A young man arrives from California, and hears some unexpected news
Mr. Burchardt the lawyer sat as stolidly as a grandfather clock beside his writing-table, and stared over his spectacles at Leonard Grath. It was an odd sort of reception for a lively young fellow who had just arrived from the other side of the globe, and Leonard Grath burst out laughing.
"What's wrong?" he inquired.
There was no harm in Leo, but he was young: to be quite accurate, twenty-six years of age. He was of medium height, well-made, with an honest, sunburnt face, merry blue eyes, brown hair, worn rather long as a tribute to his artistic propensities, and a large but sensitive mouth; to complete the description, he had the restless, flexible hands of an artist, a clear, confident voice, and just the least touch of foppishness in his appearance. The youth was no paragon; he was a happy-go-lucky fellow, not only in his artistic fancies, but in every detail of his daily life.
"Wrong?" echoed the lawyer, and a look of something like emotion flitted over his stolid features. "Things are no worse than they have been all along, but they are quite bad enough, Leo."
"Now for a homily!" muttered the young man, "and the title is: 'On the danger of getting into debt.'"
Mr. Burchardt looked pained.
"My dear Leo," said he, gravely, "you have not been much troubled with advice from me for some time: it must be quite six years since I last saw you. I suppose you remember that I have been the adviser of your family for the last thirty years. To all intents and purposes I have stood to you in loco parentis. Your only belongings are your Aunt Fernanda, her children and grandchildren in California, where you have stayed for so long that we began to wonder if you ever intended to come home...."
"Well, what of that? The Copper House couldn't run away from me."
"The Copper House has run away from you!" retorted the lawyer sharply. Leonard looked serious, and settled himself more firmly in his chair.
"That's impossible," he faltered.
"My letter concerned the Copper House," continued Mr. Burchardt. "I posted it to your address in Los Angeles, but you had already left. You have got home in the nick of time--for some things," he added, rather bitterly.
"I arrived in Sweden yesterday," said Leo. "I had a fancy to take a peep at the Copper House, and so I came over."
"And so you came over," echoed the lawyer, with a wry face. "It is a pity that the fancy did not seize you sooner. I fear that the Copper House is no longer yours, Leo, and that's the truth."
The young man colored up like a schoolboy, and said huskily: "Was that what your letter was about?"
"Yes, I wrote to request your consent to the sale of the Copper House."
"The Copper House for sale?"
"You may regard it as sold, my lad."
"What the devil do you mean?" cried Leo, springing up from his chair.
"What else can you expect, when a property has been neglected for three generations? Your grandfather spent the whole of his life abroad, and married in California, where he settled. When he died, Karka was mortgaged for half its value, although his sister worked herself to skin and bone in her efforts to reduce expenses. Your father certainly remained at home, but he entertained very lavishly, and his tobacco-growing hobby, which started very hopefully, proved a very costly failure. You inherited your grandfather's love of travel, and your idea of managing an estate apparently consists in telegraphing incessantly for money from the four quarters of the earth. During the last thirty years, I have warned first your father and then you how things were going. Then the War broke out, and now matters have come to a crisis. I can assure you, I have done my utmost to stave off the debts...."
Leo had been drumming on the window-pane, and now he turned round and said: "I know you have; I'm not trying to excuse myself."
The lawyer nodded, and continued in a slightly mollified tone: "I had not put up the property for sale, but at the end of March a purchaser appeared unexpectedly, and made a good--an uncommonly good offer, which we have no choice but to accept. I have drawn up the contract already, and was only awaiting your consent to my signature, but since you are back, you can sign it yourself."
"My signature!" repeated the young man. He was filled with a sullen, boyish despair at the thought that, by a stroke of the pen, he must sign away the property which had been in his family for eight generations, and lose the old home which was the shrine of his childish memories.
"It can't be true, it's impossible!" he burst out.
The lawyer looked at him as though he were taking a careful inventory of the young man's weakness and lack of resource in this unforeseen emergency.
"Unfortunately it is only too possible," he said gently. The official atmosphere of Mr. Burchardt's private room began to irritate Leo like the touch of a hair shirt on a sensitive skin, and as the lawyer turned suggestively towards his deed-box, the young man said hastily, almost incoherently, as if attempting to stave off inevitable doom: "No, not yet! Give me a little time to get accustomed to the idea. I must have one more look at the Copper House whilst it is still mine...."
