"Not a shadow," said Wren confidently. "Not even Macgowan could make that stick on us."
"So Mansfield said. He should know. I'll call him up—"
"He's in Albany."
"Judge Holcomb around?"
"Yes."
"Well, you keep quiet about this." Armstrong rose. "It may all come to nothing, as usual."
He went to the office used by the committee of the Protective Association, where he found Judge Holcomb. The latter gave Armstrong a keen glance, and smiled.
"Congratulations, my boy! You look yourself—got your fighting clothes on again?"
"Lord, I must have been moping around here like a wet hen! Judge, I'm trying to run down something. Did you ever hear of a downtown law firm by the name of Milligan, Milligan, Hoyt & Brainard?"
The old judge leaned back.
"Did I ever hear of them? I did, to my sorrow. Haven't I ever told you about the time that Macgowan's law firm hooked me hard and fast?"
Armstrong thrilled suddenly. "But that firm isn't his—"
"That firm," said Judge Holcomb with decision, "is the one that handled my case for me. On the other side of the case was Macgowan's firm. And Macgowan was a very silent but active partner in Milligan et cetera! Oh, yes, they hooked me."
"Can you prove that statement?" demanded Armstrong sharply.
"I cannot. As we know to our cost, any one who can obtain definite evidence against Lawrence Macgowan is a miracle worker. Still, a number of attorneys are convinced of the fact."
"All right, thanks." Armstrong nodded and rose. "I may see you later about it."
Returning to his own office, he summoned his secretary. Already a keen exultation was thrilling inside of him; already he felt that at last he was going to score a point against Macgowan. This Windsor would never suspect that he was being bribed, that Macgowan had any connection with the legal firm offering him a job. Armstrong accepted Todrank's estimate of Windsor implicitly, knowing that it would be accurate.
He gave his secretary Windsor's name and asked her to call him at the Pennsylvania and make an appointment for that afternoon. She left on her errand. Armstrong sat for a space in silence, eagerly awaiting a call. None came. Presently the secretary returned.
"Did you get him?"
She hesitated. "I—yes, I got him, but—"
"Well?"
"He said that he was leaving for Indianapolis in half an hour and had no time for—for crooks. He said the only appointment he would make with you was before a Federal judge, and that he'd make this appointment in his own good time. I'm sorry, sir—"
"Never mind." Armstrong shrugged. "Get Mr. Dorns on the wire if you can."
He reflected rapidly. The situation was undoubtedly serious. Windsor would never have given such a message unless he had some incriminatory evidence—yet what could he have?
The telephone rang. Armstrong picked up the receiver.
"Hello, Dorns? Oh, pretty well, thanks! Something very important has just come up. I must get to Indianapolis Monday morning sure—I'll catch a late train to-night. When I get there I'll want help. Can you put me in touch with your agent there?"
"Better'n that," responded Dorns quickly. "I've got to be in Chicago next Saturday. I can spare a few days in Indianapolis. But can't you catch that train at five this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Good. That gives us a clear night's sleep in a bed before Monday wakes up. Same old fight, is it?"
"Yes, only something new this time. A fighting chance to put the enemy down and out. Bully for you, Dorns! I'll get that five o'clock train."
"All right. You get the reservations—I'll meet you at the gate five minutes before the train goes. I'm busy. So long."
Armstrong turned from the telephone. The thought of Dorothy leaped into his mind with a swiftly searching pang; he could not conquer it. After all, Indianapolis was so close to Evansville! He had no definite reason for seeing Tom Windsor, other than to demand a hearing. Perhaps, despite warnings, he would not have bothered about going except that—
"Maybe I'm a fool," he thought moodily. "I wonder if I've let this Windsor menace impress me too strongly—because of Evansville? It's not too late to change my mind—no, I'll go!"
It did not occur to him that this urge and pull of spiritual forces, this compellant thought of Dorothy, might have any connection with practical things. Men are slow to believe in guardian angels.
Late in the afternoon of that same Saturday that saw Armstrong's departure for Indianapolis, the same Saturday that saw Findlater placed completely in the power of Lawrence Macgowan, Jimmy Wren called to see Mrs. Bird Fowler. The call was unheralded and purely on impulse, for Wren was harassed and at his wits' end to serve Armstrong; the latter had not confided in him about Todrank's warning, but Jimmy Wren had guessed the purport from what Armstrong had said. He was worried and nervous.
Wren was sent up to the apartment and was received by the maid, who knew that he was a favored visitor.
"Mrs. Fowler is out, sir," she told him, "but I'm expecting her back at any minute now. I know she'd not want to miss you. If you'd care to wait—"
"Why, thanks, I will," said Jimmy Wren gratefully.
"Would you care for a fire, or tea—"
"No, nothing, until Mrs. Fowler comes," he rejoined, handing over his things. "I'll just sit around and smoke."
"Make yourself at home, sir. If you want anything, I'll be in the kitchen."
Jimmy Wren made his way to the cushioned window-seat, and with a sigh of relaxation settled down with a cigar. Mrs. Fowler's apartment was on the second floor, the windows overlooking the flashing street below, and the cool green distances of Central Park across the way were just emerging into the virginal glow of springtime.
The restful quiet of the room soothed Jimmy Wren's nerves; the silence, the sense of being at home, were grateful in the extreme. He watched the slithering motors in the street below, the glint of water and the thronging people in the park opposite, and felt himself gradually return to normal. Presently Mrs. Fowler would come, and a bit of music, a little sympathetic talk, would clear the blues from his mind.
After a bit he rose, abandoned his occupation, and began to walk about the room, seeking something to divert his thoughts. In one corner stood Mrs. Fowler's desk. It was open, and the noon edition of a paper lay upon it, an inkwell weighting down the newspaper. Pausing idly beside the desk, never thinking that the newspaper might have been so placed designedly, Jimmy Wren removed it and opened it out, glancing through the columns and scanning the headlines with careless gaze.
Then he turned and put down the paper—and as he did so, observed two objects over which it had originally been laid. One of these objects was a check; the other was an unsigned note.
Jimmy Wren stared down, absolutely petrified by the thing he saw, his eyes widening in fearful and terrible comprehension. For a long moment the written words did not penetrate to his consciousness. It was only the handwriting that he saw, the handwriting that smote into him with an actual physical shock, blinding him to everything but the staggering realization of its presence here on Mrs. Fowler's desk.
No one who had ever seen it could forget that bold, angular, masterful handwriting of Lawrence Macgowan.
Wren wet his lips, swallowed hard, stunned beyond any swift recovery. Mrs. Fowler did not know Macgowan, except very slightly indeed, and certainly had no use whatever for the man; indeed, Wren had very often discussed Macgowan's acts and schemes with her, feeling a sympathy and comprehension on her part which was very grateful. Her detestation of Macgowan's type of man was intense.
Then, why this letter—this communication with Macgowan?
