Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    An African Millionaire
    An African Millionaire
    An African Millionaire
    Ebook242 pages4 hours

    An African Millionaire

    By Grant Allen

    4/5

    ()

    Switch to audiobook
    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen was born on February 24th, 1848 at Alwington, near Kingston, Canada West (now part of Ontario). Home schooled until 13 when his family moved to England, Grant was to become a highly regarded science writer who branched out to a fiction career and became enormously popular. His work helped propel several genres of fiction and whilst his career was short it was enormously productive. Grant’s scientific background enabled him to root much of his work in a plausibility that was denied to others. He had little fear in challenging a society that treated women as second class citizens and creating best sellers from such works. On October 25th 1899 Grant Allen died at his home in Hindhead, Haslemere, Surrey, England. He died just before finishing Hilda Wade. The novel's final episode, which he dictated to his friend, doctor and neighbour Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from his bed appeared under the appropriate title, The Episode of the Dead Man Who Spoke in 1900.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateJun 11, 2015
    ISBN9781785432972
    Author

    Grant Allen

    Grant Allen was a Canadian scientific writer and novelist, educated in England. He was a public promoter of the theory of evolution in the second half of the nineteenth century.

    Read more from Grant Allen

    Related to An African Millionaire

    Related ebooks

    Action & Adventure Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • UNLIMITED

      La Otra Historia

      Jun 30, 2022

      La Otra Historia
      14 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Hello, Grim Reaper

      Dec 15, 2021

      She was a babe. A fully paid-up, card-carrying babe. There was absolutely no doubt about it, and she was heading straight for me. She was almost sprinting towards me across the recently reimagined lobby of Claridge’s. She looked up, her scarlet-anoin

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Money

      Mar 31, 2024

      Money
      11 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Stranger Than Fiction

      Apr 12, 2024

      Stranger Than Fiction
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Fairest Of Them All

      Nov 13, 2024

      Fairest Of Them All
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Pre-loved Treasure House

      Oct 14, 2019

      A Pre-loved Treasure House
      9 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Scoundrel’s Lair

      Jul 9, 2023

      Scoundrel’s Lair
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      When Lizzie met Maggie

      Dec 13, 2023

      The Grim Reaper has been having a high old time of late. I've barely had a moment to keep up with my diary, I have been so busy writing letters of condolence, attending funerals and giving addresses at memorial services. I was especially saddened by

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Readers' Letters

      Dec 10, 2024

      Readers' Letters
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Escape Of Koravitch

      Sep 30, 2019

      The Escape Of Koravitch
      16 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      COUNT of The OCCULT

      Dec 28, 2023

      COUNT of The OCCULT
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Gay Hero Of The SAS

      Dec 14, 2022

      My elder brother Carlos was a pal of Paddy (real name Robert) Blair Mayne (1915-55) – one of the prominent SAS men in the BBC TV series Rogue Heroes. Back in the 1950s, they went carousing together around the many Dublin pubs. PBM was from a strict P

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Readers’ Letters

      Oct 18, 2023

      Readers’ Letters
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Vaguely Clever

      Jun 29, 2022

      It was quite a coup for our little church in the Sussex village of Ticehurst. Edith Vogel, a renowned pianist, had generously come down from London to give a recital in aid of the restoration of the roof. She was well into a Beethoven sonata which wa

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Scrabble On The Nile

      Jul 16, 2021

      Scrabble On The Nile
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      End Of My Purple Reign

      Oct 16, 2024

      Now comes the big life change: goodbye to being a punk grandma. For some years, I have dyed my hair purple, following some urge to capture an old-hippy look. But I suddenly grew tired of doing so, and decided to let the colour grow out. The change wa

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Last Portion Of Chips

      Sep 21, 2022

      Last Portion Of Chips
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Old Un's Notes

      Jan 11, 2023

      Just before Christmas, historian Lady Antonia Fraser composed a verse on confronting that age-old companion to faith – doubt – at Farm Street Church, Mayfair. Nick Downes is one of the most treasured cartoonists at Oldie Towers (see above right for a

      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      City Of A Scandal

      Jan 4, 2023

      City Of A Scandal
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Last Orders

      Jul 28, 2021

      Last Orders
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Playing Fast And Loose

      Sep 25, 2024

      Playing Fast And Loose
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Chronicles of NOELLA BRY

      Jun 10, 2022

      Chronicles of NOELLA BRY
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Roger's PROFANISAURUS

      Nov 19, 2020

      Roger's PROFANISAURUS
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Ruthless Rhymes

