CHAPTER VI
Stormont Gets TO Work
“THANKS, Plyden; you did that very nicely,” Stormont said with a complimentary smile as he and his clerk stepped from the stuffy telephone-box. “In fact, you read your part excellently.”
Mr. Plyden, a tall, thin, very fair man of thirty or so, laughed with some complacency. “I happen to have had a little experience in reading parts and playing them—amateur, of course,” he said. “Naturally I was handicapped just now by being in the dark as to the purport—”
“And you will kindly remain in the dark, Plyden,' Stormont interrupted with the utmost suavity. “You are not of a curious disposition, I trust?”
The clerk became grave.
“You may rely on me, Mr. Stormont, to repeat nothing—”
“And you, Plyden, so long-as you satisfy me, may rely on me to overlook the testimonials which you gave me last week, and which are now in my safe. Meanwhile,” Stormont continued pleasantly, ignoring the other's semicollapse, “here is your fee for that excellent but immediately-to-be-forgotten performance.”
Mechanically the younger man took the folded yellow-back. With a nod and a smile which a passer-by would have deemed most amiable, Stormont made for a taxi-stand.
A little later he stepped briskly into the private room at the office.
“Anything doing?” he called gayly to his partner.
“No,” replied Lismore, who was again poring over the distracting document.
“Give it up,” said Stormont, dropping into the easy-chair. “You'll never discover anything.”
“Don't say that!” Lismore sat up stiffly. “There's another ghastly drop in copper this morning. Haven't you had prices?”
“Yes—pretty rotten, aren't they? I think I'll become a dramatist. This morning I wrote out a part, and this afternoon I witnessed it played with most gratifying effect.”
“What nonsense are you talking now, Stormont?”
“Read that!” Stormont unfolded a sheet of paper and passed it to his partner. Upon it was neatly typed every word Joan had heard on the telephone twenty minutes earlier.
As he read, Lismore's scowl gave place to an expression of puzzled interest. “But what are you going to do with it?” he asked at last.
“The deed is already done. The invaluable Plyden repeated the lines to the phone—and very well he did it!—and yours truly stood beside him, caught his whispered reports of the lady's replies, her hesitations and pauses, instructed him when to go slow, and so on.”
Lismore half rose and fell back. “Stormont, don't keep me in suspense! Did you discover anything?”
“My dear chap, I'm altogether convinced that the girl has handled a letter from the old man to his nephew, and all but certain that it is still in her possession. I should be prepared to bet three to one on its being in the library safe. Further, I would bet a hundred to one that she is ignorant of its contents, or their importance.”
“Why are you so cocksure of that?”
“Partly because Rufus Cran was not such a fool as to risk making his trustee a nervous wreck; partly because the telephone-stunt did not upset her sufficiently. No, she certainly hadn't forty thousand ounces of platinum on her mind!”
“Then, since she does not know the letter's value,” said Lismore, pale and perspiring, “she might perhaps be induced to part with it.”
“Don't be idiotic, my dear man! One blunder in that direction, and it's failure for good. Supposing she believes the letter to contain nothing but the old man's blessing, she would defend it at all costs to herself. And did it never occur to you that she might still be in love with young Grant?”
Lismore shrugged impatiently. “She must have been aware that young Grant was in love with Lottie,” he said.
“Nothing of the kind!”
“What? Then why—”
“Lismore, you are hopelessly lacking in an understanding of your fellow-creatures. Your daughter may have imagined young Grant was in love with her, but I can assure you it was only chivalrous pity on his part, for which he has dearly paid. I rather admired Grant, you know.”
“Pity! What the deuce—”
“Look here, Lismore, you are always asking for it—and this time I'm going to give you it! Grant pitied your daughter as he pitied your wife—and no wonder! And Grant, in a moment of greatness, which I've no doubt he has regretted long ago, took upon himself a theft of fifteen hundred dollars, not for your sake, but for theirs!”
“Damn you!” snarled Lismore. “You promised you'd never refer to that. Besides, he need not have run away. His uncle would have come round and—”
“Don't make yourself out a meaner hound than you can help, Lismore. The boy saved you. Don't grudge him his nobility. I don't, though I'm about to do my best to annex his fortune.”
“You'll never touch it,” said Lismore with a malignant glance.
“If I don't touch it pretty soon, you and I are done for.” Stormont pointed a steady forefinger at the other. “Lismore,” he said slowly, “in your sober senses, have you the slightest hope of an early recovery in copper?”
“No—no, I haven't.”
“Then there's no good in our going on lying hopefully to each other and to ourselves. Listen! We have got to find that platinum within a month. How are we going to see the inside or learn the contents of that safe in Elm House? That is the urgent question.”
“One moment! About that fellow Plyden—can he be trusted to hold his tongue concerning the phone affair? We know nothing about him?”
