Joan and Co.

Forsythe found awaiting him one morning two letters which afforded him anything but pleasant reading. One was from Hartley, brief and to the point:

Doggett Shoe Company
New York, N.Y., April 3—

Burnett Manufacturing Company

New York, N.Y.

Dear Forsythe:

I beg, herewith, to cancel our order for all future deliveries of enamel leather dressing.

Sincerely yours
E.A. Hartley

The other was from Craig, chief consulting chemist of the firm. It was a detailed analysis of sample number 8472, forwarded on March 8th. The most significant line was this:

“The oil used appears to have undergone some process impossible to analyze, which makes it particularly adaptable for this type of work.”

It was a process of manufacture, then, rather than any concrete formula. As such it lay beyond the scope of Craig’s keen eyes and laboratory equipment.

Forsythe leaned forward, opened a little drawer in his desk, and took out a sample of enamel leather. He studied the smooth, glossy surface, crushed it in his hand, and studied it again. He twisted it around his finger and studied it further. It remained exactly as before. It was the finest bit of enamel he had ever seen in his life. There was no doubt about it. He had to face that fact—and many others.

The best organization in the world could not buck any such superior article as that in the open market. That is—by any ordinary method. But an extraordinary situation called for extraordinary methods. Here is where Forsythe sat back in his chair and squinted at the bit of leather on his desk.

The future of the Burnett Manufacturing Company was at stake, which was not so important as the fact that this involved Forsythe’s own future. He had put in here, not only the best end of his life, but his money. Only last January Burnett had sold him a small portion of the capital stock as a reward for his faithful services—stock that could not have been bought in the open market at any price. And that had not been the end of his plan. He had expected to buy more later—a great deal more later. He was prepared, if at any time Burnett should need money badly, to buy as much more as he wished to sell.

If Burnett should need money badly—there was the nub of his far-sighted scheme. It explained his motive in having introduced young Benton, of Toole & Co., to Burnett—Benton, who had furnished the inside information that had netted Burnett five thousand in steel on his first venture in stocks. If Forsythe had observed Burnett correctly for twenty years, that was the spark which would kindle the flame. The man was disappointed in his son and craved, to offset this, some more exciting game than the conduct of a business that was running itself. So Forsythe had urged and so it appeared to be working out. He had heard that Burnett had been plunging more and more heavily this last month. The latter had hit it right once or twice, but give him time and he was bound to lose. Now this young whipper-snapper of a Devons had come along.

Forsythe caught his breath. This new complication completely altered the situation. If on top of Devons, Burnett went broke, he would drag down with him the whole business and every one connected with it. The only possible avenue of escape now was to buy out this new-comer. That would take money. It might take a lot of money. Every day he waited it would take more. This letter from Hartley was but the beginning.

Again Forsythe squinted at the ceiling. Only two courses were open; either he must buy out Devons, or break him. That was easier said than done. So was everything for that matter. What the deuce had that girl been doing in Devons’s office? She did not belong there. She had called herself a bookkeeper, but she was no more a bookkeeper than she was an office boy. Whoever she was she did not belong there, and when a woman is where she doesn’t belong there are always interesting possibilities. Forsythe had never seen her before, but she was of a type with which the society columns of the Sunday papers had made him more or less familiar. There was something about her nose and mouth and the poise of her head which placed her there.

But this Devons had come out of the West. Was he some modern Lochinvar?

Forsythe turned to the telephone and called up his friend Moran, of the “New York Journal.”

“If you aren’t busy come down to the office,” he said.

“What’s new?” questioned Moran.

“Nothing much. I may be able to give you a line on a good story.”

“Right,” replied Moran; “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He was acting on a slim chance, to be sure, but at least Moran would find out for him who the girl was. If she turned out to be no one, that at least would throw some further light on Devons.

The next thing to do was to get hold of Burnett. Here was an even more difficult problem. He must find some way of working him out of the very danger he had led him into. Burnett’s danger was now his own danger.

Moran came in with a cheerful expectancy that irritated Forsythe. He selected a chair, lighted a cigarette, shoved back his hat a trifle, and inquired:

“What’s on your mind?”

It produced on Forsythe the same effect as the solicitous inquiry of an undertaker as to one’s health. This time, however, Moran had the advantage. He had been sent for.

“Nothing very much,” answered Forsythe cautiously,—“only—well, my curiosity has been aroused, and I thought you might satisfy it and at the same time get a lead you could use yourself.”

“Let ’er go.”

“I have a young friend who has just started in business. I drifted into his office the other day and met his bookkeeper. I want to find out who she is.”

“Then what?”

“That’s all,” admitted Forsythe. “She doesn’t belong there. Looks to me as though she belonged somewhere along Fifth Avenue instead of in a loft building.”

“Society girl?”

“Possibly.”

“Pretty?”

“All of that.”

Moran nodded.

“Sometimes they are all of that and live off Sixth Avenue.”

“Sometimes, but I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut this one doesn’t.”

“What’s the address?”

Forsythe supplied it. Then he leaned forward.

“See here, Moran—if you dig up anything, I want you to come back to me first.”

“I get you.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I’ve no objection,” answered Moran, “but honest it doesn’t sound to me like very hot stuff.”

“I’m not saying it is. But—have a smoke?”

Forsythe drew a cigar from his pocket and handed it to Moran. The latter took it automatically and slipped it into his pocket.

“I wish you could get after that to-day.”

“I’ll drop around some time this morning,” agreed Moran.

Forsythe saw young Burnett pass the door with his father and rose abruptly.

Dicky came in a few moments after Moran had left.

“How’s everything?” he asked pleasantly.

“I didn’t know you were back, Mr. Burnett,” replied Forsythe.

“Blew in yesterday. Any mail?”

“I don’t think so.”

Forsythe glanced toward the private office of Burnett senior. The door was closed. He had never considered Burnett junior as of being of any possible use in this crisis, but suddenly an idea came to him. It might be that the easiest way to reach the father was through the son. Dicky had moved to his desk and was carelessly poking about among the various trade circulars which Forsythe always tossed over there after he read them.

“Have you noticed any change in your father since you went away?” began Forsythe.

“He’s lost weight,” nodded Dicky.

“It seemed so to me.”

“Been working too hard.”

“You think so?”

Dicky glanced up.

“What else?”

“He hasn’t had as much as usual to do here,” answered Forsythe.

“Eh?”

“I’ve tried to take as much as possible off his hands, but he’s been out of the office a good deal for the last month.”

“Out of the office?”

“Leaves here sometimes at ten and doesn’t get back until three.”

Instead of looking surprised, as Forsythe expected, Dicky sat down in the chair before his desk and appeared uninterested. The reason for that was that he did not like the idea of discussing his father’s affairs with his office manager. As a matter of fact, he was considerably disturbed.

“Those are stock-brokers’ hours,” suggested Forsythe.

“So?”

“I’ve been wondering—”

Dicky looked up, and Forsythe paused.

“Of course, in a way it isn’t any of my business,” Forsythe explained.

Dicky nodded as though agreeing fully with that statement. Forsythe flushed.

“But in another way it is,” he went on.

“How?”

“Your father was good enough to allow me to buy a small block of capital stock.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“So we’re partners in a sense.”

Dicky frowned.

“In this particular business. But what has that to do with my father’s personal affairs outside of this business?”

“This,” replied Forsythe with more spirit; “we’re up against a new kind of competition that may call for a good deal of extra capital in the next few months. If your father drops too much on the Street—”

“You know that he has been dropping a good deal on the Street?” interrupted Dicky.

“I know he has been putting in most of his time down there, and I know he’s only a lamb at the game.”

“This competition you speak of?” inquired Dicky.

Forsythe reached into his desk drawer again and pulled out the sample of enameled leather he had lately been examining.

“Look at that!”

Dicky took it in his hands and felt of it. “Well?”

“It’s the best thing that has come on the market in ten years, that’s all,” explained Forsythe. “We’ve got to meet it or go out of business.”

“How do you propose to meet it?”

“Buy the process if possible. If we can’t do that—”

“Yes?”

“We’ll have to think up some other way.”

“What other way?”

“I’m not sure yet,” answered Forsythe, “but we’ve got to do something pretty soon. And it’s going to take money.”

He handed Dicky the letter from the Doggett Shoe Company. Dicky read it through.

“He was one of our best customers,” explained Forsythe.

“Has Mr. Burnett seen this yet?”

“Not yet. I was going to talk it over with him this morning.”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” said Dicky.

“The sooner he understands the situation, the better,” declared Forsythe.

“I’m not so sure of that,” returned Dicky. “At any rate, I don’t want him bothered with this for a day or two. In the meanwhile, can’t you make some sort of a proposition to this crowd?”

“I’ve got something started already.”

“That’s the stuff. Let me know how it comes out.”

He rose.

“In the meanwhile,” he concluded, as he went toward his father’s office, “keep your shirt on and don’t mention this to Mr. Burnett. I’ll take over his share of this new responsibility.”