The Yellow Snake Page 8

  She stared at him in astonishment.

  “One?” she repeated.

  He nodded.

  “Just one. They have no market quotation. Originally they were worth one pound. Today for that one share I am prepared to pay a million!”

  She could only shake her head helplessly.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you—unless,” as a thought struck her, “you would be able to buy one from Mr Narth.”

  He was amused.

  “My dear young lady, Joseph Bray has left no founders’ shares to Mr Narth; he has left ordinary shares. The only person from whom such a share is purchasable is your fiancé, Clifford Lynne. Get me that certificate and I will give you a million pounds! You shall have no reason to marry a man who has been forced upon you by your stupid relations. A million pounds! Think of that, Miss Bray—an enormous fortune which will make you as free as the air and independent of Narth and Lynne! Think this matter over! I would not like you to make a decision at this moment. And please remember that in doing this you would be pleasing my dearest friend and patron, now, alas! dead.”

  He walked to the door and opened it with a flourish. Evidently the interview was at an end.

  “You will think of this? And will you be good enough to regard all I have said in this room as confidential? And please remember that, the day you hand me that share certificate, I will give you a cheque on the Bank of England for a million pounds. I will ask no questions–-“

  Her steady eyes met his.

  “There will be no questions to ask,” she said quietly, “for I shall never bring the share. If it is worth a million to you, it is surely worth a million to Mr Lynne.”

  He smiled his inscrutable smile.

  “The cheque will be ready for you. This may mean a great deal for you. Miss Bray,” he said.

  Joan hastened to her relative’s office, and with every turn of the car wheels her anger grew.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mr Stephen Narth was obviously uncomfortable.

  “I hope you didn’t mind, Joan?” he said, as he faced the indignant girl. “The truth is, I am rather under an obligation to the fellow, and he was so keen on seeing you about this business that I simply had to get the thing over. Why he wants to buy a founders’ share in the company, heaven only knows. They’re not worth a penny.”

  She was staggered by this intelligence.

  “Not worth a penny–-?” she began.

  “Not worth a penny,” said Narth. “Well, perhaps that is an exaggeration. They’re entitled to a nominal dividend of 2˝ per cent, which means that they’re worth about eight shillings per share. They’ve never been on the market and never will be. I don’t believe old Joe had many, either. But I’ll make sure.”

  He rang a bell, and to the patient Perkins:

  “Get me the Articles of Association of the Yun Nan Concessions Corporation,” he said.

  In a few minutes the clerk came back with a thick, blue-covered volume, which he laid on the desk. Mr Narth turned the dusty sheets and stopped at the first page with an exclamation.

  “That’s queer! I didn’t know Lynne was a director.” He frowned. “A sort of nominee, I expect,” he said, as he turned page after page.

  Five minutes’ silence, broken only by the rustle of the leaves, and then:

  “Well, I’m damned!” gasped Mr Narth. “Listen to this: ‘The policy of the Company and the direction of its reserves shall be determined by a Board of Administration which shall be nominated by ballot. At the ballot only holders of the aforesaid founders’ shares shall vote. Notwithstanding anything contained in these articles which may be construed otherwise, the Board of Directors shall be the nominees of such a majority–-’”

  He looked up, startled.

  “That means that the ordinary shareholders have no voice at all in the management of the company,” he said, “and that of forty-nine shares issued, Fing-Su has twenty-four—phew!”

  He looked at the girl open-eyed.

  “Somebody told me today that the Yun Nan Company had a reserve of eight millions!” he said. “Got it out of coal and a goldfield and the money they had sent them after the Russian revolution…”

  He was a little incoherent.

  “And the majority are held by Clifford Lynne,” he said slowly, and for the first time he became conscious of the ruthless struggle that was in progress for the control of this great reserve.

  His hand went up to his trembling lips.

  “I wish to God I was out of it!” he said huskily, and something of his fear was communicated to the girl.

