Joan and Co.
“Then if he had happened to be in I could have bought some myself,” he
said. “I only want enough to give it a trial.”
“Can’t you come again?”
“Possibly. But there is nothing like taking advantage of the present.
If you could let me have—say this much.”
He held up a jug.
“But I haven’t the slightest idea how much he asks for it.”
“I’m in the business myself, so I can tell you roughly. Ten dollars
would be an extravagant price. But for safety’s sake I’ll double that.”
She met the man’s eyes. She had no reason for doubting his word.
“If you are quite sure, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have it,” she
replied.
“I’m quite sure my price is right,” he answered. “If Mr. Devons can
sustain it his fortune is made.”
“Oh, you think so?”
“There is no doubt about it,” he nodded gravely.
Then he took a wallet from his pocket and presented her with two
ten-dollar bills.
“I pay cash,” he said.
She accepted the bills eagerly.
Then with a smile Forsythe picked up his jug and went out leaving her
staring a little breathlessly at the money. It was the first cash
transaction made by the Devons Manufacturing Company.
She hurried to her desk in the corner and opened a brand-new ledger
book which she had bought only the day before. In her very best
handwriting she made this entry:
“By one jug dressing $20.00”
She wished there were some way she could reach Devons by telephone. It
was difficult to wait for him with such news as this.
CHAPTER XXIII
NO TIME TO WASTE
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.
CHAPTER XXIV
A VACATION
Dicky Burnett left about the middle of March for Palm Beach. It was his
father’s suggestion, and Dicky fell in with it principally because it
would give him a legitimate excuse for writing to Joan. If he could not
see her, he had much better be a thousand miles away than in the same
city. It would be less of a strain. Of late he had been doing nothing
but search the crowds for her like a private detective hunting for a
lost person.
In the office he was impossible. He was in fact a good deal of a
nuisance both to Forsythe and his father. He particularly interfered
unconsciously with the latter’s freedom of movement. By degrees Burnett
senior had turned over to Forsythe practically all his own work because
of lack of time to attend to it himself. In many ways his habits
resembled a good deal those of his son. He still reached the office
early, but he was out again by ten and seldom returned until after
three. By then he was too tired to do much more than attend to the
routine matters requiring his signature.
At Palm Beach Dicky did his best to enjoy himself, and every one,
including the hotel management, did his best to help him. He ran
across Diblee, who introduced him at the country club, and a group
of very agreeable people who were succeeding extraordinarily well in
forgetting that such a city as New York existed. As far as he could
judge, nothing in particular remained in their consciousness but blue
sky and palm trees and green grass and music and pleasant drinks and
laughing eyes. There was one especially nice girl whose name was
Constance—Constance Shirley. She was slight and young and seemed to
divine at once his unhappiness. She had big blue eyes and danced like
a bit of thistledown, and was always seeking the air after each dance.
And she had a way of tempting a man to talk of what was deep within
him at such times because she gave the impression that she would
understand. Not only understand but comfort a fellow. It was surprising
how often her soft hand accidentally brushed his and what opportunities
she offered him to talk of matters of sentiment.
Yet always at the speaking point Dicky paused. It seemed like sacrilege
to discuss Joan, even indirectly, with any other woman. With her
always uppermost in his mind it seemed like sacrilege to discuss even
abstract problems of sentiment. So generally he lighted a cigarette and
drifted into silence by the side of this Constance, staring dreamily
and alone at the wonderful Southern night sky which is as fickle in
its sentiment as a rondeau of François Villon. It urges a youth to
love with the nearest. Love is love and a man but a man and woman but
a woman. If tender lips and warm hands are near, a man is a fool to
ignore them, for life at best is short and youth but a brief portion of
life.
Yet Dicky always paused even when the nights were fairest. The girl by
his side was baffled and stung and made eager by those long silences.
Covertly she studied the sadness about his lips which came to her like
a challenge.
One night she said to him boldly, “Mr. Burnett, I think you’re in love.”
He was startled, but he answered only, “So?”
“Are you?” she insisted.
“I’ll leave you to guess,” he replied.
“I guess you are.”
“Why?”
“Because you are sad.”
“Does love make one sad?” he asked.
“Either very happy or very sad.”
“Perhaps both,” he suggested.
“At the same time?” she laughed.
“It does sound absurd,” he admitted.