Startled, angered, a flood of horrible suspicion searing into his soul, Jimmy Wren reached down and picked up that sheet of notepaper bearing the few lines of writing. Not until then did the words achieve impact upon his brain, but now that impact came with astounding and terrific force:
"Dear Viola: Herewith a check in the usual form, on account. During the next few days I want the fullest possible information. Then we'll hold that party of celebration."
Wren replaced the note, and let his eyes drop to the check. It did not bear Macgowan's name, and the signature was wholly strange to Wren.
After a moment he drew a quick breath, looked down at the desk, replaced the newspaper and weight as they had been originally, then turned and walked to the window-seat. There he sank down, staring out at the street and park beyond.
His brain was at work now, dreadfully at work. Viola! So Macgowan knew her by that other name, the same name Dorothy Armstrong had used. Viola Bland! And what information did Macgowan want—how long had Mrs. Fowler been collecting information for Macgowan? A little shiver passed through Wren's body. He remembered now about his flight to Tampa, and putting two and two together, began to form an unescapable certainty.
Presently he took off his black-rimmed glasses and polished them methodically. Fiery and impulsive as Jimmy Wren was, in a moment of crisis he was anything but emotional. The blow was sudden and severe, staggering him and sending all his scheme of things into reeling chaos; yet it was not in him to take it with any hysterical whirlwind of outward display. Instead, as he came to cold realization of the truth, all the acute perception of his character was wakened and rallied to face the situation.
The hurt was there, and it was deep, but not so deep as Jimmy Wren thought with the first blaze of pain. His quick, sharp wakening was proof sufficient of this. In Macgowan's handwriting he was given a broadly comprehensive vision of Mrs. Fowler to which he could not blind himself. Nor did he doubt or quibble for an instant. The feeling which he had taken for love was wrenched out of him with fearful abruptness, but no vacuum remained.
Fright deadened the force and the pain of it; a horrified fright, as the man comprehended what had been going on during these weeks and months of the campaign against Macgowan. All this while, Armstrong's right-hand man had been confiding everything in his heart, hopes and fears and plans, to the ear of a hired spy. That was the cold fact of it.
"By golly, but I've been a fool!" murmured Wren abjectly. "To think that she'd do me that way—why, she's lied like a Trojan to me!"
Suddenly he reacted; it was characteristic of him. Another man might have pondered his folly, mourned the consequences of his blindness. Jimmy Wren was abruptly stirred to sanity, to a cold anger, to a keen lust of fight. His one thought now was how best he could strike back, repay this blow, use this bitter knowledge to repair the damage he must have unwillingly caused Armstrong.
Face Mrs. Fowler down? No. To let the enemy know they were discovered, would effect nothing. Outwardly cool, inwardly a seething mass of activity, Jimmy Wren decided upon that keynote of caution—and then leaned forward, his attention drawn by a taxicab which had just pulled up at the curb below his window. A man alighted and assisted his companion out; his companion was Mrs. Fowler.
But the man—the man himself! Jimmy Wren's eyes blazed as he craned forward, unable to recognize the figure, as the two below him stood a moment in talk. Then the man doffed his hat, and a low whistle broke from Wren. He had not seen that face in long months, yet he knew it again at sight, knew it and thought of Armstrong's deadly trouble. Pete Slosson!
"What the devil have I stumbled upon, anyhow?" muttered Wren, as he hastily drew back from the window. "Here's a connection between Slosson, the lady, and Macgowan—but what's the connection? Damned if I can see any. A fine fool, I am! If I'd trusted Mrs. Armstrong enough to—"
He started, and a slow smile came to his lips. Dorothy Armstrong! Somehow, Slosson was connected with the private trouble of the Armstrongs; just how, he did not know. But Dorothy would know. Here was the weapon laid ready to his hand, could he but use it!
"By the gods, I'll use it, too!" he exclaimed to himself, flaming at the thought. "Reese has gone West. I'll beat it to Evansville and make a clean breast of the whole thing to Dorothy; got to do that, now. Whatever the reason she left Reese, this business will throw some light on it, I'll bet. How did Slosson come to know Mrs. Fowler, anyhow? Why, Macgowan put him next, that's all. And it was Lorenz, Mac's friend, who introduced me—well, I'm getting a line on this thing, right enough!"
The apartment door opened and closed again.
When Mrs. Fowler stepped into the room, Jimmy Wren was puffing away at a fresh cigar and making some notes in a memorandum book, too absorbed to hear her entry. She shot one swift glance at the desk, then came forward. Wren was on his feet instantly, his face beaming with surprise and delight.
"Hello—I didn't hear you come in! May I stop and talk to you for a moment?"
"My dear boy, I'm delighted!" she greeted him warmly. "Why didn't you call up and I'd have been here?"
"I came in a rush, as usual," and Jimmy grinned as he helped Mrs. Fowler doff her wraps, and handed them to the maid. "You see, I'm leaving town to-night for a day or so, and I wanted to get a last glimpse of you before going."
"Mercy! You're not starting for the North Pole?" Smiling, the lady seated herself among the pillows of the window-seat, and accepted the cigarette which Jimmy procured for her. "Thank you. What's this sudden trip about? More business?"
"Nope," responded Jimmy Wren. "An aunt of mine is dying in Chicago, and I'll have to run out there and do the decent thing. Haven't seen the old lady for uncounted years, but that doesn't matter. Too bad I didn't get the wire a few hours earlier. I might have gone with Reese. He's off this afternoon—gone to Chicago to look into some bond issue they want him to take over."
Wren rattled all this off in a breath. Mrs. Fowler smiled.
"My, Jimmy, but I wish I had your eager vitality! You seem to have more pep to-day than you've had in a month! Does the passing of an elderly relative always affect you this way?"
Wren grinned, but took warning. He shook his head.
"No, but the prospect of a change of scene probably is responsible. Things are in bad shape at the office, you know. Macgowan has completely won his fight, and Armstrong has given up the battle entirely. I'm glad to get away from the gloom."
The lady's eyes gleamed, and the gleam was swiftly hidden.
"Poor boy!" she commiserated softly. "And you're so devoted to Armstrong, too! I do hope that things will take a turn for the better from now on."
"They will," said Jimmy devoutly. "Now that the fight's over, even if we've been well beaten, we'll try to take out the smart by going ahead with other things and forgetting the defeat."
He knew better than to try and extract any information, and contented himself with supplying as mendacious an account as possible to be taken to Macgowan's ears. Presently he glanced at his watch and rose, giving an exclamation of dismay.
"I didn't dream how the time has gone—I'll have to rush for it! A thousand things to do yet! If I'm back Tuesday, may I see you?"
"The first minute you can, my dear Jimmy!" Mrs. Fowler rose and held out both hands to him warmly. "Will the aunt leave you a fortune?"
"No chance," and Wren laughed with an amusement that was unaffected. "Nothing like that in our family, I'm afraid!"
