Christmas in Evansville to some degree reflected the warm holiday celebration of the South, which is not individual but general in scope, not personal but social; making up in its own way for the lack of snow and more vigorous Northern traditions.
Dwindling stores of sherry and bourbon were opened with unreserved bounty, while "white mule" from across the river had its own share in affairs. Old recipes provided for egg-nogg, smooth as silk and strong as black-label Bacardi, or for fruit-cake whose fragrance was an almost forgotten memory, to be passed about by more skilled or fortunate housewives to others. In such matters Dorothy was busy almost from the moment of her arrival, for these delicately adjusted recipes were not left to the hands of servants.
Armstrong found himself engulfed in a whirl of hospitality whose spontaneous gayety and open-hearted sincerity took him back to college days, and banished worry. Having heard nothing from Macgowan, he knew that all was well behind him, and forgot his troubles.
Both Williams and Slosson came down over the holidays from Indianapolis, where their brokerage business was thriving, and called at the Deming residence. Their greeting to Armstrong was heartily cordial, and all the former ill feeling seemed past and forgotten. For this, Dorothy was grateful. Not that she particularly cared for either man, but she did want Armstrong's memories of Evansville to be untroubled by contact with any who were not warm-hearted friends. She need not have worried; Armstrong gave not a second thought to either Slosson or Ried Williams.
The winter of Dorothy's discontent and unrest, however, was ushered in with the dinner dance at the Country Club. It was Friday night, with Christmas only a day away.
The club was in gala dress, with fireplaces blazing merrily, a "string band" of darkies whose music made the toes tingle, a huge tree, and a repast to make Epicurus envious. In the course of the evening, Dorothy was captured by one Joel Giddings, an antique beau who was very deaf, and whose dancing was execrable. Being quite accustomed to requests that he "sit out" a dance, Giddings yielded amiably to Dorothy's wishes and guided her to a very secluded nook behind the Christmas tree.
They sat there, almost hidden from sight, while Giddings rattled on about nothing. Then, as Dorothy listened, she heard another voice—a voice which came from close by, although the glittering tree hid the speaker from sight.
"Armstrong doesn't worry much about showing up here," it said. "I suppose he figures that nobody knows just how he got control of Food Products, anyhow! What I can't understand is why Deming endures him, after the way he chucked Deming out of his own business!"
Dorothy felt the red come flooding into her cheeks, while Joel Giddings rattled obliviously along. She did not need to seek, to know that the voice belonged to Ried Williams. After some inaudible response, it came again, fairly burning into her.
"Perhaps Deming never suspected—there was a good deal he didn't know about the frame-up that Armstrong put over. I shouldn't wonder if he still thinks Armstrong was his best friend that day! It was the same day of Dorothy's wedding, you know. The whole affair was mighty cleverly done, if you ask me! No, of course she never knew anything about it; Armstrong kept the machinery all out of sight. He sure did have it running smooth, too."
The voice died away, as the speaker moved off. Dorothy leaned forward to see with whom Williams had been talking, but she was too late.
Here, then, was the old dreadful thought actually put into words!
She had never entertained a definite suspicion, despite Macgowan's words to her before the wedding. She had never even dared to think of such a thing as had now been bluntly laid before her mind. Her first impulse was to seek Williams, denounce him as a liar, publicly settle this calumny before every one. The fact that his hatred of Armstrong still persisted, for all his hypocritical friendliness, infuriated her.
The impulse was swiftly killed. Doubt killed it; her first doubt of her husband.
Her mind flew back to the wedding-day, to those words from Macgowan, to the honeymoon and the little Armstrong had ever said about the manner in which he had taken over Food Products. She found herself recalling little things, hitherto unnoted; words, acts, looks. Could there be some truth, after all, in the calumny? Had Armstrong really put her father out of the company—was that why he had persistently remained out? Williams ought to know, if any one did.
Shame flamed into her—shame, anger at herself for allowing such thoughts entrance in her mind. Of course it was a lie, a calumny! All of it!
For the remainder of that evening, Dorothy was in turmoil. She made no mention of all this to Armstrong. Later, while he slept, she lay beside him wide-eyed and sleepless, and there fought out the decision within her own heart.
It did not occur to her that Ried Williams might have directed those words at her ear, instead of being ignorant that she overheard them.
It was perhaps unfortunate for Dorothy that she had never been one of the "wise virgins" who predominate in social life. She was not one of those charmingly sophisticated damsels who find in wedded life nothing very new or startling, and who are almost as conversant with the symptoms and experiences of motherhood before the fact as they are after it. Dorothy's education and nurture had all trended in the other direction; in the direction of old-fashioned delicacy, of hopelessly antiquated reverence for the facts of life. With all the charm of her upbringing, the moderns could have argued that she had been left a little too ignorant, for to her there were yet countless mysteries unguessed and depths unfathomed.
Convinced of her own expectant motherhood, it was perhaps for this reason that she found herself a prey to shrinking timidity, to a mental fear and terror which had small basis in actual fact. On some unremembered occasion, from some half-understood conversation, she had received an implanted seed which now blossomed and bore dark fruit. She firmly believed that a woman in a "delicate condition" was liable to strange mental reactions, was subject to delusions and obsessions. She had a terrible fear lest some such delusion take hold upon her.
She did not know that this fear might in itself provoke the thing that was feared.
"I must say nothing of all this to Reese," she thought, firmly pressing the resolve into her whole self, as she lay there staring into the darkness. "I must dismiss it, forget it! I know that it is a contemptible lie. I must never think of it again. It is too low, too utterly despicable, too unclean, ever to gain harborage in my mind. So is that man Williams. I shall never think of him again. I shall shut my mind to the whole thing; it is unworthy of me, unworthy of Reese! Unless I do, it may become an obsession, it may make me cruel and unjust and may hurt the little one—"
She drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, forced herself by sheer exertion of will into calm. And presently she fell asleep, secure in her resolution.
One cannot, unfortunately, altogether eject a lodger from the cells of the brain, however unwelcome that lodger may be, as the Freudian experiences of St. Anthony bear witness. Its presence may be forgotten; it may be lulled into sleep; but no writ of ejection is valid when issued against the brain.
Upon the following morning Deming went downtown to take care of some last-minute purchases. He went by street car, since Mrs. Deming had need of the limousine to distribute her quota of egg-nogg and fruit cake.
Dorothy was to aid in this laudable task, and Armstrong volunteered to accompany them and to serve as burden-bearer. It was nearly eleven when he helped the chauffeur carry out the baskets and beribboned packages to the car. Dorothy and her mother were already leaving the house.
A screech of brakes from the street caused Armstrong to turn. He saw a taxicab dash wildly to the curb before the house, the driver snatching at a greenback extended from the car window. The door flew open, and a figure fairly leaped from the cab and began to run up from the street to the house.
"Hey, Jimmy!" shouted Armstrong in astonishment. "Jimmy Wren! Come around to the side!"
Wren halted, stared about, changed his direction. Armstrong, here getting his first sight of the man's face, was inexpressibly shocked. Wren was white as a sheet, hollow-eyed, upon his countenance the look of one who has been plunged into some living hell.
"Glad to see you, Jimmy!" exclaimed Armstrong, meeting him with extended hand. "But what's the matter with you, old man? Sick?"
"Got to see you—quick—alone!" panted Wren. Panic was in his eyes, and fright, as they roved about. For a moment Armstrong thought him drunk.
"Brace up," he commanded sharply. "Here's Mrs. Deming—mother, this is my friend Jimmy Wren. You've heard me speak of him—"
Wren removed his hat, mumbled something, looked at Dorothy with terrified eyes, and then turned upon Armstrong a glance of terrible and unutterable appeal.
"Must see you—quick!"
"I'll give up the trip," said Armstrong to Mrs. Deming. "Something must have come up; Wren has news for me. You'll excuse me? Come into the house, Jimmy."
They started inside. Dorothy, after a word to her astonished mother, joined them in the doorway.
"I'm staying home too,"' she said simply. "Has something happened, Jimmy?"
Wren uttered a groan.
Jimmy Wren refused to utter a word until behind closed doors. Armstrong led him upstairs to the library, while Dorothy, discovering that Wren had eaten nothing since the previous day and had just come in on the morning train, ordered Uncle Neb to fetch something after them.
In the library, Armstrong procured a bottle of whisky, poured a stiff drink for Wren, and forced him to swallow it. Dorothy closed the doors.
"All set, Jimmy," said Armstrong, watching Wren calmly. "What is it?"
"Trouble," blurted Wren, desperation in his face. "Federal investigation—indictments! We're all going to be indicted—you and me, all of us! By this time there's been a fraud order issued against us. The business is wrecked. We'll be arrested—"
From Armstrong broke a laugh of angry incredulity.
"Man, are you drunk? What's wrong with you?"
Wren stared at him from terrible eyes.
"What's wrong with me? I don't know—except that, maybe, I've always trusted you, Armstrong! If you've lied to us, deceived us, then you'll land us all in jail. Nothing's wrong with me if—if you're straight. Nobody knows that except you. Because I had faith in you, believed in you, I came straight here—Macgowan didn't want me to, and said he might get things settled without bothering you—but it's gone too far. If they close up the business—"
Armstrong's hand gripped his shoulder and set him back in the chair from which he had half risen in his excited burst of speech.
"Sit down, Jimmy. There must be a cursed good explanation of what you've just said! Take it easy, now. Start at the beginning of all this nonsense. Let's have all that has happened. Did Macgowan go to Washington the night I left New York?"
"Yes. He didn't know what Findlater was up to. Nobody did."
Armstrong's eyes glinted. "Findlater! What's he done?"
"I guess he was back of that letter from Seattle."
At this moment Dorothy interposed. She had been watching Jimmy Wren, a pallor rising in her face. Now she looked at Armstrong and spoke.
"What letter do you mean?"
Armstrong was burning with anxiety to hear what had happened. The business wrecked, indictments in the air, Jimmy Wren in wild panic—all this meant some disaster out of the blue. Something inconceivable had been going on in New York. He was profoundly stirred by Wren's almost incoherent words.
It was characteristic of Armstrong that, apparently cool as ever, he now turned to Dorothy and quietly told her of the letter Macgowan had received from Seattle. His poise had an immediate effect on Jimmy Wren.
"Why did you keep all that from me?" asked Dorothy. "Did you forget that promise you made me, Reese?"
She checked herself. Something in her eyes frightened Armstrong; some singular quality in her voice startled him.
"It was not worth bothering you with, dear," he responded. "It seemed too trivial, too small! It was evidently some mistake. It's impossible that there could be anything back of it. Now, Jimmy—ah, here's Uncle Neb!"
Armstrong rose, brought in the tray of food, set it before Wren. He returned to his own chair and lighted a cigar, repressing his impatience anew.
"Get a bite to eat, Jimmy, and straighten up. Then let's have the whole thing."
Wren obeyed, for he was dominated by Armstrong. After a few bites, he turned from the tray, to the anxious eyes fastened upon him.
"Mac came back from Washington and said everything was cleared up," he began, speaking more calmly now. "Then, two days ago, Findlater came into the office and took off the roof. He had received a letter from Spokane, like the one Mac got, and he also had a letter from Washington. It seems that his name had been used out West, and he was wild about it—going to sue the Armstrong Company and so forth.
"While we were arguing with him, Macgowan and I, a postal inspector came in and ordered all our books opened to him. An investigation is going on this minute, Reese! Findlater is behind it all, we think—"
"Hold on," cut in Armstrong coolly. "The postal authorities don't investigate any one without cause, Jimmy. You know, and I know, that they have no just cause to go after us."
"But they have!" burst out Wren. "They have! There are a dozen complaints, letters from investors! They say the stock was misrepresented, that they've been tricked into buying it, that it was sold them by absolute fraud! Findlater is trying to have all the officers of the Armstrong Company indicted for perjury and fraud; he says he'll spend his last cent to keep his name clear of our doings! He was going to file suit against the company when I left—why, he told me he'd land every one of us in jail!"
Armstrong regarded his friend with judicial calm.
"Jimmy, is everybody in the office as badly stirred up as you are?"
"Just about." Wren made a despairing gesture. "Nobody knows what to think. Macgowan is working hard to protect us. Findlater swears that you've double-crossed the company, that you've deceived every one and are playing a crooked game—"
"Looks to me," said Armstrong, with a slight smile, "as though Findlater had sort of got your goat, Jimmy! I suppose he's been rubbing it in pretty hard, eh? Doing a lot of talking, eh? Well, you listen to me for a minute. First, when a man talks as much as all that, he's not particularly dangerous. Second, what does an indictment amount to anyway? Not a thing. Anybody can trump up charges and get an indictment."
Jimmy Wren's eyes widened at this.
"But, Reese! It means ruin—"
"It means nothing," said Armstrong crisply. "If Findlater is out to fight us, he can't do any real harm. What if he does get indictments issued? He can't get convictions—and indictments without convictions mean absolutely nothing. What does Mac say about it?"
"Mac is scared."
"What?" Armstrong was astounded and showed it. Wren continued quickly.
"Mac thinks that Findlater and his friends went to work and procured those complaints, and are behind the whole business. He thinks they started the investigation."
"But—did you say that Mac is scared?"
Wren nodded, miserably. "He told me so. That's what got me going. If Mac says we're up against it, then we are! You know it, too. Mac says that Findlater must have made all his plans a long time ahead, to take advantage of your absence right now, and that he wouldn't have started this thing unless he had the cards up his sleeve to finish it. I tell you, Mac is all up in the air! By this time a fraud order may be out against us, and if that's the case, Findlater can get us all indicted in no time!"
Armstrong glanced at his watch. It was eleven thirty. He looked up, regarded Jimmy Wren with a slight smile, and motioned toward the food.
"Eat, Jimmy; don't say another word, but listen hard. There's a train north at twelve five, connecting at Terre Haute with the Pennsylvania limited for New York. You're going to be back in New York to-morrow. I hate to make you travel on Christmas Day, but it's got to be done. Eat, now, and listen."
Indescribably impressed by Armstrong's manner, dominated by this cool refusal to find his news very terrifying, Wren obeyed the order. Dorothy sat in silence, her gaze fastened upon her husband.
Armstrong went on speaking, with that same calm deliberation which acted upon Jimmy Wren like a settling acid that reduced all his chaotic panic to order.
"There's nothing to be worried over, Jimmy. Stop and think. You'll realize that I have no secrets; the business of the company is entirely open, and the postal inspector is welcome to pry until Judgment Day. The farther he goes, the more convinced he'll be that we're all right.
"The stock has not been misrepresented by our men. Anybody can go out and find some stockholders who can be made to think that they've been deceived and robbed. Findlater is a fool to start anything of this sort; he's settled his own hash, that's all. Don't worry about his having any cards up his sleeve. He has nothing, unless it's more fraud. You go back and tell Lawrence Macgowan to keep his head."
Wren stared. "Aren't you coming?"
"Later." Armstrong smiled. He perceived that his own confidence and quiet certitude had already worked wonders in Wren's heart. "You go back and call a meeting of the directors of Consolidated Securities for Wednesday at eleven. Give no reason and tell no one that you've seen me—"
"But they all know I came to see you!"
"Never mind. Keep your mouth shut, Jimmy. Tell Macgowan and nobody else that I shall be present at that meeting on Wednesday morning. I want Findlater's resignation as president and director. I want every share of his stock bought up or taken away from him. You and Mac will use the voting trust to that end. In the meantime, tell Mac that if he can logically connect Findlater with this faked-up trouble, to start suit against him for conspiracy or anything else that's possible. Those are your orders."
"Good!" said Wren, his mouth full. "Fine! I'll do it. But I haven't any money, Reese; I haven't the price of a ticket back! I came away in a rush—"
Armstrong laughed, and glanced at Dorothy.
"Dear, will you be good enough to get my pocketbook? I think it's on the dresser."
Dorothy nodded, rose, and left the room. Armstrong's manner had had its effect upon her too; her pallor had departed, and as she left, she threw a reassuring smile back at Jimmy Wren.
Suddenly the latter started, looking up at Armstrong with new consternation.
"Reese—I forgot about it—meant to write you! It has nothing to do with this affair, but it's something you ought to know. I found it out the day after you left, while I was going through everything, trying—"
"Cool off, Jimmy. What is it?" Armstrong passed a cigar across the table. "Light that first, then spill the news. Discovered something?"
Wren nodding, lighted his cigar.
"You remember that when we put Food Products stock on the market, we simply went ahead and used the issue that Deming's directors had arranged for? They had secured licenses from the blue sky commissioners everywhere, you know."
Armstrong silently assented, his gaze on Wren.
"Well, I found something. In getting those licenses, Deming's directorate had sworn to facts regarding the financial condition of the old company which were untrue. About those assets we wrote off, among other things. They concealed the real shape of the company, in other words."
A whistle broke from Armstrong.
"Sure of that, Jimmy?"
"Positive. Nobody knows it, and probably it won't amount to anything. I asked Mac about it. He said to keep mum; that the Armstrong Company was not involved, and that we couldn't be held responsible for what Deming's directors had done. Besides, he thought there would never be any fuss made over it."
"Mac spoke the truth that time." Armstrong smiled. "This is the first I ever knew of it, but there's nothing to be done. That directorate was a sweet bunch of crooks, all right! We've nothing to fear from that angle, fortunately. Well, forget it! You get back to New York and don't let any one but Mac know that I'll be there Wednesday morning."
"Throw Findlater out, eh?" queried Wren, his eyes snapping excitedly.
"Neck and heels. Clear into the alley."
Dorothy returned, and Armstrong handed Wren a roll of bills.
"I've ordered a taxi," said Dorothy. "It'll be here in five minutes."
"Good for you, Mrs. Armstrong!" Jimmy Wren broke into a laugh. "I'm mighty sorry for the way I must have startled you. I was in a panic, that's all."
"Got over it now?" demanded Armstrong, his eyes twinkling.
"You bet! I must have been a fool to let Findlater work me up that way."
Armstrong accompanied Jimmy Wren to the station, and saw him off. The last state of that young man was considerably better than the first; whereas he had arrived an hour previously in the depths of violent and nervous panic, he departed beaming, radiating assured optimism.
"Jimmy's all right," thought Armstrong, as he went home from the station. "That devil Findlater simply knew how to drive him frantic, and did it! No wonder the whole office bunch is scared. The threat of indictment is enough to scare anybody who isn't absolutely sure of his standing. We'll soon show Findlater where he gets off!"
When Armstrong reached home, Dorothy was waiting for him, and drew him back upstairs to the library. He perceived that she was very serious; but not until they were alone behind the closed doors did she speak. Then, turning to him, she took his hands in hers and looked into his eyes.
"Well?" he asked, smiling. "Jimmy hasn't scared you, too?"
"No. Reese, there's something I must say to you now—no, I shan't sit on your lap! I have to keep my head clear, and if your arms are around me I can't think of anything else. Listen, dear! Do you remember our wedding day?"
"I hope so," returned Armstrong whimsically. "Don't you?"
But her serious, grave eyes did not respond to his flippancy.
"Macgowan was talking to me, Reese, just before that meeting here in the library. He went out of his way to say something to me that was quite needless. Now, it wasn't at all what he said, but what I could read in his mind as he said it that made me afraid of him. What he said, made me cry. What I could sense in his thought and his soul, frightened me!"
Armstrong was frowning. "Why, lady, this is the first time you ever mentioned such a thing! Surely Mac didn't—"
"He said nothing that was wrong, dear; but from that day I have feared him. Intuition, if you like. And now I want to warn you against him. That man is no friend of yours, Reese. He's using you for his own purposes. Don't trust him! Don't let him know your secrets! Be on your guard against him, always!"
Armstrong looked into her eyes, and for a moment her intense earnestness shook him to the very depths. Then his reason asserted itself. He remembered other things. Could this be a touch of jealousy? It could be nothing else.
"Dear lady," he said gently, clasping her hands in his, "I owe a great deal to Lawrence Macgowan. You don't ask that I break with him sharply, for no definite reason?"
"No, no!" she said, and caught her breath. "Oh, Reese! It's for your sake—that's all. I've nothing to go on. I can only feel, just as I have felt from the first, that there is something—something treacherous and deadly, in him! I don't want to make trouble between you. All I ask is that you be on your guard against him."
"Very well," said Armstrong quietly. "I'll remember the warning, Dot. More than that, I can't say now. I need Mac now more than ever, and can't afford to break with him. But I'll remember your words."
As she met her husband's intent gaze, Dorothy shivered slightly. Perhaps she realized how terribly unreasonable and baseless was her charge; perhaps she realized that Armstrong could not receive it as she imparted it—that he could not feel her aversion for Macgowan.
She knew that her warning was futile.
"Very well, dear,"' she said, and forced a smile to her lips. "Did I startle you?"
Armstrong nodded, gravely searching her face. "Yes, Dot. I've never thought of Mac except as a trusted confidant, a friend who would never fail me."
"There's only one person who'll never fail you, dear," she murmured, then started at a sound from below. "Oh—mother's home! Don't tell them about Jimmy Wren's news. It would only worry them—"
"Then pay me for my silence," exclaimed Armstrong happily.
Dorothy felt again that her warning had been useless. And she was right. As he went downstairs, Armstrong was thinking only of Findlater—and the following Wednesday.
Mrs. Bird Fowler's apartment reflected, in a high degree, the personality and beauty of its occupant. The large living room was chastely but exquisitely furnished in suspiciously solid mahogany which had, of course, belonged to Mrs. Fowler's great-grandmother. A portrait of the great-grandmother hung over the black marble mantel. Mrs. Fowler's resemblance to that long-dead belle of the blue-grass was quite remarkable; the same sweetly curving features, the same Grecian profile, so purely drawn as to seem chiseled, the same rare hazel eyes and delicately rippling brown hair.
Jimmy Wren thought of this resemblance as he looked up at the portrait and waited. Mrs. Fowler had been summoned to the telephone. He glanced around, relaxing in the beauty and soft luxury of the room; the invisible lighting over piano and music cabinet, the quiet tones of walls and hangings and curtains, the few but excellent pictures.
There was not a book in the room. This was a point, however, of which the usual guests were quite oblivious.
Jimmy glanced up eagerly as his hostess appeared. She wore white, as she usually did; and even now, on Christmas night, she wore it with flawless taste and distinction that set off the clear beauty of face and figure. She came and sat beside him, on the lounge that faced the fireplace, and stretched forth a hand to the smoking stand.
"You'll not change your mind?" asked Jimmy Wren pleadingly.
"Dear Jimmy, I can't!" she responded, after lighting her cigarette and sinking back among the cushions. "And you may stay just half an hour and no more. I have my packing to do, and the train goes at midnight, you know."
"You'll let me see you off, anyhow?"
She smiled as she denied this request. "You poor boy, you've been traveling like mad for two days! I want you to go home and sleep, not come downtown and fuss around a railroad station when we could only see each other for a minute."
"By gad," exclaimed Wren, "I don't see why you have to go chasing off to Tampa like this, just at the time I need you most! You don't know how much it means to me to be able to come up here and talk with you—why, it gets me into another world! A touch of music, and your understanding of everything—"
"Confession is good for the soul, they say," and she laughed lightly. "I don't know, for I'm such an insignificant little person that I haven't much to confess. No, Jimmy, I must leave for Tampa to-night; I have some property down there that has to be attended to at once. Why don't you take a vacation and run down to Florida too?"
"You know why." Jimmy Wren shook his head. "Well, there's going to be a battle around these parts when Armstrong comes, that's all! You'll only be gone a couple of weeks? That's one good thing."
"You'll write me how things go with you?"
"You bet! Maybe, with Armstrong and Macgowan in action, everything will be settled very quickly. You don't know Macgowan?"'
"I have just met him." Mrs. Fowler carefully shook the ash from her cigarette. "He seems to be a very charming sort of man. I know that Harry Lorenz thinks highly of him."
"So does everybody," said Jimmy Wren. "Even Armstrong, who takes advice from mighty few men, listens with all his ears to Mac."
"He's on your side in this fight, isn't he?"
"Who, Mac? You bet he is. I wish I could be as certain of the outcome as Armstrong is! There's a real man, I tell you. Mighty few like him alive!"
Mrs. Fowler sighed.
"I wish I could encourage you, Jimmy dear," she said softly. "But you see, I know so much about this man Findlater and his associates!"
"Eh?" Jimmy Wren looked up at her. "You know him?"
"Not personally, no. But I do wish that you had almost any other man in town to fight against! They say that Henry C. Findlater never opens battle until he has all his wires laid—and then he simply blows up his opponents."
"He'll have a hard job blowing us up," said Wren, but the worried and anxious look began to creep back about his eyes.
"Let's hope so! You know, Jimmy, he's said to be in pretty strong with the political crowd, both here and upstate. He's no giant himself, I gather, but he's in with the big ones. Wasn't there some story about his having such a strong pull that he once landed a prominent banker in the penitentiary—just because the poor man differed with him?"
"I don't know," murmured Wren. "Never heard it. Henry C. is a poor pill, himself."
"Never underestimate an enemy, particularly in New York, Jimmy—but there! All this is silly. You'll win out, of course, and when I come home we'll celebrate the victory. Shall we?"
"You've said something!" declared Jimmy promptly. "Where? Sherry's new place?"
"Anywhere you say." Mrs. Fowler rose. "Now, my dear man, I'm frightfully sorry to send you away—but I'll look forward to seeing you again. It was delightful of you to devote your Christmas evening to a poor lonely—"
"To a goddess, you mean," struck in Jimmy, as he rose and took her hand in his. Their eyes met and held, and something that he read in those hazel depths brought the color to Wren's cheeks.
"Good-by, and come home soon," he said unsteadily, "and don't forget our celebration. Oh, I do wish you weren't going! Won't you change your mind and stay?"
"I can't." Her fingers tightened on his. "But I wish you luck and success, dear Jimmy! And it's Christmas night—"
She leaned forward and kissed him, frankly—and Jimmy Wren departed with a lilt of song in his heart and a shining gladness in his eyes.
Mrs. Fowler went to the telephone in her boudoir, sat down, and called a number.
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Macgowan, please," she said when the response came. And, a moment later, she put her lips to the telephone. "Hello, Lawrence? Is this you?"
"Why, hello! Merry Christmas to you!" came Macgowan's cheerful, incisive tones. "You don't mean that he's back already?"
"Yes. He'll see you first thing in the morning."
"Things are all right, then?"
"Yes, absolutely. There's not a shadow of suspicion anywhere. Henry C. is the supposed nigger in the woodpile. And, Lawrence, he's pitifully easy to work on; I've got him all worked up this minute about Henry C."
"Fine!" Macgowan's chuckle came over the wire. "Fine! You're getting off to-night?"
"Of course."
"Well, leave the rest to me," said Macgowan. "I'll have him in Tampa inside of two days, and the passports will follow as quickly as they can be rushed down there. I'll send you a check to cover all expenses. Work it any way you like, but get him out of the country, understand! A sea voyage to Spain and back will brace you up a lot—and don't go and do anything foolish, old girl."
"You play your game as well as I play mine, and you'll win," said Mrs. Fowler with emphasis.
"I believe you," laughed Macgowan. "Good night, then, and good-by! I'll not come to see you off; he might be hanging around. Good-by!"
"Good-by."
Mrs. Fowler hung up the receiver, and smiled into the mirror.
Armstrong should have reached New York at nine o'clock on the Wednesday following Christmas, but his train was forty minutes late. Dorothy had remained in Evansville, to come East in a few days with her parents.
At precisely ten o'clock, Armstrong entered his own office. He sat down at his desk, shoved aside the waiting pile of mail, drew up the telephone and asked for Jimmy Wren. To his astonishment, he was informed that Wren was out of the city.
"Send Mr. Evarts here," he said curtly.
Evarts was sales manager of the Armstrong Company, under Wren—another of Armstrong's own men, devoted to him. Far from being the nervous, high-strung type of Wren, this Evarts was imperturbable, well poised, thoroughly alert and aggressive; a good man in all respects, and substantial.
The door opened and Evarts appeared.
"Where's Jimmy Wren?" demanded Armstrong.
Evarts closed the door behind him and stared blankly. Then Armstrong perceived that his face was haggard, seared with the brand of worry and of sleepless nights. Evarts came slowly forward, his eyes fastened upon Armstrong; that gaze betrayed a doubt, a wild anxiety, tormenting the inner man.
"Jimmy's gone,"' he said slowly.
"Where?"
Evarts waved his hand in vague fashion.
"My heavens, chief! Don't you know what's going on here? Everything's paralyzed. No one knows what to expect, when indictments will be—"
"Stop your drooling! Where's Wren?"
"In Tampa, by this time. On his way to Europe."
"Tampa? Europe?" Armstrong was astounded. "Why, in the devil's name?"
Evarts made a desperate effort, forced himself to comparative calmness.
"Skipped out ahead of the crash, that's all. We're expecting every minute to have the records seized. Two postal inspectors were here yesterday, going into things with Macgowan. The Wilmington office 'phoned in yesterday to Wren that we could look for a fraud order to-day, and also for indictments. Jimmy had a conference with Macgowan, and skipped out. Bangs has resigned and gone. I've been thinking of it myself, only—"
Armstrong sat back in his chair, and his eyes bit out like steel.
"Where do you fellows think you are—in Sing Sing already? What's all this foolery about indictments? You men ought to know better. I sent Wren back here ready to pull off his coat and fight. What's happened?"
Evarts hesitated, flushed, and then broke into impulsive speech.
"You weren't here—that's the main thing! There was ugly talk floating all around; one report was that you had skipped. Nothing definite has happened; the general idea seems to be that you're a crook, that you've floated Food Products on a false bottom, and that there's hell to pay on account of the way the stock's been handled by our men. If you think it's easy for a fellow to stick around and face indictments when the chief is gone, then think again!"
Armstrong sat motionless. The ghastly humor of all this brought a mirthless and angry smile to his lips. Poor Wren fled in blind, unreasoning panic for the second time; Evarts in a state of funk; Bangs gone, the heads of the organization shattered and reeling—and all because of false rumors! It seemed incredible. It was incredible. There was more in this than had appeared yet.
"What made you stick around, then?" demanded Armstrong.
"Blamed if I know," said Evarts bluntly. "Because I couldn't quite get you as a crook, I guess. Wired you twice yesterday—no answer. I've been working like hell, going over letters and records. Can't find a thing wrong. I don't know what the postal men have found wrong either. But Mac says things look pretty bad for us all."
"Mac?" Armstrong looked up. "Findlater, you mean. It was Findlater who got Jimmy Wren filled up with dope. It was Findlater who started this mess!"
Evarts lifted his brows.
"Maybe so. But it's Mac who has done the talking, and he's done a lot of it in the last day or two! That's what scared the guts out of us all. And it's Mac who sent Wren on to Tampa and is getting his passports to Europe."
Armstrong, bewildered and angry, held himself in check by an effort.
"I ordered Jimmy to call a directors' meeting for eleven to-day. Did he do it?"
"Yes. Findlater mentioned it last night. He and Mac were talking about it."
"Evarts, either you're crazy or I am. Your talk about Macgowan is past me." Armstrong reached for his telephone. "I'll get Mac over here and—"
"He's in Findlater's office now."
"Go get him, will you?"
Evarts disappeared. Armstrong lighted a cigar and began to pace up and down the room, furiously disconcerted. He could not understand what had happened or who was his enemy. He was baffled. Then the door opened and he swung around.
On the threshold was Macgowan, debonair as ever, some papers in his hand. Evarts was about to enter when Macgowan dismissed him with a gesture. Armstrong promptly interfered.
"Hold on! Evarts, come along in. Now, Mac, what's been going on here?"
"Reese, this is something for private discussion—"
"Not by a damned sight! I've nothing to discuss in private," exploded Armstrong. "You come in, Evarts. Now, Mac, let's have the whole thing."
After momentary hesitation, Macgowan shrugged slightly and came forward to the desk. He calmly drew up a chair and seated himself, disposed his papers before him, and produced a cigar and lighted it. Then, casually looking up, he invited Armstrong to be seated.
In this instant, Armstrong beheld a new Lawrence Macgowan.
Gone was all the genial amiability of the man. Gone was the brilliant warmth from his eyes, now cold and hard and piercing, bitterly masterful. Out of those eyes there looked the real Macgowan—a predatory, merciless man of steel and iron, armed and ready for battle.
The sight of this face struck Armstrong like a blow. He sat down, wondering yet not suspecting.
"I thought, Mac, that you had attended to this Washington investigation?"
"I did. If you want it straight, I caused it."
As he spoke, Macgowan met the gaze of Armstrong with a cold, sneering challenge in his eyes. The deliberate cruelty of that regard, its insolent brutality, gave Armstrong a swift premonition of the truth, staggered him with its force. Macgowan went on smoothly.
"You know there's a meeting of the directors of Consolidated at eleven, Reese." His voice was level, unimpassioned, stinging. "Here are two papers which I wish to lay before the board for immediate action, if you'll kindly sign them."
Armstrong looked at the typed sheets which were slid over the desk to him. He read the words. Incredulity gripped him; he read them again, his brain whirling. Anger surged up in him, he was stupefied by a frightful bewilderment.
One of those papers was his resignation as a director of Consolidated. The other was a cancellation of the contract by which the Armstrong Company was handling Food Products stock.
He lifted an uncomprehending gaze to Macgowan.
"Mac—what sort of a joke is this?"
"No joke," came the inflexible answer. It was smoothly deliberate, that voice. But the eyes that met Armstrong—the eyes were terrible! "No joke at all, Reese. Unless you sign here and now, this letter goes out to-day. You had better read it carefully."
He placed a third paper in front of Armstrong. The latter mechanically picked it up, read it through with blundering senses. From the corner, Evarts looked on wide-eyed, not understanding, yet gripped by the scene.
The letter was signed by Macgowan and Findlater, as attorney and president of Consolidated Securities. It was addressed to the commissioner of securities of Ohio, related various complaints of the manner in which Food Products stock had been handled by the Armstrong Company, and charged misrepresentation and fraud on the part of that company. It went on to demand a full investigation, a withdrawal of the license granted Armstrong in Ohio, and full penalties.
"We have affidavits to back up these complaints," went on that deadly voice. "A Federal investigation is under way; I caused it, being satisfied that you were playing crooked. A fraud order will be issued against you to-day at my request."
He paused an instant, then proceeded slowly, giving full force to his words.
"To protect ourselves against you, Consolidated is forced to take this step. This letter and similar ones will go out to every state in which the Armstrong Company operates. We demand full publicity. The alternative is your resignation—now. Either resign, or we show you up to the whole country as a crook."
Armstrong stared at the letter. He was dazed, shocked into chaotic bewilderment.
"But this isn't true! It's damnably false!" Then he looked up into those brilliant, pitiless eyes that bored into him, and read the bitter truth. A hoarse cry broke from him. "You—Judas! Judas!"
The word died on his lips. Too late, he saw himself betrayed, lured to destruction by this man whom he had trusted. A spasm of fury seized him. He crushed the letter into his pocket, half rose from his chair; his hands darted out toward Macgowan, a madness of rage blinding him—
Barely in time, he mastered himself, controlled the impulse, sank back into his chair. Perhaps it was not wholly true, not so bad as he thought. Perhaps Macgowan was sincere.
"You can't mean this, Mac!" That hurt and stricken voice made the other man wince for an instant. "You know how false all these charges are. If that letter went out—why, it'd mean ruin for me, no matter how it ended! That letter, sent out by my own company, would finish me! You haven't betrayed me, Mac? You're not trying to chuck me out—"
"You poor hick!" Macgowan took this appeal for weakness. His voice seared like acid. "We're tired of your altruistic vaporings. We've endured your bombastic dreams long enough. We're going to take over this concern on a business basis. Here's another paper you may also sign; an agreement to turn over your Consolidated stock to us. The best thing you can do is to fade out quietly. This meeting at eleven will blow you up if you don't."
Armstrong quivered under the scornful words. Then, raging, he came to his feet.
"All right! Let's have the meeting—"
Macgowan's cold smile froze the speech on his lips.
"Reese, I'll vote your stock in the best interest of the company. I have Jimmy Wren's resignation as secretary. He has empowered me to assume his interest in the voting trust, though I don't need it, since I'll vote with Findlater."
The voting trust! Armstrong sank back into his chair, doubting no longer; and the will to fight broke asunder within him. Macgowan had betrayed him, with deliberate cold-blooded planning. Armstrong could not vote his own stock. Though Macgowan and Findlater together could control the voting trust. Jimmy Wren was safely out of the way—got rid of! Armstrong had been stripped of every helper, every aid.
From this instant, Reese Armstrong felt himself lost beyond recovery. He had been lured into a trap from which there was no escape, no possible rescue. A frightful despair overwhelmed him—it was Macgowan who had done this thing. Macgowan! There was the paralyzing factor.
Not the lies, not the hatred and intrigue, not the threats and falsity around him, could prevail—but the treachery of his friend. A profound melancholy gripped him, and he could not fight it away. Oblivious of those cruelly exultant eyes across the desk, oblivious of the wondering stare of Evarts, he lowered his head and stared at the papers before him, with eyes that saw not.
He was absolutely in the power of Macgowan; there was no hope, for he had depended upon nobody else. Macgowan, joined to Findlater, held him powerless. Trusted and given authority, Macgowan could ruin him—had already done so! Swung against him, the voting trust would smash him, and that letter from the directors would make his ruin public.
It was the deliberate treachery which struck Armstrong as no other blow could have done. It reached into his very soul like a hot brand, burning everything in its course. His brain was in chaos. He could think of nothing coherent, could plan nothing, could find no evasion. He sat broken, his senses reeling, his ability numbed and stupefied. And Macgowan, watching with the cruel eyes of a hawk, smiled upon the ruin of the man whose friend he had been, and knew the moment had come to strike.
"Sign!" said the inflexible voice. "Sign—or take your medicine! Time's up."
Armstrong lifted his head. Sign! He could do nothing else. He was lost. Everything was in the grip of Macgowan. Out of his own soul all the fight had been crushed. With fumbling hands, he groped at the papers. Anguish blinded him, a bitter surge of despair held him fettered. He had no heart left to struggle, or even to evade; he could do nothing, for his spirit was broken. He felt a pen thrust into his fingers, and blindly scrawled his name across the papers. Then he relaxed and sat with chin fallen on breast.
Macgowan, smiling thinly, gathered up the papers and left the room.
Armstrong did not see the man go. He sat as in a daze, seeing nothing. Somewhere in the back of his brain was throbbing that warning which Dorothy had tried to impress upon him; the memory only served to make worse the hurt.
Then, suddenly, he was aware of a hand that clutched his arm, a voice ringing in his ear. He looked up, dully, to see Evarts standing over him in a blaze of excitement.
"Armstrong! I see the whole thing now—it can't end like this, it can't!" Evarts cried out the words in frantic tones. "Wake up, man! Do something—don't sit there like a fool! Oh, why the devil did you sign those papers! Wake up, chief, I'm with you! I'll stick till hell freezes over! Wake up and tell me what to do."
Armstrong struggled to his feet. He swayed, caught at the desk, gathered himself together.
"Nothing to do, Evarts," he said, mumbling the words miserably. "Nothing to do. I'm sick. Let me get out of here—"
Somehow he took his hat and coat and got out of the room, which had suddenly become hateful to him.
Armstrong went to his hotel room and dropped into a chair. He felt the need of being alone. He was glad that Dorothy was in Evansville, ignorant of all this disaster. He wanted no sympathy, no loving touch; he was in too bitter a mood.
The hours following his interview with Macgowan were the darkest of his life. Now that it was all over, the reaction hit him hard. The absolute and deliberate falseness of his most trusted friend was so deadly and incredible that his brain was slow to waken. This wormwood was a drug, numbing all his senses save that of inward torture. Every thought of Macgowan was a new stab.
Financially he was little injured; the blow went deeper. He was stripped of all interest in Consolidated. Everything to which he had given his energy and thought was lifted out of his grasp. He was left with nothing. To all that body of nearly sixteen thousand investors whose confidence had so inflated his pride—he was now less than nothing.
Dorothy's warning recurred to him, wrenched a wondering groan from his spirit. How those clear, cool eyes of her had pierced to the rotten heart of Macgowan! If he had only heeded it—if he had only received it sooner! Armstrong dropped his face in his hands, fighting desperately if unavailingly for a foothold on sanity, for a clear brain. He could find no outstanding point, nothing on which to build; tumult and chaos still engulfed him, and the will to do was dead. He could think only of Lawrence Macgowan, and his soul was plunged into a frightful despair.
Slowly he realized what he had lost; slowly he came to a comprehension of how this astounding treachery had won the fight against him. Now that everything was finished, he could by degrees perceive what a frightful act of folly he had that morning committed. With a perfectly clean conscience, with nothing whatever to fear—why, why had he not made some semblance of a fight? His act in signing those papers had been the act of a coward, a fool! He shivered at thought of himself that morning, shivered at the remembrance of what he had passed through.
Macgowan, with superb craft and diabolical certainty, had counted on that very thing, of course; had delivered blow upon blow, each following close upon the quivering impact of the other; had in fact brought his whole campaign of treachery to a culmination, had won everything, almost before Armstrong so much as knew himself in danger. Oh, clever, infernally clever, Macgowan! How cunningly he had planned, knowing that Armstrong would be stunned, rendered incapable of fighting, at a loss to do anything! It was the voting trust, of course, which had served as the final weapon—
Armstrong started suddenly. How far back did this duplicity extend? How long had Macgowan been concerting his treachery around his control of the voting trust?
This thought electrified him, sent his brain reaching out at last. The terrible conviction grew upon him that he had been duped from the start, tricked and played as a pawn from the very outset of his career in New York! All this while, he had been building up a business system in order that Macgowan, sitting back and watching, might grab it when the time came.
And the time had come. Consolidated had slipped from his grasp. Macgowan had set that brain of his to making his own fortune.
Armstrong sat staring before him, fingers twisting and gripping, his face seamed with drawn lines. All the cheerful, genial youth of him was crying out in agony of its hurt from a friend's hand; all the man of him was wrenched by the realization that another would reap where he had sowed, that he was in a moment robbed and despoiled of an institution to which he had dedicated his future life. The same stern self-repression which that morning had kept him from gripping Macgowan by the throat, now held him motionless, his body relaxed, his brain at work.
Another man would have cursed. Reese Armstrong thought.
One thing after another—petty and hitherto unregarded details uprose before his mind's eye in damning surety. How Macgowan had done this, had done that; how, for example, that voting trust had been renewed. Little things, yet all combining to show that Macgowan had planned his coup long ago. His confidence in Armstrong had been sincere; he had believed that Consolidated would succeed. Therefore he had laid his schemes, looking to the time when he might seize Consolidated.
And now he had gripped his prey. But—why?
That pretended distrust of Findlater and the other men! Armstrong flinched at the recollection. Even now, Macgowan and Findlater were chortling together over their easy conquest. All the time they had been playing a deep and crafty game, those two.
But—to what end?
Armstrong stiffened, as the truth smashed him squarely between the eyes. They had driven him out, they had shorn him of his power in Consolidated, they had bludgeoned his chief men and his sales organization—why? So that they could loot, of course. They had let him put Consolidated squarely on its feet. Now they would reap the benefit, careless of what later happened, careless whether Consolidated blew up, so long as they could loot—loot!
And what would they loot? Not Consolidated alone. Not one solitary financial concern. This institution stood not by itself, but in it were bound up the faith and backing of sixteen thousand people. The company would be looted, and these investors would be looted. And these people had thought that their money would be handled conservatively, not juggled and played with!
A shiver passed through Armstrong's body. Then his wide eyes came back to normal; his tensed muscles relaxed. A long breath came into his lungs. He had found the thing he needed, the mental spur, the point of departure.
Macgowan had not waged his treacherous fight for the control of Consolidated Securities alone; not alone had he won the fat corporate funds, the subsidiary companies, the money-making powers. This crafty lawyer, who had not invested a single cent, had also captured sixteen thousand people, men and women—and they would be milled, robbed, looted to the very limit!
Armstrong had fought hard to gain the trust of these people. He had expended untold energy and money to win their faith. He had felt them behind him, the thrust of their will and faith driving him onward with assured confidence. And now, now! They would see in the newspapers that he was out of Consolidated. Within a few short weeks or months they would find themselves helpless, prostrate, unable to prevent the looting. Their very faith in Consolidated would be used to rob them.
It was not what they would think of him that so stung Armstrong, that stirred him into life and action, that wakened the numbed spirit in him. It was the thought of what would happen to them. He knew well what would happen, with Macgowan's smoothly accurate hand at the wheel. He saw Macgowan in a new light, now. Their fate would be as his own—betrayed before they knew it. And who would fight for them?
A slow, bitter smile curled Armstrong's lips.
"Who will fight for them? Who can fight for them? One man, who failed to put up a fight for himself. One poor dupe, smashed like a rotten reed, wrecked largely by his own folly! But, by the lord, I'll do it! My own hand is lost. I can't win back what I've thrown away. But I can fight for the people who trusted me."
Then, for an instant, he faltered.
Again a memory of the little things, the tricks and sly snares, rose up to jeer at him. He recalled now how insistently Macgowan had prevented his bringing Robert Dorns into the affair of that Seattle letter—with good reason! Dorns would have discovered the truth, would have spoiled all the culminative effect of Macgowan's carefully planned surprise blow. And how smoothly had Macgowan averted that danger, only to go to Washington and start his campaign?
So, Armstrong faltered. How could he fight, after all? He was alone, powerless, stripped of all connection with Consolidated. He had even agreed to sell his stock to Macgowan; unless he broke this agreement, he had nothing to fight with. A struggle now would mean battle to the death, without quarter; a battle of lies and deceit and powerfully entrenched men against one man who had nothing at his back. Nothing? Ah! This one man had behind him the faith of sixteen thousand people. Was that a little thing? "If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed ... nothing shall be impossible!"
Suddenly Armstrong rose to his feet, laughed almost happily, and glanced at his watch. He crossed the room to the wall telephone.
Three minutes later he had declared war.
Late in the afternoon of this same fateful Wednesday, Armstrong sat across the desk from that hard-jawed, hard-eyed old man, head of the Dorns Detective Agency, and told his story.
From the walls around looked down the pictured features of princes and artists, men of wealth or dignity, distinguished folk in all walks of life. These pictures were inscribed to the hard-eyed old man behind the desk—Robert Dorns. Some of them he had protected, some of them he had saved, some of them he had merely served. For this man, whose name had been famous for a generation past, life had no illusions whatever; the husks of pretense were stripped away before that bitter eye of his, and he perceived only realities.
Behind that powerful, almost brutal, face was a head of intellectual power. In that brain reposed secrets unguessed, facts which, if revealed, would menace and shake the structure of politics and finance. This man would never have the satisfaction of writing his memoirs; for his memoirs, if written, would betray the world.
Armstrong was in this office for an hour. In that hour, he accomplished the greatest feat of his career—a feat which few other men could have duplicated. In the face of every cynical doubt and mistrust which must have attacked his listener, he "sold" Robert Dorns, absolutely and beyond cavil. He used no appeals, made no arguments, until he had told his story. Dorns, chewing on a cigar, said not a word until Armstrong had finished. Then:
"Going through with it for the sake of the investors, huh? Who's paying the cost of the fight—if you win?"
"I am," said Armstrong. "I'll make it plain that I'm not fighting to get any office in Consolidated; I want none. My stock will give me control, and that's all I want—unless I have to turn over that stock. But that stock is tied up for another three months in the voting trust, Macgowan must be blocked somehow."
"Humph!" grunted Dorns, the hard eyes boring into him. "D'you know that you're up against a real fight? You are, me lad; no mistake about it. This bird Macgowan, now—I know him. He's hand in fist with Tammany, and likewise with Albany; any lad who can play both ends o' that game is a slick one! What've ye got to fight him with?"
"The trust that sixteen thousand people have in me," said Armstrong simply.
The bitter eyes stared at him, a slow wonder stirring in their depths. Then came a startling and incredible speech.
"Either you're a damned fool—or you're somethin' big. And you're no fool, me lad. I'm with you, win, lose or draw. If we lose, I'll take no fee; you're the first man in years who has come for my help in an unselfish cause. I'm with you, and I'm damned proud to be with you, me lad!"
Armstrong had not expected such a speech. The unsuspected quality he had evoked from this man left him wordless, unable to respond.
"Now," said Dorns with his incisive crispness, "are you going into this thing alone?"
"Not if I can help it." Armstrong smiled faintly. "I've learned my lesson. I'll need all the assistance I can get."
"You'll want the best lawyer in the city. Got anybody?"
Armstrong shook his head. "I'm a lawyer, but not in Macgowan's class."
"You'll take my advice?"
"I didn't come here to talk baseball."
Dorns grinned at that, and turned to his desk telephone. He called a number.
"Robert Dorns talking; give me Mr. Mansfield," he said curtly. Then, after a pause: "Hello! This you, Q. Adams? Dorns on the wire. Say, did you ever know me to go wrong on a man?"
He paused, chuckled, then went on:
"I'm sending a man up to see you. Name's Armstrong. It ain't law he needs; he's a lawyer himself. What he needs is you, and all you got! Him and you and I are going to bust Lawrence Macgowan. Think we can do it?"
He glanced over the instrument at Armstrong, a whimsical glance, and grinned.
"Willin' to try the impossible, huh? All right. When and where?"
An instant later he grunted, pushed aside the telephone, swung his chair around, and faced Armstrong.
"You go see Quincy Adams Mansfield at seven o'clock, Union League Club, and talk to him like you've just talked to me, see? Now let's get to work, me lad. This man of yours, Wren. Where is he?"
"Tampa. Macgowan has him on the way to Europe."
"Want him back?"
"Yes."
"He'll be here on the next train. What's my first job?"
"Go after this fool investigation," said Armstrong promptly. "Macgowan started it as part of the scheme to scare me. Kill it."
"I'll take care of that," said Dorns grimly. "This bird has sent around to a bunch of stockholders and persuaded 'em to sign affidavits; it's easy done, me lad. Sell a man a ten-dollar gold piece for a dollar, and somebody can make him think he's been swindled. Now, I'll handle this with Q. Adams, and we'll see it through. Your letter files, instructions to agents, and a few questions to the disgruntled guys—it's a pipe! I'll knock that investigation sky high. What next?"
"I don't know yet," said Armstrong. "The annual meeting of Consolidated will take place the first Monday in April—the third. The voting trust will have expired then."
"You'll not turn over your stock to Macgowan, as you agreed?"
"No!" Armstrong's jaw set. "The agreement was signed through fraud. I'll refuse to keep it. If I kept it, Consolidated would be absolutely gone!"
"Humph! In three months he can loot hell out of the company anyhow. Now, I want some operatives scattered through that place of yours by to-morrow night. Who does the hiring, anybody you can trust? I want to keep tabs on Macgowan."
Armstrong mentioned Evarts, who would be able to place the operatives.
"All right. Now, what you got to be afraid of in the past?"
"Nothing."
"Aw, come clean! Macgowan is goin' to rake hell with a fine-toothed comb the minute he gets wise that you're after him. Where'd you come from? Ever arrested?"
Armstrong laughed. "No."
He gave a brief sketch of his life to date. When he had finished, Dorns nodded.
"You're lucky, me lad. Well, I guess we're all set to go! Work out some plan of action with Mansfield. When I get Wren here, we'll start to use our heads; meantime, get Q. Adams to work."
Armstrong had entered Robert Dorns' office with the feeling of a crushed and overwhelmed man fighting against fate. He left with something of his old self restored. Once more he was cool, level-headed, clear-brained. He was no longer daunted by his situation. The worst of the blow was past; now there remained to fight.
At seven that evening, he entered the Union League Club. Mansfield joined him in the reception room, shook hands, and led him to the elevator.
"Come to one of the library rooms, where we can talk in peace."
In the small, narrow room where books crowded to the ceiling, Mansfield took one of the easy chairs across from Armstrong. Between them was the glass-topped table with its bronze fittings, its racks of writing equipment. Mansfield laid down cigars, settled himself comfortably.
"I'm ready," he said laconically.
Following the advice of Dorns, Armstrong repeated his tale as told to the detective, giving his story completely and briefly. He realized that Mansfield was studying him the while, though he could not tell what impressions the man gained.
Quincy Adams Mansfield, one of the most celebrated yet least-known attorneys of the city, with a practice that was very exclusive, was a non-committal person. His manners were like Findlater's: authoritative, impervious, slightly offish. The great width of the eyes and brow, however, showed quite another sort of man here, and the steady gaze was deliberate and judicial. He said not a word until Armstrong had concluded. Then he spoke quietly.
"That letter which Macgowan threatened to send out. You haven't it, I suppose?"
When Armstrong felt in his pockets, Mansfield's brows lifted. He took the letter, glanced over it, then looked up. For the first time, his features warmed in the semblance of a smile.
"I congratulate you on the possession of this letter," he said drily.
"Why? It was only by chance that I retained it."
"Really?" Mansfield laughed a little. "The cleverest man is bound to slip up; it is astonishing that Macgowan let you keep this letter. With it to aid us, we shall apply for the removal of Macgowan, Findlater and these other men from the control of Consolidated Securities, and ultimately we shall jail them for conspiracy and criminal extortion."
Armstrong started. Fool that he was to call himself a lawyer! Undoubtedly this letter was actionable, yet he had preserved it by the merest chance. And Macgowan had been so filled with triumph that he had overlooked—
"It is regrettable," came the precise voice of Mansfield, "that you allowed yourself to be coerced, but I can quite understand your situation. There is no doubt that the charge of fraud and misrepresentation can be met by your own documents, and the testimony of your subordinates?"'
"None. There's absolutely no ground for complaint from any investor. Put a few on the stand and you'll see how quickly they'll backwater."
"Then you have virtually nothing to fear from that quarter." Mansfield tapped his pince-nez on his fingers, reflectively. "You will not make delivery of your Consolidated stock to Macgowan, naturally; an agreement made under duress is not binding, legally or morally. Macgowan, in the face of our charges, will not dare to force a delivery."
"But will a jury believe," queried Armstrong, "that I'd be fool enough to submit to extortion, when I was perfectly innocent?"
The lawyer smiled, as though from a weary knowledge of mankind.
"My dear sir, that action was forced by Macgowan's control of the voting trust; and, further, by your state of mind upon discovery of his treachery. Every man in the world has at some time been betrayed by the friend he trusted; such, at least, is the supposition upon which I shall go. One or two men on a jury will certainly have had such an experience."