Evelyn had telephoned to Mrs. Whipple of her father's illness in terms which allayed alarm; but when the afternoon paper referred to it ominously, the good woman set out through the first snowstorm of the season for the Porter house, carrying her campaign outfit, as the general called it, in a suit-case. Mrs. Whipple's hopeful equanimity was very welcome to Evelyn, who suffered as women do when denied the privilege of ministering to their sick and forced to see their natural office usurped by others. Mrs. Whipple brought a breath of May into the atmosphere of the house. She found ways of dulling the edge of Evelyn's anxiety and idleness; she even found things for Evelyn to do, and busied herself disposing of inquiries at the door and telephone to save Evelyn the trouble. In Evelyn's sitting-room Mrs. Whipple talked of clothes and made it seem a great favor for the girl to drag out several new gowns for inspection,—a kind of first view, she called it; and she sighed over them and said they were more perfect than perfect lyrics and would appeal to a larger audience.
She chose one of the lyrics of black chiffon and lace, with a high collar and half sleeves and forced Evelyn toput it on; and when they sat down to dinner together she planned a portrait of Evelyn in the same gown, which Chase or Sargent must paint. She managed the talk tactfully, without committing the error of trying to ignore the sick man upstairs. She made his illness seem incidental merely, and with a bright side, in that it gave her a chance to spend a few days at the Hill. Then she went on:
"Warry and Mr. Saxton were at the house last night. It's delightful to see men so devoted to each other as they are; and it's great fun to hear them banter each other. I didn't know that Mr. Saxton could be funny, but in his quiet way he says the drollest things!"
"I thought he was very serious," said Evelyn. "I rarely see him, but when I do, he flatters me by talking about books. He thinks I'm literary!"
"I can't imagine it."
Evelyn laughed.
"Oh, thanks! I'm making progress!"
"It's funny," Mrs. Whipple continued, "the way he takes care of Warry. The general says Mr. Saxton is a Newfoundland and Warry a fox terrier. Warry's at work again, and I suppose we have Mr. Saxton's influence to thank."
"A man like that could do a great deal for Warry," said Evelyn. "If Warry doesn't settle down pretty soon he'll lose his chance." Then, her father coming into her thoughts, she added irrelevantly: "Mr. Thompson will probably come home. Mr. Wheaton telephoned that the directors had wired him."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Whipple, looking at the girlquickly,—"so much responsibility,—I suppose it would be hardly fair to Mr. Wheaton—"
"I suppose not," said Evelyn.
"It's just the same in business as it is in the army," continued Mrs. Whipple, who referred everything back to the military establishment. "The bugle's got to blow every morning whether the colonel's sick or not. I suppose the bank keeps open just the same. When a thing's once well started it has a way of running on, whether anybody attends to it or not."
"But you couldn't get father to believe that," said Evelyn, smiling in recollection of her father's life-long refutation of this philosophy.
"No indeed," assented Mrs. Whipple. "But in the army there is a good deal to make a man humble. If he gets transferred from one end of the land to another, somebody else does the work he has been doing, and usually you wouldn't know the difference. The individual is really extinguished; they all sign their reports in exactly the same place, and one signature is just as good at Washington as another." This was a favorite line of discourse with Mrs. Whipple; she had reduced her army experience to a philosophy, which she was fond of presenting on any occasion.
The maid brought Evelyn a card before they had finished coffee.
"It's Mr. Wheaton," she explained; "I asked him to come. Father was greatly troubled about some matter which he said must not be neglected. He wanted me to give the key of his box to Mr. Wheaton,—there are some papers which it is very necessary for Mr. Fenton to have. It's something I hadn't heard of before, but itmust be important. He's been flighty this afternoon and has tried to talk about it."
Evelyn had risen and stood by the table with a troubled look on her face, as if expecting counsel; but she was thinking of the sick man upstairs and not of his business affairs.
"Yes; don't wait for me," said the older woman, as though it were merely a question of the girl's excusing herself. When Evelyn had gone, Mrs. Whipple plied her spoon in her cup long after the single lump of sugar was dissolved. Mrs. Whipple had a way of disliking people thoroughly when they did not please her, and she did not like James Wheaton. She was wondering why, as she sat alone at the table and played with the spoon.
The maid who admitted Wheaton had let him elect between the drawing room and the library, and he chose the latter instinctively, as less formal and more appropriate for an interview based on his dual social and business relations with the Porters. His slim figure appeared to advantage in evening clothes; he was no longer afraid of rooms that were handsome and spacious like this. There was nowadays no more correctly groomed man in Clarkson than he, though Warry Raridan had remarked to Wheaton at the Bachelors' that his ties were composed a trifle too neatly; a tie to be properly done should, Raridan held, leave something to the imagination. Wheaton heard the swish of Evelyn's skirts in the hall with a quickening heartbeat. Her black gown intensified her fairness; he had never seen her in black before, and it gave a new accent to her beauty as she came toward him.
"It was a great shock to us down town to hear ofyour father's illness. He seemed as well as usual yesterday."
"Did you think so? I thought he looked worn when he came home last evening. He has been working very hard lately."
Wheaton had never seen her so grave. He was sincerely sorry for her trouble, and he tried to say so. There was something appealing in her unusual calm; the low tones of her voice were not wasted on him.
"Father asked me to send for you this morning, but he had grown so ill in a few hours that I took the responsibility of not doing it. The doctor said emphatically that he must not see people. But something in particular was on his mind, some papers that Mr. Fenton should have. They are in his box at the bank, and I was to give you the key to it. It is something about the Traction Company; no doubt you know of it?"
"Yes," Wheaton assented. It was not necessary for him to say that Mr. Porter had told him nothing about it.
"You can attend to this easily?"
