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  The first was a certificate for twenty-five shares of the stock of the West County Tool and Machine Company made out to one Frederick H. Longley. He turned it over quickly. The stereotyped form of transfer on the back was signed by Longley and duly witnessed—but the space for the transferee's name was left blank. The other was a proxy for the stock made out in like form. Both were in accordance with Charlebois' instructions. He folded the documents and slipped them into his pocket.

  "The money! The money!" reiterated Steener wildly, holding out his hand. "The money!"

  Stranway, without a word, tossed the envelope containing the banknotes upon the desk.

  Steener clutched at it fiercely, pulled out the notes and began to count them, whispering eagerly to himself, his fingers shaking.

  Grim-faced, Stranway held the light and watched him. A bill fluttered to the floor from the fumbling hands. Stranway stooped, picked it up, and thrust it again into Steener's fingers; then he leaned forward suddenly and caught the other's hand.

  Steener jumped back nervously, as though he had been struck.

  "What is it? What is it? What's the matter?" he mumbled.

  "Look here," demanded Stranway sharply, "why didn't you put the papers in your pocket when you left the office this evening, instead of coming back here for them in the middle of the night?"

  "Because I didn't dare," said Steener, staring at Stranway in surprise. "I thought you understood. Mr. Poindexter told me to get all that stock together and ready for him to take away with him. He went to Cleveland to-night. There were about a hundred certificates and proxies in all. I made a package of them and handed them to him. I left this one in the safe—don't you see? I was afraid he might count them. If he did he would find one short; and then, of course, it would seem no more than carelessness on my part that had caused me to overlook one, for it would still be in the safe, you understand? He didn't count them"—Steener seemed to shiver slightly as he spoke—"he—he trusted me."

  He trusted me! The words seemed to curl like the hot, burning sting of a whiplash, flicking Stranway on the raw. It was what some inner voice of his own had been striving to say for the last few minutes, wasn't it? Conscience! What was it Charlebois had said about conscience? His lips tightened. It was a little late in the game to distrust Charlebois now, wasn't it? A little late to kick a hole in the only justification he had for what he was doing here!

  "I had to accompany him to the train, leave the office when he did," Steener went on; "so, of course, there was nothing to do but come back for it. And I wasn't going to come back until—until I was sure I was going to get my money. I—I've got to get out of the country now, but these'll take me"—he was cramming the banknotes into his pocket—"these'll take me a long way, and I'll make a new start—a long way, and——"

  Each man was staring into the other's face; each, like a figure turned to stone, stood motionless, breathless, one on either side of the desk. This time there was no mistake. The light in Stranway's hand vanished.

  Steener reached across the desk, and caught at Stranway convulsively.

  "My God," he gasped, "I forgot to lock the door of the outer office. It's the watchman. He's found it open, and he's coming."

  A heavy tread, sounding nearer and nearer, came from the room without. And now a faint glow of light, undoubtedly from the watchman's lantern, crept along the ceiling from where, near the top, the office partitions were of glass.

  "We can't get out—there's no way out!" Steener was whispering in terror. "And even if we broke away from him, he'd recognise me, and then, and then—oh, my God!" The last was a broken sob.

  Stranway's jaws clamped together. In spite of the imminent danger to himself, a wave of pity for the other swept over him. He was not questioning Charlebois now. He dared not question Charlebois for his own peace of mind. But fifty thousand dollars would tempt many men; and, whatever it all might mean, it was no more than playing the game to give this man a chance, if he could.

  His fingers closed with a fierce, significant pressure on Steener's arm.

  "Leave the watchman to me," he said under his breath. "Get over there by the partition near the door. The instant he comes in—run for it! Do you understand?"

  Without waiting for a reply, half guiding, half pulling Steener with him, Stranway crossed to the door, and both crouched back close against the wall.

