Joan and Co.

Devons had no business to be impatient because Joan remained below with a visitor three quarters of an hour. Considering the fact that only a few hours before he had rather ignominiously retreated from her presence, it did not seem to be good judgment to begin, almost immediately afterwards, to look forward to an opportunity to place himself again in jeopardy of her eyes. Yet that was exactly what he did.

He was not satisfied with the way he had handled that situation. In the first place, he should have stood his ground and fought through to a finish no matter what the outcome. He discovered this the moment he found himself back in his room. Leaving as he did, nothing whatever had been settled. Sooner or later he must have everything to do all over again.

What the deuce had been the matter with him? Pacing the floor, he tried to review the proposition sensibly. She had offered to furnish him with the capital to put his dressing on the market—to enter into a simple business arrangement with him. She had done this because of a desire to have an active interest outside the petty routine of her present life. He had assumed that this was a risk he was not justified in allowing her to take. But as a matter of fact, was it a risk? Had the offer come from a man he would not have hesitated. He knew what he had—the best and cheapest article of its kind in the world. Even Reed had not disputed that. Reed had been frightened off by his unwillingness to give battle to this man Burnett, whoever he was. And that did not influence Devons in the slightest. It was like a challenge. That was the West in him—the youth in him. Let the conflict narrow down to an individual, and he was at his best. Give him the money to work with, and he would put in the rest—himself. That was what Reed did not have. He had only the money.

Considered, then, purely as a business proposition, he stood unafraid. If the money came from any other source, he would have accepted it. Then what the deuce was the matter with him?

He asked the question, but even as he asked it he knew the answer. Down deep in his heart he knew the answer. It was only a matter of admitting it. Now, suddenly, squaring his shoulders he faced the truth. He had dared allow himself to love this woman. He, Mark Devons, a penniless young adventurer from the West, had ventured to turn his eyes upwards to the stars and stare overlong at the whitest-burning one of them all. Thrust unwarrantedly into her life, he had absorbed so much of it that his head had been turned. For hours after she left him he had permitted himself to feel that he belonged where he was—that she was not impossible. It was only when he saw the inevitable end of it that he realized, and then it was too late. Not too late for her, but for him. If he kept his head steady, it was not too late for her. Thank God, his lips had remained sealed. Thank God, he had given her no inkling of how he felt. He had looked into her eyes and grown dizzy, but he had remained dumb. That covered the present, but what of the future?

Here was where he had certain inalienable rights. Here was where it was his privilege to fly as high and as wild as he chose. Let him get back to his work, and he might hitch his wagon even to such a star as this. Give him half an opportunity, and he would win for her the place to which she was entitled. Starting with nothing, it might have looked like a long path to one in any other mood than this. But in this mood, worlds had been conquered in months. He had read all his life of fortunes made in a few years in New York. It was being done every day. The first thousand, some one had said, was the difficult thousand. After that it was easy to make it into ten; then still easier to turn that into a hundred thousand, and so swiftly to jump to a million. He would need all that for her and more.

If he had the capital to-day! That is what she offered him. And to her it meant so little. Yet because this fight was his fight and his alone, he must refuse it. He should have stood his ground before her and settled that once for all. He must see her again as soon as possible and settle that. Had he stood his ground before, it would be all settled now.

For a half-hour after he had reached this decision—a decision that left him with his shoulders squared—he was forced to wait his opportunity to see her. He had sent Jeffrey to find her and the latter had reported:

“Miss Fairburne is at present with a guest in the drawing-room, sir.”

“Will you let me know as soon as she is free?”

“Yes, sir.”

But Jeffrey’s services were not needed. As soon as Devons heard the front door close, he immediately went downstairs only to find her coming upstairs to meet him.

“Oh, do come into the drawing-room!” she exclaimed. “Everything is all settled.”

He followed her below and into the big room with the open fire. And if at this momentous conference he had spoken the words that first sprang to his lips, he would have said only:

“How beautiful you are.”

“That was Dicky,” she announced.

The name meant nothing to him. There was no particular reason why he should have immediately disliked it.

“I have known Dicky a great many years,” she went on to explain. Had she been fifty or seventy-five that statement would have been a good deal more reassuring than it was under the circumstances.

“Hasn’t he any last name?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she admitted. “But that’s a secret. You will understand in a minute. Dicky is very, very nice.”

That, from Devons’s point of view, was if anything against him.

“So I told him what I wanted.”

Devons frowned. This was altogether too personal a matter to confide in any one else.

“I told him I wanted to go into business, and somehow Dicky seemed to understand,” she hurried on. “I didn’t even tell him what the business was. He said he didn’t want to know. But what he did ask was if he could not share it with me. He wanted—to be a silent partner himself.”

“He did?”

“So he offered to furnish the capital and let me do what I chose with it.”

“As a partner?” questioned Devons.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Only he did not wish to have anything to do with the business itself.”

Devons appeared perplexed.

“It sounds queer,” he answered. “Are you sure you understood him?”

“It wouldn’t sound queer if you knew Dicky.”

“He has a great deal of money?”

“He—he seems to have all he needs,” she answered.

“Then perhaps that explains it,” concluded Devons.

“But I don’t see the need of an explanation of any sort,” she replied with spirit. “And I’m sure if he had more business it would be better for him. He is to bring me five thousand dollars at once.”

“Five thousand dollars!” gasped Devons.

That in itself was a fortune.

“Then as much as we need,” she ran on.

“As much as we need,” he said over after her.

It sounded like one of those stories he used to dream.

“It certainly is mighty decent of this Dicky,” he added thoughtfully.

It was all that and a little something more. A man, no matter how much money he had, was not apt to invest blindly five thousand dollars unless he had a great deal of confidence in his agent—a great deal more confidence than was common in the everyday business venture. In this particular instance it was obvious that this generous trust was not based upon the wide experience of the agent or any reputation acquired by her from past successes. Clearly it was in the nature of a blind faith not usually associated with financial deals. And yet, put himself in the position of this Dicky, and he had a notion it was just the sort of thing he would have done himself. He would have looked upon it as an opportunity. Here was a fair explanation, but it brought him up with a start.

“You aren’t going to think up any more objections, are you?” she asked.

“I seem to be in the minority now,” he answered.

“Then,” she said, “can’t we call it all settled?”

Devons drew a deep breath. He met her eyes a moment, and then as he fought free of them it was as though standing behind her he met the eyes of this man Dicky. And it was as though the latter were smiling a challenge. It was as though the latter said to him this: “Well, will you fight for her, or shall I take her?”

There was just one way. He could not wait a decade now. He must seize this opportunity, however distasteful on general grounds it was—however unusual. Perhaps the man had made the offer in the assurance that he, Devons, would fail, anyhow. The thought acted like a blow on the cheek.

“We’ll call it settled,” answered Devons.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad!”

“But we must work hard—partner.”

Her cheeks grew scarlet. He saw her eyes spring alight.

“As hard as ever we can,” she nodded.