The Man Who Bought London | Page 7

are the head of a beastly establishment in
which your hirelings insult defenceless girls who dare not resent. One
of these days I'm going to take the story of Tack and Brighten to The
Monitor.'"
It was a terrible threat born of a waning courage, for the girl was fast
losing her exhilaration which came to her in her moment of temporary
triumph; but Mr. Tack, who was no psychologist, and did not inquire
into first causes, turned pink and white. Already The Monitor had
hinted at scandal in "a prosperous sweating establishment in Oxford
Street," and Mr. Tack had the righteous man's fear of publicity.

"You--you dare!" he spluttered. "You--you be careful, Miss--I'll have
you out of here, by Jove! Yes--neck and crop! What can we do for you,
sir?"
He turned sharply to the young man in the trilby hat, having observed
him for the first time.
"My name's Gillett," said the youth bluntly, "and I am a representative
of The Monitor--er--I want to see this young lady for two minutes.
"Go to the devil!" said Mr. Tack defiantly.
The young man bowed.
"After I have interviewed this young lady," he said.
"I forbid you to give this man information about my business,"
exploded the enraged partner.
The reporter closed his eyes wearily.
"My poor fellow," he said, shaking his head, "it isn't about your
business I want to see this lady, it's about King Kerry."
Mr. Tack opened his mouth in astonishment.
"Mr. King Kerry?" he said. "Why, that's the gentleman who is buying
this business!"
He blurted it out--a secret which he had so jealously guarded. He
explained in one sentence the reason for the economies, the sales at less
than cost, the whole disastrous and nefarious history of the past
months.
"Buying this business, is he?" said Gillett, unimpressed. "Why, that's
nothing! He was nearly murdered at Oxford Circus Tube Station half an
hour ago, and he's bought Portland Place Mansions since then."
He turned to the alarmed girl.

"Told me to come along and find you," he said. "Described you so that
I couldn't make any mistake."
"What does he want?" she asked, shaking.
"Wants you to come to lunch at the Savoy," said Mr. Gillett, "and tell
him whether Tack and Brighton's is worth buying at the price."
Mr. Tack did not swoon, he was too well trained. But as he walked to
his private office he swayed unsteadily, and the shop-walker in the
Ribbon Department, who was a member of the Anti-Profanity League,
heard what Mr. Tack was saying to himself, and put his fingers in his
ears.
CHAPTER IV
A bewildered man sat in a cell at Vine Street, his aching head between
his large, grimy hands. He was trying, in his dull brutish way, to piece
together the events of the previous night and of that morning. He
remembered that he had met a man on the Thames Embankment. A
gentleman who had spoken coldly, whose words had cut like a steel
knife, and yet who had all the outward evidence of benevolence. And
then that this man had struck him, and there had come another, a
smooth-faced, young-looking man, who had taken him to a house and
given him a drink.
The stranger had led him to a place, and told him to watch, and they
had followed this grey-haired man through streets in a taxi-cab.
Horace Baggin had never ridden in a motor car of any description
before, and he remembered this. He remembered all that had happened
through a thin alcoholic haze. They had gone to South London and then
they had come back, and the man had left him at a tube station with a
pistol. Presently the grey-haired man had made his appearance, and
Baggin, mad with artificial rage, unthinking, unreasoning, had stepped
forward and shot wildly, and then the police had come. That was all.
Suddenly a thought struck him, and he started up with an oath. He was

wanted for that other affair in Wiltshire. Would they recognize him? He
pressed a little electric bell, which was placed in the wall of the cell,
and the turnkey came and surveyed him gravely through the grating.
"What is the charge?" Baggin asked eagerly.
"You know what the charge is," said the other; "it was read over to you
in the charge-room."
"But I have forgotten," said the man sullenly. "It won't hurt you to tell
me what I am charged with, will it?"
The officer hesitated. Then--
"You are charged with attempted murder and with manslaughter."
"What manslaughter?" asked Baggin quickly.
"Oh, an old affair, you know, Baggin!"
"Baggin!"
So they knew his name.
Well, there was one gleam of hope, one chance for him. This rich
stranger who had lured him out to shoot the grey-haired