  The footsteps came nearer. The man was tramping heavily down the aisle of the general office. Came then a metallic ring as of the lantern base knocking against something. The steps halted at the threshold of the private office. A hand fumbled at the door-knob. And then the door opened, and a path of light fell across the floor.

  Like a flash, Stranway's arms shot out, his hands closed on the dark form behind the light—and with a sudden pull he brought the man staggering toward him through the doorway.

  There was a crash, a tinkle of splintering glass as the lantern sailed across the room, smashed against the opposite wall, and went out. Came then a chorus of growling, gasping oaths from the watchman—and the man, quick to act, grappled savagely with Stranway. The next instant, they had pitched to the floor, and, rolling over and over, each was seeking a master hold.

  "Run!" Stranway flung at Steener—and heard the other dash frantically away through the outer office. But now the sweat beads were standing out on Stranway's forehead. Muscular and athletic though he was, he was being hard put to it to hold his own, and was at a decided disadvantage in that he had no wish to strike or harm the other—only to break from the man now that Steener had got away, and, with a minute's start, trust to the darkness to effect his own escape.

  For a moment now he was uppermost. It was his chance. Concentrating all his strength in a sudden effort, he wrenched himself free from the other's arms, sprang to his feet, gained the door, crashed it shut behind him, and dashed blindly down the outer office, his hands outstretched to ward himself off as best he could from the desks and chairs about him.

  Shouts and yells came from the private office. He heard the inner door open—but he had reached the outer one now. He gained the corridor, and leaped out into the street. No one was in sight. But the watchman's voice, bawling the alarm, came from within—and in another half minute the man would be in the open where his cries would attract the notice of any one within a radius of blocks.

  Running like a deer, Stranway made for the corner. As he reached it, a glance over his shoulder showed him the watchman just emerging from the building—and then a stream of flame cut the blackness, and the roar of a revolver shot echoed up and down the deserted street.

  Grimly Stranway flung himself around the corner. The dark mass of his car showed just ahead. And then, startled, he paused for the fraction of a second. He had stopped his engine, but the quick throb and pound of it came to him now. Had Steener had enough sense for that? A form loomed up from the driver's seat. A voice, low, tense, vibrant, came to him.

  "Quick!" it called.

  Chapter V.

  Against Time

  Table of Contents

  Stranway threw himself into the tonneau. The car leaped forward like a greyhound from the leash. There was another shot—from the corner this time. And then a skid, a whir, the off wheels lifted from the ground and the car had swerved into the first side street. But to Stranway all this was as something extraneous, something apart, as he scrambled wildly now over into the front seat. It wasn't Steener who was driving—it wasn't even a man.

  And then a street lamp for a flashing instant caught the beauty of the girl's face, the truant strands of hair whipping at her cheeks, the dark eyes bright with excitement fixed steadily on the road ahead; threw into relief the slim figure crouched over the steering wheel, and Stranway caught a glimpse of a delicate flower nestling in the dark setting of her dress—a purple orchid.

  For a moment, breathless from his race, Stranway could not speak. He was conscious of a suddenly pounding pulse that was not due to his extreme exertions. The Orchid! From what
Charlebois had said weeks ago, he had had a vague hope from the moment he had left Dominic Court that somehow, somewhere, he might see her to-night since he was at last on "active service"; but he had not dreamed it would be like this.

  "You!" he cried out.

  She turned and looked at him, flashing him a smile.

  "I was wondering," she said, "if you remembered me."

  "Remembered you!" Stranway gasped. And then he laughed because her eyes were mischievous. "Well, you haven't given me much chance to in the last month," he said; "but I guess you've made up for it to-night with compound interest."

  They had swung on to Broadway, and headed up-town. There was no longer any sound of pursuit. But the car was still running at terrific speed.

  "That sounds like dear old Charlebois," she said. "'Compound interest!' And speaking of Charlebois——"

  "We won't!" said Stranway decisively. "We'll talk about you. This is the first chance I've had, you know."

  She shook her head.

  "I'm afraid there's hardly time for that," she said.

