WHERE to turn? What to do? These were the intensive questions that fastened themselves like torturing banderillas in the young manufacturer's mind as, in a cold rage of resentment, he hurried from the presence of the bankers. One moment he declared there was nothing to apprehend in the proposal of Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley; that it was salvation for him; that their terms were reasonable; that in one year he could earn profits enough to buy back this stock and make his control secure once more. The next he saw in it nothing but a cunningly conceived scheme to take his factory away from him, and he resolved to resist it to the uttermost.
Into this morbid medley there obtruded the old debate—hadn't he better confide the whole miserable mess to Fay? Well, perhaps he would—tonight, in the quiet tête-à-tête hour before bedtime.
Reaching home, he found his wife where he would have most wished to find her—in the nursery, hovering over Junior with clasped, enraptured hands and fond, fascinated eyes. She was regarding some of his newer infantile acrobatic stunts with true maternal admiration, but turned with a happy exclamation to her husband and welcomed him by bounding into his arms.
"Oh, George, George!" she confessed with a little cry in her voice. "These long, long days without you are such eternities of loneliness!" She said it affectionately, not complainingly.
For a time after this, though still with entwining arms, they bowed together over the antics of their restless and energetic but even-tempered son. Then, of course, the father had to have him in his arms and go parading round the room. This triumphant processional continued until Fay was reminded of the necessity for interrupting it.
"Break away now, father dear!" she warned. "We have just time to dress."
"What's on?" he demanded, lips pursing obstinately.
"Why, the Hickson dinner to Sir Brian."
When her husband's face did not lighten at this thrilling information, she reminded him: "But this is a farewell dinner to Sir Brian."
George's expression grew suddenly interested and thoughtful. "Oh well! If it's a farewell dinner," he began to concede, when Fay intervened in sprightly voice with:
"'Farewell'? Why the cattiness in that inflection? Don't you like Sir Brian?"
"Look here, Fay! What are you so sensitive about Sir Brian for?" demanded her husband, catching her by both arms.
"Don't be absurd!" Fay protested, wriggling free. "I'm not sensitive about him."
"You had to be, to think that emphasis of mine was catty." George's eyes were level, serious, and searching.
Fay herself was for the time being thoughtful and introspective, after which for a brief instant there was a startled look in her blue eyes. Succeeding this, she laughed, confessing: "It does seem strange, doesn't it? And how quickly you took me up on it! That seems peculiar also."
George had to admit that it did. "I guess—I guess that when two people are as close as we've been feeling just now, the mention of a third party somehow—even though we both like 'em a lot—and I'm strong for Sir Brian; just as strong as you are—I guess it makes us both feel a little touchy, what!"
The dinner itself was rendered rather difficult for George Judson because Simon Mumford sat opposite him, and Simon was an unpleasant reminder. He belonged to the banking world. He had been the first financier to tell George his bonds might be prime but his impaired prestige had made them difficult, if not impossible, of negotiation. And as co-executor of the Gilman estate Simon was almost in the family. George found himself studying that shrewd but kindly countenance and wondering what he would say if he knew what Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley were proposing to do to him.
Yet George rallied tolerably to the social responsibilities of the occasion. Sir Brian made this rather easy, for he was at his best this night.
The Englishman was particularly good over the coffee and cigars, but after the gentlemen rejoined the ladies there was some professional entertainment and Miss Pauson "obliged" at the harp.
George particularly detested harps and, seizing an opportunity, withdrew as far as possible from that golden instrument, sequestering himself in the library where a box of Charlie's clear Havanas appeared ready to his hand.
Now it chanced that one person in the company had noted George's flight and trailed him swiftly to his refuge. That person was Simon Mumford. He chuckled gloatingly at the prospect of a quiet chat in this environment over those things which interested two men of the active business world like themselves.
"George," he announced, "I've been thinking."
"Have you, now?" interjected that burdened young man, forced to be gay lest he reveal the undercurrent of anxiety which surged through him like a torrent.
But Simon was not to be deflected from his train of thought by a jest, and went right on. "Old Stephen Gilman left his estate in pretty good shape, you know—easy for his wife to handle—nearly all of it in preferred stocks and high class bonds. More than three million dollars of it."
"So they have told me," answered George with a nod, lowering his cigar while he wondered what the old man might be getting at.
"Interest rates have risen a good deal since Stephen put away most of that stuff," continued the older man. "The way bonds are going now, that money could be put into industrials just as well as not and earn from three-quarters to one and a half per cent. more than it's earning now. One and a half per cent. on three millions is a lot. It's pretty near criminal not to take it."
"You think," said George, "it would be wise to convert and reinvest; is that the idea?"
Mr. Mumford did not answer George's question save by a nod, but at the same time he asked a question on his own account. "These bonds you're offering pay seven per cent, don't they, George?"
Suddenly George comprehended. "Mr. Mumford," he whispered hoarsely, gripping the co-executor's hand with both of his. "You mean—you mean that you would advise Mrs. Gilman to take my whole bond issue?"
His hands, his voice, his whole body were trembling with excited eagerness. Such an action on the part of the executors would put an instant end to his troubles. It would make him independent. It would set him free of the power of three benevolent-looking but grim-hearted old Shylocks who were even now making sure that they held him helpless. "You would recommend that, Mr. Mumford?"
"Yes—unhesitatingly. They are seconds, but with your assets they're sound as firsts. Besides, I think you are entitled to it."
"You do—Mr. Mumford?"
George's voice was still hoarse with excitement; but even before the banker could nod an affirmative, the young man had begun to see another side to the transaction, and was leaning back and shaking his head gravely. "Allow Mrs. Gilman to give up Stephen's carefully placed investments for bonds in my company?" he questioned solemnly and critically. "Mr. Mumford, I could never do it."
Simon regarded the young man steadily, with a grave, penetrative glance in which affection and reproof were mingled.
"It's a way out, though, George!" he suggested presently.
"A way in, you mean!" frowned George. "That's one responsibility I wouldn't want to have to carry." And then it suddenly occurred to him that there had been something ulterior in Simon's phrase, "a way out." "You know what they are trying to do to me—Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley?" he asked, leaning forward again and lowering his voice to a whisper.
"They are nailing you to the cross," said the old man with a sigh. "It looks legitimate to them. It is legitimate, if you can't help yourself. And you can't—except this way," and he managed a gesture which seemed somehow to comprehend the Gilman securities. "It looks reasonable to me. It's a perfectly sound investment; it's a better earning power; it's all in the family; it helps you out of a hole; Mrs. Gilman would do it in a minute."
George shook his head slowly and solemnly and rose as if to get away from temptation.
"Think it over," insisted Mr. Mumford, rising also. "Think it over. They'll nail your hide on the barn door tomorrow. They're likely to demand twenty per cent. tomorrow, or twenty-five. Think it over."
The President of Judson-Morris looked troubled, but he still shook his head stubbornly.
"Tell you, George," proposed Simon encouragingly, "I'll come out to the works in the morning, say at ten, and we'll go into it a little further."