  Driving back to Sunningdale, Mr Narth’s car, in which she was travelling, overtook a very ordinary-looking taxicab, and it was only by accident that she glanced at its occupant. It was Clifford Lynne, and at his signal she stopped the car.

  He got out of the cab, walked to the car and, without even asking permission, he opened the door of the car and stepped in.

  “I’ll travel with you as far as the end of my street,” he said. “The fact is, my cab is rather uncomfortably loaded with grub! I’m taking possession of my new domain.”

  He was looking at her keenly.

  “You have been to town. I won’t presume to anticipate the rights of a loving husband and ask you why you are traveling in this splendour, but I presume that you have been visiting friend Narth?” And then, quickly: “You didn’t see Fing-Su, did you?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, I saw him,” she said. “I had an interview with him this morning.”

  “The devil you did!”

  If he was angry he did not betray his emotions.

  “And what did that naďve and ingenious child of nature say to you?” he asked banteringly. “I’ll bet it was something pretty crude! There never was a Europeanized Chinaman who did not go through life under the delusion that he was a diplomat!”

  Should she tell him? She had given no promise, and only had Fing-Su’s request that the character of the interview should be secret.

  He saw her hesitation, and with uncanny shrewdness leapt straight at the truth.

  “He didn’t want to buy a founders’ share of the YNC, did he?”

  And, when she went red, he slapped his knee and laughed long and riotously.

  “Poor old Machiavelli!” he said at last drying his eyes. “I never dreamt he would be satisfied with his tenth!”

  “His tenth?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes; Fing-Su owns a tenth of our property. That is news to you? Joe Bray held another tenth.”

  “But who has the remainder?” she asked in amazement.

  “Your future lord, but I doubt master,” he said. “Our Chinese friend is more than a millionaire, but isn’t satisfied. In a moment of temporary aberration Joe parted with a block of founders’ shares to Fing-Su’s father, and on top of that he handed most of the remainder to Fing-Su himself! Honestly, I don’t believe Joe was ever sane; and the maddest thing he ever did–-” Here he checked himself. “Maybe he didn’t do that …but I have my suspicions, and I shall know for certain tonight.”

  She did not ask him what those suspicions were and he went on:

  “There was no real company until I joined forces with Joe. He’d just scraped a little coal out of the land for which Fing-Su’s sainted parent got the concession. But the silly old gentleman had made an agreement that his Chinese helper should have a tenth share of the profits. I didn’t know this until I’d added a large tract of coal land to the property, and after that the legal difficulties of kicking out Fing-Su’s papa were such that it wasn’t worth while fighting. What I did, however, was to refloat the company with a larger capital—does this bore you?”

  She shook her head.

  “I only dimly understand,” she said, “but I want to, badly!”

  Again his quick, half-suspicious scrutiny.

  “It was then that I put in the clause about the founders’ shares to prevent dear old Joe from doing anything more altruistic. Your rev
ered relative was not the most intelligent of men, though the truest heart that ever beat, and founders’ shares meant nothing to him when he discovered there was no profit attached to them. Of the forty-nine shares issued, Fing-Su’s father took nine (Joe was stout on this point), and Joe and I took twenty each.”

  “What do the reserves mean?” she asked.

  For a second he looked at her, suspicion in his eyes.

  “We have a large reserve,” he said at last, “but a great deal of it really doesn’t belong to us. You see, we had a very big business in Manchuria—we were bankers there amongst other things, and when the revolution came along, enormous sums were deposited with us and transferred to Shanghai. Many of the depositors, poor souls, are dead, and these include some of the biggest. In the present state of chaos it is impossible to trace their relatives. Their money is known as Reserve B: that is the reserve which Fing-Su is after!”

