CHAPTER X. — SOMEBODY LOSES THE BOOKS
When Harvey went to dinner in the evening he left a force of ten detectives guarding the offices. Jim, who had spent the afternoon with Harvey, superintended the placing of the men. Mallory, the lieutenant in charge, was ensconced in the Superintendent's office, and six of his assistants were with him, privileged to doze until called. One man stood in the hall, in a position to watch the stairway and the windows at each end; one patrolled the waiting room; and the ninth man strolled about in front of the building, loitering in the shadows and watching the street with trained eye. Before leaving the station Jim had a short talk with Mallory.
“Watch it awful close,” he said. “There's no telling what these people will do.”
“Very well, Mr. Weeks. They won't get ahead of us. But I should feel a bit safer if you'd let me put a man by the vault.”
Jim shook his head.
“There's such a thing as doing it too well, Mallory. And by all means I hope that you won't do that.”
He looked closely at the detective, who glanced away with a cautious nod.
That evening after dinner, Jim telephoned for Mattison, the Superintendent, and a long talk ensued in Jim's room at the hotel. Neither he nor Harvey wasted time in recounting the experiences of the day; they had too many plans for the night. As Jim had said, it was necessary to lose the books, and to lose them thoroughly. It was equally important that the action should not be confided to any ordinary employee. The fewer men that knew of it, the safer Jim would be, and so he finally decided to confine the information within its original limits.
“You two are lively on your feet,” he said. “And it is a good deal better for you to do it.”
“How about the detectives?” asked Mattison.
“You'll have to keep out of their way. Mallory won't trouble you so long as you keep still; but remember, every man, detective or not, that catches you, makes one more chance for evidence against us.”
“But isn't the building surrounded?”
“No. There's only one man outside, and he is in front. You can go through the alley and climb up to the window—it's only the second floor. Mallory has orders to keep out of the vault room. He's over in your office, Mattison.”
“I suppose,” suggested Harvey, “that unless we are actually caught with the books, we can throw a bluff about a tour of inspection or something of that sort.”
“And if we are caught,” said Mattison, “I suppose we can run like the devil.”
“You'll have to trust the details more or less to circumstances,” was Jim's reply.
“How about the books?” asked Harvey. “What shall we do with them?”
“Mattison had better take care of them. We can't bring them to the hotel, and anyhow, it is just as well if you and I, West, don't know anything about them. Then, when we want them again, it is a good deal easier for Mattison to find them than for any one else. Sort of accident, you know.”
It was finally agreed that before attempting to get the books, Harvey and Mattison should make a bona fide tour of inspection, by this means finding out where each man was located. Mattison reminded them that the watchman in the train shed was not to be overlooked, but they decided to chance him.
“There's one thing about it,” said Mattison, smiling. “If Johnson doesn't catch us, I can discharge him for incompetency.”
Shortly after midnight Harvey and Mattison started out. They found the station dark. As they tiptoed slowly along, edging close to the building, everything was silent. They reached the arched doorway, and were turning in when the glare of a bull's-eye lantern flashed into their eyes. Mattison laughed softly.
“That's business,” he said.
“What are you up to?” growled the man behind the lantern.
“Where's Mallory?” was Mattison's answer.
The man hesitated, then whistled softly. The whistle was echoed in the waiting room. In a few moments the door opened and a voice said, “What's up?”
“Two chaps want Mallory.”
Harvey and Mattison still stood on the stone step, looking into the lantern. They could see neither door nor man. After a short wait, evidently for scrutiny, the door closed. When it opened again, Mallory's voice said, “Close that light,” adding, “Is anything the matter, Mr. West?”
“No,” replied Harvey. “We're keeping an eye open. I see your men know their business. Have you had any trouble?”
“Everything is quiet. Do you care to come in?”
Harvey responded by entering, with Mattison following. As they crossed the waiting room, Mallory drew their attention to a shadow near a window.
“One of our boys,” he said in a low tone. “I put out all the lights. It makes it a good deal easier to watch.”
Up in Mattison's office the detectives were lounging about, some dozing, some conversing in low tones. The gas burned low, and the window shutters were covered with the rugs from the President's office, to keep the light from the street.
The two officials, after a glance about the room, returned to the hall. Harvey tried the door of each office, then returned to Mattison and Mallory. While they stood whispering,—for at night sound travels through an empty building,—there came the sound of a window sliding in its sash, apparently from the Treasurer's office.
Mallory paused to listen, then coolly turned and continued the conversation.
“What was that?” muttered Harvey.
The lieutenant affected not to hear the remark.
