear it,” the physician remarked, with unmoved face. “A very interesting suggestion.”

“Don’t you believe I am in earnest?” Bliss demanded.

“You may possibly be,” was the calm reply. “Your name and wealth are probably well known in certain circles. I can imagine that your bookmaker, or your wine merchant, or even your tobacconist would be very glad indeed to make use of your valuable services for twelve months at a suitable remuneration.”

The young man was thoroughly angry, and it was a state which seemed to agree with him. His eyes had lost their leaden look, and there was a distinct flush of colour in his cheeks.

“I am not such a rotter as you seem to think me,” he said excitedly. “I undertake that I will not derive the slightest benefit from my wealth, my name, or my Present position, and that if, during that time, I draw a cheque or touch my own money, it shall be one of the conditions that I personally, directly or indirectly, shall not profit by it. Don’t let’s have any mistake about this. I’ll take no post except as Bliss, the out-of-work. If my identity is discovered or even suspected while I am in any one’s employ, I will leave immediately. If I touch my own money at all any time during the next twelve months, for my own advantage, the bet is lost. Are you on?”

Sir James bowed a little sarcastically. His interest in his patient remained almost negligible.

“Certainly the hospital could do with twenty-five thousand pounds very nicely,” he murmured.

“You understand the terms of the bet?”

“Perfectly.”

Bliss, as he prepared to depart, produced an envelope from his pocket. Sir James pushed it away a little wearily.

“I cannot take money for such advice as I have given you,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because my advice is valueless. The odds are about a thousand to one against your taking it.”

“So much the better for you if I don’t,” Bliss reminded him. “You’ll get the twenty-five thousand for your hospital.”

The physician rose to his feet impatiently and struck a bell by his side. He turned towards his visitor with an almost discourteous gesture of dismissal. For once he dropped the mask. The expression on his face was one of contemptuous disbelief.

“Perhaps,” he said.

Bliss found himself filled to the brim now with unexpected and unusual emotions. The anger which the physician’s attitude had kindled in him kept him for a moment silent. Then he clenched his fist and struck the table with what, for a weakling, was a very creditable blow.

“Thirty seconds ago,” he declared, “it was just possible that your hospital stood a very fair chance of getting the money. Now I’m damned if you will ever see a penny of it.”

“The bet, then, is off?” the physician enquired with a cynical smile.

“The bet is on,” Bliss replied vigorously, “and I am going to win it.”

CHAPTER II

The metamorphosed Ernest Bliss stepped out on to the pavement with a very grim look upon his face. He managed to outstrip the butler in the hall by a few yards and deliberately slammed the door, a fact which seemed to afford him a queer sense of satisfaction. He turned out the chauffeur from his seat and, to the man’s intense surprise, took the wheel himself and drove the car very skillfully through the difficult thoroughfares, until he arrived at a gloomy suite of lawyers’ offices in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

“One of those cylinders is inclined to miss fire, Hayes,” he said to the chauffeur as he descended. “I shall be here for about five minutes; just have a look at it.”

“Certainly, sir,” the man replied. “It’s a drop of oil on one of the plugs. I’ll have it all right, sir, by the time you come out.”

The mention of his name to a youthful representative of the firm of Crawley and Crawley, Solicitors, procured for Bliss at once a very different reception from the one he had just encountered at the physician’s, and should have done much to reestablish his self-esteem. The office boy was superseded by the managing clerk, who conducted him without delay, in a manner almost obsequious, to the august presence of Mr. William Crawley, senior partner of the firm, whose smile of welcome and cheery greeting were of the order reserved for his most distinguished clients.

“My dear Mr. Bliss,” he exclaimed, rising to his feet and holding out his hand, “this is indeed a pleasure! Take that easy-chair, won’t you, and shall I send for some cigarettes? Do, please, make yourself comfortable.”

“That’s all right,” Bliss replied, dragging up a high-backed chair to the lawyer’s table. “I don’t want an easy-chair, thanks, and I won’t smoke. I have come on a very important matter of business.”

“Dear me!” Mr. Crawley murmured. “The Hanover Street mortgages, perhaps. I have received an advice this morning–”

“Bother the Hanover Street mortgages,” Bliss interrupted. “You know very well that I don’t interfere in the matter of my investments. For the next twelve months they aren’t going to interest me very much.”

The lawyer adopted a waiting attitude. He leaned back in his chair with the tips of his fingers pressed very lightly together.

