That was his calling. Satruff’s companion was one of Manhattan’s outstanding nerve specialists: Doctor Wesley Harlow.
The peculiar contrast between the men — one that only a close observer could have noted — was that Satruff possessed a calmness, while Harlow showed traits of nervousness. This could have been considered unusual. It proved, at any rate, that Harlow was not here as a consultant specialist.
Satruff was talking quietly. His random remarks dwelt upon world affairs, of business conditions at large.
There was tolerance and sympathy in his attitude. Harlow listened; the physician’s lips twitched at times, but made no interrupting utterance.
“Life,” observed Folsom Satruff, “is not entirely a game of personal gain. I admit that the desire of possession is the primary expression found in every human being. Wealth is a lure that few can resist once they see the possibility of obtaining it.
“But once that longing has been satisfied, the man who has gained his end begins to look for higher things. He seeks to distribute his portion of possession among those who really need it. That, Harlow, is a greater task than gaining wealth.”
“Any one can give money away,” interjected Harlow.
“Yes,” agreed Satruff, “but one cannot always give wisely. Mere giving brings no satisfaction. It is a sour undertaking, Harlow. Realize this: the man who has gained has done so through wisdom. When he is ready to apportion his wealth, he also chooses to follow a wise course.”
“It’s easy enough to help out people who need cash.”
“Is it?” Satruff smiled. “You are wrong there, Harlow. The man who has money is envied by those who lack it. Instinctively, inspired by their desire for gain, they come to look upon him as an easy mark. He aids them; they return for more. Generosity is always preyed upon by greed.
“No, Harlow, I can tell you this from my experience. When one who has wealth aids those who require it, the desire for such action must be sponsored by the giver; not by the recipient. A philanthropist is surrounded by most trying circumstances.
“If he is indiscriminate in his gifts, he soon learns that he is passing his wealth to the undeserving, and in so doing, he is actually robbing those who are really worthy of his aid. Each ingrate who receives a thousand dollars as a present is actually a thief. The money which he takes — through pretense of poverty — should rightfully go to some high-minded person who is really badly off, yet who refuses to cry for aid.”
THE millionaire arose as he completed this statement. He strolled across the room and picked up a box of expensive cigars. He offered one to Doctor Harlow. The physician took the perfecto and lighted it.
The match showed a tense look on Harlow’s face. It was obvious that the young specialist was more nervous than before. Satruff, taking a cigar of his own, did not appear to notice Harlow’s expression.
“You, Harlow,” resumed the millionaire, “are one of the few who are acquainted with the method that I have chosen for my philanthropies. I have remained anonymous — that is, I have used a name which none can recognize — for the very reason that I have just stated. I do not want to be preyed upon by those who are shrewd seekers for wealth.”
“These gifts of yours,” interjected Harlow, “are not the best way to solve the problem, Satruff.”
“Why not?”
“Because they are indiscriminate. A hundred people lose their jobs. Under the pseudonym of Dorand you give them each five hundred dollars.”
“Well?”
“Out of one hundred people,” insisted Harlow, “there are sure to be many ingrates. Thus you aid the very persons whom you say are undeserving.”
“Your theory is good, Harlow,” laughed Satruff. “Practically, however, the case is different. When I, as the unknown man Dorand, make gifts, I certainly choose people who can use aid at the time. Any man, no matter what his inner nature may be, is to be pitied when he meets with a calamity. Survivors from wrecked ships, victims of fire tragedies, persons deprived of the opportunity to work; all are unfortunate at the time. Do you follow me?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. When such individuals receive my gifts, their immediate response is one of thanks. Later, they may begin to reason shrewdly, to consider ways whereby they might curry favor with their benefactor. But I, through my own method of giving, have blocked such trains of reasoning.
“Dorand! Thousands hold his name in honor. Of those thousands, not one knows who Dorand is. Grasping natures are curbed. There is no use for a schemer to puzzle how he might gain new gifts from his unknown benefactor.”
Tall and imposing, Folsom Satruff stood with eyes aglow. He had the attitude of an enthusiast. He had expressed his feelings in the field of philanthropy and his very air showed whole-hearted satisfaction.
Doctor Harlow eyed him narrowly, then spoke.
“Your gifts are unsought,” said the physician cautiously. “Yet are you sure that they bring the highest satisfaction? What of people close about you? Are there none whom you would aid if you knew that they really needed your assistance?
“Have you never experienced the pleasure of lending to a man upon no other security than his own worth? Do you realize the feeling of friendship that comes when such a man returns the sum that he has borrowed?”
“I have,” admitted Satruff; then, with a shake of his head, he added: “But I have also felt the chagrin which comes with misplaced friendship. That sorrow more than offsets the joy that comes with confidence returned.
“No, Harlow, the odds are all against the idea which you offer. A man of wealth must be free to choose his friends. He must pick those in whose minds the desire for easy money or quick loans is totally absent. You cannot form true friendship upon the sandy soil of personal wish for gain.”
“Then if a friend should seek to benefit through your philanthropies—”
“I should, regard him as a friend no longer. The moment that a man asks me for a loan, I feel our friendship is at an end.”
“A rather narrow view, Satruff.”
“It has modifications.” The millionaire paused to consider. “There are exceptions to every rule, Harlow. It might be that I could see differently if conditions were extremely urgent. There have been cases where friends have proposed business deals to me. In such instances, I have placed friendship aside and have treated those individuals purely as commercial acquaintances.”
“Suppose” — Doctor Harlow paused to puff speculatively on his cigar — “that a friend should propose a philanthropy, or something very much akin to it—”
“I do not believe that I would be interested,” interrupted Satruff. “I choose my own ways of giving. I owe it to myself. I have thousands of dollars here in this house, Harlow. You are one of the few who know that fact — just as you are one of the few who know that I am Dorand—”
FOLSOM SATRUFF paused to turn toward the door of the living room. A stoop-shouldered man with a pale, dried-up face had entered, and was waiting to gain the millionaire’s attention.
“What is it, Okum?” asked Satruff.
“A gentleman to see you, sir,” whined the man, who was evidently a servant. “Riggs admitted him at the front door. I have his card.”
“Let me see it.”
Okum approached and tendered a card to his employer. Folsom Satruff raised his eyebrows as he read the name. He nodded as he turned to Okum.
“Bring him up here,” ordered Satruff. “At once, Okum.”
Doctor Wesley Harlow watched the stoop-shouldered servant depart. He turned to Satruff, who was still looking at the card.