Mrs. Fowler accompanied him to the door, and Jimmy Wren congratulated himself upon a very graceful exit. When the door had closed behind him and he was in the elevator, he uttered a long sigh of relief.
"There's an extra fare train on the Pennsylvania to-night," he reflected. "I can make it, connect at Terre Haute, and get into Evansville to-morrow morning—good! And I sure hope Mrs. Armstrong can make some sense out of this affair—more, at least, than I can! But Slosson's the nigger in the woodpile, and maybe she can pull him out. Whew! I've got some confessing to do and no mistake!"
His smile was rueful at the thought.
Jimmy Wren made his train without difficulty that evening. He spent half an hour in the diner and then made his way forward to the club car, anticipating a smoke and an hour of talk before retiring. To his infinite disgust, he found the car crowded.
As he stood beside the magazine rack and scanned the smoke-filled body of the car, he was suddenly aware that most of the men were amusedly watching one of their number—and Jimmy Wren, following the general gaze, found himself looking at the flushed features of Pete Slosson.
Obviously having ordered innocuous drinks for himself and a protesting fellow-traveler, Slosson was putting into the drinks a heavy "stick" from a large pocket-flask. It was his maudlin ostentation that had drawn all eyes, in tolerant amusement, for he was flourishing the flask and delivering a general address upon prohibition, while inviting all and sundry to join his libations.
Uttering a grunt of contempt, Jimmy Wren turned and retraced his steps to the rear of the train. Gaining the observation platform, he found himself alone, and settled down in a corner chair. He lighted his cigar and stared out into the night across the rails that flashed in the track of the train.
"Confound the fellow!" 'he thought angrily. "Confound the luck that brought me on the same train with him!"
He removed his black-rimmed glasses, pocketed them, and cursed the cinders and Slosson impartially.
In reality, Jimmy Wren meant his oaths to apply liberally to himself; his folly was magnified in his own eyes. There was no telling how much harm his intimacy with Mrs. Fowler had done Armstrong's cause in the past few weeks; and now that he had to sit here inactively and think about it, he was tormented anew.
Again, that glimpse of Pete Slosson revived in his mind the memory of how he had looked from the window to see Slosson bring Mrs. Fowler home. All tenderness and fond imaginings had been ripped out of Wren's soul at one quick wrench, yet the hurt was there. Unable to vent his anger on the lady in the case, he scowled blackly at thought of Slosson's vaguely-guessed hand in all this game, and cursed himself for a fool.
Jimmy tossed away his cigar and produced another one. As he was lighting it within cupped hands, the car door opened and another man came out beneath the dome light of the observation platform. In no mood for conversation, Jimmy Wren did not glance at him.
"Hell of a conductor on this train!" said the other, with voice uplifted above the roar. "Hell of a conductor, that's all I've got to say! Idea of tellin' me to go to bed an' behave myself!"
Jimmy Wren looked up. Slosson stood there, swaying unsteadily to the swinging lurch of the train, trying to extract his flask from his hip-pocket. As he labored, Slosson looked down at Wren, but entirely without recognition. The absence of Wren's usual glasses, and the light from directly above, combined with Slosson's befogged condition to render him entirely oblivious of the identity of the person whom he now addressed.
"Ain't that the limit, I'm asking you? What right's a conductor got to put passenger out o' the club car, eh? I've paid my fare and I'm 'titled to ride where I like. You see what happens when I write in to the company about this, that's all! Here, have a li'l drink? Don't be 'fraid; no white mule in this, brother."
"To hell with you," snapped Jimmy Wren, and turned his shoulder to the intruder. He saw that he was unrecognized, and was glad of the fact. None the less, his temper was hot and at the surface.
Slosson uttered a propitiatory laugh.
"Oh, it's all right! Bonded stuff, I'm tellin' you, brother! Go far's you like; more where this comes from. Can't fool me on liquor, you bet! Here, take a li'l sample, just to prove you'n me—"
He thrust the flask under Wren's nose. Irritated beyond endurance, Wren angrily struck it aside; there came a shivering crash of glass and an odor of raw whisky as the flask shivered on the brass guard-rail.
"Hey!" cried Slosson's indignant voice. "Now look what you've done! What's matter with you, eh?"
His hand clamped down suddenly on Wren's shoulder. Wren took the cigar from his mouth and shoved the glowing end into Slosson's hand.
"Get to hell out of here," he snarled.
A howl of agony burst from Slosson, then his fist drove into Wren's face and sent him sprawling. A long train of sparks flew out into the night from the cigar as it shivered; the train clattered over a crossing and the brakes screeched slightly, slowing down for a stop at a large town ahead.
To everything except each other, the two men on the observation platform were blinded.
Wren rose and hurled himself on Slosson, lashing out in wildcat fury. Every restraint was gone from him, swept away by a whirlwind of rage; he forgot everything except that detested face, and slammed his fists into it frantically.
It was well for Jimmy Wren that Slosson's muddled brain could not exert its usual keen cunning. Aghast before the unexpected passion of this attack, Slosson was slow to answer it in kind, until the sting and batter of Wren's blows hammering into his face roused him to response. Then, bearing forward with a storm of oaths, he beat back the more slender figure of Wren, his arms working like piston-rods. Both men were too beside themselves to hit vitally for the body; they struck only for the face, for punishment, insensate with mutual madness and battle-fever.
Wren had the worse of this slugging-match. Backed into a corner of the guard-rail, he received terrific punishment—until he seized an opening and got in a whip-crack blow to the mouth whose impact staggered Slosson. Enraged afresh, the latter flung himself bodily at Wren; the two men clinched, and went reeling back and forth across the narrow platform to the lurches of the train.
Slosson, panting forth curses, got his fingers locked about Wren's throat, and the latter tried desperately but vainly to free himself of that death-grip. One of the folding chairs tripped them both. The train swung sharply; for an instant Wren felt the brass rail at his back—then he was over, falling into the night, and Slosson with him. A crash, the keen edge of cutting gravel in his face, and Wren found the hold upon his throat loosened as they struck and rolled over together.
The train went thundering on.
After a moment Wren pulled himself to hands and knees, dazed by the shock, and stared about. Dotting lights showed him that he was in the precincts of a town; then, with a low exclamation, he drew himself to where Slosson lay motionless under the stars.
"Stunned—thank heaven he's not dead!" murmured Wren. "Why both of us weren't killed, is more than I know—"
The whistle of another train warned him that they were yet in danger. He stooped, dragged Slosson's inert figure down the embankment, and then relaxed, panting. A brief examination served to show that he was badly bruised and knocked about, a mass of cuts and scratches, but sound in wind and limb. His quick wits took stock of the situation.
"Hm! Nobody saw that scrap," he reflected swiftly. "They'll think we got left at this station or some other one, when they find we're gone. Well, I sure bit off more than I could chew this time—if we hadn't gone over, that devil would have choked the life out of me!"