"Yes, certainly. Mr. Fenton spoke to me about the matter this afternoon. It is very important and he wished me to report to him as soon as I found the papers. No doubt they are in your father's box," he said. "He is always very methodical." He smiled at her reassuringly and rose. She did not ask him to stay longer, but went to fetch the key.
It was a small, thin bit of steel. Wheaton turned it over in his hand.
"I'll return the key to-morrow, after I've found the papers Mr. Fenton wants."
"Very well. I hope you will have no difficulty."
He still held the key in his fingers, not knowing whether this was his dismissal or not.
"There is one thing more, Mr. Wheaton. Father seemed very much troubled about this Traction matter—"
"Very unnecessarily, I'm sure," said Wheaton soothingly.
"He evidently wished all the papers he has concerning the company to be given to Mr. Fenton. Now, this probably is of no importance whatever, but several years ago father gave me some stock in the street railway company. It came about through a little fun-making between us. We were talking of railway passes,—you know he never accepts any"—Wheaton blinked—"and I told him I'd like to have a pass on something, even if it was only a street car line."
She was smiling in her eagerness that he should understand perfectly.
"And he said he guessed he could fix that by giving me some stock in the company. I remember that he made light of it when I thanked him, and said it wasn't so important as it looked. He probably forgot it long ago. I had forgotten it myself—I never got the pass, either! but I brought the stock down that Mr. Fenton might have use for it." She went over to the mantel and picked up a paper, while he watched her; and when she put it into his hand he turned it over. It was a certificate for one hundred shares, issued in due form to Evelyn Porter, but was not assigned.
"It may be important," said Wheaton, regarding the paper thoughtfully. "Mr. Fenton will know. It couldn't be used without your name on the back," he said, indicating the place on the certificate.
"Oh, should I sign it?" she asked, in the curious fluttering way in which many women approach the minor details of business. Wheaton hesitated; he did not imagine that this block of stock could be of importance, and yet the tentative business association with Miss Porter was so pleasant that he yielded to a temptation to prolong it.
"Yes, you might sign it," he said.
Evelyn went to her father's table and wrote her name as Wheaton indicated.
"A witness is required and I will supply that." And Wheaton sat down at the table and signed his name beside hers, while she stood opposite him, the tips of her fingers resting on the table.
"Evelyn Porter" and "James Wheaton." He blotted the names with Porter's blotter, Evelyn still standing by him, slightly mystified as women often are by the fact that their signatures have a value. He felt that there was something intimate in the fact of their signing themselves together there. He was thrilled by her beauty. The black lace falling from her elbows made a filmy tracery upon her white arms. Her head was bent toward him, the shaded lamp cast a glow upon her face and throat, and her slim, white hands rested on the table so near that he could have touched them. She bent her gaze upon him gravely; she, too, felt that his relations with her father made a tie between them; he was older than the other men who came to see her; sheyielded him a respect for his well-won success. A vague sense of what her father liked in him crept into her mind in the moment that she stood looking down on him; he was quiet, deft and sure,—qualities which his smoothly-combed black hair and immaculate linen seemed to emphasize. She gave, in her ignorance of business, an exaggerated importance to the trifling transaction which he had now concluded. He smiled up at her as he put down the pen.
"It isn't as serious as it looks," he said, rising.
"It must be very interesting when you understand it," she answered.
"I'm sorry—so very sorry for your trouble. I hope—if I can serve you in any way you will not hesitate—"
"You are very kind," she said. Neither moved. They regarded each other across the table with a serious fixed gaze; the sweet girlish spirit in her was held by some curious fascinating power in him. He bent toward her, his hand lightly clenched on the edge of the table.
"I hope there may never be a time when you will not feel free to command me—in any way." He spoke slowly; his words seemed to bind a chain about her and she could not move or answer. With a sudden gesture he put out his hand; it almost touched hers, and she did not shrink away.
"Good evening, Mr. Wheaton!" Mrs. Whipple, handsome and smiling, sent her greeting from the threshold, and swept into the room; and when she took his hand she held it for a moment, as an elderly woman may, while she chid him for his remissness in never coming to call on her.
On his way down the slope to the car, Wheaton felt inhis pocket several times to be sure of the key. There was something the least bit uncanny in his possession of it. Yesterday, as he knew well enough, William Porter would no more have intrusted the key of his private box to him or to any one else than he would have burned down his house. He read into his errand a trust on Porter's part that included Porter's daughter, too; but he got little satisfaction from this. He was only the most convenient messenger available. His spirits rose and fell as he debated.
The down-town streets were very quiet when he reached the business district. He went to the side door of the bank and knocked for the watchman to admit him. He took off his overcoat and hat and laid them down carefully on his own desk.
"Going to work to-night, Mr. Wheaton?" asked the watchman.
Wheaton felt that he owed it to the watchman to explain, and he said:
"There are some papers in Mr. Porter's box that I must give to Mr. Fenton to-night. They are in the old vault." This vault was often opened at night by the bookkeepers and there was no reason why the cashier should not enter it when he pleased. The watchman turned up the lights so that Wheaton could manipulate the combination, and then swung open the door. Wheaton thanked him and went in. Two keys were necessary to open all of the boxes; one was common to all and was kept by the bank. Wheaton easily found it, and then he took from his pocket Porter's key which supplemented the other. His pulses beat fast as he felt the lock yield to the thin strip of steel, and in amoment the box lay open before his eyes. He had flashed on the electric light bulb in the vault and recognized instantly Porter's inscription "Traction" on a brown bundle. He then opened his own box and took out his Traction certificate and carried it with Porter's packet into the directors' room.
