In the great buildings in Princes Street, Birmingham, the days continued as of old, with the ebb and flow of business. On each floor clerks bent over their high desks and the workers of each concern sat behind their mahogany defences and toiled early and late for the treasure they desired. At stated times rows of grave gentlemen, who carried due notice of their own importance on their countenances, met in the respective committee rooms, and discussed wide interests with closed doors and a note of anxious irritation that was new since the demise of Peter Masters.

He who had concentrated the whole of the executive business of these many affairs under one roof had done so of definite purpose and with no eye to merely his own convenience. His presence there was a tangible power offering a final court of appeal that, whether they knew it or not, had as great an effect on the various committees as it had on the managers of each business themselves.

So perfect was the organisation and adjustment of the machinery of routine that after the dominant visible power had gone down to the land of shadows, the vague note of personal anxiety that lurked on each floor was the only perceptible change apparent in the great body.

But the wives of the working heads could have told of more enduring change in men who have suddenly become responsible for great issues, for laws, for a system they had had no voice in founding. Men who found themselves limited masters where unconsciously they had been tools and were selected as such—there 369 men sooner or later bend before the strain put on them and for the most part seek salvation in blind obedience to the rules they dare not criticise. In the daily compromise between the individual character and the system which he must serve, many an excellent man was ground down in nerve and heart and health to a strange shadow of his former self, and many a woman shed secret tears over half-understood changes in one near and dear to her.

Mr. Saunderson by right of informal instructions, which no one troubled to dispute, acted as steward over the late Peter Masters’ private affairs during those two years of waiting, and his stewardship was prosperous and able, but beyond that he neither would nor could move. To the appeals of distracted secretaries he only replied, “My dear sir, act to the best of your ability. I can only assure you your responsibilities are limited to two years.”

He never allowed to anyone the possibility that Peter Masters’ son might even then fail to accept his place, but alone to himself he faced it often and felt his scanty hair whiten beneath the impending wreckage, if the misguided young man continued his foolish course.

“He will probably wreck the whole thing if he accepts it,” sighed Mr. Saunderson, “but at least it will be done legally, and in the regular course of things. If he’ll only be sensible and see he’s wanted just as a figurehead, everyone will be comfortable and prosperous.”

But he sighed again as he thought it, for Christopher did not at all strike him as a man likely to make a good figurehead, or to be the mouthpiece of a system he evidently disliked. He was even more confirmed in this opinion a fortnight after the unhappy affair at the Patrimondi works, when Christopher walked into his London office and without any explanation announced 370 himself ready to take his place as Peter Masters’ son. He was sufficiently wise to conceal his own triumph and accepted the intimation without question. As they sat there in the dull London office hour after hour, Mr. Saunderson realised that the mantle of Peter Masters, millionaire, had fallen on shoulders that would wear it maybe in a very different fashion, but none the less royally.

“I am to understand then,” said Christopher after long hours of instruction, “I can go there when I like, see what I like, decide what I like, at all events with regard to these mines and works which are almost private property.”

“You can go to-morrow if you like,” answered his Mentor, rising. “I advise you to let things run for some time as they are, till you know the ropes.”

He went to a safe and unlocking it produced a key.

“That is the key of your father’s room at Princes Buildings,” he said, putting it on the table. “There are two locks. Clisson, the head clerk, has the key of one and this is the other. You are free to walk straight in when you like, but it would be best to send Clisson a wire you are coming and he would bring you the day’s business, your private affairs that is, precisely as he used to bring it to your father.”

This time, because he was looking intently at the young man, he saw his mouth tighten at that term and felt a resigned wonder thereat.

Christopher took up the key and looked at it, thinking of all the doors in the world it would unlock for him, thinking of the powers of which it was a symbol, of how it fastened the door of his freedom and opened for him the door of a great servitude of which he was already proud.

Mr. Saunderson also was silent a moment listening to his own thoughts and looking at Christopher with misgivings. 371

“Will you live at Stormly Park?” he asked airily.

“I expect so. It is not let, is it?”