“Some one is getting into the building,” Harvey whispered. Mattison stepped lightly across the hall and, bending down, listened at the keyhole. He returned with an excited gesture.
“Don't you hear it?” he asked.
“No,” said Mallory. “I don't hear anything.”
“Are you deaf, man?”
“No, but I think I know when to hear.”
It occurred to Harvey that Jim had done his work well. But then, Jim's orders, however brief, were always understood. Harvey motioned the others to be silent, and tiptoed across the floor. He listened as Mattison had done, then passed on to the President's door. Cautiously he drew a bunch of keys from his pocket, and feeling for the right one he slipped it into the lock, threw open the door, and darted into the office. Mattison and the detective followed, stumbling over chairs, and colliding with the door to the inner office, which had closed after Harvey. In the dim light they could see two figures struggling in the passage by the vault. While Mattison sprang forward, Mallory quickly lighted the gas.
The light showed that Harvey had crowded the fellow up against the vault door. The newcomer was a medium-sized man, rough-faced, and poorly clad. On the floor was a small leather grip, which evidently had been kicked over in the scuffle, for part of a burglar's kit was scattered about the passage.
Mallory jerked the man's wrists together, slipped on the handcuffs, and led him out into the hall. In a moment the detective returned.
“I left him with the boys, for the present. Case of common safe-cracking.”
“Do you think so?” said Harvey, adjusting his cuffs, and moving the strange tools with his foot. “If he wanted money, I should think he would have tackled the vault downstairs.”
Mallory stooped, and replaced the kit in the bag. Suddenly he said,—
“Raise your foot, Mr. West.”
Harvey did so, and the detective arose with a dirty paper in his hand. He looked it over, and handed it to the others. It was a rough pencil sketch of the station building, showing the alley, the window, the Treasurer's office, and the vault.
“What do you think of it?” asked Mallory.
Harvey turned it over. A second glance showed it to be the front of an envelope, for part of an end flap remained. The upper left-hand corner had been torn off, evidently to remove the return card, but so hastily that a part of the card remained. Straightening it out, and holding it up to the light, Harvey read:—
——ster, Illinois.
Mallory looked over his shoulder, and exclaimed:—
“That's easy. Hotel Blakesleigh, Manchester, Illinois.”
“How does that help you?” asked Mattison.
Harvey lowered the paper.
“Don't you see,” he replied. “There are two good hotels here, the Illinois and the Blakesleigh. McNally is not at the Illinois.” He turned to the detective. “You'd better let the fellow go, Mallory.”
“Why?”
“Because it is the easiest way to handle it. Keep the tools, though.”
“But I don't understand, Mr. West.”
“Well, there is no use in discussing it. We won't prefer charges.”
“But the man was caught in the act.”
“He didn't get any thing, poor devil. No; we're after bigger game than this. We have enough for evidence. And don't sweat him.”
“This is too deep for me, Mr. West. Surely there's no harm in questioning him, now that I've got him.”
“Can't help it, Mallory. When that man reports to his employer, I want him to say that we suspect nothing beyond his attempt to crack the safe.”
The detective turned away with a frown.
“I suppose you know your business, Mr. West.”
Harvey and Mattison followed him to the hall, closing the door after them. They said good night, and left the building.
“See here, West,” said Mattison, when they were fairly around the corner, “wasn't that a little hasty? It wouldn't hurt to keep the man out of the way.”
“No, I don't agree with you. What McNally has done so far will be upheld by his judge. And another thing, Mattison; just at present, it isn't to our interest to get an investigation under way. We're going to do the same thing ourselves.”
Slowly and cautiously they slipped around the next square, and, by returning through the alley, brought up in the shadow of a building, across the street from the train shed. Here they waited to reconnoitre. The night was clear, and the arc-lamp at the corner threw an intermittent glare down the street. As they looked, a long shadow appeared on the sidewalk. Mattison gripped Harvey's arm, and drew him back into the alley. They crouched behind a pile of boxes.
“It's like stealing apples,” whispered Harvey. “When the old man gets after you with a stick.”
“Ssh!”
The footsteps sounded loud on the stone walk. Then a helmeted figure passed the alley, and went on its way.
Waiting until the sound died in the distance, the two stepped to the walk, looked hastily toward each corner, and ran across the street. Once in the station alley, they paused again.
“Look!” said Harvey, pointing; “he left the ladder.”
Sure enough, a light ladder reached from the ground nearly to a second-story window, which stood open.
“Well, here we are,” Mattison whispered. “How do you feel?”
“First-class. Better let me go,—I know the combination.”
