Villa had guessed that.
“There is a man in Deauville to whom you have probably seen references in the newspapers, a man named Maxilla. He is a rich coffee planter of Brazil.”
“The gambler?” said the other in surprise, and Digby nodded.
“I happen to know that Maxilla has had a very bad time—he lost nearly twenty million francs in one week, and that doesn’t represent all his losses. He has been gambling at Aix and at San Sebastian, and I should think he is in a pretty desperate position.”
“But he wouldn’t be broke,” said Villa, shaking his head. “I know the man you mean. Why, he’s as rich as Croesus! I saw his yacht when you sent me to Havre. A wonderful ship, worth a quarter of a million. He has hundreds of square miles of coffee plantations in Brazil—”
“I know all about that,” said Digby impatiently. “The point is, that for the moment he is very short of money. Now, do not ask me any questions, Villa: accept my word.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked the man. “Go to Deauville, take your slow machine and fly there; see Maxilla—you speak Portuguese?”
Villa nodded.
“Like a native,” he said. “I lived in Lisbon—”
“Never mind where you lived,” interrupted Digby, unpleasantly. “You will see Maxilla, and if, as I believe, he is short of money, offer him a hundred thousand pounds for his yacht. He may want double that, and you must be prepared to pay it. Maxilla hasn’t the best of reputations, and probably his crew—who are all Brazilians by the way—will be glad to sail under another flag. If you can effect the purchase, send me a wire, and order the boat to be brought round to the Bristol Channel to be coaled.”
“It is an oil-running ship,” said Villa.
“Well, it must take on supplies of oil and provisions for a month’s voyage. The captain will come straight to me in London to receive his instructions. I dare say one of his officers can bring the boat across. Now, is that clear to you?”
“Everything is clear to me, my dear friend,” said Villa blandly, “except two things. To buy a yacht I must have money.”
“That I will give you before you go.”
“Secondly,” said Villa, putting the stump of his forefinger in his palm, “where does poor August Villa come into this?”
“You get away as well,” said Digby.
“I see,” said Villa.
“Maxilla must not know that I am the purchaser under any circumstances,” Digby went on. “You may either be buying the boat for yourself in your capacity as a rich Cuban planter, or you may be buying it for an unknown friend. I will arrange to keep the captain and the crew quiet as soon as I am on board. You leave for Deauville tonight.”
He had other preparations to make. Masters received an order to prepare two small rooms and to arrange for beds and bedding to be erected, and the instructions filled him with consternation.
“Don’t argue with me,” said Digby angrily. “Go into Bristol, into any town, buy the beds and bring them out in a car. I don’t care what it costs. And get a square of carpet for the floor.”
He tossed a bundle of notes into the man’s band, and Masters, who had never seen so much money in his life, nearly dropped them in sheer amazement.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DIGBY GROAT returned to town by car and reached Grosvenor Square in time for dinner. He had a hasty meal and then went up to his room and changed.
He passed the room that Eunice occupied and found Jackson sitting on a chair before the door.
“She’s all right,” said the man, grinning. “I’ve shuttered and padlocked the windows and I’ve told her that if she doesn’t want me to make friendly calls she has to behave.”
Digby nodded.
“And my mother—you gave her the little box?”
Again Jackson grinned.
“And she’s happy,” he said. “I never dreamt she was a dope, Mr. Groat—”
“There is no need for you to dream anything,” said Digby sharply.
He had a call to make. Lady Waltham was giving a dance that night, and there would be present two members of the syndicate whom he was to meet on the following morning. One of these drew him aside during the progress of the dance.
“I suppose those transfers are quite in order for tomorrow,” he said.
Digby nodded.
“Some of my people are curious to know why you want cash,” he said, looking at Digby with a smile.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“You seem to forget, my dear man,” he said suavely, “that I am merely an agent in these matters, and that I am acting for my rather eccentric mother. God bless her!”
“That is the explanation which had occurred to me,” said the financier. “The papers will be in order, of course? I seem to remember you saying that there was another paper which had to be signed by your mother.”
Digby remembered with an unspoken oath that he had neglected to secure this signature. As soon as he could, he made his excuses and returned to Grosvenor Square.
His mother’s room was locked, but she heard his gentle tap.
“Who is that?” she demanded in audible agitation.
“It is Digby.”
“I will see you in the morning.”
“I want to see you tonight,” interrupted Digby sharply. “Open the door.”
It was some time before she obeyed. She was in her dressing-gown, and her yellow face was grey with fear.
“I am sorry to disturb you, mother,” said Digby, closing the door behind him, “but I have a document which must be signed tonight.”
“I gave you everything you wanted,” she said tremulously, “didn’t I, dear? Everything you wanted, my boy?”
She had not the remotest idea that he was disposing of her property.
“Couldn’t I sign it in the morning?” she pleaded. “My hand is so shaky.”
“Sign it now,” he almost shouted, and she obeyed.
The Northern Land Syndicate was but one branch of a great finance corporation, and had been called into existence to acquire the Danton properties. In a large, handsomely furnished board-room, members of the syndicate were waiting. Lord Waltham was one; Hugo Vindt, the bluff, good-natured Jewish financier, whose fingers were in most of the business pies, was the second; and Felix Strathellan, that debonair man-about-town, was the important third—for he was one of the shrewdest land speculators in the kingdom.
A fourth member of the party was presently shown in in the person of the Scotch lawyer, Bennett, who carried under his arm a black portfolio, which he laid on the table.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said shortly. Millionaires’ syndicates had long failed to impress him.
“Good morning, Bennett,” said his lordship. “Have you seen your client this morning?”
Mr. Bennett made a wry face as he unstrapped the portfolio.
“No, my lord, I have not,” he said, and suggested by his tone that he was not at all displeased that he had missed a morning interview with Digby Groat.
“A queer fellow is Groat,” said Vindt with a laugh. “He is not a business man, and yet he has curiously keen methods. I should never have guessed he was an Englishman: he looks more like a Latin, don’t you think. Lord Waltham?”
His lordship nodded.
“A queer family, the Groats,” he said. “I wonder how many of you fellows know that his mother is a kleptomaniac?”
“Good heavens,” said Strathellan in amazement, “you don’t mean that?”
His lordship nodded.
“She’s quite a rum old lady now,” he said, “though there was a time when she was as handsome a woman as there was in town. She used to visit us a lot, and invariably we discovered, when she had gone, that some little trinket, very often a perfectly worthless trifle, but on one occasion a rather valuable bracelet belonging to my daughter, had disappeared with her. Until I realized the true condition of affairs it used to worry me, but the moment I spoke to Groat, the property was restored, and we came to expect this evidence of her eccentricity. She’s a lucky woman,” he added.