Front matter (continued 4)

It was on one of the bluest of her blue days of forebodings about Alois and Amy that Neva came in to see her; and a glance at Neva's face was sufficient to convince her that bad news was imminent. "What is it, Neva?" she demanded. "I've felt all the morning that something rotten was on the way. Now, I know it's here. Tell me."

"Do you recall Mrs. Ranier? She was at my place one afternoon——"

"Perfectly," interrupted Narcisse, "Amy Fosdick's sister."

"She took a great fancy to you. And when she heard something she thought you ought to know, she came to me and asked me to tell you. She said she knew you'd be discreet—that you could be trusted."

"I liked her, too," said Narcisse. "I think she can trust me."

"It's about—about—those insurance buildings," continued Neva, painfully embarrassed. "I'm afraid I'm rather incoherent. It's the first time I ever interfered in anyone else's business."

"Tell me," urged Narcisse. "I suppose it's something painful. But I'm good and tough—-speak straight out."

"Mrs. Ranier's husband is in the furniture business, and through that he found out there's a scandal coming. She says those people downtown will drag you and your brother in, will probably try to hide themselves behind you. She heard last night, and came early this morning. 'Tell her,' she said, 'not to let her brother reassure her, but to look into it—clear to the bottom.'"

Narcisse was motionless, her eyes strained, her face haggard.

"That's all," said Neva, rising. "I shouldn't have come, shouldn't have said anything to you, if I had not known that Mrs. Ranier has the best heart in the world, and isn't an alarmist."

Narcisse faced Neva and pressed her hands, without looking at her.

"If there is anything I can do, you have only to ask," said Neva, going. She had too human an instinct to linger and offer sympathy to pride in its hour of abasement.

"There's one thing you can do," said Narcisse, nervous and intensely embarrassed.

Neva came back. "Don't hesitate. I meant just what I said—anything."

Narcisse blurted it out: "Is Horace Armstrong a man who can be trusted? Is he straight?" Then, as Neva did not answer immediately, she hastened on, "Please forget what I asked you. It really doesn't matter, and——"

Neva interrupted her with a frank, friendly smile. "Don't be uneasy," she said. "He and I are excellent friends. He calls often. I don't know a thing about him in a business way. But— Well, Narcisse, I'm sure he'd not do anything small and mean."

"That's all I wished to know."

A few minutes after Neva left, Narcisse, white but calm, sent for her brother. "How deeply have you entangled yourself in those fraudulent vouchers?" she asked, when they were shut in together.

He lifted his head haughtily. "What do you mean, Narcisse?"

"As we are equal partners, I have the right to know all the affairs of the firm. I want to see the accounts of those insurance buildings, at once—and to know the exact truth about them."

"You left that matter entirely to me," replied he, sullen but uneasy. "I haven't time to-day to go into a mass of details. It'd be useless, anyhow. But—I do not like that word you used—fraudulent."

She waved her hand impatiently. "It's the word the public will use, whatever nice, agreeable expression for it you men of affairs may have among yourselves. Have you signed vouchers, as you said you were going to do?"

"Certainly. And, I may add, I shall continue to sign them."

"Haven't you heard that that investigation is coming?"

He gave a superior, knowing smile. "Those things are always fixed up. There's a public side, but it's as unreal as a stage play. Fosdick controls this particular show."

"So I hear," said she, with bitter irony. "And he purposes to throw you to the wild beasts—you and me."

Siersdorf laughed indulgently. "My dear sister," he said, "don't bother your head about it." The idea seemed absurd to him: Fosdick sacrifice him, when they were such friends!—it was an insult to Fosdick to entertain the suspicion. "When the proper time comes," he continued, "I shall be away on business—and the matter will be sidetracked, and nothing more will be said about me. Trust me. I know what I am about."

"Yes, you will be away," cried she, suddenly enlightened. "And the whole thing will be exposed, and they'll have their accounts so cooked that the guilt will all be on you. And before you can get back and clear yourself, you will be ruined—disgraced—dishonored."

The situation she thus blackly outlined was within the possibilities; her tone of certainty had carrying power. A chill went through him. "Ridiculous!" he protested loudly.

"You have put your honor in another man's keeping," she went on. "And that man is a thief."

"Narcisse!"

"A thief!" she repeated with emphasis. "They don't call each other thieves downtown. They've agreed to call themselves respectabilities and financiers and all sorts of high-flown names. But thieves they are, because they're loaded down with what don't belong to them, money they got away from other people by lying and swindling. Is your honor quite safe in the keeping of a thief?"

"Narcisse!" repeated Alois, wincing again at that terse, plain word, rough and harsh, an allopathic dose of moral medicine, undiluted, uncoated.

"I don't think so," she pursued. "What precautions do you purpose to take?"

He looked at her helplessly. "If I say anything to Fosdick," said he, "he will be justified in getting furiously angry. He might think he had the right to act as you accuse him of plotting."

"But you must do something."

He shook his head. "I have trusted Fosdick," said he. "I still think it was wise. But, however that may be, the wise course now certainly is to continue to trust him."

"Trust him!" exclaimed Narcisse bitterly. "I might trust a thief who wasn't a hypocrite—he might not squeal on a pal to save himself. But not a Fosdick. A respectable thief has neither the honor of honest men nor the honor of thieves."

"Prejudice! Always prejudice, Narcisse."

"You will do nothing?"

"Nothing." And he tried to look calm and firm.

She went into her dressing room with the air of one bent on decisive action. He could but wait. When she came back she was dressed for the street.

"Where are you going?" he demanded in alarm.

"To save myself and—you," she replied with a certain sternness. It was unlike her to put herself first in speech—she who always considered herself last.

"Narcisse, I forbid you to interfere in this affair. I forbid you to go crazily on to compromising us both."

She looked straight into his eyes. "The time has come when I must use my own judgment," said she.

And, with that, she went; he knew her, knew when it was idle to oppose her. Besides—what if she should be right? In all their years together, as children, as youths, as workers, he had always respected her judgment, because it had always been based upon a common sense clearer than his own, freer from those passions which rise from the stronger appetites of men to befog their reason, to make what they wish to be the truth seem actually the truth.

"She's wrong," he said to himself. "But she'll not do anything foolish. She's the kind that can go in safety along the wrong road, because they always keep a line of retreat open." And that reflection somewhat reassured him.

Narcisse went direct to Fosdick at his office. As there was only one caller ahead of her, she did not have long to wait in the anteroom guarded by Waller of the stealthy, glistening smile. "Mr. Fosdick is very busy this morning," explained he. It was the remark he always made to callers as he passed them along; it helped Fosdick to cut them short. "The big railway consolidation, you know?"

"No, I don't know," replied Narcisse.

"Oh—you artists! You live quite apart from our world of affairs. But I supposed news of a thing of such tremendous public benefit would have reached everybody."

Narcisse smiled faintly. She could not imagine any of these gentlemen, roosted so high and with eyes training in every direction in search of prey, occupying themselves for one instant with a thing that was a public benefit, except in the hope of changing it into a "private snap."

"It's marvelous," continued Waller, "how Fosdick and these other men of enormous wealth go on working for their fellow men when they might be taking their ease and amusing themselves."

"Amusing themselves—how?" asked she.

"Oh—in a thousand ways."

"I'm afraid they'd find it hard to pass the time, if they didn't have their work," said she. "The world isn't a very amusing place unless one happens to have work that interests him."

"There's something in that—there's something in that," said Waller, in as good an imitation as he could give of his master's tone and manner. It had never before occurred to him to question the current theory that, while poor men toiled for bread and selfishness, rich men refrained from boring themselves to death in idling about, only because they passionately yearned to serve their fellow beings.

"Do you still teach a class in Mr. Fosdick's Sunday school?"

"I'm assistant superintendent now," replied he.

"That's good," said she, as if she really meant it. She was feeling sorry for him. He had worked so long and so hard, and had striven so diligently to please Fosdick in every way; Fosdick had got from him service that money could not have bought. And the worst of it was, Fosdick had never tried to find a money expression for it that was anything like adequate, but had ingeniously convinced poor Waller he was more than well paid in the honor of serving in such an intimate capacity such a great and generous man. The mitigating circumstance was that Fosdick firmly believed this himself—but Narcisse that day was not in the humor to see the mitigations of Fosdick.

And now Fosdick himself came hurrying in, eyes alight, strong face smiling—"Miss Siersdorf—this is a surprise! I don't believe I ever before saw you downtown—though, of course, you must have come." He looked at her with an admiration that was genuine. "Excuse an old man for saying it, but you are so beautifully dressed—as always—and handsome—that goes without saying. Come right in. You can have all the time you want. I know you—know you are a business woman. Now, that man who was just with me—Bishop Knowlton—a fine, noble man, with a heart full of love for God and his fellows—but not an idea of the value of a business man's time. Finally I had to say to him, 'I'll give you what you ask—and I'll double it if you don't say another word but go at once.'"

They were now in the innermost room, and Fosdick had bowed her into a chair and had seated himself. "I came to see you," said Narcisse, formal to coldness, "about the two office buildings—about the accounts our firm has been approving."

"Oh, but you needn't fret about them," said Fosdick, in his bluff, hearty, offhand manner. "Your brother is looking after them."

"Then they are all right?" she said, fixing her gaze on him.

