|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 13
"You are going to lunch with _me_," said Nevill, "at the Arlington."
* * * * *
In Wardour street, Soho, as many an enthusiastic collector has found out
to the depletion of his pocket-book, there are sufficient antique
treasures of every variety stored away in dingy shop windows and dingier
rooms to furnish a small town. Number 320, which by chance or design
failed to display the name of its proprietor, differed from its
neighbors in one marked respect. Instead of the usual conglomerate mass,
articles of value cheek by jowl with worthless rubbish, the long window
contained some rare pieces of china and silver, an Italian hall-seat of
richly carved oak, and half a dozen paintings by well-known artists of
the past century, the authenticity of which was an excuse for the amount
at which they were priced.
Behind the window was a deep and narrow room, lined on both sides with
cabinets of great age and curious workmanship, oaken furniture belonging
to various periods, pictures restored and pictures cracked and faded,
cases filled with dainty objects of gold and silver, brass work from
Moorish and Saracenic craftsmen, tall suits of armor, helmets and
weapons that had clashed in battle hundreds of years before, and other
things too numerous to mention, all of a genuine value that put them
beyond the reach of a slim purse.
In the rear of the shop--which was looked after by a salesman--was a
small office almost opulent in its appearance. Soft rugs covered the
floor, and costly paintings hung on the walls. The chairs and desk, the
huge couch, would have graced a palace, and a piece of priceless
tapestry partly overhung the big safe at one end. An incandescent lamp
was burning brightly, for very little light entered from the dreary
court on which a single window opened.
Here, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Stephen Foster sat poring over a
sheaf of papers. He was a man of fifty-two, nearly six feet tall and
correspondingly built--a man with a fine head and handsome features, a
man to attract more than ordinary attention. His hands were white, slim
and long. His eyes were deep brown, and his mustache and beard--the
latter cut to a point--were of a tawny yellowish-brown color, mixed with
gray to a slight degree. It would be difficult to analyze his character,
for in many ways he was a contradiction. He was not miserly, but his
besetting evil was the love of accumulating money--the lever that had
made him thoroughly unscrupulous. He was rich, or reputed so, but in
amassing gold, by fair means or foul, lay the keynote to his life. And
it was a dual life. He had chosen the old mansion at Strand-on-the-Green
to be out of the roar and turmoil of London life, and yet within touch
of it. Here, where his evenings were mostly spent, he was a different
man. He derived his chief pleasures from his daughter's society, from a
table filled with current literature, from a box of choice Havanas. In
town he was a sordid man of business, clever at buying and selling to
the best advantage. He had loved his wife, the daughter of a city
alderman and a friend of his father's, and her death twelve years before
had been a great blow to him. Madge resembled her, and he gave the girl
a father's sincere devotion.
Few persons knew that Stephen Foster was the proprietor of the
curio-shop in Wardour street--his daughter was among the ignorant--and
but one or two were aware that the business of Benjamin and Company,
carried on in Duke street, belonged also to him. None, assuredly, among
his sprinkling of acquaintances, would have believed that he could stoop
to lower things, or that he and his equally unscrupulous and useful
tool, Victor Nevill, the gay young-man-about-town, had been mixed up in
more than one nefarious transaction that would not bear the light of
day. He had taken the place in Wardour street within the past five
years, and prior to that time he had held a responsible position as
purchasing agent--there was not a better judge of pictures in
Europe--with the well-known firm of Lamb and Drummond, art dealers
and engravers to Her Majesty, of Pall Mall.
A slight frown gathered on Stephen Foster's brow as he put aside the
packet of papers, and it deepened as he recognized a familiar step
coming through the shop. But he had a cheery smile of greeting ready
when the office door opened to admit Victor Nevill. The young man's face
was flushed with excitement, and he carried in one hand a crumpled copy
of the Westminster _Budget_.
"Seen the evening editions yet?" he exclaimed.
"No; what's in them?" asked the curio-dealer.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|