He sat playing with the package, which was sealed in green wax with the plain oval insignium of the bank. The packet was larger than he had expected it to be; he had no idea of the amount of stock it contained; and he knew nothing of the bonds. He felt tempted to open it; but clearly that was not within his instructions. He must deliver it intact to Fenton, and he would do it instantly. He hesitated, though, and drew out the certificate which Evelyn had given him and turned the crisp paper over in his hand. Each of them owned one hundred shares of Traction stock; he was not thinking of this, but of Evelyn, whose signature held his eye. It was an angular hand, and she ran her two names together with a long sweep of the pen.
His thoughts were given a new direction by the noise of a colloquy between the watchman and some one at the door. He heard his own name mentioned, and thrusting the certificates into his pocket, he went out to learn what was the matter.
"Mr. Wheaton," called the watchman, who held the door partly closed on some one, "Mr. Margrave wishes to see you."
As Wheaton walked toward the watchman, Margrave strode in heavily on the tile floor of the bank.
"Hello, Wheaton," said Margrave cheerfully. "I've had the devil's own time finding you."
He advanced upon Wheaton and shook him warmly by the hand. Then, this having been for the benefit of the watchman, he said, in a low tone:
"Let's go into the directors' room, Jim, I want to see you."
The main bank room was only dimly lighted, but a cluster of electric lights burned brilliantly above the directors' mahogany table, around which were chairs of the Bank of England pattern.
"Have a seat, Mr. Margrave," said Wheaton formally. He had left the door open, but Margrave closed it carefully. Porter's bundle of papers in its manila wrapper lay on the table, and Wheaton sat down close to it.
"What you got there, greenbacks?" asked Margrave. "If you were just leaving for Canada, don't miss the train on my account."
"That isn't funny," said Wheaton, severely.
"Oh, I wouldn't be so damned sensitive," said Margrave, throwing open his overcoat and placing his hat on the table in front of him. "I guess you ain't any better than some of the rest of 'em."
"I suppose you didn't come to say that," said Wheaton. He ran his fingers over the wax seal on the packet. He wished that it were back in Porter's box.
"We were having a little talk this afternoon, Jim," began Margrave in a friendly and familiar tone, "about Traction matters. As I remember it, in our last talk, it was understood that if I needed your little bunch of Traction shares you'd let me have 'em when the time came. Now our friend Porter's sick," continued Margrave, watching Wheaton sharply with his small, keen eyes.
"Yes; he's sick," repeated Wheaton.
"He's pretty damned sick."
"I suppose you mean he is very sick; I don't know that it's so serious. I was at the house this evening."
"Comforting the daughter, no doubt," with a sneer. "Now, Jim, I'm going to say something to you and I don't want you to give back any prayer meeting talk. The chances are that Porter's going to die." He waited a moment to let the remark sink into Wheaton's consciousness, and then he went on: "I guess he won't be able to vote his stock to-morrow. I suppose you've got it or know where it is." He eyed the bundle on which Wheaton's hand at that moment rested nervously, and Wheaton sat back in his chair and thrust his hand into his trousers' pockets, looking unconcernedly at Margrave.
"I want that stock, Jim," said the railroader, quietly, "and I want you to give it to me to-night."
"Margrave," said Wheaton, and it was the first time he had so addressed him, "you must be crazy, or a fool."
"Things are going pretty well with you, Jim,"Margrave continued, as if in friendly canvass of Wheaton's future. "You have a good position here; when the old man's out of the way, you can marry the girl and be president of the bank. It's dead easy for a smart fellow like you. It would be too bad for you to spoil such prospects right now, when the game is all in your own hands, by failing to help a friend in trouble." Wheaton said nothing and Margrave resumed:
"You're trying to catch on to this damned society business here, and I want you to do it. I haven't got any objections to your sailing as high as you can. I know all about you. I gave you your first job when you came here—"
"I appreciate all that, Mr. Margrave," Wheaton broke in. "You said the word that got me into the Clarkson National, and I have never forgotten it."
"Well, I don't want you to forget it. But see here: as long as I recommended you and stood by you when you were a ratty little train butcher, and without knowing anything about you except that you were always on hand and kept your mouth shut, I think you owe something to me." He bent forward in his chair, which creaked under him as he shifted his bulk. "One night last fall, just before the Knights of Midas show, a drunken scamp came into my yard, and made a nasty row. I was about to turn him over to the police when he began whimpering and said he knew you. He wasn't doing any particular harm and I gave him a quarter and told him to get out; but he wanted to talk. He said—" Margrave dropped his voice and fastened his eyes on Wheaton—"he was a long-lost brother of yours. He was pretty drunk, but he seemed clear on your familyhistory, Jim. He said he'd done time once back in Illinois, and got you out of a scrape. He told me his name was William Wheaton, but that he had lost it in the shuffle somewhere and was known as Snyder. I gave him a quarter and started him toward Porter's where I knew you were doing the society act. I heard afterward that he found you."
Margrave creaked back in his chair and chuckled.
"He was an infernal liar," said Wheaton hotly. "And so you sent that scamp over there to make a row. I didn't think you would play me a trick like that." He was betrayed out of his usual calm control and his mouth twitched.
"Now, Jim," Margrave continued magnanimously, "I don't care a damn about your family connections. You're all right. You're good enough for me, you understand, and you're good enough for the Porters. My father was a butcher and I began life sweeping out the shop, and I guess everybody knows it; and if they don't like it, they know what they can do."
Wheaton's hand rested again on the packet before him; he had flushed to the temples, but the color slowly died out of his face. It was very still in the room, and the watchman could be heard walking across the tiled lobby outside. A patrol wagon rattled in the street with a great clang of its gong. Wheaton had moved the brown parcel a little nearer to the edge of the table; Margrave noticed this and for the first time took a serious interest in the packet. He was not built for quick evolutions, but he made what was, for a man of his bulk, a sudden movement around the table toward Wheaton, who was between him and the door.
"What you got in that paper, Jim?" he asked, puffing from his exertion.
