Joan and Co.

Dr. Nichols relieved Devons from the burden of most of his bandages on Sunday, and the latter, on Monday, after paying his respects to Mrs. Fairburne, left the house in the same machine which had brought him there. Mrs. Fairburne was with her daughter when Devons took his departure and was forced to admit that Joan conducted herself in every respect like a young lady of good sense and propriety. It was quite apparent that in the end the Fairburne blood triumphed over all sentimentality. Not that deep in her heart she had honestly feared anything, but it was a relief to know that the unusual episode was now ended so happily and definitely. She was sure that her bridge game would immediately pick up.

Charles, the driver, had considerable difficulty in locating Mullen Court. So probably would any one who did not live there. The directions are to go along lower Sixth Avenue until you come to a hole in a wall and—there you are. The hole is not large enough to admit a machine. But the trick is to find the hole.

Charles passed it twice, and might have gone on passing it in both directions all day if he had not stopped and roused Devons from his reverie. The latter, sitting back in the corner of the soft-cushioned tonneau, had been so busy with his thoughts that he did not even glance from the window. When he heard the voice of Charles it was like being suddenly awakened.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I see no street sign with Mullen Court on it.”

“I don’t believe there is one,” answered Devons.

“Then, sir—”

“We’re there now.”

Charles looked about, bewildered.

“Watch where I go and you’ll see. I shan’t need you any more to-day.”

Charles saw him disappear through an opening in the wall which looked as though it led into nothing but an alley. He made a note of this information and it proved useful later on.

As a matter of fact, however, the opening led into a little courtyard and to a group of three or four houses facing it. Devons ascended a short flight of steps bounded by an iron rail and hurried to the second floor. He paused a moment to rap at Arkwright’s door.

“Come in!” shouted Arkwright.

Devons stepped in. Arkwright jumped to his feet.

“For the love of Mike!” he exclaimed; “Devons or his ghost!”

Devons backed away from the outstretched hand.

“Careful of my shoulder,” he warned. “It’s just out of bandages.”

“Eh? What the deuce has happened to you? Here.”

Arkwright shoved forward a chair.

“Sit down and tell us about it. I thought you must have gone West.”

“I’ve been right here in New York all the time.”

“You’re looking fine, man. A bit of luck?”

“In a sense.”

“Great. I’ve been putting in a lot of time on that house of yours. I’ll show it to you later. Have you come back to join us again or to say good-bye?”

“I’ve come back to go to work,” answered Devons.

“Well, you certainly look fit. I was rather worried about you when you were here last. What’s your prescription?”

Devons grinned.

“I’m not sure it would suit every one,” he answered. “But what I did was to go out and get run down by an automobile.”

“What?”

“You have to use some judgment in selecting your machine,” explained Devons. “I picked out a good one.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Not a mite. I was knocked unconscious and I was pretty well bruised, but as a result of it all I never felt better in my life.”

“Rather heroic treatment!” exclaimed Arkwright. “Did they take you to a hospital?”

“They took me to a palace and treated me like a prince,” replied Devons.

“Now, look here—” protested Arkwright.

“I’m telling the bald truth,” insisted Devons. “I wish you could have seen that house, Arkwright. It reminded me something of the one you’re doing. Miss Fairburne—”

“Miss?” interrupted Arkwright.

“She’s the daughter,” explained Devons. He grew self-conscious beneath Arkwright’s smiling eyes. “What’s queer about that?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Arkwright hastened to assure him. “In fact it makes the whole story more plausible. She is—er—attractive?”

“She’s wonderful, Arkwright!” declared Devons. “She’s one in ten thousand. I want you to meet her some day.”

“Thanks. I’d like to. Bring her in and let her see my blue-prints.”

“I’ll do that—if things turn out right,” Devons promised.

He rose abruptly. It reminded him of the thousand and one details that lay ahead of him.

“I have my work cut out for the next few months,” he observed. “I’ll see you later.”

Arkwright went to the door with him. He liked the spark in the man’s eyes; he liked the way he held his shoulders.

“Gad!” he exclaimed. “You tempt a fellow to try the same sort of bracer.”

Devons went on up to his room with the springy step of a boy of eighteen and unlocked his door. He hesitated, however, before going in. It was like returning to the past, and for a second he had an uncanny fear that once within he might be held here by this past. Arkwright had not more than half believed, and Arkwright knew only a fraction of the truth. Here was the same narrow, bare hallway he had left some six weeks before, and once inside he would be facing even more barren surroundings. What if then the whole episode should turn out to be nothing but a flighty dream? It had happened before when he had come back here.

