"Thank the lord, there's no formality about this house. Good things in plenty, but no useless frippery made for effect and expenditure. When one comes in here, it's to find a home that's lived in, used, created for comfort and enjoyment. Reese, old man, you're to be congratulated! With the cynical egotism of one who is too largely surrounded by a world of sham, I say that I myself could have done no better with this house. It is perfection."
"And that's a huge compliment, Dot, for Lawrence Macgowan to pay!" exclaimed the beaming Armstrong. "He's a famous critic of the arts. Everybody up and down the Avenue looks to Mac to pass on worthy furniture, Serbian sculpture and all the professional forms of art! On the strength of this compliment, you can go into the house-decorating business and become rich in a month."
"Nonsense, I mean it!" protested Macgowan earnestly. "Absolutely."
"And I do thank you." Dorothy's eyes were dancing under the praise, yet the blue-steel gleam still lingered in their depths. "You make amends very pleasantly."
"Amends?" Macgowan's brows lifted. "For what, pray?"
"For a remark you made in Evansville, the day we were married. You remember?"
Macgowan regarded her, frowning slightly in puzzled retrospection.
"I'm afraid not," he said. "Surely, it was nothing to require amends?"
As he said this, his eyelids lowered the barest trifle. The movement was entirely involuntary. So trivial was it, so subtly evanescent, as to be almost imperceptible; only one watching him keenly would have observed this slight muscular reflex.
Dorothy observed it. If she knew it for the sign of a lie, she made no comment.
"Oh, not in the least!" she responded, a smile on her lips. "And I dare Reese to try dragging business into this home and spoiling it! Just to show that I'm not a bit afraid of the consequences, I want to ask you two men something about business."
Armstrong settled deeper into his chair and lighted his cigar.
"Fire away, Dot! Any time I don't drop business the minute I leave the office, just you jump on me. Want to invest some surplus cash, or what?"
She laughed. "No, thank you! You can play with other people's money all you like. I want to ask about Food Products, that's all—what you're doing with it. And do sit down, Lawrence. You make me nervous, handling that cigar like a baton; besides, you cut off all the beauty of the fire."
"Cruel lady!" sighed Macgowan. "Can you not appreciate the magnificence of such a fire-screen? Well, I obey. Reese, tell the lady all about Food Products."
He sat down, gazing at the ceiling, and puffed reflectively at his cigar. He appeared to be rather thoughtful about something.
"Well, Dot?" inquired Armstrong. "What do you want to know?"
"Oh, everything in general! Is that stock issue on the market?"
"We start the campaign in a couple of weeks; one thing and another has held us up. Our investors will eat it up, too. Consolidated is going to do big things for them—"
"Food Products, please!" Dorothy stuck to her point. "Is the plant at work?"
"Full capacity; it has never ceased work. Within the next month or two the reorganization will begin to show big results. We're going to work with a real advertising campaign. If you could see the difference between our operating cost-sheet and that of the old organization, you'd realize what one trouble back there has been."
"With father's company?" asked Dorothy, a little doubtfully.
"Exactly. By the way, Dot, I wrote your father to-day asking him to reconsider his resignation and come back into the company. I think he's been out of the harness long enough to realize that he'll rust out unless he keeps busy. I hope he'll accept."
"Good, good!" put in Macgowan heartily. "Glad to hear that, Reese! His name is worth a good deal to the company, as is his active interest. I don't imagine he'll accept, though, unless he's given real powers. This figurehead business may not appeal to him any more now than it did before—"
"Figurehead?" Dorothy glanced from one man to the other. "Just what does that mean? If he came back as president, wouldn't he have all the powers he always had?"
Macgowan started to speak, but was forestalled. Armstrong suddenly sensed what was in his wife's mind, and was startled. He leaned forward, giving a decisive thrust to his words.
"Dorothy, we want your father as president. Not with full powers, but to guide the company from a consultant position. I've pulled some of the best men in this country from their jobs, to work for Food Products. I've guaranteed these men a free hand, no interference. Your father can help them tremendously with his advice, his knowledge of the whole business; he would be an invaluable asset to us!"
"I see," murmured Dorothy, with a nod of comprehension. Her eyes rested for a moment on Macgowan, then returned to Armstrong. "Have you any idea when the sale of this stock issue will be completed?"
"Yes." Armstrong leaned back, relaxed, satisfied that she understood matters beyond any miscomprehension. "Within three or four months. The old directors failed to accomplish anything; they could not even start the ball rolling. With our investors to work on, nearly sixteen thousand of 'em, we'll put Food Products over."
"By the first of the year, eh?" Dorothy studied him a moment. "Why, I thought such things took a lot of time and work—a long campaign!"
Armstrong smiled. "Ordinarily they do. In this case, our organization is all ready to fall to work when the word comes. Besides, your father's company had the foundations laid; they got the blue sky licenses and so forth. We simply step in and sell."
"I see." Dorothy glanced again at Macgowan. "By the way, Lawrence, isn't Ried Williams some relation of yours? I think Pete Slosson spoke of it to me one day—"
Macgowan's gaze dwelt upon her for a moment. Undoubtedly, he recognized in the casualness of this question something beneath the surface. Perhaps he sensed attack.
"A distant cousin or something of the sort," he responded easily. "Nothing to be proud of in any case; eh, Reese? The relationship is so vague that it's only a matter of family mention. By the way, what has become of those two chaps, Williams and Slosson? They were rather bitter over our getting control and throwing them out. Do you ever hear from Pete Slosson, Dorothy?"
So nonchalant was the air of Macgowan that to Armstrong the words conveyed nothing. But to Dorothy they conveyed a declaration of war. From her wedding day, she had sensed Lawrence Macgowan as an enemy. She had ceased to grope in bewilderment for the cause, and accepted the fact itself; yet the fact did not cease to hurt.
"I can't possibly keep up with all my old flames," and she laughed. Then, rising, she dismissed the matter. "Thank you for the business information, gentlemen. Now, shall we have some music? Reese, kindly tune up that harp—you've hardly touched it since we were married!"
Macgowan heartily acclaimed the suggestion. With Dorothy at the piano, Armstrong got his harp in shape and they settled down for an hour of music, while Macgowan smoked and listened with critical appreciation, or discussed the vicissitudes of that harp.
"A man can never be known for what he really is," he exclaimed during a pause, "until he can be observed either at the height of fortune, or at the lowest point of disaster. Observing you, Reese, at the summit of success, I find you exactly the same person you were the first day you entered my office. Feel any different inside?"
"Not a bit."
