in the
impersonal manner of the ordinary history; I myself occupying the
position of unseen spectator. The rest of the book is largely founded
upon the diary which I actually kept.

THE RED HAND OF ULSTER

CHAPTER I

It was in 1908 that Joseph Peterson Conroy burst upon London in the
full magnificence of his astounding wealth. English society was, and
had been for many years, accustomed to the irruption of millionaires,
American or South African. Our aristocracy has learnt to pay these
potentates the respect which is their due. Well-born men and women
trot along Park Lane in obedience to the hooting calls of motor horns.
No one considers himself degraded by grovelling before a plutocrat.

It has been for some time difficult to startle London by a display of
mere wealth. Men respect more than ever fortunes which are reckoned in
millions, though they have become too common to amaze. But Joseph
Peterson Conroy, when he came, excited a great deal of interest. In
the first place his income was enormous, larger, it was said, than the
income of any other living man. In the next place he spent it very
splendidly. There were no entertainments given in London during the
years 1909, 1910, and 1911, equal in extravagance to those which
Conroy gave. He outdid the "freak dinners" of New York. He invented
freak dinners of his own. His horses--animals which he bought at
enormous prices--won the great races. His yachts flew the white
ensign of the Royal Yacht Squadron. His gifts to fashionable charities
were princely. English society fell at his feet and worshipped him.
The most exclusive clubs were honoured by his desire of membership.
Women whose fathers and husbands bore famous names were proud to boast
of his friendship.

It cannot be said that Conroy abused either his position or his
opportunities. He had won his great wealth honestly--that is to say
without robbing any one except other robbers, and only robbing them in
ways permitted by American law. He used what he had won honourably
enough. He neither bought the favours of the women who thronged his
entertainments; nor degraded, more than was necessary, the men who
sought benefits from him. For a time, for nearly four years, he
thoroughly enjoyed himself, exulting with boyish delight in his own
splendour. Then he began to get restless. The things he did, the
people he knew, ceased to interest him. It was early in 1911 that
the crisis came; and before the se