



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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YOUNG LORD STRANLEIGH

A Novel

By Robert Barr

Illustrated

New York: D. Appleton And Company

1908

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YOUNG LORD STRANLEIGH




CHAPTER I--THE KING’S MOVE IN THE CITY

IT was shortly after nine o’clock in the morning that young Lord
Stranleigh of Wychwood, in a most leisurely fashion, descended the front
steps of his town house into the street. The young man was almost too
perfectly dressed. Every article of his costume, from his shiny hat to
the polished boots, was so exactly what it should he, that he ran
some danger of being regarded as a model for one of those beautiful
engravings of well-dressed mankind which decorate the shops of
Bond-Street tailors. He was evidently one who did no useful work in the
world, and as a practical person might remark, why should he, when his
income was more than thirty thousand pounds a year? The slightly bored
expression of his countenance, the languid droop of his eyelids, the
easy but indifferent grace of motion that distinguished him, might have
proclaimed to a keen observer that the young man had tested all
things, and found there was nothing worth getting excited about. He was
evidently a person without enthusiasm, for even the sweet perfection of
his attire might be attributed to the thought and care of his tailor,
rather than to any active meditation on his own part. Indeed, his
indolence of attitude made the very words “active” or “energetic” seem
superfluous in our language. His friends found it difficult, if not
impossible, to interest Lord Stranleigh in anything, even in a horse
race, or the fling of the dice, for he possessed so much more money
than he needed, that gain or loss failed to excite a passing flutter of
emotion. If he was equipped with brains, as some of his more intimate
friends darkly hinted, he had hitherto given no evidence of the fact.
Although well set up, he was not an athlete. He shot a little, hunted a
little, came to town during the season, went to the Continent when the
continental exodus took place, always doing the conventional thing, but
not doing it well enough or bad enough to excite comment. He was the
human embodiment of the sentiment: “There is nothing really worth
while.”

In marked contrast to him stood, undecided, a man of his own age, with
one foot on the lower stone step which led up to the front door of his
lordship’s town house. His clothes, of undistinguished cut, were worn so
carelessly that they almost gave the impression of being ready-made. His
flung-on, black slouch hat suggested Western America or Southern Africa.
His boots were coarse and clumsy.

But if the attire was uninspiring, the face merited, and usually
received, a second glance. It was smooth-shaven, massive and strong,
tanned to a slight mahogany tinge by a more eager sun than ever shines
on England. The eyes were deep, penetrating, determined, masterful.

Lord Stranleigh’s delicate upper lip supported a silken mustache
carefully tended; his eyes were languid and tired, capable of no such
gleam of intensity as was now turned upon him from the eyes of the
other.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but are you Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood?”

His lordship paused on the upper steps, and drawled the one word “Yes.”

“My name is Peter Mackeller, and the Honorable John Hazel gave me a
letter of introduction to you, saying I should probably catch you in at
this hour. It seems he underestimated your energy, for you are already
abroad.”

There was an undercurrent of resentment in the impatient tone Mackeller
had used. He was manifestly impressed unfavorably by this modern
representative of a very ancient family, but the purpose he had in view
caused him to curb his dislike, although he had not been tactful
enough to prevent a hint of it appearing in his words. If the other had
gathered any impression of that hint, he was too perfectly trained to
betray his knowledge, either in phrase or expression of countenance. The
opinion of his fellows was a matter of complete indifference to him. A
rather engaging smile stirred the silken mustache.

“Oh, Jack always underestimates my good qualities, so we won’t trouble
about his note of introduction. Besides, a man cannot read a letter in
the street, can he?”

“I see no reason against it,” replied the other sharply.

“Don’t you really? Well, I am going across to my club, and perhaps as we
walk along together, you will be good enough to say why you wish to see
me.”

Lord Stranleigh was about to proceed down another step when the other
answered “No” so brusquely that his lordship paused once more, with a
scarcely perceptible elevation of the eyebrows, for, as a rule, people
did not say “No” to Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood, who was known to enjoy
thirty thousand pounds a year.

“Then what do you propose?” asked his lordship, as though his own
suggestion had exhausted all the possibilities of action.

“I propose that you open the door, invite me in, and give me ten minutes
of your valuable time.”

The smile on his lordship’s countenance visibly increased.

“That’s not a bad idea,” he said, with the air of one listening to
unexpected originality. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Mackeller?” and with
his latchkey he opened the door, politely motioning the other to precede
him.

Young Mackeller was ushered into a small room to the left of the hall.
It was most severely plain, paneled somberly in old oak, lit by one
window, and furnished with several heavy leather-covered chairs. In the
center stood a small table, carrying a huge bottle of ink, like a great
dab of black metal which had been flung while soft on its surface,
and now, hardened, sat broad and squat as if it were part of the table
itself. On a mat lay several pens, and at one end of the table stood a
rack such as holds paper and envelopes, but in this case of most minute
proportions, displaying three tiers, one above the other, of what
appeared to be visiting cards; twelve minute compact packs all in all,
four in each row.

“This,” said Lord Stranleigh, with almost an air of geniality, “is my
business office.”

The visitor looked around him. There were no desks; no pillars of
drawers; no japanned-metal boxes that held documents; no cupboards; no
books; no pictures.