“Look here,” Bliss continued. “What is it you fellows do when a client hops it out to Africa or somewhere for a year, and can’t be heard of? He signs some document or other and you run the whole show.”

“A power of attorney?” Mr. Crawley suggested gently.

“That’s it,” Bliss agreed. “Just draft me one out at once, will you?”

Mr. Crawley had the air of one who is being hurried along a little too fast. He coughed and leaned a little forward.

“Mr. Bliss,” he said, “have you any idea as to the immense significance of such a document?”

“What I take it to mean,” Bliss replied, “is that you will be able to sign cheques and transfers, and manage my affairs for me until I revoke it.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Crawley assented. “The responsibilities connected with such powers are enormous. In your case, Mr. Bliss, they would be stupendous. It would mean entire control of a fortune which to-day exceeds the sum of a million and a quarter sterling.”

“Well, that’s your job, isn’t it, to take on responsibilities?” Bliss remarked coolly. “I should like to sign that power of attorney before I leave this office.”

Mr. Crawley rose from his seat, rang the bell, and gave a few instructions to the clerk who answered the summons. Then he returned to his seat and once more addressed his client.

“Do I understand, then, Mr. Bliss, that you are thinking of going abroad?” he asked.

“It is very doubtful,” Bliss replied, “whether I shall leave London.”

“But then why–” Mr. Crawley began.

Bliss leaned a little forward and tapped the table firmly. There was a new directness in his manner, and a new ring in his tone.

“Look here, Mr. Crawley,” he interrupted, “you’re a sound lawyer, I know. You understand, I am sure, the first principles of your profession.”

“My dear Mr. Bliss!” the lawyer murmured reproachfully.

“At six o’clock this evening, perhaps before,” Bliss went on, “I am going to disappear for exactly a year.”

“To–er–disappear?”

“Precisely. You are not to ask me why; you are not to ask me for any further explanation. You need not know whether I am in London, on the continent, or in another hemisphere. Wipe me off the map for twelve months from to-day. You will probably hear from me now and then,” Bliss continued, looking the lawyer straight in the face. “You may, or you may not. But if you want to keep my business, understand this; whatever may happen, I forbid you to make the slightest effort, under any circumstances, to ascertain my whereabouts.”

Mr. Crawley had lost that air of suave yet firm composure which he flattered himself that nothing was able to disturb. His eyes, likewise his mouth, were very wide open. His expression, as he gazed at his client, was one of simple and unaffected astonishment.

“You take my breath away,” he confessed. “Surely you don’t realise the magnitude of your financial affairs. The Scotch mortgages will all be paid off during the next few months, and nothing has been settled yet about the reinvestment.”

“What on earth do I know about reinvestments? I should leave it to you and the stock brokers, anyhow. Can’t you understand this? You must treat me as though I were a ward in Chancery, and you a trustee fixed by the court to deal with my investments according to the best of your judgment. You understand?”

“The responsibility will be a very grave one, but since you insist, I must, of course, assume it.”

“Then, that’s all right,” Bliss declared with a sigh of relief, as he rose to his feet and took up his hat.

“One moment, Mr. Bliss,” the lawyer begged. “There is the power of attorney to sign.”

Bliss laid down his hat again and waited while Mr. Crawley telephoned through to the clerk’s office. In a few minutes the documents were spread out before him. With his finger upon the seal, Bliss took up a pen and signed his name. The lawyer glanced at the signature with fascinated eyes.

“Mr. Bliss,” he said, his tone shaking with something suspiciously like emotion, “do you realise that you have made over to the control of one man, a million pounds’ worth of stocks and shares and negotiable property?”

“You won’t play skittles with it,” Bliss asserted confidently.

“I have not sought this responsibility, but since you have forced it upon me, I can assure you that I shall use my very best efforts on your behalf. At the risk of offending you, however, I should be shirking my duty if I did not beg of you once more, before you leave this office, to give me some idea of the nature of this enterprise upon which you are about to enter.”

“Can’t be done,” Bliss replied firmly. “It’s nothing dangerous, I can assure you of that, nothing where I am likely to come to any harm.”

“But what am I to reply to the enquiries I shall receive?”

“Nothing,” Bliss insisted. “You have no information to give. That is all you need say, and it is the truth. I shall post you a list of the salaries you will have to pay, and, with luck,” he added, glancing at the calendar which hung upon the wall, “we shall meet again in twelve months from to-day.”