      Dec 10, 2024

      Ruthless Rhymes
      4 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for An African Millionaire

    4/5

    2 ratings2 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 3/5
      Amusing stories about a rogue who assumes different identites to swindle a dishonest millionaire.
    • 5/5
      A collection of short stories about a confidence trickster preying on the millionaire of the title.This con-man,who goes under the name of Colonel Clay is a master of disguise and can change his appearance to a remarkable degree.He first coup is to get himself invited to a seance as a 'Mexican Seer' and perform a series of seemingly supernatural acts. This in front of a group of people which include Sir Charles Vandrift and his secretary Seymour Wilbraham Wentworth. As as result of his actions he relieves Sir Charles of some £5000.In most of the other stories he manages by various methods to extract money,diamonds,bonds and cheques from the increasingly desperate millionaire,who tries unsuccessfully to capture him.The thief pre-dates Hornung's A.J.Raffles by a few years,but is very much of the same type - a gentleman thief,that the reader can feel sympathy with. Although the stories begin to get somewhat similar as the book progresses and the feeling that the millionaire and his helpers are rather more stupid and gullible than necessary,this still,remains after all these years a good read.

    Book preview

    An African Millionaire - Grant Allen

    An African Millionaire by Grant Allen

    Episodes in the Life of the Illustrious Colonel Clay

    Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen was born on February 24th, 1848 at Alwington, near Kingston, Canada West (now part of Ontario).

    Home schooled until 13 when his family moved to England, Grant was to become a highly regarded science writer who branched out to a fiction career and became enormously popular.

    His work helped propel several genres of fiction and whilst his career was short it was enormously productive.

    Grant’s scientific background enabled him to root much of his work in a plausibility that was denied to others. He had little fear in challenging a society that treated women as second class citizens and creating best sellers from such works.

    On October 25th 1899 Grant Allen died at his home in Hindhead, Haslemere, Surrey, England. He died just before finishing Hilda Wade. The novel's final episode, which he dictated to his friend, doctor and neighbour Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from his bed appeared under the appropriate title, The Episode of the Dead Man Who Spoke in 1900.

    Index of Contents

    I - The Episode of the Mexican Seer

    II - The Episode of the Diamond Links

    III - The Episode of the Old Master

    IV - The Episode of the Tyrolean Castle

    V - The Episode of the Drawn Game

    VI - The Episode of the German Professor

    VII - The Episode of the Arrest of the Colonel

    VIII - The Episode of the Seldon Gold-Mine

    IX - The Episode of the Japanned Dispatch-Box

    X - The Episode of the Game of Poker

    XI - The Episode of the Bertillon Method

    XII - The Episode of the Old Bailey

    Grant Allen – A Short Biography

    Grant Allen – A Concise Bibliography

    I

    THE EPISODE OF THE MEXICAN SEER

    My name is Seymour Wilbraham Wentworth. I am brother-in-law and secretary to Sir Charles Vandrift, the South African millionaire and famous financier. Many years ago, when Charlie Vandrift was a small lawyer in Cape Town, I had the (qualified) good fortune to marry his sister. Much later, when the Vandrift estate and farm near Kimberley developed by degrees into the Cloetedorp Golcondas, Limited, my brother-in-law offered me the not un-remunerative post of secretary; in which capacity I have ever since been his constant and attached companion.

    He is not a man whom any common sharper can take in, is Charles Vandrift. Middle height, square build, firm mouth, keen eyes, the very picture of a sharp and successful business genius. I have only known one rogue impose upon Sir Charles, and that one rogue, as the Commissary of Police at Nice remarked, would doubtless have imposed upon a syndicate of Vidocq, Robert Houdin, and Cagliostro.

    We had run across to the Riviera for a few weeks in the season. Our object being strictly rest and recreation from the arduous duties of financial combination, we did not think it necessary to take our wives out with us. Indeed, Lady Vandrift is absolutely wedded to the joys of London, and does not appreciate the rural delights of the Mediterranean littoral. But Sir Charles and I, though immersed in affairs when at home, both thoroughly enjoy the complete change from the City to the charming vegetation and pellucid air on the terrace at Monte Carlo. We are so fond of scenery. That delicious view over the rocks of Monaco, with the Maritime Alps in the rear, and the blue sea in front, not to mention the imposing Casino in the foreground, appeals to me as one of the most beautiful prospects in all Europe. Sir Charles has a sentimental attachment for the place. He finds it restores and freshens him, after the turmoil of London, to win a few hundreds at roulette in the course of an afternoon among the palms and cactuses and pure breezes of Monte Carlo. The country, say I, for a jaded intellect! However, we never on any account actually stop in the Principality itself. Sir Charles thinks Monte Carlo is not a sound address for a financier's letters. He prefers a comfortable hotel on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, where he recovers health and renovates his nervous system by taking daily excursions along the coast to the Casino.