Mattison stood at the foot of the ladder, and steadied it while Harvey stealthily climbed to the window. Drawing himself into the passage, the receiver set to work on the vault lock. He turned the knob very slowly, guarding against the slightest noise, but the faint light that came through the window was not enough to bring out the numbers. Harvey leaned back and considered. The scratching of a match would almost surely be heard by the detectives. He leaned out the window, and beckoned. Mattison came creeping up, and Harvey explained in a few whispered sentences. “Go back and look up the street,” he concluded. “We've got to light it outside the building.”
While Mattison was gone, Harvey felt his way through the Treasurer's office and paused to listen; then he drew up a chair which stood near the door, and climbing up, slipped off his coat and hung it over the half-open transom. Then he closed the transom, and the room was practically light proof. With the same caution he reached the floor, and tiptoed back to the window, where he found Mattison waiting on the ladder.
“All right,” whispered the Superintendent. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Mattison struck a match on his trousers leg, shielded it with his hands, then handed it to Harvey, who kneeled at the door and began to whirl the knob. Before he was through the light was close to his fingers, and he held another match to the flame, taking care to light the wrong end. At last the lock clicked, and Harvey opened the door a few inches, then he whispered to Mattison, “If I whistle, you get down and I'll drop the books.”
He swung the door open, but stopped bewildered. Before him was the steel gate with the clanging bell. However, the risk must be run, so motioning Mattison to climb down he drew out his keys, and with a match ready in his hand he jerked the gate open and dashed into the vault. Striking the match, he quickly located the books he needed, carried them to the window and pitched them out. Then he heard a thud on the door. He threw one leg over the sill, but stopped—his coat was still on the transom. Some one was struggling to break in the door now, for it shook. Harvey sprang back, mounted the chair, and tore down his coat, tumbling to the floor, chair and all, with a clatter. A voice shouted, “Open the door, or I'll shoot!” but Harvey gave no heed. He ran to the window and literally fell down the ladder, filling his hands with slivers. There came a crash from above, and a muttered oath, and Harvey knew that the door had given way. He gave the ladder a shove, and as it fell upon the cobblestones with a great noise, he turned and sped up the alley after a dark figure that was already near to the corner.
He caught up with Mattison in the next block, and relieved him of half the load. Then for a long time they ran and doubled, fugitives from half a dozen detectives and a few lumbering policemen. At last Mattison turned up a dark alley in the residence district. Coming to a board fence, he threw the books over, then climbed after. Harvey followed, and found himself on a tennis court. Mattison led the way through the yard, past a dark house, and across the street to a roomy frame residence.
“Come in with me,” he said to Harvey. “You can't go back to the hotel now.”
Harvey laughed nervously and nodded. Mattison opened the door with his night key, and with the heavy books in their arms the two burglars stole up to bed.
CHAPTER XI. — A POLITICIAN
Any man whose interests are extensive and diverse has sooner or later to master the art of making other men work for him, and he must be content to trust the management of a great part of his affairs to other hands. Jim Weeks loved to keep a grasp even on the comparatively insignificant details of his business, but he showed wonderful insight in the selection of his lieutenants, and he could impart such momentum to his projects that they moved forward as he meant them to, though his own hand was not guiding them. Like other men accustomed to giving orders, he took it for granted that his directions would be carried out.
Bridge, the Tillman City alderman to whom he had intrusted the task of watching Blaney, had worked for Jim long enough to know that this affair was in his own hands, and that something more than obedience and zeal was expected of him. Though Jim's words had been brief, it was easy to see that the matter was important; important enough to give Bridge a great opportunity. He wanted to make the most of it, and, in the excitement of laying his plans, the design for the stable was forgotten.
As the day wore on and his scheme crystallized, he fluctuated between a sort of exalted confidence and the depths of nervous depression. He was naturally a steady, humdrum sort of man, but he was planning to do an audacious thing. His chance had come, and he meant to take it. At last, just before supper time, he resolutely locked his office, and started out to see Blaney. He hesitated a second or two before the contractor's house; then he ran up the steps and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a little girl, who peered up at him through the dusk with a child's curiosity. Bridge knew her, but he was of that kind of bachelors who are embarrassed in the presence of children.
“Good evening, Louise,” he said. “Is your father home?”
“No, sir, he isn't,” she answered.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then he stammered,—
“Well—good night.” He bent down and gravely shook hands with her, and turned to go down the steps, but at that moment Blaney himself appeared.
“How are you?” he said. “Did you want to see me?”
“If you've got the time,” said Bridge.
Blaney led the way into the house, and motioned Bridge to a seat in the parlor. He himself paused in the hall to swing Louise up to his shoulder and down again.
