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discussed the state of business in Europe and America, and Lanny listened attentively, as he

had always done. One who found pleasure in buying and selling old masters could learn from

the technique being here revealed. The Knight Commander of the Bath of England and Grand

Officer of the Legion d'Honneur of France was the very soul of courtesy, of suavity in manner; a

bit deprecating, as if he were saying: "I am a very old man, and it would not be fair to take

advantage of me." His soft voice caressed you and his smile wooed you, but at the same time

his blue eyes watched you warily.

He was known as "the mystery man of Europe," and doubtless there had been mysteries

enough about what he was doing in the political and financial worlds; but so far as his character

was concerned, Lanny no longer found any mystery. An aged plutocrat had fought his way

up in the world by many deeds of which he now did not enjoy the contemplation. He had

intrigued and threatened, bribed and cajoled, made promises and broken them; by tire less

scheming and pushing he had acquired the mastery of those great establishments which the

various countries of Europe needed in order to wage their wars of power. But all the time he

had remained in his soul a Greek peasant living among cruel oppressing Turks. He had been

afraid of a thousand things: of his own memories, of the men he had thwarted and ruined, of

slanderers, blackmailers, assassins, Reds—and, above all, of what he had helped to make

Europe. A man who wanted to sell munitions, who wanted all the nations of the earth to spend

their incomes upon munitions, but who didn't want any munitions shot off—at least not

anywhere within his own hearing! Unaccountably the shooting continued, Europe seemed to be

going from bad to worse, and Zaharoff's conversation revealed that he trusted nobody in power

and had very little hope of anything.

A bitter, sad old man, he felt his powers waning, and had hidden himself away from dangers.

He would soon be gone; and did he worry about where he was going? Or was it about what was

going to become of his possessions? He mourned his beloved Spanish duquesa of the many

names. Did he contemplate the possibility of being reunited to her? Lanny had something to say

to him on that subject, but must wait until the two traders had got through with their duel of

wits.

IV

It was Robbie Budd who had sought this interview, and he who would have to say what he had

come for. Zaharoff, while waiting, would be gravely interested in what Robbie had to tell about

the state of Wall Street and the great American financial world. The visitor was optimistic, sure

that the clouds would soon blow over. Lanny knew that his father really believed that, but

would Zaharoff believe that he believed it? No, the Greek would think that Robbie, having

something to sell, was playing the optimist. Zaharoff, the prospective buyer, was a pessimist.

At last Robbie saw fit to get down to business. He explained that his father was very old, and

the cares of the Budd enterprise might soon be on Robbie's shoulders. Budd's was largely out

of munitions; it was making everything from needles to freight elevators. Robbie would no longer

be in a position to travel—in short, he and his friends were looking for someone to take the New

England-Arabian shares off their hands at a reasonable figure.

There it was; and Zaharoff's pessimism assumed the hues of the nethermost stage of Dante's

inferno. The world was in a most horrible state; the Arabians were on the point of declaring a

jihad and wiping out every European on their vast desolate hot peninsula; Zaharoff himself

was a feeble old man, his doctors had given him final warning, he must avoid every sort of

responsibility and strain —in short, he couldn't buy anything, and didn't have the cash

anyhow.

A flat turn-down; but Lanny had heard a Levantine trader talk, and knew that Zaharoff's real

purpose and desire would not be revealed until the last minute, when his two guests had their

hats in their hands, perhaps when they were outside the front door. Meanwhile they mustn't

show that they knew this; they mustn't betray disappointment; they must go on chatting, as if

it didn't really mean very much to them, as if Robbie Budd had crossed the ocean to have one

more look at Zaharoff's blue eyes, or perhaps at his very fine Ingres.

