The Substitute Millionaire Page #2

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

								


"So long, Kids," he said airily, and started for the door.

"Oh, wait a minute," said the boy.  "Here's a letter for you this morning."

Jack thrust it carelessly into his pocket and went on down-stairs.  At the street door he stopped at a loss.  Turned loose on the street at nine o'clock of a working morning, which way was one to turn?  He glanced across the street again, the window was still vacant.  Anyway, he couldn't very well see her, jobless as he was.  Better just drop of sight.  This thought cost him a shrewd pang.  He started walking quickly in the direction opposite to that whence she would presently come.

He remembered the letter and took it out.  Letters were not so frequent in his life that he could afford to disdain them.  This was a business envelope, large, square, and made of thick, fine paper.  "National New York Bank" was neatly embossed on the flap.  It was addressed in long-hand, an untidy but powerful scrawl.

"Some high-class ad," thought Jack.  "Want to sell me bonds, I suppose."  He chuckled with bitter humor.

Inside he found this communication in the same hand:

"Dear Mr. Norman:

"Will you please call me up at my office to-morrow morning.  I shall arrive there about nine-thirty.  The number of my private phone is ---- Broad.  You will not find it in the book.

  "Very truly yours,
      "Walter Delamare."

Jack, being a true American youth, regarded this skeptically.  "What kind of a con is he handing me?" he thought.  "Who the deuce is Walter Delamare?"

The name rang familiarly in his ears.  He glanced at the note head again.  Under the name of the bank was printed: "Office of the President."  Of course!  Walter Delamare, President of the National New York Bank.  His name was in the papers every day.  It wielded a magic influence in the nation.

Jack still suspected a hoax of some kind, though the expensive note paper and the scrawly, characteristic hand were impressive.  He examined the latter with fresh care.  It was surely real handwriting, not process work.

"Oh well, it's worth a nickel for a telephone call," he thought.  "I have nothing to lose."

He had nearly half an hour to kill before nine-thirty, and no twenty-five minutes ever passed more slowly.  He walked down to Wall street and had a look at the outside of the National New York Bank, an imposing colonnade a whole block long.  He circumnavigated it three times, and at nine thirty-one, precisely, went into a cigar store and called up the number that had been given him.

After a due interval he heard a voice at the other end of the wire that certainly sounded like that of a man of mark--crisp, serene, potent; humorous and kindly, too.

"Mr. Norman?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is Delamare.  You are prompt.  Can you come down to see me this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you come right away?  Later I shall be very busy."

"Yes, sir."

"Good!  Better taxi down.  And by the way, it would be better if you sent in an assumed name.  I will explain why when I see you.  Call yourself--let me see--call yourself Mr. Robinson."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well.  I shall be expecting you.  Good-by."

Jack issued from the telephone booth a little dazed.  A great captain of finance asking him, the humble bookkeeper, to call!  Putting Jack on an equal footing by referring to himself as "Delamare"!  A mystery suggested by the use of an assumed name!  What could it all mean!  On the one hand the skeptic in Jack whispered: "Some one is putting up a game on you!"  On the other hand the dear hidden ego in us all that only needs a little appreciation to show its head said: "Why shouldn't Walter Delamare have private business with you as well as anybody?"

Jack had only to walk across the street to the bank.  The argument within him showed itself in a kind of defiant sheepishness as he passed the great portal and found himself under the far-flung vaulted ceiling. It had been designed to impress, and impressive it was.  With its rare marbles and mural paintings it was more like a palace than a place of sober business.  It was not yet the opening hour, but many elegant clerks were already starting to work behind the brass grills.  Shabby Jack eyed their cravats and fine linen wistfully.

He asked one of the uniformed attendants the way to Mr. Delamare's office, half expecting a roar of laughter to go up.  But nothing of the sort occurred.  He next found himself opposed by a silvery-haired old gentleman whose exquisite courtesy was the same to all.

"Whom do you wish to see?"

"Mr. Delamare."

"Mr. Delamare can be seen only by appointment."

"I have an appointment."

The courteous old gentleman permitted himself a glance of surprise. "What name shall I say?"

"Mr. Robinson."

"Very good, sir."

He returned with an air of slightly heightened respect.  "Please step this way, sir."

"It is all right," thought Jack.  "Nobody is hoaxing me."

He followed his conductor down a mahogany and plate glass corridor.

2

Jack was introduced to a room of truly noble proportions, vast and high, with a row of tall windows with round tops, looking down a narrow street to the harbor.  In the center was a flat-topped desk as big as a banquet board and behind it sat a man, dwarfed in size by the vastness of his surroundings--but immeasurably increased in significance.  The whole place focused in him.

Jack's silken-tongued conductor announced him, and softly withdrew. The man at the desk raised his head and bent a look of strong interest and quizzical amusement on Jack.  It was the face of a man well-assured of his place in the world; serene and careless; a man who consorted on equal terms with labor leaders and kings.

"So this is what you're like!" he said.

The unexpected look of interest and the strange words instead of heartening Jack had the contrary effect.  His knees shook under him a little, his mouth went dry.

"Sit down," said Mr. Delamare, indicating a chair opposite him.

Jack obeyed, walking jerkily like an automaton.

"I suppose you're wondering why I sent for you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have no idea?"

"No, sir."

"I will tell you as soon as you have answered a few questions.  I must make sure first that I have got hold of the right man."

He pulled out a drawer, and taking from it a typewritten sheet, read his question from it.

"Your full name?"

"John Farrow Norman."

"Parents living?"

"Both dead, sir."

"Father's name?"

"John Goadby Norman."

"Mother's name?"

"Phoebe Farrow."

"Place of your birth?"

"Cartonsville, New York."

There were other questions of a similar tenor, and Jack's answers were apparently satisfactory to Mr. Delamare.  He folded the paper, and searched in the drawer for something else.  His next question was an odd one.
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