Still Wheaton did not speak, but he picked up the parcel and took a step toward the door, Margrave advancing upon him.
Wheaton reached the door, holding the package under his arm.
"Don't touch me; don't touch me," he said, hoarsely. Margrave still came toward him. Wheaton's unengaged hand went nervously to his throat, and he fumbled at his tie. The sweat came out on his forehead. It was a curious scene, the tall, dark man in his evening clothes, pitiful in his agitation, with his back against the door, hugging the bundle under one arm; and Margrave, in his rough business suit, walking slowly toward Wheaton, who retreated before him.
"I want that package, Jim."
"Go away! go away!" The sweat shone on Wheaton's forehead in great drops. "I can't, I can't—you know I can't!"
"You damned coward!" said Margrave, laughing suddenly. "I want that bundle." He made a gesture and Wheaton dodged and shrank away. Margrave laughed again; a malicious mirth possessed him. But he grew suddenly fierce and his fat fingers closed about Wheaton's neck. Wheaton huddled against the door, holding the brown packet with both hands.
"Drop it! Drop it!" blurted Margrave. He was breathing hard.
A sharp knock at the door against which they struggled caused Margrave to spring away. He walked down the room several paces with an assumption ofcarelessness, and Wheaton, with the bundle still under his arm, turned the knob of the door.
"Hello, Wheaton!" called Fenton, blinking in the glare of the lights.
"Good evening," said Wheaton.
"How're you, Fenton," said Margrave, carelessly, but mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Here are your papers," said Wheaton, almost thrusting his parcel into the lawyer's hands.
"All right," said Fenton, looking curiously from one to the other. And then he glanced at the package, as if absent-mindedly, and saw that the seal was unbroken.
"Good night, gentlemen," he said. "Sorry to have disturbed you."
"Hope you're not going to work to-night," said Margrave, solicitously.
"Oh, not very long," said the lawyer.
"Hard on honest men when lawyers work at night," continued Margrave, as the lawyer walked across the lobby.
"Yes, you railroad people can say that," Fenton flung back at him.
"How much Traction was in that package?" asked Margrave, closing the door.
"I don't know," said Wheaton, smoothing his tie. The watchman could be heard closing the outside door on Fenton.
"No, I don't think you do," returned Margrave. "You'd fixed it pretty well with Fenton. If he'd only been a minute later I'd have got that bundle. I didn't realize at first what you had there, Jim, until you kept fingering it so desperately."
"Now," he said amiably, as if the real business of the evening had just been reached, "there are those shares you own, Jim. I hope we won't be interrupted while you're getting them for me."
Wheaton hesitated.
"You get them for me," said Margrave with a change of manner, "quick!"
Wheaton still hesitated.
Margrave picked up his hat.
"I'm going from here to theGazetteoffice. You know they do what I tell 'em over there. They'd like a little story about the aristocratic Wheaton family of Ohio. Porter's girl would like that for breakfast to-morrow morning."
Wheaton hung between two inclinations, one to make terms with Margrave and assure his friendship at any hazard, the other to break with him, let the consequences be what they might. It is one of the impressive facts of human destiny that the frail barks among us are those which are sent into the least known seas. Great mariners have made charts and set warning lights, but the hidden reefs change hourly, and the great chartographer Experience cannot keep pace with them.
"Hurry up," said Margrave impatiently; "this is my busy night and I can't wait on you. Dig it up."
Wheaton's hand went slowly to his pocket. As he drew out his own certificate with nervous fingers, the certificate which Evelyn Porter had given him an hour before fell upon the table.
"That's the right color," said Margrave, snatching the paper as Wheaton sprang forward to regain it.
"Not that! not that! That isn't mine!"
Margrave stepped back and swept the face of the certificate with his eyes.
"Well, this does beat hell! I knew you stood next, Jim," he said insolently, "but I didn't know that you were on such confidential terms as all this. And you witnessed the signature. Gosh! How sweet and pretty it all is!" The paper exhaled the faint odor of sachet, and Margrave lifted it to his nostrils with a mockery of delight.
"I must have that, Margrave. I will do anything, but I must have that—— You wouldn't——"
Margrave watched him maliciously, thoroughly enjoying his terror.
"How do you know I wouldn't? Give me the other one, Jim."
Still Wheaton held his own certificate; he believed for a moment that he could trade the one for the other.
"I'm not going to fool with you much longer, Jim; you either give me that certificate or I go to theGazetteoffice as straight as I can walk. Just sign it in blank, the way the other one is. I'll witness it all right."
Wheaton wrote while Margrave stood over him, holding ready a blotter which he applied to Wheaton's signature with unnecessary care.
"I hope this won't cause you any inconvenience with the lady, but you're undoubtedly a fair liar and you can fix that all right, particularly"—with a chuckle—"if the old man cashes in."
Wheaton followed Margrave's movements as if under a spell that he could not shake off. Margrave walkedtoward the door with an air of nonchalance, pulling on his gloves.
"I haven't my check-book with me, Jim, but I'll settle for your stock and Miss Evelyn's, too, after I get things reorganized. It'll be worth more money then. Please give the young lady my compliments," with irritating suavity. He stopped, smoothing the backs of his gloves placidly. "That's all right, Jim, ain't it?" he asked mockingly.
"I hope you're satisfied," said Wheaton weakly. Twice, within a year, he had felt the fingers of an angry man at his throat and he did not relish the experience.
"I'm never satisfied," said Margrave, picking up his hat.
Wheaton wished to make a bargain with him, to assure his own immunity; but he did not know how to accomplish it. Margrave had threatened him, and he wished to dull the point of the threat, but he was afraid to ask a promise of him. He said, as Margrave opened the door to go out:
"Do you think Fenton noticed anything?" His tone was so pitiful in its eagerness that Margrave laughed in his face.
"I don't know, Jim, and I don't give a damn."
