The God in the Car: A Novel. Hope Anthony

public with a scheme which was a fraud. He would have delivered this inner verdict in calm and temperate terms; it would have been accompanied by no disgust, no remorse, no revulsion at the idea having made its way into his mind; it was just that, on the whole, such a thing wouldn't do. The vagueness of the phrase faithfully embodied the spirit of the decision, for whether it wouldn't do, because it was in itself unseemly, or merely because, if found out, it would look unseemly, was precisely one of those curious points with which Mr. Ruston's practical intellect declined to trouble itself. If Omofaga had been a fraud, then Ruston would have whistled it down the wind. But Omofaga was no fraud – in his hands at least no fraud. For, while he believed in Omofaga to a certain extent, Willie Ruston believed in himself to an indefinite, perhaps an infinite, extent. He thought Omofaga a fair security for anyone's money, but himself a superb one. Omofaga without him – or other people's Omofagas – might be a promising speculation; add him, and Omofaga became a certainty. It will be seen, then, that Mr. Heather's inspiration had soon failed – unless, that is, machines can see visions and dream dreams, and melt down hard facts in crucibles heated to seven times in the fires of imagination. But a man may do all this, and yet not be the passive victim of his dreams and imaginings. The old buccaneers – and Adela Ferrars had thought Ruston a buccaneer modernised – dreamt, but they sailed and fought too; and they sailed and fought and won because they dreamt. And if many of their dreams were tinted with the gleam of gold, they were none the less powerful and alluring for that.

      Ruston had laid the whole position before Baron von Geltschmidt of Frankfort, with – as it seemed – the utmost candour. He and his friends were not deeply committed in the matter; there was, as yet, only a small syndicate; of course they had paid something for their rights, but, as the Baron knew (and Willie's tone emphasised the fact that he must know) the actual sums paid out of pocket in these cases were not of staggering magnitude; no company was formed yet; none would be, unless all went smoothly. If the Baron and his friends were sure of their ground, and preferred to go on – why, he and his friends were not eager to commit themselves to a long and arduous contest. There must, he supposed, be a give-and-take between them.

      "It looks," he said, "as far as I can judge, as if either we should have to buy you out, or you would have to buy us out."

      "Perhaps," suggested the Baron, blinking lazily behind his gold spectacles, "we could get rid of you without buying you out."

      "Oh, if you drove us to it, by refusing to treat, we should have a shot at that too, of course," laughed Willie Ruston, swallowing a glass of white wine. The Baron had asked him to discuss the matter over luncheon.

      "It seems to me," observed the Baron, lighting a cigar, "that people are rather cold about speculations just now."

      "I should think so; but this is not a speculation; it's a certainty."

      "Why do you tell me that, when you want to get rid of me?"

      "Because you won't believe it. Wasn't that Bismarck's way?"

      "You are not Bismarck – and a certainty is what the public thinks one."

      "Is that philosophy or finance?" asked Ruston, laughing again.

      The Baron, who had in his day loved both the subjects referred to, drank a glass of wine and chuckled as he delivered himself of the following doctrine:

      "What the public thinks a certainty, is a certainty for the public – that would be philosophy, eh?"

      "I believe so. I never read much, and your extract doesn't raise my idea of its value."

      "But what the public thinks a certainty, is a certainty – for the promotors – that is finance. You see the difference is simple."

      "And the distinction luminous. This, Baron, seems to be the age of finance."

      "Ah, well, there are still honest men," said the Baron, with the optimism of age.

      "Yes, I'm one – and you're another."

      "I'm much obliged. You've been in Omofaga?"

      "Oh, yes. And you haven't, Baron."

      "Friends of mine have."

      "Yes. They came just after I left."

      The Baron knew that this statement was true. As his study of Willie Ruston progressed, he became inclined to think that it might be important. Mere right (so far as such a thing could be given by prior treaties) was not of much moment; but right and Ruston together might be formidable. Now the Baron (and his friends were friends much in the way, mutatis mutandis, that Mr. Wagg and Mr. Wenham were friends of the Marquis of Steyne, and may therefore drop out of consideration) was old and rich, and, by consequence, at a great disadvantage with a man who was young and poor.

      "I don't see the bearing of that," he observed, having paused for a moment to consider all its bearings.

      "It means that you can't have Omofaga," said Willie Ruston. "You were too late, you see."

      The Baron smoked and drank and laughed.

      "You're a young fool, my boy – or something quite different," said he, laying a hand on his companion's arm. Then he asked suddenly, "What about Dennisons?"

      "They're behind me if – "

      "Well?"

      "If you're not in front of me."

      "But if I am, my son?" asked the Baron, almost caressingly.

      "Then I leave for Omofaga by the next boat."

      "Eh! And for what?"

      "Never mind what. You'll find out when you come."

      The Baron sighed and tugged his beard.

      "You English!" said he. "Your Government won't help you."

      "Damn my Government."

      "You English!" said the Baron again, his tone struggling between admiration and a sort of oppression, while his face wore the look a man has who sees another push in front of him in a crowd, and wonders how the fellow works his way through.

      There was a long pause. Ruston lit his pipe, and, crossing his arms on his breast, blinked at the sun; the Baron puffed away, shooting a glance now and then at his young friend, then he asked,

      "Well, my boy, what do you offer?"

      "Shares," answered Ruston composedly.

      The Baron laughed. The impudence of the offer pleased him.

      "Yes, shares, of course. And besides?"

      Willie Ruston turned to him.

      "I shan't haggle," he announced. "I'll make you one offer, Baron, and it's an uncommon handsome offer for a trunk of waste paper."

      "What's the offer?" asked the Baron, smiling with rich subdued mirth.

      "Fifty thousand down, and the same in shares fully paid."

      "Not enough, my son."

      "All right," and Mr. Ruston rose. "Much obliged for your hospitality, Baron," he added, holding out his hand.

      "Where are you going?" asked the Baron.

      "Omofaga —viâ London."

      The Baron caught him by the arm, and whispered in his ear,

      "There's not so much in it, first and last."

      "Oh, isn't there? Then why don't you take the offer?"

      "Is it your money?"

      "It's good money. Come, Baron, you've always liked the safe side," and Willie smiled down upon his host.

      The Baron positively started. This young man stood over him and told him calmly, face-to-face, the secret of his life. It was true. How he had envied men of real nerve, of faith, of daring! But he had always liked the safe side. Hence he was very rich – and a rather weary old man.

      Two days later, Willie Ruston took a cab from Lord Semingham's, and drove to Curzon Street. He arrived at twelve o'clock in the morning. Harry Dennison had gone to a Committee at the House. The butler had just told him so, when a voice cried from within,

      "Is it you, Mr. Ruston?"

      Mrs.