“He had excellent testimonials. They are still in the safe over there, if you'd like—”
“Testimonials are no guarantee—”
“Not the genuine sort, perhaps; but those are forged—and Plyden knows that I know. He's ours, all right. Leave him to me. Now what about the safe in Elm House?”
“Why ask me?” returned Lismore, sullen again.
“You've got to share the work as well as the plunder, my friend. Besides, in this case you have an advantage which I don't possess.”
“You'll have to enlighten me.”
“I've already given you the hint, but I'll repeat it. You have a daughter who is extremely friendly with the owner of Elm House.” Stormont got up and took his hat. “Think it over for all you're worth, Lismore. It has got to be! I'm going to lunch.”
He went out, leaving his partner in open-mouthed horror. Lismore had already intended that Lottie should help in a small way, but—oh—not that, not that!
THE episode of the telephone was bound to have a disconcerting effect on Joan March. Early in the afternoon she proceeded to ring up, in turn, all the Henleys mentioned in the directory, but each in turn, gave a more or less courteous “No” to her inquiry. She could not recollect having heard Douglas speak of a friend of that name, though he had spoken to her of not a few of his acquaintances.
Among her letters that day were two in the writings of Lottie Lismore and Stormont. She opened the latter's rather roughly. She had not seen Mr. Stormont since the day of the funeral, but his notes had been of almost daily occurrence, and while courteous to a degree, had seemed to her unnecessary, unless the writer's memory were sadly failing.
“Bother the man!” she exclaimed to Miss Gosling, who rarely received a letter. “I suppose he wants to know whether I can recollect some absurdly petty business incident of eighteen months ago, which poor Mr. Cran— Good Heavens!”
“What's the matter?” inquired the spinster, pausing in the act of opening an egg.
“He's coming to call this afternoon—Mr. Stormont. What a nuisance! Listen! 'My dear Miss March, may I venture to call on you to-morrow, at four in the afternoon, concerning a matter of much importance to myself? I may say that it is due only to the recent melancholy event that I have not made this request before now. Your silence will give consent. Should to-morrow be unsuitable, however, may I beg you to let me know the earliest possible hour that you would be willing to receive me?—Yours sincerely.' But what on earth can the man want?”
MISS GOSLING resumed her attack on the egg, remarking: “Never having seen the gentleman, and never having encountered a similar epistle except in love-novels, I can only suggest that he wants to propose to you.”
“Nonsense!” Joan laughed. “I'd sooner marry a monkey!” she said indignantly.:
“That may be,” Miss Gosling mildly replied, “but the gentleman may be looking higher, as the saying is.”
Joan smiled. “All right. I'll let him come to-day, and get it over, whatever it is. Here's a line from Lottie.” She read: 'Dearest Joan, I want you to do me a tremendous favor! May I come and tell you about it to-morrow evening, after dinner? Please! Ever yours, Lottie. P.S. Ring me up in the morning.” She had better come to dinner. I'm sure you'll get to like her when you know her better, Aunt Griselda.”
“I should like to know her better,” was the pleasant though, perhaps, somewhat equivocal response.
JOAN received Stormont—who arrived precisely at the hour appointed, looking his smartest—in the library, a room which she still regarded more or less as a place of business.
“It is kind of you to receive me to-day, Miss March,” he said in his soft, musical voice. “I have been waiting none too patiently for the opportunity. I am afraid my numerous little letters during the last few weeks must have bored you.”
Joan's smile was polite, like her words. “You were entitled to have any information I could give on the matters you inquired about, Mr. Stormont.”
“Still, you thought my inquiries rather unnecessary?”
“It was not for me to judge.”
“You are too courteous. Well, I am here to confess the truth, and I hope you will forgive me when I declare that I wrote those stupid little letters simply in order to keep in touch with you.”
There was a moment's silence till she replied coldly: “That does not seem to me any more necessary than the letters.”
“To me,” he returned quietly, but with a slight flushing of his dark countenance, “it seemed, and seems, the most necessary thing in the world. I could not bear to think that the death of our mutual friend might mean the severing of our acquaintance, and I earnestly hope it is not going to do so.”
“Our acquaintance,” she said, feeling forced to say something, “has always been of the slightest, Mr. Stormont, and I'm afraid it—”
“No fault of mine if it has been so,” he protested. “I always wanted your friendship. I want it now. I don't—I daren't—ask for more at present, but I beg you to give me what I do ask now.”
Apparently he was all in earnest. Joan was puzzled, yet also moved. Immediately, however, she remembered Lottie, to whom Stormont had paid such marked attentions.
“Really, Mr. Stormont, I can't imagine why my friendship—which is a thing I certainly cannot give on a moment's notice—should be of importance to you. But I don't wish to discuss the point, and I am sure you did not come here this afternoon on such a trifling errand. Will you please tell me what you wanted to see me about?”
He looked hurt and his voice was sad. “Miss March, in your heart you know that I came to ask you to marry me, and then hadn't the courage—”
“Oh!”
“But I do ask you to marry me—”
“Please stop! Oh, you must know I couldn't.”
“Yes, yes,” he said gently, “I know.” After a brief pause he added with a melancholy, whimsical smile: “They say a woman always feels more kindly toward a man after she has refused him; is that true?”
Still remembering Lottie, she was mute. And yet Lottie, who had told her all she knew about Mr. Stormont's attentions, always exaggerated things so tremendously.
HE sighed. “Explanations are difficult, but I ask you to hear one. As a servant of Rufus Cran I never felt myself in a position to ask a woman to marry me, I confess I had absurdly extravagant ideas; but things are different with me to-day. I am telling you a secret now, Miss March. People are sorry for Lismore and myself at present, but their pity is quite undeserved. Rufus had his own reasons for the winding up of the old business, but he did not treat his two assistants so badly as is generally imagined, thanks to our not being mentioned in the will. Rufus, as you know, had his own methods of doing things, and though I am not at liberty to give you details now, I tell you in confidence that Lismore and I are on the fair way to becoming rich men. That is all—except that—no, that is all.”
It was told so frankly that Joan felt ashamed of herself. At all events, Stormont was a much better sort of man than Lismore.
“I'm very glad indeed she exclaimed, and she meant it.
“Thank you,” he said, and rose. “I always believed you were generous. I will go on hoping that some day we may be friends.” From his vest pocket he brought a little oblong box of unpainted wood, such as a jeweler may send with fragile articles through the mail. “Before I go, may I show you something?” He spoke more cheerfully, and opening the box, brought to light from amid the cotton a tiny glass tube, less than two inches in length, plugged with a miniature cork.
The tube was half full of silvery-gray metallic grains. He handed it to her, saying:
“Do you happen to know what that is, Miss March?”
“Why, of course!” was the instant answer; “it's platinum. Isn't it the mineral, about eighty per cent pure?”
“So you have seen it before.” He was watching her face. “Stupid of me,” he went on before she could express her astonishment at the remark. “Mr. Cran must have handled it often in your presence.”
“I have handled it myself,” she said, her eyes going back to the tiny tube. “At one time I was always weighing it for Mr. Cran.. It fascinated me—by its preciousness, I mean. Worth its weight in gold, I suppose.”
“It will soon be worth three times its weight in gold, Miss March. Mr. Cran evidently did not trouble you with market fluctuations,” he remarked lightly. “During the past year the rise has been remarkable.”
“I dare say it is nearly two years since I handled any.” Joan was a bit nettled. “Since then I had had no occasion to watch the price.”
“I'm sure Mr. Cran gave you quite enough to do in other directions,” he said quickly. “But it's rather odd, isn't it, that we never met in the weighing-room in the office? It was in my department, you know.”
“Not so odd,” she returned, recovering her good humor, “because I don't think I ever handled platinum, or any of the other metals, in the office. It was here, in this room, that I became so familiar with platinum.”
THERE was a glint in the man's dark eyes as he casually remarked: “Mr. Cran brought home samples, no doubt. Still, I had understood that he had not used the little laboratory, for years—that his books claimed all his attentions.”
“Yes, the laboratory was dismantled before my time. Thank you,” she said, handing back the tube; “it was nice to see the plain precious stuff again.”
He began to repack the tube in its protective material. “If one hadn't known Rufus Cran as a generous man,” he observed, “one might have suspected him of being a platinum-miser.”
Joan, not deeply interested in the subject, was wishing her visitor would take his departure. “I never thought about it,” she replied: “Mr. Cran never mentioned to me his purpose in bringing it home so frequently, and of course I didn't ask questions. I weighed and packed it according to instructions, and there my duty in the matter ended.”
“Well, it's of no consequence to either of us,” Stormont said cheerfully, though sorely tempted to inquire as to the manner of the packing. But he possessed that valuable and rather rare faculty which tells a man when to stop; so with an apology for having kept her standing so long, he held out his hand and bade her good-by.
“Oh dear!” murmured Joan, when he had gone. “What a mixture—a proposal and then a chat on platinum! Well, it was nice of him to change the subject so thoroughly.”
She lifted her eyes to the window—then started to her feet. A boy in uniform was approaching the house. Mr. Stormont was making for the gate. The girl was too excited to observe that as he was about to pass the boy he hesitated for the fraction of a second, then strode onward with his shoulders squared stiffly. A moment later she was hurrying to the front door.
In a little while the boy was going the way he had come, and she was back in the library reading over and over again this message:
Thanks recovering accident start ten days hence, secret.
Grant.