"Why, certainly, certainly. I have absolute confidence in your brother. Have you seen Overlook? Yes—of course—my daughter told me. You delighted her by what you said. It is beautiful——"

"To keep to the accounts, Mr. Fosdick," Narcisse interrupted, "I am not satisfied with our firm's position in the matter."

"My dear young lady, talk to your brother about that. I've a thousand and one matters. I really know nothing of details, and, as you are perhaps aware, my interest in the O.A.D. is largely philanthropic. I can give but little of my time."

"I've come," said Narcisse, as he paused for breath, "to get from you a statement relieving us from all responsibility as to those accounts, and authorizing us to sign them as a mere formality, to expedite their progress."

Fosdick laughed. "I'd like to do anything to oblige you," said he, "but really, I couldn't do that. You must know that I have nothing to do with the buildings—with the details of the affairs of the O.A.D."

"You gave us the contracts," said Narcisse.

"Pardon me, I did not give you the contracts. They were not mine to give. What you mean to say is that I used for you what influence I have. It was out of friendship for you and your brother."

There he touched her. "We had every reason to believe that we got the contracts solely because our plans were the most satisfactory," said she coldly. "If we had suspected that friendship had anything to do with it, we should certainly have withdrawn. I assure you, sir, we feel under no obligation—and my present purpose is to prevent you from putting yourself under obligation to us."

"I don't quite follow you," said Fosdick, most conciliatory.

"There has been some kind of—'bookkeeping,' I believe you call it—in connection with the payments for the work on those buildings. If we were to aid you in your—'bookkeeping,' you would certainly be under heavy obligations to us. We cannot permit that."

Fosdick laughed with the utmost good nature. "I see you misunderstood some remarks I made to you and your brother one day at my house. However, anything to keep peace among friends. I'll do as you wish."

His manner was so frank and so friendly, and his concession so unreserved, that Narcisse was surprised into being ashamed of her suspicions. "I believe 'Lois is right," she said to herself. "I've been led astray by my prejudice."

Those shrewd old eyes of Fosdick's could not have missed an opportunity for advantage so plain as was written on her honest face. He hastened to score. "I'll dictate it to Waller," said he, rising, "when he comes in to round up the day. You'll get it in the early morning mail. Good-by. You don't come to see us up at the house nearly often enough—at least, not when I'm there." He had opened the door. "Waller, conduct Miss Siersdorf to the elevator. Good-by, again."

With nods and smiles he had cleared himself of her, easily, without abruptness, rather as if she were hurrying him than he her. And Waller, quick to take his cue, had passed her into the elevator before she was quite aware what was happening. Not until she was on the ground floor and walking toward the door did her mind recover. "What have you got?" it said, and promptly answered, "Nothing—for, what is a promise from Josiah Fosdick?" That seemed cynical, unjust; as Fosdick not only was by reputation a man of his word, but also had always kept his word with her. But she stopped short and debated; and it was impossible for her to shake her conviction that the man meant treachery. "He'll sacrifice us," she said to herself, "if it's necessary to save intact the name and fame of Josiah Fosdick—or even if he should think it would be helpful." What were two insignificant mere ordinary mortals in comparison with that name and fame, that inspiration to honesty and fidelity for the youth of the land, that bulwark of respectability and religion—for, as all the world knows, the eternal verities are kept alive solely by the hypocrites who preach and profess them; if those "shining examples" were exposed and disgraced, down would crash truth and honor. No, Josiah Fosdick was not one to hesitate before the danger of such a cataclysm. Further, she felt that he had been plotting while he and she were talking and had found some way to pinion her and her brother during the day he had gained. "To-morrow morning," she decided, "I'll not get the paper, and it'll be useless to try to get it. Something must be done, and at once."

She turned back, reëntered the elevator. "To Mr. Armstrong," she said.

Armstrong, whom she knew but slightly, received her with great courtesy, and an evident interest that in turn roused her curiosity. "It's as if he knew about our affairs," she thought. To him she said, "I want to see you a few minutes alone."

He took her into his inner room. "Well, what is it?" he asked, with the sort of abruptness that invites confidence.

She had liked what she had seen of him; her good impression was now strengthened. She thought there was courage and honesty in his face, along with that look of experience and capacity which is rarely seen in young faces, except in America with its group of young men who have already risen to positions of great responsibility. There was bigness about him, too-bigness of body and of brow and of hands, and the eyes that go with large ways of judging and acting—eyes at once keen and good-humored. A man to turn a shrewd trick, perhaps; but it would be exceedingly shrewd, and only against a foe who was using the same tactics. Half confidences are worse than none, are the undoing weakness of the timid who, though they know they must play and play desperately, yet cannot bring themselves to play in the one way that could win. Narcisse flung all her cards upon the table.

"I've got to trust somebody," she said. "My best judgment is that that somebody is you. Here is my position." And she related fully, rapidly, everything except the source of her warning against Fosdick. She told all she knew about the unwarranted vouchers A. & N. Siersdorf had been approving—"at least, I think they are unwarranted," she said. "We know nothing about them."

"And why do you come to me?" said Armstrong when he had the whole affair before him from the first interview with Fosdick to and including the last interview.

"Because you are president of the O.A.D.," she replied. "We have nothing to conceal. You are the responsible executive officer. If you do not know about these things, you ought to be told. And I am determined that our firm shall not remain in its present false position."

Armstrong sat back in his chair, his face heavy and expressionless, as if the mind that usually animated it had left it a lifeless mask and had withdrawn and concentrated upon something within. No one ever got an inkling of what Armstrong was turning over in his mind until he was ready to expose it in speech. When he came back to the surface, he turned his chair until he was facing her squarely. His scrutiny seemed to satisfy him, for presently he said, "I see that you trust me," in his friendliest way.

"Yes," she replied.

"It's a great gift—a great advantage," he went on, "to make up one's mind to trust and then to do it without reserve.... I think you will not falter, no matter what happens."

"No," she said.

"Well—you came to just the right person. I don't understand it."

"Woman's instinct, perhaps."

He shook his head. "I doubt it. That's simply a phrase to get round a mystery. No, your judgment guided you somehow. Judgment is the only guide."

Narcisse had been debating; she could not see how it could possibly do any harm to mention Neva. "Before I came downtown," said she, "it drifted into my mind that I might have to come to you. So I asked Neva Carlin about you."

"Oh!" Armstrong settled back in his chair abruptly and masked his face. "And what did she say?"

"That she was sure you wouldn't do anything small or mean."

The big Westerner suddenly beamed upon her. "Well, she ought to know," said he with a blush and a hearty, boyish laugh. Then earnestly: "I think I can do more for you than anyone else in this matter—and I will. You must say nothing, and do nothing. Let everything go on as if you had no suspicion."

"But, when Mr. Fosdick does not send me the authorization?"

"Wait a few days; write, reminding him; then let the matter drop."

She reflected; the business seemed finished so far as she could finish it. She rose and put out her hand. "Thank you," she said simply, and again, with a fine look in her fine eyes, "Thank you."

"You owe me nothing," he replied. "In the first place, I've done nothing, and I can't promise absolutely that I can do anything. In the second place, you have given me some extremely valuable information. In return I merely engage not to use it to as great advantage as I might in some circumstances."

In the entrance hall once more, she wondered at the complete change in her state of mind. She now felt content; yet she had nothing tangible, apparently less than at the end of her interview with Fosdick—for he had promised something definite, while Armstrong had merely said, "I'll do my best." She wondered at her content, at her absolute inability to have misgiving or doubt.

XV

ARMSTRONG SWOOPS

About an hour after Narcisse left Fosdick, he sent for Westervelt, the venerable comptroller of the O.A.D. But Westervelt came before the message could possibly have reached him.

Westervelt's position—chief financial officer of one of the greatest fiduciary institutions of a world whose fiduciary institutions have become more important than its governments—would have made him in any event important and conspicuous; but he was a figure in finance large out of all proportion to his office. He was one of the stock "shining examples" of Wall Street. If industry was talked of, what more natural than to point to old Westervelt, for fifty years at his desk early and late, without ever taking a vacation? If honesty was being discussed, where a better instance of it than honest old Bill Westervelt, who had handled billions yet was worth only a modest three or four millions? If fidelity was the theme, there again was old Bill with his long white whiskers, refusing offer after offer of high stations because he was loyal to the O.A.D. Why, he had even refused the financial place in the Cabinet! If anyone had been unkind enough to suggest, in partial mitigation of this almost oppressive saintliness, that old Bill had no less than ninety-six relatives by blood and marriage in good to splendid berths in the O.A.D.; that he had put his brother, his two sons and his three sons-in-law in positions where they had made fortunes as dealers in securities for the O.A.D. and its allied institutions; that a Cabinet position at eight thousand a year, where such duties as were not clerical consisted in obeying the "advice" of the big financial lords, would have small charm for a man so placed that he was a real influence in the real financial councils of the nation—if such suggestions as these had been made, the person who made them would have been denounced as a cynic, gangrened with envy. If anyone had ventured to hint that, in view of the truly monstrous increase in the expenses of the O.A.D., old Bill's industry seemed to be bearing rather strange fruit for so vaunted a tree, and that his fidelity ought to have a vacation while expert accountants verified it—such insinuations would have been repelled as sheer slander, an attempt to undermine the confidence of mankind in the reality of virtue. So great was Westervelt's virtue that he himself had come to revere it as profoundly as did the rest of the world; it seemed to him that one so wholly right could do no wrong; that evil itself, passing through the crucible of that white soul of his, emerged as good.