It was time for Lanny to mention the paintings, which he had been invited to inspect. He

asked if he might stroll about the room, and the Knight Commander and Grand Officer rose

from his seat and strolled with him, pointing out various details. Lanny said: "You know I am

interested in the value of paintings, that being my business." The remark gave no offense; quite

the contrary. The old man told the prices, which he had at his fingertips: a hundred thousand

francs for this Fragonard, a hundred and fifty thousand for that David. "Before-the-war

francs," he added.

They went into the great library, a magnificent room with a balcony all around it, having

heavy bronze railings. Then they inspected the dining-room, in which was a startling Goya, the

portrait of an abnormally tall and thin Spanish gentleman wearing brilliant-colored silks with

much lace and jewelry. "An ancestor of my wife," remarked the old man. "She didn't care for

it much; she found it cynical."

An opening which Lanny had been waiting for. "By the way, Sir Basil, here is something

which might interest you. Have you ever tried any experiments with mediums?"

"Spiritualist mediums, you mean? Why do you ask?"

"Because of something" strange which has been happening in our family. My stepfather

interested my mother in the subject, and in New York they found a Polish woman with whom

they held seances, and she gave them such convincing results that we brought her to the Riviera

with us, and she has become a sort of member of our family."

"You think she brings you messages from—" The old man stopped, as if hesitating to say "the

dead."

"We get innumerable messages from what claim to be spirits, and they tell us things which

astonish us, because we cannot see how this old and poorly educated Polish woman can possibly

have had any means of finding them out."

"There is a vast system of fraud of that sort, I have been told," said the cautious Greek.

"I know, Sir Basil; and if this were an alert-minded woman, I might think it possible. But

she is dull and quite unenterprising. How could she possibly have known that the duquesa was

fond of tulips, and the names of the varieties she showed me?"

"What?" exclaimed the host.

"She mentioned the names Bybloem and Bizarre, and spoke of Turkestan, though she didn't get

it as the name of a tulip. She even gave me a very good description of the garden of your town

house, and the number "fifty-three. She was trying to get Avenue Hoche, but could only get the

H."

Lanny had never before seen this cautious old man reveal such emotion. Evidently a secret

spring had been touched. "Sit down," he said, and they took three of the dining-room chairs.

"Is this really true, Lanny?"

"Indeed it is. I have the records of a hundred or more sittings."

"This concerns me deeply, because of late years I have had very strange feelings, as if my wife

was in the room and trying to communicate with me. I have told myself that it could only be

the product of my own grief and loneliness. I don't need to tell you how I felt about her."

"No, Sir Basil, I have always understood; the little I saw of her was enough to convince me

that she was a lovely person."

"Six years have passed, and my sorrow has never diminished. Tell me—where is this Polish

woman?" When Lanny explained about the yacht, he wanted to know: "Do you suppose it

would be possible for me to have a séance with her?"

"It could be arranged some time, without doubt. We should be deeply interested in the

results."

V

For half an hour or more the rich but unhappy old man sat asking questions about Madame

Zyszynski and her procedure. Lanny explained the curious obligation of pretending to believe

in an Iroquois Indian chieftain who spoke with a Polish accent. No easy matter for an

intellectual person to take such a thing seriously; but Lanny told about a lady who had been

his amie for many years prior to her death; she had sent him messages, including little details

such as two lovers remember, but which would have no meaning for others: the red-and-white-

striped jacket of the servant who attended them in the inn where they had spent their first

night, the pear and apricot trees against the walls of the lady's garden. Such things might have

come out of Lanny's subconscious mind, but even so, it was a curious experience to have

somebody dig them up.

"I would like very much to try the experiment," said Zaharoff. "When do you think it could

be arranged?"

"I will have to consult my mother and my stepfather. The yacht is on the way from Cannes to

Bremen, and the plan is to go from there to America and return in the autumn. If you go to

Monte Carlo next winter, we could bring Madame over to you."

"That is a long time to wait. Would it not be possible for me to bring her here for at least a

trial? Perhaps the yacht may be stopping in the Channel?"

"We expect to stop on the English coast, perhaps at Portsmouth or Dover."