“Pray be seated, Mr. Mackeller,” and when the young man had accepted the
invitation, Lord Stranleigh drew up opposite to him at the small table
with the packets of cards close to his right hand.

“And now, if you will oblige me with Jack’s letter, I will glance over
it, though he rarely writes anything worth reading.”

Mackeller handed him the letter in an open envelope. His lordship
slowly withdrew the document, adjusted an eyeglass, and read it; then he
returned it to the envelope, and passed it back to its owner.

“Would it be too much if I asked you to replace it in your pocket, as
there is no waste-paper basket in this room?”

Mackeller acted as requested, but the frown on his broad brow deepened.
This butterfly seemed to annoy him with his imperturbable manner, and
his trifling, finicky, childish insincerity. Confronted with a real man,
Mackeller felt he might succeed, but he had already begun to fear that
this bit of mental thistle-down would evade him, so instead of going on
with his recital, he sat there glowering at Lord Stranleigh, who proved
even more of a nonentity than the Honorable John Hazel had led him to
believe. He had been prepared to meet some measure of irresponsible
inanity, but not quite so much as this. It was Lord Stranleigh himself
who broke the silence.

“What do you want?” he asked, almost as if some of his opponent’s
churlishness had hypnotically permeated into his own being.

“Money,” snapped the other shortly.

“Ah, they all do,” sighed his lordship, once more a picture of indolent
nonchalance.

He selected from the rack beside him four cards, one from each of the
little packs in the lower range. These he spread face upward on the
table before him.

“I never trouble about money,” said his lordship, smiling.

“You probably don’t need to, with thirty thousand a year,” suggested
Mackeller.

“Ah, that’s exaggerated,” explained his lordship. “You forget the
beastly income tax. Still, I was not referring to the amount; I merely
wished to explain my methods of dealing with it. Here are the names and
addresses of four eminent solicitor persons in the city. There is little
use of my keeping four dogs and barking myself, is there? I’ve really
twelve dogs altogether, as represented in this cardcase, but one or
other of these four will doubtless suit our purpose. Now, this firm of
solicitors attends to one form of charity.”

“I don’t want charity,” growled Mackeller.

“Quite so. I am merely explaining. This firm attends to all the
charities that are recognized in our set; the hospitals, the--well
whatever they happen to be. When applied to personally in these matters,
I write my name on the card of these solicitors, and forward it.
Application is then made to them. They look into the matter, and save
me the fatigue of investigation. The next firm”--holding up a second
card--“deals with charities that are our of our purview; halfdays at
the seaside, and that sort of thing. Now I come to business. This
firm”--showing the third card--“looks after permanent investments,
while this”--lifting the fourth--“takes charge of anything which is
speculative in its nature. The applicant receives the particular card
which pertains to his particular line of desire. He calls upon the
estimable firm of solicitors, and either convinces them, or fails:
gets his money, or doesn’t. So you see, my affairs are competently
transacted, and I avoid the emotional strain of listening to
explanations which probably I have not the mental grasp of business to
understand. Now, which of these four cards may I have the pleasure of
autographing for you?”

“Not one of them, my lord,” replied Mackeller. “The Honorable John Hazel
said that if you would listen to me, he thought I might interest you.”

“Oh, impossible,” drawled his lordship, sitting back languidly in his
chair.

“Yes, he said it would be a hard task, but I am accustomed to
difficulties. I asked you, as we came in, to give me ten minutes. Will
you do it?”

“Why,” protested his lordship, “we have already spent ten minutes at
least.”

“Yes, fooling with cards.”

“Ah, I’m more accustomed to handling cards than listening to a financial
conversation; not these kind of cards, either.”

“Will you, for the sake of John Hazel, who tells me he is a friend of
yours, give me ten minutes more of your time?”

“What has Jack Hazel to do with this? Are you going to share with him?
Is he setting you on to me for loot, and then do you retire into a dark
corner, and divide? Jack Hazel’s always short of money.”

“No, we don’t divide, my lord. Mr. Hazel has been speculating in the
city, and he stands to win a bit if I can pull off what I’m trying to
do. So, if you agree to my proposal, he will prove a winner, so will I,
so will you, for you will share in the profits.”

“Oh, but I don’t need the money.”

“Well, we do.”

“So I understand. Why doesn’t Jack confine himself to the comparative
honesty of the dice? What does he want to muddle about in the city for?”

“I suppose because he hasn’t got thirty thousand a year.”

“Very likely; very likely. Yes, that strikes me as a sufficient
explanation. All right, Mr. Mac-keller, take your ten minutes, and try
to make your statement as simple as possible. I hope statistics do not
come into it. I’ve no head for figures.”

“My father,” began the young man, with blunt directness, “is a
stockbroker in the city. The firm is Mackeller and Son. I am the son.”

“You don’t look to me like a stockbroker. That is, what I’ve always
expected such a person to be: I’ve never met one.”

“No, I’m in reality a mining engineer.”

“But, my dear sir, you have just said you were a stockbroker.”

“I said my father was.”

“You said Mackeller and Son, and that you were the son.”

“Yes, I am a partner in the firm, but, nevertheless, a mining engineer.”

“Do stockbrokers make mining engineers of their sons?”

“One of them did. My father is a rigidly honest man, and preferred me to
be an engineer.” His lordship’s eyebrows again elevated