Helen Ford

“How unfortunate that you cannot complete the invention,” said Blunt, dryly. “If it is just as convenient I shouldn’t mind receiving the pay in advance; not,” he continued, with a pointed imitation of his companion’s manner,—“not that I doubt in the least your high-souled integrity, my dear Sharp, but simply because, just at present, singularly enough, I happen to be out of cash.”

“I shall be most happy to discharge your claim forthwith,” said Sharp, rather ostentatiously displaying a roll of bills, and placing a five in the hands of his agent.

Blunt examined the bill with some minuteness, a sudden suspicion having entered his mind as to its genuineness. Satisfied on this point, he slipped it into his vest pocket, saying, “All right, you shall hear from me in the course of the day.”

An hour afterwards a loud authoritative knock aroused Robert Ford, who, it is needless to say, was employed after his usual fashion.

“Come in!”

The invitation was quickly accepted by a shock-headed man, stout and burly, who without ceremony drew out a note, and said, abruptly, “You are Robert Ford, I presume?”

“That is my name, sir,” said the inventor, in some surprise.

“Very well. Here is a note with your signature, payable on demand. I presume it will be perfectly convenient for you to pay it now.”

Mr. Ford took the note with an absent air, and said, glancing at the man before him, “Excuse me, but I do not recollect having seen you before.”

“Very probably,” said Blunt, with sang froid. “We never had the pleasure of meeting before.”

“Then,” said the inventor, “how comes it that you have a demand against me?”

“If you will take the trouble to examine the note, you will find that it comes through a third person, Richard Sharp. You probably remember him.”

“Yes, I know him.”

Mr. Ford glanced at the paper in his hand.

“I think there must be some mistake,” he said. “The sum should be two hundred dollars, not three.”

“There is no mistake,” said Blunt, positively. “It is just as he gave it to me.”

“Mr. Sharp mentioned yesterday,” said Mr. Ford, with a sudden effort at recollection, “that he had parted with this note to some one, but on condition that it should not be presented. You had better see him about it.”

“I have nothing further to do with him,” replied Blunt, “I believe he did mention something of the kind; but of course he cannot expect me to keep this note when I want the money.”

“Then, sir,” said Mr. Ford, “if, as you admit, Mr. Sharp made this condition, it is incumbent on you, as a man of honor, to keep it. I am sure it is very far from Mr. Sharp’s intention to trouble me for the payment of a sum which he loaned without the expectation of immediate repayment. I should wrong his disinterested generosity by harboring such a suspicion.”

“His disinterested generosity!” repeated Blunt, with a loud laugh.

“Sir,” said the inventor, with calm dignity, “I must request you to forbear insinuating by word or manner anything derogatory to a man who has proved himself my benefactor, and, solely impelled by his interest in science, has offered me the aid of his purse, without even an application on my part.”

“Very well,” said Blunt, “although it’s rather amusing to me to hear Sharp spoken of as interested in science, I won’t quarrel with your opinion of him, especially as his character isn’t in question just now. The main point is, can you pay this note?”

“I cannot.”

“Then I shall be under the disagreeable necessity of calling two of my friends in waiting.”

Two Irishmen, who appeared to have been waiting outside, entered at Blunt’s call.

“Take that machinery,” said Blunt, in a tone of command, “and carry it down stairs.”

“Stay!” said Mr. Ford, in alarm; “what do you intend to do?”

“I am only acting in self-defence,” said Blunt, doggedly. “You cannot pay your money. If I can’t get my pay in one way, I must in another; therefore, I take this machinery of yours in execution.”

The thought of this calamity nearly overcame Mr. Ford. He did not pause to consider whether the seizure was legal or illegal, but, in an agitated voice, urged, “Take everything else, but spare me this. It is to me of inestimable value,—greater than you can possibly imagine.”

“That’s the very reason I take it,” said Blunt. “All the rest of your trumpery,” glancing contemptuously at the plain furniture, “wouldn’t be worth carrying away.”

“At least,” implored the inventor, “wait till to-morrow, till I can see Mr. Sharp.”

“And where would you be?” sneered Blunt. “Don’t think to catch me with such chaff; I’m too old a bird. I will take it while it is here.”

“But,” urged Mr. Ford, “it can be of little value to you. You cannot sell it for one quarter of the debt.”

“Perhaps not. But that isn’t what I take it for.”

“What then?”

“As a pledge for its final payment. I care nothing for the trumpery, while you, I know, do. When you come forward and pay the note, you shall have it back again.”

“Do you promise that?” asked the inventor, more cheerfully.

“I will agree to wait a reasonable time.”

Little ceremony was used in the removal of the complicated machinery. Within ten minutes, all that had so fully occupied the thoughts of Mr. Ford, and furnished the pleasure and the occupation of his quiet life, was swept away, and he was left alone. That the labor was to no purpose, and the hopes which he cherished vain, imported little. To him, at least, they were realities, and upon them he had built a dazzling superstructure, which now suddenly crumbled into pieces at his feet.

Lewis Rand’s triumph was thus far complete.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HELEN’S GOOD FORTUNE

Mr. Bowers, the manager, sat at his desk in the little office adjoining the stage, running his eye over a manuscript play presented for examination by an ambitious young man in spectacles.

“Bah!” said the manager, tossing aside the play after a very brief examination, “what can the man be thinking of? Two murders in the first act, and a suicide in the first scene of the second! Such an accumulation of horrors will never do. Here, Jeffries.”

The messenger made his appearance, and stood awaiting orders.

“Here,” said Mr. Bowers, tossing the play towards him, “just do this thing up, and when the author calls this afternoon, tell him from me that it is a very brilliant production, and so on, but, like Addison’s Cato, for example, not adapted for dramatic representation. That will sugar the pill.”

“Is it the tall young man, with a thin face?”

“Yes; his name is Ichabod Smith; but he writes under the nom de plume of Lionel Percy.”

“Yes, sir; I have seen his name in the story papers. He has just written one called ‘The Goblin Lover; or, The Haunted Tower.’”

“Any further orders, sir?” inquired Jeffries, deferentially.