Armstrong laughed. Nor was he ashamed of past days, for there was no petty snobbery in him. He spoke gayly of old times when his harp had boasted strings of cord or baling-wire,faute d'argent; or of how he had read Blackstone by day and troubadoured by night with his college friends. Far away were those days, but as he recalled them one could see that the memory was sweet within him.
Later, when they were alone in their own room, Dorothy came to her husband, arms out to his, and met his kiss with gravely serious gaze.
"Reese, dear, there's one thing I want you to promise me. Only one; but it means more to me than I can tell you."
"Anything in the world, dear lady," he promised, looking into her eyes and wondering what had caused their deep violet glow. "Speak! Your slave is ready."
"I'm serious. Am I really to be your partner in everything?"
"Not to be, but are."
"Well, I don't want you to drag business home with you. I want you to leave business behind and come to me and to your home. I don't want you to think that you have to retail to me every bit of business complexity that turns up. But—dear! I want to have a part in your dreams. I want you to come first to me, always, when you conceive some great ambition. Will you?"
"Always, dear lady! I promise—"
"Wait!" She checked him, finger on lips. "That's not what I want you to promise. I want something far more important to both of us! I want you to promise me just this one thing: That when some real business trouble comes to worry you, you will bring it to me. First to me, ahead of your friends, ahead of your lawyers, ahead of your business men. Not for my poor advice, perhaps, but just to let me share it with you first."
Armstrong, as he smiled at her, wondered why her face was so strained and anxious.
"I promise, lady. Why, dear—you don't think I'd take my troubles to Mac in preference to you?"
"Oh, I'm jealous of course, but that has nothing to do with it. There's a deeper reason that I'm not going to tell now." Her fingers tightened on his arms, tensely earnest. "It's a promise, now?"
"Surely, sweetheart," he said gravely. "Why—lady! You're crying—"
"Because I love you, that's all. Kiss me!"
Armstrong, rendered more than a little uneasy by her manner, was relieved to find that she said no more on the subject. He would not have been so relieved had he known how she lay awake that night, staring into the darkness, her brain struggling with the problem of Macgowan.
Intuition told her that the man was an enemy; she could not forget those words of his on her wedding-day. Against all this balanced his friendship and help for Armstrong, and weighed down the scales with fact. Yet she could not dismiss her fear of him; that it was baseless and apparently unfounded, only served to increase her hurt and anxiety. Still, she knew that she dare not so much as hint such a thing to her husband.
And to Armstrong himself, who was very sensitive to Dorothy's mental reactions, this incident recurred more than once. He was quite aware that marriage will seldom endure old comradeships. It was natural that Dorothy should feel a twinge of jealousy; had she not frankly admitted the fact? Down there in the city, it was Macgowan who was Armstrong's alter ego, who handled all Armstrong's affairs, who was friend and practically business partner as well. So far as the city was concerned, that was all very well.
"But I'll have to leave Mac in the city," thought Armstrong. "Dot is going to resent it if I bring him home too often. I'll bring Jimmy Wren down one of these days—he's pure boy and hasn't any of Mac's cynical loftiness. Dot has too many ideals to be enthralled by Mac's attitude, maybe."
Which was all very nice, and all entirely wrong. Like most men, Armstrong was blind to the inner motivations of the woman he loved.
Dorothy, seeing this, prayed that he might continue blind—for a time.
Macgowan swung into Armstrong's office one morning, bringing with him a keen breath of late November.
"Well, how goes the sales company?" he exclaimed breezily, flinging down his hat and coat. "Too busy to talk?"
"Not yet." Armstrong dismissed his secretary and set forth cigars. "Everything fine."
"Sure, but let's have details. I need 'em this morning." Macgowan chuckled as he surveyed his friend. "You're looking fit. How's the country estate?"
"Fine. What do you want details on—winter gardens or sales campaign?"
"Food Products, mostly. I'm curious to know what's going on."
Armstrong opened a drawer of his desk and brought forth some typed sheets.
Consolidated Securities occupied the three top floors of a building in the late thirties, but was cramped for room. Already Armstrong was planning the lease of an entire building in the forties—a lease to become ownership later. The New Year would be time enough to take that up. For the present, he wanted to get upon absolutely solid ground, financially. He had no ambition to be the center of a wild selling drive which would go smash upon the rocks of inflation.
His own office was quietly handsome without being ornate. Just as he wanted the business to be out of Wall Street and well uptown, so he wanted everything around him to be of the best without ostentation. The looks of a business, like the dress of a man, have a certain definite value; Armstrong did not make the error of either over- or under-estimating that value.
"Food Products," he responded, "is sold. The campaign is going well, and it'll be a profitable campaign for the Armstrong Company if it ends as well as it has begun. By the way, I'm going to merge the company into Consolidated later on. It's a bit loose; too much my own affair. I want everything in Consolidated."
"Isn't it merged enough now to suit you?"
"No. At present, I could draw the Armstrong Company out bodily, and I'm going to change that—say, next spring, after the annual meeting of Consolidated. But never mind that now. I have another and more immediate change afoot. I've determined to keep Food Products in the hands of our own original investors in this part of the country. The stock-selling organization is spread too far out."
"Isn't it doing the work?" Macgowan frowned slightly.
"Yes. But, Mac, do you realize that we had to dig deep in writing off those worthless assets? I want to save money."
"Yes, and that hurt." Macgowan chuckled. "Findlater was moaning about it the other day. Asked why we hadn't let those assets ride for a while."
Armstrong's eyes chilled, as they usually did at mention of Findlater.
"You told him?"
"That we were too cursed honest; or rather, you. If I'd been in your shoes, I'd have been tempted to do otherwise."
"Yes, you would!" Armstrong laughed. "You old rascal, you'd have been the first one to come clean! But see here, Mac. I'm cutting down my organization. I'm going to eliminate all the Pacific Coast, everything west of the Mississippi, in fact."
The broad, finely chiseled features of Macgowan underwent a certain change at this information—so decided a change that Armstrong wondered. For an instant he fancied that those piercingly aggressive eyes bored into him with a look bordering on suspicion.
"What the devil!" ejaculated the lawyer. "Why, only last week you spoke of branching out farther!"
Armstrong leaned back and drew at his cigar.
"Yes, but that was last week. Most of our old investors are here in the East, scattered between here and Chicago. Over fifteen thousand of 'em. Our schedule of operation is airtight. Consolidated, for example, owns Food Products, pockets some of the commission for selling the stock, profits by the operation of the company—and it all comes back to the investors. And our corporate funds are growing fast."
"Then what's to hinder the spread?" asked Macgowan, teeth clamped on cigar.
