NEXT morning, as the clock struck eleven, the Chief entered his private room at the Office.
Punctuality, said his many biographers, was a cardinal fact in an amazing life. But Saul Hartz knew better.
As the Colossus sat down at his table, the mere look of him would have been enough to repute any theory so prosaic. The key of personality lay deeper. It was to be found in the eyes, curiously hooded like those of a bird of prey. In those undisclosed depths lurked the faculty of seeing into the future.
It was this rather terrible power that had made Saul Hartz the thing he was. He could afford to smile at the array of mental and moral virtues his Lives insisted upon. Well he knew how completely they were transcended by the fact that his birth had been attended by a Fairy.
A tray set on his blotting pad contained a mail of thirty unopened but judiciously sorted letters. He turned over each one in turn. In several cases the back of the envelope told all he needed to know about them. Others aroused a languid interest, a mild curiosity; life had few thrills to offer Saul Hartz. Two letters, however, among the pile were able to fix his attention. One had ultra thick paper embossed with the monogram of Royalty; the other was a black-sealed, black-edged envelope, registered and marked “private.”
Somehow, the mere look of the second letter intrigued the Colossus. His manner of laying it down proved that. But as a minor exercise in the art of self-mastery—it amused him to play these little pranks upon himself—he placed it carefully at the bottom of the pile. Then he opened the royal envelope.
A considerable personage, in his own hand, fair and clerkly, warmly thanked “My dear Hartz” for his efforts on behalf of the London hospitals. Previous campaigns in the newspapers had raised great sums, but the guiding spirit of the Universal Press was urgently asked to open a special fund to meet the needs of the coming winter.
This letter in hand, Mr. Hartz pondered rather less than a minute, and then he pressed a bell-button fixed in the side of his desk sharply three times.
The summons was answered at once by a youngish, bald, dome-headed man who wore the serious, rather pinched look that accompanies an intense preoccupation with money.
“Good-morning, Mumby.” The Chief greeted cheerfully the financial member of his Cabinet. Then he tossed him the letter. Before Mr. Mumby, in order to do justice to this document, could fix gold-rimmed eyeglasses to a nose with a narrow ridge, the Colossus gave a soft chuckle.
“A slight—a very slight irritation of the lobe of the left ear”—while he plucked at that organ his eye was fixed on Mr. Mumby’s face—“tells me that an irruption of Popocatapetl is about to occur. I hope you appreciate its significance.”
Even Mr. Mumby, schooled as he was in the more recondite ways of the Chief, was at a loss. The Colossus, however, was kind enough at once to enlighten him. “Tell me,” he said, “what is the price of National Mexican Thirds?”
“They closed last night,” said Mr. Mumby, who carried all little matters of that kind in his head, “at forty-six and an eighth, rather sellers.”
The Chief tapped an excellent set of teeth with a black lead pencil, a favorite trick when engaged in thinking constructively. “Suppose you go a bear—a modest bear?” Again he plucked at his left ear, but this time a smile famous upon five continents accompanied the action.
“When shall I cover, sir?” said Mr. Mumby, impassively.
“Twelve o’clock on Thursday,” said the Colossus. “And you can start the fund of His Nibs with the proceeds.”
“A thousand pounds, sir?” Mr. Mumby was more impassive than ever.
“Yes. A thousand pounds from the proprietor of the Planet newspaper. That, I think, should meet the case—to begin with, at any rate.”
For the third time the Colossus plucked a little whimsically at his left ear. Mr. Mumby bowed discreetly and retired.