    This particular season we were snugly ensconced at the Hôtel des Anglais. We had capital quarters on the first floor, salon, study, and bedrooms, and found on the spot a most agreeable cosmopolitan society. All Nice, just then, was ringing with talk about a curious impostor, known to his followers as the Great Mexican Seer, and supposed to be gifted with second sight, as well as with endless other supernatural powers. Now, it is a peculiarity of my able brother-in-law's that, when he meets with a quack, he burns to expose him; he is so keen a man of business himself that it gives him, so to speak, a disinterested pleasure to unmask and detect imposture in others. Many ladies at the hotel, some of whom had met and conversed with the Mexican Seer, were constantly telling us strange stories of his doings. He had disclosed to one the present whereabouts of a runaway husband; he had pointed out to another the numbers that would win at roulette next evening; he had shown a third the image on a screen of the man she had for years adored without his knowledge. Of course, Sir Charles didn't believe a word of it; but his curiosity was roused; he wished to see and judge for himself of the wonderful thought-reader.

    What would be his terms, do you think, for a private séance? he asked of Madame Picardet, the lady to whom the Seer had successfully predicted the winning numbers.

    He does not work for money, Madame Picardet answered, but for the good of humanity. I'm sure he would gladly come and exhibit for nothing his miraculous faculties.

    Nonsense! Sir Charles answered. The man must live. I'd pay him five guineas, though, to see him alone. What hotel is he stopping at?

    The Cosmopolitan, I think, the lady answered. Oh no; I remember now, the Westminster.

    Sir Charles turned to me quietly. Look here, Seymour, he whispered. Go round to this fellow's place immediately after dinner, and offer him five pounds to give a private séance at once in my rooms, without mentioning who I am to him; keep the name quite quiet. Bring him back with you, too, and come straight upstairs with him, so that there may be no collusion. We'll see just how much the fellow can tell us.

    I went as directed. I found the Seer a very remarkable and interesting person. He stood about Sir Charles's own height, but was slimmer and straighter, with an aquiline nose, strangely piercing eyes, very large black pupils, and a finely-chiselled close-shaven face, like the bust of Antinous in our hall in Mayfair. What gave him his most characteristic touch, however, was his odd head of hair, curly and wavy like Paderewski's, standing out in a halo round his high white forehead and his delicate profile. I could see at a glance why he succeeded so well in impressing women; he had the look of a poet, a singer, a prophet.

    I have come round, I said, to ask whether you will consent to give a séance at once in a friend's rooms; and my principal wishes me to add that he is prepared to pay five pounds as the price of the entertainment.

    Señor Antonio Herrera, that was what he called himself, bowed to me with impressive Spanish politeness. His dusky olive cheeks were wrinkled with a smile of gentle contempt as he answered gravely—

    I do not sell my gifts; I bestow them freely. If your friend, your anonymous friend, desires to behold the cosmic wonders that are wrought through my hands, I am glad to show them to him. Fortunately, as often happens when it is necessary to convince and confound a sceptic (for that your friend is a sceptic I feel instinctively), I chance to have no engagements at all this evening. He ran his hand through his fine, long hair reflectively. Yes, I go, he continued, as if addressing some unknown presence that hovered about the ceiling; I go; come with me! Then he put on his broad sombrero, with its crimson ribbon, wrapped a cloak round his shoulders, lighted a cigarette, and strode forth by my side towards the Hôtel des Anglais.

    He talked little by the way, and that little in curt sentences. He seemed buried in deep thought; indeed, when we reached the door and I turned in, he walked a step or two farther on, as if not noticing to what place I had brought him. Then he drew himself up short, and gazed around him for a moment. Ha, the Anglais, he said, and I may mention in passing that his English, in spite of a slight southern accent, was idiomatic and excellent. It is here, then; it is here! He was addressing once more the unseen presence.

    I smiled to think that these childish devices were intended to deceive Sir Charles Vandrift. Not quite the sort of man (as the City of London knows) to be taken in by hocus-pocus. And all this, I saw, was the cheapest and most commonplace conjurer's patter.