Fosdick simply glanced at his old friend and associate as he entered. "Hello, Bill," he exclaimed. "I was just going to send for you. I want the Siersdorfs suspended from charge of those new buildings. And give the head bookkeeper of the real estate department a six months' vacation—say, for a tour of the world."

But Westervelt had not heard. He had dropped into a chair, and was white as his whiskers, and the hand with which he was stroking them was shaking. As he did not reply, Fosdick looked at him. "Why, Bill, what's the matter?" he cried, friendly alarm in voice and face. "Not sick?"

"I've been—suspended," gasped Westervelt. "I—suspended!"

Josiah stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Armstrong has just suspended me."

"Armstrong!" cried Fosdick. "Why, you're crazy, man! He's got no more authority over you than he has over me."

"He sent for me just now," said Westervelt, "and when I came in he looked savagely at me and said, 'Mr. Westervelt, you will take a vacation until further notice. I put it in that way to keep the scandal from becoming public. You can say you have become suddenly ill. You will leave the offices at once, and not return until I send for you.'"

Fosdick was listening like a man watching the fantastic procession of a dream which not even the wild imagination of a sleeper could credit. "You're crazy, Bill," he repeated.

"I laughed at him," continued Westervelt. "And then he said—it seems to me I must really be crazy—but, no, he said it—'We have reason to believe that the books are in wild, in criminal disorder,' he said. 'I have telegraphed for Brownell. He will be here in the morning to take charge.'"

Fosdick bounded to his feet. "Brownell! Why, he's Armstrong's old side-partner in Chicago. Brownell!" Fosdick's face grew purple, and he jerked at his collar and swung his head and rolled his eyes and mouthed as if he were about to have a stroke. Then he rushed to his bell and leaned upon the button. Waller came into the room, terror in his face. "Armstrong!" cried Fosdick. "Bring him here—instantly!"

But it was full ten minutes before Waller could find and bring him. In that time Fosdick's mind asserted itself, beat his passion into its kennel where it could be kept barred in or released, as events might determine. "Caution—caution!" he said to Westervelt. "Let me do all the talking."

The young president entered deliberately, with impassive countenance. He looked calmly at Westervelt, then at Fosdick.

"I suppose you know what I want to see you about, Horace," Fosdick began. "Sit down. There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding between you and Westervelt—eh?"

Armstrong simply sat, the upper part of his big frame resting by the elbows upon the arms of his chair, a position which gave him an air of impenetrable stolidity and immovable solidity.

When Fosdick saw that Armstrong was determined to hold his guard, he went on, "It won't do for you two to quarrel. At any price we must have peace, must face the world, united and loyal. I want to make peace between you two. Westervelt has told me his side of the story. Now, you tell me yours."

"I suspended him, pending a private investigation—that's all," said Armstrong. And his lips closed as if that were all he purposed to say.

Fosdick's eyes gleamed dangerously. "You know, you have no authority to suspend the comptroller?" he said quietly.

"That's true."

"Then he is not suspended."

"Yes, he is," said Armstrong. "And on my way down here I looked in at his department and told them he was ill and wouldn't be back to-day."

Westervelt started up. "How dare you!" he shrilled in the undignified fury of the old.

"Bill, Bill!" warned Fosdick. Then to Armstrong, "The way to settle it is for Bill to go home for to-day. In the morning, he will return to his work as usual."

"Brownell will be here, will be in charge," said Armstrong. "If Westervelt returns, I'll have him put out."

"Will you permit me to ask the why of all this?" inquired Fosdick.

"The man's been up to some queer business," replied Armstrong. "The books have got to be straightened out, and it looks as if he'd have to disgorge some pretty big sums."

Westervelt groaned and fell heavily back into his chair. "That I should live to hear such insults to me!" he cried, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. Armstrong simply looked at him.

"You are mistaken, terribly mistaken, Horace," said Fosdick smoothly. "You have been woefully misled." He did not know what to do. He dared not break with Westervelt, the chief stay of his power over the staff of the O.A.D.; yet neither did he dare, just then and over just that matter, break with Armstrong.

"If Westervelt is innocent," replied Armstrong, "he ought to be laughing at me—for, if he's innocent, I have ruined myself."

"I know you have no honor, no pride," cried Westervelt. "But have you no sense of what honor and pride are? After all my years of service, after building high my name in this community, to be insulted by an adventurer like you! How do I know what you would cook up against me, if you had control of the books? Fosdick, we'll have the board together this afternoon, and suspend him!"

Fosdick saw the look in Armstrong's face at this. "No, no, Bill," he said. "We must sleep on this. By morning a way out will be found."

"By morning!" exclaimed Westervelt. "I'll not see the sun go down with a cloud shadowing my reputation."

"Leave me alone with my old friend for a few minutes, Horace," said Fosdick.

"Certainly," agreed Armstrong, rising.

"I'll come up to see you presently," Fosdick called after him, as he was closing the door. The two veterans were alone. Fosdick said, "That young man is a very ugly customer, Westervelt. We must go slowly if we are to get rid of him without scandal."

"All we've got to do is to throw him out," replied Westervelt. "What reputable man or newspaper would listen to him? And if he has hold of the books for a few weeks, a few days even, he can twist and turn them so that he will at least be stronger than he is now. The stupendous impudence of the man! Why did you ever let him get into the company?"

"Bad judgment," said Fosdick gloomily. "I had no idea he was so short-sighted or so swollen with his own importance. I saw only his ability. But we'll soon be rid of him."

"Can it be that he has gotten wind of our plans about him?" said Westervelt uneasily.

Fosdick waved his hand. "Nobody knows them but you and I. Impossible. I haven't even let Morris into that secret yet. Armstrong's quite sure of his ground—and he must be kept sure. When he goes, it must be with a brand on him that will make him as harmless a creature as there is in the world."

"But the books—he must not get hold of the books," persisted Westervelt.

"I'll see to that. Can you suggest any way to keep him quiet, except pretending to give him his head at present?"

Westervelt reflected. Suddenly he cried out, "No, Josiah; I can't let him—anyone—handle those books. They're my reputation."

"But you have got them into good shape for the legislative investigation, haven't you?"

"Yes—certainly. But there are the private books!"

"Um," grunted Fosdick. "How many of them?"

"Three—beside the one I slipped into my pocket on my way down here. They're too big to take away."

"They must be destroyed," said Fosdick. "Go now and get them. Have them carried down here at once."

Westervelt hurried away. As he entered his office, he was astounded at seeing Armstrong seated at a side desk, dictating to a stenographer. At sight of Westervelt, Armstrong started up and went to meet him. "You ought not to be lingering here, Mr. Westervelt," he said, so that all the clerks could hear. "You owe it to yourself to take no such risk."

"I forgot a little matter," explained Westervelt confusedly. And he went uncertainly into his private office, had his secretary put the three ledgers and account books together and wrap them up. "Now," said he, "take the package down to Mr. Fosdick's office. I'll go with you."

As they emerged into the outer room, he glanced furtively and nervously at Armstrong; Armstrong seemed safely absorbed in his dictation. Just as the two reached the hall door, Armstrong, without looking up, called, "Oh, by the way, Mr. Westervelt—just a moment."

Westervelt jumped. "Go on with the books," said he in an undertone to his secretary. "I'll come directly."

Armstrong was looking at the secretary now. "Just put down the package, please," he said carelessly. "I wish to speak to the comptroller about it."

The young man, all unsuspicious of what was below the smooth surface, obediently put down the package. Armstrong drew Westervelt aside. "You are taking those three books, and the one I see bulging in your pocket, down to Mr. Fosdick, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Westervelt.

"Take my advice," said Armstrong. "Don't."

"It's merely a little matter I wish to go over with him—a few minutes," stammered Westervelt.

"I understand perfectly," said Armstrong. "But is it wise for you to put yourself in anybody's power? Don't hand all your weapons to a man who could use them against you—and, as you well know, would do it if he felt compelled. I could stop you from making off with those books. I'm tempted to do it—curiously enough, for your own sake. I don't need them."

Westervelt was studying Armstrong's frank countenance in amazement. "He expects me," he suggested uncertainly.

"Don't leave the books with him," repeated Armstrong. "Don't put yourself in his power." He looked at Westervelt with an expression like that of a man measuring a leap before taking it. "Take the books home," he went on boldly. "Fosdick has been cheating you for years. I will come to see you at your house to-morrow morning." And he returned to his dictation, leaving the old man hesitating in the doorway, thoughtfully fumbling in his long white whiskers with slow, stealthy fingers.

In the corridor, Westervelt said to his secretary, "I think I'll work over the matter at home. I'm not so sick as they seem to imagine. Jump into a cab and drive up to my house, and give the package to my wife. Tell her to take care of it."

When Fosdick saw him empty-handed, he was instantly ablaze. "Has that scoundrel——"

"No, no," explained his old friend, "I got the books, all right."

"Where are they?"

"I sent them uptown—up to my house."

"What the hell did you do that for?" cried Fosdick.

"I thought it best to have them where I could personally take care of them," said Westervelt, his heart bounding with delight. For Fosdick's unguarded tone had set flaming in him that suspicion which thoroughly respectable men always have latent for each other, in circles where respectability rests entirely upon deeds that in the less respectable or on a less magnificent scale would seem quite the reverse of respectable. They know how dear reputation is, how great sacrifices of friendship and honor even the most honorable and generous men will make to safeguard it.

