Chapter Twenty Six. A Millionaire’s Tactics.
Mr Morgan-Mason, the Member for South-West Norfolk, sat alone in his gorgeous gilt and white dining-room with the remains of dessert spread before him. A coarse-faced, elderly man with grey side-whiskers, a wide expanse of glossy shirt-front, and a well-cut dinner coat, he was twisting his wineglass between his fingers while a smile played about his lips. His obese figure, with shoulders slightly rounded, a bull neck, and gross, flabby features, gave one the impression that he lived for himself alone, that his life was a selfish, idle one.
His house in town and his place in the country were the typical abodes of a nouveau riche. His motors, his yacht, and his racehorses were the very best that money could command, and yet with all his display of wealth he still carried the tenets of the counting-house into his private life. He gave “fifty-guinea-a-head” dinners at the Carlton, it was true, but his entertainments were not on a large scale. He lent the aristocracy money, and allowed them to entertain him in return. He considered it an honour to be made use of by the hard-up earl or by the peeress whose debts at bridge were beyond her means. A knighthood had been offered him, but he had politely declined, letting it be distinctly known to the Prime Minister that nothing less than a peerage would be acceptable; and this had actually been half promised! He was the equal, nay, the superior, of those holders of once-exclusive titles who left their cards upon him and who shot his grouse; for, as a recent writer has declared, the god Mammon is to-day gradually drawing into its foetid embrace all the rank and beauty and nobility that once made England the glorious land she is.
He had taken a telegram from his pocket, and re-read it—a message from a woman bearing one of the noblest titles in the English peerage, asking audaciously for a loan, and inviting him up to her country-house in Durham, where an exclusive party was being entertained. He smiled with gratification, for the sovereign was among her ladyship’s guests.
He touched the bell, and in answer the butler entered. “Tell Macbean to come here,” he ordered, without looking up. “And give me a liqueur. I don’t want coffee to-night.”
The elderly, grave-faced servant served his master obsequiously, and noiselessly disappeared.
A few minutes later there came a light rap at the door and George Macbean entered.
“Just reply to this wire,” the millionaire said, handing it to his secretary. “Tell her ladyship that I’ll leave King’s Cross at eleven to-morrow, and that what she mentions will be all right. You need not mention the word loan; she’ll understand. I can’t dictate to-night, as I’m going to the club. Be here at seven in the morning, and I’ll reply to letters while I’m dressing.”
Macbean took the telegram and hesitated.
“Well? What are you waiting there for? Haven’t you had your dinner—eh?”
“Yes, I have had my dinner, Mr Morgan-Mason,” was the young man’s quick reply, his anger rising. “I wish to speak a word to you.”
“Well, what’s the matter? Work too hard? If so, you can take a month’s notice and go. Lots more like you to be got,” added the man with the fat, flabby face.
“The work is not too hard,” was Macbean’s response, speaking quite calmly. “I only wish to say that I intend leaving you, having accepted a Government appointment.”
“A Government appointment?” echoed the millionaire. “Has Balfour given you a seat in the Cabinet, or are you going to be a doorkeeper or something of that sort down at the House?”
“Neither. My future is my own affair.”
“Well, I wish you good luck in it,” sneered his employer. “I’ll see that the next secretary I get isn’t a gentleman. Airs and graces don’t suit me, my boy. I see too much of ’em in Mayfair. I prefer the people of the Mile End Road myself. I was born there, you know, and I’m proud of it.”
“Shall I send the telegram from the Strand office?” asked Macbean, disregarding the vulgarian’s remarks. “It is Sunday night, remember.”
“Send it from where you like,” was the man’s reply. And then, as the secretary turned to leave, he called him back, saying in a rather more conciliatory tone—
“You haven’t told me what kind of appointment you’ve accepted. Whatever it is, you can thank my influence for it. They know that I wouldn’t employ a man who isn’t up to the mark.”
“I thank you for your appreciation,” Macbean said, for it was the first kindly word that he had ever received from the millionaire during all the time he had been in his service.
“Oh, I don’t mean that you are any better than five hundred others in my employ,” the other returned. “I’ve got a hundred shop-managers who would serve me equally well at half the wages I pay you. I’ve all along considered that you don’t earn what you get.”
“In that case, then, I am very pleased to be able to relieve you of my services, and to take them where they will be at last appreciated.”
“Do you mean to be insolent?”
“I have no such intention,” replied Macbean, still quite cool, although his hands were trembling with suppressed anger. “The Italian Government will pay me well for my work, and will not hurl insults at me on every possible occasion and before every visitor. I have been your servant, Mr Morgan-Mason, your very humble servant, but after despatching this telegram I shall, I am glad to inform you, no longer be yours to command.”
“The Italian Government!” exclaimed the millionaire, utterly surprised. “In what department are you to be employed?”
“In the Ministry of War.”
“What!—in the office of that man we saw regarding the Abyssinian contracts?—Morini his name was, wasn’t it?”
“No. In the office of the Under-Secretary, Borselli.”
“I suppose you made it right with them when I took you with me to Rome—made good use of your ability to speak the lingo—eh?”
“I had then no intention of entering the Italian service,” was his reply. “The offer has come to me quite spontaneously.”
Morgan-Mason was silent, twisting his glass before him and thinking deeply. The name Borselli recalled something—an ugly affair that he would have fain forgotten.
“I thought you had secured an appointment in one of the English Government offices,” he said at last, with a sudden change of tactics. “Why go abroad? Why not remain with me? I’ll give you an increase of fifty pounds a year. You know my ways, and I hate strangers about me.”
“I much regret that I cannot accept your offer,” replied George. “I have already accepted the appointment, which is at a salary very considerably in advance of that you have been paying me.”
“But I’ll pay you the same as they offer. You are better off in England. How much do they intend to give you?”
“I am too fond of Italy to refuse a chance of going out there,” Macbean replied. “I spent some years in Pisa in my youth, and have always longed to return and live in the warmth and sunshine.”
A brief silence fell.
Presently, after reflection, the Member of Parliament exclaimed, in a tone more pleasant than he had ever used before—
“Let me speak candidly, Macbean. I would first ask you to forget the words I uttered a few moments ago. I am full of business, you know, and am often out of temper with everything. I was out of temper just now. Well, you want to leave me and go to Italy, while I desire you to remain. Tell me plainly what salary you will accept and continue in my service.”
“I am as perfectly frank as you are,” George replied. “No inducement you could offer would keep me in England.”
Mr Morgan-Mason bit his lip. He never expected this refusal from the clever man whom he had treated as an underling. It was his habit to purchase any service with his money, and this rebuff on the part of a mere servant filled him with chagrin—he who so easily bought the smiles of a duchess or the introduction of a marquis into the royal circle itself.
He did not intend that Macbean should enter the service of Angelo Borselli. He had suspicion—a strong suspicion—and for that reason desired to keep the pair apart. His mind was instantly active in an attempt to devise some scheme by which his own ends could be attained. But if his secretary flatly refused to remain?
“I think you are a consummate fool to your own interests,” remarked his employer. “Foreign Governments when they employ an Englishman only work him for their own ends, and throw him aside like a sucked orange.”
“English employers often do the same,” answered Macbean meaningly.
The millionaire was full of grave reflections, and in order to obtain time to form some plan, he ordered Macbean to despatch the telegram and return.
An hour later, when George entered the splendidly appointed study wherein his employer was lounging, the latter rose, lit a cigar, and turning to him in the dim light—for they were standing beyond the zone of the green-shaded writing-lamp upon the table—said—
“I wish very much, Macbean, that you would listen to reason, and refuse the appointment these Italians offer you. You know as well as I do the insecurity of Governments in Italy; how the man in power to-day may be disgraced to-morrow, and how every few years a clean sweep is made of all officials in the ministries. You have told me that yourself. Recollect the eye-opener into Italian methods we had when we saw the Minister of War regarding the contracts for Abyssinia. I wonder that you, honest man as you are, actually contemplate associating yourself with such a corrupt officialdom.” The arrogant moneyed man was clever enough to appeal to Macbean’s honour, knowing well that his words must cause him to reflect.
“I shall only be an obscure secretary—an employee. Such men have no opportunity of accepting bribes or of pilfering. Theft is only a virtue in the higher grade.”
“Well, since you’ve been out I’ve very carefully considered the whole matter. I should be extremely sorry to lose you. You have served me well, although I have shown no appreciation—I never do. When a man does his best, I am silent. But I am prepared to behave handsomely if you will remain. Your salary shall be raised to five hundred a year. That’s handsome enough for you, isn’t it?”
Macbean slowly shook his head, and declared that no monetary inducement would be availing. He intended to go to Italy at all hazards.
The millionaire stroked his whiskers, for he was nonplussed. Yet he was shrewd, and gifted with a wonderful foresight. If Macbean really intended to go to Rome, then some other means must be found by which to ingratiate himself with the man he had so long ill-treated and despised. There might come a day when Macbean would arise against him, and for that day he must certainly be prepared.
He flung himself into his big morocco arm-chair and motioned George to the seat at the writing-table, having first ascertained that the door was closed. Then, with a few preliminary words of regret that the young man preferred service abroad, he said in a low, earnest voice—confidential for the first time in his life—
“If you go to Rome it is for the purpose of improving your position—of making money. Now, I am desirous of obtaining certain information, for which I am prepared to pay very handsomely, and at the Ministry of War you can, if you go cautiously to work, obtain it.”
“You mean some military secret?” remarked Macbean, looking quickly at his master. “I certainly shall never betray my employers.”
“No, no, not at all,” protested the arrogant man before him, with a dry laugh. “It is a secret which I desire to learn—one for which I will willingly pay you ten thousand pounds in cash, if you can give me proof of the truth—but it is not a military one. You need have no fear that I am asking you to act the traitor to your employers.” The two men regarded each other fixedly. Each was suspicious of double-dealing. The millionaire was searching to discover whether the sum named was sufficiently tempting to induce his secretary to act as his spy, while the latter, scanning the large eyes of the other, endeavoured to read the motive of the mysterious offer.
“You can earn ten thousand pounds easily if you are only wary and act with careful discretion,” went on the millionaire, seeing that Macbean had become interested. “It only requires a little tact, a few judicious inquiries, and the examination of a few official documents. To the latter you will no doubt have access, and if so it will be easy enough.”
“And what is it?” asked George Macbean after a brief pause, shifting in his chair as he spoke. “What is it you desire to know?”
“The truth regarding the exact circumstances of the death of poor Sazarac.”
The other held his breath.
“I desire to avenge his death,” went on the millionaire quietly, looking straight into the face of the astonished man, “and I intend to do so. He was my friend, you know. Discover the truth, and I will willingly pay you the sum I have named—ten thousand pounds.” George Macbean sat before his employer utterly bewildered, stupefied.