    We went upstairs to our rooms. Charles had gathered together a few friends to watch the performance. The Seer entered, wrapt in thought. He was in evening dress, but a red sash round his waist gave a touch of picturesqueness and a dash of colour. He paused for a moment in the middle of the salon, without letting his eyes rest on anybody or anything. Then he walked straight up to Charles, and held out his dark hand.

    Good-evening, he said. You are the host. My soul's sight tells me so.

    Good shot, Sir Charles answered. These fellows have to be quick-witted, you know, Mrs. Mackenzie, or they'd never get on at it.

    The Seer gazed about him, and smiled blankly at a person or two whose faces he seemed to recognise from a previous existence. Then Charles began to ask him a few simple questions, not about himself, but about me, just to test him. He answered most of them with surprising correctness. His name? His name begins with an S I think:—You call him Seymour. He paused long between each clause, as if the facts were revealed to him slowly. Seymour—Wilbraham—Earl of Strafford. No, not Earl of Strafford! Seymour Wilbraham Wentworth. There seems to be some connection in somebody's mind now present between Wentworth and Strafford. I am not English. I do not know what it means. But they are somehow the same name, Wentworth and Strafford.

    He gazed around, apparently for confirmation. A lady came to his rescue.

    Wentworth was the surname of the great Earl of Strafford, she murmured gently; and I was wondering, as you spoke, whether Mr. Wentworth might possibly be descended from him.

    He is, the Seer replied instantly, with a flash of those dark eyes. And I thought this curious; for though my father always maintained the reality of the relationship, there was one link wanting to complete the pedigree. He could not make sure that the Hon. Thomas Wilbraham Wentworth was the father of Jonathan Wentworth, the Bristol horse-dealer, from whom we are descended.

    Where was I born? Sir Charles interrupted, coming suddenly to his own case.

    The Seer clapped his two hands to his forehead and held it between them, as if to prevent it from bursting. Africa, he said slowly, as the facts narrowed down, so to speak. South Africa; Cape of Good Hope; Jansenville; De Witt Street. 1840.

    By Jove, he's correct, Sir Charles muttered. He seems really to do it. Still, he may have found me out. He may have known where he was coming.

    I never gave a hint, I answered; till he reached the door, he didn't even know to what hotel I was piloting him.

    The Seer stroked his chin softly. His eye appeared to me to have a furtive gleam in it. Would you like me to tell you the number of a bank-note inclosed in an envelope? he asked casually.

    Go out of the room, Sir Charles said, while I pass it round the company.

    Señor Herrera disappeared. Sir Charles passed it round cautiously, holding it all the time in his own hand, but letting his guests see the number. Then he placed it in an envelope and gummed it down firmly.

    The Seer returned. His keen eyes swept the company with a comprehensive glance. He shook his shaggy mane. Then he took the envelope in his hands and gazed at it fixedly. AF, 73549, he answered, in a slow tone. A Bank of England note for fifty pounds, exchanged at the Casino for gold won yesterday at Monte Carlo.

    I see how he did that, Sir Charles said triumphantly. He must have changed it there himself; and then I changed it back again. In point of fact, I remember seeing a fellow with long hair loafing about. Still, it's capital conjuring.

    He can see through matter, one of the ladies interposed. It was Madame Picardet. He can see through a box. She drew a little gold vinaigrette, such as our grandmothers used, from her dress-pocket. What is in this? she inquired, holding it up to him.

    Señor Herrera gazed through it. Three gold coins, he replied, knitting his brows with the effort of seeing into the box: one, an American five dollars; one, a French ten-franc piece; one, twenty marks, German, of the old Emperor William.

    She opened the box and passed it round. Sir Charles smiled a quiet smile.

    Confederacy! he muttered, half to himself. Confederacy!

    The Seer turned to him with a sullen air. You want a better sign? he said, in a very impressive voice. A sign that will convince you! Very well: you have a letter in your left waistcoat pocket, a crumpled-up letter. Do you wish me to read it out? I will, if you desire it.

    It may seem to those who know Sir Charles incredible, but, I am bound to admit, my brother-in-law coloured. What that letter contained I cannot say; he only answered, very testily and evasively, No, thank you; I won't trouble you. The exhibition you have already given us of your skill in this kind more than amply suffices. And his fingers strayed nervously to his waistcoat pocket, as if he was half afraid, even then, Señor Herrera would read it.

    I fancied, too, he glanced somewhat anxiously towards Madame Picardet.