Mr. Saunderson permitted himself a little smile of superiority as he answered.

“Everything has been kept just ready for you these two years. But it will hardly be to your taste. Perhaps you will like it done up—altered?”

Christopher shook his head. “Not yet.”

“You can afford it, you know.”

At that the young man suddenly faced him, as if he meant to say something of importance, and stopped.

“Yes, I suppose I can afford it,” he returned, and added with apparent irrelevance, “Do you happen to know Stormly village, Mr. Saunderson?”

“I’ve driven through it.”

Christopher nodded. “So have I. I’ll not detain you any longer. Will you let Clisson know I shall be there on Thursday?”

“Certainly. Will you like me to accompany you?”

Christopher shook his head. “Not this time, I think. I would rather be alone.”

“And one thing,” Mr. Saunderson coughed a little nervously, “the name? We can arrange the legal identification this afternoon, but what name will you ultimately take?”

Christopher came to a standstill at the door. Here was a decision thrust on him for which he was oddly unprepared. He recognised at once it meant setting the seal to his own committal if he answered as the lawyer evidently expected and hoped he would do. He paused just long enough to remember how hardly he had taken Mr. Aston’s insistence he should sign his marriage register as Aston Masters.

“I must take the name since I take its belongings,” he said ruefully, and Mr. Saunderson felt his victory was complete. 372

On the following Thursday morning there was nothing in the aspect of earth or sky to indicate to the workers in Princes Buildings the importance of that day to their respective fortunes. On the top floor only a sense of gentle expectancy was present, and a complacent faith in their own readiness to receive and set at ease the young man who was to be the outward visible sign of all that for which they toiled so unceasingly.

As an individual, the younger men bestowed a certain curiosity not unmixed with envy on him; as the successor of Peter Masters, they entertained no doubt whatever he would obediently adhere to the prescribed system as they themselves did. Christopher had arrived in Birmingham the night before and put up at an hotel. Early the next morning he went up the steps into the central corridor of the great buildings that were to all intents and purposes his. There was no one about but a lift boy who did not recognise him, but seeing him look round with deliberate curiosity, asked him civilly what floor he wanted.

“Mr. Masters’ private offices,” Christopher explained. “Top floor, aren’t they?”

The boy nodded. Christopher studied him gravely as they went up in the lift as one of the smallest and probably least important items into whose service he had entered.

The porter at the door of the offices asked Christopher his name, and he hesitated a moment.

“You need not announce me,” he said quietly, at last. “I am Mr. Masters.”

The man gave a guttural gasp of amazement. A rumour of the possible arrival of the young millionaire had percolated despite Mr. Clisson’s care, through the range of desks to the doorkeeper, who without discernible reasons had expected some time in the day a procession of black coats and grave men to appear 373 from the doors of the lift and with formal solemnity to proceed to the closely locked door of that remote silent office. He opened the door for this calm, quiet young man in flurried trepidation, half expecting that Mr. Clisson would dismiss him on the spot for transgressing such a fundamental rule as admitting a stranger without announcing his name, but as totally unable to disobey the stranger as if it were Peter Masters himself.

Christopher walked quickly down the line of clerks, who looked up one after the other, and did not look back at their work again. At last a senior man advanced and accosted him.

“Do you want Mr. Clisson, sir?” he asked, in a tone verging between deference and curiosity.

Christopher said he did, and added abruptly, “I remember you, you are Mr. Hunter. I saw you four years ago when I came here with my father.”

He caught his breath when he had said it. It was purely involuntary. Some unaccountable association of ideas was bridging the distance between him and the dead man minute by minute. But Mr. Hunter transferred his allegiance from the dead to the living in that moment of recognition, and led him away to Mr. Clisson’s hitherto all-important presence with mechanical alacrity rather than personal desire to relinquish the honours of escort.