“What's the matter with you to-night?” he asked. “You don't seem to want to play. Are you sick?”
“A little,” answered the child. “I'm kind of tired, and my head hurts.”
He ran his thick hand through her red curls, and looked at her anxiously for a moment. Then he followed Bridge into the parlor.
“What can I do for you, Bridge?” he asked gruffly.
Bridge hesitated a moment; then he said, “Jim Weeks was in town this morning.”
Blaney looked up sharply, and asked, “Did you see him?”
“Yes,” answered the other. “That is, he came down to see me. You know the M. & T. election is coming pretty soon now, and he got the idea that our stock was going to be voted against him. He wanted me to fix it up so things would go his way in the Council, and I told him that I'd do what I could. I came around to you to see if your crowd were going to do anything about it.”
The coolness of the inquiry almost stupefied Blaney, but he managed to speak.
“I'd like to know,” he said, “what business that is of yours, anyway.”
“It's my business, right enough,” said Bridge, easily. “I could ask the same question in Council meeting, but I thought it was best to talk it over with you quietly. There isn't any good in trying to fight Jim Weeks, and I should think you'd know it. If ever a man had a cinch—”
“What are you up to, anyhow?” demanded Blaney, now thoroughly exasperated. “Did you come around here to try to bulldoze me? Well, I'll just tell you you may as well save your breath. Do you understand that? Weeks thinks he can come his old bluff down here, but he's going to get fooled just once. We've got the backing that'll beat him. That's all I've got to say to you.”
“Well, I've got a little more to say to you,” said Bridge. “I came around here on my own hook to find out whether you were just making your regular bluff or whether you meant to fight, and I've found out. And now I'm going to give you your choice. I'll either give you the hottest scrap you ever had, and make what I can out of Weeks by it, or I'll go in with you so you can get your deal through quietly. You can take your choice.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“I mean just this. That if there's any possible show of kicking that damned bully out of here so that he'll never come back, I'd like to be in it. And I guess my services would be valuable.”
“Look here,” demanded Blaney, sharply. “What have you got against Weeks?”
“What have I got against him?” repeated Bridge. His face was flushed and his shining eyes and clenched hands testified to his excitement. “Hasn't he made me pull his hot chestnuts off the fire for the last two years? Hasn't he held me up and made me pay a good rake-off from every deal I've been lucky enough to make a little on? And hasn't he loaned me money until I don't dare sign my own name without asking him if I can do it, and—” He stopped as though knowing he had gone too far; then he laughed nervously. “It's all right what I've got against him; that's my business, I guess, but—”
Again the unfinished sentence was eloquent.
This time it was Blaney who broke the silence. “I guess,” he said cautiously, “that if you want to tip Weeks over, you'll find there'll be some to help you.”
Bridge laughed bitterly. “There are plenty who'd be glad enough to do it if they could. He's had his grip on all of us long enough for that; but I'm afraid it's no good. We can't beat him. He's got us in a vise.”
“I don't know about that,” said Blaney.
“Why, man,” exclaimed the other, “what can we do? And if we try to buck him and get left, he'll squeeze the life out of us. You know that.”
Blaney did know that, and Bridge's words brought certain unpleasant consequences plainly before his mind. All the while Bridge was talking Blaney had been trying to find out what his motive was. He had always believed that Bridge was hand and glove with Weeks, and at the beginning he had suspected a trap. But what Bridge had said was entirely plausible; he had given himself away without reserve, and had frankly confessed that Weeks had been driving him. Bridge would be a valuable ally in the scheme Blaney wanted to put through. Jim was popular in Tillman, and if he were to be sold out to a corporation like C. & S.C., it would, as Bridge had hinted, be well for all parties concerned in the transfer that it should be accomplished as quietly as possible. Bridge was at the head of a compact and determined minority, and if he opposed the deal, he could make matters very uncomfortable for Blaney and his henchmen. But with Bridge on his side the field was clear and there could be no doubt as to the success of the scheme. The one thing that troubled Blaney was that Bridge might demand money; but there was no need of facing that issue yet, for Bridge had apparently not thought of it. “He's just getting even for something,” thought Blaney.
There was a long silence, which Blaney broke at last.
“We don't have to buck him all by ourselves,” he said. “We're well backed. C. & S.C. are behind us. Are you with us?”
Bridge answered him steadily. “I've been waiting for a chance like this for a year,” he said. “You can count me in for all I'm worth.”
He rose to go and held out his hand to Blaney. “Good night,” he said, “and good luck to us.”
