When John Marsh, the steel man, died, there was considerable stir in the inner circles of New York society. And no wonder. The wealthy ironmaster's unexpected demise certainly created a most awkward situation. It meant nothing less than the social rehabilitation of a certain individual who, up to this time, had been openly snubbed, not to say deliberately "cut" by everybody in town. In other words, Society was compelled, figuratively speaking, to go through the humiliating and distasteful performance of eating crow. Circumstances alter cases. While the smart set was fully justified in making a brave show of virtuous indignation when one of its members so far forgot himself as to get kicked out of his club, it was only natural that the offending gentleman's peccadilloes were to be regarded in a more indulgent light when he suddenly fell heir to one of the biggest fortunes in the country.

It was too bad about "Jimmy" Marsh. His reputation was unsavory and he deserved all of it. Total lack of moral principle combined with an indolent, shiftless disposition had given him a distorted outlook on things. All his life he had been good for nothing, and at the age of forty he found himself a nuisance to himself and everybody else. Yet he was not without a natural cunning which sometimes passed for smartness, but he often overreached himself and committed blunders of which a clever man would never be guilty. To put it plainly, Jimmy was crooked. Fond of a style of living which he was not able to afford and desperate for funds with which to gratify his expensive tastes, he had foolishly attempted to cheat at cards. His notions of honor and common decency had always been nebulous, and when one night, in a friendly game, he clumsily tried to deal himself an ace from the bottom of the deck, not even the fact that he was the brother and sole heir of one of the richest men in the United States could save him from ignominious expulsion.

The affair made a great noise at the time, and the newspapers were full of its scandalous details. But the public soon forgets, and as to the newspapers—they found other victims. Besides, Jimmy's prospects were too bright to permit of him being dropped from sight altogether. It was not forgotten that one day he would step into his brother's shoes and then Society, willy nilly, would have to do homage to his money.

This rich brother, by the way, was largely responsible for Jimmy's undoing. They were both—he and John—the sons of poor English people who immigrated to America five years after John's birth. The father was a journeyman baker and started a small business in Pittsburg. Two cousins of the same name, William and Henry, haberdashers by trade, had likewise settled and prospered in New Jersey. Fifteen years later the mother died in giving birth to another son. The elder boy, a taciturn, hard-working lad with a taste for figures, had found employment in the steel industry, then in its infancy, but growing with giant strides. As he acquired experience, his position was improved until, before long, he was known as one of the most expert steel workers in the iron region. Suddenly, dire calamity befell the little family. One fateful morning, while making his early rounds, the baker was run over and killed by a railroad train. It was a staggering blow, but John rose manfully to the emergency. Silent, serious, masterful, his brain teeming with ideas that would revolutionize the entire steel trade, he stoically buried his progenitor and despatched the orphaned Jimmy to school.

The years passed. The discoveries of vast ore fields in Michigan and Wisconsin had made the United States the biggest producer of steel in the world. The pace set was terrific, orders poured in from all corners of the globe, plants were kept going night and day, a steady stream of gold flowed into the coffers of the delighted steelmakers who soon became millionaires over night. John Marsh had long since been a partner in the company to which he had remained loyal since boyhood, and in the orgy of profit sharing, he found himself with stock holdings representing millions.

James naturally shared in the good fortune. The hard-working John grudged nothing to the drone. He paid the boy's way through college and gave him a liberal allowance. When he was old enough and had sufficient schooling he'd put him in the steel business and make a man of him. But, unfortunately, Jimmy was not made of the same stern stuff as his brother. Expensive tastes and dubious acquaintances were about all that he acquired at the University. He gambled and drank and got hopelessly entangled in debt. John was not blind to his brother's faults, but, in a measure, he excused them. To the elder brother, plodding, methodical, sober, the hare-brained, irresponsible Jimmy was always "the kid." What was the use of taking him seriously? One day he'd get tired of making an ass of himself. So he paid his debts without complaint. One day Jimmy boldly demanded an increase in his allowance. John, still unruffled, shook his head. "No, kid," he said quietly, "you must manage with what I give you. When I'm gone you'll get it all." This was the first time that John had hinted at the disposition he had made of his fortune. Of course, it was only natural that an old bachelor should leave practically everything to his only brother, but this was the first intimation he had given of his intentions. Rendered almost speechless from emotion, Jimmy hurried to the money lenders and borrowed on "futures" to the limit.