Burchardt looked thoughtful. Inwardly, he was deeply touched, but his severe expression remained unaltered, and he said to himself: "What a pity the scatter-brained fellow did not make a rich marriage, while there was time."
Aloud he remarked: "As you wish. But I have not told you everything yet. As you know, the Copper House, that is, the house itself, was let in the summer of 1915 to a person named Andrei Bernin. He is a Russian author, though I believe he has naturalized himself as a Swede, and he is living in the Copper House with his sister and his daughter. As regards the rest of the estate, and the woods, Suneson the bailiff continued to look after them, at any rate until last year; perhaps you remember him--a decent, trustworthy fellow. But he left the place very suddenly last autumn without giving notice. Andrei Bernin now rents the whole property, but the land is lying fallow. He's a strange sort of man--shuts himself up altogether in the Copper House; he seems to have plenty of money, and, not content with paying rent for the place, he has now made a very generous offer to buy it. I have never met him personally, as he is elderly and an invalid, and blind into the bargain; but I carry on negotiations with his friend and solicitor Marcus Tassler, who is managing the business with the most amazing energy...."
"Tassler," said Leo, with a slight grimace, "is he a German?"
"I should say he is of a sort of German-Russian-Jewish extraction, but all the same, he is a Swedish citizen," replied the pedantically-accurate Burchardt. "He is one of those financial experts who have come to the front during this War, and he is the Manager of the Finno-Russian Import and Export Company. Personally, I don't find him particularly congenial, but he certainly looks after his friend Bernin's interests with exemplary zeal. They have not allowed us much time to turn round; I have been obliged to give way a little here and there. A considerable sum of caution-money has been paid down already: if the sale does not go through, the lease holds good, and we are bound to undertake expensive repairs, whilst, over and above all that, we shall be held legally responsible for allowing the land to go out of cultivation...."
Leo turned quickly to the window; the truth seemed to dawn upon him for the first time, and he said: "I suppose the Copper House is filled with these people?"
"Yes, and all the old servants have left. We are absolutely powerless, Leo; the sale must take place!"
"Must it?" murmured Leo, still unconvinced. "Have you anything more to tell me?"
"Yes. Bernin, or, more correctly, Tassler acting for him, has bought up all the mortgages, and the largest outstanding debts on the property, and is bringing pressure to bear on us in that way."
Leo felt as though a net was closing round him: he was furious, and exclaimed: "The cheek of the fellow! So he threatens me, does he? I'll have something to say to him!"
"It is his way, I don't blame him. At any rate, we can't quarrel with the price he offers: it will cover all your family liabilities."
"Will there be any surplus?"
"About twelve thousand kroner, I should think."
"That isn't much," remarked Leo thoughtfully. His anger had evaporated, and he was smiling. "After all, I have always been hard-up, so there won't be a great difference. At any rate, the Copper House still belongs to me--nominally."
Burchardt came up to the young man and laid a hand on his shoulder. He had laid aside his official manner, and said kindly: "Take my advice, Leo. Life is hard on those who make no attempt to take it seriously, and we are living in an age when individuals as well as nations are being tested to the fullest extent of their capabilities. You are young, mentally and physically: that is one asset. You have had a good education: that is another. Face the future boldly, and win yourself a place in the sun: you can do it."
Leo looked at him: "Yes," said he, "that doesn't sound bad. But how am I to do it?"
"By working."
"Painting, do you mean?"
"I mean, by hard work."
"Chopping wood, perhaps?"
"By all means, if you are fit for nothing better."
The young man stretched his arms over his head, and laughed softly; then he began to walk up and down the room.
"I may be a ne'er-do-well, but I am not an invertebrate," said he. "I expected all this in a way, but I don't know how it is.... I feel somehow relieved. At any rate, I know now just how I stand. But," he added, with renewed vehemence, "the loss of the Copper House is an idea that it will take me some time to digest."
"It is too late to prevent it now, Leo."
"That is just what makes it so hard to bear! Besides, I can't get over the fact of such people as these taking such a fancy to the Copper House; I'm sure there's something wrong somewhere."
"There is nothing wrong with their money, at all events," remarked Burchardt patiently.
"Money!" snorted Leo, turning round. His expressive face lighted up, and he added eagerly: "Nobody knows yet that I am in Sweden. Suppose I go straight back to California, and try to make a fortune. How's that for an idea?"