He bent over Slosson again, and this time made a more careful search. He could find no serious injury, and as he worked, Slosson's stertorous breathing became regular and deep. The man's coma had passed into a drunken sleep.
Jimmy Wren laughed softly. He removed Slosson's coat, emptied it of everything, and then rolled it up and put it under the head of its owner. Stiff and sore, he dragged himself to his feet.
"Sleep hearty!" he admonished his unconscious enemy. "And if I ever hit you again, it'll be with a crowbar—'and let no mournful yesterdays disturb thy peaceful heart!' Pleasant dreams."
Gaining the track, he took up his slow and painful way toward the town.
Tom Windsor reached Indianapolis on Sunday, spent a few hours with his family, and the same evening boarded a train for Evansville. It was the same train from which Armstrong and Robert Dorns alighted. Windsor's business in Evansville was slight but highly important.
One who knew the reputation of Tom Windsor, would have visualized an altogether different type of man. He possessed a long, hard jaw; no mistake about that! For the rest, his appearance gave no indication of undue rigidity; quite the contrary, in fact. His cheerful smile was much in evidence, and he wore an air of alert optimism. He was a man of many friends, always in demand as a speaker at Rotarian or "uplift" banquets, and shared with Will Ross the distinction of being the most popular pall-bearer in southern Indiana.
Reaching Evansville toward noon, Windsor took his way at once to the hotel where he had a particular errand. He had relatives in Evansville, but was seeing no one this trip. He was keenly on the scent of the final bit of evidence that he desired to establish his case against Armstrong. In this case he was entirely ready to suspect anything and every one, particularly after learning in New York what a network of intrigue underlay the Armstrong-Macgowan battle. Windsor intended to be nobody's tool.
He went direct to the office of the hotel manager, whom he knew very well personally. He met with an uproarious welcome, and an offer of a quart of rye. All roads led to the river towns, from the earliest days of prohibition in the state.
Windsor waved aside the offer with his usual smile.
"Judge Sanderson'll get you yet, Norman, and up you'll go! But to-day I want another sort of favor. I'm going to lunch in your esteemed hostelry, and my time is short—I want the next train back to Indianapolis. While I'm lunching, will you look up your registers for last July? I believe a man named Wren was here, between the first and fifteenth, and I must verify the fact."
"Sure thing!" was the hearty response. "Everything in the house except the cellar is at the service of the law! I'll have the evidence waiting for you after lunch."
Windsor promptly repaired to the dining room. As soon as luncheon was over, he found the manager as good as his word. With keen satisfaction he discovered that Jimmy Wren had been here during the second week in. July, and he carried away with him the loose-leaf page of the register which confirmed the fact. The final link in his chain of evidence was complete.
He left the hotel, meaning to get a taxicab at the corner and spend his remaining half-hour in the city making a quick round of his relatives. As he came to the curb, he paused and turned. A passing car had swerved in suddenly, and he heard his name called. The chauffeur gestured to him.
Windsor stepped forward. The sedan door opened, and he found himself facing Dorothy Armstrong. She was leaning forward eagerly, her hand extended; and the startling change in her appearance since his last view of her, astonished and alarmed Windsor. He shook hands heartily, yet with the fervent inward wish that he were elsewhere. She could not know of the case on which he was working, yet—
"Get in, Tom, and I'll take you wherever you're going," Dorothy was saying. "There's something I want very much to ask you about. No, keep your cigar—I adore it, and you always picked such good ones!"
Windsor was caught off guard, and for once his ready brain failed him. He meekly entered the sedan, murmuring that he was on his way to the station.
"Then we can have a little talk," said Dorothy. "You're looking splendid, Tom, and I hear such fine things about you! Tell me—is it true that you're working on a case that involves Mr. Armstrong?"
For one instant Windsor was staggered, panic-stricken; even to the average eye Dorothy's condition was evident, and he hesitated whether to lie or tell the truth. Then he rallied, squared himself to meet pleas and protests, and the gaze that he turned to Dorothy was keenly alert.
"I can't discuss the matter, Dot," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, but—"
"Now, Tom, please don't be silly!" Her calm look disquieted him to a singular degree. "You have already answered my question. When I was in New York, I heard that you were about to involve Reese in some business matter, and I'm not going to ask you to discuss it in any way. But it's providential that we met, because there's something I want to ask you. And I'm not going to defend Reese or stand up for him."
Windsor could find no response, and waited. He was acutely embarrassed, but he was thoroughly on the alert. Dorothy's next words startled him afresh.
"Do you know anything about the business fight between Reese and a man named Macgowan?"
"Something," returned Windsor cautiously. The car was driving slowly along Main Street toward the railroad station, and he wished most heartily that it would quicken pace.
"Well," Dorothy spoke with an air of seeking exact words to express her thought, "for a long time I have known that Macgowan was seeking in every underhand way to hurt Reese, even in ways of which Reese knows nothing. Macgowan's a very clever man, Tom. I should like to ask you—and I think you can answer the question fairly—whether this present matter came to your ears, in any possible way, through or from Macgowan?"
Windsor considered this question a moment. He could discern no trap, and made up his mind to accept Dorothy's words at their face value. He turned to her.
"I understand what you're driving at, Dot," he answered quietly. "I'll be frank. Had it come to me through Macgowan, I'd have distrusted the whole thing, although I've never seen the man himself. But the affair came to me directly from two small investors in Food Products stock, who wrote in to the office about it."
"Couldn't Macgowan have prompted them to write?" she demanded sharply.
"Of course." Windsor nodded. "But they had nothing to do with the—the actual crime that was committed, Dot. I have traced that independent of any one else. The stock of this company was placed on the market in a fraudulent manner, that's all. I have absolute evidence that it was done by your husband. I'm sorry to say this; it's hard for me—"
"Never mind, Tom. I know you're only doing your duty, and I'm not trying to argue the point. It had, however, more than once occurred to me that behind this there might be the hand of Macgowan, and I meant to write you about the possibility. If there were any least connection with that man—"
"I get you," he said with a curt nod. "There is absolutely none! I've gone over everything very carefully to avoid that possibility, in fact. A relative of this same Macgowan is involved—you know Ried Williams, of course."
Dorothy caught her breath.
"Williams! But he hates Reese, hates him bitterly! And he's a cousin—"
"I know all that, Dot." Windsor smiled grimly. "Don't think for a moment that Williams came forward to tell what he knows! On the contrary, I went after Williams and forced him to a showdown; he's incriminated in the affair himself, you see. No, Dot, you may be sure of one thing—I'm trying to be just. I'm not letting any one use me for a tool if I can help it."
"I know, Tom, I know," she responded, and sighed. "Well, I suppose that's all. I know you can't talk about the case, and I don't want to hear about it. But, Tom! You'll be careful? You will? Not to let Macgowan reach you in any way?"
Windsor laughed shortly. "Do you think I'm easily reached?"
