railways, lately taken over by the State, and the first businesswas to interview the manager and sub-manager, together with the twoengineers sent from Italy, regarding some details of extra cost ofconstruction.
The work of the Clyde and Motherwell Company was always excellent. Theyturned out locomotives which could well bear comparison with any of theNorth-Western, Great Northern, or Nord of France, both as to finish,power, speed, and smoothness of running. Indeed, to railways in everypart of the world, from Narvik, within the Arctic circle, to NewZealand, Clyde and Motherwell engines were running with satisfaction,thanks to the splendid designs of the chief engineer, Duncan Macgregor,the white-bearded old Scot, who at that moment was seated with Statham'srepresentative.
The conference between the engineers of the Italian _ferrovia_ and themanagers was over, and old Macgregor, who had been engineer for years toCowan and Drummond, who owned the works before Statham had extended themand turned them into the huge Clyde and Motherwell works, stillremained.
He was a broad-speaking Highlander, a native of Killin, on Loch Tay,whose services had long ago been coveted by the London and North-WesternRailway Company, on account of his constant improvements in expressengines, but who always refused, even though offered a larger salary togo across the border and forsake the firm to whom, forty years ago, hehad been apprenticed by his father, a small farmer.
As a Scotsman, he believed in Glasgow. It was, in his opinion, the onlyplace where could be built locomotives that would stand the wear andtear of a foreign or colonial line. An engine that was cleaned andlooked after like a watch, as they were on the English or Scotch mainlines, was easily turned out, he was fond of saying; but when it becamea question of hauling power, combined with speed and strength towithstand hard wear and neglect, it was a very different matter.
Managers and sub-managers, secretaries and accountants there might be,gentlemen who wore black coats and went out to dine in evening clothes,but the actual man at the head of affairs at those great works wasDuncan Macgregor--the short, thick-set man, in a shabby suit of greytweed, who sat there closeted with Rolfe.
"You wrote to London asking to see me, Macgregor," exclaimed the youngman. "We're always pleased to hear any suggestions you've got to make,I assure you," said Charlie, pleasantly. "Have a cigarette?" and hepushed the big box over to the man who sat on the other side of thetable.
"Thank ye, no, Mr Rolfe, sir. I'm better wanting it," repliedMacgregor, in his broad tongue. And then, with a preliminary cough, hesaid "I--I want very badly to speak with Mr Statham."
"Whatever you say to me, Macgregor, I will tell him."
"I want to speak to him ma'sel'."
"I'm afraid that's impossible. He sees nobody--except once a week inthe city, and then only for two hours."
"'E would'na see me--eh?" asked the man, whose designs had brought thefirm to the forefront in the trade.
"I fear it would be impossible. You would go to London for nothing.I'm his private secretary, you know; and anything that you tell me Ishall be pleased to convey to him."
"But, mon, I want to see 'im ma'sel'!"
"That can't be managed," declared Rolfe. "This business is left to MrSmale and myself. Mr Statham controls the financial position, butdetails are left to me, in conjunction with Smale and Hamilton. Is itconcerning the development of the business that you wish to see MrStatham?"
"No, it ain't. It concerns Mr Statham himself, privately."
Rolfe pricked up his ears.
"Then it's a matter which you do not wish to discuss with me?" he said."Remember that Mr Statham has no business secrets from me. All hisprivate correspondence passes through my hands."
"I know all that, Mr Rolfe," Macgregor answered, with impatience; "butI must, an' I will, see Mr Statham! I'm coming to London to-morrow tosee him."
"My dear sir," laughed Rolfe, "it's utterly useless! Why, Mr Stathamhas peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word thathe's not at home."
"Eh! 'E's a big mon, I ken; but when 'e knows ma' bizniss e'll verrasoon see me," replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence.
"But is your business of such a very private character?" asked Rolfe.
"Aye, it is."
"About the projected strike--eh? Well, I can tell you at once what hisattitude is towards the men, without you going up to London. He told mea few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he'd close down theworks entirely for six months, or a year, if need be. He won't standany nonsense."
"An' starve the poor bairns--eh?" mentioned the old engineer, who hadgrown white in the service of the firm. "Ay, when it was Cowan andDrummond they wouldna' ha' done that! I remember the strike in '82, an'how they conciliated the men. But it was na' aboot the strike at all Iwas wanting to see Mr Statham. It was aboot himself."
"Himself! What does he concern you? You've never met him. He's neverbeen in Glasgow in his life."
"Whether I've met 'im or no is my own affair, Mr Rolfe," replied theold fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket. "I want tosee 'im now, an' at once. I shall go to the London office an' wait till'e comes."
"And when he comes he'll be far too busy to see you," the secretarydeclared. "So, my dear man, don't spend money unnecessarily in going upto London, I beg of you."
By the old man's attitude Rolfe scented that something was amiss, andset himself to discover what it was and report to his master.
"Is there any real dissatisfaction in the works?" he asked Macgregor,after a brief pause.
"There was a wee bittie, but it's a' passed away."
"Then it is not concerning the works that you want to see Mr Statham?"
"Nay, mon, not at all."
"Nor about any new patent?"
"Nay."
Rolfe was filled with wonder. The attitude of the old fellow wassphinx-like and yet he seemed confident that the millionaire would seehim when he applied for an interview. For a full half-hour theychatted, but canny Macgregor told his questioner nothing--nothing morethan that he was about to go to London to have a talk with the greatfinancier upon some important matter which closely concerned him.
Therefore by the West Coast evening express, Rolfe left Glasgow for thesouth, full of wonder as to what the white-bearded old fellow meant byhis covert insinuations and his proud confidence in the millionaire'sgood offices. There was something there which merited investigation--ofthat he was convinced.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
THE OUTSIDER.
On the left-hand side of Old Broad Street, City, passing from the RoyalExchange to Liverpool Street Station, stands a dark and dingy building,with a row of four windows looking upon the street. On a dull day, whenthe green-shaded lamps are lit within, the passer-by catches glimpses ofrows of clerks, seated at desks poring over ledgers. At the counter isa continual coming and going of clerks and messengers, and notes andgold are received in and paid out constantly until the clock strikesfour. Then the big, old doors are closed, and upon them is seen a brassplate, with the lettering almost worn off by continual polishing,bearing the words "Statham Brothers."
Beyond the counter, through a small wicket, is the manager's room--large, but gloomy, screened from the public view, and lit summer andwinter by artificial light. In a corner is a safe for books, and ateither end big writing-tables.
In that sombre room "deals" representing thousands upon thousands wereoften made, and through its door, alas! many a man who, finding himselfpressed, had gone to the firm for financial aid and been refused, hadwalked out a bankrupt and ruined.
Beyond the manager's room was a narrow, dark passage, at the end ofwhich was a door marked "Private," and within that private room,punctually at eleven o'clock, three mornings after Rolfe's conversationwith Macgregor, old Sam Statham took his seat in the shabbywriting-chair, from which the stuffing protruded.
About the great financier's private room there was nothing palatial. Itwas so dark that artificial light had to be used always. The desk
wasan old-fashioned mahogany one of the style of half a century ago, athreadbare carpet, two or three old horsehair chairs, and upon thegreen-painted wall a big date-calendar such as bankers usually use,while beneath it was a card, printed with old Sam's motto:--
"TIME FLIES; DEATH URGES."
That same motto was over every clerk's desk, and, because of it, somewag had dubbed the great financier, "Death-head Statham."
As he sat beneath the lamp at his desk, old Sam's appearance was almostas presentable as that of his