The lawyer remained silent: he had not the heart to reply. But the young man's remark reminded him of something, and he bent down and took an envelope from his desk.
"Somebody seems to have expected your arrival," he said, "for this letter has been waiting for you since yesterday."
"A letter!" repeated Leo, taking it with surprise, "so it is, and by the postmark a local one, posted here in Stockholm. Isn't that odd!"
He opened and read it, first to himself, then aloud:
"MR. LEONARD GRATH, c/o Burchardt & Co.,
Stockholm.
"Sir,--Should you intend taking any steps with regard to the Copper House, may I beg you to wait for further information from me? The matter is serious. Above all, let nobody know that you are in Stockholm, and on no account go out to the Copper House. Ask Mr. Burchardt to observe similar precautions. He can tell you who I am.
"Yours in great haste,
"MAURICE WALLION."
Leo read these lines once again. The lawyer pricked up his ears, as if at the sound of a bugle. "Maurice Wallion," he repeated.
"Yes, that's the name. What's all this about? Who is the fellow, and what does he mean?"
Burchardt took the letter, and read it in his turn, slowly and attentively. Leo, who was watching him, noticed that the lawyer actually looked disturbed, almost alarmed.
"What is it?" asked the young man, quickly. "Who on earth is Maurice Wallion?"
"Unexpected, perfectly unexpected!" murmured the lawyer. "Serious? Yes, that may well be, if he says so. Leo, this message comes from a man who wishes you well. I happen to know him; few persons have met him, but many have heard of him. They call him 'the problem-hunter,' and his nominal occupation is that of a contributor to the Daily Courier. But he is more than a journalist: he has a way of turning up on the scene of any crime or mystery, if he thinks there is anything abnormal about it."
Leo smiled slightly: "That sounds very mysterious," he said, "but as I am not guilty of any deeds of darkness, I can't say I feel particularly alarmed...."
"I was engaged on young Ravenscrone's case, when Wallion recovered his estate for him," replied the lawyer gravely; "that problem was a hundred years old: but he solved it in an hour."
"And now I suppose he will offer to recover mine," said Leo. "Why, what business is it of his? How did he know, to begin with, that I was coming here?"
"How, indeed," echoed the lawyer significantly.
They looked at one another, and the young man's smile gave place to a frown. "I call it either great cheek or a very poor joke for anyone to meddle unasked in my affairs," he said, taking up the letter to put it in his pocket-book.
Burchardt shook his head, and at the same moment Leo uttered a cry of vexation. "My pocket-book!" he exclaimed, "that scoundrel has stolen it!"
"Who has?" asked the lawyer, jumping up.
"A man who ran into me on the stairs about half an hour ago. It can have been no one else, for I had it in my hand not five minutes before. He was a tall, thin fellow, with black eyes; I thought he was drunk, for he barged right into me, without saying a word; I gave him a good shove, and he lurched out into the street. Of course the beggar was after my pocket-book."
"What had you in it?"
"Not much money, but practically all my papers, passport and everything."
At this minute the door opened, and one of Burchardt's clerks came in.
"A boy has just left this parcel for Mr. Grath," he said, putting down an oblong packet, and departing. Leo tore open the white paper, which bore no address, and looked up with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment in his face.
"What's the date to-day?" he inquired.
"July 19, 1917," replied the puzzled lawyer.
"Make a note of it, as being a day of surprises."
"What is it now?"
"I have got back my pocket-book. It is here, in this parcel."
"You don't say so! Empty, of course?"
"No," replied Leo, after looking through it, "that is the most surprising thing of all. Nothing is missing. He has not taken a single thing."
"Impossible, it's too absurd. Look again more carefully."
Both men examined the pocket-book again, but it was as Leo had stated: both money and papers were totally undisturbed.
"This is certainly a very striking commentary on our friend the 'problem-hunter's' letter," remarked the young man; "is he given to playing such tricks as these?"
"Nonsense," said Burchardt, curtly. "His letter is a warning, and this incident is a case in point. Some person has had recourse to an uncommonly daring way of finding out everything that concerns you, evidently wishing to identify you by the aid of your own papers."
