Joan and Co.
But that night, when in relief he found himself back alone in his
room, that seemed as fair an analysis of his present mood as any. As
miserable as he was he would not, as the price of happiness, have
surrendered his love for Joan. Hopeless as now he felt that passion
to be, he clung to it as the greatest joy in his life. So he felt he
always would.
He had telephoned her before he left and asked to see her, but she had
answered that it was impossible that morning.
“I may have some good news for you soon,” she said.
When he pressed her for an explanation, it turned out to be nothing
but good news concerning that fool business scheme of hers. It only
emphasized how lightly she thought of him.
She had written twice since then—the sort of letters one might expect
from a private secretary. He had written at least a dozen times—the
sort of letters that might be expected to make a private secretary’s
cheeks burn. Yet he doubted if they accomplished even that much.
In this fashion, then, he frittered away a month without improving
either his physical condition, which did not need improving, or his
mental condition, which did. At this point he received a letter from
his mother which further disturbed him. She ran on for a couple of
pages about nothing in particular, like warning him again to be careful
not to get drowned if he went in bathing, and then said:
“I’m a little bit worried about your father. He is not sleeping well
and is losing weight. He blames it on his diet and I wondered if
perhaps he was not carrying it too far. He is very apt to do that
unless some one watches him. If you wrote him that he might, under the
circumstances, eat a little pastry, I think it might help him. However,
use your own judgment. He won’t weigh himself, but I am sure he has
lost at least fifteen pounds since you went.”
When Dicky read that he sent the following wire to his father:
Don’t overdo the thing. Have some pumpkin pie.
But in spite of this action he was not fully satisfied. All through the
rest of the day he kept thinking over that paragraph in his mother’s
letter. While diet might account for his father’s loss of weight,
which was good for him, it did not account for his sleeplessness. That
was more apt to be caused by worry. This helped him to recall several
peculiar incidents which had occurred preceding his departure, when he
had not found his father in the office and had received anything but a
satisfactory explanation from Forsythe. At the time he had not thought
much about these things, because at night he found his father so normal
that he always forgot to inquire further into them. But now that he was
in search of symptoms he went back to them.
The upshot of the matter was that he said good-bye to Constance that
evening—a curiously easy thing to do—and took the train the next
morning for home. He reached New York at six o’clock in the afternoon
of the next day and went direct to the house, where he found his father
at dinner. He was startled by what a month had done for him. Offhand he
would have said the man had lost twenty-five pounds and taken on almost
as many years. His eyes looked heavy, and he sat listlessly at the
table as Dicky came in. He tried to rouse himself, however, but it was
manifestly an artificial attempt.
“What the deuce you been doing to yourself?” demanded Dicky as he took
his hand. By the side of his lean, browned son he looked worse than
ever and was conscious of it.
“I guess I ought to have gone with you,” he faltered.
“I should say so,” nodded Dicky. “What’s he been up to, Mother?”
“I’m afraid he’s been working too hard,” she ventured.
“Hang it all, I thought you were old enough to be left alone,”
exclaimed Dicky.
“Don’t you worry about me,” growled Burnett with a trace of his
old-time spirit.
“We won’t,” answered Dicky, “but believe me, we’re going to do
something about it. You’ve got to get out of that office more. Golf is
what you need. I saw a lot of the old boys down there on the links and
it put new life into them.”
“Golf be hanged.”
Once or twice before Dicky had threatened golf, and everything
considered it appeared a worse punishment than whole wheat bread.
“In the meanwhile, until the links are opened, we can get into
condition by walking home every day. We’ll begin to-morrow.”
“Eh?”
“To-morrow. What’s the earliest you can leave the office?”
“Not until after three,” exclaimed Burnett nervously.
“I’ll be there at half-past, then,” declared Dicky.
CHAPTER XXV
DANGER
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.”