The Face and the Mask by Robert Barr (books to read in your 20s female .txt) 📕
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- Author: Robert Barr
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“I wish you wouldn’t say ‘whacked,’ Scriver. That’s twice you’ve used it.”
“All right:—typographical error—For ‘whacked’ read ‘manipulated.’ Then you looked over the type-written pages, and I erased and wrote in and finally got out a perfect copy. Now I worked as hard—probably harder—than you did, yet the success of that book was entirely due to you, and not to me. Therefore it is quite right that you should get £20,000 and that I should get two pounds a week. Come now, isn’t it? Speaking as a man of common sense.”
“Speaking exactly in that way I say no it is not right. If the world were properly ruled the compensation of author and secretary would have been exactly the same.”
“Oh, well, if you go so far as that,” replied the Secretary, “I have nothing more to say.”
The author laughed, and the two men bent their energies to the correspondence. When the task was finished, Scriver said:
“I would like to get a couple of days off, Mr. Ringamy. I have some private business to attend to.”
“When could you get back?”
“I’ll report to you on Thursday morning.”
“Very well, then. Not later than Thursday. I think I’ll take a couple of days off myself.”
On Thursday morning Mr. Johnson Ringamy sat in his library looking out of the window, but the day was not as pleasant as when he last gazed at the hills, and the woods, and green fields. A wild spring storm lashed the landscape, and rattled the raindrops against the pane. Mr. Ringamy waited for some time and then opened the study door and looked in. The little room was empty. He rang the bell, and the trim servant-girl appeared.
“Has Mr. Scriver come in yet?”
“No, sir, he haven’t.”
“Perhaps the rain has kept him.”
“Mr. Scriver said that when you come back, sir, there was a letter on the table as was for you.”
“Ah, so there is. Thank you, that will do.”
The author opened the letter and read as follows:
“MY DEAR MR. RINGAMY,—Your arguments the other day fully convinced me that you were right, and I was wrong (“Ah! I thought they would,” murmured the author). I have therefore taken a step toward putting your theories into practice. The scheme is an old one in commercial life, but new in its present application, so much so that I fear it will find no defenders except yourself, and I trust that now when I am far away (“Dear me, what does this mean!” cried the author) you will show any doubters that I acted on the principles which will govern the world when the theories of ‘Gazing Upward’ are put into practice. For fear that all might not agree with you at present, I have taken the precaution of going to that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no extradition treaty forces the traveler to return—sunny Spain. You said you could not tell my rendition of your signature from your own. Neither could the bank cashier. My exact mutation of your signature has enabled me to withdraw £10,000 from your bank account. Half the profits, you know. You can send future accumulations, for the book will continue to sell, to the address of “ADAM SCRIVER. “Poste Restant, Madrid, Spain”Mr. Ringamy at once put the case in the hands of the detectives, where it still remains.
A SLIPPERY CUSTOMER.
When John Armstrong stepped off the train at the Union Station, in Toronto, Canada, and walked outside, a small boy accosted him.
“Carry your valise up for you, sir?”
“No, thank you,” said Mr. Armstrong.
“Carry it up for ten cents, sir?”
“No.”
“Take it up for five cents, sir?”
“Get out of my way, will you?”
The boy got out of the way, and John Armstrong carried the valise himself.
There was nearly half a million dollars in it, so Mr. Armstrong thought it best to be his own porter.
In the bay window of one of the handsomest residences in Rochester, New York, sat Miss Alma Temple, waiting for her father to come home from the bank. Mr. Horace Temple was one of the solid men of Rochester, and was president of the Temple National Bank. Although still early in December, the winter promised to be one of the most severe for many years, and the snow lay crisp and hard on the streets, but not enough for sleighing. It was too cold for snow, the weatherwise said. Suddenly Miss Alma drew back from the window with a quick flush on her face that certainly was not caused by the coming of her father. A dapper young man sprang lightly up the steps, and pressed the electric button at the door. When the young man entered the room a moment later Miss Alma was sitting demurely by the open fire. He advanced quickly toward her, and took both her outstretched hands in his. Then, furtively looking around the room, he greeted her still more affectionately, in a manner that the chronicler of these incidents, is not bound to particularize. However, the fact may be mentioned that whatever resistance the young woman thought fit to offer was of the faintest and most futile kind, and so it will be understood, at the beginning, that these two young persons had a very good understanding with each other.
“You seem surprised to see me,” he began.
“Well, Walter, I understood that you left last time with some energetically expressed resolutions never to darken our doors again.”
“Well, you see, my dear, I am sometimes a little hasty; and, in fact, the weather is so dark nowadays, anyhow, that a little extra darkness does not amount to much, and so I thought I would take the risk of darkening them once more.”
“But I also understood that my father made you promise, or that you promised voluntarily, not to see me again without his permission?”
“Not voluntarily. Far from it. Under compulsion, I assure you. But I didn’t come to see you at all. That’s where you are mistaken. The seeing you is merely an accident, which I have done my best to avoid. Fact! The girl said, ‘Won’t you walk into the drawing-room,’ and naturally I did so. Never expected to find you here. I thought I saw a young lady at the window as I came up, but I got such a momentary glimpse that I might have been mistaken.”
“Then I will leave you and not interrupt——”
“Not at all. Now I beg of you not to leave on my account,
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