    The Seer bowed courteously. Your will, señor, is law, he said. I make it a principle, though I can see through all things, invariably to respect the secrecies and sanctities. If it were not so, I might dissolve society. For which of us is there who could bear the whole truth being told about him? He gazed around the room. An unpleasant thrill supervened. Most of us felt this uncanny Spanish American knew really too much. And some of us were engaged in financial operations.

    For example, the Seer continued blandly, I happened a few weeks ago to travel down here from Paris by train with a very intelligent man, a company promoter. He had in his bag some documents, some confidential documents: he glanced at Sir Charles. You know the kind of thing, my dear sir: reports from experts, from mining engineers. You may have seen some such; marked strictly private.

    They form an element in high finance, Sir Charles admitted coldly.

    Pre-cisely, the Seer murmured, his accent for a moment less Spanish than before. And, as they were marked strictly private, I respect, of course, the seal of confidence. That's all I wish to say. I hold it a duty, being intrusted with such powers, not to use them in a manner which may annoy or incommode my fellow-creatures.

    Your feeling does you honour, Sir Charles answered, with some acerbity. Then he whispered in my ear: Confounded clever scoundrel, Sey; rather wish we hadn't brought him here.

    Señor Herrera seemed intuitively to divine this wish, for he interposed, in a lighter and gayer tone—

    I will now show you a different and more interesting embodiment of occult power, for which we shall need a somewhat subdued arrangement of surrounding lights. Would you mind, señor host, for I have purposely abstained from reading your name on the brain of any one present, would you mind my turning down this lamp just a little? ... So! That will do. Now, this one; and this one. Exactly! that's right. He poured a few grains of powder out of a packet into a saucer. Next, a match, if you please. Thank you! It burnt with a strange green light. He drew from his pocket a card, and produced a little ink-bottle. Have you a pen? he asked.

    I instantly brought one. He handed it to Sir Charles. Oblige me, he said, by writing your name there. And he indicated a place in the centre of the card, which had an embossed edge, with a small middle square of a different colour.

    Sir Charles has a natural disinclination to signing his name without knowing why. What do you want with it? he asked. (A millionaire's signature has so many uses.)

    I want you to put the card in an envelope, the Seer replied, and then to burn it. After that, I shall show you your own name written in letters of blood on my arm, in your own handwriting.

    Sir Charles took the pen. If the signature was to be burned as soon as finished, he didn't mind giving it. He wrote his name in his usual firm clear style, the writing of a man who knows his worth and is not afraid of drawing a cheque for five thousand.

    Look at it long, the Seer said, from the other side of the room. He had not watched him write it.

    Sir Charles stared at it fixedly. The Seer was really beginning to produce an impression.

    Now, put it in that envelope, the Seer exclaimed.

    Sir Charles, like a lamb, placed it as directed.

    The Seer strode forward. Give me the envelope, he said. He took it in his hand, walked over towards the fireplace, and solemnly burnt it. See, it crumbles into ashes, he cried. Then he came back to the middle of the room, close to the green light, rolled up his sleeve, and held his arm before Sir Charles. There, in blood-red letters, my brother-in-law read the name, Charles Vandrift, in his own handwriting!

    I see how that's done, Sir Charles murmured, drawing back. It's a clever delusion; but still, I see through it. It's like that ghost-book. Your ink was deep green; your light was green; you made me look at it long; and then I saw the same thing written on the skin of your arm in complementary colours.

    You think so? the Seer replied, with a curious curl of the lip.

    I'm sure of it, Sir Charles answered.

    Quick as lightning the Seer again rolled up his sleeve. That's your name, he cried, in a very clear voice, but not your whole name. What do you say, then, to my right? Is this one also a complementary colour? He held his other arm out. There, in sea-green letters, I read the name, Charles O'Sullivan Vandrift. It is my brother-in-law's full baptismal designation; but he has dropped the O'Sullivan for many years past, and, to say the truth, doesn't like it. He is a little bit ashamed of his mother's family.

    Charles glanced at it hurriedly. Quite right, he said, quite right! But his voice was hollow. I could guess he didn't care to continue the séance. He could see through the man, of course; but it was clear the fellow knew too much about us to be entirely pleasant.

    Turn up the lights, I said, and a servant turned them. Shall I say coffee and benedictine? I whispered to Vandrift.

    By all means, he answered. Anything to keep this fellow from further impertinences! And, I say, don't you think you'd better suggest at the same time that the men should smoke? Even these ladies are not above a cigarette—some of them.

    There was a sigh of relief. The lights burned brightly. The Seer for the moment retired from business, so to speak. He accepted a partaga with a very good grace, sipped his coffee in a corner, and chatted to

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1