"Too much expense." Armstrong puffed thoughtfully. "We don't want to splurge, to go after the whole country and over-reach ourselves. I don't want to be classed with these birds who flood the country with stock not worth half its price. For next year, we'll play safe with what we have. We can lay out a big program, but hold back with it."
"You're selling stock on the coast now," argued Macgowan.
"Yes, but only a small allotment of Food Products is being handled there." Armstrong became crisp, decisive, closed to all protest. "I'm writing our men out there to-day, calling them in by the first of the year. The less they sell of Food Products out there, the better pleased I'll be; but if they can get rid of their allotment next month, all right."
Behind his veil of gray smoke, Macgowan's brilliant, arrogant eyes narrowed in reflection. One would have thought that this change of program on Armstrong's part, instead of being a mere detail of organization, was something that affected him vitally. Even Armstrong was mildly surprised that Macgowan should be so interested in this detail.
"You see, Mac," he explained, "I'm going to cut down all expenses. Food Products is the biggest thing we've taken over, and I'm getting stingy. The time to retrench is before the pinch comes. Some day, trouble will hit us; when it hits, I want the organization as compact and impervious as possible, and funds all in shape. We have competitors and—"
The lawyer threw up his hands.
"You're right, Reese, dead right! I suppose I'm like the others; a bit hypnotized by our success and the size of the bankroll. Then you'll not draw in your horns before the first of the year?"
"No."
Macgowan puffed for a moment in silence, nodding thoughtfully. Then he glanced up.
"You know there's a meeting of the Consolidated directors next week. Instruct me about that note of yours—whether to renew or take it up."
"What note?"
"Covered by the twenty-five thousand in Food Products' paper. You borrowed ten thousand from Consolidated, if you remember, on behalf of the Armstrong Company, and turned the money over to Deming."
"Oh, that!" Armstrong thought for a moment. "Why, I'll renew the loan to Food Products for another three months—to pay me now would rather handicap them. No use taking up the paper from Consolidated until Food Products can make good. Suppose you renew for three months—or better make it four months. Then Food Products will be on its feet."
Macgowan nodded.
"I'll tell Jimmy Wren, and if Findlater objects we'll show him who runs the voting Trust. By the way, you people going to be in town over Christmas, or not?"
"No, we'll be in Evansville. Dorothy's folks are going to Europe right after the holidays, and we'll spend Christmas with them, then bring 'em East. Christmas in Evansville listens good, Mac!" Armstrong's rare smile leaped out. "Real juleps, remember 'em? And the kind of turkey that isn't grown around here. And 'possum. And ladies with the Kentucky slur to their tongues—the soft slur that leaves mighty few bachelors in those parts! Better come along with us, old man. What say?"
Macgowan shook his head.
"Thanks, but I can't. Deming isn't doing anything?"
"No, he's definitely out of business. By the way, we had a caller at the house the other evening—that chap from Evansville who's a relative of yours. Ried Williams."
Macgowan glanced up in astonishment.
"Williams! Is he in town? Hope he doesn't look me up."
Armstrong laughed. "Why? Aren't you on good terms?"
"I suppose so." Macgowan shrugged lightly. "I never had much use for that chap; he's no good. Look how he cut up when we threw him out of Food Products!"
"While I never claimed to love him, I'd hate to insult your relatives, Mac," and Armstrong laughed cheerily. "His injured dignity has recovered; at least, he appeared very amiable. He's an old friend of Dorothy's; not a dear friend, but he forms a link with her home town, you know."
Macgowan stirred uneasily. "He isn't locating here, is he?"
"No." Armstrong leaned back. "He's in the brokerage business in Indianapolis, I gather. You recall that other man on the Food Products board, the one who looked like a dissipated Adonis, and who aspired to Dorothy? Pete Slosson?"
"Yep," grunted Macgowan. His eyes, under veiling lids, were very bright and keen.
"The two are in partnership and doing well, according to Williams. I always thought they both hated me like sin for dumping them out of Food Products, but they've gotten over it. Williams showed up pretty well, though I'd not trust him very far."
"Hope he leaves me alone in my glory," said Macgowan. Then his face cleared. "Say, one reason I dropped in was about Findlater. I think our merry little president is going to spring a motion at next week's meeting for salaried directors."
Armstrong's face tightened ominously.
"So he wants a cut of the melon?"
"Probably. He has some of the others with him, and figures that by springing a good argument he can get away with it. Judge Holcomb is dead against him, of course."
"Naturally; Holcomb's square. What's your advice?"
Macgowan's gaze searched Armstrong with a steady and appraising scrutiny.
"If it was my affair, Reese, I'd throw 'em out. Bounce them hard, get rid of them for good! They're under contract to serve for three years, without salary, in return for stock allotted them; we're where we can do without 'em, and we owe them no debt of gratitude for getting Consolidated under way. A bunch of real live men on the board would help us tremendously just now. I say, if they start any fuss, bounce them and begin over!"
Armstrong settled back in his chair, and shook his head slightly.
"Well, why not?" demanded Macgowan.
"For the very reasons you name." Armstrong stared out the window and puffed silently. This immobility irritated Macgowan.
"What reasons?" he exclaimed harshly.
"I do owe them a certain gratitude for backing me. They did it selfishly, but they did it. And I'm too darned human to forget that they did it."
"Too darned inhuman, you mean," interjected Macgowan cynically.
Armstrong shrugged. "I'm not an automatic machine, and don't want the reputation of being one. It's because I'm human, Mac, that we've got nearly sixteen thousand investors on our books, letting us handle their money. Next year, twenty thousand. I don't believe in using a man for what you can get out of him, then kicking him off the pedestal. Findlater may be a fool and a crook, but he helped us. I don't care to be known as a business machine; can't afford it. The business of to-day and to-morrow isn't being run that way."
"Chivalric balderdash!" Macgowan growled and mouthed his cigar. "Ever hear of Don Quixote?"
Armstrong, eyeing his friend, burst suddenly into a laugh.
"What's got into you, Mac? Are you talking what you believe, or what you think is for my good?"
"For your own good, Reese! Damn it, I know this game better than you!" Macgowan's burst of words came with the fury of repressed energy. Now appeared the hitherto unguessed side of the man, the angry, passionate arrogance of his mind which was usually so well covered from sight. "Those fellows would kick you out this minute if they could—you and me both! That shyster Findlater would knife you in the back if he had a chance. The very thought of our earnings, of our funds, makes 'em sweat to get their paws on the money! You fool, you're in business! Why don't you realize it?"
Armstrong surveyed him with cheerful good humor, refusing to take this outburst seriously.
"Regular line of Old Testament bunk, Mac! And you don't mean a word of it. As you know very well, we're in business with a New Testament; a covenant of success to all, not merely to those who have the quickest gun."