“So long,” was the answer. “I'll come around in a day or two, and we can arrange details.”
The interview had been a hard one for Bridge, and it left him weak and nervous. When he sat down to supper at his boarding-house table that evening he had no appetite. He went to bed early, but he did not sleep well, and the next morning found him exhausted by the interminable hours of dozing, uneasy half-consciousness. He spent the next day in hoping that Blaney would come, though he had no reason for expecting him so soon, and by night he was in worse condition than ever. He would have gone again to see Blaney had he dared, but he felt that such a proceeding would imperil the whole affair; he must wait for Blaney to make the next move.
Day followed day with no variation save that Bridge found the delay more and more nearly unbearable, and the week had dragged to an end and another begun before anything happened. On Sunday afternoon he started out for a walk, but he had not gone far when he met Blaney. To his surprise, the contractor looked as though the past week had been as hard for him as it had been for Bridge. His face looked thin and his eyes sunken and there were bristling uneven patches of sandy beard on his face. When he came up to Bridge he stopped.
“I suppose you've been looking for me,” he said. “I've been staying right at home taking care of my kid; she's had the scarlet fever.”
“Louise?” asked Bridge, with real concern. “I hope she's better.”
“I guess she'll pull through all right now,” answered Blaney, “but she's been pretty sick, and it's kept me busy night and day. You see my wife can't do much at nursing. But I tell you scarlet fever is no joke.”
“I never had it,” was the answer, “but I'm glad it's come out all right. By the way,” he went on, as Blaney started to walk away, “when will you be able to talk over that business with me?”
“Why, now as well as at any time, I suppose,” said Blaney, after a moment's hesitation.
The contractor had an office near by, and at his suggestion they went there for their conference.
“How many men can you count?” he asked when they were seated.
Now that the period of forced inaction was over, and there was something important to do, Bridge forgot that his head was burning and his throat dry, and for the first time in three days he was able to think consecutively. For half an hour they figured their united strength and talked over the individual members of the Council. But at last Bridge said:—
“Before we go any further, I want to know more about this business. I've taken your word so far that we would be backed up all right, and I hope we are. But I can't afford to be beaten, and if Weeks isn't clean busted up, he'll hound me to death. I've got to know more about this business.”
Blaney looked out of the window. “Seems to me you're pretty late with that talk about not going in,” he said.
“I know I've committed myself to some extent without knowing just what I was getting into,” answered Bridge, “but I won't go any farther till some things are cleared up.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Blaney.
“I want to know what you're going to do. Voting that stock against Weeks won't do any good. We can't get him out all by ourselves.”
“We aren't all by ourselves. C. & S.C. are with us.”
“That's what I'm trying to get at. To what extent are they with us?”
Blaney hesitated. It had not been a part of his plan to tell of the prospective sale of the stock. He had meant to have the Council direct the voting of the stock for C. & S.C. faction, and then when they had committed themselves by this act, to urge upon them the necessity of selling out and to tempt them with the offer of par. But a glance at Bridge's set face convinced him that the new ally meant what he said, and he knew too much already for the safety of the scheme unless he were furthering it.
“They're with us to this extent,” said Blaney, slowly. “They're going to buy our stock.”
“That's all rot,” said Bridge. “We can't sell. M. & T.'s a good investment now, and it's getting better every day.”
“Wait till I get through,” interrupted Blaney, bent now on making an impression. “Don't you think the Council would vote to sell at par?”
“What's that got to do with it?”
“C. & S.C. are going to pay par, that's all.”
Bridge looked at him incredulously. “Then we're to vote the stock as they dictate, just on the strength of their telling us they'll pay par for it afterward. I'm afraid it'll be a long time afterward. How do you know they aren't playing us for suckers?”
“How do we know?” repeated Blaney. “I'm not quite as green as you think. I know because I've got it down in black and white. They can't get around a contract like that.”
Unlocking a drawer in his desk, he drew out a sheet of paper which he thrust into Bridge's hands. “Read it,” he said.
Bridge read it through once and then again; it was briefly worded, and he had no difficulty in remembering it. As he laid the paper down he was conscious of a violent throbbing in his head, and he shivered as though an icy breeze had blown upon him. He rose uncertainly from his chair and moved toward the door.
“What's the matter?” demanded Blaney. “Where are you going?”
“I don't feel very well,” said Bridge. “I think I'll go home and go to bed.”
When he reached the foot of the stairs, however, he turned not toward his room, but toward the railway station; for in his mind there was a confused purpose of going to Chicago immediately and telling Jim Weeks exactly what he had found out.