"Oh, you know what I mean. That man is so clever, and he hates Reese so vindictively! And he knows so well how to hide himself behind other people."
Tom Windsor patted her hand as it lay beside him.
"My dear Dot, I read law, as they used to call it, under old Judge Williamson—one of your father's best friends. He used to say that the law was an institution for the protection of honest men against rascals, but that the rascals have turned it into a protection against honest men. I've remembered that saying, Dot, mighty often; and as long as I have any connection with the practice of law, I'll try to keep the institution in its original channels. Well, I must say good-by—and I'm glad we've had this little talk."
"So am I, Tom," said Dorothy simply. He alighted and said good-by, and as he turned into the station, Dorothy ordered the car out into the country.
She wanted to get away from home, from town, from every one she knew, out into the open air. Her last hope, faint and half-cherished as it was, had been destroyed by this meeting with Windsor. Only within the past few days had the vague fancy arisen within her—that Macgowan might somehow be connected with the charges against Reese. Now it was gone. There remained only the bitter hurt of her mortal wound.
She knew well enough what she must now expect of the immediate future, and the thought sickened her. Even the sweet springtide all about her furthered the hurt; spring in the world, and winter in her heart!
For her life ahead, Dorothy could make no plans, could take no thought; it was bleak. In another month her parents would be home from Europe, and then something could be settled, some decisive course of action taken. She remembered how, after the wedding, she had surprised her father upon his knees, praying for her happiness; and he cheated and robbed in that very moment by the man she had just married!
It was hours later when Dorothy came home—to find Jimmy Wren awaiting her.
Upon Monday morning Armstrong and Dorns ascertained very speedily that Tom Windsor was still out of the city. His office reported that he had come and gone, and was expected back again Tuesday morning by latest.
Overnight, Dorns heard Armstrong's tale and strongly commended the impulse to seek out Windsor.
"I've heard of this bird," said the detective musingly. "He's all they say of him, and then some. He's nobody's fool, but it looks as though Macgowan had made a fool out of him this time, with that ten-thousand-dollar job."
"He's an innocent party."
"Sure. Well, you got to see him quick and find out what's been hatched. It must be something slick, to get past this Windsor party. He figures to work up a fine case against you, resign his present job in a blaze of glory, and then start life in New York as a famous man. The straighter they are, the harder they fall—when they're approached the right way. Bet you ten bucks that when you get to the bottom of this, you'll find there ain't a single peg to hang Macgowan on, not a one!"
Armstrong feared that his friend was right.
Upon learning that Windsor would not be back until the following morning, Dorns hastily consulted a timetable, then proposed that he catch the next train to Chicago, arrange his business there, and return to Indianapolis the next morning. Armstrong nodded assent.
"You get a line on Windsor," said Dorns. "I'll be here by nine or ten o'clock in the morning, maybe earlier. If you can't get to him, I will. He ain't going to refuse to see me—not much!"
So, bidding Dorns farewell, Armstrong went about his business frankly and bluntly, going direct to the office of the state commissioner of securities.
He found himself welcomed by the commissioner, if not with suspicion certainly with a lack of cordiality mingled with astonishment. Obviously, his name was unfavorably known; but he lost no time in stating his case. The commissioner listened, eyed him appraisingly, and shook his head.
"I'm afraid it would do you no good to see him—"
"You misunderstand," cut in Armstrong curtly. "I want a hearing from Mr. Windsor before he acts further—that's all. I am ignorant of what charges are laid at my door; I know only that nothing can be brought against me or the Armstrong Company unless backed by fraud. I am acquainted with Mr. Windsor's character, and I believe that he has been made use of by other parties. If that's the case, I want a chance to show him the facts before this thing, whatever it is, attains publicity. I've nothing to conceal."
"Personally," returned the commissioner slowly, "I have no knowledge of the exact case upon which Mr. Windsor is working. Certain facts came to his attention; he requested that he be appointed special investigator to look into your handling of the Deming Food Products stock. More than this I don't know. But, Mr. Armstrong, I do know something of recent publicity which has come your way. The fight which has centered around Consolidated Securities has been widely advertised. You have, for example, been indicted in Illinois—"
Armstrong uttered an angry laugh.
"If you'll keep your eye on that Illinois indictment, you'll see it dismissed next week. However, I am not here to defend myself, nor do I wish to see Mr. Windsor for that purpose. Will you try to prevail upon him to see me to-morrow, out of common justice to me?"
The commissioner nodded.
"I will. I had a wire half an hour ago saying that he would get in on a night train and that means we'll see him early in the morning. Where can I reach you?"
"At the Claypool."
"I shall telephone you at eight-thirty—but don't be too sanguine. I fear that he'll refuse absolutely to see you."
"Thank you."
Armstrong left, confident that he had done all that was humanly possible. If the stubborn Windsor still refused an interview, things could take their course and be damned to them. Whatever evolved from this tangled skein, Armstrong felt that no great harm could be done him. And he could not forget that, only a few hours and miles away, was Dorothy.
"If I fail to-morrow, I'll jump the next train to Evansville and see her," he said to himself, as he walked the streets that afternoon. "Perhaps time has softened her—at least, she may give me a calm hearing. Confound it all, what have I done that I should have to go about the country begging for hearings! It's outrageous, it's damnable!"
Back at the hotel, his mood passed again into one of despair, for loneliness took hold upon him. It seemed that he was engaged in an interminable struggle in which he achieved only new defeat at every turn. The amazing insolence of Macgowan was insuperable; the man was a very Antæus, rising from every onset with fresh strength and new cunning. At length, dreading the return of his old despondent apathy, Armstrong forced himself to a moving picture theater, which afforded him an hour of mental relief and sent him to bed with the issue of things confided to the knees of the morrow's gods.
At eight-thirty on Tuesday morning, Armstrong was nervously pacing his room when the door was flung open and Robert Dorns entered, unannounced. At the same instant, the telephone rang; with a gesture to Dorns, Armstrong turned quickly to the instrument.
"Yes, this is Mr. Armstrong—"
"The commissioner speaking, sir. I've just seen Mr. Windsor. I regret to say that he refuses absolutely to see you."
Armstrong turned and shot a glance at Dorns, watching and listening.
"He refuses, eh? Does he give any reason?"
"None. I'm sorry."
Armstrong hung up the receiver, and with a gesture of despair turned about. Dorns eyed him, produced a cigar, bit on it.
"Back, is he?"
"Yes. No chance."
"Huh! Had breakfast?"
"Yes."
"So've I. Let's go! I want to get this thing cleaned up and catch a noon train East. Got to be in New York to-morrow night sure. Come on! This bird sees us inside of ten minutes."
Armstrong shrugged, caught up his hat, and followed Dorns. They found a taxicab at the hotel entrance. Dorns growled at the driver.
"Statehouse. Make it quick."
Neither man spoke for a moment, until suddenly Dorns reached out, violently struck Armstrong's knee, and looked the startled Armstrong in the eye.
