“Ah! Mr. Forster!”
The greeting came in a querulous voice. Forster, a foot taller than his host, bowed in acknowledgment.
“Come this way — come this way — into my library.”
Forster, following, noted the precision of the old man’s stride. He realized that the man was a very dynamo of energy; that despite his apparent age, he possessed an extraordinary degree of youthful vigor.
They entered a gloomy room, and the old man turned on a light. Closing the door, he faced Forster, who was looking about the room, noting the shelves of curious old volumes that adorned the walls. The sound of the old man’s voice brought him out of his reverie.
“So here we are,” chuckled the old man. “Clifford Forster and Lucien Partridge. Again we meet — this time in my home instead of yours. Be seated, Mr. Forster. Tell me why I am honored by this unexpected visit.”
Forster seated himself in a comfortable chair. He drew two fat cigars from his pocket, and offered one to Partridge. The old man declined. Forster lighted his own perfecto, and stared calmly at the old man.
“Partridge,” he said, “I want to talk with you. I thought it advisable that we should get together. I have left you very much to your own resources. It has occurred to me that the time has come for closer contact.”
The old man, sitting with folded hands, nodded in a vague manner, as though he did not fully understand.
They made an odd pair, these two. Forster, heavy and bulky, was a puffy-faced, dominating type of man. Partridge, with parchment skin and white hair, looked like an old professor, while his manner was almost wheedling toward his visitor.
“You agree with me, Partridge?” asked Forster.
“I am glad to have you visit me,” responded Partridge. “But I do not understand. Has not all been going well? Are you not satisfied?”
“Yes,” returned Forster slowly, “matters are progressing. Nevertheless — one can never be too sure of others working in his full interest.”
A troubled gleam came into the old man’s eyes. Forster detected it, and hastened to amend his statement.
“Do not misunderstand me, Partridge,” he said. “I am not speaking of you. It is Guthrie to whom I refer.”
“Ah! Guthrie. He is a fine man, Mr. Forster. He has been very patient with me. He has been ready always to listen to what I have to tell him—”
“That’s just it!” interposed Forster. “Guthrie is a good listener. He is also a good promiser. It simply occurred to me that, after all, Guthrie is nothing but a go-between. It is you and I who are working together. Guthrie might prove to be a disadvantage.”
“Ah! But he brought us together Mr. Forster—”
“Certainly. He has served that purpose. I want to be sure that he is still useful.”
AGAIN, Lucien Partridge nodded. He was an eccentric sort of a man and his eyes held a far-away look. They also showed an expression of worry. Seeing this, Forster became blunt in his comments.
“I am a business man, Partridge,” he declared. “A man who deals in big business. You are an inventor — a chemist — a scientist — a man of remarkable genius. Your work is proving valuable to me. I want it to prove more so.”
“Certainly, Mr. Forster—”
“Therefore, I thought that it would be best for me to check up on Guthrie’s activities. I let him conduct all negotiations with you until matters began to move. I did not want to worry you, or to disturb you. But now that you are producing, I feel that the time is ripe for our direct contact.”
Forster paused and watched the old man nod. Then he continued in the same vein.
“I have made an investment in you, Partridge,” he said. “An investment of more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. When Lawrence Guthrie first told me of you and your synthetic gold, I laughed at him. But when I saw you at work, I was willing to invest in your genius.
“This place — house, laboratory, and all — are part of my investment. They belong to you, and here you are producing the gold that I desire — a fair return for the money that I have invested. But I am desirous of accomplishing the maximum in results. The maximum! You understand?”
“Certainly, Mr. Forster.”
“Guthrie,” continued Forster, “painted me a wonderful picture. I invested a quarter of a million. I was willing to invest more. I wanted to see results, and I told Guthrie so.
“At last, a few months ago, your process began to work. Since then, I have been receiving gold regularly — approximately twenty thousand dollars’ worth each month.
“It seemed to me that now that the process was completed, the output would increase. Guthrie promised me that it would. But it has not. Guthrie has not explained why. So I have come to you to find out.”
“My gold,” said Partridge thoughtfully, “is something that I do not value in terms of money, Mr. Forster. I love to make it — to see that shining yellow gold and to know that it is my own creation.
“For a long time” — the old man’s tone became reminiscent — “I sought the infallible secret. The weight of lead; the luster of copper; the polish of silver — these I sought to combine to make my gold. Ah! The processes I used” — Partridge began to close his clawlike fingers as though molding an invisible object — “the discoveries I made — the metals I formed that looked like gold — until at last I found it!”
He paused and stared at Forster with wild, glaring eyes, his lips spread in a triumphant grin.
“I found it!” Partridge’s voice was a crackly, gasping scream. “I found it! I found it! Gold!”
AS though exhausted by his fervor, the old man slumped back in his chair. Forster surveyed him thoughtfully. He knew that he was dealing with a fanatic. He resolved to humor him.
“Make your gold,” he said approvingly. “Make much of it. The more the better. But remember — I am the one who requires it; not Guthrie. He is nothing more than my agent.”
Partridge nodded.
“You could make millions of dollars’ worth,” urged Forster. “Millions, instead of thousands. So Guthrie has said; but he has not acted. Make more and more—”
Forster paused as he saw the gleam in the old man’s eyes. He knew that he was arousing Partridge’s interest. He waited to give the old man a chance to advance a promise.
“You want millions?” questioned Partridge. “I shall give you millions! But you must remember — this secret is my own. For you only I make this gold. No one must know where it comes from.”
“No one knows,” declared Forster. “No one — except you, myself, and Guthrie.”
“Those at your mines?”
“They know nothing.”
“You are always there?”
“I have been, since the first shipment was made. I have come East — after wiring Guthrie to stop shipments — to speed up production. That is why I wired you that I would make this visit.”
“I understand,” nodded Partridge. “You wished to see for yourself — to learn if all that Guthrie has said is true. You would like to have me show you.”
Eagerness showed on Forster’s face. The man’s cupidity, apparent in his every action, was stressed to the utmost.
As Lucien Partridge motioned for him to rise, Clifford Forster sprang to his feet and walked forward as the old man started toward the hall.
Outside the door, they encountered the dark-faced man who had met Forster at the gate. Noting Forster’s questioning gaze, Partridge made an impromptu introduction.
“This is Vignetti,” he said. “I call him my faithful Corsican. I have traveled many places — to many lands” — he smiled wanly — “and in Corsica, many years ago, I offered shelter to a young lad whose parents had been slain in one of those fearful feuds they call a vendetta. Vignetti has served me ever since.”