Some there were who remembered him eighteen years ago as an adventurer
in the great wilderness of London, penniless, friendless, a
Jack-of-all-trades, living as the birds of the air live, and with as
little certainty of future maintenance. And then Mr. Smithson
disappeared for a space--he went under, as his friends called it; to
re-appear fifteen years later as Smithson the millionaire. He had been
in Peru, Mexico, California. He had traded in hides, in diamonds, in
silver, in stocks and shares. And now he was the great Smithson, whose
voice was the voice of an oracle, who was supposed to be able to make
the fortunes of other men by a word, or a wink, a nod, or a little look
across the crowd, and whom all the men and women in London
society--short of that exclusive circle which does _not_ open its ranks
to Smithsons--were ready to cherish and admire.
Mr. Smithson had been in Petersburg, Paris, Vienna, all over civilised
Europe during the last five weeks, whether on business or on pleasure
bent, nobody knew. He affected to be an elegant idler; but it was said
by the initiated that wherever Smithson went the markets rose or fell,
and hides, iron, copper, or tin, felt the influence of his presence.
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