Scarlet fever is not ordinarily a man's disease, but it had fallen upon Bridge. He had exposed himself to it on the evening when he went to Blaney's house to make the preliminary move in his game; and now after the five days of tense inaction it attacked him furiously.
He was in a raging fever when he left Blaney's office, but he did not realize it, borne up as he was by the excitement of winning. There could be no doubt that he had done as good a stroke of work for himself as for Jim Weeks, for Jim was not the man to let the merit of his lieutenants go unrecognized. He felt sure that Jim would win the fight, even with C. & S.C. against him, and though he had not recognized the worthlessness of the contract Blaney held, he was confident that Jim could use his knowledge of the existence of such a contract with telling effect.
As he walked on, the exhilaration of his triumph died out of him, and his steps faltered and his sight became untrustworthy. He realized that he was not fit for travelling, and reluctantly he turned back to his room. He was a long time in reaching it, and when he staggered in and dropped into an easy-chair he knew that he was a very sick man. With a foreboding of the delirium that was coming upon him he gathered himself together for a final effort and scrawled a copy of the contract upon a slip of paper. With shaking hands he folded it and crammed it into an inner pocket; then he rose and moved slowly toward the bed. He fell twice in the short distance, but he kept on, and his head sank back in the pillows before consciousness forsook him.
CHAPTER XII. — KATHERINE
As Katherine drove home alone on Sunday morning she was troubled. In aiding Harvey to catch the train for Manchester she had acted upon the veriest impulse, and Katherine liked to imagine herself a very cool and self-possessed young woman. Slowly it dawned upon her that by helping Harvey she had set her hand against her own father. In an impersonal way she had realized this, but Harvey's presence had filled her thoughts, and she had not allowed herself time to consider. And now that the cooler afterthoughts had come she was almost as indignant with herself for showing such open interest in Harvey as for hurting her father's cause. Then she grew startled to realize that even in her thoughts she was placing this man before her father. Harvey was not a fool. He would see that she had been disloyal, and he would cease to respect her. She wondered if she was disloyal.
On reaching home she hurried to her room and sat down by the open window, looking out over the lawn that sloped down to the road. Harvey would think her weak, and would feel that he could sway her from her strongest duty.
The day was bright. Far in the distance she could see a bend of the river. There was no sound, no life; the rolling country stretched away in idle waves, the checkered farms lay quiet in the sun, over all was the calm of a country Sunday. Her eyes wandered and she closed them, resting her fingers on the lids. Life was serious to Katherine. Since her early teens she had lived without a mother, and the result of her forced independence was a pronounced and early womanhood. She had learned her lessons from experience and had learned them with double force. She had never been in love, and save for a very few youthful flutterings had never given the idea a concrete form; and now that she should manifest such weakness before Harvey partly alarmed her. She suspected that he loved her, but would not permit herself to return it. She knew too little about him, and, besides, her first duty was with her father. She had yielded to impulse, but it was not too late to reconsider. She had aided the enemy by a positive act; she would do as much for her father. With firm eyes she rose and went downstairs, fully decided to investigate the matter until she could discover a means of throwing her energy against Weeks and Harvey.
During the next two days her determination grew. Mr. Porter was in Chicago and Manchester, and was not expected home immediately, so Katherine had plenty of time for thinking. She drove a great deal, went around the links every morning, and tried to read. It did not occur to her that her effort was not so much to side with her duty as to crowd down the thoughts of Harvey that would steal into her mind. She permitted herself no leeway in the matter, but kept resolutely to her decision.
Tuesday afternoon she drove until quite late, and returning found her father and McNally awaiting dinner. Although she was quicker than usual in her efforts to entertain their guest, the meal was hurried and uncomfortable. When in repose McNally's face was clouded, and the occasional spells of interest into which he somewhat studiously aroused himself could not conceal his general inattention. Her father, too, was preoccupied, and was so abrupt in his conversation as to leave small trace of the easy lightness of manner that Katherine had always known.
After dinner Katherine excused herself, and stepped out through the long window that opened on the veranda. Evidently a crisis had come, and she wished that an opportunity would arise through which she might join their discussion. Just outside of the library window she sat down on a steamer chair and gazed up at the dark masses of the trees, the thinning tops of which were at once darkened and relieved by the last red of the western sky.
“Yes, Porter, they kicked me out. My men and I made a stiff fight for it, but they outnumbered us.”
At the sound of McNally's voice Katherine started guiltily. It had not occurred to her that the matter would be discussed downstairs; usually her father's private conversations were held in his den on the second floor. She wondered whether she ought to make herself known.
Then she heard McNally again, answering a low-spoken question from her father.