Mr. Clisson was a keen, sharp-featured man of narrow outlook, the best of servants, the worst of masters. A genius for detail and a miraculous memory had carried him from the position of junior clerk to his present prominence when the death of the Principal left him with his minute knowledge of routine and detail practically master of the situation as far as Mr. Saunderson was concerned. But his inability to bend with the need of the day, or to cope with wider issues than those concerned with office work had had far-reaching 374 results, not even wholly unconnected with the tragedy in the mill yard at the Patrimondi works.

He apologised to Christopher for the lack of a better reception, as if he, and not Christopher, were responsible for the informality of it.

“We imagined from Mr. Saunderson’s letter you would arrive by the 12.30 from town. I had ventured to order lunch for you here on that understanding,” the head clerk explained deferentially. “What will you like to do first, sir?”

“I wish to go into the inner office and for you to carry on the usual routine precisely as in my father’s time.”

There was no hesitation over the term now.

“Bring me such letters and reports as you would bring him. I must find out for myself how much or how little of it I am capable of understanding.”

“It will be a question of practice rather than of understanding with you, sir, I am confident,” returned Mr. Clisson politely, turning over in his mind what business it would be least embarrassing to submit to this decided young man.

“It will be your business to see I get the practice,” Christopher answered.

Together they unlocked the door of Peter Masters’ sanctum and the head clerk flung it open.

“It is precisely as he left it that day. Nothing has been done excepting the sorting of the papers, which Mr. Saunderson and myself did between us. The last time Mr. Saunderson was here we had it cleaned out. You will find the bells and telephones all labelled. If you will wait a few minutes I will send a man in with ink and writing material, and the keys, and I will bring you this morning’s letters myself.”

Christopher thanked him mechanically and entered the room. He stood in the window silently waiting, while a young clerk trembling with excitement performed 375 the small services necessary, and asked nervously if he could do more.

“Nothing else now. What is your name?”

He gave it with faltering tongue. In the old days such an inquiry was a distinction hardly earned.

Christopher was alone at last. He walked slowly across the room and sat down in his father’s chair and touched the big bunch of keys laid there on the table before him.

An overwhelming desire for some direct message from the dead man, some defined recognition of his right to be there at all, pressed on him. He opened the drawers and pigeon-holes of the great table with a faint hope he might light on some overlooked note, or uncomplete memorandum addressed to him. Mr. Saunderson had assured him no such thing existed beyond the curt exact clue he had put in his hand four years ago when the old will had been destroyed.

He glanced at the neat documents, the piles of labelled papers; there was nothing personal here, nothing that conveyed any sense to him but that of a vast machine of which he had become a part.

In the pen tray lay a collection of pen-holders and pencils, a knife he had seen his father use, and a smaller knife. He picked this up and looked at it.

It was rather a unique little knife, with a green jade handle, and the initials A. A. were plainly engraved on the label. He had recognised it at once and he stared at it as it lay in his hand, trying to comprehend what its presence there might mean. He had lent it one day to Peter Masters, who had asked him where he had got it. And he had answered it had belonged to Aymer Aston, but he had found it as a boy and Aymer had given it to him. Peter had given it back without the further explanation that he had originally given it to Aymer. A day or so later Christopher had missed it, and he told his host regretfully it was 376 lost. Again Peter failed to explain he was the finder. Yet here was the knife on the desk where he had sat day after day.

Perhaps it had not seemed worth returning. Yet Christopher was curiously loath to accept that simple answer. It seemed to him as he fingered the smooth green sides, as if other fingers had done this in this precise spot before, a strange aching familiarity attached itself to the simple action. For someone’s sake Peter Masters had so touched and handled this cool green thing, he was sure of it, and suddenly he was conscious here was the message he sought. Here in the mere sensation of touch lay the thread of recognition that linked him with the dead man, so slight and intangible that it would bear no expression in heavy words.

There was a knock at the door. Christopher laid the little green knife back in its place before he answered it. Mr. Clisson entered with a handful of letters.

“This is a very good sample, sir. As many as you will get through at first, I expect,” he said apologetically.

He sat down opposite Christopher and handed him letter after letter, giving such explanations as were necessary. Christopher made few comments. He put the letters into two separate piles. Presently there was one concerning the sale of some land in the neighbourhood of the Stormly Foundry.