Macgowan uttered a savage oath.
"You fool, I mean it, every word of it! Throw Findlater out or you'll be thrown out!"
"Nothing doing." Armstrong shrugged, but eyed his friend curiously. "You handle him with the voting trust, and avoid trouble. Be a diplomat."
"Diplomat, hell!" Macgowan leaped up, faced Armstrong with a bitter snarl. "Wake up! Are you a dursed weak-kneed idealist, blind to everything but your ideals? Can't you see that at times you have to be something else? Are you one of these temperamental cusses, strong one minute and up in the clouds the next? Cut out this drivel! I tell you, Findlater is a danger spot! Want to wake up and find you and your sentiment landed in the gutter, do you?"
Armstrong was stung. He leaned forward, suddenly tense, concentrated.
"Mac, are you trying to tempt me—trying to see if you can shake me? Don't try it. You know I brought a new creed into this investment game, and I'm here to play the game square and fair. Once I falter in that creed, once I begin to cheat at the game—good night! Now, quit calling me a fool. Look at it through the eyes of our investors. If they see me kick out Findlater, they'll think that it looks queer; you can't blame them! I'd think so too. It isn't time yet for fireworks. Wait until the annual meeting next April. Then we'll start the slate with a new crowd and go in for big things—honest things with honest men."
Macgowan drew a quick breath.
"Reese, you have a brain somewhere on the premises. I concede it. You're right, as usual. Say, do you sit up nights thinking of those investors?"
"Nope; daytimes only." Armstrong was too deeply stirred up to call a halt now. He went on with a growing earnestness and conviction. "It's those investors who have put Consolidated on its feet. Not a bunch of spoilers sitting around a directors' table, but those little investors. Their confidence in me is a terrible thing, Mac; it frightens me sometimes, it humbles me—why, Mac, it's their very faith which puts me over, makes me make good! This mass psychology is nothing new, even in business. We started out to get that very thing behind us. Now that we've got it, sometimes it frightens me by its very force. They talk about prayer and its effect—here's the same thing, man! When every investor in our lists is behind me, when I'm the apex of a triangle with every atom of force at my back, shoving me forward—do you think I can fail? Do you think anybody can rise up and whip me? Not much!"
Macgowan sat in spellbound silence. As he listened, a singular awe and wonder crept into his face. His eyes, fascinated by Armstrong's swordlike gaze, began to waver; an indefinite something showed there that might have gripped Armstrong's attention, had he only seen it. One never sees such expressions, however, when they are foreign to all that one is expecting to see. Armstrong went on rapidly, fired by his thought.
"That's what put Napoleon over—the knowledge that every man in his army knew he would win; and, damn it, he had to win! Same with me, Mac. You've made Consolidated airtight, you've left me nothing to fear at my back. I can look squarely ahead and can meet anything that comes. With the faith and will-power of sixteen thousand people at my back, what can beat me? Nothing! Nothing! It's not self-confidence; it's confidence in the power behind me, the power instilled into me! Can't you see that?"
Macgowan shifted his pose restlessly, before he came to his feet, jabbing at Armstrong with his cigar, an oath of admiration breaking on his lips. He seemed swept away, enthused beyond words, almost.
"Reese—oh, what's the use!" He made a despairing gesture. "I'm proud to have a share in your vision, proud to take orders from you. Now, if Findlater starts any fuss, you want him soft-pedaled. Is that it?"
Armstrong relaxed, nodding, a bit self-conscious and ashamed of his outburst.
"Yes. That's what you and Jimmy Wren have the voting trust for!"
"Oh! That reminds me—"
Macgowan was picking up his coat and hat and stick. He turned and came back to the desk, looking thoughtfully down at Armstrong.
"I nearly forgot something. About Wren."
Armstrong glanced up inquiringly. Wren was not only his right-hand man in the Armstrong Company, but was secretary of Consolidated. Although not so young in years, Jimmy Wren possessed that eternal buoyancy, that youthfulness of spirit, which older men envy. His imagination and impulsiveness added to his ability; he was all or nothing.
"What about Jimmy?"
Macgowan looked serious. "It may not be true. I just heard that, before Wren came to us, he was mixed up in a nasty affair back in Ohio. A small country bank, which went bust. Wren was cashier, and squeaked through, but it was close. Know anything about it?"
Armstrong squared himself in his chair.
"I know all about it."
"Good. Then I've no more to say."
"Hold on!" Armstrong's voice cracked out suddenly. "Youhavesomething more to say, Mac. I want to know where this report came from."
Macgowan met those clear, angry eyes with unruffled mien.
"From a federal man. You know, I've a good many friends in Washington. One of them, in the revenue service, was going over some income tax returns with me. We got to talking about the company, and he mentioned this about young Wren. He knew few details."
"Then it was simply a friendly tip?"
"Sure."
Armstrong nodded. His face cleared.
"Then forget it, Mac. I'll go to the mat for Jimmy any day! That bank affair was no fault of his; the bonding company exonerated him absolutely. He came to me with the whole business when I sent for him to join me. I've known him for years, and he's true blue. By the way, Mac, who's the lady he's been shining up to lately? He keeps unusually mum on the subject, I notice. Weren't you in on the party the other day at the Biltmore?"
Macgowan chuckled, and shrugged.
"I saw your eagle eye fastened on us from across the room. Good lord, don't ask me! I just wandered in on that party, and we lunched together. Don't even recall her name—from the South, I think. She wasn't a bad sort at all. Well, I'll drift along. See you later!"
Macgowan departed.
Armstrong felt very glad of this conversation; he felt that it had cleared the air for him, had left him more cheerfully disposed, in better control of himself. When Findlater entered his office ten minutes later, Armstrong glanced up and nodded amiably.
"Good morning, Mr. President! What's on your mind?"
"This report." Findlater tapped the paper in his hand. "Have you examined it?"
Armstrong smiled. "My dear chap, I wrote it!"
Findlater, a New Yorker by birth, tried very hard to live up to the fact that his immediate ancestors had come from Boston. His grooming was perfect. A clipped red mustache, firm lips set in eternal repression, a coldly challenging gaze from a pink and chubby face—all went to make up an air of aggressive importance. Findlater studiously cultivated an aloof manner. One gathered that his fingers touched only supremely great things.
Armstrong, who detested this affectation, perhaps made the mistake of under-estimating the qualities which lay beneath it.
"What's wrong with the report?" he asked.
"I'm afraid it will give our investors a wrong impression," said Findlater, with his best judicial air. "We have poured a good deal of money into this Food Products concern. Instead of spreading our money among various enterprises, we are plunging on one or two things. The heavy surplus and corporate funds should be retained more carefully against a rainy day, and more carefully spread out."