“He was a good man, or perhaps you would call him a bad one. He was just getting down to work on the vault door when West and his gang of Pinkertons broke in on him and nailed him.”
Another question from Porter.
“No, Porter, they are on to us now. You see, the books are gone, and there's no use in trying to get hold of that end of the road; but we can seize it from this end and get everything except their building.”
With cheeks burning and with conscience troubling, Katherine rose and stood before the window.
“I didn't intend to put myself in your way,” she said, laughing nervously, “but I couldn't help hearing.”
Looking in through the dim light Katherine thought she saw McNally start. After a brief but embarrassing pause Porter spoke, using the tone Katherine associated with the stern but kindly rebukes of her childhood.
“Did you hear all we said, Katherine?”
“Most of it, I'm afraid.”
“You understand, dear, that this is very confidential business?”
“Yes, dad.” With an impulsive start Katherine seated herself on the low sill of the window and clasped her hands in her lap. “I wish you would let me talk it over with you. You know I am interested in your affairs, dad. And,” hesitatingly, “maybe I can help you.”
For a space all three were silent. Katherine was leaning back in a pose that brought out all her unconscious beauty. The waning light fell full upon her, and the sunset seemed to be faintly reflected in her face. Her hair was coiled above her forehead in easy disorder.
McNally, sitting back in the shadow, looked fixedly at her, and as he looked it seemed to him that her beauty spiced the atmosphere. He found himself drawing in his breath keenly and almost audibly, and gripping the arms of the easy-chair: with a sudden half-amused feeling of boyishness he relaxed his grip and leaned back comfortably. It was some time since the introspective Mr. McNally had found it necessary to reprove himself for such a slip of demeanor.
“I couldn't help seeing what was going on,” continued Katherine. “And you told me the other day that I had helped you some.” She turned appealingly toward her father, who sat with head lowered, scowling at the carpet. McNally broke the pause.
“There is very little we can tell you, Miss Katherine. A business matter of this importance is too complicated for any one who has not grown up with the problems. It would involve the history of two railroads for years back.”
“Why is it,” asked Katherine, earnestly, “that a man never credits a woman with common sense? I am not blind. I know that the M. & T. is a feeder to C. & S.C., that it supplies us with coal, and that we could earn and save money by making it a part of our system. Mr. Weeks is fighting us for some reason, and we are planning to force the question. Isn't that so?”
“Where did you learn this, Katherine?” asked her father.
“From no one particular source. You have told me a great deal yourself, dad.”
“The question is, Miss Katherine,” McNally said, “what good could you possibly do? Without implying any doubt of your ability, you see our course is already mapped out for us by circumstances. In fact, there is only one way open that leads to a logical outcome. If we were in a position where we needed tactful advice, you could undoubtedly be of help, but just now what we want is a force of strong, aggressive men.”
“Mr. McNally is right, dear,” said Porter. “Everything is decided, and all we can do is to tend to business. This Weeks is following rather a dishonorable course, and we are prepared to meet him; that is all.”
Katherine leaned forward and twisted the curtain string around her finger.
“Is he really dishonest?” she asked.
“Well, dear, that is a hard question. No man has a right to condemn another without careful deliberation; but it happens that many business dealings savor a little of underhand methods, and it looks to us as though Mr. Weeks were not over particular.”
“What has he done?”
“Well, you see, dear—”
Katherine broke in with unusual warmth. “Oh, I know what you are going to say. Some more complications that I couldn't understand. Why won't you tell me?”
Porter arose.
“We'll talk this over at some other time, Katherine. I have an appointment with Judge Black for this evening, but I will be back before long.” He added to McNally, “He came in on the 8.25. I'll leave you with Katherine.”
When he had gone there was a silence. Katherine felt that her father's absence should alter the tone of the conversation, but she waited for McNally to take the initiative.
“What a glorious night,” he said at length, rising and coming to the window. “Did you ever see such a lingering afterglow? Suppose we sit outside.”
Katherine rose and made room for McNally to step through the open window. Together they walked across the veranda, McNally seating himself on the railing, Katherine leaning against one of the stone columns.
“How long have you been ambitious to be a business woman, Miss Katherine?”
“I hardly wish that. Only I like to share father's interests.”
“Do you know, I like it. I like to see a woman show an independent interest in important affairs. Nowadays not only young girls but women of position seem to care for nothing but the frivolous. I don't know but what our pioneer ancestors got more out of life, when the woman and her husband worked side by side.”
“Will you tell me about the M. & T. business, Mr. McNally?”
“I hardly feel that I can, Miss Katherine. To my mind that rests with your father.”