Devons drew back and fumbled for his inside pocket. The proof of the truth, if there were any truth, would be found there. He pulled out two or three letters—an old letter from home and the letter from Reed and the letter from Sawyer. That was all he found. The color went from his face. With trembling fingers he felt in his waistcoat pockets. In the first two he found nothing; in the third he discovered a folded bit of paper. He breathed normally again. Unfolding it he read the mysterious message addressed to a certain national bank.

“Pay to the order of Mark Devons one hundred dollars and no cents.” It was signed, “Joan Fairburne.” She had started an account for the firm before he left and insisted upon advancing him that much for current expenses.

He opened the door without fear now and stepped into the little room. On the table lay his corn-cob pipe where he had left it; on the couch bed were scattered his books, one open at the very page where he had quit reading. Except for a couple of wooden chairs and his old dress-suit-case, that was all the room contained. He crossed to the single window and threw it open and let in the stinging clear winter air.

In contrast to the luxuries he had just left, the place, even with the slip of green paper in his hand, depressed him. For a moment he caught his breath and shrank back from it. Then he smiled. After all, if he would only let it, this would give edge to all that lay ahead. Because of what was to be he could show her what had been with the greater relish. It was in that spirit men revisited the early scenes of their boyhood hardships.

Besides, he had no time to waste on this or any other kind of dreaming. That was the difference between to-day and yesterday. That was the significance of the check. He was in a position now to act. He had before him certain definite things to do. In the first place, he must find some sort of loft-room which would serve him as a laboratory. Then he must secure a permit to use the type of chemicals that were necessary. Then there were the chemicals to buy and certain apparatus. He had planned these details many times in his mind and now he was to accomplish them.

His scheme was simple. It was to begin manufacturing by himself as soon as he could equip his laboratory, and then, as fast as he had stock enough on hand, take it personally to the small users in town and supply enough to enable them to give it a thorough trial. The small manufacturer would be willing to experiment with anything that promised a twenty per cent reduction in price, besides better results. He had several letters from professors at Tech under whom he had worked which would introduce him anywhere and vouch for his reliability. So there remained nothing to do but to go ahead.

Devons returned to Arkwright.

“Have you an account with any bank near here?” he inquired.

“Such as it is,” admitted Arkwright. “How much do you want?”

“I don’t want to borrow,” Devons answered quickly; “I want to open a little account of my own. I thought you might introduce me.”

“Glad to do it,” nodded Arkwright with a trace of relief. “I’ll go up there now. But say—that doesn’t come of getting run over?”

“Indirectly,” admitted Devons. “Through Miss Fairburne I found a partner willing to furnish me with capital.”

“Believe me,” returned Arkwright, “you’ve certainly discovered a fresh and original way of getting on in New York. Here’s hoping your luck lasts.”

The experience of being introduced to a real live cashier behind a grilled fence was, in itself, thrilling enough. With a brand-new check-book of his own in his pocket, Devons came out feeling as important as though instead of one hundred dollars he had deposited one hundred thousand. There was nothing about the blank leaves to indicate it was not the latter sum. A check-book is the most indiscreet thing in the world. It always politely assumes its possessor is a millionaire.

Devons left Arkwright at the imposing structure which was now his bank and went on to a real-estate office he had privately visited before on one of those idle days when he was waiting to hear from Reed. He had spoken then in rather larger figures than he used now. He wanted, to start with, a small space, but one that offered room for expansion. And he found it there waiting for him as though his coming had been anticipated.

At the very top of a building, off Third Avenue, Dr. Dent had begun the manufacture of a Universal Remedy on a scale which, though justified on paper, did not work out in practice. There being some hundred million inhabitants in these, the United States of America, the company had estimated that at least a thousand bottles a day would be necessary to supply the annual demand. This was allowing about one bottle to every three hundred people. As a matter of fact, however, the demand was considerably less and so a policy of retrenchment became necessary. The firm having rented the entire floor was now ardently desirous of sub-letting a portion of its space with a fair possibility of becoming equally desirous, within six months, of sub-letting more unless the American public suddenly turned more appreciative than it now showed promise of doing.

Devons accompanied the agent up there at once and found it exactly what he wanted. And the price was right! Under the circumstances it had to be. In less than an hour he had signed a lease for a year and arranged for certain partitions to be erected and for an inscription upon the door to read:

DEVONS MANUFACTURING COMPANY

All this was accomplished on the first day.