Armstrong nodded. "We make money work for us," he said in perfect good humor. "We can't afford to have it lie idle, you know. As for Food Products, everything that we put in will come back with heavy interest; it'll be our finest property in course of time. You speak of spreading out our money. Have you some enterprise in mind?"
"Well," Findlater showed a bit of hesitation, "a very promising affair has been brought to my attention—a new process for refining and producing turpentine—"
"A going enterprise?" asked Armstrong quietly.
"Not exactly. A most promising invention—a friend of mine—"
Armstrong leaned back and regarded the other man amusedly.
"Too clumsy, Findlater; I'm really surprised! Of course, you'd like us to build a plant and experiment with your friend's invention. Perhaps we might buy the invention outright, eh? I'm afraid it won't do, Findlater. We're not a get-rich-quick concern at all. If you want to do any juggling with the funds of Consolidated, you'll do it when I'm no longer connected with the company. That's all."
Findlater's pink-and-white face grew very red; without a word, he turned and left the room. Armstrong smiled to himself and resumed his interrupted work.
Dorothy went to the city on a Tuesday, in order to inspect some furniture that was being done over to suit her scheme of things, and also in order to do some early Christmas shopping. Armstrong knew nothing of her coming. When she dropped into the office about noon, she discovered that he was downtown on business and would not be back until later in the afternoon.
Jimmy Wren passed through the reception room, turned to her with a delighted greeting, and Dorothy at once commandeered him.
"Reese is somewhere downtown, and I want to take advantage of his absence to find him a Christmas present. You're a sensible young man, Jimmy, so I'll call on you for advice—if it'll not interfere. Can you get away to go shopping with me?"
"You bet!" exclaimed Wren heartily. "You've not lunched? Good. We'll get a bite to eat and then go sleuthing for something that'll make the old boy's eyes stand out when he lamps it Christmas morning. Eh? Fine! I'll be out in a second."
"If you're sure it won't interfere—"
"Not a bit of it! I wouldn't miss the chance for worlds—chance to spend your money, I mean—"
With a grin, Jimmy Wren rushed off for his hat and coat, and they went out together.
Dorothy liked Wren, liked his unspoiled enthusiasm; beneath his impulsive warmth there was a great fund of shrewdness and ability. None the less, he possessed a certain open ingenuousness of character, a wide-eyed confidence in people, as though his boyish illusions had never been shattered. In the office, Wren's whiplash keenness was all to the fore. Out of the office, he was himself—clean and frank and unafraid. Behind his black-rimmed spectacles, his gray eyes danced with energy and high humor. One liked Jimmy Wren at sight, and Jimmy either liked or disliked the other person with swift impulse.
They walked to the Biltmore, and were presently seated at a window-tableà deux.
The order given, Jimmy lighted a cigarette. Dorothy observed that he was glancing about as though in search of some one, and suddenly his eyes lighted up eagerly. There was no mistaking this radiant delight, and she was not surprised when he excused himself for a moment to speak to some one, and rose.
Smiling, Dorothy glanced after him.
"Jimmy ought to marry and settle down," she reflected, with all the shameless match-making instinct of the happily married bride. "I wonder who she could be? He's never breathed a word to Reese, I'm sure—"
Dorothy's instinct was not at fault. As her glance followed the wide-shouldered figure of Jimmy Wren, it rested upon a table near the entrance. At this table sat two men and a woman, very handsomely gowned and furred in white, to whom Wren was speaking.
Both the men were unknown to Dorothy. The face of the woman was hidden until Wren turned to leave; then she had one swift, clear glimpse of the profile—a striking and unforgettable profile. The eyes of Dorothy widened suddenly, widened with astounded incredulity; and their steely blue was altered to a stormy violet.
Beaming all over, Jimmy Wren returned and slid into his chair.
"That friend of mine—by George, I wish you knew her!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "A wonderful woman, Mrs. Armstrong, and from the South, too. Mrs. Bird Fowler of Paducah. Talk about your Kentucky belles! Perhaps you know her, though? Isn't Paducah somewhere near Evansville?"
Dorothy, smiling, shook her head.
"There are a number of Fowlers; the river-packets used to be named after them, you know, but I don't think I know your friend. Of course, one can't keep track of every member of a famous family."
"I suppose not," assented Wren.
"Is she a widow?"
"Yes. Had a frightful time with her husband, I understand. Poor girl!"
At this, Dorothy bit her lip.
"I caught a glimpse of the lady's face," she said sweetly. "She looked like some one I used to know in Evansville."
A peculiar nuance of her voice held Wren's attention.
"Eh? She's the same one?"
"Oh, of course not—merely a fancied resemblance," responded Dorothy with assurance. "You see, Jimmy, this Evansville girl was very unfortunate; Viola Bland was her name. She was a stunning beauty, and her mother forced her to marry for money, and—well, poor Viola just didn't care, I suppose!"
"How do you mean?" queried Wren, staring at her. Dorothy made an indescribable gesture.
"A terrible scandal, my dear Jimmy! She became quite the talk of the town. Finally she decamped with another lady's husband and there were divorces and everything. I always felt very sorry for poor Viola."
Jimmy Wren blushed faintly, but looked relieved.
"Mrs. Fowler might not be flattered by the resemblance, then," he said drily. "She's awfully keen on the proprieties and all that sort of thing."
"How did you come to meet her, if I may ask?"
"Came in here one day with Macgowan to luncheon, and met her; she was lunching with a chap he knew—that's the man over there now, with her; his back to us. Harry Lorenz. He's a broker or something that doesn't take work."
Dorothy nodded. She had heard Armstrong speak of Macgowan's intimacy with Harry Lorenz, and now she frowned slightly.
"Is she a friend of Lawrence Macgowan?" she enquired.
"I don't think he knows her, except casually," said Wren. Then he kindled. "I've been up to her place several times; she has a wonderful little apartment uptown, and gives small musical affairs there. She has the voice of an angel! She's thinking of giving some big recitals later in the season. Not for the money—she doesn't need that: but for some charity she's interested in. She knows all the big musical people. They say Caruso advised her to go into opera, but she won't do that."
Luncheon arrived. Wren was too absorbed in his subject to be observant, or he might have noticed a singular change in Dorothy's manner. Her careless gayety had quite departed. In its stead, there appeared an active and keen interest, a tense eagerness. She seemed suddenly all on the alert, as though she had glimpsed some antagonist and were seeking an opening for her weapons.
And so, in fact, she had.
"Do you know Macgowan well, Jimmy?" she asked presently.
"Not very much, outside the office. A wonderful chap, isn't he? Been splendid to me, too; put me up at clubs and that sort of thing. He's pretty deep, too."
"Just what do you mean by that?"
"Well, it's hard to say." Wren hesitated. "He seems to be all on the surface, but he's not. He knows more than you'd think. There are good solid depths to him."
Dorothy abruptly changed the subject.
When they rose to leave, the party of three near the entrance were still in place. Jimmy Wren was close behind Dorothy. As they passed the table, the woman who called herself Mrs. Bird Fowler glanced up, met the gaze of Dorothy—and into her eyes leaped sudden, startled recognition. Dorothy halted, with every appearance of delighted surprise.
"Dorothy Deming!" exclaimed the other woman, almost mechanically.
"Why, Viola Bland!" broke from Dorothy at the same instant. "Who on earth would have thought of meeting you here—and how well you're looking! I'm so glad to see you!"
"Won't you sit down—"
"Oh, my dear, I'm simply rushed to death! We're very late now—I daren't stop even for a minute. Call me up some day, won't you? Mrs. Reese Armstrong, you know—good-by!"
Dorothy swept on. At the entrance she turned to Jimmy Wren. His face was indescribable.
"Leave the wraps, Jimmy. Come and sit down. I want to talk with you."
He obeyed meekly, a man inwardly stricken. They turned into the lounge and Dorothy took possession of a sofa.
"Light a cigarette, Jimmy. You need it."
"I do," he assented bitterly, and drew a deep breath. "By gad! Isn't there a mistake?"
His very tone showed that he knew there was no mistake. Dorothy leaned back and in silence studied him for a moment or two. She was not enjoying her triumph; when Wren looked up and met her eyes, he realized this.
"Jimmy, it hurt," she said simply. "Can't you see why I did it? Because I like you. Because Reese likes you. I suppose she always wears white? Some people do; it seems to be a matter of necessity."
Wren started at that.
"It's not true!" he exclaimed, but his impulsive speech died in silence.
Dorothy shrugged. "My dear Jimmy, just stop and think what was said. I don't believe any argument is necessary."
Wren was in torment. He saw, clearly enough, the absolute finality of the whole thing. When "Mrs. Bird Fowler" gave vent to her recognition of Dorothy, she had been lost beyond any appeal of error. Now Dorothy continued coolly.
"If you have any doubts in the matter, take a trip to Evansville and ask questions. You might as well get it all in one blunt and brutal shock, and have it over. I'm sorry for your sake, Jimmy, but I'd be much sorrier if—if I had just let things go on."
Wren nodded miserably.
"People always seem to make a fool out of me," he said boyishly. "There was a bank back in Ohio—I was the cashier. Another fellow pulled some dirty work, and I came mighty close to going over the road. Only plain fool luck saved me! And now—"
"Reese doesn't think you're a fool, and neither do I," said Dorothy. "Forget all that silly talk, Jimmy! Don't blame yourself. You've made me terribly afraid, this morning—something you said—"
Her words fell off. Wren stared at her, puzzled.
"I've made you afraid? Of what?"
Dorothy smiled, but with an effort.
"I don't know; I can't say, Jimmy. Did you ever readOthello?"
"Shakespeare? Oh, sure. What's that got to do with it?"
"Nothing, perhaps. But there are some men like Iago, either in big or small ways. Do you believe that a man could have a corrosive touch—a touch that corrodes every one with whom he comes in contact, morally or in other ways? A man who makes use of everybody and twists them to his own desires, and leaves them all broken or rotted out behind him?"
Jimmy Wren frowned over this.
"Why, I suppose so," he answered vaguely. "I've read about women like that, in stories, but I never ran up against any men—"
Dorothy rose, with a silvery laugh.
"Oh, it was a passing fancy; never mind. Now look here, Jimmy Wren! You brace up and forget this. It's our secret, understand? If any more handsome widows from Kentucky show up on the horizon, let me know and I'll throw a party at a hotel up in the forties where there are loads of Kentucky people—and you'll see fireworks! Now, forget it."
"All right, I promise." Jimmy Wren forced a rueful grin. "Now, about the Christmas present for Reese—"
"Go get the wraps, please. I'll wait here."
Dorothy smiled to herself after Wren's departing figure, and this time her smile was not forced.
"Poor Jimmy!" she murmured. "He's not so badly hurt as he thinks he is; he'll forget all about it in a week. Macgowan and this Harry Lorenz and Viola Bland—hm! I don't like it. Maybe I'm all wrong, of course, but I don't like it. Now, why would Macgowan want to get poor Jimmy Wren in that crowd, I wonder? If only I could reason it out! I'd give a good deal to learn just how well Lawrence Macgowan knows Viola, and how long he's known her! I hope she will ring me up some day."
She never did. But she rang up Jimmy Wren about a little musicale; and Jimmy, having his full share of unspoiled human nature, did not refuse the invitation. His boyishness rather resented Dorothy's severe judgment of the other woman; after all, he considered, the world judges harshly, without knowing everything!
And he was gradually confirmed in this opinion. He did not consider it necessary to bring up the matter again with Dorothy, however.
Armstrong had arranged to start for Evansville four days before Christmas. He and Dorothy were to leave New York by a night train.
That same morning, he learned something that staggered him, frightened him, yet filled him with a great veneration and joy. When he looked across the breakfast-table at Dorothy, when he met the consuming happiness of her eyes, she had suddenly become like another person to him—another and more wondrous woman.
"You're not afraid?" he asked.
"Afraid? Good heavens, no! Reese, I'm the happiest woman on earth! Aren't you glad? You don't look it. You look frightened."
"I am, for your sake," he said, and smiled. "Oh, I'm happy too! I want to tell every one—"
"Don't you dare!"
"Oh, I shan't. But I should think you'd dread the long months ahead, and all the pain and suffering—"
Dorothy silenced him with a peremptory gesture as the maid appeared. Then, when they were alone again, she laughed gayly at him.
"You funny man! Everything's going to be wonderful—even the suffering. It's all we need to make us really happy, to give us a real home! Now, don't say another word about it, or that maid will suspect. You pay attention to breakfast or you'll miss your train."
"Be sure to put my bag in the car when John drives you in," said Armstrong, after the meal was over and he was leaving. "Have him bring you to the office about six, and we'll get dinner somewhere before the train leaves. Good-by, lady!"
In their parting kiss at the door there was a new tenderness, born of the knowledge lying in their hearts.
All the way to town that knowledge kept pounding at Armstrong's brain. His first awe and fear passed into a burning joy. Little by little, he began to visualize how from this minute everything was changed, how his plans and Dorothy's must be made to conform with greater events, how their whole scheme of things must be brought to defer to the arrival of this welcome guest.
Armstrong was quite determined on one thing. He must expend every energy to insure Dorothy's peace of mind during the months to come. Physicians would take care of the body; he must make it his business to see that, when this baby arrived, it should have an heritage of untroubled nerves in the mother, and a peaceful spirit.
"And I'll do it," he told himself. "Thank God, she's got plenty of plain common sense, and doesn't go into hysterics every time a pin falls! She shan't have one troubled thought in the whole time, if I can manage it."
Upon this resolve, he reached his office.
Almost before he had gone through his mail, a memorandum was handed in from the president's office. To his irritated astonishment, Armstrong found this to be a proposal to finance the National Reduction Company—the same turpentine scheme which Findlater had previously broached in vain.
Armstrong reached for his desk telephone. "I'd like to see Mr. Findlater at once."
"Mr. Macgowan is with him just now, sir."
"Ask them both to come over to my office."
A moment later the door opened and Armstrong nodded to the two men.
"Good morning. I'd like to see you, Findlater, about this National Reduction affair. Sit down and make yourself comfortable."
Findlater, who appeared rather nervous, drew up a chair. Macgowan lighted a cigar and stretched himself on the lounge across the office. He seemed to anticipate what was coming and appeared to be enjoying himself hugely.
"That is merely a tentative outline, reduced to writing," began Findlater, indicating the paper in Armstrong's hand. "I felt that perhaps in speaking of it I had not presented the matter fairly to you."
Armstrong regarded him for a moment, then spoke crisply.
"We may just as well have an understanding here and now, Findlater. I see the proposal is that Consolidated shall spend over a hundred thousand to finance the ideas of an inventor. Our stockholders get nothing for their money except the chance of experimenting in turpentine reduction. That's the idea, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Findlater aggressively. "Add to that, the fact that the inventor is personally known to and vouched for by me. His invention is a proven success. Once a plant is built, it will make big money from the start."
Armstrong glanced at the paper again.
"I note here that the whole thing seems cut and dried. For example, this item about stock. Fifteen hundred shares of the proposed Reduction stock are to be divided among certain directors of Consolidated Securities, as a free personal bonus. A bonus for what, may I ask?"
Findlater took courage from this quiet manner.
"For service," he returned. "Five hundred shares to you, since the Armstrong Company will naturally peddle the stock. Five hundred to me, for my personal interest in the affair. The other five hundred will be divided among Macgowan, for legal services, and our other directors."
Armstrong shot a look at his friend.
"You in on this too?"
Macgowan waved his cigar. "Henry C. Findlater is making the proposal; I'm not! It's all news to me."
Armstrong turned his attention to Findlater.
"Let's see. We finance this plant out of Consolidated funds, which belong to the stockholders of Consolidated. My selling organization takes this stock out and sells it to our investors. A good many of them buy it on our unsupported word, because they have faith in us. They pay so much down, so much per month, all out of their savings. Correct?"
Findlater, a bit puzzled, nodded assent.
"In other words," went an Armstrong, "you propose that we take an extremely long chance with a hundred thousand of trust funds, and employ the confidence of our investors to draw their money into the scheme also. For doing so, we split fifteen hundred shares of the stock free. This, Findlater, is nothing short of bribery. The whole scheme is a misuse of confidence; or, if you prefer the word—theft."
Findlater came to his feet, his face purple.
"I won't stand such words, Armstrong!" he cried passionately. "I won't stand—"
"Then get out," snapped Armstrong, who was white with anger.
Findlater stood motionless, silent, under that unwavering gaze. His flushed features betrayed a tremendous effort to hold his anger in check.
"You'll be damned sorry for this!" he said slowly.
"Is that a threat?" asked Macgowan, sitting up.
Findlater whirled on him. "Shut up! I've had enough of your hectoring and bullying; you change your ways or I'll make trouble!"
"Look here, Findlater," cut in Armstrong's quiet voice, and the other turned again. "You're under a three year contract to serve this company as president, in consideration of a thousand shares of Consolidated common. Let's have it straight, now. You're threatening me?"
"No, I'm not," said Findlater, trembling with rage. "I'm saying that you'll be damned sorry if you turn down this proposition! Some one else will take it up and make big money."
"Oh," said Armstrong, and relaxed. "Let them have it and welcome. That's final. Now, may I ask how you'll make trouble for Macgowan?"
Findlater mastered himself, and made response in a calmer tone.
"I propose to be treated as a gentleman, that's all. Mac comes in and orders me about like a dog; and I want it to stop! As for making trouble, that meant nothing. I—I think my nerves are jangled this morning. Since you won't consider the matter at all, that ends it."
"Conceded," said Armstrong, and held out the paper.
Findlater took it, nodded, and left the room.
Armstrong looked at Macgowan and smiled thinly. "You seem to be on the gentleman's nerves, Mac. An obstinate devil, isn't he?"
"He climbed off his perch mighty quick," returned Macgowan. "I don't know when I've seen a better job of dismounting from a high horse! Well, I must run along. See you later. You're leaving to-night?"
Armstrong assented, and Macgowan left.
There would be no further trouble with the nominal president, at least for a while, felt Armstrong. Blocked in his efforts to vote directors' salaries, he had conceived this other scheme of looting; he would now, doubtless, turn his attention to matters outside Consolidated.
So Armstrong forgot the matter of the National Reduction Company.
He picked up Jimmy Wren for luncheon, and found himself immensely benefited by that young man's eager exuberance. The Armstrong Company was to all intents under the hand of Wren, who was given a free rein like other of Armstrong's chief men; this vastly aided their self confidence and sense of responsibility, and any interference by Armstrong was made indirectly. It was good for the company to have men like Jimmy Wren feel that their executive ability was recognized and given scope to work.
Armstrong tried to induce Wren to join the Christmas festivities at Evansville, but met with an embarrassed refusal which vaguely puzzled him. He knew nothing of Dorothy's encounter with "Mrs. Bird Fowler." He did know, however, that of late Jimmy Wren had been not quite himself, and appeared to be in need of a vacation. Upon returning from luncheon, Armstrong took Wren to his own office.
"Come in and go over this Food Products campaign," he said. "There are one or two points I'd like to discuss—hello!"
He threw open the office door to disclose the figure of Macgowan, striding up and down the room. Macgowan swung around hastily and showed a disturbed countenance.
"Ha, Reese! I had to see you at once—something infernally bad! Come along, Jimmy; you're in on it too."
The manner of Macgowan was startling. Armstrong threw off hat and coat, and Macgowan went on speaking rapidly.