“Probably it does, but father still thinks me a child. He thinks I cannot grasp the situation.”
“Even if I felt at liberty to discuss it, I don't know what I could tell you beyond a mere recital of dry detail. Personally, I should like to do so, Miss Katherine; I honestly admire your independence, and I believe that you might even be able to suggest some helpful ideas, but business does not concern itself with the personal equation.”
Katherine looked thoughtfully at McNally's shadowed face. She was a little surprised with herself that she should so persist, but it did not occur to her to stop. Deep behind her desire to be honest with her father was a desire to prove that Harvey was, after all, in the right. She did not recognize this, she did not even know it, but Harvey's personality had taken on hers a vital grip that was as yet too strong, too firm, too close at hand to be realized. As for McNally, his intention to evade was too evident to be overlooked. He was dodging at every turn, and it was becoming clear to her that he was concealing facts which it would not do to disclose. And this suggested that her father was doing the same. The bit of conversation she had overheard came back to her, and as she thought it over it sounded odder than when she had first heard it. Why should her father wish to seize the road? If it belonged to Mr. Weeks, and if he did not care to sell, what right had her father or any one else to take it by force? She had been looking out over the lawn, but now she turned and fixed her eyes intently on McNally's plump, smooth-shaven face. He was looking toward her, but seemed not to see her. Instead there was the shadow of a smile in his eyes which suggested air-castles.
“Mr. McNally,” she said abruptly, “if we want the M. & T. road, why don't we buy it and pay for it?”
McNally started. During the long silence he had been feasting on Katherine's beauty. He was not a young man, but as he gazed at the earnest young face before him, and at the masses of shining hair, half in shadow, half in light, he felt a sudden loneliness, a sudden realization of what such a woman could be to him, what an influence she might have upon his life. And losing for the moment the self-poise that was his proudest accomplishment, Mr. McNally stammered.
“Oh,” he said, “we couldn't—it wouldn't do—”
From the change in every line of Katherine's pose he knew that he had said enough. She had turned half away from him and was standing rigid, looking out into the night. Glancing at her dimly outlined profile, McNally could see that her lips were pressed closely together. He pulled himself together and stood up.
“Why not go in and have some music?” he asked. “This conversation is too serious for such an evening.”
Katherine bowed and led the way into the house. As they passed through the library toward the piano she paused to turn the electric-light key. With the flood of light Katherine's ease returned, and she laughed lightly as she pointed to a gaudily decorated sheet of music on the piano.
“Shocking, isn't it?” she said. “That's the kind of music we play down here in the country. We need your influence to keep us from degenerating musically. Play me something good.”
McNally glanced at her with a laugh.
“Coon songs, eh?” he replied. “Well, some of them aren't so bad.” He sat down at the instrument and let his hands slip over the keys. Katherine sank upon the broad couch in the corner. She was apparently her old self, friendly and interested in Mr. McNally and his music, but there was nevertheless a distinct change. McNally felt the difference and tried to throw it off, but the force of the situation grew upon him. Slowly he realized that in spite of her pretensions she was not really in sympathy either with him or with her father. He struck into a Liszt rhapsody with all the fervor he could muster.
McNally was a good musician. He possessed the power, lacking in many better pianists, of using music as a medium to connect his own and his listener's moods; but to-night he fell short, and he knew it. He stole a glance at Katherine. She looked exactly as usual, but still there was a difference that baffled him. He threw all his art into the music. He labored to color it with sincerity and strength. But all the while he knew that the ground was lost. What he did not know was that Katherine was passing through a crisis, and that her thoughts were miles away from him and his rhapsody. He ended with unusual brilliancy, and she smiled with pleasure and thanked him simply, but still he felt the change. Then Porter came in, and after a brief general conversation Katherine withdrew.
She did not go at once to her room. Instead, she slipped out on the little second-floor balcony and sat down to be alone and to think. She had made an honest effort to throw her interest with her father and with what she believed to be her duty, and now that the evening was gone she had nothing to show for it. For a very few moments she wondered at it all, and at the fate which seemed to draw her toward Harvey. Then, as the thought of him again took concrete form, and as the last two days with him came back to her mind, her whole heart went out to him, and she was startled, frightened at the strength of his hold upon her. For a moment she gave herself up to dreams, dreams of a better, sweeter existence than any she had dared to imagine, then came the thought of her father, and Katherine broke down.
Downstairs, McNally and Porter sat for a long time with only a desultory conversation. Then McNally said,—
“Porter, I envy you a daughter like that.”
“She is a good girl,” Porter replied.