"Well, well," said Fosdick, heaving but oily of surface, and not daring to pursue the subject lest Westervelt should suspect him. "You sent them by safe hands?"

"By my secretary, and to my wife," said Westervelt.

They kept up a rather strained conversation for half an hour, chiefly devoted to abuse of Armstrong—Westervelt's abuse was curiously lacking in heartiness, though Fosdick was too busy with his own thoughts to note it. He suddenly interrupted himself to say: "Oh, I forgot. Excuse me a moment." And he went into the next room. He was gone three quarters of an hour. When he came back, he said, with not very convincing carelessness, "While I was out there talking with Waller, it occurred to me that, on the whole, the books'd be safer in my vaults. So I took the liberty of sending him up to get them. Your wife knows him."

Westervelt smiled in such a way that his white hair and beard and patriarchal features combined in an aspect of beautiful benevolence. "I fear he won't get them, Josiah," said he, chuckling softly.

"Then you'd better telephone her," said Fosdick.

"I have, Josiah," said his old pal, with a glance at the telephone on Fosdick's desk.

The veterans looked each at the other, Josiah reproachfully. "Billy, you don't trust even me," he said sadly.

"I trust no one but the Lord, Josiah," replied Westervelt.

XVI

HUGO SHOWS HIS METTLE

Fosdick did not go up to parley with the insurgent until after lunch, until he had thought out his game. He went prepared for peace, for a truce, or for war. "Horace," he began, "there are many phases to an enterprise as vast as this. You can't run it as you would a crossroads grocery. You have got to use all sorts of men and measures, to adapt yourself to them, to be broad and tolerant—and diplomatic. Above all, diplomatic." And he went on for some time in this strain of commercial commonplaces, feeling his way carefully. "Now, it may be true—I don't know, but it may be true," he ended, "that Westervelt, in conducting his part of the affairs, has taken wider latitude than perhaps might be tolerated in a man of less strength and standing. We must consider only results. On the other hand, it is just as well that we should know precisely what his methods have been."

At this Armstrong's impassive face showed a gleam of interest. "That's what I thought," said he.

"But it wouldn't do—it wouldn't do at all, Horace, for us to let an outsider like Brownell, at one jump, into the secrets of the company. Why, there's no telling what he would do. He might blackmail us, or sell us out to one of our rivals."

"What have you to propose?" said Armstrong, impatient of these puerile preliminaries. Fosdick was as clever at trickery as is the cleverest; but at its best the best trickery is puerile, once the onlooker, or even the intended victim, is on the alert.

"We must give the accounts a thorough overhauling," answered Fosdick. "But it must be done by our own people. I propose the ordinary procedure for that sort of thing—different men doing different parts of it piecemeal, and sending their reports to one central man who collates them. In that way, only the one man knows what is going on or what is found out."

"Who's the man?" asked Armstrong.

"It struck me that Hugo, being one of the fourth vice-presidents and so in touch with the comptroller's department, would most naturally step into Westervelt's place while he was away."

"Certainly," said Armstrong cordially. "Hugo's the very person."

Fosdick had not dismissed Westervelt's suggestion that Armstrong might be countermining so summarily as he had led Westervelt to believe; he did dismiss it now, however. "The young fool," he decided, "just wanted to show his authority." To Armstrong he said, "You and Hugo can work together."

"No, leave it to Hugo," said Armstrong. "I am content so long as it is definitely understood that I am not responsible. Let the Executive Committee meet and put Hugo formally in charge during Westervelt's absence."

Fosdick went up to Westervelt's house to see him a few days later; to his surprise the old bulwark of public and private virtue seemed completely restored. And Fosdick, with a blindness which he never could account for, was content with his explanation that he had been thinking it over and had reached the conclusion that his interests were perfectly secure, so long as he had the four books. Without a protest he acquiesced in the appointment of Hugo. And so it came peacefully about that Hugo, convinced that no one had ever undertaken quite so important a task as this of his, set himself to investigating the whole financial department of the O.A.D. That is to say, he issued the orders suggested by his father, issued them to subordinates suggested by his father, and brought to his father the reports they made to him.

On the third or fourth day of Westervelt's "illness," Fosdick caught a cold which laid him up with a ferocious attack of the gout. Most of the reports which the subordinates brought to Hugo he did not understand; but he felt that it was his duty to examine them, and spent about three of the four hours he gave to business each day in marching his eye solemnly down the columns of figures and explanations. And thus it came about that he discovered Armstrong's "crime"—twenty-five thousand dollars, which had been paid to Horace Armstrong on his own order and never accounted for; a few months later, a second item of the same size and mystery; a few months later, a third; a fourth, a fifth, a sixth and so on, until in all Armstrong had got from the company on his own order no less than three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for which he never accounted. "A thief!" exclaimed Hugo. "I might have known! These low-born fellows of no breeding, that rise by impudence and cunning, always steal."

Hugo did not go to his father with his startling discovery of this shameful raid on the sacred funds of the widows and orphans of the O.A.D. "I'll not worry the governor when he's ill," he reasoned. "Besides, he's far too gentle and easygoing with Armstrong. No, this is a matter for me to attend to, myself. When it's all over, the governor'll thank me. Anyhow, it's time I showed these people downtown that I understand the game and can play it." And Hugo sent for Armstrong.

Not to come to him at his office; but to call on him at his apartment on the way downtown: "Dear Sir—Mr. Hugo Fosdick wishes you to call on him at the above address at nine to-morrow morning"—this on his private letter paper and signed by his secretary.

Hugo had taken an apartment in a fashionable bachelor flathouse a few months after he became a fourth vice-president. He was not ready to get married. There were only a few women—nine girls and two widows—in the class he deemed eligible, that is, having the looks, the family, and the large fortune, all of which would be indispensable to an aspirant for his hand. And of these eleven, none had as yet shown a sufficient degree of appreciation. Four treated him as they did the other men in their set—with no distinguishing recognition of his superiority of mind and body. Five were more appreciative, but they were, curiously and unfortunately enough, the least pleasing in the three vital respects. However, while he must put off marriage until he should find his affinity, there was no reason why he should continue in the paternal leading strings; so, he set up an establishment befitting his rank and wealth. He took the large flat with its three almost huge general rooms; and, of course he furnished it in that comfortless splendor in which live those of the civilized and semicivilized world in whom prosperity smothers all originality or desire for originality. For Hugo was most careful to do everything and anything expected of his "set" by the sly middle-class purveyors who think out the luxuries and fashions by which they live off the vanities and conventionalities of the rich.

When Armstrong appeared, Hugo had been shaved and bathed and massaged and manicured and perfumed and dressed; he was seated at a little breakfast table drawn near the open fire in the dining room, two men servants in attendance—a third had ushered Armstrong in. He was arrayed in a gray silk house suit, with facings of a deeper gray, over it a long grayish-purple silk and eiderdown robe. He was in the act of lighting a cigarette at the cut glass and gold lamp which his butler was holding respectfully.

"Ah—Armstrong!" he said, with that high-pitched voice and affected accent which makes the person who uses it seem to say, "You will note that I am a real aristocrat." Then to the butler, "I wish to be alone."

"Yes, sir," said the butler, with a bow. The other servant bowed also, and they left the room.

"Well, what is it, Fosdick?" said Armstrong, seating himself.

Hugo frowned at that familiarity, aggravated by the curt tone. "I shall not detain you long enough for you to be at the trouble of seating yourself," said he.

Armstrong reflected on this an instant before he grasped what Hugo was driving at. Then he smiled. "Go on—what is it?" he said, settling himself.

"I directed you to come here," said Hugo, "because I wished to avoid every possibility of scandal. I assume you understood, as soon as you got my note?"

Armstrong looked at him quizzically. "And I came," said he, "because I assumed you had some important, very private, message from your father. I thought perhaps your father would be here."

"My father knows nothing of this," said Hugo. "I thought it more humane to spare him the pain of discovering that a servant he regarded as faithful had shamefully betrayed him."

"I might have known!" exclaimed Armstrong with good-natured disgust, rising. "So you brought me here to discuss some trifle about your servants. Some day, if I get the leisure, my young friend, I'll tell you what I think of you. But not to-day. Good morning."

"Stop!" commanded Hugo. As Armstrong did not stop, he said, "I have discovered your thefts from the company."

Armstrong wheeled, blanched. He looked hard at young Fosdick; then he slowly returned to his chair. "I understand," he said, in a voice most unlike his own.

"And I sent for you," continued Hugo triumphantly, "to tell you I will permit you quietly to resign. You will write out your resignation at the desk in the next room. I shall present it to the Board, and shall see that it is accepted without scandal or question. Of course, so far as you are able, you must make good your shortage. But I shall not be hard on you. I appreciate that chaps like you are often tempted beyond their powers of resistance."

By this time Armstrong was smiling so broadly that Hugo, absorbed though he was in his own rôle of the philosophic gentleman, had to see it. He broke off, reddened, rose and drew himself to his full height—and a very elegant figure he was. Armstrong looked up at him from his indolent lounge in the big chair. "Did you pose that before a cheval glass, Hugo?" he said, in a pleasant, contemptuous tone.

"You will force me to the alternative," cried Hugo furiously.