Wheaton did not follow him to the door, but Margrave seemed in no hurry to leave. The watchman went forward to let him out at the side entrance, and Margrave paused to light a cigar very deliberately and to urge one on the watchman.
"If he'd only been sure the old man would have died to-night," he reflected as he walked up the street, "he'dhave given me Porter's shares, easy." He went to his office, entertaining himself with this pleasant speculation. "If I'd got out of the bank with that package he'd never dared squeal," he presently concluded.
Timothy Margrave was a fair judge of character.
John Saxton was a good deal the worse for wear as he swung himself from a sleeper in the Clarkson station and bolted for a down-town car. Coal mining is a dirty business, and there are limits to the things that can be crowded into a suit-case. He had been crawling through four-foot veins of Kansas coal in the interest of the Neponset Trust Company, and had been delayed a day longer than he had expected. He continued to be in a good deal of a hurry after he reached his office, and he kicked aside the mail which rustled under the door as he opened it, and knelt hastily before the safe and began rattling the tumblers of the combination. He pulled out a long envelope and then with more composure consulted his watch.
It was half-past eight. He took from his memorandum calendar the leaf for the day; on it he had posted a cutting from a local newspaper announcing the annual meeting of the stockholders of the Clarkson Traction Company. The meeting was to be held, so the notice recited, between the hours of 9 a. m. and 5 p. m. of the second Tuesday of November, at the general offices of the Company in the city of Clarkson. The Exchange Building was specified, though theadministrative offices of the Company were on the other side of town. Before setting forth Saxton examined his papers, which were certificates of stock in the Clarkson Traction Company. They had been sent to him by a personal friend in Boston, the trustee of an estate, with instructions to investigate and report. Having received them just as he was leaving for Kansas, there had been no opportunity for consulting Porter or Wheaton, his usual advisers in perplexing matters. Traction stock had advanced lately, despite newspaper attacks on the company and he hoped to sell his friend's shares to advantage.
Saxton had never been in the Exchange Building before and he poked about in the dark upper floors, uncertainly looking for the rooms described in the advertisement. Another man, also peering about in the hall, ran against him.
"Beg pardon, but can you tell me——"
"Good morning, Mr. Saxton, are you acquainted in this rookery?" It was Fenton, who carried a brown parcel under his arm and appeared annoyed.
"No; but I'm learning," John answered. "I'm looking for the offices of the Traction Company. Its light seems to be hid under a bushel."
"I'm looking for it, too," said Fenton. "Some humorist seems to have changed the numbers on this floor."
They traversed the halls of several floors in an effort to find the numbers specified in the notice. Fenton swore in an agreeable tone and occasionally kicked at a door in his rage. Saxton called to him presently from a dark corner where he held up a lighted match to read the number on the transom.
"Here's our number, but there's no name on the door."
Fenton advanced upon the door with long strides, but it did not open as he grasped the knob. He kicked it sharply, but there was still no response from within.
"What time is it, Saxton?" he asked over his shoulder, without abating his pounding or knocking.
Saxton stepped back and peered into his watch.
"Five minutes of nine." He was aware now that something important was in progress. He did not know Fenton well, but he knew that he was the attorney for Porter and the Clarkson National, and that he was a serious character who did not beat on doors unless he had business on the inside. Fenton now called out loudly, demanding admission. There was a low sound of voices and a sharp noise of chairs being pushed over an uncarpeted floor within; but the knob which Fenton still held and shook did not turn.
On the inside of the door Timothy Margrave and Horton, the president, Barnes, the secretary, and Percival, the treasurer of the Clarkson Traction Company, were holding the annual meeting of that corporation, in conformity with its articles of association, and according to the duly advertised notice as required by the statutes in such cases made and provided. They had, however, anticipated the hour slightly; but this was not, Margrave said, an important matter. His notions of the proper way of holding business meetings were based on his long experience in managing ward primaries.
Horton, the president, called the meeting to order. "Well, boys," said Margrave, "there ain't any use waiting on the other fellows. Business is business and we might as well get through with it."
"Shall we hear the report of the secretary and treasurer?" the president asked Margrave deferentially.
"I move that we pass that," said Margrave. He was smoothing out the certificates of his shares on the table. "I move that we proceed at once to the election of officers of the company. Is the door locked?"
"Sure," said Barnes, the secretary, but he went over and tried it. "I guess Porter ain't coming," he said in a tone of regret that was intended to be facetious, "and he must have forgotten to send proxies."
"I vote twenty-five hundred and ninety-seven shares of the common stock of this company; you gentlemen haven't more than that, have you?" The fact was that the three officers present owned only one share each as their strict legal qualification for holding office.
"I think the minutes ought to show," said the secretary, "that these were the only shares represented, and that due advertisement was published according to law, but that owing to the loss of the stock register, written notice to individual stockholders was given only to such holders of certificates as disclosed themselves."
"That's all right," said Margrave. "You fix it up, Barnes, and you'd better get Congreve to see that it's done with the legal frills." Congreve was the local counsel of Margrave's railroad, and was a man that could be trusted.
"I move," said Barnes, "that we proceed to the election of officers for the ensuing year."
"And I move," said Percival, "that the secretary be instructed to cast the ballot of the stockholders for Timothy Margrave for president."
"Consent," exclaimed Barnes, hurriedly.
Steps could be heard in the outer hall, and Margrave looked at his watch.
"I move that we adjourn to meet at my office at two o'clock, to conclude the election of officers."
Some one was shaking the outside door.
"Can't we finish now?" asked Horton, who had been promised the vice-presidency. He and the other officers were afraid of Margrave, and were reluctant to have their own elections deferred even for a few hours.
There was another knock at the door.
"At two o'clock," said Margrave decisively, as the knocking at the door was renewed. He gathered up his certificates and prepared to leave.