In spite of himself, Leo began to feel rather uncomfortable but he pulled himself together, and said: "I begin to think that there is a general conspiracy to make a fool of me: a profiteering baron wants to compel me to sell the Copper House: a thief steals my papers, and sends them back untouched: a problem-hunter sends me unintelligible warnings--my poor brain is getting quite muddled! I wish I was back in California, there are such a queer lot of folk in Sweden, since last I was here."
"Listen to me, Leo," said the lawyer slowly. "There is something wrong about all this. That fellow Tassler must have some motive of which we know nothing. The first thing for you to do is to find out what Maurice Wallion knows."
"I am going straight to him."
"Now? He is not easy to get hold of, unless he wishes, but at any rate you can try."
"I intend to. So long, sir!"
Leonard Grath left the lawyer's office with his usual impetuosity, and ran whistling down the stairs. Burchardt's office was near the Kungstrad Park, and the young man crossed the road to get into the shade of the lime-trees. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, the beds were gay with flowers, and a great many people were about. A well-dressed man, carrying a small but expensive camera, passed him, turned quickly, and raised the camera; a click, and it was done. So rapid were the man's movements, that Leo did not at first realize that he himself had been the target of the camera. He took the cigarette from his mouth, and shouted: "I say, you there! You, sir!" But at that minute the unknown photographer boarded a passing tram, and was whirled away.
"What next?" wondered Leo. "Another one who wants to know what I look like! I seem to be very much in demand!" He looked round him in perplexity, and was presently aware of an uncanny feeling that he was being watched by someone in the crowd. Yet wherever he turned, he could see no one whom he knew, or who appeared to recognize him. Lights and shadows flickered through the green leaves, and the sunshine lighted up pretty faces and summer costumes. He began to feel dazed, and sat down on one of the green benches. "I must be dreaming," he thought. "This is all too strange to be true. Yes, of course I am dreaming."
He got up, walked on a short way, then stopped again. "If only I had the smallest idea what is up!" He laughed. "I shall go and see Wallion."
Ten minutes later he entered the offices of the Daily Courier, and asked for Maurice Wallion, half-expecting to be laughed at for his pains, and informed that no such person was known there. But the young and energetic reporter to whom he addressed his inquiries, looked at him attentively, and said: "Did you make an appointment to meet him here?"
"Not exactly."
"Then I'm afraid it is no use your waiting."
"But I have had a letter from him."
"Ah, that alters the case," observed the reporter, opening an engagement book. "What name, please?"
"Leonard Grath," replied the other in surprise.
"That's good!" said the reporter with a smile, immediately becoming much more friendly in his manner; "my name is Robert Lang, and you are expected."
"Expected!" echoed Leo, more astonished than ever.
"Yes, but I can tell you at once that nobody knows why, except Wallion. I am his assistant, and I believe he is most anxious to see you. Unfortunately he is out at present. I haven't seen him since yesterday evening, but step into his room, and we'll see."
They went into a small room leading off the corridor, and the cheery young reporter went briskly to the telephone. After ringing up several places, he said: "I can't get on to him, he is neither at his house, nor at any of the places where we can usually get word to him. It's always the way! Sometimes he disappears for weeks on end, and we can do nothing but wait until he thinks fit to turn up again."
Leo smiled, but he felt terribly disappointed.
"The worst of it is, that there is no time to lose," he remarked. "I fear it may be too late as it is."
"But you hinted that Wallion knows something about it already?"
"Yes, so I understand."
"Then you needn't worry. He won't let it be too late."
Robert Lang said this with a calm certainty that impressed Leo, whilst it made him feel more curious than ever.
"Do you know what your friend the Problem-hunter wants me for?"
"No, but that doesn't matter. I am only his assistant, his sub-lieutenant, so to speak...."
Here, the conversation was interrupted, as Robert Lang was called away. Leo wandered round the room, which was filled with bookcases, files of newspapers, and card-index cabinets. On the large writing table lay manuscripts, photographs, foreign newspapers, and several volumes of works of reference. The young man could see from a distance that one of the photographs was that of a charming girl, whose dark and rather appealing eyes seemed to be gazing right into his own. He could not resist the temptation to pick up the portrait and examine it more closely.
"What a pretty girl," he thought: "brown eyes, decidedly--and black hair:--an Italian, perhaps? Or no, more likely a Russian, with that heart-shaped face, arched eyebrows, and audacious though sensitive mouth."
And here, Leo noticed something which made him open his own mouth, and stare like one bewitched. In the lower corner of the picture was written:
