Quill's Window Part 32

"If ever a feller grew up to look like his father, you have, Harry.

You're the living image of George Conkling,--and you don't look any more like your mother than you look like me."

"Well, you and Mother look a lot alike, Uncle Charlie. She's thinner than you are but--"

"Well, I should hope so," exploded Charlie. "Take a chair, Harry,--and tell us all about yourself. Wait a minute. Sam, shake hands with my nephew, Harry Conkling,--Mr. s.l.u.tterback, Mr. Conkling. Harry lives up in Laporte. His mother--"

"Guess again, Uncle Charlie. No more Laporte for me. I've been living in Chicago ever since I got married. Working for--"

"Married? You married? A kid like you? Well, I'll--be--darned!"

"Sure. And I'm not Harry, Uncle Charlie. I'm Wilbur. Harry's two years older than I am. He's married and got a kid three years old.

Lives in Gary."

"You don't mean to say you're little Wilbur? Little freckle-faced Wilbur with the pipe-stem legs?"

Mr. Webster's nephew took a chair near the stove, unb.u.t.toned his overcoat, and held his hands to the fire. He was a tall, rather awkward young man, with large ears, a turned-up nose and a prominent "Adam's Apple."

"I'm working for one of the biggest oil companies in the world.

We've got six hundred thousand acres of the finest oil-producing territory in the United States, and we control most of the big concessions in Honduras, Ecuador, Peru, Colombia and--thirty million dollar concern, that's all it is. Oh, you needn't look worried.

I'm not going to try to sell you any stock, Uncle Charlie. That is, not unless you've got fifty thousand to invest. I'll tell you what I'm here for. My company wants to interest Miss Crown in--"

"Hold on a minute, Wilbur," interrupted Charlie firmly. "You might just as well hop on a train and go back to Chicago. If you're expecting me to help you unload a lot of b.u.m oil stock on Miss Alix Crown you're barking up the wrong tree,--I don't give a cuss if you are my own sister's son. Miss Crown is my--"

The young man held up his hand, and favoured his uncle with a tolerant smile.

"I'm not asking your help, old chap. I've got a letter to her from Mr. Addison Blythe, one of our biggest stockholders. All I'm asking you to do is to put me up at your house for a day or two while I lay the whole matter before Miss Crown."

"I haven't got any house," said Charlie, rather helplessly. "Wait a second! Let me think. How long do you expect to be here, Wilbur?"

"I wouldn't be here more than half an hour if I could get Miss Crown to say she'd take--"

"Well, she's sick and can't see anybody for a couple of days,--'specially book agents or oil promoters. I was just thinking I might fix something up for you over at the Tavern where I'm staying. It won't cost you a cent, my boy. I'd be a darned cheap sort of an uncle if I couldn't entertain my nephew when he comes to our town,--out of a clear sky, you might say. I'll be mighty glad to have you, Wilbur, but you've got to understand I won't have Miss Crown bothered while she's sick."

"Permit me to remind you, Uncle Charlie, that I am a gentleman.

I don't go b.u.t.ting in where I'm not wanted. My instructions from the General Manager are very explicit. I am to see Miss Crown when convenient, and give her all the dope on our gigantic enterprise,--that's all."

"By the way,--er,--is that your automobile out there?"

"It's one I hired in the city."

"You--er--didn't happen to bring your wife with you, did you?

Because it would be darned awkward if you did. She'd have to sleep with Angie Miller or Flora--"

"She's not with me, Uncle Charlie,--so don't worry. Of course, if it isn't convenient for you to have me for a day or two, I can motor in and out from the city. Money's no object, you know. I've got a roll of expense money here that would choke a hippopotamus."

"Come on over to the Tavern, Wilbur. We'll see Miss Molly Dowd and fix things up. Sam, if anybody asks for me, just say I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

And that is how "Mortie" Gilfillan, one of the ablest operatives in the Pinkerton service, made his entry into the village of Windomville. Inasmuch as he comes to act in a strictly confidential capacity, we will leave him to his own devices, content with the simple statement that he remained two full days at Dowd's Tavern as the guest of his "Uncle Charlie"; that he succeeded in obtaining an interview with the rich Miss Crown, that he "talked" oil to everybody with whom he came in contact, including Courtney Thane; that he declined to consider the appeals of at least a score of citizens to be "let in on the ground floor" owing to the company's irrevocable decision to sell only in blocks of ten thousand shares at five dollars per share; that he said good-bye to Mr. Webster at the end of his second day and departed--not for Chicago but, very cleverly disguised, to accept a job as an ordinary labourer with Jim Bagley, manager of the Crown farms.

CHAPTER XVIII

MR. GILFILLAN IS PUZZLED

Three days pa.s.sed. The village had recovered from its excitement.

The Weekly Sun appeared with a long and harrowing account of the "vile attempt to rifle the home of our esteemed and patriotic citizeness," and sang the praises of Courtney Thane, whose "well-known valour, acquired by heroic services during the Great War," prevented what might have been "a most lamentable tragedy."

Those three days were singularly unprofitable to the "hero." He was unable to see Alix crown. He made daily visits to her home but always with the same result. Miss Crown was in no condition to see any one.

"But she saw this fellow Conkling," he expostulated on the third day. "He sold her a lot of phony oil stock. If she could see him, I--"

"He came all the way from Chicago to see her,--with a letter from Mr. Blythe," explained Mrs. Strong. "She had to see him. I guess you can wait, can't you, Mr. Thane?"

"Certainly. That isn't the point. If I had seen her in time I should have warned her against buying that stock. She's been let in for a whale of a loss, that's all I can say,--and it's too late to do anything about it. Good Lord, if ever a woman needed a man around the house, she does. She--"

"I will tell her what you say," said Mrs. Strong calmly.

"Don't you do anything of the kind," he exclaimed hastily. "I was speaking to you as a friend, Mrs. Strong. She means a great deal to both of us. You understand how it stands with Alix and me, don't you? I--I would cheerfully lay down my life for her. More than that, I cannot say or do."

"She will be up by tomorrow," said Mrs. Strong, impressed in spite of herself by this simple, direct appeal. (All that day she caught herself wondering if he had cast his spell over her!)

"Please give her my love,--and say that I am thinking about her every second of the day," said he gravely, and went away.

Alix had received another letter from Addison Blythe. Enclosed with it was a communication from an official formerly connected with the American Ambulance. It was brief and to the point:

Courtney Thane volunteered for service in the American Ambulance in Paris in November, 1915. He was accepted and ordered to appear at the hospital at Neuilly-sur-Seine for instructions. His conduct was such that he was dismissed from the service before the expiration of a week, his uniform taken away from him, and a request made to the French Military authorities to see that he was ordered to leave the country at once. Our records show that he left hurriedly for Spain. He was a bad influence to our boys in Paris, and there was but one course left open to us. We have no account of his subsequent movements. With his dismissal from the service, he ceased to be an object of concern to us.

Alix did not destroy this letter. She locked it away in a drawer of her desk. She had made up her mind to confront Thane with this official communication. It was an ordeal she dreaded. Her true reason for refusing to see him was clear to her if to no one else: she hated the thought of hurting him! Moreover, she was strangely oppressed by the fear that she would falter at the crucial moment and that her half-guarded defences would go down before the a.s.sault.

She knew his strength far better than she knew his weakness. She had had an illuminating example of his power. Was she any stronger now than on that never-to-be-forgotten night?...She put off the evil hour.

And on the same third day of renunciation, she had a letter from David Strong. She wept a little over it, and driven finally by a restlessness such as she had never known before, feverishly dressed herself, and set forth late in the afternoon for a long walk in the open air. She took to the leaf-strewn woodland roads, and there was a definite goal in mind.

II

Courtney remembered Rosabel Vick.

"I guess I'd better call her up," he said to himself. "I ought to have done it several days ago. Beastly rotten of me to have neglected it. She's probably been sitting over there waiting ever since--Gad, she may; have some good news. Maybe she is mistaken."

He went over to the telephone exchange and called up the Vick house.

Rosabel answered.

"That you, Rosie?...Well, I couldn't. I've been laid up, completely out of commission ever since I saw you....What?...I--I didn't get that, Rosie. Speak louder,--closer to the telephone."

Very distinctly now came the words, almost in a wail: