



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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THE GOLDEN FLOOD

By Edwin Lefevre

Illustrated By W. R. Leigh

New York

McClure, Phillips & Co.

1905


TO

DANIEL GRAY REID





PART ONE: THE FLOOD

The president looked up from the underwriters’ plan of the latest
“Industrial” consolidation capital stock, $100,000,000; assets, for
publication, $100,000,000 which the syndicate’s lawyers had pronounced
perfectly legal. Judiciously advertised, the stock probably would be
oversubscribed. The profits ought to be enormous. He was one of the
underwriters.

“What is it?” he asked. He did not frown, but his voice was as though
hung with icicles. The assistant cashier, an imaginative man in the
wrong place, shivered.

“This gentleman,” he said, giving a card to the president, “wishes to
make a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars.”

The president looked at the card. He read on it:

_MR. GEORGE KITCHELL GRINELL_

“Who sent him to us?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir. He said he had a letter of introduction to you,”
 answered the assistant cashier, disclaiming all responsibility in the
matter.

The president read the card a second time. The name was unfamiliar.

“Grinnell?” he muttered. “Grinnell? Never heard of him.” Perhaps he felt
it was poor policy to show ignorance on any matter whatever. When he
spoke again, it was in a voice overflowing with a dignity that was a
subtle rebuke to all assistant cashiers:

“I will see him.”

He busied himself once more with the typewritten documents before him,
lost in its alluring possibilities, until he became conscious of a
presence near him. He still waited, purposely, before looking up. He was
a very busy man, and all the world must know it. At length he raised his
head majestically, and turned--an animated fragment of a glacier--until
his eyes rested on the stranger’s.

“Good-morning, sir,” he said politely.

“Good-morning, Mr. Dawson,” said the stranger. He was a young man,
conceivably under thirty, of medium height, square of shoulders,
clean-shaven, and clear-skinned. He had brown hair and brown eyes.
His dress hinted at careful habits rather than at fashionable tailors.
Gold-rimmed spectacles gave him a studious air, which disappeared
whenever he spoke. As if at the sound of his own voice, his eyes took on
a look of alert self-confidence which interested the bank president.
Mr. Dawson was deeply prejudiced against the look of extreme astuteness,
blended with the desire to create a favourable impression, so familiar
to him as the president of the richest bank in Wall Street.

“You are Mr.----” The president looked at the stranger’s card as though
he had left it unread until he had finished far more important business.
It really was unnecessary; but it had become a habit, which he lost only
when speaking to his equals or his superiors in wealth.

“Grinnell,” prompted the stranger, very calmly. He was so unimpressed by
the president that the president was impressed by him.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Williams tells me you wish to become one of our
depositors?”

“Yes, sir. I have here,” taking a slip of paper from his pocket-book,
“an Assay Office check on the Sub-Treasury. It is for a trifle over a
hundred thousand dollars.”

Even the greatest bank in Wall Street must have a kindly feeling toward
depositors of a hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Dawson permitted himself
to smile graciously.

“I am sure we shall be glad to have your account, Mr. Grinnell,” he
said. “You are in business in----” The slight arching of his eyebrows,
rather than the inflection of his voice, made his words a delicate
interrogation. He was a small, slender man, greyhaired and
grey-moustached, with an air of polite aloofness from trivialities. His
manners were what you might expect of a man whose grandfather had been
Minister to France, and had never forgotten it; nor had his children.
His self-possession was so great that it was not noticeable.

“I am not in any business, Mr. Dawson, unless,” said the young man
with a smile that deprived his voice of any semblance of pertness or of
premeditated discourtesy, “it is the business of depositing $103,648.67
with the Metropolitan National Bank. My friend, Professor Willetts, of
Columbia, gave me a letter of introduction. Here it is. I may say,
Mr. Dawson, that I haven’t the slightest intention of disturbing this
account, as far as I know now, for an indefinite period.” The president
read the letter. It was from the professor of metallurgy at Columbia,
who was an old acquaintance of Dawson’s. It merely said that George K.
Grinnell was one of his old students, a graduate of the School of
Mines, who had asked him to suggest a safe bank of deposit. This the
Metropolitan certainly was. He had asked his young friend to attach his
own signature at the bottom, since Grinnell had no other bank accounts,
and no other way of having his signature verified. Mr. Grinnell had said
he wished his money to be absolutely safe, and Professor Willetts took
great pleasure in sending him to Mr. Dawson.

Mr. Dawson bowed his head--an acquiescence meant to be encouraging.
To the young man the necessity for such encouragement was not clear.
Possibly it showed in his eyes, for Mr. Dawson said very politely, in
an almost courtly way he had at times to show some people that an
aristocrat could do business aristocratically:

“It is not usual for us to accept accounts from strangers. We do not
really know.” very gently, “that you are the man to whom this letter was
given, nor that your signature is that of Mr. George K. Grinnell.”

The young man laughed pleasantly. “I see your position, Mr