"If so, I would gladly send someone to England to bring her to me. I would expect to pay her,

you understand."

"There is no need of that. We are taking care of her, and she is satisfied, so it would be better

not to raise the question."

"This might mean a great deal to me, Lanny. If I thought that I was in contact with my

wife, and that I had some chance of seeing her again, it would give me more happiness than

anything I can think of." There was a pause, as if a retired munitions king needed a violent

effort to voice such feelings. "I have met no one in any way approaching her. You have heard,

perhaps, that I waited thirty-four years to marry her, and then she was spared to me barely

eighteen months."

Lanny knew that Zaharoff and the duquesa had been living together during all those thirty-

four years; but this was not to be mentioned. A young free lance could mention casually that he

had had an came, but the richest man in Europe had to look out for chantage and scandal-

mongers—especially when the lady's insane husband had been a cousin to the King of Spain!

"If you want to make a convincing test," continued Lanny, "it would be better not to let

Madame Zyszynski know whom she is to meet. She rarely asks questions, either before or after

a sitting. She will say: 'Did you get good results?' and if you tell her: 'Very good,' she is satisfied.

I should advise meeting her in some hotel room, with nothing to give her any clue."

"Listen, my boy," said the old man, with more eagerness than Lanny had ever seen him

display in the sixteen years of their acquaintance, "if you will make it possible for me to see this

woman in the next few days, I will come to any place on the French coast that you name."

"In that case I think I can promise to arrange it. I am to fly and join the yacht at Lisbon, and as

soon as I can set a date, I will telegraph you. In the meantime, say nothing, and my father and I

will be the only persons in the secret. I will tell my mother that I have a friend who wants to

make a private test; and to Madame I won't say even that."

VI

To this long conversation Robbie Budd had listened in silence. He didn't believe in a

hereafter, but he believed in giving the old spider, the old gray wolf, the old devil, whatever

would entertain him and put him under obligations to the Budd family. When they rose to

leave, Zaharoff turned to him and said: "About those shares: would you like me to see if some

of my old-time associates would be interested in them?"

"Certainly, Sir Basil."

"If you will send me the necessary data concerning the company—"

"I have the whole set-up with me." Robbie pointed to his briefcase. "I have thirty-five

thousand shares at my disposal."

"Are you prepared to put a price on them?"

"We are asking a hundred and twenty dollars a share. That represents exactly the amount of

the investment."

"But you have had generous profits, have you not?"

"Not excessive, in view of the period of time and the work that I have put in on it."

"People are glad to get back the half of their investment these days, Mr. Budd."

"Surely not in oil, Sir Basil."

"Well, leave the documents with me, and I'll see what I can do and let you hear in the next

few days."

They took their leave; and in their car returning to Paris, Robbie said: "Son, that was an

inspiration! How did you think of it?"

"Well, it happened, and I thought he'd want to know."

"That business about the tulips really happened?"

"Of course."

"It was certainly most convenient. If that woman can convince him that the duquesa is

sending him messages, there's nothing he won't do. We may get our price."

Lanny well knew that his father wasn't very sensitive when he was on the trail of a business

deal; but then, neither is a spider, a wolf, or a devil. "I hope you do," he said.

"He means to buy the shares himself," continued Robbie. "It will take a lot of bargaining. Don't

let him see too much of the woman until he pays up."

"The more he sees, the more he may want," countered the son.

"Yes, but suppose he buys her away from you entirely?"

"That's a chance we have to take, I suppose."

"My guess is he won't be able to believe that the thing is on the level. If he gets results, he'll

be sure you told the woman in advance."

"Well," said the young idealist, "he'll be punishing his own sins. Goethe has a saying that all

guilt avenges itself upon earth."

But Robbie wasn't any more interested in spirituality than he was in spirits. "If I can swing

this deal, I'll be able to pay off the notes that I gave you and Beauty and Marceline."

"You don't have to worry about those notes, Robbie. We aren't suffering."