  He saw that she was puzzled, and went on:

  “It was not until a few months ago that I learnt that Joe had given away more than half his founders’ shares to this sleek young scoundrel Fing-Su. He would have given him the lot, only five of the certificates—each share is separated—he couldn’t find. Thank God I got them and had them transferred to me. Whilst I have the predominant holding, Fing-Su can do nothing with the reserves. Once he has that share, not all the courts of China can stop his playing the devil with other people’s money. Oh, Joe! You’ve got a lot to answer for!”

  This time she reproached him.

  “Mr Lynne—Clifford, you want me to call you?—how can you say such unpleasant things about a man who was your friend and is now dead?”

  He did not reply immediately, and when he did it was to ignore the question.

  “This world is a pretty good place to live in,” he said, “and I hate the thought of leaving it—but one of these days I’m going to kill Fing-Su!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Joan Bray had a large attic which had come to be the most comfortable room in the house. It was not intended to be such when this retreat was given to her; but Joan was popular with the servants at Sunni Lodge, and in some mysterious way odd and cosy pieces of furniture had found their way to the room under the roof with its big windows and outlook. It had a special value to her now, for from this vantage she could see the square chimney of the Slaters’ Cottage, and this gave her an indefinable sense of communion with the strange man who had come over her horizon.

  The girls were out when she arrived, and she went up to her attic apartment, locked the door and sat down on the ancient sofa and, with her head between her hands, tried to straighten out the confusion in her mind. That Clifford Lynne had been no salaried servant of her relative, she had suspected from the first. He was a rich man, richer even than Joe Bray—what effect would that have had upon Stephen Narth’s attitude had he known from the first? Suppose, instead of the apparition with the wild beard and the untidy clothes, there had appeared at Sunni Lodge that fateful afternoon this good-looking, well-dressed man, not in his role of manager, but as co-partner of Joe Bray? She had no doubt at all as to what would have been the result.

  Somehow—she could not exactly tell why—the knowledge of Clifford’s wealth depressed her. For what appeared now to be a very inadequate reason, she had steeled her soul to an appalling marriage with an unknown man, and had grown used to the prospect of her sacrifice. She shook her head. She was cheating herself: it had never really seemed a sacrifice. The stranger had interested her from the first; was an individuality so far outside the range of her experience that his very novelty had overcome all her natural qualms.

  Joan was beginning to see life from a new angle, to realize the tremendous difference this marriage would make, and Letty (or was it Mabel?) had been right. What did a girl know about the lover into whose hands she placed her future? Already she knew, and was more akin to, the nature of Clifford Lynne than had been half a dozen brides she could recall to the real character of the men they had wed.

  Walking to the window, she stood looking at that visible portion of the Slaters’ Cottage which showed through the trees. Smoke was coming from the chimney now, and she remembered the cab full of provisions and wondered if Clifford Lynne was as efficient as a cook as he seemed in other directions.

  Woodmen were engaged in felling the trees about the cottage. Even as she looked she saw a high fir topple over slowly and heard the crash of its branches as it struck the ground. By tomorrow the cottage would be almost completely visible, she thought, and turned at that moment as a tap came upon the door.

  “It’s Letty,” said a shrill voice, and, when she hastened to turn the key: “Why on earth do you lock yourself in, Joan?”

  Letty had only made two visits to the room, and now she looked around with an air of surprise.

  “Why, you’re very comfortable here!” she said, and, had Joan been uncharitable, she would have read into the surprise a note of disappointment. “Father has been on the telephone; he won’t be home tonight. He wants us to go up to dinner with him—you don’t mind being left alone?”

  It was an unusual question, considering that it was addressed to one who had spent many an evening alone and was glad of the privilege.

  “We may be late because we’re going on to a dance at the Savoy after the theatre.”

  She was turning to go, with another glance round the room,-when she remembered something.

  “I’ve seen that man Lynne, Joan. He’s awfully good looking! Why on earth did he come here in that ridiculous get-up?”

  Here was the inevitable grievance which Joan had anticipated. Minds were evidently working along parallel lines at Sunni Lodge.

  “Not that it would have made any difference to me,” said Letty, with a lift of her chin. “A girl can’t live on good looks.”