  "Oh, yes; there is!" asserted Stranway. "We're quite safe now, and you're running much too fast. Stop the car, and let me drive."

  But now the laughter had gone out of her face and eyes.

  "Presently—not yet," she answered. Then quickly, seriously: "You were to leave for Cleveland to-morrow to be in time for a meeting on the following morning—with the stock? You were to meet Charlebois there?"

  Something in her tone caused him alarm.

  "Yes," he said. "Yes—what is it? What has happened?"

  "I do not know," she replied hurriedly, "except that it is a matter of life and death to have that certificate and the proxy at the meeting, and——"

  "Well," Stranway broke in reassuringly, "I've got them."

  "I supposed you had," she said hastily. "It is not that. There has been a wretched mistake. I do not know whether one of our men has blundered badly, or how it was caused. The meeting is for to-morrow morning, not the day after."

  "To-morrow morning!" repeated Stranway mechanically, as though not fully sensing the meaning of the words—and then with a rush it came upon him in all its grim significance. At any cost do not fail, Charlebois had said. To-morrow morning—it was this morning now! "You are sure—you are sure?" he cried. "Charlebois—does Charlebois know?"

  "He knows—now," she said. "It was from him I received the news. He is travelling on the same train with Poindexter. He wired duplicate telegrams en route to both of us. I received mine three-quarters of an hour ago. Yours is probably at the Court. I was afraid it would have arrived after you had left there, and that is why you found me here in the car."

  This morning! Stranway's mind, wrestling with the problem forced suddenly upon him, was groping for a solution. He pulled out his watch, managed to make out the time, and groaned. It was fourteen minutes to one. There were nine hours left. Cleveland must be, roughly, something like four hundred and fifty miles away. Nine into four hundred and fifty was—fifty miles an hour. It was possible, just possible, if only all were ready; but the time it would take now to make the arrangements left the chance a desperate one at best. It was, however, the only chance he could see. He turned to her.

  "A special——"

  "Is being made up now," she supplied coolly. "It will be ready for you by the time you reach the Grand Central. I told them you would be there by one o'clock. They have agreed to make Cleveland by a quarter to ten in the morning, and I have wired Charlebois on the train that you will meet him at the office of the Machine Company."

  "You did that!" ejaculated Stranway, staring at her in amazement and unveiled admiration; and then, with a start: "But what are you slowing for now? I didn't know you were racing for a train when I said anything about speed a moment ago, and——"

  His words ended in a surprised gasp. The car had come to a complete standstill at the corner of an intersecting street, and she had sprung lightly to the sidewalk.

  "Flint will meet you with your bag at the station, and bring back the car," she said quickly. "You understand everything now, and I have work yet to do. Hurry! There isn't a moment to spare. You will need all the time you've got to make the station—and you mustn't fail!"

  Dazedly, he squeezed into the seat behind the wheel and leaned out toward her.

  "Yes, that's all right," he protested, "but surely there's no necessity for you——"

  She did not answer—she had simply disappeared around the corner.

  "Well, I'm damned!" said Stranway earnestly to himself; and then conscious that her last words were the key to the situation, that he must not fail, that every minute was literally now a priceless asset, he sent the car leaping forward on its way uptown again.

  Twelve minutes later, as he ran through the gates and out on the platform of the Grand Central Station, he found his train waiting for him. He snatched his bag from Flint's hand, and sprang on the car's steps. A conductor, watch in hand, raised two fingers to the cab—and the "special" with a marked-up schedule, rights over every mortal thing on earth, that was undoubtedly already eliciting benedictions of pungent unholiness from dispatchers many miles away as they rearranged and readjusted their train sheets, began to glide out of the station.