Bliss departed from Lincoln’s Inn Fields leaving, with both Mr. Crawley and those others with whom he had spoken, an impression of something altogether strange. Once more he took the wheel of his car, and turning westward, arrived in about a quarter of an hour before a handsome grey-stone block of flats in Arleton Street. Before alighting, he stopped the engine and turned to the chauffeur who was seated by his side.

“Hayes,” he asked, “how long have you been in my service?”

“Two years, sir,” the man replied, a little startled.

“I’m not going to send you away,” Bliss reassured him, “but I am going to give you a pretty tough job.”

“If it is anything in the driving line, sir,” the man began hopefully,–

“It is not,” Bliss interrupted. “You have got to do nothing for twelve months, that’s all.”

The man grinned.

“I am thirty-one years old, sir, and I started work when I was eight. Never had a day’s holiday to speak of. Think I could do with a year’s rest, all right.”

“All the same, I don’t think you’ll like it,” Bliss warned him. “Listen. You need not call for orders till you receive word from Mr. Crawley. You can go to his office for your wages every Saturday. You will take the tyres off the cars and sling them up. If you like to get a job at one of the garages, I shall not object. That’s your own affair.”

The man looked distinctly puzzled.

“If I might take the liberty, sir,” he began,–

“If you ask a single question,” Bliss interrupted, “I shall sack you. Make the most of your year’s rest. I shall work you hard enough when I come back. Here’s good luck to you.”

Bliss descended from the car, leaving the man with a five-pound note in his hand and a general expression of stupefaction upon his visage. He entered the lift and, ascending to the third floor, let himself into his own very handsome suite of apartments. His valet came hurrying into the hall to take his hat.

“Clowes,” Bliss directed, “put me out a plain blue serge suit and a flannel shirt and collar. Then pack me a bag with some changes of linen and underclothes; no evening clothes, or anything of that sort.”

The man preserved with an obvious effort his accustomed immutability of expression.

“You are changing at once, sir?” he asked.

“At once,” Bliss replied. “You had better help me off with these things first.”

In half an hour’s time the bag was packed, and Bliss surveyed himself in the glass with qualified approval. For once, he had found his wardrobe inadequate to the demands made upon it. There were clothes for every sporting or social function which he might be called upon to attend. Its limitations, however, seemed reached by Bliss’ present requirements. He had attired himself as simply as possible. His tie was inconspicuous, his shoes thicker than usual, and he had never made a habit of wearing a flannel collar when in town. Nevertheless, there was still an air of dilettantism about his appearance.

“Best job I can make of it, anyway,” he muttered to himself as he turned away. “Now then, Clowes–” The man hurried forward. He was beginning to feel a little disturbed. His master’s unusual attitude, as well as his sartorial requirements, struck him as eccentric, and eccentricity was not a quality of which he approved.

“Nothing further I can do, sir?” he asked deferentially. “It’s past one o’clock. May I make you an apéritif?”

“Ah, you may do that,” Bliss assented, “and in the meantime, listen to me.”

The man moved towards the sideboard and busied himself with several bottles and a silver shaker. Bliss puffed at a cigarette as he watched him.

“Clowes,” he said, as he finally accepted the frosted glass, “I am going away this morning, and I am going to leave you a hard task.”

“Yes, sir?” the man asked eagerly. “Would you like a shade more of the bitters?”

Bliss shook his head.

“Excellent,” he pronounced. “Now listen carefully. People say that the hardest task in the whole world for a man used to regular employment is to do nothing. That is the job you’ve got to tackle. I am leaving here in a minute or two for twelve months.”

The man started. He looked with almost horror at the suit-case which he had just packed.

“But you haven’t any clothes, sir!” he protested. “Am I to pack your trunks and send them on?”

“I have all that I require,” Bliss told him firmly. “So far as you are concerned, all that you will have to do is to take the letters each morning to Mr. Crawley, keep the place aired and comfortable, and ask no questions and answer none. All bills, taxes, and charges of any sort Will be paid by Mr. Crawley on presentation, and of the rest you know nothing. I may be in Timbuctoo, or I may be in the next street. It is not your business to know, and you don’t know. Get that well into your head.”

“I understand perfectly, sir,” the man replied, looking more puzzled than ever. “You will forgive my mentioning it, but you are scarcely used to travelling without a servant. I hope you will reconsider the question of leaving me behind.”

“There is no reconsideration possible,” Bliss assured him “I shall not require a servant. All that you have to do is to sit tight and wait for my return. I am sire that I can place every trust in you. You will be paid your full salary, and I hope you will use your spare time sensibly and not get into bad habits or anything of that sort. Look for me back again twelve months from to-day.”

The man was, for a moment, incapable of speech. Bliss was busy going over all his pockets and collecting his money. When he had finished, there was a little pile of gold and notes upon the table.

“Thirty-four pounds, seven and ninepence,” he announced, counting it out. “Now, Clowes, you dressed me, you are my witness that I have no more money in any of my pockets.”

“Certainly not, sir,” the man admitted.

“Take that five-pound note,” Bliss went on, “fold it up, and place it in my pocket. I have no more money upon me, have I?”

The man’s expression was almost pathetic. Insanity seemed to be the only possible explanation of his master’s conduct.

“No, sir, no more money, certainly not.”

“Very well then,” Bliss said. “You can take what’s left for yourself, Christmas boxes, tips, and that sort of thing. Now carry my bag down-stairs, and put it on a taxi.”

The man obeyed. He had the air, as he followed his master into the lift and down the court, of a man walking in a dream. Bliss, on the contrary, was more alert than he had been for many days. He carried himself almost briskly. A curious, unwonted thrill stirred him as he awaited the taxi.

“Where to, sir?” Clowes asked, as he deposited the dressing-case by the side of the driver and turned towards his master.

The question took Bliss a little aback. He hesitated for a moment. Then an inspiration seized him. “Towards the City,” he ordered firmly.

CHAPTER III

“So you’re after the job, eh?” Mr. Masters asked, tilting his office chair back to a dangerous angle and eyeing his visitor keenly. “Dash my buttons! I thought you were a customer when you came in.”

Mr. Ernest Bliss also leaned back in his chair, which, by-the-by, he had taken uninvited. He was still wearing the exceedingly well-cut blue serge suit in which he had started out upon his pilgrimage. The trousers were, however, mud-splashed, and his boots already showed signs of wear. His expensive malacca cane reposed across his knees. He was slowly withdrawing his reindeer gloves from his fingers.

“Sorry if I disappointed you,” he observed. “I have called in answer to your advertisement. I wish to sell–er–the Alpha Cooking Stoves, I believe you call them.”

Mr. Masters looked his visitor up and down and failed to recognise the type.

“Want to sell our stoves,” he murmured dubiously.

“I read your advertisement in The Daily Telegraph in the public library this morning,” Bliss continued. “You say that you want a man, young, able, and pushing. I possess all three of these qualities.”

“Ever been on the road?” Mr. Masters enquired. The young man hesitated. The technicality of the question for a moment defeated him. He temporised. “What I may lack in experience,” he ventured, “I certainly make up in the quality you call push, and in sheer undoubted ability.”

The young lady who was typing in a corner of the room looked up at these words and surveyed him curiously. A broad grin spread itself over the round, good-natured features of the stove manufacturer.

“A trifle modest, eh?” he remarked.

“Not now,” Bliss replied. “I started that way when I began to look for a job a fortnight ago. At present I am trying to realise my own worth. It seems to be the only way to impress it upon other people.”

Mr. Masters’ expression changed. A prodigious frown spread over his features. This time, not the flicker of a smile escaped him. He was a very formidable person indeed.

“Don’t believe you ever sold a soap dish in your life,” he growled.

“Who has,” his visitor asked blandly. “What have soap dishes to do with the subject of our conversation? You, I take it, are the manufacturer of the Alpha Cooking Stove. I am the man whom Providence has selected for you to sell that particular article at, I think you said, two pounds a week salary, all out of pocket expenses and five per cent. commission on sales.”

Mr. Masters brought his chair forward with a bang. “Steady, young fellow. I haven’t engaged you yet,” he interrupted.

“But you will,” Bliss declared confidently. “I’m sure you will, and I should be awfully obliged if you would hurry up and settle it. I want to begin work.” Mr. Masters stared at this somewhat unusual applicant. He was a large man, with broad features and a ruddy complexion. He had the anxious look and the wandering eyes of an inventor. It seemed to be his continual aim in life to be regarded as a man of forbidding appearance, an aspiration with which his own kind heart was continually contending.

“Well, I’m blowed!” he exclaimed vigorously. “Here, Miss Clayton.”

The young lady, a plainly dressed, brown-haired girl of quiet but attractive appearance, ceased her performance upon a typewriter and turned round.

“Yes, Mr. Masters?”

“Just bring me the applications for the job, will you?” he ordered. “You’ll find them all on top of the safe.”

The young lady promptly disappeared. Bliss pulled up his trousers a little higher, displaying an alluring vision of Bond Street socks.

“Waste of time going through those, rather, isn’t,” it he suggested pleasantly. “There are always crowds of people out of a job who answer any advertisement. Now I,” he added slowly and emphatically, “have never before been out of a job in my life.”

Mr. Masters, although he made an effort to conceal the fact, was visibly impressed.

“You’ve been jolly lucky, then,” he declared. “Jolly lucky, young man. I couldn’t have said the same at your age. Never out of a job, eh?”

“Not once,” Bliss assured him.

The young lady, who had just returned with a pile of letters in her hand, looked him up and down. There was a vague disfavour in her eyes.

“Have you ever had one?” she asked sarcastically.

Bliss was speechless. The suddenness of the attack had unnerved him. Mr. Masters, however, saved the situation.

“What do you think of that, my young sir?” he exclaimed triumphantly as he pointed to the stack of letters. “One hundred and twenty applications from commercial travellers of experience,–men who know their job and simply want the privilege of selling the Alpha Cooking Stove. Will you tell me exactly why you expect I am going to chuck all these in your favour? Eh?”

Bliss looked at his questioner steadfastly. Mr. Masters’ bushy eyebrows were drawn together in what was meant to be a terrifying frown, but underneath his blue eyes were shining with furtive kindliness.

“Because this is my thirteenth application for a job, Mr. Masters, and thirteen is my lucky number. If you want another reason, here it is. I am done to the world, and if I don’t get it, I shall either have to starve, or go back to–er–what I was doing before.”

“And what might that be Mr. Masters demanded suspiciously.

“Nothing dishonest,” Bliss declared, “but nothing very reputable. I want to raise myself, not sink back. You are a good-natured fellow, Mr. Masters; you don’t want to see a man–”

The stove manufacturer struck the desk with his fist.

“Stop,” he thundered.

Bliss obeyed promptly. Mr. Masters was frowning more ponderously than ever. The brown-haired typist too had ceased rattling the keys of her machine, and was looking up.

“Don’t get giving yourself away, young man,” Mr. Masters expostulated. “There are some things it is better to keep to yourself. Now answer me one question. Is this reference of yours from these lawyer chaps bona fide, or isn’t it?”

“It is absolutely bona fide,” Bliss declared fervently.

Mr. Masters moved towards the door.

“We’ll go and have a look at the stove, anyway,” he said. “A child could sell it, but you may as well look it over. Wait here one moment.”

He passed hastily out into the warehouse to interview a loiterer who was gazing at the model of the stove. Bliss was left alone with the brown-haired typist.

“Do you think I’m going to get this job?” he asked her.

She raised her head for a moment and looked at him. He perceived then that he had underrated her attractions. She was tall and a little thin Her eyes were large and soft, her complexion clear, and her mouth showed character. Bliss recognised in her from that first moment some quality which placed her in another world from all the women with whom he had been used to associate.

“I am afraid you are,” she replied.

“Afraid?” he repeated, a little staggered.

She nodded.

“‘Afraid’ is the word I used. Mr. Masters is far too kind-hearted. He can’t say no to any one. That is why I added to the advertisement that all applications must be made in writing. You are the first one who has disregarded it.”

“But tell me why you don’t want me to have the job?” he begged. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to sell stoves as well as anybody else.”

She looked him over critically. There was the suspicion of a smile upon her lips which vaguely irritated him. Her eyes rested for a moment on his cane.

“Are you going to take that about with you,” she asked.

He coloured a little.

“Of course not,” he answered. “The fact is, I brought it out with me to take to the pawnshop, but when I started walking, I got so frightfully keen on coming here that I couldn’t spare the time.”

She turned back to her work.

“Well, it isn’t my business,” she sighed. “Sometimes I almost wish it were. Mr. Masters is a clever inventor, but he hasn’t the least idea how to make money or organise things. If he had happened to hit upon a really first-class traveller who took an interest in the stove and knew how to place it on the market, it might have been our salvation, that’s all.”

Bliss rose slowly to his feet. He was conscious of a feeling of almost absurd disappointment. The memory of the past fortnight rose up like a nightmare before him.

“Very well, then,” he decided a little doggedly, “I’ll go.”