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CHAPTER III

A CYNICAL TOXICOLOGIST

WILLIAM WISWALL lived on Washington Heights, in an old-fashioned mansion whose rear overlooked the Hudson River. Far richer than any one but himself knew, he lived alone in this great house, for he was a bachelor, making little parade of his wealth. The basis of this wealth was a small farm he had inherited from an uncle, in western Pennsylvania, on which, in "balloon" times, oil had been discovered. It had been sold at a top price, while he was yet a minor, and the proceeds invested in real estate. Shortly after he came of age and into control of his property, New York experienced one of its periodical real estate advances and Wiswall, disposing at the highest mark, invested the greenback proceeds in United States securities, payable in gold, which had made him rich. He had never engaged in business or profession.

A bundle of inconsistencies, he believed in

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nothing but the discarded stories of the secret and subtle poisons of the time of the Borgias, to the discovery of the lost secrets of which he devoted his life, and gathered a rare library on toxicology. Denounced as an atheist, he indifferently denied the charge, declaring, if anything, he was an agnostic, and gave color to the charge by affirming that he refused to accept the responsibility of existence since he had no part in, or given consent to, the state he found himself in. Moral obligations, imposed by the very fact of existence, he refused to recognize; those physical, only because he found himself powerless to contend against them. He denounced all laws and obeyed them scrupulously; condemned churches and contributed largely to the cause of religion. Insisting there was, in fact, no difference between morality and immorality, except taste and inclination, he led a life clean and white. He laughed at honesty, public or private, and was himself strict to a penny; loaned money without security, solely on his judgment of the borrower, and boasted he had never lost a loan. Pronouncing himself a socialist in politics, he advocated the theories of that party, voted for conservative Democrats and contributed to the Republican campaign fund, defending his act by saying that he gave to each party what it most wanted.

Denouncing poverty as a crime, he was generous in his bounties. Embracing every wild theory, yet he gave the wisest counsel to those who sought his advice. Friends and acquaintances gave up all attempts at understanding him and accepted him as an unsolvable riddle, an entertaining cynic with a biting wit, who could be relied on for aid when it was needed.

J. Percival Dunbar was his nephew, and during a period of that young man's minority Wiswall had been trustee of the lad's small inheritance. His nephew consulted with him at every turn of his affairs, and it was to Wiswall's home that he went, where he could not be reached, as he had told his newly made secretary. William Wiswall was at his lunch when Percy reached him.

"Sit down and have a bite if you can find anything to eat," greeted his uncle. "I can't. They starve me here."

The young man smiled as he seated himself and looked over the bountiful table. It was one of his uncle's fictions that his servants starved him.

"Universal is down to 90, I see," said the elder man. "What's the matter?"

The younger man flared up. His uncle was the one person to whom he let himself go.

"Matter?" he repeated. "C. C. Edgar is a dd scoundrel."

"Granted," responded his uncle, emptying his wine-glass and pushing it aside. "We all are, more or less. But what particular bit of scoundrelism is he engaged in now?" "Unloading and 'bearing' the stock." "Who denies his right to do so?"

"I do, when it is likely to ruin our enterprise and me with it. He says he means to buy in at 40 and then bull it above par."

"To repeat the thing when he gets ready?" "I presume so. He'll make a million and a half clear at any turn. He has ordered me to close the works-all except the Brooklyn factory."

"Ordered you? Will that do it?"

"It will, with the attack on the Universal, that it is over-capitalized, which he will put out in a financial paper he controls. Then, all of our orders for future deliveries which would have kept us going for two years without addition, are being canceled through his manipulation, I am confident."

"A rare and delightful scheme of scoundrelism which is only another name for modern finance. All this he has done without your knowledge?"

"No, he called me this morning and told

me to unload, too-gave me a week to do it in. I must do that or be ruined."

"Why ruined? If he bulls it again you can hold on."

"That's the point. If the drop goes to 40 it cannot be stopped there, in my judgment, and can never be recovered. See here, not one cent has been paid in on the stock. It is all water."

"Somewhat aqueous, to be sure."

The elderly man rose and taking his six feet of distinction across the room to a cabinet, took from it a box of cigars. Making a selection carefully, he laid the box before his nephew. Placing himself in front of the low burning fire in the grate, he said:

"My dear Percy," for so he called the young man, "that monumental injustice called organized society unpleasantly provides a punishment for just the thing you have been doing, in the shape of inquisitorial legal machinery and prisons. In concealing the fact of that water, as treasurer, you have falsified your reports. The wise man, my dear nephew, is he who recognizes the invincible power of organized society to inflict its punishment and, as well, its vindictiveness. You have been far from wise. I am not condemning you. I am simply warning you to be wise."

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