This was the real starting point of Jimmy's downward course. From now on he was unfitted for any serious effort. If he ever had any ambition he lost it now. He lived solely on "prospects." What was the use of exerting himself, he argued, when any day he might come in for millions? When he left Harvard—under a cloud, of course—John took him in the steel works. But Pittsburg's strenuous, nerve racking, smoky life did not appeal very strongly to a young man who thirsted for the more voluptuous joys of Broadway. He left for New York saying he would shift for himself, and John, secretly glad to be rid of him, gave him a handsome cheque and his godspeed.

So well did Jimmy "shift" for himself that within a year he had squandered $10,000 and was hopelessly involved in debt. Once more the patient John straightened matters out, and when Jimmy said he thought he could win out in Wall Street if only given the chance, he purchased for him a seat on the Stock Exchange. Two years later, as a result of certain stock jobbing operations, not entirely free from scandal, he was temporarily suspended from the floor, and later forced to sell his seat to satisfy clamoring creditors who threatened to put him in jail. But thanks to the good John's liberal allowance, he was still able to put on a respectable front and thus for years he merely drifted, at heart a crook, but living the life of a gentleman of leisure, awaiting patiently the day when he would come into "his own."

The coming inheritance had thus gradually grown to be an obsession. Night and day it occupied his thoughts. He could think and talk of nothing else. His associates mockingly called him "Inheritance Jim." For twenty-five long years he waited for his brother to die, and when, from time to time, John in his few and far-between letters casually remarked that he was enjoying excellent health, he took the news almost in the light of a personal injury.

The years went on. The other cousins, William and Henry had died, each leaving a son. William's son, Peter Marsh, feeling within the spiritual call, became a Presbyterian minister at Rahway, and taking to himself a wife, succeeded in raising a numerous progeny on a very slender income. Henry's son, Thomas Marsh, followed his father's trade as haberdasher and barely managed to keep body and soul together. To these poor relatives, also, the dollars of "uncle" John proved an irresistible attraction. In order not to be forgotten, they wrote him affectionate letters, none of which received as much as an acknowledgment. Towards these impecunious cousins James Marsh assumed a patronizing, almost friendly, attitude. On divers occasions when his financial affairs became so critical that he had to negotiate a small loan without delay he had found even their slender savings useful. In return for these pecuniary services rendered he had not discouraged the hope which they often expressed that "uncle" John would remember them in his will. To serve his own ends he kept up the pleasant fiction that he was on the best of terms with his brother and that he would gladly use his influence in their interests.

As a matter of fact, nothing was further from the truth. He saw nothing of John. As the brothers grew older they drifted further apart. Months, years, passed without their seeing each other. When in urgent need of funds James made flying trips to Pittsburg, he never saw his brother anywhere but at his office. John never invited him to visit his home, a lonely place situated some miles out in the suburbs. Practically, the old man led the life of a recluse. At rare intervals he would write to his brother James, enclosing a cheque in answer to a begging letter, but otherwise he discouraged all attempts at intimacy. The old gentleman kept entirely to himself, growing more reserved and secretive about his affairs as the years passed. He saw absolutely no one and of recent years had spent six months out of the twelve in Europe. He might have been dead long ago for all that was seen of him.

But Jimmy did not worry. John's will was made, that he knew. Bascom Cooley, his own friend and lawyer, had drawn it up and witnessed its execution. He had it secure in his possession. If anything happened he would be informed of it at once. So there was nothing to worry about. All he had to do was to wait.