  Stranway's brain was in a whirl as he turned into his berth. The events of the night had followed each other with stunning rapidity. Question upon question surged upon him. Charlebois' promise, Charlebois' character itself, seemed strangely at variance with his acts to-night in so far as Steener was concerned. What did it mean? And this blunder in the dates, so nearly fatal, how had that come about? And Poindexter, the capitalist—why had Charlebois so suddenly and unexpectedly left for Cleveland on the same train with him? What was this meeting that made of these few paltry shares, twenty-five of them out of an issue of thousands doubtless, of such vital importance?

  And the Orchid—he was still thinking of the Orchid when, half an hour later, he dropped off to sleep.

  Chapter VI.

  For Value Received

  Table of Contents

  It was twenty minutes to ten in the morning, five minutes better than the railroad officials had promised, when the "special" rolled into Cleveland; and at ten minutes to ten, a taxi, after a wild dash through the city, deposited Stranway at the entrance to a large office building.

  He stepped from the elevator on the fourth floor and walked rapidly down the corridor. Looking for the general office, he passed two doors each bearing the sign of the West County Tool and Machine Company, but with the word "private" underneath. There was evidently quite an extensive suite of offices. But before the third door, also marked "private," he halted abruptly. From within, sharp, imperative, suddenly raised in tone, he recognised Charlebois' voice.

  With a perfunctory knock, he opened the door, stepped inside—and stood stock-still just beyond the threshold. Before a flat-topped desk in the centre of the room stood the little old gentleman of Dominic Court, stern-faced, revolver in his hand. Across the desk, huddled in a chair, his body crouched forward, was another man—a middle-aged man with grizzled hair, upon whose bloodless features, as he turned his head apathetically at the sound of the opening door; Stranway read utter misery and hopelessness.

  "Ah, my boy!" Charlebois' expression had relaxed a little, and he spoke quietly now without emotion. "Ah, my boy; you have done well! Close the door."

  Mechanically, his eyes playing now on Charlebois, now on the other, Stranway obeyed.

  Charlebois, with a critical glance at the figure seated at the desk, pocketed the revolver. Then he turned again to Stranway.

  "I am hardly ten minutes ahead of you," he said. "My train was late." He held out his hand. "Let me see what you have brought."

  Stranway handed Charlebois the stock certificate and proxy without comment.

  The little old gentleman examined them attentively; then thrust them hurriedly into his pocket as a side door connecting with an office beyond opened suddenly, and a stout,
florid-faced man, with hard grey eyes, clean-shaven lips and short side-whiskers, stepped pompously into the room. The man stopped a foot from the door and glanced aggressively, impatiently around; then his eyes fixed upon the form at the desk, and something very like a sneer curled his lips.

  "H'm!" said Charlebois abruptly. "Close the door, Poindexter."

  The newcomer was very evidently not in the habit of being addressed without due respect, much less of receiving curt commands. The red flushed angrily to his face.

  "Who the devil are you, sir?" he snapped.

  "At present," Charlebois informed him gently, "I am a stockholder of the West County Tool and Machine Company."

  "Oh!" Poindexter's laugh was short and brittle. "Oh, I see!" He jerked his hand toward the desk. "One of Gordon's crowd, eh? Well, we'll be glad to hear anything you've got to say in the board-room. It's ten o'clock now."

  "I was going to ask for a postponement until, say—to-morrow," said Charlebois softly.

  "Were you really?" inquired Poindexter ironically. "Well, that's too bad!"

  "Until to-morrow," repeated Charlebois, but with sudden significance now.

  "Eh—what!" Poindexter's voice was harsh, but into his eyes had crept a quick, startled expression, "What do you mean?"

  "Close the door, Poindexter!" Charlebois' tones rose sharply.

  A moment Poindexter hesitated, then he turned, banged the door shut and strode back into the room. "Now what's the meaning of all this?" he demanded viciously.

  "Take this chair," invited Charlebois coolly. "This one opposite Mr. Gordon here."

  With a gulp that seemed almost one of amazement at his own acquiescence, the other obeyed.

  "I see that you do not remember me, or, perhaps, to be more accurate, do not recognise me," remarked Charlebois imperturbably.