The Inevitable Millionaires E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

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

Beschreibung

In this funny satire, Oppenheim offers us an argument that has been used in several movies: Two brothers come into a large inheritance with a pre-condition that they need to spend a big amount of money within a month. In the letter from their deceased father, they are enjoined to learn how to spend as well as that have learned how to save. The story deals with their noble efforts to spend their money without waste or ostentation. They back a musical comedy, finance a gold club, back an inventor who wants to extract rubber from sea weed – will they be able to get rid of their fortune? Join the likeable Mr. Steven and Mr. George Henry Underwood in this goodhearted comedy of „The Inevitable Millionaires”.

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

At precisely half-past eight o’clock, on a grey February morning, two amiable-looking, middle-aged gentlemen left a medium-sized house of comfortable appearance, in the neighbourhood of Hampstead, and commenced a walk undertaken by them daily, in the interests of health, with the exception of Sundays, public holidays and a fortnight in August. There was sufficient resemblance between the two to proclaim them brothers–at first sight, indeed, they might have been taken for twins. They were both about five feet five inches in height, they both had kindly, if somewhat insignificant faces, shrewd grey eyes, and tight, firm lips. Their names were Stephen and George Henry Underwood, and their ages respectively fifty-one and forty-eight. There were many who professed to be unable to tell them apart, and the differences between them were, in fact, scarcely noticeable. Stephen’s brown moustache was, perhaps, a little scantier than his brother’s and the obtruding note of grey was more obvious; the hair around his ears was a little more grizzled and there was a trifle less colour in his somewhat thinner cheeks. Otherwise the likeness between them was almost remarkable. They both wore broad-toed shoes, hand-sewn to order by a bootmaker in a remote alley situated in one of the backwaters of the City, dark business suits of unfashionable cut, differing only slightly in pattern and material, collars of antiquated shape, inoffensive ties and black bowler hats. They avoided in their attire both the flamboyant splendours of the professional City man and the sporting note affected by the stockbroker and his mate. They were City merchants, and they desired to dress as such.

They went through their usual little programme as they turned the corner of the street into the broader thoroughfare. George Henry looked up at the skies and down at his furled umbrella. They spoke always first of the weather.

“The rain will keep off, I think,” George Henry remarked, glancing from his umbrella to the sky.

“I hope so,” was the amiable reply. “There are plenty of clouds about, but they seem high.”

“I wonder,” George Henry surmised, “at what hour Mr. Duncan will send us the balance sheet.”

“He promised it by midday,” his brother reminded him. “If you have not returned from Mincing Lane, I shall not, of course, open it until you come.”

“The result,” George Henry observed a little nervously, “cannot fail to be satisfactory.”

“There is no doubt whatever about that,” Stephen agreed. “We have been very fortunate, George Henry.”

“Very fortunate indeed, Stephen.”

They walked steadily on until they reached the Park, which they crossed diagonally. They traversed Portland Place and the upper part of Regent Street. At Oxford Street they descended into the Tube and reached their offices in Basinghall Street as the clock was striking ten. The premises themselves were not imposing, but there was a suggestion of opulence in the spacious but murky warehouses behind. As they passed through the clerks’ office they both raised their hats and said good morning, a greeting which was at once returned by three capable-looking clerks, a cashier, a manager and an office boy. Stephen glanced at one empty stool and frowned.

“Harold is late again, I see,” he remarked as, arrived at their inner office, they divested themselves of their coats and hats.

George Henry sighed.

“I fear that his heart is not in the business,” he said. “However, we must make allowances. He is young, very young.”

“I am inclined to wish,” Stephen continued, “that his father had chosen some other avocation for him. However, as it was his wish that he should enter this business, we must do our best, George Henry. If he does not settle down soon I should suggest that we send him out for a visit to one of our Burmese properties.”

“He will probably find fewer distractions there,” George Henry agreed.

Stephen was seated now before an immense pile of correspondence. His eyes glittered with anticipatory interest. He divided the pile neatly, and passed half across to his brother.

“It is hard to realize what distractions there can be to compare with those offered by the ramifications of a business such as ours,” he observed.

“The boy is young,” George Henry murmured tolerantly. “You must remember that we are getting to be old fogies, Stephen.”

“Old fogies! Rubbish!” was the indignant denial. “You are only forty-eight, George Henry. You are a young man.”

“And you,” George Henry rejoined with spirit, “are only three years older. That is no difference at all. Three years do not count. We are practically of the same age. And as to being old fogies––”

George Henry broke off in his speech and glanced for a moment out of the window. His thoughts travelled back along the course of his exceedingly well-ordered life, a life conducted with the utmost propriety, with the most rigorous monotony of good conduct. He had committed no foolish actions, he had never once been conscious of any desire to look into the land of adventure which lay somewhere on the westward side of that line drawn between Hampstead and the City. He was satisfied–perfectly satisfied–and yet, he was passing middle age, he was certainly becoming an old fogy. He suddenly recollected his task. Pencil in hand, he dealt with his pile of correspondence, making notes in the margin of each letter. As soon as they had finished their piles, they exchanged them. There was scarcely a comment made, each was always satisfied with his brother’s decision. When they had come to an end, George Henry rose to his feet, took up his hat, put on his overcoat, drew on his gloves and departed for Mincing Lane. Stephen sent for his manager, his cashier, and his typist in turn. The business ran like a well-oiled machine.

At twelve o’clock, George Henry returned from Mincing Lane. Upon the desk in front of Stephen was a long legal envelope, inscribed with the name of the firm.

“The balance sheet has arrived from Mr. Duncan,” Stephen announced. “Shall we examine it together?”

“It would be advisable to do so,” George Henry agreed, taking off his coat and hat without undue haste.

It was Stephen who, by immemorial custom, cut open the sealed flap of the envelope and George Henry who stood by his side. They turned over the rustling pages and glanced at the figures announced as the final result with joint and breathless awe.

“We are millionaires,” George Henry murmured.

“With a few thousands to the good. Our profits for last year, even after depreciating the Burmese properties, amount to one hundred and thirty thousand pounds.”

“Incredible!”

“It is nevertheless true. The firm of Duncan and Company are the most careful accountants in the City. There is no possibility of any mistake.”

The brothers looked at one another with the shamefaced air of schoolboys convicted of a misdemeanour. They were shrewd men of business and hard workers, but wealth such as this was almost beyond their desires.

“After all,” George Henry, who was the optimist of the firm, pointed out hopefully, “we are only half a millionaire–I mean we are only a millionaire between us.”

“It is impossible to escape from the fact,” Stephen groaned, “that we are worth exactly five hundred and three thousand pounds each.”

There was an awkward silence. The possession of such a sum was without doubt criminal. George Henry peered once more into the envelope.

“Here is a letter from Mr. Duncan,” he announced.

“Read it,” his brother begged.

George Henry adjusted with precision a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses upon his nose, cleared his throat and read:

17 Throgmorton Street, February 9.

DEAR SIRS,

I enclose your annual balance sheet, upon which I will make no comment save to offer you–shall I say my wondering congratulations? Your stock in trade and securities have been depreciated to the fullest extent, and a sum of twenty thousand pounds for charities included in the profit and loss account.

I feel that the time has now arrived when it is my duty to forward to you the enclosed letter, left in my care by your late father, with instructions to pass it on to you under certain contingencies which have now arisen. I feel sure that you will do your best to realize your obligations in the matter.

Sincerely,

THEODORE DUNCAN.

“A letter from our father,” Stephen murmured, gazing at the envelope.

“It is certainly his handwriting,” George Henry declared.

They lingered for a moment over it, as one does over a communication from the dead. Then Stephen reverently cut the flap of the envelope and withdrew the enclosure. He read out its contents in a low tone:

MY DEAR SONS,

I am leaving you a business which, barring any great changes in the commercial world, seems to me likely to make you both, in a very short time, exceedingly rich men. I send you a few words of advice, begging you to avoid a certain mistake into which I feel that my perhaps too frugal habits have led me. You know the conditions under which you spent your boyhood–pleasant, I trust, but governed all the time by the most rigid economy. Up to these last days I believe I am correct in saying that I have never drawn from the business more than fifteen hundred pounds a year. I have had no expensive tastes to gratify, our charities are fixed by an ancient deed of partnership, and I have been happiest in the modest way of living to which I have been accustomed. Of late, however, I have seriously questioned the wisdom, the policy and the integrity of living upon the twentieth part of one’s income. I have been convinced of a new truth. It is the duty of the man enjoying a large measure of prosperity to spend a reasonable proportion of his earnings.

I charge you, therefore, Stephen and George Henry, without waste or ostentation, yet with a certain lavishness, to disseminate amongst your fellow creatures a considerable portion of the income which I feel will accrue to you. Avoid the Stock Exchange or gambling upon horses. Do not speculate in any way unless the result of such speculation is likely to bring definite good to a deserving fellow creature. Without undue extravagance, try to find pleasures the gratification of which demands the spending of money. The art of spending is as difficult as the art of saving. I beg you both to cultivate it, so that, if your wealth should at any time become known to the world, you will avoid the, to me, entirely opprobrious epithet of “miser.”

These are my last words to you, my sons, and I conclude with all love.

Your affectionate father, STEPHEN UNDERWOOD.

Stephen laid down the letter.

“This is most disconcerting,” he declared.

“A thunderbolt!” George Henry faltered.

“Our dear father must have arrived at these views quite late in life,” Stephen ruminated. “I see that the letter is dated only a week or two before his death. It is a very serious charge that he lays upon us.”

“Very serious indeed,” George Henry assented in a tone of abject misery.

As men confronted with an unexpected crisis, they stood looking at each other helplessly. George Henry waited, as was his custom, for his brother’s initiative.

“The charge upon us is one that we must accept,” the latter declared firmly. “We must spend more money.”

“A great deal more,” George Henry echoed.

“We must change the whole routine of our life and our habits,” Stephen continued dolefully.

“Entirely,” his brother acquiesced with kindred dejection.

The senior partner in the firm of Underwood Brothers took down a small bowler hat from its peg and handed a similar article of apparel to his brother.

“We will begin with luncheon,” he declared firmly.

The healthy colour faded from George Henry’s cheeks. He was momentarily aghast.

“You mean that we are not to lunch at Prosser’s?” he exclaimed.

“Certainly not,” was the firm reply. “We will lunch–at the ‘Milan’.”

CHAPTER II

It is probable that George Henry had never admired his brother more than at the moment when he made this bold pronouncement. The ‘Milan’ was known by name to both of them and represented all the things which they had hitherto studiously avoided in life. Needless to say, neither of them had ever crossed its portals.

“We shall need money,” he observed in an awed tone.

“That we must at once arrange,” was the firm reply. “We must make it a habit now to carry money with us. One can never tell when the opportunity for expenditure may arise.”

They left their place of business, George Henry collecting himself sufficiently to observe, with a sigh, that Harold’s stool, which had been temporarily occupied during the morning, was again vacant. A few minutes later the swing doors of a neighbouring bank were pushed open, and the brothers entered. They were neither of them of commanding presence, their attire was ordinary, their bearing unassuming. Nevertheless, the atmosphere of the bank for the next few minutes can only be described as resembling one velvety purr. A cashier hurried from the back regions to greet them with a welcoming smile. The commissionaire raised his hat a whole foot away from his head. The manager himself waved his hand from behind the curtains of his private office and embarked upon a desperate struggle to get rid of an importunate client, who desired to increase his overdraft. Meanwhile, Stephen produced a cheque book from his pocket, carefully filled in the counterfoil first, and, in a reasonable space of time, handed across the counter a cheque for a thousand pounds.

“In tens and twenties, if you please,” he directed.

The cashier received the cheque with an unctuous smile, drew a glass receptacle filled with water to his side, wetted his forefinger, and commenced the business of counting.

“Five hundred pounds in tens, Mr. Underwood, and five hundred in twenties,” he remarked urbanely a few minutes later, as he pushed the two little piles of notes across the counter. “Wonderfully mild weather we are having.”

“Extraordinary for the time of the year,” Stephen agreed.

“Quite remarkable,” George Henry echoed.

Then there was a brief silence. The brothers had produced very similar brown morocco pocketbooks and were absorbed in the task of dividing the money. Finally this was accomplished and they turned to leave the bank, after a further exchange of civilities. Before they reached the door, however, they were overtaken by the bank manager, who had got rid of his client.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “I’ll walk along with you to Prosser’s. You’ve left us a little money to be going on with, I hope.”

Neither brother replied to the time-honoured joke. They exchanged glances, and George Henry nodded slightly. It was Stephen who accepted the onus of disclosure.

“We are not going to Prosser’s this morning, Mr. Lawford,” he announced deliberately.

“Not this morning,” George Henry echoed.

Mr. Lawford stopped short upon the pavement. His appearance indicated shock.

“Not going–to Prosser’s?” he faltered. “God bless my soul!”

He glanced feverishly at the date upon the newspaper which he was carrying. It was Tuesday, beyond a doubt–a common, ordinary week-day. Reassured, he sought for enlightenment.

“You are both all right, eh?” he asked anxiously.

“Perfectly,” George Henry assured him.

“The fact is,” Stephen announced, with an elaborate air of unconcern, “we are lunching in the West End.”

“Having just a snack at the ‘Milan’,” George Henry put in airily.

“God bless my soul!” Mr. Lawford murmured again, thereby displaying a pitiful lack of originality in his emotional outlets. “Ah!–a customer, perhaps?” he added, seizing eagerly upon a possible explanation. “I thought you always left that sort of thing to Mr. Hanworth?”

“We do,” Stephen acquiesced. “If you are going to Prosser’s, perhaps you will be good enough to tell William not to reserve our places to-day.”

Mr. Lawford had found himself. He understood that any further expression of astonishment would be out of place.

“Certainly! Certainly!” he agreed. “You haven’t forgotten that this is boiled beef and dumplings day?” he added jocularly. “Well, well, good morning! Prosser’s won’t seem itself, without you.”

The brothers hailed a taxicab, and Stephen gave the address. There was a brief silence after they had started on their pilgrimage westwards.

“Mr. Lawford seemed quite surprised,” George Henry observed presently.

“Unreasonably so, I thought,” Stephen assented severely. “Mr. Lawford is a man of the world. He should realize that one’s movements are subject to–er–derangement.”

George Henry coughed.

“Except on holidays,” he ventured, “and the week when you had a bilious attack, we have lunched at Prosser’s, at the same table, every day for eleven years.”

Stephen frowned.

“It is too long,” he declared. “I am very glad that Mr. Duncan thought the time had arrived to send on our dear father’s letter. If we are not careful, we shall get groovey. We must make changes–in other directions as well, perhaps. We must not get into a rut.”

George Henry shivered a little with excitement as he listened to his brother’s bold words. The taxicab driver leaned backwards and addressed them through the window.

“Café Parisien or restaurant?” he inquired.

George Henry was, by accident of places, the recipient of this inquiry. Vaguely excited by his brother’s words, he was all for adventure. The Café Parisien sounded foreign and mysterious. His voice almost shook as he replied:

“The Café, driver.”

He leaned back in his seat with the air of one who has performed a great deed. Stephen smiled approvingly.

“The Café Parisien sounds most attractive,” he admitted. “This, I suppose, is it.”

The taxicab had turned into the ‘Milan’ courtyard, and pulled up outside the glass-covered portico on the left-hand side. A liveried servant opened the door. Gorgeous persons in silk coats and knee breeches relieved them of their hats and umbrellas in a little lobby crowded with a most distinctly cosmopolitan throng. It was, perhaps, not altogether to be wondered at that, when the brothers pushed open the swing doors and stood upon the threshold of the restaurant, they were conscious of a certain sense of confusion. The room was full, and there was no one to recognize in them new and important patrons. They missed the obsequious approach of the head waiter at Prosser’s, the respectful greetings of City men to whom their name was holy, the urbane smile of the frock-coated manager himself. At Prosser’s, too, the feminine element was entirely absent–here it was insistent and amazing. A dark-eyed Frenchwoman, wearing a military widow’s veil, carrying a small dog under her arm, and displaying more ankle and leg than either Stephen or George Henry had seen for a great many years, enveloped them in a little cloud of perfume and pushed past with a muttered–“Pardon, messieurs!” And at every table. The brothers exchanged doubtful glances. George Henry coughed.

“These young ladies seem rather young to be lunching in a public restaurant,” he murmured.

“They are, perhaps, older than they seem,” Stephen replied, with an air of wisdom.

It was at this precise moment that Providence intervened on behalf of the newcomers. The High Priest of the Café, gazing around him for a means of escape from an undesirable but persistent client, saw them blocking the way. His necessity invested their presence with a new significance. He bore down upon them like a whirlwind. His bow and smile were such as were usually reserved for patrons of the highest distinction.

“We should like some luncheon,” Stephen confided. “We have been recommended here by a friend.”

Monsieur Louis, recovering from the shock of this somewhat quaint introduction, looked around the place long and searchingly. He would have been glad to have found a retired table for these unusual but opportune patrons. The place, however, was packed.

“If you could wait for a quarter of an hour, gentlemen,” he ventured.

The faces of the two brothers fell simultaneously. It was obvious that the suggestion was unwelcome.

“We are used to lunching punctually at a quarter-past one,” George Henry explained. “My brother’s digestion––”

“There is a table here,” Stephen interrupted, pointing to one just inside the door.

The maître d’hôtel hesitated. It was true that he had the table in question at his disposal, for it had only that morning been given up by a regular patron who had returned to America. It was one of the most desirable in the room, and he had been reserving it as a bon bouchefor some especial client. Like all great men, however, confronted with a crisis, he made up his mind quickly. With a shrug of the shoulders he withdrew the “Reserved” card from its place, and invited his new patrons to be seated.

“It was reserved,” he explained, “but no matter. And for lunch?”

Stephen took up the menu and George Henry looked over his shoulder. The result was chaos and distress. Once again, however, the pioneer of this enterprise was equal to the occasion.

“We do not understand the French language,” Stephen observed simply, laying down the carte. “What joints have you ready?–or we should be glad to try the dish of the house.”

The lips of Monsieur Louis twitched. It was the affair of a moment, however.

“Allow me to serve the table d’hôte luncheon,” he suggested. “And to drink?”

“A little Perrier water with lemon in it,” Stephen replied. “Afterwards, two glasses of port.”

Monsieur Louis made his escape, and paused for a moment by his desk to recover himself before he plunged once more into the fray. The brothers were served with their luncheon and enjoyed it. They vied with one another in their praise of everything that was set before them. Each was anxious to proclaim the experiment a success.

“A most delicious omelette,” Stephen declared.

“Those little things in small dishes were most savoury,” George Henry proclaimed.

“And the thin steak–entrecôte minute, they called it,” his brother continued, “had a most agreeable flavour. I sometimes wonder––”

Stephen paused to take another sip of his port, and proceeded with vinous confidence.

“I sometimes wonder whether Mrs. Hassall is quite as good a cook as she used to be.”

“It is melancholy to have to contemplate a change,” George Henry sighed, “but her cutlets last night were floating in grease.”

“We will give her a fair chance,” Stephen decided Jesuitically. “We will dine here one night and compare the result.”

George Henry shook with excitement.

“We should have to wear evening dress,” he murmured.

“We are provided in that respect,” Stephen reminded him, with dignity. “I remember thinking last year, at the dinner to Mr. Ferguson, how well your dress coat looked.”

“It is eighteen years old!”

“I see no reason why a dress coat should not last for a lifetime. It is a garment for use on rare occasions, George Henry!”

“What is it, Stephen?”

“The youth at the table opposite, with the exceedingly well-favoured young lady. It seems to me–yes, it is Harold!”

The recognition appeared to be mutual. The fashionably dressed young man indicated arose, muttered something to his companion, and somewhat sheepishly approached the table at which his uncles were seated. He wore a black lounge suit with a thin white stripe running through it, a white flannel collar with a long, carefully arranged tie. His hair was brushed sleekly back, and a monocle dangled from a cord around his neck. His coat curved in at the waist exactly as the coats of all the other young men. The sight of him, and the consciousness of their relationship, seemed to bring the brothers into more definite touch with their surroundings. They welcomed their nephew, therefore, with unexpected cordiality.

“This is indeed a surprise, Harold,” Stephen declared.

“Mutual, what?” the young man rejoined nervously. “What price Prosser’s, eh?”

“We are seeking a change,” George Henry remarked. “It is our first visit here.”

“Tophole grub,” the young man murmured, with a sidelong glance back towards his table.

“We have lunched excellently,” Stephen admitted. “We are pleased with the place. How is your mother, Harold?”

“A1. She is down at Bournemouth for a few days.”

The uncles tactfully avoided any reference to a possible connection between that fact and Harold’s luncheon companion. Stephen became suddenly inspired.

“Since you appear to be accustomed to the ways of this place, Harold,” he said, “you can possibly advise us upon the subject of the remuneration ordinarily tendered to the waiter. At Prosser’s––”

“Ten per cent. of the bill,” Harold interrupted. “Same everywhere at these places.”

Stephen smiled a well-pleased smile and nodded understandingly at George Henry.

“That is easy to calculate,” he remarked. “And, Harold?”

The young man, who was becoming more at his ease under the influence of this unexpected geniality, assumed an air of interest.

“The head waiter with the dark moustache, coming up the room now, was very civil to us on our arrival. Would it be in order if we were to tender him also some recognition–say, a shilling?”

Harold glanced behind and his face was transformed by a beatific grin.

“Monsieur Louis?” he exclaimed. “Lord love us, Uncle Stephen! A shilling! My hat!”

Stephen’s forehead was puckered and he became instantly contrite. Obviously he had been on the point of a faux pas.

“Advise us, if you please, Harold,” he begged simply. “We wish to do the correct thing.”

“Monsieur Louis,” Harold explained, with bated breath, “is a pedagogue, a mandarin, a–er–the big bug of the place. He gets about two thousand a year salary, and commission. You could send him a cheque for fifty pounds at Christmas time, perhaps, or give him a sure Stock Exchange tip, or make him a present of that pearl pin you are wearing. But to offer him money–a shilling! Phew!”

The young man seemed suddenly wordless. His uncles were both humble and penitent.

“We are very much obliged to you, Harold,” Stephen acknowledged. “You have probably saved us from committing a grave mistake.”

“One moment,” George Henry intervened, as Harold showed signs of backing away. “Our curiosity has been somewhat excited by the–er–dissimilarity between the faces of the young ladies who seem present here in such large numbers and their attire. They seem mostly to be still in short skirts, but to have an older appearance, so far as regards their features and deportment. One hears that at boarding-school nowadays––”

“Fluff,” the young man interrupted laconically. “It’s a great place for it.”

“Fluff,” George Henry repeated gravely.

“I am afraid,” Stephen admitted with amiable candour, as he toyed with his last drop of port, “that the phrase conveys nothing to us.”

“Chorus girls,” Harold explained patiently–“young actresses and cinema débutantes, what? Those short skirts are all the go now. Fetching, too, ain’t they, with white silk stockings and black patent shoes?”

“And the young lady who is your companion?” George Henry inquired diffidently.

“Oh, she is on the musical comedy stage. Jolly nice girl and clever, too. Blanche Whitney, her name is. She’s looking out for some guy to finance her. So long!”

The young man departed, and his uncles exchanged somewhat furtive glances. Stephen cleared his throat.

“It is very good-natured of Harold, no doubt,” he declared. “The lives of these poor girls who are forced to work for their living are doubtless dull and strenuous, and a little change may be desirable. But I cannot think that he is quite wise in entertaining this young lady for luncheon in the middle of a business day. I am afraid that Amelia would disapprove.”

George Henry coughed. He had the air, somehow, of sympathizing with his recalcitrant nephew.

“We must remember,” he said, “that we are, to a certain extent, in what is termed Bohemia. Until we appreciate the conditions a little better, perhaps, we had–er–we should be wiser not to worry Amelia.”

“I quite agree,” his brother assented, unfolding the bill which had just been brought to him. “Amelia would doubtless wonder at our own presence here.”

Stephen with great care added up the items of his bill, calculated the ten per cent., and received the waiter’s bow and thanks.

“I think, George Henry,” he declared, with an air of satisfaction, “that we have made a move in the right direction. The cost of our luncheon was enormous–fully three times as much as the charges at Prosser’s.”

“Capital!” was his brother’s cheerful comment.

“At the same time,” Stephen reminded him, “it will take a great many lunches to help us to any real extent towards our object.”

“I fear,” George Henry sighed, a little hypocritically, “that we must look upon this change in the whereabouts of our midday meal as the first step towards changes all round.”

“You are right,” Stephen agreed. “You are very right indeed.”

The room now was overhung with a faint cloud of cigarette smoke. The hum of conversation had grown louder, a general air of relaxation prevailed. George Henry found himself glancing often at a couple of fair-haired young ladies who were lunching at an adjacent table. He was conscious of a peculiar elevation of spirits, a sense of suppressed excitement, pleasurable but most unusual. He found himself suddenly interested in his age. After all, he was still on the right side of fifty.

“One misses, perhaps, the exchange of a few remarks with Mr. Ferguson and our other friends,” Stephen reflected, a little wistfully.

“In time,” George Henry surmised, looking innocently up at the ceiling, “we may perhaps make acquaintances here.”

“Quite possible, quite possible,” his brother assented. “I think, if you are ready, we might now take our departure. We have the export accounts to go through this afternoon, you know.”

They rose, George Henry with much reluctance. It was absurd, of course, but the nearer of the two fair young ladies had certainly glanced more than once lately in his direction. He straightened his tie, stood up and wished that he were a little taller. Monsieur Louis, passing down the room, paused before their table.

“The luncheon all right, I hope, gentlemen?” he inquired, with one of his famous bows.

A cold shiver passed down Stephen’s spine at the reflection that a short time ago he had actually contemplated offering this august being a shilling. He remembered that it was his nephew who had saved him–the boy should never lose by it! Then inspiration came. He would atone for the unoffered insult.

“The luncheon was excellent,” he replied. “My brother and I would like you to accept this little offering,” he added, drawing his pearl pin from his tie. “We should like this table reserved for us every morning, except on Saturdays and Sundays, at one-fifteen, and for dinner to-night at eight o’clock. Our name is Underwood. Good morning!”

However timid their entrance to the hallowed precincts of the Café had been, the honours certainly remained with the brothers on their departure. Monsieur Louis, with the pin in the palm of his hand, was speechless. His bow was automatic, and his murmured word of thanks inaudible. He drew a little breath and straightened himself.

“Charles,” he directed an adjacent maître d’hôtel, “that table is reserved for dinner to-night at eight o’clock, and every day except Saturdays and Sundays for luncheon, for those two gentlemen. Their name is Underwood.”

The waiter hesitated.

“There have been a great many inquiries for it, sir,” he reminded his chief.

Monsieur Louis waved him away.

“We have here,” he announced, “a new order of patron. Where they come from or what they may be I do not know, but the table is theirs.”

Monsieur Louis’ stately progress down the room was checked by a summons from Harold Margetson. He stopped short.

“Know those two old buffers?” his young client inquired.

“Except that their name is Underwood,” Louis replied, “I know nothing of them.”

Harold grinned.

“They are my uncles,” he declared. “And they are rolling in it. No one knows what their income is. Millionaires, I should say, both of them.”

“Dollars or pounds?” the young lady by his side asked quickly.

“Pounds–good English pounds,” her escort assured her. “They’ve got it to burn.”

Miss Whitney’s very beautiful eyes glistened. She became thoughtful.

“The gentlemen will lunch here every day,” Louis announced. “I have promised them Mr. Higgins’ table.”

“By Jove, Louis!” the young man exclaimed, with a faint whistle. “They’ve got round you all right!”

“Your uncle is very generous,” the maître d’hôtel murmured, opening his palm. “He has just given me this.”

The two young people stared at the pin.

“It’s worth a cool fifty,” Harold muttered.

Miss Whitney’s manner was no longer abstracted. She laid her hand upon her companion’s.

“I must know your uncles,” she declared firmly. “When did you say that they were coming again, Louis?”

“They dine to-night at eight o’clock, madam.”

“So, then, shall we,” she insisted. “Not a word, Harold, or we shall quarrel.”

The young man grinned.

“You’re as clever as paint, Blanche,” he declared, “but–I don’t know what they would say if they saw me here with you again.”

“I’ll make that all right for you,” she promised. “You leave everything in my hands. All you have to do is to be here on time.”

“I’m agreeable,” the young man assented. “We’ll dine all right, but if you think there’s anything doing with those old curmudgeons of uncles of mine you’re on a dead wrong ‘un. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The young lady smiled.

“Nice boy,” she murmured tolerantly. “You don’t need to worry, anyway.”

CHAPTER III

There was no obvious change that afternoon in the routine of business at number 140B, Basinghall Street, where the offices of Messrs. Underwood and Sons were situated. Both Stephen and George Henry, however, were conscious of a subtle change in their attitude towards the various tasks which they essayed and accomplished. They seemed imbued with an altogether unusual spirit of latitudinarianism. Harold’s late return passed unnoticed. The delinquencies of one of their continental travellers in the matter of expenses was dealt with from an unprecedentedly liberal point of view. The salary list was scanned and several advances decided upon. When, after having arrived back from lunch at least a quarter of an hour later than usual, the heads of the firm took their departure at a quarter to six instead of six o’clock, comment was rife. The senior members of the staff were discreet enough to hold their peace. Their juniors, however, did not hesitate to express the general feeling, handicapped as they were by the presence of Mr. Harold Margetson.

“Are the walls of Jericho about to fall?” an invoice clerk demanded.

There was a little buzz of comment. Information was sought from Harold, who was hastily divesting himself of his office coat.

“Can’t imagine what’s up,” he confided. “All I know is that this quarter of an hour is a godsend to me. But I’ll tell you fellows one thing, if you want to know,” he added, pausing, entirely against the regulations, to light a cigarette. “They’re breaking out. I’ve seen ‘em.”

For the first time in their lives the much-discussed principals of the firm took a taxi from the Bank to Hampstead. Stephen smiled complacently as he saw the fare registered upon the dial.

“Taxicabs will help us, George Henry,” he said, as he alighted. “I am about to pay this man eight shillings. Any other form of conveyance would have brought us here for a shilling. We have certainly something to hope for from taxicabs.”

“We might have one down to the ‘Milan’,” George Henry suggested, as they walked up the flagged path. “As the evening seems stormy and we shall be in evening clothes, I think it would be advisable.”

“I am quite of your opinion,” Stephen agreed. “These minor efforts at expenditure are worth consideration. They mount up–beyond a doubt they mount up.”

The house, which they entered by means of a latch-key, was a semi-detached edifice, fairly spacious, and furnished with sober Victorian utilitarianism. A trim little maid helped to divest them of their coats and hats. A strong smell of cooking pervaded the place.

“Dear me!” Stephen exclaimed. “We have omitted to let Mrs. Hassall know that we are not dining at home.”

“Mrs. Hassall,” George Henry remarked, “will probably be annoyed. Would it be as well, Stephen, if you were to step down and explain the matter?”

“There is no necessity,” was the hasty reply. “Ellen here will deliver our message. Give our compliments to Mrs. Hassall,” he added, turning to the little maid, “and say that dinner will not be required this evening. My brother and I are dining out.”

The maid was aghast. There was no precedent for anything of this sort.

“I don’t know what Mrs. Hassall will say, sir,” she protested. “There’s a joint in the oven and the fish ready to go into the frying pan. Would you like to have a word with her yourself, sir?”

“Certainly not,” Stephen declined. “You can deliver our message, Ellen, and say that the dinner can be disposed of in any way Mrs. Hassall thinks fit. We are going upstairs to dress.”

Ellen retired to the lower regions. The brothers ascended with dignity to their apartments. Each brought out his carefully wrapped-up dress suit, selected a suitable shirt, and adorned it with the plain gold studs that they used on special occasions.

“Shall you shave, Stephen?” George Henry called out across the landing.

“I think it would be advisable,” was the firm reply. “We have, I fear, become a little slack in our home life. There is a button off my patent boot, and I am not satisfied with the condition of my white tie.”

There was the sound of heavy footsteps upon the stairs. George Henry retired precipitately into his room, leaving his brother to bear the brunt of the forthcoming attack. Mrs. Hassall, stout, breathing heavily, red faced, beady eyed and angry, knocked at his door with her knuckles.

“Can I have a word with you, sir?” she demanded.

“Certainly not at present, Mrs. Hassall,” Stephen answered, with great courage. “I am changing my clothes.”

“I’m a married woman,” Mrs. Hassall persisted. “And we’ve got to decide about the shoulder of mutton one way or the other.”

Stephen slipped the bolt noiselessly into its place and breathed more freely.

“We have already sent word, Mrs. Hassall, that we shall not be dining at home,” he said. “My brother and I will see you in the dining room when we descend. Kindly put the bottle of sherry and two glasses upon the table,” he added, in a spirit of bravado.

Mrs. Hassall withdrew, making inarticulate sounds. The brothers continued their toilet. They issued from their rooms almost at the same moment. They were dressed exactly alike, and each had had the same inspiration with regard to headgear. The trouble about Stephen’s silk hat, however, was that it bore a deep crape band, the last time he had worn it having been at the funeral of a friendly rubber merchant, some year or so ago.

“Mrs. Hassall desires a word with us, George Henry,” Stephen announced.

“I heard her. I fear, Stephen, that we shall have trouble with Mrs. Hassall.”

“She must be taught her place,” Stephen declared valiantly. “I have ordered the sherry to be placed upon the table, George Henry. I thought that a glass before we started might be refreshing.”

“An excellent idea!”

They descended to the dining room, where the table was laid for two. Upon the sideboard were the sherry and two glasses. They helped themselves and took up positions upon the hearthrug. Mrs. Hassall lumbered into the room a few minutes later.

“I should like you to understand, sir,” she said, addressing Stephen, “that your dinner for to-night is cooked and, if you’re not home to eat it, it’s wasted. I’ve been here all day. I’ve had no message. It’s a good joint–one I chose myself. And mutton at one and elevenpence a pound!”

“The fault is entirely ours,” Stephen acknowledged. “Pray eat the dinner yourself, Mrs. Hassall–you and Ellen.”

“And what should we be doing, I’d like to know, with fillets of sole, a shoulder of mutton and an apple pie?” Mrs. Hassall demanded angrily. “There’s enough of the cold braised beef from yesterday for our supper. When I cook a dinner I like it eaten, and I hate waste.”

Stephen sipped his sherry, set down the glass, and straightened his tie.

“Mrs. Hassall,” he said, “it is unfortunate that we had no opportunity of letting you know, but the fact remains that my brother and I are dining out. You may do precisely what you choose with the dinner you have provided. The responsibility is ours, not yours. Be so good as to ask Ellen to call a taxicab.”

“A taxicab!” Mrs. Hassall exclaimed. “Why, there’s the bus at the corner.”

It occurred to George Henry that it was time that he asserted himself.

“Come, come, my good woman!” he protested. “Surely my brother and I may indulge in a taxicab if we think fit!”

Mrs. Hassall stared at him disparagingly.

“And in them clothes, too,” she observed. “And no chance to air them nor nothing. Do you know you haven’t worn them for a year, Mr. Stephen? No, nor not you, Mr. George Henry.”

“The clothes have been properly taken care of,” Stephen replied. “Ellen,” he added, raising his voice a little, “be so good as to call a taxi. Mrs. Hassall, if you have anything more to say, please say it quickly.”

“I’ve a great deal more to say,” she declared. “A great deal more than you’d like to hear, I’m thinking. Such goings on!”

“Then please don’t say it,” Stephen enjoined. “You’re a little angry, Mrs. Hassall. Wait until to-morrow morning. It is possible, by that time, we may have something to say to you. My brother and I are contemplating changes in our domestic arrangements.”

Thenceforward Mrs. Hassall was a broken woman.

“Changes,” she faltered, “after eighteen years. Changes indeed! And, unless I make a hash of that shoulder of mutton for to-morrow night’s dinner––”

Stephen ruthlessly interrupted her. The taxicab was outside. He finished his sherry and bravely led the way to the door.