"Wake up!" he said. "You're at the breakin' point; to-day is either the start or the finish for you, me lad. I can see it in your eye. There's just so much any man can stand, and you're at the end of your rope. Buck up, now! Don't play Macgowan's game for him; he's been tryin' all the while to wear you down, blast his soul! I know him. He figures that if he can devil you just so long, you'll go smash at last. And he's right—you will. But, me lad, hang on a bit longer. Don't play his game for him."
Armstrong nodded soberly. This thought about Macgowan was new to him; he admitted its truth without demur.
"You're right. I suppose I'm pretty close to the edge. Well, thanks for the advice! I'll hang on."
Before the statehouse, Dorns left the taxicab.
"Don't come with me, now. Come right after me. Where's his office?"
"With that of the attorney general."
"All right. Loaf along after me."
Dorns swung up the steps, entered the building, with Armstrong in his wake. He went direct to Windsor's office and sent his card in to Windsor. A moment later, Windsor himself appeared with outstretched hand and welcoming smile.
"Mr. Dorns? I'm very glad to meet you. This is an unexpected honor—"
Dorns grunted. "Want to see you in private a minute."
"Gladly. Come along!"
When they stood inside Windsor's private office, Dorns regarded his man steadily, refused to sit down, and then spoke with a blunt directness.
"I'm informed that you've been offered a job in New York, with the law firm of Milligan, Milligan, Hoyt & Brainard. Is that a fact or not?"
Windsor's eyes widened slightly.
"Eh? Sure, it's a fact. I wasn't aware that it had become widely known, however. I have accepted the offer, which does not go into effect for some months."
"That's bad news—for you."
Windsor sensed antagonism in that hard eye, and stiffened. A flush crept into his face.
"What d'you mean by saying that?" he demanded sharply.
Dorns jerked his head toward the door.
"Armstrong's out there and wants to see you. If you don't let him in, you'll go up for conspiracy and for acceptin' a bribe—and I'll send you up, me lad! Macgowan is back o' that fine job in New York; he's a silent partner in this Milligan law firm. Lord help ye, Windsor, if this ever busts loose in the papers! Now, I know you're square. I know ye weren't aware to Macgowan's part in this. Going to see Armstrong or not? You're in a deep hole, me lad; crawl out of it quick!"
Windsor stared at his informant; into his face crept a species of horrified comprehension. Those blunt words hit him like so many hammers, jarring the truth into him with smashing impact. Nor did he so much as protest the veracity of this information.
"Dorns—is this a fact—about Macgowan?"
"A cold fact," said Dorns. "We know you're square; that's why we're holdin' nothing back. Give Armstrong a hearing—that's all I ask. If you're still satisfied he's a crook, then go ahead; we'll never bleat a word about this bribery thing. But, if ye don't so much as give us a show for our white alley, I'll raise hell's roof with it! Yes or no, me lad?"
Windsor drew a deep breath, realizing that Dorns meant every word, and assented.
"All right. Bring him in. Are you acting with him, for him?"
"Nope. I'm listening with him, that's all. I know he's on the level."
Dorns turned to the door. The gaze of Windsor followed him in puzzled and startled surmise, provoked by those final curt words.
When Armstrong came in, Windsor was seated at his desk, and looked up with a brief nod of greeting; he was once more himself, and motioned silently to chairs. Both men sat down.
"What is it you want?" asked Windsor, steadily regarding Armstrong.
"A chance to show that whatever charges you hold against me are fraudulent."
Windsor swung his chair around, took a cigar from his pocket, and lighted it. For a moment he looked through the window with unseeing eyes, collecting his thoughts; then he swung about again, and faced Armstrong.
"You have a job ahead," he said ominously. "I'm going after you because you obtained a license to market that stock issue of the Deming Company in this state—and obtained it by fraud and perjury and conspiracy. Is that enough?"
Armstrong looked incredulous. "Enough? You don't mean to say that that's the basis of this affair?"
Windsor merely nodded, studying his antagonist through the cigar smoke. Armstrong caught his breath as the tension snapped within him, and broke into a laugh.
"Good Lord, Windsor! That's the simplest thing on earth to answer. When the license was obtained, I had no connection with that company; it was obtained by the previous directorate, before we took over Deming's plant!"
Windsor smiled thinly.
"Sure," he said. "Armstrong, when I called you a crook in New York—if you got my message—I meant the words. I still mean them. I expected exactly that answer from you. It merely confirms my opinion. You're clever, but in this case I have the goods on you."
Armstrong was irritated. "By Macgowan's aid?"
"Not a bit of it." Windsor in turn showed a temptation to anger, but held himself in check. "He had nothing to do with it. The proofs of your crookedness were obtained by me alone. Macgowan's own cousin, Ried Williams, is involved in the conspiracy."
Armstrong stifled his resentment. He was startled, alert, battle-cleared.
"Very well," he said crisply. "Since you already know that I had no connection with that stock issue, except to market it later on, what the devil is there against me?"
Windsor smiled genially.
"I only said that I expected such an answer from you, Armstrong. Here are the facts, straight from the shoulder. Ostensibly, you had nothing to do with that stock issue. In reality, you had everything to do with it. At your suggestion, false statements were sworn to by the Deming directors; the entire scheme of operations as laid out by you was followed by them. The fraud originated with you. Your man, Jimmy Wren, came to Evansville and completed secret arrangements with Williams, at that time Food Products' treasurer. I have absolute proof of all this.
"I have forced confessions from Slosson and from Williams—affidavits which give away the whole game so far as you're concerned, and which completely bare your little conspiracy. My attention was directed to the matter in the first place by certain small investors who demanded an investigation; this led me to uncover the facts; these in turn led me to Williams and Slosson—and there you are."
Windsor replaced his cigar between his teeth and benignly regarded Armstrong.
The latter sat in silence, his brain working at high speed. In a flash he perceived the whole scheme, and realized the danger. Macgowan had cooked up this affair with Williams and Slosson, of course, had laid a very crafty train which would lead Windsor to them. He had carefully covered his own tracks, and had placed Armstrong in a serious predicament.
The cool audacity of the thing was staggering. No wonder Windsor was convinced by the evidence furnished him! Affidavits from two of the former Deming directors, actually implicating themselves, probably supported by cunning additional evidence twisted out of the truth to suit the occasion—why, it was damning!
Armstrong realized instantly that unless either Williams or Slosson could be shaken in their statements, he was doomed. If they stuck by their guns, nothing could save him. He turned suddenly on Robert Dorns, the flicker of a smile on his lips.
"I'd like to have Mansfield here!" he observed whimsically. "I told him about those fraudulent statements when Wren first discovered them, and he was certain that the matter could never be raised against me."
"Why didn't you report them, if you knew they were fraudulent?" shot out Windsor, pouncing on this apparent admission of guilt. "Why cover them up?"