  There was an imp of mischief in Joan Bray’s composition, and she was, moreover, intensely curious to know what would be the effect upon the girls if she passed on her information.

  “Clifford Lynne is not a poor man: he is very rich,” she said. “Mr Bray only held a one-tenth interest in the company. Clifford Lynne has a four-fifths holding.”

  Letty’s jaw dropped.

  “Who told you that?” she asked sharply.

  “Clifford Lynne. And I know he was speaking the truth.”

  Letty opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind, and, slamming the door behind her, went downstairs. In five minutes the girl heard voices outside the door, and without knocking Mabel came in, followed by her sister.

  “What is this that Letty tells me about Lynne?” she asked almost querulously. “It is rather curious that we haven’t heard about it before?”

  Joan was amused; she could have laughed aloud, but she managed to keep a straight face.

  “You mean about Mr Lynne’s wealth? He’s a very rich man—that is all I know.”

  “Does Father know too?” asked Mabel, struggling to suppress her unreasonable anger.

  Joan shook her head.

  “I should imagine he doesn’t.”

  The two sisters looked at one another.

  “Of course, this alters everything,” said Mabel emphatically. “In the first place, nobody wanted to marry a scarecrow, and in the second place, it was ridiculous to expect either of us girls to tie ourselves for life to a poverty-stricken servant, as it were, of uncle’s.”

  “Preposterous!” agreed Letty.

  “It was obviously Mr Bray’s idea that he should marry one of us girls,” said Mabel. “I don’t suppose he’d ever heard of your existence, Joan.”

  “I’m pretty sure he hadn’t,” answered Joan, and Mabel smiled, as she seated herself in the most comfortable chair in the room.

  “Then we’ve got to be just sensible about this,” she said, in her most amiable tone. “If what you say is true—and of course I don’t think for one moment that you’ve made it up—dear Uncle Joe’s wishes should be–-“

  “Fulfilled,” suggested Letty, when M
abel paused for a word.

  “Yes, that’s it—fulfilled. It is a little awkward for you, but practically you don’t know the man, and I’m sure the idea of this marriage has worried you a great deal. As I was saying to Letty, if there is any sacrifice to be made, it is up to us to make it. We don’t want to use you, so to speak, as a catspaw, but at the same time I feel that we haven’t quite played the game with you, Joan. I told father only this morning that I had my doubts about the marriage, and that we ought to think the matter over more before we allowed you perhaps to let yourself in for a perfectly horrible life with a man you don’t know–-“

  “And you don’t know him quite so well,” Joan was compelled to say.

  “Still, we’ve larger experience of men,” said Mabel, gravely reproachful. “And don’t think for one moment, Joan, that the question of his wealth makes the slightest difference to us. Papa is rich enough to give me a good time whether I marry Clifford Lynne or not.”

  “Whether either of us marries Clifford Lynne or not,” corrected Letty with some asperity, “and–-“

  There was a knock at the door. Letty, who was nearest, opened it. It was the butler.

  “There’s a gentleman called to see Miss Joan–-” he began.

  Letty took the card from his hand.

  “Clifford Lynne,” she said breathlessly, and Joan laughed.

  “Here is an excellent opportunity of settling the matter, Mabel,” she said, not without malice. “After all, he ought to be consulted!”

  Letty went red and white.

  “Don’t you dare!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “I will never forgive you, Joan, if you repeat one word!”

  But the girl was already half way down the first flight of stairs.

  Joan went alone to the drawing-room, oblivious to the whispered injunctions which followed her down. She had an almost overpowering inclination to laugh, and there flashed to her mind a homely parallel; only, if she were Cinderella, neither Letty nor the plump Mabel could by any stretch of imagination be described as the ugly sisters.

  She found him standing at a window looking out over the-‘ lawn, and he turned quickly at the sound of the opening door. In his abrupt way and without preamble he asked: