"For my sake?"
"Yes." He faced her squarely, on his lips a slight smile tinged with bitterness. "Your happiness has always meant a good deal to me, Dot. It's for your sake that I came here—I'm not ashamed to admit it. But I can't deliver this warning to you. There are things—oh, well, it's out of the question."
"Reese and I have no secrets from each other," repeated Dorothy quietly.
Slosson regarded her, smiling once more. That smile was a triumph of irony, of subtle suggestion, of tacit implication.
"My dear Dot, I simply can't tell you what's going on! I—hang it, I'd say too much. Let me think. If there were only some way—"
He turned his back to her and stared out of the window.
Dorothy was conscious of alarm stirring within her. She had always suspected Pete Slosson of being a poseur, a very clever actor where women were concerned. At this moment, she forgot everything except the implied suggestion of his words. The desperate earnestness of his manner was convincing.
"You might leave a note," she began.
Slosson swung around on her with a quick, hard laugh.
"And implicate myself? Not much. I'm in it deep enough already. I never dreamed until too late how that infernal Ried Williams must be working for Macgowan—"
He broke off, shrugged, checked himself.
Mention of those names electrified Dorothy. She leaned forward. Her brain leaped to the conclusion that here was a chance to get some information, some warning, which must reach Reese at once. Perhaps it had something to do with the Wilmington meeting, or could be used there. It was her chance to help her husband.
"Sit down, Pete—sit down!" she said sharply. "You have to tell me what's on your mind. I'm with Reese in this fight against Macgowan. Tell me, at once."
Slosson dropped into a chair. Her incisive words seemed to shatter his indecision. He broke out into a petulant flood of speech.
"Damn it, Dot, how can I tell you? There are things you don't know, never did know, must not know! I don't want to tell you—yet, if I don't reach Reese, it means jail! Can't you see the position I'm in? If I tell you the truth, I'm bound to hurt you deeply; and I don't want to do that. If I don't tell you, if I don't get this message to Reese—it's jail for him."
His mental despair, his torturing uncertainty, lay written in his face.
"Jail!" repeated Dorothy, low-voiced. Slosson made a gesture of assent, and dropped his chin on his breast. From beneath lowered lids, he was watching keenly, however.
Dorothy's first impulse was to bid him go, leave his message unspoken. If Reese actually had any dark secret which had been carefully kept from her knowledge, she did not wish to know it.
The impulse was checked. What had this to do with Macgowan, with Ried Williams? The thought was as a goad to her spirit. She leaned forward again to speak. As Slosson glanced up, he met her eyes full. Her blue-steel gaze was so imperative, so penetrating, that the man gave an involuntary start.
"Tell me the whole thing, Pete," she ordered swiftly. "I have a right to know. Out with it!"
Slosson gestured despairingly.
"I'll have to," he muttered. "Reese is going to be indicted in Illinois—perhaps has been indicted by now. He must act at once to save himself."
"Indicted! For what?"
"For the way he handled Food Products—for fraud in selling the stock."
Dorothy closed her eyes for an instant. The dreaded words had come; the impact of them burned her. Food Products! And Slosson's bitter voice continued.
"Williams got me to sign the affidavits before I realized what was going on. If I'd dreamed that he was working with Macgowan, that the affidavits were to be used—"
"Stop, wait!" exclaimed Dorothy, her eyes terrified. "Tell me exactly what's the trouble, what he did that's wrong! I'll have to understand it all."
Slosson lowered his lids and looked down at his hands—perhaps to hide the swift gleam of triumph he could not keep from his eyes.
"As things stood, when your father was in charge, we were unable to market that big stock-issue which would have saved us. Reese took hold and showed us how to manage it. We made a list of assets that was—well, it was padded! We filed our sworn statements with the various state commissioners of securities, and got permission to sell the stock. Salvation was just in sight for the company when your wedding-day came—and you know what happened then. Reese threw us all out and took over the company."
Dorothy watched him with burning gaze. Across her face had slowly spread a mortal pallor.
"You don't mean that everything was prepared before-hand—even that meeting in father's library, that telegram—and what happened then?"
This was the moment of crisis, and Slosson met it firmly. He lifted his face, white with the lie that was on his lips. To Dorothy, it seemed the pallor of confession. He met her intent, flaming eyes, and nodded.
"Yes. We didn't expect it, of course. Reese and Macgowan and his man Wren had it all framed up. They knew we couldn't raise the money that telegram demanded—I believe they arranged to have the telegram sent at the proper time. Wren came to Evansville, on the quiet, about a month before your wedding, and looked up the company's affairs thoroughly—"
"Wren did?" whispered Dorothy, her eyes wide and stricken. "Jimmy Wren?"
Slosson nodded, caught his breath sharply.
"He was only obeying orders, of course. It was through him that Reese handled things—showed us how to get that stock issue on the market. We never dreamed that the company was going to be grabbed from us. And," he added reflectively, "I'm not blaming Reese for that. I don't think it was all his scheme. I blame Macgowan, for it was Macgowan who learned about all the details—"
He came to his feet and resumed his restless pacing back and forth. "You see, Dot, Reese will have to act immediately—"
"Why," suddenly struck in Dorothy, "why has Macgowan, through all these weeks and months of bitter enmity, never raised the question of this stock issue against Reese? Was he involved in it?"
Slosson shook his head. "I don't think he even knew of it until recently. That was Armstrong's own private affair; the Armstrong Company, you see, was to handle the stock and sell it. Of course, if Macgowan ever brings up this matter it means the ruin of Reese. And now Macgowan knows about it, and is bringing it up.
"I've learned through Williams," he went on quickly, "that Macgowan is obtaining an indictment against Reese in Illinois, on charges of fraud in connection with the stock sales. That will amount to nothing, probably. This other business, however, can be raised against him everywhere, in every state! And Macgowan knows about it. That's why Reese must act at once, get to Macgowan without delay, call off the whole fight and patch up a peace!"
Dorothy started slightly. For one instant she dimly suspected the truth behind all this talk; for an instant only. It was gone at once and forgotten.
"He won't do that," she said steadily. "He can't do that, Pete. He's fighting now for all the men and women who believe in him, for the investors—"
Slosson turned bitter eyes upon her.
"Have you fallen for that talk?" He laughed harshly. "Listen! I want to help Reese—for your sake. I want to save him, if I can. But don't give me that campaign bunk—it's nothing else. Listen to facts! Don't you know why he's pretending to fight for the sixteen thousand investors? Because that's his only possible shield. If Macgowan came out and charged him with wrecking Food Products and stealing it from your father, Reese could stand on his dignity and deny the charge. But what can he say to the law—to indictments and proof, and conviction? A grand jury has to be shown facts. If Macgowan shows those affidavits that I signed with Williams—good night!
"Don't think that Reese meant wrong," hurried on Slosson. "He really saw only the one way to save Food Products, and took it. The rest of us had run things into the ground, sure enough. About this stock issue, he took the same chances that four out of five business men take every day. Why, I can see now that when he kicked us all out, it was for the best all around! It's been the makings of me. And your father has realized that the company was better off without him—he was glad to be saved from the wreck at any price."
A faint tremor passed through Dorothy's body. If every word that Slosson was uttering had been craftily calculated to pierce her heart, the end could not have been better attained.
Slosson concluded rapidly. "Dot, I tell you that this man Macgowan is a terrible enemy. He is vindictive, cunning, treacherous! He's all that's bad—and now he has Reese absolutely by the neck. Reese will be indicted and jailed in every state where the stock was sold, unless he acts at once and ends the fight with Macgowan."
Dorothy was watching him now with terrified eyes. Her doubts had fled, dissipated by his tremendous earnestness.
"But he can't give in—"
"He has to. Do you know whom I met on the train coming to town? Tom Windsor."
She was caught by the name. Dorothy knew Tom Windsor very well. He was an Evansville boy, and every one there knew him. Now he was in Indianapolis, assistant state's attorney general. Dorothy, in common with every one, knew him for a man of the most unimpeachable integrity, of the most sterling character. His name was commonly linked with that of Federal Judge Sanderson—the two men were known to stand for the same stern, rigid, unwavering application of the law, Roman in its severity, recognizing neither influence nor wealth nor position in any offender. It was Windsor who had placed the mayor and entire council of one Indiana city in the penitentiary.
"You know Windsor," went on Slosson's voice. "You know there's nothing loose or crooked about him. From something he said to me on the train, I gathered that he was coming to New York to see Macgowan. Probably he has been appointed special investigator into this Food Products affair, and Macgowan will lay those affidavits before him. If Tom Windsor thought his own brother guilty, he'd land him behind the bars!"
Dorothy caught her breath. For a moment everything went black before her; she recovered to find Slosson gripping her arm, his face frightened, contrite.
"Oh—I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he cried out. In his voice was a touch of real sincerity. "I should never have told you—"
"Please—go," she whispered faintly.
Slosson regarded her for a moment with a dejected and mournful air, then he took his hat and went to the door. There, he turned.
"Forgive me, Dot! There was no other way—"
She did not respond. She did not even see him go. After a time she found herself at the telephone, calling the Wilmington office. Presently Jimmy's voice came to her.
"Tell me, please!" She wondered at the cool steadiness of her own tone. All her brain was in a mad tumult. "Tell me—were you in Evansville about a month before Reese and I were married? Were you making arrangements then, gathering information and all, for that Food Products reorganization?"
"Why, sure!" came the surprised answer. "I didn't know that any one knew of it, but I was on the job all right. Why?"
"All right—good-by."
Dorothy hung up the receiver. The warning which she was supposed to deliver had been stricken out of her mind. Trembling, she dropped her face in her hands.
"True—it's all true!" she moaned. "Oh—Reese! And I would have stuck to you through everything—"
From the moment when Lawrence Macgowan, as secretary of Consolidated Securities, called the annual meeting to order, a sense of impending drama filled the auditorium. The Gayety Theater! What irony in the name! Here was a struggle for more than life and death, a titanic combat between looters and looted.
Every one knew that the issue lay between Armstrong and Macgowan; the batteries of lawyers and advisers and experts and friends were but incidentals of the stage setting. The life of Consolidated was at stake—now this outward and visible symbol of sixteen thousand investors would either be saved to its owners, or would be despoiled and bled white.
From the start, Macgowan let himself go full sweep, in all his real nature. Arbitrary, domineering, a sneering viciousness in eyes and voice, he ruled the meeting with a hand of iron. Save for his own little group, the hundreds of people around were enemies; they hated, feared, distrusted him—and were helpless before him.
Macgowan, knowing that these people had gathered to watch his power stripped away, took savage pleasure in making them feel that power, in making them feel their own impotence before him, in making them realize that he, and he alone, was the master of Consolidated Securities.
And people had gathered to watch. Several hundred were here, the majority from near-by points, others from a distance. These, almost to a man, were behind Armstrong and his committee. Before and during the meeting they were thronging about the hotel rooms, shaking hands, encouraging, pouring their enthusiasm and confidence into the men who were fighting for them.
While that long roll of the thousands of investors was being called they sat silent, tense, listening and checking off proxies. Never was the magnificent audacity of Macgowan more manifest than now, as he sat there snarling at those who had come to pull him from his position of power.
This arrogant, confident manner of Macgowan's was causing Armstrong worry; he sought for the reason perpetually, and found none. Hour after hour went by. The first day dragged out its length, the second followed. Somewhere in the crowd Armstrong caught a glimpse of a sallow, saturnine visage, lost it again instantly; after a time he remembered that darkly vulpine countenance as the face of Ried Williams. Williams! What was the man doing here? No matter.
And now the third day of the meeting. That afternoon would be finished the long roll of the sixteen thousand and more investors.
With each name that was called, during these two days and a half, the Protective Association showed its power more clearly. The proxies held by Macgowan's satellites were clearly in the minority. As the totals mounted up, victory became more and more assured to Armstrong. And ever Mansfield sat aloof in thoughtful silence, scrutinizing every word and act of the opposition with that lightning brain of his ready to pounce; and Macgowan, realizing his peril, stepped cautiously.
Noon came—noon of the third day.
It was an exultant noontide. Sessions was holding the newspaper and financial writers at bay; Judge Holcomb and Doctor Bruton rested. Armstrong and Mansfield lunched with Robert Dorns, who had come down to enjoy the triumph. Calling up Aircastle Point, Armstrong was told that Dorothy was asleep, and left word for her of the victory.
The afternoon session opened with a growing tension. The finish was in sight. The last of the T's was called, and the end would now come soon. Armstrong heard the droning rasp of Macgowan's voice, heard the responses, mechanically checked off his own list. He swiftly computed his figures. Close—but certain!
"We've beaten the voting trust!" he thought exultantly. "Beaten it!"
True. Of the thirty-five thousand shares of common outstanding, the Association would vote a full nineteen thousand. Macgowan, despite his control of the voting trust, would lose by fifteen hundred votes. The illegal attachment had not availed him—
Suddenly Armstrong's head shot up. He was conscious of the electrified thrill that passed through the entire audience. He was conscious of a new name, not on his list, which had passed the lips of Macgowan.
It was the name of Ried Williams.
A dead, tense hush fell upon all, through which pierced the voice of Williams in its response. The wondering surprise passed into a low gasp of incredulity. Macgowan sat sneering, defiant, his gaze sweeping about in exultant challenge. The faces that stared up at him had lost their glow of confidence and triumph; consternation was in every eye, a dismayed stupefaction, despair!
Armstrong was dumbfounded, staggered. For Ried Williams answered for ten thousand shares!
A low mutter passed through the crowd; it swelled and swelled into a vibrant, angry roar of protest. The supercilious smile vanished from the lips of Findlater. Macgowan, furious, bellowed for silence. At last, unable to get it, he held out his hand toward the standing figure of Mansfield in tacit permission. The uproar quieted.
As Mansfield voiced objection, Armstrong's attention was suddenly dragged away. He found Jimmy Wren at his elbow, gripping his arm, agitated and tense.
"Come to the telephone—long distance—French at Chicago wants you—"
"Damn the telephone!" Armstrong was trying to catch Mansfield's voice. "Tell 'em—"
"You've got to come! It's the Chicago office—come and hear for yourself! It's more important than anything here—"
One look into the eyes of Wren, and Armstrong obeyed. He rose, suffered Wren to pilot him out, wondering what new stroke of fate was to fall upon him. Ten thousand shares that did not exist! This was more than audacity; it was insolence. Macgowan could never get away with such action as this. He had passed the limit at last. His effrontery had now over-reached itself—
"Hello!" Armstrong spoke into the telephone. "Armstrong speaking. Who is it?"
He listened for a moment; his face changed. A start escaped him, as though from some invisible blow.
"What's that again?" he demanded vibrantly. "Repeat it!"
Then, after a moment: "All right, French. Don't lose any sleep over it. Much obliged to you."
He hung up the receiver and turned to Jimmy Wren. He was laughing, but his eyes were dancing with the cold flame of sun-smitten ice.
"You heard, Jimmy? Want to start for Europe?"
Jimmy Wren gaped at him, then grinned and swung palm to palm with a hearty grip.
"Damn Europe! I'm with you till hell freezes over, and you know it!"
"All right. Let's get back—"
He was too late. He found that the meeting had been adjourned until next morning. Cursing, angry men were pouring from the place. He encountered Mansfield and Dorns in company; the lawyer was white with suppressed fury. Dorns regarded Armstrong grimly and bit hard at a cigar.
"Well?" demanded Armstrong, as they got clear of the crowd. "Did you stop him?"
Mansfield shook his head.
"There was a directors' meeting a week ago—a secret one," he said crisply. "Ten thousand shares of stock were issued to Ried Williams. His note for five thousand dollars was issued in payment. Then the transfer books were closed."
Armstrong froze.
"Note—five thousand!" he said, unbelieving. "For stock worth two hundred thousand on the market? Impossible!"
"It is illegal, but it's not impossible," said Mansfield. "It is a fact. All Macgowan wants is to remain in power. This gives him a clear voting majority, of course."
Armstrong pulled himself together.
"Wait!" he said. "Wait! There's something else you don't know—"
The two men looked at him, startled by his manner. He met the gaze of Dorns, and laughed bitterly.
"Good thing you're here, Dorns," he said. "I just had a long distance call from our Chicago manager. He had some information for me. I've been indicted in Springfield, Illinois, for perjury in connection with the sale of Food Products stock. Macgowan wanted the indictment for use during the campaign, of course—well, he has it now."
"The difference between you and Macgowan," said Robert Dorns, "is that he's got the law on his side—and you're on the side of the law. It ain't much difference at first sight, but when you get down to cases it's a whale of a difference!"
Armstrong smiled wearily.
They were in Armstrong's rooms at the hotel—Dorns, Mansfield, Bruton, Holcomb and Sessions. Jimmy Wren listened in a corner. It was the evening of the third day; and in another room Armstrong's full battery of legal experts were arguing and contending, vainly striving to find some way out of the disaster. Mansfield knew the fight was lost, and admitted it. The committee of three admitted it. The silence of Dorns, who never admitted anything, was eloquent.
Armstrong alone refused to admit defeat.
"I was talking with Garvin to-night," said Mansfield slowly. "He's their chief counsel, you know. He intimated that Findlater would be glad to make some peaceful settlement."
Judge Holcomb made a despondent gesture.
"They have us, of course. Shall we open negotiations, Armstrong?"
"Not with my consent," replied Armstrong. "We have won our fight honestly. They have beaten us by illegal trickery. If Findlater and Macgowan are elected by means of this block of ten thousand votes, I mean to contest it."
Mansfield regarded him quietly.
"Look at the facts impartially," he said. "It is true that their actions are illegal. It is true that this farcical stock issue to Williams was made merely to carry the election, just as that indictment in Illinois was obtained merely to discredit you. It is true that we shall obtain the dismissal of this indictment, that we can contest the election, and that we must ultimately win the fight—if we push it.
"But, my dear fellow, do we want to push it? Is the game worth the candle? Ask yourself that question fairly. Garvin intimated to me to-night that Findlater would be only too glad to throw Macgowan overboard and make peace. There has been friction between them; Findlater, I think, is terrified by Macgowan's audacity and absolute disregard for any legal ethics. Now is our time to compromise, get what we can out of their differences! Garvin is in this hotel now. If you'll let me interview him, I fancy that he'll be all ready to present terms for our acceptance."
"I don't compromise," said Armstrong quietly.
"Then give in, surrender!" put in Judge Holcomb, gloomily enough. "Consider what a protracted fight will involve, Reese! It means that we'll be battling in the courts for months to come, perhaps years. It means lengthy and continuous expense—and you know what this campaign has cost us. What if we win? We get nothing out of it. Macgowan can juggle the books of Consolidated and use the investors' money to fight us—"
"That's exactly it," said Armstrong. "He's fighting us with our own money! And if we fail, he'll rob us. We must not fail."
"Besides," spoke up Doctor Bruton, "consider the effect upon the company itself, Reese! Already this fight has hurt it tremendously."
"Not as much as Macgowan has hurt it," said Armstrong. "Not as much as he will hurt it!"
They were silent for a moment, staring at him. Then Robert Dorns moved in his chair, took his cigar from his mouth, and spoke.
"Listen here, Armstrong. Who's runnin' Consolidated now?"
"Macgowan, of course."
"If he's out o' the company, who's runnin' it?"
Armstrong was silent a space, his gaze fastened on Dorns, his lips compressed.
"I see," he said at length. "Yes. I see."
Dorns waved his cigar, drove home his point.
"We ain't in this fight for selfish reasons, but for the good of the company. Now, at the very minute Macgowan gets into the saddle—what happens? His crowd goes back on him. Findlater is ready to ditch him. S'pose we make terms?
"Then our stock is back in control. Leave Findlater there if we have to! Believe me, when we're dealin' with Findlater and not Macgowan, we can handle him! It's Macgowan's infernal brains that have been makin' this fight, me lad; don't mistake that. Why not let Mansfield have a little talk, learn what we can do? They can't put anything over on Q. Adams, and you know it!"
Armstrong was silent again. Then he rose to his feet.
"Go ahead, Mansfield," he said. "I'm going to telephone my wife—excuse me."
He went into the adjacent room and closed the door.
For a little he was unable to get a connection; he waited. At length he heard the maid's voice on the line, and asked for Dorothy. Another wait. Then came the voice of Dorothy, coolly speaking his name. Something in her tone startled him.
"Are you well, lady?"
"Well enough in body, Reese," she said. "Not in mind. There is something you must do for me."
"Yes? What is it?"
"Make peace with Macgowan."
Armstrong was staggered. "What do you mean, Dorothy?"
"I can't explain over the telephone. Will you do it?"
He laughed shortly. "Very likely. We've been beaten. We're discussing peace terms now. But what on earth made you ask me to do such a thing?"
"A belated understanding of some things, Reese."
"Good heavens, Dot, what's happened? Why, you speak as though something were wrong!" He heard her laugh without mirth.
"No, nothing's wrong. When shall you be home?"
"Not to-night. Probably to-morrow morning, unless you need me now. Do you?"
"No, dear. Morning will do. Good-by, and all luck!"
Armstrong dropped into a chair, a prey to furious indecision and tumultuous thought. From the very tone Dorothy had used, he knew that something was amiss, something had happened at home. What was it? What on earth had caused that coldness in her voice?
It did not occur to him then that Macgowan might have struck him in a vital spot.
He was tempted to rush home at once, seek the cause of the trouble, remove it. Dorothy had said no word, yet he understood that for some reason she was angered against him. But he could not leave here now; it was impossible.
A knock at the door. Mansfield appeared, closed the door behind him, looked at Armstrong. He seemed startled by the tortured face, the distracted frown, that met his eyes.
"Reese! What's happened? Anything new come up?"
"No." Armstrong made a vague gesture. "Some trouble at home—I don't know what. I feel buffeted on every side—a whirlwind all around me—storm—"
Mansfield regarded him in a singular manner.
"God is never in the whirlwind," he said, his voice and his words strange. "Always in the still, small voice."
"What do you mean?" Armstrong looked up, caught by the extraordinary air of the lawyer. "Eh?"
Mansfield's face changed, altered to its usual dry alertness. He shrugged, took a cigar from his pocket, lighted it, sat down.
"I have an offer direct from Findlater," he said, and looked at Armstrong. "Before presenting it, I wish to say that the answer must come from you alone. I cannot advise you. I can say only one thing: Consider it well! It is the only offer that we can get."
"Name it," said Armstrong, collecting himself.
"The election of officers takes place to-morrow. Findlater agrees to drop Macgowan from all connection with Consolidated. This means that Macgowan will fight bitterly. In order to insure beating him, the Stockholders' Protective Association is to throw its votes to Findlater and continue him in office. The issue of ten thousand shares to Williams will be withdrawn. Holcomb and Bruton will be placed on the directorate."
Armstrong stared.
"You say that the Association must vote with Findlater?"
"That is thesine qua non. No counter offer will be considered. The answer must come at once."
Armstrong fell into thought.
The offer was seemingly fair enough. Macgowan would be smashed utterly and beyond recall—this was certain. Victory! Judge Holcomb and Doctor Bruton would become directors. It would mean a tremendous personal triumph for Armstrong—
At a price.
He started, stung to the quick as he perceived the truth. Now he saw why Mansfield would give no advice, why the answer to this proposal must come from him and from no other!
Week after week, by letter and word of mouth and press notices, the present management of Consolidated Securities had been under the bitterest fire from the Association. The attack had been directed overwhelmingly against Findlater and his associates. They had been publicly exposed and branded as grafters, thieves, looters. Under the surface, the attack was upon Macgowan, but Findlater and his associates were the ostensible targets.
It was for the overthrow of this management that the Protective Association had been working day and night. The object of this whole campaign had been that of getting Consolidated Securities into honest hands, out of Findlater's grip. For that purpose proxies were held from far and near, thousands of them, proxies of those who had entrusted their votes to the Protective Association, for the common cause, for the common welfare.
A harsh, hard laugh rang from Armstrong.
"Did Garvin make you this proposal?"
"Yes," said Mansfield, imperturbable and cold.
"You have a singular code of legal ethics in these parts," said Armstrong, his voice like acid. "Garvin stands remarkably high as a lawyer—almost as high as you do, Mansfield. But I know lawyers out West who would kick a client out of the office if they asked him to carry such a proposal as this."
Mansfield's face stirred slightly, wakened from its cold calm.
"Garvin," he said after a moment, "will resign as chief counsel to Consolidated. He bore the message as a part of his duty, and so informed me."
"In that case," said Armstrong, "I should be glad to retain his services."
Mansfield raised his brows.
"Ah! But your answer to this proposal?"
"There can be but one answer," said Armstrong. "They ask us to betray the people who have trusted us, to take these votes, given for the express purpose of removing Findlater's management, and use them to retain that management. In order to do this, they try to bribe me, to appeal to my personal enmity, by kicking Macgowan out."
"If you refuse," answered the lawyer reflectively, "it accomplishes nothing. If you refuse, Macgowan remains in power; the issue of stock to Williams will stand; the Association faces a blank wall. You are under indictment. You will be discredited among many of the investors. I merely present these facts that you may understand the situation."
Armstrong laughed bitterly.
"Don't worry—I understand them! Go out there and tell Holcomb and the others about it. Tell them that my answer is: No! Tell them to quit if they want to. I shall go on fighting, alone. That is all."
For a moment Mansfield studied the unyielding face of Armstrong, then rose.
"Ah—perhaps you do not recall what Philip de Commines said of his royal master? He said: 'I never knew any man so wise in his misfortunes.' To be wise in misfortune, Mr. Armstrong, is to overcome fate. I—by gad, sir, I congratulate you with all my heart upon this decision! You shall not go on fighting alone."
He held out his hand. Armstrong gripped it, and was astonished to perceive that the eyes of this man were suffused with emotion.
Thus ended the Wilmington meeting.
It was after ten the next morning when Armstrong entered his own home.
Wearily, he discarded his things and turned to the living room, where he glimpsed the figure of Dorothy. Why she had not come to meet him, he did not know or care. He thought only of the news he bore, hesitating to face her with word of complete defeat. He was overwhelmed by a sense of futility. Even though the defeat were temporary, even though his conscience were clear, even though that indictment were certain to be dismissed—what was being gained by a prolonged fight?
"I might still get out of it, turn over my Consolidated stock to Findlater, and be rid of it all," he thought in despondency. "I've failed at every point, and might better acknowledge it. I could go to work at something else—"
So the temptation gnawed, as he came forward to join his wife. He was too dejected even to observe her manner or the distinct challenge of her greeting. He threw himself into a chair and stared at the fire.
"I've failed," he said abruptly. "Macgowan has beaten us all along the line, lady. Last night we tried to compromise, and failed. We've lost, but he's beaten us illegally; we'll fight on and in the end, we'll win. But that's not the worst news I have."
Dorothy did not answer. Armstrong stole a glance, found her gaze fastened steadily upon him. Something in her eyes frightened him. He realized that she had not welcomed him home.
"Dot! What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she responded calmly. "I'm sorry you were beaten, Reese. I have some news for you, too, but finish what you have to say."
The dreadful quietude of her manner shook him to the depths. One blow after another had reached him; now he began to fear something vaster and deeper—he knew not what.
"I've been indicted in Illinois for perjury, in connection with Food Products stock," he said. "Macgowan got the indictment in order to discredit me. He got it fraudulently and it'll be dismissed. But it's one more thing."
"I know."
Armstrong jerked up his head. "You know?"
"Yes. A man was here to warn you. He told me. I learned other things, too. That is not the only indictment you'll have to face; Macgowan is going to push you to the wall. And, Reese, I'm afraid he can do it."
"What do you mean, Dot? What do you know?"
"I know everything." A hot torrent of words broke from her. "Everything, Reese! I know how you've deceived me all this time; I've suspected it a long while, but now I know it. How you planned everything, took advantage of our wedding-day, even postponed our wedding in order that you might steal father's company from him. I've stuck by you through it all, Reese. I've tried to do my duty by you, tried to make my love and faith blind to everything; but now a time has come to speak. You must give up this fight against Macgowan, at once, to-day!"
"Stop, stop!"' cried out Armstrong. The agonized incredulity of his voice made her wince, but her steely eyes remained steady. "Dot, you don't know what you're saying! Good heavens, girl—do you realize what you're charging me with? It's preposterous!"
Sudden anger blazed in Dorothy's face.
"Can you deny that you planned to take father's company away from him? Can you deny that it was all arranged in advance, with this same Macgowan? Can you deny that at the very hour we were to be married, you were robbing my father of his life-work—basely striking him in the back? And then you dared to complain when Macgowan turned on you and did the same to you, after I had given you warnings! Poor father, there was none to warnhim."
"Dot!" exclaimed Armstrong, in bewildered horror of her words. "Don't say—"
"Can you deny these things?" she persisted coldly.
"Absolutely!" Armstrong came to his feet. "It's a lie, all of it! A cursed lie! Dot, I give you my word of honor—"
"Don't," she said coldly. "I don't believe you."
These words delivered the worst blow that Armstrong had ever received. For a moment he actually reeled under their impact, disbelieving his own senses. He stared at Dorothy from distended eyes; then a rush of frightful anger flamed into his face.
"You don't believe me!" he repeated. "God forgive you for saying such a thing—"
"Oh, let's have no heroics, Reese," she intervened. Her savage and relentless cruelty stung him to the very soul. "I've discovered the whole affair, and now I am laying a choice before you. I know why you are fighting Macgowan so desperately. I know why you pretend to fight on behalf of the sixteen thousand investors—"
"Pretend!" he uttered in a strangled voice. "Pretend!"
"—and now it is going to end." She was cold, inexorable, emotionless. "You may as well learn that if you keep up this fight, you'll end by being branded as a felon. I would stick by you through that disgrace, Reese, if it were achieved in a just cause. Now that I know the truth, now that I know retribution is upon you for what you did to my father—it's all ended for me."
She paused an instant, then went on.
"Go and see Macgowan. It may be too late, but at least make the effort. Give up this fight. Abandon this righteous pose of yours, and be done with it. Either that, or I shall leave this house immediately."
Armstrong was stupefied. He could only stand staring at her like a man paralyzed.
The most frightful part of it was his absolute ignorance of what had so aroused her anger and bitterness. He could not imagine how she had gained this idea that he had stolen her father's company, that retribution for such a theft was facing him. This was all so preposterous to him that he could not even view the accusation in any correct perspective.
And then the scorn of her words reached to the quick, seared him intolerably. That she should so turn upon him in this hour of defeat and black despair, evoked from him a passionate fury.
"Tell me what's behind all this!" he demanded hotly. "Out with it, Dot! What basis have you for uttering such damnable lies about me?"
He received a frigid glance.
"That is gentlemanly language to use, Reese," was her response. "I was not brought up to hear such words addressed to me—but I shan't argue with you. Do you intend to give up this fight or not?"
"Dot, listen to me!" he broke out frantically, desperately. "Whatever has come over you, at least listen to me! Surely you can't ask such a thing, in all sanity? Oh, the devil himself must be in this! You can't mean it, Dot; you've been with me from the first, helping and backing me—and now you ask that I submit! You know I'm not fighting for myself alone—"
Her eyes, dark with anger, flashed at this.
"I thought it was not for yourself, but I've learned better. I've learned that you are using these investors as a shield for yourself. Do you think it's for myself alone that I'm making this demand? No, no! It's not for my sake that I want this mad obstinacy of yours abandoned!"
The wild vehemence of her words frightened him, sent him into a cold chill of stark terror. He had never seen her in so blazing an anger, so passionate a fury—he had not dreamed such a condition would be possible to Dorothy Armstrong.
"I'll not have my child branded the child of a felon!" she rushed on in an impetuous burst. "I know better than you yourself where you are heading; so far as I'm concerned, it ends now! My marriage vow to you has ended. My obligations to you have ended. What I now have to do, is to live and act and hope for the child that I shall bring into the world. If you persist in your course, the blame is not mine but yours. I am giving you your chance."
Armstrong was absolutely stunned, as much by the savage conviction of her manner as by what she said. He comprehended that she was speaking from a terrible sincerity—but he could not understand it.
"Dot—" He checked himself, paused, forced himself into a semblance of calmer speech. "Dot, I swear before heaven that I don't know what you're talking about! Somehow, Macgowan must have reached you—"
"He has not. Will you give up this fight, or give me up?" she demanded coldly.
He was terrified afresh by her air.
"I can't talk about it now, Dot. I'm all unstrung—in no shape to think or speak calmly. I can only hope that what you've said is assignable to your condition, that you can't realize what you are saying—"
"You dare to attack my sanity, do you?" she burst forth.
Armstrong made a despairing gesture. "I'm not attacking you—for heaven's sake, Dot, try and be calm!" The cry was wrenched from him. "We'll take this thing up again after luncheon, dear; I'll have to learn what's in your mind. You know I'll not give up this fight. You know I simply can't give up, abandon the people who trust and look to me! I'll not do it, no matter who asks it."
"Very well. If that's your decision—"
"It is my decision—and I'll not change it!" he exclaimed in a gust of anger. "It's bitterly wrong of you to ask such a thing. But let all that go now, Dot; we'll take it up after luncheon and thrash it out calmly. I'll have to get calmed down a bit."
He turned and strode from the room, and so upstairs.
There in his own room, he strove desperately to get himself in hand. The touch of cold water on his skin cooled his blood, but only made him more aware of the awful chaos into which he was plunged. Who was responsible for this attitude on the part of Dorothy? What had caused it?
He changed his clothes, his brain in tumult. Dorothy seemed to know as much as he did about this indictment. He was frightened, too; in her condition she was receptive to delusion, obsession, madness! This thought made him frantic in his very solicitude for her, and lessened his resentment of her words and manner. It was not his wife who had been speaking downstairs—it was the woman who carried a child under her heart, the woman whose entire physical and nervous system was for the moment thrown out of balance.
He was longer than usual about dressing, but at length descended the stairs. At their foot, he encountered the maid, and thought that she regarded him with a singular air. He halted her curtly.
"Who was here yesterday or the day before?"
"Nobody, sir, but a Mr. Slosson, I think the name was—yesterday morning early."
"Slosson!" The name broke from Armstrong. He clenched his lips for an instant, and flung an appearance of calm into his reply. "Very well. You may serve luncheon whenever it's ready."
"It's ready now, sir." The maid's face was frightened. "If—if Mrs. Armstrong is coming back—"
"Coming back?" Armstrong looked at the maid with terrible eyes. "What do you mean?"
"She called the car and went out, just after you went upstairs, sir. And—and she had her traveling-bag—"
Armstrong put out a hand to the stair-rail. For a moment he stood speechless, his face gray as death. The maid started forward to stay him from falling, then she shrank back from his burning gaze.
"Never mind luncheon," he said thickly.
Upon the Saturday after the triumphal return from Wilmington, Lawrence Macgowan sat in the office that had once belonged to Armstrong. A thin, malicious smile drew at his lips as he studied a typed document which lay on the desk before him. He leaned back and lighted a cigar, laughing silently and amusedly to himself.
The door opened, to admit Findlater.
"Good morning, Mr. President!" exclaimed Macgowan heartily. "I was just thinking about you! Come in and make yourself at home."
Findlater, looking well pleased with the world, lowered himself into a chair. Success had agreed with him. It had even given him a slightly superior air with Macgowan.
"Er—something I'd like to inquire about, Mac. How do you expect to meet these suits that have been brought by Armstrong's crowd?"
Macgowan waved his cigar genially. "Tut, tut, my boy! Never worry over little things like that."
"But it may become serious." Findlater frowned, as though displeased by this light response. "Everything's being done in my name, and I should have a clear idea of the program ahead of us."
"Oh, leave the legal affairs to me," and Macgowan's shoulders shook in a hearty laugh. "Haven't I taken care of them pretty well so far?"
Findlater reddened. He was ruffled, irritated by this evasion.
"Confound it, Mac, why can't you be talked to? Why, look at Armstrong! He'd let a man sit down and talk an hour. With all his cursed blue-law character, he'd listen to any proposition—he's big enough to do it. But not you. Why are you stalling about these suits?"
Macgowan's eyes narrowed, then a smile crept into them; not a nice smile. This unfavorable comparison with his enemy, particularly coming from Findlater, stung him unbearably.
"All right, have your way—and pay for it," he said, a rasp in his voice. "You want to know how I'm going to deal with that crowd, eh?"
"Exactly. But what do you mean by paying for it?"
Macgowan waved this query aside, ignored it temporarily.
"Armstrong's going to give up this fight," he said, mouthing his cigar and regarding Findlater with an air which appeared to cause that gentleman some uneasiness. "Our suits against Armstrong can be dismissed any time now. As for the suits against us, they can be postponed. All we want is delay. Armstrong will give up."
Findlater grunted. "Maybe—and maybe not. I know Armstrong as well as you do."
"Not quite as well. You don't know where he's vulnerable; I do." Macgowan chuckled. "He's the heart and soul of the crowd that's fighting us. If he quits, we'll have a clean sweep, eh?"
"Yes," admitted Findlater.
Macgowan smiled as he regarded his confederate.
"D'you know what's happened? Armstrong's wife has left him—gone home."
Findlater stared for a long moment, until gradual realization came to him. Something in the voice and eye of Macgowan wakened his comprehension, conveyed to his brain that these brief words not only constituted a statement of fact, but also held a note of triumphant boasting.
Even Findlater was stupefied by this admission. Bad though he was, Findlater had certain bounds which he disliked to cross.
"Lord!" he ejaculated. "You—Mac, you didn't do this?"
"I?" Macgowan's brows went up. "Certainly not, certainly not! I've not spoken a word to Mrs. Armstrong in months."
A momentary snarl lifted his lip, as the memory of that scene in the Waldorf smote into him. The snarl crept into his voice as he went on speaking.
"But I'll not say that I knew nothing about it. When I go after a man, Findlater, he's gone! I went after Armstrong, and I'll finish him. You thought during the campaign that I was taking wild chances in my attacks; perhaps I was, but haven't we won? Libel suits don't worry me. We'll not press our own suits. That Illinois indictment against Armstrong came too late to do us any good; let it be dismissed. But wait—just wait!"
He leaned back, deliberately checking himself, not wishing to reveal too much of his inner feeling to this confederate of his. His usual suave calmness returned to him.
Findlater nervously cleared his throat. He had not missed that quick, vindictive snarl. During the past few weeks he had become much better acquainted with Macgowan than ever before; and in his heart he had grown terribly afraid of the man, having learned with what reckless and even criminal audacity Macgowan could act. He now realized that he himself had been drawn slowly but surely into the meshes of a net, the drawstrings of which lay in the powerful grip of Macgowan.
Now, in his cowardice, he made an effort to change the subject—only to find that it drove back again upon him with new insistence.
"Something else I wanted to ask you, Mac. There's a check on my desk to be counter-signed—five thousand dollars to a man named Slosson. I can't locate the record of any transaction—"
Macgowan cut in blandly, with all his suave poise to the fore.
"It's quite correct, I assure you. The check goes to him for—shall we say, legal services?
"Slosson," went on Macgowan, "has executed a slight commission for which Consolidated can well afford to pay. He is a partner of our friend Ried Williams, by the way, and is waiting to get this check before returning to Indianapolis. If all goes as I expect, we shall issue checks in a similar amount both to Williams and Slosson, within a few more days. Perhaps at once."
This was all news to Findlater, and inwardly it infuriated him to perceive that Macgowan was handling funds and making plans without a word of consultation.
"I'd like to know more about this," he said aggressively.
"Of course! Did you ever hear of a gentleman named Windsor?"
Findlater shook his head. "Who is he?"
"Assistant attorney general of Indiana," said Macgowan smoothly. "At present he is a special investigator, appointed to probe into something connected with the Food Products stock that Armstrong marketed. Somehow, word of something rotten about this stock issue reached him—unfortunately, I can't explain the entire matter just now. I assure you, however, that the checks going to Slosson and Williams have been well earned."
Findlater made an angry, irritated gesture.
"This pouring out money by the thousands is sheer waste," he exclaimed heatedly. "You've admitted that the Illinois indictment amounts to nothing, that we'll not press any of the suits we've filed. Then why the devil are you spending all this money to get an Indiana indictment on the same grounds?"
"Ah, but I'm not!" Macgowan chuckled amusedly. "On materially different grounds, my dear chap. This Mr. Windsor is a man who cannot be bribed or coerced, a man whose acumen is keen, whose integrity is as Cæsar's wife."
He paused and surveyed Findlater blandly.
"Such a man becomes an invaluable tool in the proper hand. I may inform you that he will not only indict Armstrong, but will convict him. He is now collecting the proofs, and upon his return to Indiana, he will send Armstrong to prison."
"What have you found against Armstrong, anyway?"
"That remains a secret in which I have no concern," responded Macgowan cheerfully. "A secret which is supposedly locked within the breast of Mr. Windsor and one or two—"
"Damn it, why can't you come into the open with me?" exploded Findlater.
"I shall, presently." For an instant the gleam in Macgowan's eyes was wolfish. "Since you have demanded my program, I am presenting it. Armstrong will be indicted, tried, and convicted; this is certain. He is already ruined in his home, with his wife departed. He will be a broken man. The Armstrong Company will go to pieces with him. The fight being waged against us will die of inertia. This is inevitable."
Macgowan puffed his cigar alight, then went on.
"You see, then, why I am not concerned over these legal affairs? The suits against us will hardly be pressed, with Armstrong a convict. Our own suits we calmly dismiss."
"But are you sure of convicting him?" asked Findlater, a glow of hope in his eyes.
Macgowan smiled cynically. "I prepared the evidence myself. Need I say more?"
Findlater leaned back and drew a long breath. At this moment, however, Macgowan changed the subject. He regarded Findlater with latent cruelty, a steady appraisal which showed how absolutely he held the other man in his power.
"There is a little matter which you and I must settle," he said. His tone made the other man jerk around. "Suppose you affix your signature to this."
He held out the typed document which lay before him.
Findlater took it, adjusted his glasses and glanced at the paper. He looked more attentively. Slowly the color faded out of his cheeks, and the paper shook in his hand. He looked up, caught his breath.
"I—I don't understand!" he began. The challenging gaze of Macgowan seemed to sap the man's vitality. His voice failed.
"Can't you read?" asked Macgowan coldly. "Your resignation as president of Consolidated, undated; also, an agreement empowering me to vote your control in the voting trust. It seems very simple."
Findlater rallied. His countenance purpled with a rush of anger.
"Damn you, Mac, you can't force me out—I'm not to be bullied into walking out of here like Armstrong did! If you think you'll stab me in the back, you can guess again. I know too much about you and how you've run things—"
"You'll tell it, will you?" cut in Macgowan, chuckling.
Findlater glared at him, trembling with rage and fright. Like a rat backed into a corner, one touch would either lend him a devastating fury to fight at all costs, or would send him scurrying away in blind panic.
Macgowan, watching him, applied the touch very deftly.
"I don't want to use that resignation now; it may never be used. As to talking, everything in the campaign has been done over your name, as president, so talk all you like, and I'll leave you to settle matters with the other crowd. And I will leave you, unless you sign. Why shouldn't I? What about that proposition you made Armstrong over in Wilmington? All ready to sell me out, weren't you! And you thought I'd never know it."
At this, Findlater turned white again. Macgowan laughed thinly.
"I'll take no more chances on you, Henry C. Findlater! From now on, you'll be in my pocket, under my hand—or else I'll walk out of here and give a statement to the press that will wake things up! Who issued those ten thousand shares to Williams? You did."
"At your orders!" cried Findlater wildly. "It was you who did everything!"
"Prove it." Macgowan, abruptly, flamed with arrogance and tumultuous violence. His fist crashed on the desk as he leaned forward and transfixed Findlater with his wolfish, menacing stare.
"Sign that paper and get out of here!" he roared. "Throw me over, will you? I'll show you where you get off, you dirty hound! We'll have this paper signed and witnessed, and if you ever again try to knife me—Lord help you! Get busy!"
Findlater, his brow streaming with perspiration, laid the paper on the desk and reached out trembling fingers for a pen.
Jimmy Wren looked with harassed eyes at Armstrong, who sat at his desk listlessly going over a report.
"Reese," he broke out impulsively, "what the devil can I do? How can I help?"
Armstrong looked up at him soberly.
"Nothing, Jimmy, thanks," he answered in a flat voice.
"You've not heard from Dorothy?"
Armstrong shook his head. "No. She's in Evansville, and has opened her father's house there, I understand."
Jimmy Wren was aware only of the troubled fact, and not of the details that lay behind Dorothy's desertion. Armstrong had closed Aircastle Point the day after she left, and was now in an uptown hotel.
Reese Armstrong was still bewildered, dazed, by this private tragedy, which over-shadowed everything else. He could not spur himself to take any interest in the winding-up of the campaign, and accepted without question what was done by Holcomb and the others. Dorothy had returned no answer to his one implorant letter; this silence hurt more deeply than her words.
A profound apathy was upon him. Somehow, he felt, Macgowan had been responsible for this final and crushing blow; but how, he was at a loss to know. His apathy was continually pierced by the thought of going to Indianapolis and wringing an explanation out of Slosson, yet he could not stir himself to the action. He had not the slightest idea what Slosson had implanted in Dorothy's mind. He could not imagine why she had been so insistent upon his guilt, how he had been so utterly damned in her eyes. He must face Slosson with nothing but surmise—and the heart was gone out of him. He knew it, as did those around him; but only Jimmy Wren knew that his domestic separation was the cause of it all.
"Damn Slosson!" he burst forth despairingly. "If I had him here I'd choke the truth out of his—"
He checked himself abruptly, with an effort. Jimmy Wren stared.
"Slosson! The fellow on the old Food Products board? Why, I met him in Evansville. What's he got to do with this, Reese?"
"Oh, nothing, Jimmy, nothing I can go into!" groaned Armstrong, flinging the paper in his hand across the desk. "Don't ask me, old man. It's hell, that's all."
He reached for a cigar and lighted it, biting hard on the weed, his brow furrowed and lined by the stormy mood within.
Armstrong had ceased to evince interest in the various suits and legal activities; their issue or rather lack of issue now mattered nothing to him. What did matter was Dorothy's accusation. Upon what had she based her arraignment? She must have acted after deliberate thought, with apparently firm grounds. He could only lay hold upon the obsession that he had robbed her father of Food Products; any other surmise could only appear weak and unsatisfactory. He had been tempted to cable the Demings to come home and help straighten the thing out—
"Look here, Reese!" broke in the voice of Jimmy Wren again. Wren seated himself on one corner of the desk and lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. The warm geniality of his features, however, was obviously an attempt, an effort, and could not quite disguise the anxiety in his eyes as he regarded Armstrong.
"If you're not doing anything to-night," he went on, "s'pose you let me take you uptown and meet a friend of mine, will you? This is just between you and me, Reese. I'd like to have you meet her—haven't mentioned it before, because we've all been so infernally balled up with this campaign."
Armstrong smiled slightly at him. "What, Jimmy! Are you hooked at last?"
"Not yet, but I'd like to be! You come along with me to-night, Reese, and we'll have a bit of real music that'll take the edge off your nerves. Come on, now, will you? Or wait—this is Saturday! I'll call her up, and we may run up there this afternoon, and all have dinner and a show later on. What say?"
Armstrong hesitated. Although he was well enough aware that this proposal was made to provide some distraction for him, he knew that he needed the distraction. Besides, he was curious about Jimmy Wren's very secret love affair.
"You've kept quiet about her, Jimmy—why?"
"Well, she wanted me to," admitted Jimmy Wren, reddening a bit. "You see, she doesn't go in for gay life and all that sploshy stuff—to tell the truth, she's given me a lot of help these days—well, it's just that she understands, see? We're not engaged yet or anything like that; she just lets me come around, and we have some music, and talk. You'd have to know her to understand, Reese."
Armstrong's lips twitched; this took him back to college days. He was upon the point of accepting Jimmy's invitation, when the telephone rang. He pulled forward the instrument.
"Armstrong? This is Todrank speaking."
Todrank was his banker, not a warm personal friend, but a man of wide influence and connections. His interest in the fight on Findlater and Macgowan had been keen and tense, because Todrank was a man who never relented unto an enemy. And, at some period in the past, Todrank and Lawrence Macgowan had been bitter enemies. Macgowan might have, probably had, forgotten this fact, but with Todrank there was no past tense. If he liked Armstrong, it was largely because he hated Macgowan.
"Do you know anything about Tom Windsor," he went on, "assistant attorney general of Indiana?"
"No," said Armstrong. "I think I've met him in Evansville. A tall, lean-jawed chap?"
"Yep. He's a friend of mine; straight as a string and can't be reached. He was in to see me yesterday. Didn't know that I knew you, and asked questions. You'll regard this as confidential?"
"Absolutely," returned Armstrong. He made a gesture, and Jimmy Wren closed the door.
"Didn't you market a stock issue of the Deming Food Products Company, around the end of last year?"
"Most of the issue, yes. It's a subsidiary of Consolidated Securities. Why?"
"Windsor intimated that there'd been something crooked about that stock—"
"Oh, that's all old stuff," cut in Armstrong wearily. "You know all about it. Macgowan has tried to get indictments—"
"Wake up, Armstrong!" snapped the banker curtly. "This is something else again—something different! Windsor swears that Macgowan has nothing to do with it—doesn't even know Mac by sight. Get this man right, or you'll make the mistake of your life! He's so straight that he'll fall over backward some day. And he's hot on your trail."
Armstrong's curiosity was slightly stirred, no more.
"Let him go as far as he likes. I've nothing to hide. He can come around here and go through the books if he likes."
Todrank uttered a disgusted oath.
"Damn it, that's just what he won't do! That's why I'm trying to warn you! He isn't going, either—he's gone! He appears to have a hatful of the most damning evidence against you. I don't know what it is, but if Tom Windsor thinks you're a crook—then look out. He's stubborn as the devil. I believe that Macgowan is in it somewhere, although Windsor laughed at the idea. I gave him the inside stuff on your fight, and he merely showed his teeth.
"You wake up, now!" went on the banker earnestly. "This is serious. I gathered that the license to market the stock was gained under false pretenses—"
Armstrong was stirred at last. "That was arranged by the former company. I only took over the issue and marketed it."
"Well, there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere. Windsor thinks you're the nigger; I'm suspecting Macgowan of some hidden stuff. This is no fake, now; you can't afford to let it go through. If Windsor once gets action in the courts, he'll shove till hell freezes over, because he's absolutely honest. He's a fanatic in this respect, the most dangerous sort! He's got the goods, or he'd never talk as he did to me."
"Why, confound it," burst out Armstrong, roused at last, "it's rankly impossible that he could have anything on me!"
"You fool, don't you know Macgowan yet?" roared the banker angrily. "Listen here! Windsor mentioned another thing. He's been offered a ten-thousand-dollar job here in town, with the firm of Milligan, Milligan, Hoyt & Brainard; a corporation law firm, fair to middling but nothing extra. The opening takes effect in about four months; it came to him through Western sources entirely. Personally, I smell Macgowan in the whole game. So far as I know, though, that firm has no connection with Mac, so it's a wild guess."
"Where can I get in touch with Windsor?" said Armstrong.
Todrank laughed. The laugh was hard, sharp.
"You'll have your job cut out to get in touch with him! That lad wants facts, not personalities. He figures that the whole crowd of you are a gang of cut-throat financial crooks, and wants to keep away from you."
"But it's absurd!" cried Armstrong.
"Sure. Our jail system is absurd too, but the fact doesn't empty Sing Sing," came the caustic reply. "You act, and act quick! I know Tom Windsor, and he's the only and original leader of the bloodhound chorus, once he gets after a crook. And he really thinks you're one. Don't mention my name to him."
"All right, Todrank, and many thanks. Is Windsor in town?"
"He's at the Pennsylvania, or was. No telling now; he's a vigorous young devil."
"Good. Thanks again."
"Good luck!"
Todrank rang off.
Armstrong began to pace up and down, wrestling with this information. He found himself lifted out of his lethargy, found the old hot anger running and leaping again, found the apathetic and muffling impotency stripped suddenly away. The very mystery of this new blow roused him to fight. In what way could he be reached for any illicit operation of Food Products? He knew of none; yet Todrank had supplied the hint, and he knew better than to disregard the warning. He turned, and found Jimmy Wren staring at him from the corner. Abruptly, memory wakened within him.
"Say, Jimmy—why, what's the matter?"
Wren laughed aloud. "Nothing, only you look waked up! Good news?"
"No. More bad news. That party for this afternoon is all off, Jimmy; thanks just the same. Do you remember when you came to Evansville, the day before Christmas?"
"You bet I do," said Wren, blinking.
"You told me about an irregularity in the issue of Food Products stock. What was it?"
"Why, the Deming directors could never have marketed that stock issue under the blue sky laws if they'd revealed the actual condition of the company. They falsified it."
Armstrong nodded. "Yes, that's what I remember. It was all their doing? It had no connection with us at all?"