Saxton, standing with Fenton in the dark hall, referred to his watch again.
"Shall we go in?" he asked.
The lawyer dropped the knob of the door and drew back out of the way.
"It's too bad it's glass," said Saxton, setting his shoulder against the wooden frame over the lock. The lock held, but the door bent away from it. He braced his feet and drove his shoulder harder into the corner, at the same time pressing his hip against the lock. It refused to yield, but the glass cracked, and finally half of it fell with a crash to the floor within.
"Don't hurry yourselves, gentlemen," said Fenton, coolly, speaking through the ragged edges of broken glass. Saxton thrust his hand in to the catch and opened the door.
"Why, it's only Fenton," called Margrave in a pleasant tone to his associates, who had effected their exits safely into a rear room.
"It's only Fenton," continued the lawyer, stepping inside, "but I'll have to trouble you to wait a few minutes."
"Oh, the meeting's adjourned, if that's what you want," said Margrave.
"That won't go down," said Fenton, placing his package on the table. "You're old enough to know, Margrave, that one man can't hold a stockholders' meeting behind locked doors in a pigeon roost."
"The meeting was held regular, at the hour and place advertised," said Margrave with dignity. "A majority of the stockholders were represented."
"By you, I suppose," said Fenton, who had walked into the room followed by Saxton.
"By me," said Margrave. He had not taken off his overcoat and he now began to button it about his portly figure.
"How many shares have you?" asked the lawyer, seating himself on the edge of the table.
"I suppose you think I'm working a bluff, but I've really got the stuff this time, Fenton. To be real decent with you I don't mind telling you that I've got exactly twenty-five hundred and ninety-seven shares of this stock. I guess that's a majority all right. Now one good turn deserves another; how much has Porter got? I don't care a damn, but I'd just like to know." He stood by the table and ostentatiously played with his certificates to make Fenton's humiliation all the keener. Margrave's associates stood at the back of the room and watched him admiringly. Fenton's bundle still lay on the table, and Saxton stood with his hands in his pockets watching events. There had been no chance for him toexplain to Fenton his reasons for seeking the offices of the Traction Company and it had pleased Margrave to ignore his presence; Fenton paid no further attention to him. He wondered at Fenton's forbearance, and expected the lawyer to demolish Margrave, but Fenton said:
"You are quite right, Margrave. I hold for Mr. Porter exactly twenty-three hundred and fifty shares."
Margrave nodded patronizingly.
"Just a little under the mark."
"You may make that twenty-four hundred even," said Saxton, "if it will do you any good."
"I'm still shy," said Fenton. "Our friend clearly has the advantage."
"I suppose if you'd known how near you'd come, you'd have hustled pretty hard for the others," said Margrave, sympathetically.
"Oh, I don't know!" said Fenton, with the taunting inflection which gives slang to the phrase. He did not seem greatly disturbed. Saxton expected him to try to make terms; but the lawyer yawned in a preoccupied way, before he said:
"So long as the margin's so small, you'd better be decent and hold your stockholders' meeting according to law and let us in. I'm sure Mr. Saxton and I would be of great assistance—wise counsel and all that."
Margrave laughed his horse laugh. "You're a pretty good fellow, Fenton, and I'm sorry we can't do business together."
"Oh, well, if you won't, you won't." Fenton took up his bundle and turned to the door.
"I suppose you've got large chunks of Traction bonds,too, Margrave. There's nothing like going in deep in these things."
Margrave winked.
"Bonds be damned. I've been hearing for four years that Traction bondholders were going to tear up the earth, but I guess those old frosts down in New England won't foreclose on me. I'll pay 'em their interest as soon as I get to going and they'll think I'm hot stuff. And say!" he ejaculated, suddenly, "if Porter's got any of those bonds don't you get gay with 'em. It's a big thing for the town to have a practical railroad man like me running the street car lines; and if I can't make 'em pay nobody can."
"You're not conceited or anything, are you, Margrave?"
"By the way, young man," said Margrave, addressing Saxton for the first time, "we won't charge you anything for breakage to-day, but don't let it happen again."
Margrave lingered to reassure and instruct his associates as to the adjourned meeting, and Saxton went out with Fenton.
"That was rather tame," said John, as he and Fenton reached the street together. "I hoped there would be some fun. These shares belong to a Boston friend and they're for sale."
"I wonder how Porter came to miss them," said Fenton, grimly. "You'd better keep them as souvenirs of the occasion. The engraving isn't bad. I turn up this way." They paused at the corner. He still carried his bundle and he drew from his pocket now a number of documents in manila jackets.
"I have a little errand at the Federal Court." They stood by a letter box and the cars of the Traction Company wheezed and clanged up Varney Street past them.
"The fact is," he said, "that Mr. Porter owns all of the bonds of the Traction Company."
Saxton nodded. He understood now why the stockholders' meeting had not disturbed Fenton.
"This is an ugly mess," the lawyer continued. "It would have suited me better to control the company through the stock so long as we had so much, but we didn't quite make it. You're friendly to Mr. Porter, aren't you?"
"Yes; I don't know how he feels toward me—"
"We can't ask him just now, so we'll take it for granted. The court will unquestionably appoint a receiver, independent of this morning's proceedings, and if you don't mind, I'll ask to have you put in temporarily, or until we can learn Mr. Porter's wishes."
"But—there are other and better men—"
"Very likely; but I particularly wish this."
"There's Mr. Wheaton—isn't he the natural man—in the bank and all that?" urged Saxton.
"Mr. Wheaton has a very exacting position and it would be unfair to add to his duties," said the lawyer. "Will you keep where I can find you the rest of the day?"
"Yes," said John; "I'll be at my office as soon as I hit a tub and a breakfast. But you can do better," he called after Fenton, who was walking rapidly toward the post-office building.
Wheaton sat at his desk all the morning hoping that Fenton would drop in to give him the result of theTraction meeting; but the lawyer did not appear at the bank. He concluded that there was little chance of learning of the outcome of the meeting until he saw the afternoon papers. A dumb terror possessed him as he reflected upon the events of the past day. It might be that the shares which Margrave had forced from him would carry the balance of power. He felt keenly the ignominy of his interview of the night before at the bank; he was sure that if he could do it over again he would eject Margrave and dare him to do his worst.
He could dramatize himself into a very heroic figure in combating Margrave. If only Margrave had not seen Snyder! It was long ago that he and his brother had made acquaintance with crime: that was the merest slip; it was his only error. It had been kind of William Wheaton to take the full burden of that theft upon himself; yet he thought with repugnance of his brother's long career of crime; he detested the weakness of a man who chose crime and squalor as his portion. He talked to customers and did his detail work as usual, and went out for luncheon to a near-by restaurant, as he had done when he was a clerk, making lack of time an excuse for not going to The Bachelors' or the club. He felt a sudden impulse to keep very much to himself, as if security lay in doing so. His confidence returned as he reviewed his relations with Timothy Margrave. He would demand the two certificates of Margrave whether they had been used against Porter or not.
Having reached this decision by the time he came in from luncheon he went to the telephone and called Evelyn to ask her how her father was and to report hisdelivery of the papers in her father's box to Mr. Fenton, as instructed. Evelyn spoke hopefully of her father's illness; there were no unfavorable symptoms, and everything pointed to his recovery. It was very sweet to hear her voice in this way; and he went to his desk comforted.
At two o'clock Warry Raridan sat on a table in the United States court room, kicking his heels together and smoking a cigarette. A number of reporters stood about; the ex-president, the secretary and the treasurer of the Clarkson Traction Company loafed within the space set apart for attorneys and played with their hats. The court was sitting in chambers, and those who waited knew that in the judge's private room something was happening. The clerk came out presently with his hands full of papers and affixed the official file mark to them. Raridan was waiting for Fenton and Saxton and when they appeared together, he went across the room to meet them.
"How is it?" he asked.
"It's all right," said Fenton. "Saxton has been appointed, pending a hearing of the case on its merits, which can't be had until Mr. Porter is out again."
"I knew it was coming," said Raridan, in a low tone to Saxton, "so I came up to say that I'm glad you're recognized by the powers."
"But it's only temporary," said John. "The little interest I represent wouldn't justify it, of course. I'm still dazed that Fenton should have urged my appointment on the court."
"What I'm here for is to go on your bond, old man."
"But Fenton has fixed that,—some of the bank directors."
"All right, John."
Saxton was walking away, but he turned back. Something had gone amiss with Raridan. Several times in their friendship Saxton had unconsciously offended him. He saw that Warry was really hurt now.
"I appreciate it, Warry, and it's like you to offer; of course I'd be glad to have you."
"Well, I hoped I was as good as those other fellows," said Raridan, more cheerfully; and he went to the clerk's desk and signed the bond.
Margrave came out now with his lawyer, and they were joined by Margrave's allies of the morning. Margrave stopped to give the reporters his side of the story. He assured them that this was merely a contest between two interests for the control of the Traction Company. There had been a misunderstanding, and until the differences between the two factions of stockholders could be reconciled, the business of the company would be managed by a receiver, who was, he said, "friendly to all parties." The fact was that he had objected strenuously to Saxton's appointment, but Fenton had insisted on it and the court had paid a good deal of attention to what Fenton said. Margrave made much to the reporters of his own election to the presidency, and intimated to them that the receiver would soon be discharged and that he would assume the active management of affairs.
The papers that had been filed in the case disclosed a somewhat different situation, which was fully laid before the public, greatly to its surprise. It appearedthat William Porter owned all the bonds of the company, and only narrowly missed the stock control. The situation was thoroughly interesting. A contention between Porter and Margrave was novel in the history of Clarkson and the press made the most of it. TheGazette, Margrave's paper, proved him to be wholly in the right, and cited the summary action of the court in appointing an inexperienced man to the receivership as another proof of the brutal abuse of power by federal courts.
Margrave had put none of his own money into Traction stock, but had invested funds belonging to the stockholders of the Transcontinental, who had every confidence in his sagacity, and who trusted him implicitly. He advised them of the receivership in terms which led them to believe that he had brought it about as a part of his own plans. He maintained an air of mystery and winked knowingly at friends who joked him about the littlecoupby which Porter, though sick in bed, had, as they said, "cleaned him up." He told those who flattered him by twitting him on this score that he guessed Tim Margrave hadn't lost his grip yet, and that before he was knocked out, the place of eternal damnation would have been transformed into a skating rink.
There is a common law of character which is greater than the canons. It fills many volumes of records in the high court of Experience, and we add to it daily by our instinctive decisions in small matters; but only the finer natures, highly endowed with discernment, master its intricacies. The decalogue is a safe guidepost on the great highway of life; but it does not avail the lost pilgrim who stumbles in remote by-paths. The spirit is the only arbiter of the nicer distinctions between right and wrong. James Wheaton did not steal; he would do no murder; he was not even unusually covetous. If the tests which Destiny applied to him had related to the great fundamentals of conduct, he would not have been found wanting; but they were directed against seemingly unimportant weaknesses, along the lines of his least resistance to evil.
A week had passed since Saxton's appointment to the receivership and Wheaton went to and from his work with many misgivings. Several of Wheaton's friends had confided to him their belief that he ought to have been appointed receiver instead of Saxton, and there was little that he could say to this, except that he had no time for it. He had become nervous and distraught,and was irritable under the jesting of his associates at The Bachelors'. There was a good deal of joking at their table for several days after Saxton's appointment over Margrave's discomfiture, to which Wheaton contributed little. He felt decidedly ill at ease under it. Thompson, the cashier, had come home, and Wheaton found his presence irksome.
He had seen Margrave several times at the club since their last interview at the bank and Margrave had nodded distantly, as if he hardly remembered Wheaton. Wheaton assumed that sooner or later Margrave would offer to pay him for his shares of Traction stock. But while the loss of his own certificate, under all the circumstances, did not trouble him, Margrave's appropriation of Evelyn Porter's shares was an unpleasant fact that haunted all his waking hours.
One evening, a week after the receivership incident, he resolved to go to Margrave and demand, at any hazard, the return of Evelyn's certificate. The idea seized firm hold upon him, and he set out at once for Margrave's house. He inquired for Margrave at the door, and the maid asked him to go into the library. They were entertaining at dinner, she told him, and he said he would wait. He walked nervously up and down in the well-appointed library, where Warry Raridan's purchases looked out at him from the solid mahogany bookcases. He heard the hum of voices faintly from the dining-room.
He picked up a magazine and tried to read, but the printed pages did not hold his eyes. He did not know how Margrave would treat him, and he would have escaped from the house if he had dared. Margrave camein presently, fat and ugly in his evening clothes. He welcomed Wheaton noisily and introduced him to his guests, two directors of the Transcontinental and their wives, who were passing through town on their way to California.
Mrs. Margrave and Mabel greeted Wheaton cordially. Mabel was dressed to impress the ladies from New York, and was succeeding. The colored butler passed coffee and cigars and green chartreuse, and when Wheaton declined a cigar, Mabel brought him a cigarette from the taboret from which "The Men" were helped to such trifles. Mrs. Margrave was oppressed by the presence in her home of so many millions and so much social distinction as her guests represented, and she contributed only murmurs of assent to the conversation which Mabel led with ease, discoursing in her most Tyringhamesque manner of yacht races, horse shows and like matters of metropolitan interest. Wheaton was glad now that he had come; Margrave's guests were people worth meeting; he liked the talk, and the chartreuse gave elegance to the occasion.
Margrave accommodated his heavy frame to the soft indulgence of a huge leather chair and drained the liqueur from his glass at a gulp.
"Well, gentlemen, I'm glad Mr. Wheaton could drop in to-night. He's a friend of the road and of ours. If everybody treated the Transcontinental as well as he does,—well, a good many things would be different!"
He looked at Wheaton admiringly, and his guests followed his gaze with polite interest.
"Why, gentlemen," said Margrave, straining forward until his face was purple, "Wheaton did his level best forme in that Traction deal; yes, sir, he worked with us on that, and if it hadn't been for that fool judge we'd have had it all fixed." He leaned back and nodded at Wheaton benignantly.
Wheaton had merely murmured at intervals during this deliverance. He did not know what Margrave meant. He moved over by Mrs. Margrave and tried to make talk with her. As soon as he felt that he could go decently, he rose and shook hands with the visiting gentlemen and bowed to the ladies. Margrave took him by the arm with an air of great intimacy and affection and walked with him to the hall, where he made much of helping Wheaton into his overcoat.
"I wanted to see you on a business matter," Wheaton began, in a low tone.
"Oh, yes," said Margrave loudly, "I forgot to mail you that check. I've been terribly rushed lately; but in time, my boy, in time!"
The people in the library could hardly have failed to hear every word.
"Oh, not that, not that! I mean that other certificate." Wheaton was trying to drop the conversation to a whispering basis as he drew on his gloves. Margrave had again taken his arm and was walking with him toward the front door, talking gustily all the while. He swung the door open and followed Wheaton out upon the front step.
"A glorious night! glorious!" he ejaculated, puffing from his walk. His hand wandered up Wheaton's arm until it reached his collar, and after he had allowed his fingers to grasp this lingeringly, he gave Wheaton asudden push forward, still holding his collar, then raised his fat leg and kicked him from the step.
"Come again, Jim?" he called pleasantly, as he backed within the door and closed it to return to his guests.
Wheaton reached his room, filled with righteous indignation. He might have known that a coarse fellow like Margrave cared only for people whom he could control; and he decided after a night of reflection that he had acted handsomely in saving Porter's package of securities from Margrave the night of the encounter at the bank. The more he thought of it, the more certain he grew that he could, if it became necessary to protect himself in any way, turn the tables on Margrave. He called Margrave a scoundrel in his thoughts, and was half persuaded to go at once to Fenton and explain why Margrave had been at the bank on the night that Fenton had found him there.
Wheaton continued to call at the Porters' daily to make inquiry for the head of the house. On some of these occasions he saw Evelyn, but Mrs. Whipple, whose staying qualities were born of a rigid military sense of duty, was always there; and he had not seen Evelyn alone since she gave him her father's key. Other young men, friends of Evelyn, called, he found, just as he did, to make inquiry about Mr. Porter. Mrs. Whipple had a way of saying very artlessly, and with a little sigh that carried weight, that Mr. Raridan was so very kind. Wheaton wanted to be very kind himself, but he never happened to be about when the servants were busy and there were important prescriptions to be filled at the apothecary's.
On the whole he was very miserable and when, onemorning, while Porter's condition was still precarious, he received a letter from Snyder, postmarked Spokane, declaring that money was immediately required to support him until he could find work, he closed that issue finally in a brief letter which was not couched in diplomatic language. The four days that were necessary for the delivery of this letter had hardly passed before Wheaton received a telegram sharply demanding a remittance by wire. This Wheaton did not answer; he had done all that he intended to do for William Snyder, who was well out of the way, and much more safely so if he had no money. The correspondence was not at an end, however, for a threatening letter in Snyder's eccentric orthography followed, and this, too, Wheaton dropped into his waste paper basket and dismissed from his mind.