"It's a good thing this turned up before you left, Reese. I don't know just what to make of it. Either this is an outrageous lie, or there's something queer going on."
Advancing to Armstrong's desk, he spread out a letter. The other two men leaned over, reading it with incredulous eyes. It was addressed to Macgowan, was written from Seattle, and was signed by one Elmer Lewis, junior partner in a Seattle law firm.
"Lewis is an old friend of mine," said Macgowan. "He's straight."
The letter set forth that the Armstrong Company salesmen on the coast were using everything but violence in the effort to unload Food Products, were sticking at no misrepresentation. It went on:
"I am writing this, Mac, so you may stave off trouble. These Armstrong salesmen are using your name freely, in connection with obviously untrue statements.
"Since these stock sales appear to be managed from New York by mail, the matter may become serious. I understand that complaints have already been made to Washington, and that an investigation by the postal authorities may be under way."
Jimmy Wren straightened up with a grunt of disgust.
"This guy Lewis had better get investigated for mental chaos! Did you ever see anything to beat this?"
Armstrong looked up, frowning.
"Mac, what the devil can it mean?"
"How do I know?" Macgowan shrugged. "All I know is right there. If these men of yours are getting into trouble and making use of my name—"
"It's a lie from start to finish!" snapped Armstrong.
"There's something queer about this letter. Jimmy, do your coast reports show any such situation out there?"
"Not a thing," said Wren promptly. "The entire allotment of Food Products stock will be sold out before the coast men quit work, the first of the year. They are furious because we're quitting the territory. Looks like all they do out there is to show the prospect where the dotted line is. This letter is bunk!"
"It's not that," returned Armstrong thoughtfully. "It's written by a friend who wants to save Mac from trouble. It's possible that some disgruntled investor has raised some kind of howl—"
"In such case," interposed Wren with some heat, "can't he turn in his stock and get his money back? Haven't we a standing agreement to protect every dissatisfied investor? Is there the least excuse for anybody running to the postal authorities?"
Armstrong shook his head. "It's past me. What about it, Mac?"
Macgowan had entirely lost his nervous air. He was watching Armstrong closely. Now he lighted a cigar, flourished the match, and responded with some deliberation.
"As you say, it's possible that some one has sent in a complaint; perhaps to a newspaper which has played the matter up strong. Maybe Lewis saw something in the paper and wrote me without knowing all the circumstances. Of course, the whole thing is absurd—"
"Your friend Lewis does not substantiate his statements," said Armstrong. "But if the authorities are starting any investigation, we want to know it! There's no foundation for anything of the kind, but the fact that we're under investigation will hurt us. There's no protection except by going direct to the source."
He sat down at the desk and took up the telephone.
"Get me the Dorns Detective Agency. I want Robert Dorns personally."
Macgowan swung around as though he had been shot.
"Wait! Give me a word first!"
At this swift, imperative command, Armstrong's eyes widened. He had never heard Macgowan use such a tone. He told the operator to hold up the call.
"What is it, Mac?"
"Just this. If you call Dorns into the matter, he may cause trouble—"
"He's the biggest detective in the country, absolutely responsible."
"Sure. At the same time, the matter can be better handled from the inside. I'll run down to Washington to-night. You know, I have a good many friends there, Federal men and others. If any investigation is going on, I can check it quicker than Dorns could."
"I don't want it checked!" said Armstrong angrily. "I want everything wide open! And I want these reports run down to the ground!"
"Leave that to me," returned Macgowan, with assurance. "Wren can give me all his letters and instructions to agents. I'll guarantee to satisfy the postal men in an hour's time. Then I'll take up the letter itself with Lewis and see what's back of it; I'll wire him at once, in fact. You'll do better to keep these things in the family, Reese, than to call in any outside help."
Armstrong considered this, and found it good. That any breath of suspicion should be cast on his methods, angered him intensely; on the other hand, there was so obviously some inexplicable mistake involved that it behooved him to go slow.
His business was founded upon confidence. The only way in which Consolidated could be attacked, the only way in which Armstrong himself could be attacked, was by attacking the confidence of the thousands of investors. That this letter from Seattle indicated any such attack, never for an instant occurred to him.
"All right," he said at length. "Take care of it in your own way, Mac. Advise me at Evansville just what's behind this, or what's going on."
Macgowan assented briefly, and seized his things. If he were to catch the Washington flyer that night, he had much to do. When he had departed, Jimmy Wren frowned and lighted a dead cigar.
"Mac was sweating. All worked up; notice it? Hope he'll handle things right. I'm off to wire the coast. If I get any answers before you leave, I'll let you know."
Armstrong found himself alone.
Gradually his indignation died away. Nothing so stings the soul of a man as injustice, and the entire content of that Seattle letter was false to the core—falser even than Armstrong dreamed at the moment. It was not the threatened trouble which hurt, not the warning sent Macgowan, but the black falsity of the whole affair.
Armstrong laughed at the thought of heading off the threatened inquiry. Any probe into the methods of Consolidated or of the Armstrong Company, would only result in exoneration. That the salesmen were misrepresenting Food Products was ridiculously untrue. Armstrong knew his salesmen.
"Yet that letter worries me," thought Armstrong. "I wish now that I'd gone ahead and employed Dorns. Why the devil was Mac so worried over a Federal inquiry? We've nothing to fear from that end. Something queer about it all; I don't savvy it."
At this moment he remembered the promise he had made to Dorothy.
The thought disturbed him. That request had not been empty words. When she asked for his promise, she meant exactly what she said; perhaps, he reflected, that request of hers had some unguessed reason behind it.
Armstrong frowned. He realized that now he must either break his promise to her, or keep it. Some such emergency as this, some such threat of trouble, was just what she must have had in mind when she had extracted the promise. Business was no overwhelming mystery to her. Yet this letter from Seattle—nonsense! There was no trouble here. The whole thing was absurd. Nothing could come of this; there was no basis. And just now the important thing was to keep Dorothy's peace of mind secure and serene.
"I wouldn't bother her now if the whole organization were collapsing—which it's not!" thought Armstrong.
At four-thirty Jimmy Wren appeared beaming, and displayed a telegram from the Seattle sales manager, branding the report as wholly false. There was not a single dissatisfied investor in the coast territory, so far as was known.
"Want to stop Macgowan?" asked Wren. "I can catch him at his office."
"Let him go," said Armstrong. "If there's anything at all in this, he'd better ferret it out and kill it. You wire the Seattle manager to investigate Elmer Lewis. That letter looks queer to me. Let me know at Evansville what you learn."
When Armstrong met Dorothy for dinner, he had dismissed the affair from his mind, and said nothing to her about it.