Meantime Jimmy, feeling the need of a companion, took to himself a wife. The lady was the widow of a man named Chase, who had held high position in one of the big insurance companies. The public investigations came with their awkward disclosures, and Mr. Chase, unable to face the limelight of publicity, conveniently succumbed to heart failure, leaving to his relict a few thousand dollars and the responsibility of looking after an eighteen-year-old son—a slangy, flippantly inclined youth rejoicing in the euphonious name of Todhunter, but whom everyone, his cronies and creditors both, knew as "Tod." Mrs. Chase, a stout, vulgar-looking woman, with hair startlingly yellow and teeth obviously false, met Mr. James Marsh at a dinner one night, and when, between courses, the inevitable inheritance yarn was detailed to her by an obliging neighbor, it at once flashed upon the widow that here was a man whose acquaintance it might be worth her while to cultivate. She had still a little money left out of the wreck of the defunct Chase's estate, and this immediate cash asset, she shrewdly reflected, might prove attractive to a man known to live up to every cent of his income, but whose "prospects" were simply dazzling. That he had no money of his own was no serious obstacle. Under the circumstances they could afford to dip into her principal, and by the time that was exhausted, the event which they both so devoutly desired could not fail to have happened.

The golden bait, thus adroitly hooked, soon caught the fish, and for the next year or two Mr. James Marsh had all the ready cash he needed. At the suggestion of the widow, who naturally was anxious to see in the flesh the mysterious brother on whose state of health so much depended, John was cordially invited to attend the wedding which was solemnized with much pomp at a fashionable Fifth Avenue Church. The wedding day came but no John. Not even by as much as a card did he extend his congratulations to the happy couple. The only members of the Marsh family present were Peter, the Presbyterian minister and his wife, from Rahway, and Thomas Marsh, the haberdasher and his wife, from Newark, while the genial Tod, a broad grin on his face, stood up for his mother.

The newly married pair took a showy house in West Seventy-second Street, and while the money lasted they lived in magnificent style. When it was gone they lived no less luxuriously, thanks to the unwilling coÖperation of overconfident tradespeople. Mrs. Marsh felt that she could not get along without her motor car, her butler, and half a dozen useless maid servants. It cost money to entertain so lavishly and creditors were pressing, but her bridge parties could not be interfered with for such a trifling reason. At the pace they lived the few thousand dollars were soon exhausted, yet no matter. Even if the butcher, the baker, or the domestic servants were kept waiting for their money, the social prestige of the Marshes must be maintained.

It was far from being smooth sailing. Jimmy's wits were taxed to the utmost to ward off creditors who grew more and more importunate in their demands. One day while he was down town trying to raise a loan, Mrs. Marsh was subjected to such a mortifying and humiliating experience that she feared she would never rally from the nervous shock it caused her. It was her regular day at home, and Henry, the butler, stiff in gold embroidered livery, was busy at the front door ushering in carriage arrivals. As already hinted, his mistress was long in arrears with her tradespeople, and being ever apprehensive of a court summons, she had given Henry implicit instructions to carefully scrutinize all comers and slam the heavy door in their faces on the slightest suspicion that the visitors were not all they appeared to be. Having served the best families for nearly thirty years, Henry was in a position to assure his employer that he was more than a match for the wiliest lawyer. Nor had he overestimated his powers. Loudest among the clamoring creditors was the milkman. His bill was formidable, and every effort to collect it had failed. He procured a summons, but it was found impossible to serve it. Every trick known to the thick-soled sleuths of the sheriff's office was thwarted by the vigilant and resourceful Henry.

