Joan and Co.

The story Moran had run into was bigger than he anticipated. As a rule the layman’s conception of what makes good reading does not measure up to professional standards, but in this case it was necessary to give Forsythe credit for having the real news instinct. A daughter of the Fairburnes working as a stenographer was essentially good stuff. Moran had the word of the society editor that the Fairburnes were the real thing and had been for a couple of generations. One had only to read a list of Fairburne’s clubs if skeptical.

But even so the story would have had considerably less value had not the girl been so good-looking. To be sure, the story would have been headed just the same, “Beautiful Society Girl, a stenographer,” even if she had been red-headed, cross-eyed, and snub-nosed, but it added a great deal to its worth to be able actually to come across with photographs to justify such a statement. And an eye for the dramatic value of pictures was Moran’s specialty. He did not bother Joan herself because he did not care to run the risk of frightening her away. He merely followed her to her home one afternoon, and thereby learned her name and address. The society editor and the graveyard supplied certain other details, and the elevator boy at the loft building unconsciously revealed her business habits.

“She gets down here about eight every morning,” he informed Moran.

At half-past six the next morning Moran had Bill Somers, one of the staff photographers, stationed opposite the Fairburne house to snap her as she stepped into her waiting limousine to go to work. It would be difficult to beat that for a picture. They then followed her to the point where she stepped out and proceeded on foot. Another corker! Finally they took her as she entered the building off Third Avenue. He found in stock, to serve as an effective contrast, certain pictures which had been taken of her at the time of her début in an exquisite gown from Paris which revealed the beautiful curves of her neck and arms.

Armed with these and a half-column story which, though somewhat vague in details, was still adequate to carry the pictures, Moran appeared before Forsythe late one afternoon.

“I want to run this Sunday after next,” he informed Forsythe.

“Steady,” Forsythe warned. “Remember I have an option on these.”

He looked them over with satisfaction. The job could not have been better done had he done it himself—which was a good deal for a man like Forsythe to admit. A little more might have been made of Devons, but he could write that in himself. He rose.

“Leave these to me.”

“Eh?”

“If I can use these as I think I can, I’ll pay you big.”

Moran looked uncomfortable.

“I’m risking my job.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” replied Forsythe sententiously.

“I know, but—hang it all, you aren’t going to try to hold up the girl or anything like that?”

It was a strange speech for Moran to make. He had never spoken to the lady in question and never seen her except at a distance, but somehow she had made a hit with him. He liked the way she carried herself. She was not only good-looking but something more—a whole lot more. She looked like a good sport—the kind a man doesn’t like to hurt. Besides, he might occasionally have done a thing or two in his life that was not strictly professional, but he had never before been involved in anything such as Forsythe’s eyes suggested. Had it been possible he would have pulled out of the whole affair at that moment.

Forsythe scented danger. He forced a smile.

“It’s the man I’m after,” he explained. “It’s sort of one on him, that’s all. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll be back for those to-morrow morning,” said Moran uneasily.

“Right,” nodded Forsythe. “Good-day.”

Moran went out reluctantly. No sooner had the door closed behind him than with a cautious glance toward Burnett’s office, Forsythe picked up the telephone and called up the Devons Manufacturing Company.

It was the girl whose picture he held in his hand who answered him.

“Mr. Devons, please,” said Forsythe.

After an interval Devons responded.

“My name is Forsythe,” he announced. “Yes—of the Burnett Manufacturing Company. I want to see you to-night on a very important matter. No, I can’t tell you over the telephone. Yes, partly business and partly personal. If you’ll come into the Waldorf lobby I’ll pick you up near the desk. At eight. You understand this is really important? At eight, then, to-night, near the clerk’s desk at the Waldorf. Good-bye.”

Forsythe hung up the receiver. His forehead was moist. This was an unusual piece of business even for him. He hoped it would not be necessary to carry it through, but if it were—well, in a crisis it was every man for himself.

Forsythe entered the hotel at seven, and in the next hour drank several cocktails. This in itself was enough to prove that the work ahead of him was unusual because he had not drunk as much as that in the last five years. But the effect was to give him considerably more confidence of a certain swaggering kind. After all, a man who has worked as hard as he had for ten years had certain rights. One of these rights was to protect himself—by fair means if possible, but if that were not possible, then by any other means he could find. Business in a certain sense was war. He had seen worse things done than he proposed, in both war and business.

Yet if Devons had not come in fifteen minutes early, the chances are that Forsythe would have needed another drink. The effect of the stimulant did not last long. The sight of Devons almost undid the efforts of the last hour. He extended his hand and Devons took it with a trace of reluctance. Forsythe found a couple of vacant chairs in a corner and led the young man over to them.

“I wasn’t sure that you would remember me,” began Forsythe. “You came to me last fall.”

“I remember you perfectly,” replied Devons, “I think you’ve been to my office since then.”

Forsythe started.

“That’s so,” answered Forsythe with an awkward laugh; “I guess I was one of your first customers.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t in at the time.”

“Your stenographer proved very capable. I take it she is your stenographer.”

“No,” answered Devons, “she isn’t.”

“Really?”

He waited as though for an explanation; waited as though an explanation were necessary.

“She’s my partner,” Devons informed him.

Forsythe raised his brows.

“She’s a mighty attractive partner if I may say so,” he replied.

“I don’t see any occasion for your saying so,” Devons replied sharply.

“Is there any harm in it?”

“It’s beside the point. I don’t suppose you called me down here for that.”

Forsythe’s face hardened. He resented the impudence of the youngster.

“Yes and no,” he replied. “Let’s go back a little. You came to me last fall with a proposition to buy your new enamel.”

“Which you turned down,” Devons reminded him.

“Yes.”

“With a warning that I’d come back.”

“Did I? I’d forgotten. Perhaps you’ll come back yet.”

“I doubt it.”

“At any rate, I’m ready to make it worth your while. I’ve had time since then to test it a bit. Frankly it has turned out better than I thought it would.”

“I’m glad you can recommend it.”

Forsythe flushed.

“Are you still in the market?” he demanded.

“I can’t accept any more orders just at present,” replied Devons.

“That isn’t what I mean. Are you still ready to sell the patent rights?”

“No.”

“I’m ready to make you a generous offer.”

“I’m not ready to listen to any offer.”

Forsythe leaned forward.

“Look here, my boy,” he went on earnestly, “don’t lose your head. You have a good enamel there, but I’ve been long enough in this business to know that’s only half the game. A plant and organization back of your product is the other half. You’ll find out that as you go on. Maybe you can handle your orders now, but you’re only scratching the surface. Why can’t we pull together on this new proposition—say on some royalty basis? Believe me, you need us more than we need you.”

“You’re coming to me: I’m not going to you,” Devons reminded him.

“That only proves you’re not as experienced a business man as you might be,” snapped Forsythe.

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll venture to say that on a ten per cent royalty we could make more money for you in a month than you will be able to make in a year.”

“So?”

“Because we have the plant and organization to cover the market quickly and thoroughly.”

Devons nodded.

“You’re right about your plant. You aren’t in the market with that, are you?”

“What?” gasped Forsythe.

“I’ll have to have more room before long. If you’re in a position to make a reasonable price—”

Forsythe smiled—a wicked smile.

“You certainly have your nerve with you,” he cut in.

“How?”

“Are you ready to pay a quarter of a million?”

“Are you?” Devons parried instantly.

“Is that your price?”

“I might consider that much cash.”

Forsythe was still smiling. “That’s too much,” he answered quietly; “couldn’t you take off the matter of two hundred thousand or so?”

“Not even a dollar. I’m not trying to sell.”

“That’s quite clear. I think I could do better with your—partner.”

“We’ll leave her out of the conversation.”

Forsythe reached in his pocket.

“That reminds me. I told you my business was partly personal.”

He drew out a package of papers and photographs.

“I have a friend in the newspaper game,” he explained as he held them in his hand. “He came to me to make inquiries about you. He showed me these and I asked him to hold up the story until I showed them to you. You may find them interesting.”

He handed them to Devons.

“These are copies,” he observed as the man took them.

Forsythe sat back in his chair where he could watch the young man’s face. If it had been a question as to just how effective a weapon he had, the moment Devons caught sight of the pictures it was no longer a question. He saw Devons first flush and then grow pale.

