“Yes, sir, I have that sum, but. …”
Mr. Waddington waved his cigar.
“Don’t use that word ‘but’! I know what you’re trying to say. You’re trying to tell me, I’m robbing myself. I know I am, and what of it? What’s money to me? The way I look at it is that, when a man has made his pile, like me, and has got enough to keep his wife and family in luxury, the least he can do as a lover of humanity is to let the rest go to folks who’ll appreciate it. Now you probably need money as much as the rest of them, eh?”
“I certainly do, sir.”
“Then here you are,” said Mr. Waddington, brandishing the bundle of stock-certificates. “This is where you get it. You can take it from me that the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company is the biggest thing since Marconi invented the victrola.”
Officer Garroway took the stock and fondled it thoughtfully.
“It’s certainly very nicely engraved,” he said.
“You bet it is! And look at those dollar-signs on the back. Look at that seal. Cast your eye over those signatures. Those mean something. And you know what the motion-pictures are. A bigger industry than the beef business. And the Finer and Better is the greatest proposition of them all. It isn’t like other companies. For one thing, it hasn’t been paying out all its money in dividends.”
“No?”
“No, sir! Not wasted a cent that way.”
“It’s all still there?”
“All still there. And, what’s more, it hasn’t released a single picture.”
“All still there?”
“All still there. Lying on the shelves—dozens of them. And then take the matter of overhead expenses—the thing that cripples all these other film-companies. Big studios … expensive directors … high-salaried stars. …”
“All still there?”
“No, sir! That’s the point. They’re not there. The Finer and Better Motion Picture Company hasn’t any of these D. W. Griffiths and Gloria Swansons eating away its capital. It hasn’t even a studio.”
“Not even a studio?”
“No, sir. Nothing but a company. I tell you it’s big!”
Officer Garroway’s mild blue eyes widened.
“It sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime,” he agreed.
“The opportunity of a dozen lifetimes,” said Mr. Waddington. “And that’s the way to get on in the world—by grabbing your opportunities. Why, what’s Big Ben but a wristwatch that saw its chance and made good?” Mr. Waddington paused. His forehead wrinkled. He snatched the bundle of stock from his companion’s grasp and made a movement towards his pocket. “No!” he said, “No! I can’t do it. I can’t let you have it, after all!”
“Oh, sir!”
“No. It’s too big.”
“Oh, but, Mr. Waddington. …”
Sigsbee H. Waddington seemed to come out of a trance. He shook himself and stared at the policeman as if he were saying “Where am I?” He heaved a deep, remorseful sigh.
“Isn’t money the devil!” he said. “Isn’t it terrible the way it saps all a fellow’s principles and good resolutions! Sheer greed, that was what was the matter with me, when I said I wouldn’t let you have this stock. Sheer, grasping greed. Here am I, with millions in the bank, and the first thing you know I’m trying to resist a generous impulse to do a fellow human-being, whose face I like, a kindly act. It’s horrible!” He wrenched the bundle from his pocket and threw it to the policeman. “Here, take it before I weaken again. Give me the three hundred quick and let me get away.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, don’t thank me. One—two—three,” said Mr. Waddington, counting the bills. “Don’t thank me at all. It’s a pleasure.”
III
Upstairs, while the conversation just recorded was in progress, Frederick Mullett was entertaining his fiancée, Fanny Welch, to a light collation in the kitchen of George Finch’s apartment. It is difficult for a man to look devotional while his mouth is full of cold beef and chutney—but not impossible, for Mullett was doing it now. He gazed at Fanny very much as George Finch had gazed at Molly Waddington, Hamilton Beamish at Madame Eulalie, and as a million other young men in New York and its outskirts were or would shortly be gazing at a million other young women. Love had come rather late to Frederick Mullett, for his had been a busy life, but it had come to stay.
Externally, Fanny Welch appeared not unworthy of his devotion. She was a pretty little thing with snapping black eyes and a small face. The thing you noticed about her first was the slim shapeliness of her hands with their long, sensitive fingers. One of the great advantages of being a pickpocket is that you do have nice hands.
“I like this place,” said Fanny, looking about her.
“Do you, honey?” said Mullett tenderly. “I was hoping you would. Because I’ve got a secret for you.”
“What’s that?”
“This is where you and me are going to spend our honeymoon!”
“What, in this kitchen?”
“Of course not. We’ll have the run of the whole apartment, with the roof thrown in.”
“What’ll Mr. Finch have to say to that?”
“He won’t know, pettie. You see, Mr. Finch has just gone and got engaged to be married himself, and he’ll be off on his honeymoon-trip, so the whole place’ll be ours for ever so long. What do you think of that?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“I’ll take and show you the place in a minute or two. It’s