"It was no business of mine." Armstrong faced him, realized that the crucial fight was on. "I had nothing to do with the statements filed by Deming's directors. So far as I know, they were made out by the treasurer, Williams, and he was the only one who knew them to be false, unless the other directors were in on the deal with him."'
Windsor leaned back. "Going to stick to that story?"
"You bet! It's the truth," snapped Armstrong. "That devil Macgowan is back of this whole thing, just as he's behind that offer to you."
Windsor's eyes narrowed uneasily, but he shook his head.
"I can't agree with you. I'll look into that New York job; and I'll say that it was white of you to give me warning about it. But there's no tracing these charges back to Macgowan."
"He's behind it, none the less. He knew about those fraudulent statements."
Windsor quietly dissented. "Armstrong, I've gone through things carefully, looking for just such a connection; I was warned of the possibility in New York. I was in Evansville yesterday and met Dorothy on the street; she suggested the same idea to me—that Macgowan had framed you. I'm sorry for her, cursed sorry! But the facts are open. You're the boss in this thing, and there's enough contributory evidence to put you behind the bars."
"I don't doubt it; Macgowan seems to have done this job up brown!" Armstrong leaned forward earnestly. From the look on Dorns' face, he knew that he was at a critical point. "Now, Windsor, I insisted on seeing you because I knew you were honestly convinced. You believe I'm a crook, don't you?"
"Absolutely," said Windsor calmly.
"On the evidence of two men whom I threw out of Food Products because they had wrecked that company. Good. Suppose we call on Williams and Slosson. Let me talk to 'em in your presence. If they stick to their lies, I'm through. Let the matter come up in court and be fought out. If not—it's up to you."
Windsor removed his cigar and surveyed Armstrong with an indolent air which masked his keen eagerness.
"Either you're the nerviest devil I've ever met or—well, I'll take you up! Wait till I get copies of those affidavits. Back in a minute."
He sprang to his feet and went into the adjoining office.
Armstrong waited. Inwardly, his thoughts had been wrenched aside by Windsor's mention of Evansville, of Dorothy; a fierce, fighting exultation swept through him. So she had appealed to Windsor—she had cared enough to do this thing!
"By gad, that means a lot!" he muttered. "A lot! She's had time to think it over, and there's still hope—"
The voice of Windsor came from the next room, addressing his stenographer.
"If anything important comes up, call me at the office of Williams & Slosson, across from the Board of Trade—you know where it is."
Windsor appeared. "All right," he said. "Let's go!"
The brokerage firm of Williams & Slosson had not yet arrived at the point of throwing away money on externals. The offices consisted of a reception room and outer office, and two private offices, in one of the old buildings across from the Board of Trade.
Under their windows was Monument Place. All the life of the city flowed around and through and under the monument; from his desk, Ried Williams had beneath his eyes the pulsing heart of Indianapolis. Upon this particular Tuesday morning, however, he was taking no interest whatever in the view. He had arrived early at the office and was in irritable humor.
"No word yet from Mr. Slosson?" he snapped at the typist.
"No, sir."
"Confound it! Nine o'clock now—here, call up his hotel and get him on the line if he's there. If not, see if they've heard from him."
Five minutes later, Williams uttered a grunt of satisfaction as he seized his desk telephone and heard the sleepy accents of his partner.
"Where've you been, Pete? Why didn't you show up here yesterday—what?" He paused, listening, and changed countenance. "What's that? Robbed and thrown off the train? What have you done about it?"
He listened anew, his sallow features tightening with anxiety.
"Well, I suppose you did right to say nothing," he admitted. "You don't know who it was, eh? Were you drunk? Oh, never mind all that—I know you. Well, get dressed and get down here right away. You've had a fine long spree in New York, and now you're going to watch your step—what? Yes, the checks came in this morning's mail; Macgowan must have sent them out first thing yesterday morning. Get down here, now, and get down at once. All right."
Williams hung up the receiver. As he did so, his door opened and the typist appeared.
"There are three men here to see you," she said. "Mr. Windsor—"
The eyes of Williams darted to his desk. He hastily dropped certain papers into the top drawer, closed it, and nodded.
"Very well, bring them in,"' he said.
"Good morning," said Windsor, as he entered the office. "Mr. Williams, here are Mr. Armstrong and his friend Mr. Dorns. I've consented to let Armstrong ask a few questions about those affidavits, if you don't mind. Where's Slosson?"
At hearing this, at sight of Armstrong and Robert Dorns, Williams stiffened. His darkly vulpine features turned a shade lighter; his crafty eyes settled on the gaze of Armstrong with a species of crafty boldness. Beholding himself unexpectedly cornered, he rose to the occasion with an outward display of assurance which, however desperate it was, betrayed no weakness or hesitation.
"I am entirely at your service, gentlemen," he said coldly. "Mr. Slosson has been in New York—"
"Why, I thought he'd be back before this!" exclaimed Windsor.
"He should have been. I had a telephone message from him, a moment ago that he would be at the office in a few moments. It appears that en route here he was assaulted and robbed and thrown off his train. I had not learned of it before now, and know no details. Sit down, please. We might as well be comfortable."
Armstrong perceived danger in this admirable sang-froid, and from that moment despaired of his purpose. This man was not to be browbeaten or tricked; only some accident, some slight word or action, could overcome him. Accordingly Armstrong, who now had himself perfectly in hand, plunged straight into the midst of things with as quiet and businesslike an air as he could summon up. He glanced at the copy of the affidavit in his hand, then spoke calmly.
"You know what I want to ask you, of course. This affidavit that you gave Mr. Windsor is the cause of our visit."
"So I presume." Williams was imperturbable. "As you may imagine, it was not given of my own choice, but from necessity."
"Every statement in this affidavit," went on Armstrong coolly, "is false—"
"One moment, if you please," intervened Williams, and looked up at Windsor. "May I inquire whether this conversation is to be made a matter of record? In such event, I should like to have my lawyer present."
Windsor nodded. "If you like, of course. But this is entirely informal and between ourselves. You are compelled to answer nothing."
"Thank you. In that case, Mr. Armstrong, proceed. I have nothing to conceal."
Armstrong faced defeat, and knew it.
"The statements in this affidavit will have to be backed up on the stand," he continued. "You realize that?"
"Certainly."
"You say that I corresponded with you in regard to the Deming Company's affairs, in June of last year, urging you to put upon the market a stock issue which I might handle. What proof have you of such a statement? Are you able to produce the correspondence?"
"As you are aware," and Williams smiled slightly, "you instructed me to destroy the two letters which I had from you. I so did. Mr. Slosson read them, however, and will be able to reproduce their gist."
Armstrong compressed his lips. At every step, the trap was closing more firmly.
"Then," he went on slowly, "you say that complete instructions regarding this stock issue were given you verbally, by my representative Wren, in Evansville on the tenth of July last—"
"Mr. Slosson was a witness to the conversation," struck in Williams smoothly.
