The Wealth Seeker

CHAPTER VI. AT SATRUFF’S

TWO men were seated in a magnificent second-story living room. Paneled walls of solid oak, massive furniture of the same rich wood, oriental rugs of thickly woven texture betokened worldly wealth.

The men, ensconced in front of a glowing fire, seemed fitted to their surroundings. One, who bore the air of ownership, was a dignified, gray-haired gentleman past middle age. His face, though stern, showed a quiet sympathy.

This was Folsom D. Satruff, a millionaire whose name was widely known in New York. He was seated here in his fine residence; a house which, outside as within, constituted the show place of Garport, Long Island.

Satruff’s companion was a younger man; one who also bore an air of affluence. His glistening black hair was smoothly combed. His pointed black mustache added distinction to his sallow features. There was a keenness in his attitude that gave him a professional appearance. One would quickly have recognized him as a physician.

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.

“As I was saying,” began Harlow, “there must be cases in which you would consider—”

“Look at this card,” interposed Satruff, as he extended his hand toward the physician. “I suppose you will recognize the name of this unexpected visitor.”

Harlow took the card. An expression of surprise appeared upon his sallow features.

“Lamont Cranston!” he exclaimed. “He’s the millionaire who travels everywhere. A remarkable chap, they say. A friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance,” returned Satruff. “In fact, I have visited his New Jersey home on two occasions. He has never been here before. I suppose that—”

Satruff broke off as footsteps sounded from the stairway. Okum appeared with a tall man by his side.

Lamont Cranston, the millionaire, strolled into Satruff’s living room. His host advanced to meet him.

“Welcome, Cranston!” exclaimed Satruff. “This is indeed an unexpected surprise.”

A SLIGHT smile appeared upon thin lips. Lamont Cranston’s face was an impressive one. His features were almost masklike. His aquiline nose gave him a hawkish expression; his keen eyes were steady orbs that seemed to glow as they met the light.

“It is a surprise to myself,” announced Cranston in a quiet tone. “I chanced to be near Garport. I recalled that you lived in the vicinity. I dropped by in hope that you would be at home.”

Folsom Satruff nodded as he introduced the visitor to Doctor Wesley Harlow. The young physician eyed Lamont Cranston closely. As a nerve specialist, he could see that this calm-faced individual was a being who possessed an iron will.

“You can stay a while—”

Cranston nodded as he heard Satruff speak.

“An hour or more,” he remarked. As though answering Cranston’s statement, a clock on the living-room mantel chimed the half hour. Satruff and his guests looked in that direction. They observed that the time was half past eleven.

Doctor Harlow arose with a slight touch of nervousness. He glanced at his watch to make sure the clock was right. He turned to Cranston and Satruff.

“I must be back in town by midnight,” he remarked. “Sorry to be leaving you. I’d like to talk with you again, Satruff. Suppose — to-morrow night we—”

“Give me a call,” suggested Satruff. The millionaire walked to the door with the physician. The two stopped at the top of the stairs. Lamont Cranston stood alone. His keen, burning eyes turned from the distant pair to the clock upon the mantel.

The faint echo of a whispered laugh came from Cranston’s thin lips. Neither Satruff nor Harlow heard that trace of mirth. It was an eerie tone of softened mockery that came as a reminder of a strident laugh which earlier to-night had been the knell to men of crime.

This personage who bore the guise of Lamont Cranston was none other than The Shadow. The master fighter of the night had arrived at the home of Folsom Satruff — the place where further crime was due to strike!