“It is only just started, sir. I think we shall get a good price if we hold out.”

“I am not going to sell any land at all. You will write and say I have altered my mind.”

He spoke with the keen decision of his father. Mr. Clisson gazed at him with pained amazement.

“It is only the leasehold we sell, sir, not the actual land.” 377

“I do not sell land,” repeated Christopher sharply.

“Of course, it shall be as you wish, sir.”

“Of course. Do you know if Mr. Fegan is still at Stormly Foundry?”

“I can ascertain.”

“Do so. If he is, tell him to come and see me here to-morrow. And who is the best builder you employ?”

“Builder? What kind of builder, sir?”

“Bricks and mortar. Cottages. I don’t want an architect. I’ll employ the man we used in Hampshire.”

“You mean to build?”

“I mean to build.”

Mr. Clisson coughed. “The late Mr. Masters found it did not pay––”

“Mr. Clisson,” said Christopher firmly, “let us understand one another from the beginning. I do not intend to work on the same lines as my father worked. I intend to do many things which he would not have done, but I am inclined to think he knew it would be so. I believe I am a very rich man. At all events I mean to spend a lot of money. You would have no objection to my spending it on yachts and motors and grouse moors, I suppose? These things do not, however, interest me. You probably won’t approve of my hobbies, and I’ve no doubt I shall make heaps of mistakes, but I’ve got to find them out myself. You can help me make them, but once for all, never try to prevent me. Those are all the letters I can manage to-day. You can take the others. I’ll answer these myself.”

The flabbergasted Mr. Clisson rose, trembling a little in his agitation.

“I hope, Mr. Masters, I should know better than ever attempt to dictate to you on any matter.”

Christopher gave him one of his rare half-shy, 378 half-boyish smiles and leant forward over the big desk.

“Mr. Clisson, I shall need your help and advice every hour of the day. I haven’t the slightest doubt you could dictate to me to my great material advantage on every point, only I don’t care for this material advantage and I don’t want us to misunderstand each other, that is all.”

Mr. Clisson thawed, but his soul was troubled. He looked at the letters as he gathered them up. It was a goodly pile yet left to his decision, but he missed one that Christopher had passed over without comment.

“The application for the post of gardener at Stormly Park, sir. Did you wish to attend to that yourself?”

“What has happened to Timmins? Wasn’t that his name? Is he dead?”

“Oh, no.”

“He wishes to go?”

Mr. Clisson shook his head. “It is simply a matter of routine, sir. Timmins is a very excellent man, but the invariable rule is that no one remains after they are fifty-five.”

“After they are fifty-five?” repeated Christopher slowly.

“Not those employed in manual labour: with very few exceptions that is. Timmins will be fifty-five next month. He suffers from rheumatism already, I find.”

Christopher never took his eyes from the other’s face.

“He would be pensioned, I suppose.”

“Oh, dear me, no. We have no pension list. Timmins has received very high wages. He has no doubt put by a nice little sum.”

“How long has he worked for—for us?”

“I cannot tell without reference. I believe for twenty years or so. I can easily ascertain.” 379

Christopher stared out of the window for so long that the head clerk thought he had forgotten the matter and was disagreeably surprised when he spoke again.

“I shall be at Stormly this week and will see if Timmins wishes to retire or not. You have no fault to find with him as a gardener, I suppose?”

Mr. Clisson smiled. “A man who has served for twenty years will not be an indifferent workman sir. Timmins’ accounts are exemplary.”

“The matter will stand over. Please see no one is dismissed under this age regulation without my knowledge. That is all now.” His manner was as curt again as his father’s. Mr. Clisson closed the door behind him with a vague feeling that the two years of his authority were but a dream and that the thin, square figure behind the office table had unaccountably widened out to the portly proportions of his old master.

Christopher drew to him the pile of letters he had reserved and fell to work. He dared not allow himself to think yet, but now and again when his heart and soul ran counter to the tenor of what he read he put out his hand and touched the little green knife his father had handled for some unknown person’s sake.