The worthy milkman suddenly conceived a bright idea. Among his customers was a young woman lawyer to whom he spoke about the matter. Properly indignant at the treatment to which he had been subjected she offered to help him. She was a novice at serving summonses, but possessed plenty of the quality so necessary in the courts known as "nerve." This modern Portia, after a preliminary survey of the premises which she was to take by storm, quickly determined upon a plan of action. Learning in the neighborhood that Mrs. Marsh was "at home" to her friends every Thursday afternoon, she decided to be one of the guests. Dressing herself in her best finery she took a hansom cab and drove to West Seventy-second Street, arriving at the Marsh residence simultaneously with a venerable old lady whom she politely assisted with her wraps. The old dame had no recollection of having seen the young woman before, but distrusting her own bad memory, concluded that she was one of Mrs. Marsh's younger friends whom she had forgotten, and thanked her profusely for her kind attentions. The two women approached the front door together. To the hawk-eyed butler, always on the alert, the young woman was a stranger, and, under ordinary circumstances, his suspicions might have been aroused, but seeing her chatting in the most cordial way with one of his mistress's oldest friends, he felt that any questioning on his part would be resented as unwarranted impertinence. Bowing low, therefore, he ushered the two ladies up the thickly carpeted stairs into the beautifully decorated reception rooms, which were already crowded with smartly dressed women. In the centre stood the amiable hostess, the conventional smile of welcome on her face, exchanging greetings with each arrival. When the new visitors were announced everyone turned, and Mrs. Marsh pranced amiably forward. Her venerable old friend she welcomed effusively, and then her eyes fell inquiringly on the stranger. The smile disappeared, a shadow darkened her face. Instinct told her something was wrong. Approaching the young woman she said with asperity:

"I haven't the pleasure——"

"You're Mrs. Marsh, I believe," smiled the lawyer.

"Yes," stammered the other, "I'm Mrs. Marsh, but I haven't the pleasure——"

"Quite so," replied the young woman coolly. Quickly drawing a long, ominous-looking folded paper from her dress, she said archly and audibly:

"This is for you, Mrs. Marsh. I regret to serve a summons in this way, but your milkman has waited a long time, and all's fair in love and law."

The people standing about tittered, and there was an embarrassing silence. Mrs. Marsh, at first, wished the floor would open and swallow her up. Then her eyes flashed with fury. Waving the unwelcome visitor back out of reach of her guests' ears, she almost shouted:

"Get out of here, hussy! How dare you steal into anyone's house in this contemptible way? Out with you before I forget myself!"

The astonished and crestfallen butler opened wide the door, not daring to meet his irate mistress' eye, and the woman lawyer hastened back to her client to report success.

Under the circumstances it was not surprising that this particular Thursday did not count among Mrs. Marsh's successful "At Homes." There was a chill in the air which everyone remarked, and one by one the visitors departed, each impatient to retail the good story elsewhere.

It was some time before Mrs. Marsh got over the shock, and from this time on her troubles seemed to multiply. They came thick and fast. Even Tod worried her. Tired of his fast companions, menaced with a curtailment of the financial supplies which had made his idle life possible, and hopeless under present home conditions of ever making a decent career for himself, her son rebelled and suddenly startled his mother by announcing his determination to go to work. He had been offered the agency of an automobile firm, the engagement including also a preliminary trip to Europe to negotiate for the representation of some foreign cars. There was no need to hesitate over such an offer as that. He was off to gay Paree! A week later he sailed, leaving his mother and stepfather to weather the financial storm as best they could.

Matters did not mend after his departure. Creditors became more insistent, subpoenas more numerous. Then one day, like a bolt from the blue, came the final catastrophe which sent the whole Marsh edifice tumbling like a house of cards. Something unexpectedly happened in Wall Street. Caught in a bad squeeze of the "shorts," involved in another shady transaction of a nature still more serious than the last scandal, Jimmy staggered home one night with ruin and worse staring him in the face. This time there was no way out possible. He could not raise a dollar, and Bascom Cooley, his lawyer and crony, the only man whose skill and influence could save him, was absent in Europe. It was the end of everything. He must either resign himself to prison stripes or blow his brains out.

Affairs had reached this crisis in the Marsh household when late one evening a messenger boy brought to West Seventy-second Street the following cablegram:

"Bascom Cooley."