Armstrong got up. "Go ahead, old man," he said. "Do whatever you please. Better talk to your father first, though." He glanced round. "You're very gorgeous here—too gorgeous for the hard-working, poor people who pay for it. I'll have to interfere." He smiled at Hugo again, but there was an unpleasant glitter in his eyes. "You are suspended from the fourth vice-presidency," he went on tranquilly. "And you will vacate these premises before noon to-day. See that you take nothing with you that belongs to the O.A.D. If you do, I'll have you in a police court. Be out before noon. Brownell will be up at that hour."

Hugo stood staring. This effrontery was unbelievable. Before he could recover himself, Armstrong was gone. He sat down and slowly thought it out. Yes, it was true, the flat had been taken nominally as an uptown branch of the O.A.D. home office; much of the furniture had been paid for by the company; several of the servants were on the pay roll as clerks and laborers; yes, he had even let the O.A.D. pay grocery and wine bills—was he not like his father—did not everything he did, everything he ate and drank, contribute to the glory and stability of the O.A.D.? He was but following the established usage among the powers that deigned to guard the financial interests of the people. Perhaps, he carried the system a little further, more frankly further, than some; but logically, legitimately. Still, Armstrong was president, had nominally the authority to make things unpleasant for him.

He looked at the clock—it was ten; no time to lose. He rushed into his clothes, darted into his waiting brougham and drove home. The doctor was with his father; he had to wait, pacing and fuming, until nearly eleven before he could get admission. The old man, haggard and miserable, was stretched on a sofa-bed before the fire in his sitting room. "Well, what do you want?" he said sharply.

Hugo did not pause to choose words. "I found in the books," said he, "where Armstrong had taken three hundred and fifty thousand dollars from us—from the company. I thought I'd not worry you with it. So I sent for him to come to my rooms."

"What!" yelled Fosdick, getting his breath which had gone at the first shock. "What the damnation! You sprung my trap! You fool!"

"I ordered him to resign," Hugo hastened on. "And he refused, and ordered me to vacate my rooms before noon—because the lease stands in the name of the company. And he suspended me as vice-president."

"Good, good!" shouted Fosdick, his thin, wire-like hair, his gaunt face, his whole lean body streaming fury. "Why has God cursed me with such a son as this! How dare you! You wretched idiot! You have ruined us all!"

Hugo cowered. Making full allowance for his father's physical pain and violent temper, there was still that in the old man's face which convinced Hugo he had made a frightful blunder. "I'll vacate," he said, near to whimpering, "I'll do whatever you say."

"Give me that telephone!" ordered the old man.

Fosdick got the O.A.D. building and Armstrong's office. And soon Armstrong's voice came over the wire. "Is that you, Armstrong—Horace—? Yes, I recognize your voice. This is Fosdick. That fool boy of mine has just told me what he did."

"Yes," came in Armstrong's noncommittal voice.

"I want to say you did perfectly right in ordering him to vacate."

"Thanks."

"He'll be out by the time you set. His resignation as vice-president is on the way downtown. I'm sending him to apologize to you. I want to do everything, anything to show my deep humiliation, my deep regret."

No answer from the other end of the wire.

"Are you there, Horace?"

"Yes."

"Have I made myself clear? Is there anything I can do?"

"Nothing. Is that all?"

"Can you come up here? It's impossible for me to leave my bedroom—simply out of the question."

"I'm too busy this morning."

"This afternoon?"

"Not to-day. Good-by."

The ring-off sounded mockingly in the old man's ear. With an oath he caught up the telephone apparatus and flung it at Hugo's head. "Ass! Ass!" he shouted, shaking his cane at his son, who had barely dodged the heavy instrument. "Vacate that apartment! Take the first steamer for Europe! And don't you show up in town again until I give you leave. Hide yourself! Ass! Ass!"

Hugo scudded like a swallow before a tempest. "Is there any depth," he said when he felt at a safe distance, "any depth to which father wouldn't descend, for the sake of money—and drag us down with him?" He admitted that perhaps he had not acted altogether discreetly. "I oughtn't to have roused Armstrong's envy by letting him see my rooms." Still, that could have been easily repaired. Certainly, it wasn't necessary to grovel before an employee—"and a damned thief at that." By the time he reached his apartments, he was quite restored to favor with himself. He hurried the servants away, telephoned for a firm of packers and movers to come at once. As he rang off, a call came for him. He recognized the voice of Armstrong's secretary.

"Is that Mr. Hugo Fosdick? Well, Mr. Armstrong asks me to say that it won't be necessary for you to give up those offices uptown to-day, that you can keep them as long as you please."

"Aha!" thought Hugo, triumphant again. "He has come to his senses. I knew it—I knew he would!" To the secretary he simply said, "Very well," and rang up his father. It was nearly half an hour before he could get him; the wire was busy. At his first word, the old man said, "Ring off there! I don't want to hear or see you. You take that steamer to-morrow!"

"Armstrong has weakened, father," cried Hugo.

"What!" answered the old man, not less savage, but instantly eager.

"He has just telephoned, practically apologizing, and asking me not to disturb myself about the apartment. I knew he'd come down when he thought it over."

A silence, then his father said in a milder tone: "Well—you keep away from the office. Don't touch business, don't go near it, until I tell you to. And don't come near me till I send for you. What else did Armstrong say?"

"Just what I told you—nothing more. But when I see him, he'll apologize, no doubt."

"See that you don't see him," snapped the old man. "Keep away from anybody that knows anything of business. Keep to that crowd of empty-heads you travel with. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father," said Hugo, in the respectful tone he never, in his most supercilious mood, forgot to use toward the custodian and arbiter of his prospects.

XVII

VIOLETTE'S TAPESTRIES

Armstrong would not have protested Raphael's favorite fling at the financial district as "a wallow of dishonor"; and Boris's description of him as reeking the slime of the wallow was no harsher than what he was daily thinking about himself.

The newspapers were shrieking for a "real cleaning of the Augean stables of finance"; the political figureheads of "the interests" were solemnly and sonorously declaiming that there must be no repetition of former fiascos and fizzles, when nobody had been punished, though everybody had been caught black-handed. The prosecuting officers were protesting that the plea of the guilty that they were "gentlemen" and "respectable" would not again avail. So, Wall Street's wise knew that the struggle between Fosdick and Atwater was near its crisis. Throughout the "wallow" banks and trust companies, bond houses and bucket shops, all the eminent respectabilities, were "hustling" to get weathertight. Everyone appreciated that Fosdick and Atwater, prudent men, patron saints of "stability," would be careful to confine the zone of war strictly. But—what would they regard as the prudent and proper limits of this release and use of public anger? Neither faction was afraid of law, of serious criminal prosecution; however the authorities might be compelled to side, they would not yield to popular clamor—beyond making the usual bluff necessary to fool the public until it forgot. But these exposures which had now become a regular part of the raids of the great men on each other's preserves always tended to make the public shy for a while; and the royalty, nobility, and gentry of the fashionable hierarchy, had to meet the enormous expenses of their families, their establishments, and their retinues of dependents, never less, ever more. They could ill afford any cessation or marked slackening of the inflow of wealth from the industrious and confiding, or covetous, masses—covetous rather than confiding, since the passion of the average man for gambling, for getting something for nothing, is an even larger factor in the successful swindling operations of enthroned respectability than is his desire for a safe, honest investment of his surplus. Finally, the uneasy upper classes remembered that usually these exposures resulted in the sacrifice of some of them; an unlucky financier or group of financiers was loaded down with the blame for the corruption and, amid the execration of the crowd and the noisy denunciation of fellow financiers, was sent away into the wilderness, disgraced so far as a man can be disgraced in the eyes of money-worshipers when he still has his wealth. Rarely did the sacrifice extend further than disgrace; still, that was no light matter, as it meant lessened opportunities to share in the looting which was soon resumed with increased energy and success. The disgraced financier had to live on what he had acquired before his disgrace, instead of keeping that intact, and paying his expenses, and adding to his fortune, too, out of fresh loot.

Altogether, it was wise to get good and ready—to "dress" the shelves and the back of the shop as well as the windows and front cases; to destroy or hide suspicious books and memoranda; to shift confidential clerks; to distribute vacations to Europe among employees, open and secret, with dangerous information and a tendency toward hysterical and loose talking under cross-examination; to retain all the able lawyers, and all those related by blood, marriage, or business to legislators, prosecuting officers, and powerful politicians; to confer discreetly as to the exact facts of certain transactions, "so that we may not make any blunders and apparent contradictions on the witness stand." And the lawyers—how busy they were! The aristocrats of the legal profession were as brisk as are their humbler fellows on the eve of a "tipped-off" raid on a den of "swell crooks." In fact, the whole business had the air of a very cheap and vulgar kind of crookedness; and the doings of the great men were strange indeed, in view of their pose as leaders by virtue of superiority in honest skill. An impartial observer might have been led to wonder whether honest men had not been driven from leadership because they would not stoop to the vilenesses by which "success" was gained, and not because they were less in brain. As for such conduct in men lauded as "bold," "brave," "courageous beyond the power to quail"—it was simply inexplicable. The "dare-devil leaders" were acting like a pack of shifty cowards engaged in robbing a safe and just hearing the heavy, regular tread of a police patrol under the windows.

