The Substitute Millionaire Page #11

Jack Norman had no idea he was Silas Gyde's sole heir—until the multimillionaire was killed by an anarchist's bomb and Jack found himself the richest man in New York. The inheritance included a warning from his benefactor about an elaborate protection scheme promising to protect the wealthy from anarchists, in which Gyde had declined to enroll. Recognizing his own danger, Jack enlists a out-of-work actor to take on his own identity, while he, in the guise of Jack Norman's secretary, works furiously behind the scenes to break up the gang and unmask their leader, the mysterious Mr. B.

• Fiction
• Mystery

								


Hard on these softer feelings rose a slow tide of anger.  "Oh, the devils!  To think up such a fiend's game!  And then to get away with it!  It's too much for an honest man to stand!  I wish I could pay them off! ... I will pay them off.  I have power now.  That shall be my job.  If I live I'll square this account!"

He registered his vow with an involuntary glance upward at his mother's portrait.  It seemed to him that the wistful face softened on him in approval.

The impulse to action brought Jack to his feet.  Peeping through the curtains he saw that darkness had fallen outside.

"Good Lord!" he thought astonished.  "How long have I been here!"

His watch informed him that it was eight o'clock.  He picked up the lamp, and with a last look around the strange room turned to leave.  He had a feeling that that place marked a turning point in his life.  He would never again be quite the light-hearted boy that had entered it.

He had forgotten the dog.  The little beast seeing his purpose, and terrified of being left alone again, threw himself against Jack's legs in a desperate appeal to be taken along.

Jack stooped to caress him.  "Poor old fellow!" he said.  "I wonder how long it is since you saw the light of the sun.  I can't take you now, honest I can't.  But you be patient.  I'll be back to-morrow."

But the tiny animal thrust himself into Jack's embrace and would not be denied.  Jack finally picked him up and thrust him in his coat pocket. He settled down quite contentedly, only his nozzle and his bright eyes showing.

"Well I guess you must be accustomed to this mode of travel," said Jack.  "I'm going to call you Jumbo because that's not your name."

Carefully locking all the doors behind him, he left the lamp in the hotel sitting-room, and made his way out by the private entrance.  His impulse was to seek his own hall bedroom, the nearest thing to home that he knew, and there alone, amidst familiar surroundings, to try to bring some order out of his whirling thoughts.

Jack's boarding house was in the West Forties near Eighth avenue, in the center of that vast colony of boarders.  His way from the Madagascar lay up Broadway for three short blocks, then westward for a long one.  He passed through the throng hurrying theaterward without seeing anybody; he forgot that he had had no dinner; he forgot that his pocket was full of money and was tempted by none of the alluring show-windows.

The burden of his thoughts was: "It's a big job!  A big job!  I can't afford to make any mistake at the start!"

In front of a corner newsstand he was brought up all standing by a glimpse of the staring headlines of the night editions.

  HEIR TO THE GYDE MILLIONS
  FOUND IN A HALL BEDROOM

  A POOR BOY IS ENRICHED BEYOND THE DREAMS OF
  AVARICE

  Old Romance in the Dead Millionaire's Life Revealed

Jack bought several papers, and standing in a doorway out of the press of the crowd, experienced the first wonderful thrill of finding himself famous.  There is nothing else quite like it.  How you became famous is a secondary matter.  To find yourself on the first page is enough: to see the shape of your name in print.  Many a good head has been turned for life by it.

All the papers offered sensational versions of Jack's story, more or less accurate.  It had apparently been given out at Delamare's office in the first place, and so far they had it pretty straight.  But they went on to embroider it.  The more reckless sheets even printed interviews which caused Jack to grind his teeth, they made him out such a fool.  One paper printed an alleged photograph, but it was a safely fuzzy photograph that might have been taken for almost anybody.  They had discovered the address of his boarding-house, but in his absence his landlady, Mrs. Regan, had refused to be drawn out.

"Good old girl!" thought Jack.

The soberer sheets promised an interview in later editions.

"They're looking for me now!" thought Jack.

Being human, Jack could not but feel a pleasurable thrill, but his head was not quite turned.  He glanced at the hurrying passers-by whimsically.

"They wouldn't rush by so fast if they knew this was he," he thought. But he had no intention of calling their attention to the fact.  Silas Gyde's reference to the danger of too much publicity was present in his mind.

He turned into his own street keeping a wary eye ahead.  Mrs. Regan's boarding house was three-quarters of the way down the block, one of a long row of dwellings with little grass plots in front and iron railings.  Sure enough by the light of a street lamp Jack made out the figures of a group of men at her gate.  As he came closer he saw that several of them carried cameras with flash light attachments.

His first impulse was to flee, but recollecting that they could not possibly know yet what he looked like, he walked boldly up to the group, and asked the New Yorker's stock question of a street crowd:

"Somepin the matter here?"

One replied: "This where Jack Norman lives.  We're waitin' for him to come home."

He was already so famous no further explanation was deemed necessary.

"Gee!" said Jack with a glance at the shabby façade.  "I guess he'll soon be moving."

A laugh greeted this witty sally.

"Oh boy!" groaned one youth.  "Think of having a hundred millions handed you, just like that.  It's too much!"

A photographer said: "Well, I'm gonna ast him for one million.  He'd never miss it."

"What like fellow is he?" asked Jack.

"Same aged guy as us."

"Worked for twelve per until this morning.  Say his old boss was sore as a pup when he heard what he come in for."

"They say he's a bad actor all right."

"Sure, a whale!  They say he's already burned up Broadway from Herald Square to the Circle."

"You're wrong, fellow!  I heard his roll's as adhesive as rubber tape. Same as the old man's before him.  Wouldn't even pry off a nickel to give the poor boy who told him the news."

"Say, when a guy once gets in the papers, scandal begins!" said Jack disgustedly.  Seeing Mrs. Regan at her parlor window, and fearful that she might give him away, he walked on.

From a drug-store on Eighth avenue he telephoned back to Mrs. Regan, asking her to come to him there.  "Don't let anything on to those guys at the gate," he warned her.  "I want to keep out of sight for a few days."

She came into the store in a breathless state of fluster.  She was a good-hearted Irishwoman of considerable energy of character and a racy style of speech.  But at present she was considerably overcome.

"Oh, Mr. Norman!  Oh, Mr. Norman!" she gasped.

"Easy with my name!" warned Jack.  "I'm going to be Mr. Robinson for awhile now."

"Is it true what they say in the papers?"

"More or less."

"Oh law!  To think of anything like this happening in my house!  And the third floor rear hall at that!  But that's always the way ain't it, like a story like?  The telephone's been going like a Big Ben ever since twelve o'clock, asking for you.  And you such a pleasant ordinary young fellow--not to say ordinary-like, but not stuck up at all, just like one of us!"  She paused for breath.
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