E. Phillips Oppenheim

The Inevitable Millionaires

Warsaw 2018

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER I

At precisely half-past eight o’clock, on a grey February morning, two amiable-looking, middle-aged gentlemen left a medium-sized house of comfortable appearance, in the neighbourhood of Hampstead, and commenced a walk undertaken by them daily, in the interests of health, with the exception of Sundays, public holidays and a fortnight in August. There was sufficient resemblance between the two to proclaim them brothers–at first sight, indeed, they might have been taken for twins. They were both about five feet five inches in height, they both had kindly, if somewhat insignificant faces, shrewd grey eyes, and tight, firm lips. Their names were Stephen and George Henry Underwood, and their ages respectively fifty-one and forty-eight. There were many who professed to be unable to tell them apart, and the differences between them were, in fact, scarcely noticeable. Stephen’s brown moustache was, perhaps, a little scantier than his brother’s and the obtruding note of grey was more obvious; the hair around his ears was a little more grizzled and there was a trifle less colour in his somewhat thinner cheeks. Otherwise the likeness between them was almost remarkable. They both wore broad-toed shoes, hand-sewn to order by a bootmaker in a remote alley situated in one of the backwaters of the City, dark business suits of unfashionable cut, differing only slightly in pattern and material, collars of antiquated shape, inoffensive ties and black bowler hats. They avoided in their attire both the flamboyant splendours of the professional City man and the sporting note affected by the stockbroker and his mate. They were City merchants, and they desired to dress as such.

They went through their usual little programme as they turned the corner of the street into the broader thoroughfare. George Henry looked up at the skies and down at his furled umbrella. They spoke always first of the weather.

“The rain will keep off, I think,” George Henry remarked, glancing from his umbrella to the sky.

“I hope so,” was the amiable reply. “There are plenty of clouds about, but they seem high.”

“I wonder,” George Henry surmised, “at what hour Mr. Duncan will send us the balance sheet.”

“He promised it by midday,” his brother reminded him. “If you have not returned from Mincing Lane, I shall not, of course, open it until you come.”

“The result,” George Henry observed a little nervously, “cannot fail to be satisfactory.”

“There is no doubt whatever about that,” Stephen agreed. “We have been very fortunate, George Henry.”

“Very fortunate indeed, Stephen.”

They walked steadily on until they reached the Park, which they crossed diagonally. They traversed Portland Place and the upper part of Regent Street. At Oxford Street they descended into the Tube and reached their offices in Basinghall Street as the clock was striking ten. The premises themselves were not imposing, but there was a suggestion of opulence in the spacious but murky warehouses behind. As they passed through the clerks’ office they both raised their hats and said good morning, a greeting which was at once returned by three capable-looking clerks, a cashier, a manager and an office boy. Stephen glanced at one empty stool and frowned.

“Harold is late again, I see,” he remarked as, arrived at their inner office, they divested themselves of their coats and hats.

George Henry sighed.

“I fear that his heart is not in the business,” he said. “However, we must make allowances. He is young, very young.”

“I am inclined to wish,” Stephen continued, “that his father had chosen some other avocation for him. However, as it was his wish that he should enter this business, we must do our best, George Henry. If he does not settle down soon I should suggest that we send him out for a visit to one of our Burmese properties.”

“He will probably find fewer distractions there,” George Henry agreed.

Stephen was seated now before an immense pile of correspondence. His eyes glittered with anticipatory interest. He divided the pile neatly, and passed half across to his brother.

“It is hard to realize what distractions there can be to compare with those offered by the ramifications of a business such as ours,” he observed.

“The boy is young,” George Henry murmured tolerantly. “You must remember that we are getting to be old fogies, Stephen.”

“Old fogies! Rubbish!” was the indignant denial. “You are only forty-eight, George Henry. You are a young man.”

“And you,” George Henry rejoined with spirit, “are only three years older. That is no difference at all. Three years do not count. We are practically of the same age. And as to being old fogies––”

George Henry broke off in his speech and glanced for a moment out of the window. His thoughts travelled back along the course of his exceedingly well-ordered life, a life conducted with the utmost propriety, with the most rigorous monotony of good conduct. He had committed no foolish actions, he had never once been conscious of any desire to look into the land of adventure which lay somewhere on the westward side of that line drawn between Hampstead and the City. He was satisfied–perfectly satisfied–and yet, he was passing middle age, he was certainly becoming an old fogy. He suddenly recollected his task. Pencil in hand, he dealt with his pile of correspondence, making notes in the margin of each letter. As soon as they had finished their piles, they exchanged them. There was scarcely a comment made, each was always satisfied with his brother’s decision. When they had come to an end, George Henry rose to his feet, took up his hat, put on his overcoat, drew on his gloves and departed for Mincing Lane. Stephen sent for his manager, his cashier, and his typist in turn. The business ran like a well-oiled machine.