Armstrong was too absorbed in the game for much analysis or theorizing; still, his lip did curl at the spectacle—and in part his sneer was self-contempt. "It's disgusting," said he to himself, "that to keep alive among these scoundrels and guard the interests one is intrusted with, one must do or tolerate so many despicable things." As that view of the matter was the one which every man in the district was taking, each to excuse himself to himself, there was not an uncomfortable conscience or a shame-reddened cheek or a slinking eye. Once a man becomes convinced that his highest duty is not to himself, but to his fellow man, the rest is easy; the greater his "self-sacrifice" of honesty, decency, and self-respect for the sake of the public good—for country or religion or "stability" or "to keep the workingman's family from starving"—the more sympathetic and enthusiastic is his conscience.

When the financial district was at the height of its activity in getting weathertight for the approaching investigation, Fosdick shook off his savage enemy, the gout, and got downtown again. He went direct from his carriage to Armstrong's offices. He greeted his "man" as cordially as if he had not just been completing the arrangements by which he expected to make Armstrong himself the first conspicuous victim of the investigation. And Armstrong received and returned the greeting with no change in his usual phlegmatic manner to hint his feelings or his plans.

"About Hugo—" began Josiah.

Armstrong made a gesture of dismissal. "That's a closed incident. Any news of the committee?"

Josiah accepted the finality of Armstrong's manner. "You show yourself a man in ignoring the flappings and squawkings of that young cockatoo," said he cheerfully. "As for the committee— What do you think of Morris for counsel?"

"You've decided on him?" said Armstrong. His eyes wandered.

But Fosdick was not subtle, and thought nothing of that slight but, in one so close, most significant sign of a concealing mind. "It's settled," replied he. "Joe's an honorable man. Also, he's tied fast to us, and at the same time the public can't charge that he's one of our lawyers. I know, you and he—" There Fosdick stopped. He prided himself on a most gentlemanly delicacy in family matters.

"He'll take orders?" said Armstrong, with no suggestion that he either saw cause for "delicacy" or appreciated it.

"I suppose he would, if it were necessary. But, thank God, Horace, it isn't. As I told him at my house last night, after the governor and I had decided on him—I said to him: 'Joe, go ahead and make a reputation for yourself. We fear nothing—we've got nothing to hide that the public has a right to know. Tear the mask off those damned scoundrels who are trying to seize the O.A.D. and change it from a great bulwark of public safety into a feeder for their reckless gambling.'"

"And what did he say?" inquired Armstrong—a simple inquiry, with no hint of the cynical amusement it veiled.

"He was moved to tears, almost," replied Fosdick, damp of eye himself at the recollection. "And he said: 'Thank you, Mr. Fosdick, and you, Governor Hartwell. I'll regard this commission as a sacred trust. I'll be careful not to give encouragement to calumny or to make the public uneasy and suspicious where there is no just reason for uneasiness and suspicion; and at the same time I'll expose these men who have been prostituting the name of financier.' You really ought to have heard him."

An inarticulate sound came from behind the Westerner's armor of stolid apathy.

"Horace, he's a noble fellow," continued Fosdick, assuming that his "man" was sympathetic. "And he knows the law from cover to cover. He has drawn some of our best statutes, and whenever I've got into a place where it looked as if the howling of the mob was going to stop business, I've always called on him to get up a statute that would make the mob happy and not interfere with us, and he has never failed me. By the time he's fifty, he'll be one of the strongest men in the country—the kind of man the business interests 'd like to see in the White House. If it weren't for that fool wife of his! Do you know her?"

"No," replied Armstrong.

Fosdick decided that "delicacy" was unnecessary, as Armstrong was out of the Carlin family. "It's all very well," said he, "for a young fellow to go crazy about a girl when he's courting. But to keep on being crazy about her after they've got used to each other and settled down—it's past me. It defeats the whole object of marriage, which is to steady a man, to take woman off his mind, and give him peace for his work. In my opinion, there's too much talk about love nowadays. It ain't decent—it ain't decent! And it's setting the women crazy, with so much idle time on their hands. Morris is stark mad about that wife of his, and all he gets out of it is what a man usually gets when he makes a fool of himself for a woman. She thinks of nothing but spending money, and she keeps him poor. The faster he earns, the wilder she spends. I suppose he thinks she cares for him—when working him is simply a business with her."

If Fosdick had known what Mrs. Morris was about at that very hour, there would have been even more energy in his denunciation of her. As soon as her husband had got home the previous night, he had confided to her the whole of his new and dazzling opportunity—not only all that his secret employer expected him to make of it but all that he purposed to make of it. She was not a discreet woman; so, it was fortunate for him that her listening when he talked "shop," as she called his career, was a pretense. She gathered only what was important to her—that he felt sure of making a great deal out of the new venture.

He meant reputation; she assumed that he meant money. She began to spend it the very next day. Even as Josiah Fosdick was denouncing her, she was in an art store negotiating for a set of medieval tapestries for her salon. As antiques, the tapestries were wonderful—wonderful, like so large a part of the antiques that multimillionaires have brought over for their houses and for the museums—wonderful as specimens of the ingenuity of European handicraftsmen at forgery. As works of art, the tapestries were atrocious; as household articles, they were dangerous—filthy, dust- and germ-laden rags. But "everybody" was getting antique tapestries; Mrs. Morris must have them. She was an interesting and much-admired representative of the American woman who goes in seriously for art. To go in seriously for art does not mean to cultivate one's sense of the beautiful, to learn to discriminate with candor among good, not so good, not so bad, and bad. It means to keep in touch with the European dealers in things artistic, real and reputed; to be the first to follow them when, a particular fad having been mined to its last dollar, they and their subsidized critics and connoisseurs come out excitedly for some new period or style or school. Mrs. Morris was regarded as one of the first authorities in fashionable New York on matters of art. Her house was enormously admired; she was known to every dealer from Moscow to the tip of the Iberian peninsula; and incredible were the masses of trash they had worked off upon her and, through her recommendations, upon her friends.

Her "amazing artistic discernment"—so Sunnywall, the most fashionable of the fashionable architects, described it—was the bulwark of her social position. Whenever a voice lifted against the idle lives of fashionable people, how conclusive to reply, "Look at Mrs. Joe Morris—she's typical. She devotes her life to art. It's incalculable what she has done toward interesting the American people in art." She even had fame in a certain limited way. Her name was spoken with respect from Maine to California in those small but conspicuous circles where possession of more or less wealth and a great deal of empty time has impelled the women to occupy themselves with books, pictures, statuary, furniture they think they ought to like. To what fantastic climaxes prosperity has brought the old American passion for self-development! The men, to shrewd and shameless prostitution in the market-places; the women, to the stupefying ignorance of the culture that consists in the mindless repetitions of the slang and cant and nonsense of intellectual fakirs.

Mrs. Morris told her husband about the new tapestries at dinner. That was her regular time for imparting to him anything she knew he would be "troublesome" about; and it was rapidly ruining his digestion. She chose dinner because the presence of the servants made it impossible for him to burst out until the fact that the thing was done and could not be undone had time to batter down his wrath. Usually she spoke between soup and fish—she spoke thus early that she might gain as much time as possible. So often did she have these upsetting communications to make that he got in the habit of dreading those two courses as a transatlantic captain dreads the Devil's Hole; and on evenings when the fish had come and gone with nothing upsetting from her, he had a sudden, often exuberant rush of high spirits.

"I dropped in at Violette's to-day for another look at those tapestries," she began.

At "Violette's" he paused in lifting the spoon to his lips; at "tapestries" he pricked his ears—one of the greatest trials of his wife's married life was that independent motion of his ears, "just like one of the lower animals or something in a side show," she often complained.

"And I simply couldn't resist," she ended, looking like a happy, spoiled child. He dropped the spoon with a splash.

"Do be careful, Joe," she remonstrated sweetly. "We can't change the dinner-cloth every night, and such frequent washing is ruinous. I had them sent home, and you'll be entranced when you see them."

"Did you give Violette his original price?" he demanded, as his color, having reached an apoplectic blue-red, began to pale toward the normal.

"He wouldn't come down a cent. And I don't blame him."

Morris glowered at the butler and the footman. They went about their business as if quite unconscious of the work of peace they were doing—and were expected by their mistress to do. Mrs. Morris talked on and on, pretending to assume that he was as delighted with her purchase as was she. She discoursed of these particular tapestries, of tapestries in general, of the atmosphere they brought into a house—"the suggestion, the very spirit of the old, beautiful life of the upper classes in the Middle Ages." By the time dinner was over she had talked herself so far away from the sordid things of life that the coarsest nature would have shrunk from intruding them. But on that evening Morris was angry through and through. When they left the dining room, she said, "Now, come and look at them, dear."

"No," he said savagely. He threw open the door of his study. "Come in here. I want to talk to you."

She hesitated. A glance at his fury-blanched face convinced her that, if she made it necessary, he would seize her and thrust her in. As the door closed on them with a bang, the butler said to the footman, "Letty's done it once too often."

The footman tiptoed toward the door. The butler stopped him with, "You couldn't hear bloody murder through that study door, and the keyhole's no good."

"Why didn't he take her to her boudoir?" grumbled the footman.

She had indeed "done it once too often." As soon as Morris had the door locked he blazed down at her—she fresh and innocent, with her fluffy golden hair and sweet blue eyes and dimples on either side of her pretty mouth. "Damn you!" he exclaimed through his set teeth. "You want to ruin me, body and soul—you vampire!"

Two big slow tears drenched her eyes. "Oh, Joe!" she implored. "What have I done! Don't be angry with me. It kills me!" And she caught her breath like a child trying bravely not to cry and put out her rosy arms toward him, her round, rosy shoulders and bosom rising and falling in a rhythmic swell.

"Don't touch me!" he all but shouted. "That's part of your infernal game. Oh, you think I'm a fool—and so I am—so I am! But not the kind you imagine. It hasn't been your cleverness that has made me play the idiot, but my own weakness." He caught her by the shoulders. "What is it?" he cried furiously, shaking her. "What's the infernal spell I get under whenever you touch me?"

"You love me," she pleaded, "as I love you."

"Love!" he jeered. "Well, call it that—no matter. Those tapestries have got to go back—do you hear?"

"Yes—you needn't shout, dear. Certainly they'll go back."

"You say 'certainly,' but you've no intention of sending them back. You think this'll blow over, that you'll wheedle me round as you have a hundred times. But I tell you, this time, what I say goes!"

"What's the trouble, Joe? You were never like this before."

He was gnawing at his thin gray mustache and was breathing heavily. "When I married you I was a decent sort of fellow. I had a sense of honor and a disposition to be honest. You—you've made me into a bawd. I tell you, not the lowest creature that parades the streets of the slums is viler than I. That's what you and love—love!—have done for me. My wife and love! God, woman, what you have made me do to get money for those greedy hands of yours! Now, listen to me. You evidently didn't listen last night when I told you my plans. No matter. Here's the point. I'm going to sell out once more—going to play the traitor for as big stakes as ever tempted a man. Then, I'll make the career I once dreamed of making, and you will be second to no woman in the land. But, no more extravagance."

"I always knew you'd be rich and famous," she cried, clasping her hands and looking the radiant child.

"Famous, but not rich. I'm not playing for money this time. And we're not going to have much money hereafter. I've thought it all out. We're going to move into a smaller house; all your junk is to be sold, and what little money it'll bring we'll put by."

She seemed to be freezing. The baby look died out of her face. Her eyes became hard, her mouth cruel. "I don't understand," she said.

"Yes, you do, madam," he retorted. "You need not waste time in scheming or in working your schemes. I've thought it all out. You were driving me straight to ruin; and, when you got me there, if I hadn't conveniently died or blown my brains out, you'd have divorced me and fastened on some one else. I think that, like me, you used to be decent. You've been led on and on until you've come pretty near to losing all human feeling. Well, it's to be a right about, this instant. I'm going back—and you've got to go back with me."

There was a note in his voice, an expression in his eyes that disquieted her; but she had ruled him so long, had softened him from the appearance of strength into plastic weakness so often, that she saw before her simply a harder task than usual, perhaps the hardest task she had yet had.

"I'll be very busy the next few months," he went on. "You must go away—to your mother—or abroad—anywhere, so that I shan't be tempted."

"I don't want to leave you!" she cried. "I want to stay and help you."

His smile was sardonic. "No! You shall go. I've an offer for this house, as it stands. In fact, I've sold it."

She stared wildly. "Joe!" she screamed.

"I've sold it," he repeated.

"To whom?"

His eyes shifted, and he flushed. "To Trafford," he replied, with a sullenness, a shamefacedness that would not have escaped her had she not been internally in such a commotion that nothing from the outside could impress her.

"But you couldn't get a tenth what the things are worth, selling that way."

"I got a good price," said he, his eyes averted. "Never mind what it was."

"Why, the Traffords would have no use for this house. They've got a palace."

"He bought it," said Morris doggedly.

"I don't believe it."

"He bought it; and I want you to tell everybody we sold at a loss—a big loss. You can say we're thinking of living in the country. Not a word to anyone that'd indicate there's any mystery about the sale." This without looking up.

She studied his face—the careworn but still handsome features, the bad lines about the eyes and mouth, the splendid intellectuality of the brow, a confused but on the whole disagreeable report upon the life and character within. "I think I do understand," she said slowly. Then, like a vicious jab, "At least, as much as I want to understand."

She strolled toward the door, sliding one soft, jeweled hand reflectively over her bare shoulders. She paused before a statuette and inspected it carefully, her hands behind her back, her fingers slowly locking and unlocking. Presently she gave a queer little laugh and said, "It wasn't the house, it was you Trafford bought."

A pause, then he: "He thinks so."

Again a pause, she smiling softly up at the statuette. Without facing him she said, "I must have my share, Joe."

He did not answer.

She waited a few minutes, repeated, "I must have my share."

"Yes," he replied.

A pause; then, "Are you coming up to bed?"

"I shall sleep here."

She had passively despised him, whenever she had thought about him at all in those years of his subservience to her. For the first time she was looking at him with a feeling akin to respect.

"Good night," she murmured sweetly.

"Good night," curtly from him.

The watching servants were astonished at her expression of buoyant good humor, were astounded when she said with careless cheerfulness to the butler, "Thomas, telephone Violette the first thing in the morning to come for those tapestries he brought to-day. Tell him I'll call and explain."

XVIII

ARMSTRONG PROPOSES

Armstrong lingered in the entrance to the apartment house where Neva lived, dejection and irritation plain upon his features. At no time since he met her at Trafford's had he so longed to see her; and the elevator boy had just told him she was out. The boy's manner was convincing, but Armstrong was supersensitive about Neva.

She had received him often, and was always friendly; but always with a reserve, the more disquieting for its elusiveness. And whenever he tried to see her and failed, he suspected her of being unwilling to admit him. Sometimes the suspicion took the form of a belief it was a tête-à-tête with the painter which she would not let him interrupt. Again, he feared she had decided not to admit him any more. It would be difficult to say which made him the gloomier—the feeling that he was, at best, a distant second, or the feeling that he was not placed at all. Never before in his relation with any human being, man or woman, had he been so exasperatingly at a disadvantage as with her. The fact that they had been married, which apparently ought to have made it impossible for her to maintain any barrier of reserve against him, once she had accepted him as a friend, was somehow just the circumstance that prevented him from making any progress whatever with her. And this was highly exasperating to a man of his instinct and passion and ability for conquest and dominion over all about him, men as well as women.

"I'm making a fool of myself. I'm letting her make a fool of me," he thought angrily, as he stood in the entrance. "I'll not come again." But he had made this same decision each time he was met with "Not at home," and had nevertheless reappeared at her door after a few weeks of self-denial. So, he mocked himself even as he was bravely resolving. He gazed up and down the street. His face brightened. Far down the long block, toward Fifth Avenue, he saw a slim, singularly narrow figure, thin yet nowhere angular; beautiful shoulders and bust, narrow hips; a fascinating simple dress of brown, a sable stole and muff, a graceful brown hat with three plumes. "Distinguished" was the word that seemed to him to describe what he could see, thus far. As she drew near, he noted how her clear skin, her eyes, her hair all had the sheen that proclaims health and vivid life. "But she would never have looked like this, or have been what she is, if she had not got rid of me," he said to himself by way of consolation.

"Won't you take a walk?" he asked, when they met half way between the two avenues. The friendliness of her greeting dispelled his ill humor; sometimes that same mere friendliness was the cause of a stinging irritation.

"Come back with me," she replied. "I'm always in at this time. Besides, to-day I have an engagement—no, not just yet—not until Boris comes. Then, he and I are going out."

"Oh—Raphael! Always Raphael."

"Almost always," said she. "Almost every day—often twice a day, sometimes three times a day."

His dealings with women had been in disregard and disdain of their "feminine" methods; but he did know the men who use that same indirection to which women are compelled because nature and the human societies modeled upon its savage laws decree that woman shall deal with men in the main through their passions. He, therefore, suspected that Neva's frank declaration was not without intent to incite. But, to suspect woman's motive rarely helps man; in his relations with her he is dominated by a force more powerful than reason, a force which compels him to acts of which his reason, though conscious and watchful, is a helpless spectator. Armstrong's feeling that Neva was not unwilling to give herself the pleasure of seeing him jealous of Raphael did not help him toward the self-control necessary to disappoint her. Silent before his rising storm, he accompanied her to the studio. Alone with her there, he said abruptly:

"Do you think any human being could fall in love with me?"

She examined him as if impartially balancing merits and demerits. "Why not?" she finally said.

"I've sometimes thought there was a hardness in me that repels."

"Perhaps you're right," she admitted. "You'll probably never know until you yourself fall in love."

"What is your objection to me?"

"Mine?" She seemed to reflect before answering. "The principal one, I think, is your tyranny. You crush out every individuality in your neighborhood. You seem to want a monopoly of the light and air."

"Was that what used to make you so silent and shut up in yourself?"

She nodded. "I simply couldn't begin to grow. You wouldn't have it."

"But now?" he said.

She smiled absently. "It often amuses me to see how it irritates you that you can't—crowd me. You do so firmly believe that a woman has no right to individuality."

He was not really listening. He was absorbed in watching her slowly take off her long gloves; as her white forearms, her small wrists, her hands, emerged little by little, his blood burned with an exhilaration like the sting of a sharp wind upon a healthy skin——

"Neva, will you marry me?"

So far as he could see, she had not heard. She kept on at the gloves until they were off, were lying in her lap. She began to remove her hat pins; her arms, bare to the elbows, were at their best in that position.

"A year ago, two years ago," he went on, "I thought we had never been married. I know now that we have never been unmarried."

"And when did you make that interesting discovery?" inquired she, still apparently giving her hat her attention.

"When I saw how I felt toward Raphael. You think I am jealous of him. But it is not jealousy. I know you couldn't fall in love with a fellow that rigs himself out like a peacock."

