Joan and Co.
“And,” she added, “you’ll let me come again and hear more?”
“There isn’t any more,” put in Dicky.
“I’m sure there is,” she smiled.
“If you keep on I’ll get your mother in a corner some day,” he
threatened.
“I’m afraid anything she might tell of me would only bore you,” she
returned.
“You don’t know how much she might make up.”
Mrs. Burnett appeared disturbed.
“Dicky,” she protested, “every one of those things was true.”
“I know they were and he knows it too,” Joan sided with her, taking her
hand. “Some day soon I may run in quite informally, may I?”
“You’ll always be welcome here,” answered Mrs. Burnett.
There was something in her voice that made the girl look up, not at
her, but at Dicky. But he, inhospitably enough, was apparently only
anxious to help her leave. So, suddenly, she kissed Mrs. Burnett on the
cheek and went out with him.
In the car she proceeded to scold.
“I don’t think you treat your mother as nicely as you should,” she
declared.
“You mean I shouldn’t throw her downstairs!” he exclaimed.
“You know what I mean. She is very fond of you, Dicky.”
“You speak as though there was something unnatural about that.”
“And she is very proud of you. At times it was almost as though she
were talking about Napoleon.”
“You oughtn’t to blame me for that,” he protested.
“I’m not blaming you, only you might try—”
“She wouldn’t at all approve of me if I were really like Napoleon,” he
broke in.
“In some things, perhaps not,” she hastened to admit. “I shouldn’t
myself. But in some other things—”
“I am,” he flattered himself.
As though to prove it he drew from his pocket the check for five
thousand. He handed it to her with every evidence of satisfaction. She
merely rolled it into a little tube and placed it in her muff.
“I shall send you a receipt for this,” she said.
That was all—at a point when if encouraged in the slightest he would
have told her by what a nice bit of strategy—the strategy of the
pumpkin pie—he had secured this for her. He did not, however, volunteer
the story, and a few minutes later he was on the whole glad. He doubted
if it would have impressed her as humorous. He doubted next if it
really was humorous. After all he had meant what he said and his father
had meant what he said, and Joan had meant what she said. It had been a
serious transaction.
At the house she did not ask him in as he hoped she might. Instead she
merely smiled an _au revoir_ to him as they stood in the open door with
Jeffrey near her at attention. He might not have thought much about
this, if at that moment, in glancing over her shoulder, he had not seen
coming down the broad stairs in the rear the figure of a young man with
his shoulder in bandages. The fellow met his eyes and paused. So for a
second they faced each other, questioning, wondering.
Joan turned from Dicky at the door to Devons on the stair behind her
and then back to Dicky, with a feeling that the situation was tense out
of all proportion. For a moment she was confused and uncertain. She
did not know quite what to do. But Dicky did. His eyes came back to
hers and from them it would have been impossible to say if he had seen
Devons or not.
“Let me know when you want me again,” he said.
“Thank you, Dicky,” she exclaimed.
With that he turned and went down the steps. With that, swinging his
stick lightly, he went down the street and around a corner.
CHAPTER XVI
THE DEVONS MANUFACTURING COMPANY
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?”