“What the devil are they?” Devons demanded.

“They explain themselves, don’t they?” queried Forsythe.

Devons went over the pictures and read the typewritten manuscript. He read it with skin afire. Probably he had glanced through half a hundred such stories about other people with indifferent interest before now. But this—this was sacrilege. It was nothing short of that. It was holding Joan up to the public gaze as shamelessly as though he were parading her through the streets behind a brass band. It was something that would maul her sensitive soul; something that she would shrink back from with her arm over her eyes. And all through the narrative her name had been linked with his in a way that by subtle innuendo left those so inclined to read between the lines what they would. Then there were the blatant pictures—including one of him which he recognized as having appeared in his class album. Underneath it had been scrawled “Mr. Mark Devons, manager of the Devons Manufacturing Company.”

It was as though this were written in red ink. It was as though it were an accusation of some sort.

He turned upon Forsythe. He spoke slowly. His fists were clenched.

“You damned yellow dog,” he breathed.

“Easy, my boy,” returned Forsythe; “that doesn’t strike me as the kind of language to use to a man who is trying to do a friendly act for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I took the trouble to show you this before it was printed.”

“Why?”

Forsythe shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you want it printed?”

“You—you wouldn’t dare do a thing of that sort!”

“It isn’t my affair.”

“It must be stopped. It—it would kill her.”

“Well?” inquired Forsythe.

“Let me see the man who wrote it.”

“These were given to me in confidence.”

“Then you—Good Lord, Forsythe, you wouldn’t do this to a woman? She’d take anything like this hard. It’s unfair to her. It would hurt her unjustly.”

“Why mix me up in it?” Forsythe broke out impatiently. “It’s the business of a newspaper man to print a good story where he finds it. I didn’t write it.”

“You mean it can’t be stopped?”

“I didn’t say that. Of course, I’m willing to do what I can. But under the circumstances there is no particular reason why I should, is there?”

Devons gripped his jaws.

“Forsythe,” he said, “if we were out in the open I’d take a chance on pounding you to a jelly.”

Forsythe’s own jaws came together.

“Besides the fact that it is not at all a certainty you’d succeed, it wouldn’t do you any special good.”

“It would do me a lot of good—a lot of good,” nodded Devons.

“Admitting that, then, would it do the girl any good?”

Devons winced. Obviously it would not. The story would go on just the same. It would take its regular course until it shrieked itself forth some Sunday morning to amuse a few hundred people for five minutes after their breakfast. But the memory of it would last much longer. They would point at her on the street. They would recognize her in the theater. Her friends might shun her.

It could not be, that was all. It began to dawn on him what Forsythe was about. He turned once again to the man.

“What’s your price?” he demanded.

“Who said anything about price?” Forsythe answered cautiously.

“What—what do you want me to do in order to interest you in stopping this?”

“Let’s separate the two things,” Forsythe suggested. “Let’s go back to the subject of business. I came down here prepared to offer you twenty-five thousand dollars in cash for your patent rights. I’ll make the offer now.”

“You mean that if I’ll accept that you’ll—”

“Steady,” warned Forsythe, “don’t confuse the two propositions. My offer to you is strictly business. Naturally I’d be willing to assist a business friend in any personal way open to me. However, that is merely incidental.”

“The man who—who wrote this stuff would tear it up at your request?”

“He is under certain obligations to me,” admitted Forsythe.

“What assurance would I have?”

“You could close your plant for one thing, dismiss your charming employee—”

“Damn you, Forsythe!”

The latter rose.

“So the little romance would be ended and the story would lack point. But I’m not going to sit here and listen any longer to such language as that.”

Devons took him by the sleeve—with his thumb and forefinger as one might handle something unclean.

“Wait a minute, Forsythe. You’ll give me a little time to think this over?”

“I’ll give you until eleven o’clock to-morrow.”

“Eleven to-morrow,” repeated Devons.

“I’ll be at your office with a contract.”

“At my office,” repeated Devons automatically.

“I expect to decide the matter there in ten minutes. Good-night.”

Forsythe started through the lobby, but until he was out on the street he kept turning around as though in fear.

Devons had settled down in his chair and was staring at the toes of his boots.