The delicate line of Neva's eyebrows lifted. "Boris dresses to suit himself," said she. "I never think of it—nor, I fancy, does he."

"Besides," continued Armstrong, "you could no more fall in love with him than you could at any other place step over the line between a nice woman and the other kind."

"Really!"

"Yes—really!" he retorted, showing as much anger as he dared. "My feeling about Raphael is that he has no right to hang about another man's wife as he does. And you feel the same way."

With graceful, sure fingers she was arranging her hair where it had been pressed down by her hat. "That is amusing," she said tranquilly. "You must either change your idea of what 'nice woman' means or change your idea of me. I haven't the slightest sense of having been married to you."

"Impossible!" he maintained.

"I know why you say that—why men think that. But I assure you, my friend, I have no more the feeling that I am married than that I am still sick because I had a severe illness once."

His mind had been much occupied by memories of their married days; their dead child so long, so completely forgotten by him and never thought of as a tie between him and his wife, had suddenly become a thing of vividness, the solemn and eternal sealing of its mother to him. Her calm repudiation of him and his rights now seemed to him as unwomanly as would have seemed any attempt on her part to claim him, had he not begun to care for her.

"Don't say those things," he protested angrily. "You don't mean them, and they sound horrible."

She looked at him satirically. "You men!" she mocked. "You men, with your coarse, narrow ideas of us women that encourage all that is least self-respecting in us! I do not attach the same importance to the physical side of myself that you do. I try to flatter myself there is more to me than merely my sex. I admit, nature intended only that. But we are trying to improve on nature."

"I suppose you think you have made me ashamed because I am still in a state of nature," he rejoined. "But you haven't. No matter what any man may pretend, he will care for you in the natural way as long as you look as you do." And his glance swept her in bold admiration. "As I said a while ago, I'm not jealous of Raphael. I'm jealous of all men. Sometimes I get to thinking about you—that you are somewhere—with some man, several men—their heads full of the ideas that steam in my head whenever I look at you—and I walk the floor and grind my teeth in fury."

The color was in her cheeks, though her eyes were mocking. "Go on," she said. "This is interesting."

"Yes—it must be interesting, and amusing, in view of the way I used to act. But that was your fault. You hid yourself from me then. You cheated me. You let me make a fool of myself, and throw away the best there was in my life."

"You forget your career," said she. "You aren't a human being. You are a career."

"I suppose you—a woman—would prefer an obscurity, a nobody, provided he were a sentimental, Harry-hug-the-hearth."

"I think so," she said. "A nobody with a heart rather than the greatest somebody on earth without one. Heart is so much the most important thing in the world. You'll find that out some day, when you're not so strong and self-reliant and successful."

"I have found it out," replied he. "And that is why I ask you to marry me."

"Ask me to become an incident in your career."

"No. To become joint, equal partner in our career."

She shook her head. "You couldn't, wouldn't have a partner, male or female—not yet. Besides it would be impossible for me to interest myself in getting rich or taking care of riches or distributing them among a crowd of sycophants."

"I'm not getting rich," replied he. "I'm making a good salary, and spending it almost all. But I'm not making much, outside."

"I had heard otherwise. They tell me your sort of business is about the best 'graft'—isn't that the word?—downtown, and that you are where you can get as much as you care to carry away."

"Yes. I could."

"But you don't? I knew it!"

Her belief in his honesty made him uncomfortable. "I didn't say I was different from the others—really different," he said hesitatingly. That very morning he had been forced to listen to a long series of reports on complaints of O.A.D. policy holders—how some had been swindled by false promises of agents whom he must shield; how others had been cheated on lapsed or surrendered policies; how, in a score of sly ways, the "gang" in control were stealing from their wards, their trusting and helpless victims. "I can't, and don't purpose to, deny," he went on to her, "that I'm part of the system of inducing some other fellow to sow, and then reaping his harvest, or most of it. I don't put it in my own barn, but I do help at the reaping. Oh, everything's perfectly proper and respectable—at least, on the surface. But—well, sometimes I get desperately sick of it all. Just now, I'm in that mood; it brought me here to-day. There's a row on down there, and it's plot and counterplot, move and check, all very exciting, but I—hate it! Nobody's to blame. It's simply a system that's grown up. And if one plays the game, why, he's got to conform to the rules."

"If one plays the game."

"What's a man to do? Go back to the farm and become a slave to a railroad company or a mortgage? We can't all be painters."

She glanced at him quickly with a sudden narrowing of the eyelids that seemed to concentrate her gaze like a burning glass. "I hadn't thought of that," said she.

"If you had to be either a sheep or a shearer, which would you choose?"

"Is that how it is?"

"Pretty nearly," was his gloomy reply.

A long silence, he staring at the floor, she watching him. At last she said, "Haven't they—got—something on you—something they can use against you?"

He startled. "Where did you hear that? What did you hear?" he demanded, with an astonished look at her.

"I was lunching to-day with some people who know we used to be married, but they don't know we're good friends. They supposed I'd be glad to hear of any misfortune to you. And they said a mine was going to blow up under you, and that you'd disappear and never be heard of again."

"You can't tell me who told you?"

"No—unless it's absolutely necessary. It has something to do with an investigating committee. You're to be called quite suddenly and something is to come out—something you did that will look bad—" She came to a full stop.

His face cleared. "Oh—I know about that. I've arranged for it." His mind was free to consider her manner. "And you assumed I was guilty?"

"I didn't know," she replied. "I was sure you were no worse than the rest of them. If you hadn't come to-day, I'd have sent you warning."

His eyes lighted; he smiled triumphantly. "I told you!" he cried. "You see, you still feel that we're married, that our interests are the same."

She colored, but he could not be sure whether her irritation was against herself or against him. "You are very confident of yourself—and of me," said she ironically, and her eyes were laughing at him. "And this is the man," she mocked, "who less than three brief years ago was so eager to be rid of me!"

"Yes," he admitted, with a brave and not unsuccessful effort at brazening out what could not be denied or explained away. "But you were not the same person then that you are now."

"And whose fault was that?" retorted she. "You married me when I was a mere child. You could have made of me what you pleased. Instead, you——"

"I admit it all," he interrupted. "I married you—from a base motive, though I can plead that I glamoured it over to myself. Still, I owed it to myself and to you to have done my level best with and for you. And I shirked and skulked."

She did not show the appreciation of this abjectness which he had, perhaps unconsciously, expected. Instead, she laughed satirically, but with entire good humor. "How clever you think yourself, Horace," said she, "and how stupid you think me. That's a very old trick, to try to make a crime into a virtue by confessing it."

He hung his head, convicted. "At least," he said humbly, "I love you now. If you will give me another chance——"

"You had as good a chance as a man could ask," she reminded him, without the anger that would have made him feel sure of her. "How you used to exasperate me! You assumed I had neither intelligence nor feeling. You were so selfish, so self-centered. I don't see how you can hope to be trusted, even as a friend. You shake me off; you see me again; find I have been somewhat improved by a stay in New York; find I am not wholly unattractive to others. Your jealousy is roused. No, please don't protest. You see, I understand you perfectly."

"I deserve it," he said.

"Do you think a woman would be showing even the small good sense you concede women, if she were to trust a man whose interest in her was based upon jealousy of another man?"

"I'm not jealous of that damned, scented foreigner, with his rings and his jeweled canes and his hand-kissing. I know it must make your honest American flesh creep to have him touch his lips to the back of your hand."

Neva blazed at him. "How dare you!" she cried, rising in her wrath. "How dare you stand in my house, in my presence, and insult thus the best friend I ever had—the only friend!"

"Friend!" sneered Armstrong. "I know all about the sort of friendship that rake is capable of."

Neva was facing him with a look that blanched his face. "You will withdraw those insults to Boris," she said, in that low, even voice which is wrath's deadliest form of expression, "and you will apologize to me, or you will leave here, never to return."

"I beg your pardon," he responded instantly. "I am ashamed of having said those things. I—I ... It was jealousy. I love you, and I can't bear to think of the possibility of rivalry."

"You are swift with apologies. In the future, be less swift with impertinence and insult," she answered, showing in manner, as well, that she was far from mollified. "As between Boris's friendship and professions of love from a man who only a little while ago neglected and abandoned and forgot me——"

"For God's sake, Neva," he pleaded. "I've been paying for that. And now that you have shown me how little hope there is for me, I shall continue to suffer. Be a little merciful!"

His agitation, where usually there was absolute self-control, convinced and silenced her. Presently he said, "Will you be friends again—if I'll behave myself?"

She nodded with her humorous smile and flash of the eyes. "If you behave yourself," replied she. "We were talking of—of Fosdick, was it not?"

"Fosdick!" He made a gesture of disgust. "That name! I never hear it or think of it except in connection with something repulsive. It's always like a whiff from a sewer."

"And you were about to marry his daughter!" said she, with a glance of raillery.

He reddened; anything that was past for him was so completely shut out and forgotten that, until she reminded him, the sentimental episode with Amy was as if it had not been. "Where did you hear that?" he asked, his guilty eyes lowering; for he felt she must have suspected why he had thought of marrying Amy.

"Everybody was talking about it when I came to New York."

He was silent for a moment. "Well," he finally continued, "she and I are not even friends." Into his eyes came the steely, ruthless look. "Within a week I'm going to destroy Josiah Fosdick." Then, in comment on her swiftly changing expression, "I see you don't like that."