Joan and Co.

Devons reached the office shortly after twelve and swung open the door with the announcement:

“I did it.”

Thereby he beat Joan by at least ten seconds, which is a wide margin when one stops to consider that races are often won by the fraction of a second. She had sprung from her seat behind the ledger as she heard his footsteps in the corridor, but he was so enthusiastically abrupt that it took her a few seconds longer to recover her balance. In his excitement he had seized her hand and that somehow or other only added to her confusion.

“Hartley was all against it at first,” he ran on. “But before I left he agreed to give it a thorough trial. I’m to take down to him to-day what I have in stock.”

“What you have in stock,” she replied vaguely, with a sudden sinking of the heart.

“There’s just about enough for a preliminary trial,” he answered. “It’s a great chance, Joan. This company is one of the largest users in the city, and if I make good with them—well, I won’t have to sit in any more outer offices.”

“How much did you have?” she stammered.

“About four gallons. But—what’s the matter?”

“I—I sold some of it.”

“Sold some?”

She went back to her desk and returned with the two ten-dollar bills. Her fingers were unsteady as she held them out to him.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

“It’s what he—he paid me.”

“Who? For what?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, trembling back from the look in his eyes. “Did I do wrong?”

“I don’t understand yet just what you did do,” he answered with a swift glance around the laboratory.

He took her arm gently and led her to her chair behind the desk.

“Sit down,” he said. “Now—you didn’t sell any of the enamel?”

“All that was in the jug,” she nodded.

She pointed to the ledger. He saw the entry in her firm handwriting. Even then he was not fully convinced, but it was necessary for him to pause a moment before he went on. He tried his best to hold himself steady because she looked so frightened—so frightened and so adorable. Even in the midst of the worst he feared he could have stooped and kissed the top of her head and called it square—if in that way matters could honestly have been squared.

“Tell me from the beginning what happened,” he said.

“He—he came in—”

“Who came in?”

“I don’t know who he was. He wanted to see you.”

“Can you describe him?”

Ordinarily she could, but she was finding it difficult to think.

“He was a man about forty. His hair was brushed back.”

“He was rather stout and smooth-shaven?”

“Yes.”

It was uncanny how from so vague a description the picture of Forsythe stood out before him.

“Go on,” he urged.

“He—he wanted to look around, so I let him.”

Devons leaned back against the desk and gripped the edge of it with his fingers.

“Go on,” he repeated.

“He went over there and seemed very much interested. Then—then he wanted to buy some—for a test. He offered me this.”

She held out the bills again as though going back to them for justification.

“He—he went away with what you sold him?”

She nodded. Then she leaned forward.

“Oh! Did I make a mistake? Shouldn’t I have let him have it?”

Devons was trying to think it out. If it had been any one else but Forsythe, it would not have been so significant. But he had never liked the man from his first interview with him. That, however, was not important one way or the other, except as it might help explain the present incident. Of course, no decent man would have taken advantage of a woman like this to pry into laboratory secrets, so it seemed a fair deduction that he intended nothing legitimate with the enamel he had made off with. Yet, looking at it calmly, what was it possible for the fellow to do? The process was amply protected by patents. Against an unscrupulous man, however, patents sometimes do not count.

She was looking up anxiously.

“I made a mistake?” she trembled.

Then Devons took hold of himself. He stepped free of the desk and, looking down into her eyes, answered with a smile.

“It makes it a bit awkward about Hartley, that’s all,” he said. “But you couldn’t foresee that. And you sure charged a good stiff price.”

“You think it was enough?”

“Little woman,” he answered, “if we can get that price for all I make we’ll pay dividends within a month.”

The expression of relief that came into her eyes was worth something.

“I was afraid. You—you frightened me,” she said.

“I had no business to do that under any circumstances,” he answered. “So let’s take our twenty dollars and go out to lunch and forget the whole episode.”

She shook her head.

“You mustn’t lunch with your bookkeeper and you mustn’t be extravagant with the first money the firm has made,” she objected.

“But this is an especial occasion. Can’t we celebrate a little?”

“No,” she answered firmly.

“You aren’t a bookkeeper, anyway,” he objected. “You’re a partner.”

“Not during office hours.”

“Then I’ll give you an afternoon off. Will that make it right?”

“Not for me to lunch with you, but if you don’t need me I—I think I’d like to go home for the rest of the day.”

“You’re tired?” he asked anxiously.

“From all the business I’ve done?” she smiled. “No, it was rather exciting, but that isn’t the reason. Mother telephoned. I don’t think she is quite used to my new position yet.”

“I don’t wonder,” he answered. “I’m not either.”

“But I help a little?” she asked.

“A lot,” he hastened to assure her.

“You couldn’t go off and leave the office alone, could you?”

“Impossible.”

“Then—”

“I couldn’t get along without you,” he broke in.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

She turned quickly to put on her hat and coat. It was just as well. It gave Devons time to think and so to check himself.

“Is Charles coming down?”

“At one,” she nodded.

It was now five minutes of one, so he went downstairs with her to the waiting limousine and helped her in. She turned before the door closed to ask:

“You’re going to lunch now?”

“Soon,” he nodded.

“I’ll be here at nine to-morrow,” she assured him.

He stood on the walk until the machine disappeared from sight. Then, turning quickly, he hurried back to the office. He locked the door and threw off his coat. He had no time to waste on food. If he was to deliver the proper quantity of enamel to Hartley by to-morrow, he had his work cut out for him, not only for the rest of the day, but the whole night. If everything went right he could do it in eighteen hours. Everything must go right. To a man like Hartley a promise was a promise.

Devons strode to the rear of the laboratory and turned on the electric switch that heated the big kettles.