"—and that he advised you," pursued Armstrong, "to falsify the company's financial statement in such a manner that blue sky licenses might be obtained."
"Do you deny that Wren did so?"
"Of course," said Armstrong impatiently. "He was in Evansville then, and I believe that he interviewed you, gaining certain information about the standing of the company. I understood that it was in bad shape, due to incompetent directors, and was making plans to the end of helping Mr. Deming to retrieve the lost ground—but Wren certainly never made such proposals as you here assert."
Windsor was intent, Dorns was frowning; Ried Williams shrugged and spoke with an assumed helplessness that was very well done.
"Of course, Armstrong, passing the lie does no good here and now."
Armstrong looked at him.
"Williams, how long has Slosson been in New York?"
This question brought a narrowing of the other man's lids.
"A week, or a little over."
"Did you or Macgowan send him to my house?"
To all three of his listeners, this question brought startled surprise, for Dorns knew nothing of Armstrong's recent domestic trouble. For an instant Williams was so badly shaken that Armstrong thought the victory won.
"Your house?" repeated Williams, bewildered and wildly alarmed. "What the devil was he doing there?"
"Talking," said Armstrong. Perceiving the advantage of reticence, and being himself ignorant of Slosson's exact errand at Aircastle Point, he gave the frowning Windsor a slight smile. Obviously, that gentleman thought that Slosson had given Armstrong warning of this whole affair, and was disturbed thereby. Armstrong shifted his ground quickly.
"As you very well know, at the time you charge that I was conspiring with you, my affairs were all in the hands of Lawrence Macgowan. Just where does he enter into this matter?"
Williams hesitated slightly before this shrewd demand.
"So far as I know," he responded, "he was not connected with it at all."
"Really?" Armstrong laughed. "When, at the time, he was my personal adviser and chief aid? You never suspected that he was involved or had knowledge of this?"
"No," said Williams stubbornly.
"Not even when, after my marriage, he handled on my behalf all the negotiations which ended in Consolidated Securities taking over Food Products?"
Williams rallied. "The matter was never discussed between us," he responded. "If Macgowan was aware of the matter, he never mentioned it."
"Yet you are relatives," persisted Armstrong. "And you have been very intimate with him, particularly of late. You were in Wilmington at the annual meeting of Consolidated, and voted ten thousand shares of stock, paid for with your note for five thousand dollars. Before you went to Wilmington, you must have been aware of Mr. Windsor's active interest in this present affair—isn't that so, Windsor?"
"Yes," said Windsor quietly. Armstrong looked at Williams.
"Then you did not discuss the matter with Macgowan while you were in Wilmington?"
"No." Williams clenched his thin lips for an instant. "No. He was too much occupied with his campaign to give time to outside matters."
"That is very extraordinary." Armstrong laughed again. "You'll have to fix up a better story on that before you go on the witness stand, I warn you! Then you don't know about Slosson coming to my house, or what took place as a result of his call?"
Fear leaped into the eyes of Williams again, yet he answered quickly and with obvious sincerity that impressed even Armstrong.
"No. We went to New York together, and separated. I haven't seen him since, and he certainly did not intend seeing you."
Windsor intervened quietly.
"Mr. Armstrong, may I ask just what did take place as a result of his call on you?"
"I can't answer that question now." Armstrong paled slightly; a spark leaped into his eyes. "Wait until Slosson gets here, and we'll have the matter out then."
So far as Williams was concerned, he knew himself beaten. Dorns, who was sitting close to Williams' desk, must have known it also; but the sharp eye of Dorns had been prying about that desk. Now Dorns leaned forward, and reached out one long arm.
"D'ye mind if I look at this?" he said, and extricated a half-concealed check from among the papers there. Williams did not answer, but sat immobile, silent, his eyes narrowed upon Dorns. The latter shrugged, and handed the check to Windsor.
"This ain't my funeral," he said. "But you might like to ask questions yourself."
Windsor inspected the check, and glanced up at Ried Williams.
"A check for five thousand from Consolidated?"
Armstrong thrilled to those words, but Williams only nodded slightly.
"Certainly. What is wrong about that?"
"Nothing," said Windsor slowly. "But I don't like your close connection with Macgowan. May I ask what this check is to cover?"
"Of course." Williams, with perfect aplomb, leaned over and drew a second check from the top drawer of his desk. "Here is another check of similar amount drawn to Mr. Slosson. Both are dated April tenth, you will observe. They constitute payment to us for services rendered in placing a stock issue for them."
"What stock issue?" demanded Armstrong crisply.
"That of the National Reduction Company." Williams met his gaze squarely.
"Ten thousand dollars commission, eh? So you're in on the looting too. Whew! You got a fine slice, Williams. Do you happen to have any record of the transaction?"
"I have records showing that we placed this entire stock issue with brokerage houses in Chicago," returned Williams. "But I've no intention of exposing the business of a client to the active enemy of that client. If Mr. Windsor wants to see the records, that's another thing entirely."
"I think I'd like to see them," spoke up Windsor quietly.
Ried Williams touched a button on his desk, and his typist entered. He instructed her to bring the records in regard to the National Reduction stock issue, and she retired.
Armstrong, who had hoped for a moment that they had at last stumbled upon something, immediately perceived that Williams had fortified himself against every contingency. Those two checks had undoubtedly come for services rendered at Wilmington; unless, indeed, they had come as payment for the perjury and fraud which Williams and Slosson were perpetrating in this very affair with Windsor! No matter if Windsor's suspicions were now aroused, the crafty Ried Williams would scrape through.
The typist appeared, but without the records.
"Mr. Windsor is wanted at the telephone," she announced. "By his office."
"Give me the call here, please." Windsor reached for the desk telephone. "Yes?" He listened for a moment, then an expression of amazement crossed his face. "Who? Wait a minute—say that over again! What's the amount? Give me the date, please."
The typist entered, handed the records required to Williams, and closed the door again.
"Very well," said Windsor. "You're sure of that date, are you? Good. Why, you'd better come over here right away. Yes, bring them along."
He hung up the receiver. It appeared that his call had no relation to the business in hand, for he turned to Williams at once.
"Ah! You have the records?"
He took the typed sheets and glanced through them rapidly. Then, with a nod, he returned them to Williams.
"What other sums have you received lately from Macgowan's company?" he asked.
"None," said Williams composedly. "As you see, this transaction is closed."
"Then you and Slosson have no further business under way with Consolidated?"
"None."
"And these two checks dated the tenth are the final step in the transaction?"
"Yes."
Windsor nodded. "I see. This appears to be perfectly straight, Armstrong. Are there any further questions you'd like to ask?"
Armstrong knew that he was checked. He was in a trap from which there was no way out; all the exits had been blocked by so cleverly woven a fabric of perjury that he could do nothing except struggle in futile passion.
At this instant the door opened and Pete Slosson appeared on the threshold.