ARFEW was a man who attracted money to him by the exercise of one set of qualities, and repelled it by the employment of another set.
Money in Carfew's hands was inflammable. It went up with the flare and the roar of a kerosene refinery after the president's son—new from college, but strange to the business—had dropped his cigarette end in the basement.
Carfew came to the Grand Western Hotel with six thousand golden sovereigns standing to bis credit in the L. & S. Bank.
He came in a taxicab, with a worn portmanteau and a cheque-book, and he spent a glorious week of life tearing out the little pink slips till they were all exhausted.
After which he got another cheque-book.
In the meantime he had got another portmanteau, a remarkable wardrobe, and the reputation of being an American bank robber.
"For," argued the gorgeous German hall-porter of the Grand Western, "he could not his money with such profusion spend if he had it honestly acquired."
Carfew was indifferent to the opinion of the hall-porter, being in that stage of superiority which allowed him to wear heliotrope socks without shame.
People came to see him—people who wanted to render him invaluable services. Some wished to lead him to the private road which cuts off ten miles of the dreary path to fortune; some had ideas that only wanted money.
These latter Carfew laughed to oblivion, for he had ideas of his own—and money.
His money enabled him to indulge his taste in his own particular ideas, which ran in the direction of the Burlington Arcade, and took expression in artistic cravats and socks that spoke for themselves.
It is a grand thing to be rich, to be able to write "pay bearer five thousand pounds" without running the risk of being arrested.
His vices were inexpensive. He did not drink, he was no epicure, he loved fresh air and taxicabs. Theatres could not cost him more than three guineas a week, for of all the vices to which men are victims, he was least troubled by the greatest—he had no friends.
He was dressing for dinner one night, when the valet announced a visitor.
"Show him up," said Carfew.
There came to him a tall, cadaverous man, with a profusion of hair and a certain untidiness of dress which usually marked the unsuccessful genius.
"Carfew?" he demanded.
The young man nodded.
"Your hand," demanded the other briefly. "Your name I know—I have heard of you. My name is Septimus."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Septimus," said Carfew formally. "And what goods can we show you this evening?"
Carfew wanted amusement; he could spare this unpromising stranger at least half an hour.
"You don't mind my dressing?" he asked, as he lazily adjusted his tie before the glass.
"Not at all—not at all," said Mr. Septimus, with a fine sweep of his hand. "A busy man—I am no hog."
He seemed pleased with the negative illustration, and repeated in a whisper that he was no hog.
"Mr. Carfew," the visitor went on, "I have heard of you. You are the man who negotiated the sale of a certain patent, receiving as your share of the sale many thousands of pounds."
"That's true," said Carfew modestly; "I am best known, perhaps, as Carfew the Inventor."
"I do not know you as Carfew the Inventor," said the seedy man deliberately. "You have a title to fame more wonderful, more extraordinary, more far-reaching for humanity; you have attracted the attention of three men of gifts. Sir, will you honour us with your company this night?"
"My dear chap," said Carfew reproachfully, "to-night! Now, be reasonable."
"To-night," said the weird-looking visitor dramatically. "It is not unreasonable, believe me."
He was very earnest, so earnest that Carfew looked at him more closely. His clothes were old and stained, his cuffs were frayed and not over-clean, his neck was innocent of collar; a black silk cravat clumsily tied in a bow left a space of scraggy throat between neckband and neckwear.
He had two days' growth of beard, and yet there was an undefinable air of refinement about him which puzzled the young man. His hands, long, thin, and white, were scrupulously tended.
"We're rather at cross purposes," said Carfew kindly. "I would do anything to oblige you except"—he was on the point of saying, "lending you money," but instinct arrested the speech—"except commit myself to a promise that I might not be able to fulfil. Now, exactly what is it you want?"
The man clicked his lips impatiently.