But the fees, instead of shrinking, were augmented, and new clients came while old ones stayed. She naturally considered this a good sign and her fear dwindled. And when President Nelson, of the Granton Electric Railway Company, informed her that the defense of the famous Holdup Suit, as the conservative press had nicknamed it, was to be left entirely in her hands, she felt herself able to laugh at her enemies and detractors.
The Holdup Suit, brought by the City of Granton against the Granton Electric Railway Company, to collect thirty thousand dollars in profits in accordance with a clause of the franchise, was a political move on the part of the new liberal city administration.
Everyone knew that the city could not possibly win. Every lawyer in Granton had declared both in public and private that the case had not a leg to stand on. But the administration was making an immense hit with the people by bringing it, and it was being gloriously frontpaged by the press.
No wonder Mrs. Warner felt proud that she had been selected to defend it, though she was naturally a little vexed that it should be so universally known that her task was absurdly simple. As she overheard one lawyer say, “Nelson won’t even have to defend the action. As soon as the city presents its case the judge will throw it out of court.”
It was in connection with the Holdup Suit that Mrs. Warner conceived her great idea.
One sunny afternoon in August as she was being carried swiftly down Main Street in her motorcar on her way to the offices of the railway company, her face suddenly took on an expression of deep thought, then lighted up with a victorious smile.
“I’ll do it!” she said to herself with prompt decision. “It’s just the thing! Nobody could talk after that.”
She spent two hours with President Nelson in his private office, examining innumerable documents and pamphlets. When they had finished, and Mr. Nelson had expressed his admiration of her sagacity and penetration, she informed him that she had a question to ask.
“Fire away,” said the great man genially.
“I want to know,” returned Mrs. Warner, rising and putting on her gloves to indicate that the point was really unimportant, “if it would make any difference to you if Mr. Warner — my husband — should be chosen to represent the city in this case?”
Mr. Nelson stared for a moment, then permitted himself a smile of surprise. “Of course not,” he ended by declaring. “But why — I didn’t know—”
“It isn’t decided yet,” Mrs. Warner explained. “But I have reason to believe he is going to be retained. Of course, this is in the strictest confidence.”
Mr. Nelson, still smiling, assured her that he would keep the secret. “I don’t care if they retain Satan himself,” he declared. “We can’t lose.” Then he added hastily, “with you.”
Mrs. Warner thanked him for the expression of confidence and departed. At the door of the outer office she found herself suddenly confronted by a tall young man, hat in hand, bowing and smiling.
“Mrs. Warner, I’ve been waiting here two endless hours for a word with you. I had begun to fear Father was going to keep you locked in there forever. Won’t you let me drive you home? My car is outside.” This all came out in a breath.
“My car, too, is outside,” smiled Mrs. Warner.
“Please,” said the young man persuasively.
She ended by accepting. No sooner had they seated themselves on the soft leather cushions than the young man pulled out his watch and preferred a second request.
“Couldn’t we drive round awhile?” he pleaded. “It’s only four o’clock, and such a jolly day.”
But this met with a firm refusal. “I am not good-for-nothing like you, Jack. I have work to do. Straight home!”
“Please?”
It was difficult to resist the pleading brown eyes, for he was a good-looking and pleasant youth, besides being the son of Henry Blood Nelson. But Lora Warner was not the woman to make even so slight a mistake as this would have been. She repeated, “Straight home!” in a firmer tone than before, and shook a menacing finger at him. The car shot off down Main Street.
Twenty minutes later, as she stood on the steps of her home shaking hands with her escort, she looked up to see a familiar figure turn in from the street and come up the walk. Nelson, noting her raised eyes, turned and caught sight of the newcomer.
“Good evening, Mr. Warner,” he said pleasantly.
“Good evening,” replied the husband, coming up to them. The men shook hands. “Home so early, my dear?” he continued, turning to his wife. Then, without waiting for an answer, he went into the house.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” said Lora; and the young man lifted his hat and departed.
At the dinner table that evening Mr. Warner wore the appearance of one who has communed with himself in sorrow. His constitutional cheerfulness had been slipping away from him for some time now, thanks to the ravages of the germ of dissatisfaction; but on this occasion he was absolutely dumpish. Lora noticed it with surprise and a little discomfort.
“Is there something wrong, Timmie?” she demanded.
“Everything,” he replied rashly, without thinking; and then, aghast at his own nihilism, he stammered something about not feeling well.
“I’m sorry,” said his wife, not without feeling. “Is there anything I can do?”
He replied with a simple “No,” and attacked the roast.
After dinner Mrs. Warner led the way to the library, saying she had an important matter in mind which it would be necessary to discuss at length. In dreary silence Mr. Warner followed her to a divan between the windows and seated himself on the arm of a chair.
This in itself was a revolution. Only a free and bold man, a man of initiative, deposits himself on the arm of a chair. Mr. Warner had never done it before save in the privacy of his own room, having, like all others who are timid, weak, or downtrodden, invariably chosen the seat.
He went still further. Before his wife had time to introduce her important matter he opened his mouth and said distinctly:
“I saw old Mr. Hamlin today.”
Lora, feeling the electricity in his tone, looked up quickly.
“Well? Is there anything so very strange about that?”
“He came to see me at the office.”
“At the office?”
“At my office.”
“Oh, he did! What about?”
“About his case against the Central Sash and Door Company. You know, he appealed.”
“But why should he go to see you?”
Mr. Warner appeared to hesitate. The fact was, he hadn’t intended to mention this affair at all. What was it that forced the words to his lips? Perhaps the memory of seeing his wife standing on the steps with her hand in that of young Nelson; perhaps merely — and this is a better guess — the germ of dissatisfaction within him. He continued:
“He wanted me to take the case. In spite of the fee he seemed to think it wasn’t necessary — that is, to think about you.”
“Did you take it?”
“Of course not. No. Hadn’t he insulted you? I told him so. I told him some other things, too. He’s a very energetic man.”
“Energetic?”
“Yes. He actually tried to throw me out of the office. Must be fifty years old if he’s a day. But then I’m not so very big, and he thought he could do it. I pushed him out and locked the door.”
Mrs. Warner smiled. “It must have been a very exciting encounter.”
“It was. Quite hot for a minute. I thought you might want to know about it.”
“Of course. I’m glad you told me. I didn’t know you were a fighter, Timmie.”
“Well” — the little man was evidently trying not to look pleased with himself — “to tell the truth, I didn’t, either. But I couldn’t stand still and let him put me out of my own office.”