At twelve o’clock, George Henry returned from Mincing Lane. Upon the desk in front of Stephen was a long legal envelope, inscribed with the name of the firm.

“The balance sheet has arrived from Mr. Duncan,” Stephen announced. “Shall we examine it together?”

“It would be advisable to do so,” George Henry agreed, taking off his coat and hat without undue haste.

It was Stephen who, by immemorial custom, cut open the sealed flap of the envelope and George Henry who stood by his side. They turned over the rustling pages and glanced at the figures announced as the final result with joint and breathless awe.

“We are millionaires,” George Henry murmured.

“With a few thousands to the good. Our profits for last year, even after depreciating the Burmese properties, amount to one hundred and thirty thousand pounds.”

“Incredible!”

“It is nevertheless true. The firm of Duncan and Company are the most careful accountants in the City. There is no possibility of any mistake.”

The brothers looked at one another with the shamefaced air of schoolboys convicted of a misdemeanour. They were shrewd men of business and hard workers, but wealth such as this was almost beyond their desires.

“After all,” George Henry, who was the optimist of the firm, pointed out hopefully, “we are only half a millionaire–I mean we are only a millionaire between us.”

“It is impossible to escape from the fact,” Stephen groaned, “that we are worth exactly five hundred and three thousand pounds each.”

There was an awkward silence. The possession of such a sum was without doubt criminal. George Henry peered once more into the envelope.

“Here is a letter from Mr. Duncan,” he announced.

“Read it,” his brother begged.

George Henry adjusted with precision a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses upon his nose, cleared his throat and read:

17 Throgmorton Street, February 9.

DEAR SIRS,

I enclose your annual balance sheet, upon which I will make no comment save to offer you–shall I say my wondering congratulations? Your stock in trade and securities have been depreciated to the fullest extent, and a sum of twenty thousand pounds for charities included in the profit and loss account.

I feel that the time has now arrived when it is my duty to forward to you the enclosed letter, left in my care by your late father, with instructions to pass it on to you under certain contingencies which have now arisen. I feel sure that you will do your best to realize your obligations in the matter.

Sincerely,

THEODORE DUNCAN.

“A letter from our father,” Stephen murmured, gazing at the envelope.

“It is certainly his handwriting,” George Henry declared.

They lingered for a moment over it, as one does over a communication from the dead. Then Stephen reverently cut the flap of the envelope and withdrew the enclosure. He read out its contents in a low tone:

MY DEAR SONS,

I am leaving you a business which, barring any great changes in the commercial world, seems to me likely to make you both, in a very short time, exceedingly rich men. I send you a few words of advice, begging you to avoid a certain mistake into which I feel that my perhaps too frugal habits have led me. You know the conditions under which you spent your boyhood–pleasant, I trust, but governed all the time by the most rigid economy. Up to these last days I believe I am correct in saying that I have never drawn from the business more than fifteen hundred pounds a year. I have had no expensive tastes to gratify, our charities are fixed by an ancient deed of partnership, and I have been happiest in the modest way of living to which I have been accustomed. Of late, however, I have seriously questioned the wisdom, the policy and the integrity of living upon the twentieth part of one’s income. I have been convinced of a new truth. It is the duty of the man enjoying a large measure of prosperity to spend a reasonable proportion of his earnings.

I charge you, therefore, Stephen and George Henry, without waste or ostentation, yet with a certain lavishness, to disseminate amongst your fellow creatures a considerable portion of the income which I feel will accrue to you. Avoid the Stock Exchange or gambling upon horses. Do not speculate in any way unless the result of such speculation is likely to bring definite good to a deserving fellow creature. Without undue extravagance, try to find pleasures the gratification of which demands the spending of money. The art of spending is as difficult as the art of saving. I beg you both to cultivate it, so that, if your wealth should at any time become known to the world, you will avoid the, to me, entirely opprobrious epithet of “miser.”

These are my last words to you, my sons, and I conclude with all love.

Your affectionate father, STEPHEN UNDERWOOD.

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