Detective and mystery stories; London (England) -- Fiction; Swindlers and swindling -- Fiction
So soon as it was known that the celebrities had arrived, the meeting
was declared open and the speech-making commenced. Clever as some of
them were it could not be doubted that Carne’s address was the event of
the afternoon. He was a born speaker, and what was more, despite the
short notice he had received, had made himself thoroughly conversant
with his subject. His handsome face was on fire with excitement, and
his sonorous voice rang through the large room like a trumpet call.
When he sat down it was amidst a burst of applause. Lord Laverstock
leant forward and shook hands with him.
"Your speech will be read all over England to-morrow morning," he said.
"It should make a difference of thousands of pounds to the fund. I
congratulate you most heartily upon it."
Simon Carne felt that if it was really going to make that difference he
might, in the light of future events, heartily congratulate himself.
He, however, accepted the praise showered upon him with becoming
modesty, and, during the next speaker’s exhibition of halting elocution,
amused himself watching the faces before him, and speculating as to what
they would say when the surprise he was going to spring upon them became
known. Half-an-hour later, when the committee had been elected and the
meeting had broken up, he bade his friends good-bye and set off on his
return home. That evening he was dining at home, intending to call at
his club afterwards, and to drop in at a reception and two dances
between ten and midnight. After dinner, however, he changed his mind,
and having instructed Ram Gafur to deny him to all callers, and
countermanding his order for his carriage, went to his study, where he
locked himself in and sat down to smoke and think.
He had set himself a puzzle which would have taxed the brain of that
arch schemer Machiavelli himself. He was not, however, going to be
beaten by it. There must be some way, he told himself, in which the
fraud could be worked, and if there was he was going to find it.
Numberless were the plans he formed, only to discover a few moments
later that some little difficulty rendered each impracticable.
Suddenly, throwing down the pencil with which he had been writing, he
sprang to his feet and began eagerly to pace the room. It was evident,
from the expression upon his face, that he had touched upon a train of
thought that was at last likely to prove productive. Reaching the
fireplace for about the thirtieth time, he paused and gazed into the
fireless grate. After standing there for a few moments he turned, and,
with his hands in his pockets, said solemnly to himself: "Yes, I think
it can be done!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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