The Just Men of Cordova. Edgar Wallace

and Gram had something of a reputation in City circles. Gram might have been a man beyond reproach—a veritable Bayard of finance, a churchgoer, and a generous subscriber to charities. Indeed, Black complained with good-humoured irritation—if the combination can be visualized—that Gram would ruin him one of these fine days by his quixotic munificence.

      Gram allowed his heart to dictate to his head; he was too soft for business, too retiring. The City was very sceptical about Gram. It compared him with a certain Mrs. Harris, but Black did not fly into a temper; he smiled mysteriously at all the suspicion which the City entertained or expressed, and went on deploring the criminal rustiness of a man who apparently sought, by Black’s account, to made the firm reputable in spite of the rumours which centred about Colonel J. Black.

      In this way did Black describe himself, though the Army list was innocent of his name, and even a search through the voluminous rolls of the American honorary ranks failed to reveal any association.

      Black and Gram floated companies and dealt largely in stocks and shares. They recommended to their clients certain shares, and the clients bought or sold according to the advice given, and at the end of a certain period of time. Black and Gram wrote politely regretting that the cover deposited had been exhausted, and urgently requesting, with as little delay as possible, the discharge of those liabilities which in some extraordinary fashion the client had incurred. This, at any rate, was the humble beginnings of a firm which was destined to grow to important proportions. Gram went out of the business—was never in it, if the truth be told. One doubts if he ever breathed the breath of life—and Black grew in prosperity. His was a name to conjure with in certain circles. In others it was never mentioned. The financial lords of the City—the Farings, the Wertheiners, the Scott-Teasons—had no official knowledge of his existence. They went about their business calmly, loaning their millions at a ridiculously small percentage, issuing Government loans, discounting bills, buying bullion, and such-like operations which filled the hours between eleven o’clock, when their electric broughams set them down in Threadneedle Street, and four o’clock, when their electric broughams picked them up again. They read of Colonel Black in their grave way, because there were days when he dominated the financial columns. They read of his mighty stock deals, of his Argentine electric deal, his rubber notations and his Canadian copper mines. They read about him, neither approving nor disapproving. They regarded him with that dispassionate interest which a railway engine has for a motorcar.

      When, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, he approached the financial lords with a promising proposition, they “regretted they were unable to entertain Colonel Black’s interesting suggestion.” A little baffled, a little annoyed, he approached the big American group, for it was necessary for the success of his scheme that there should be names on his prospectus. Shrewd fellows, these Americans, thought Colonel Black, and he set forth his proposals in terms which were at once immodest and alluring. In reply—

      “Dear friend,” (it was one of those American businesses that turn down a million dollars with five cents’ worth of friendship), “we have carefully considered your proposition, and whilst we are satisfied that you will make money by its fruition, we are not so certain that we shall.”

      Black came to the City of London one afternoon to attend a board of directors’ meeting. He had been out of town for a few days, recruiting in advance, as he informed the board with a touch of facetiousness, for the struggle that awaited him.

      He was a man of middle height, broad of shoulder. His face was thin and lank, his complexion sallow, with a curious uniform yellowness. If you saw Colonel Black once you would never forget him—not only because of that yellow face of his, that straight black bar of eyebrow and the thin-lipped mouth, but the very personality of the man impressed itself indelibly on the mind of the observer.

      His manner was quick, almost abrupt; his replies brusque. A sense of finality marked his decisions. If the financial lords knew him not, there were thousands that did. His name was a household word in England. There was hardly a middle-class family that did not hold his stock. The little “street punters” hung on his word, his issues were subscribed for twice over. And he had established himself in five years; almost unknown before, he had risen to the dizziest heights in that short space of time.

      Punctual to the minute, he entered the board-room of the suite of offices he occupied in Moorgate Street.

      The meeting had threatened to be a stormy one. Again an amalgamation was in the air, and again the head of one group of ironmasters—it was an iron combine he was forming—had stood against the threats and blandishments of Black and his emissaries.

      “The others are weakening,” said Fanks, that big, hairless man; “you promised us that you would put him straight.”

      “I will keep my promise.” said Black shortly.

      “Widdison stood out, but he died,” continued Fanks. “We can’t expect Providence to help us all the time.”

      Black’s eyebrows lowered.

      “I do not like jests of that kind,” he said. “Sandford is an obstinate man, a proud man; he needs delicate handling. Leave him to me.”

      The meeting adjourned lamely enough, and Black was leaving the room when Fanks beckoned to him.

      “I met a man yesterday who knew your friend, Dr. Essley, in Australia,” he said.

      “Indeed.” Colonel Black’s face was expressionless.

      “Yes—he knew him in his very early days—he was asking me where he could find him.”

      The other shrugged his shoulders. “Essley is abroad, I think—you don’t like him?”

      Augustus Fanks shook his head. “I don’t like doctors who come to see me in the middle of the night, who are never to be found when they are wanted, and are always jaunting off to the Continent.”

      “He is a busy man,” excused Black. “By the way, where is your friend staying?”

      “He isn’t a friend, he’s a sort of prospector, name of Weld, who has come to London with a mining proposition. He is staying at Varlet’s Temperance Hotel in Bloomsbury.”

      “I will tell Essley when he returns,” said Black, nodding his head.

      He returned to his private office in a thoughtful mood. All was not well with Colonel Black. Reputedly a millionaire, he was in the position of many a financier who counted his wealth in paper. He had got so far climbing on the shadows. The substance was still beyond his reach. He had organized successful combinations, but the cost had been heavy. Millions had flowed through his hands, but precious little had stuck. He was that curious contradiction—a dishonest man with honest methods. His schemes were financially sound, yet it had needed almost superhuman efforts to get them through.

      He was in the midst of an unpleasant reverie when a tap on the door aroused him. It opened to admit Fanks. He frowned at the intruder, but the other pulled up a chair and sat down. “Look here, Black,” he said, “I want to say something to you.”

      “Say it quickly.”

      Fanks took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. “You’ve had a marvellous career,” he said. “I remember when you started with a little bucket-shop—well, we won’t call it a bucket-shop,” he said hastily as he saw the anger rising in the other’s face, “outside broker’s. You had a mug—I mean an inexperienced partner who found the money.”

      “Yes.”

      “Not the mysterious Gram, I think?”

      “His successor—there was nothing mysterious about Gram.”

      “A successor named Flint?”

      “Yes.”

      “He died unexpectedly, didn’t he?”

      “I believe he did,” said Black abruptly.

      “Providence again,” said Fanks slowly; “then you got the whole of the business. You took over the notation and a rubber company, and it panned