He read on through the articles to the end, including the stipulation for fines for violation of franchise and the conditions of revocation. Then he returned to Article 14 and read it over several times, shaking his head dismally. Then — suddenly he stopped short, uttered a sharp exclamation, and glanced up at a calendar on the wall.
“August thirtieth,” he observed, while his eyes shone with excitement. “I wonder — but they wouldn’t be such fools. They’re too sharp for that. Anyway—”
He turned to the telephone. A short wait — then:
“Hello! Mayor Slosson? This is Mr. Warner. Warner. I want to see you for a minute. Will you be in? I’ll run right over. Yes. Something important.”
These were the sentences — short, snappy — of a man of ability and decision in action. Mr. Warner had not talked like that for fifteen years. Some such thought crossed his mind as he ran out to hail a Main Street car. He felt dazed and intoxicated, but thoroughly alive.
His interview with Mayor Slosson was a short one. As soon as they were alone in the private office he fired a question:
“Jim, has the Granton Electric Railway Company sent the city a check for its share of the excess profits last year?”
The mayor looked surprised. “Why no, of course not,” he replied. “That’s what they won’t do. We claimed thirty thousand” — the mayor looked at a paper on his desk — “$31,254.65 for our share, including the profits on the Vinewood Park line, and they refused to pay it.”
“I know,” said Mr. Warner impatiently, “but have they paid the ten thousand they admit they owe?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Have they offered it?”
The mayor thought a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I think not. Metcalf, at the city treasurer’s office, could tell you. Why? Is it important?”
“Rather,” said the lawyer dryly.
“Well, here’s the telephone.”
But Mr. Warner was already halfway to the door. “No telephone for this,” he declared. “It has too many leaks. I’ll go and see Metcalf. And listen, Jim, don’t breathe a word of what I’ve asked you. Not a word to anybody.”
And he was gone before the astonished mayor could frame a reply.
Metcalf, at the city treasurer’s office, proved to be a thin, sorrowful-looking young man with an immense white brow and a mass of coal-black hair. When Mr. Warner had explained his errand, after swearing the young man to the strictest secrecy, he turned to a large book and examined its pages attentively, after which he turned over one by one the contents of a bulging letter file. Then he turned to the lawyer:
“They have never sent a check, Mr. Warner. I was sure of it, anyway, but I thought I’d better look it up. On July twentieth we wrote demanding the payment of $31,254.65. They returned a refusal and a denial of the obligation on July twenty-third. On the twenty-fourth we replied that if the amount were not paid by the end of the month we would bring suit. On the twenty-fifth they told us to go ahead. The correspondence, with our copies, can be placed at your disposal at any time.”
“Who signed the letters?” Mr. Warner’s eyes positively glittered.
“John Henry Nelson, the secretary of the company — old man Nelson’s son,” replied the young man.
Mr. Warner returned to his office. His eyes shone more than ever, but the frown had deepened. His perplexity was great and intolerably painful, and it entirely overshadowed his elation.
He knew one thing for certain — he could not face his wife with defiance in his heart and get away with it. At least, not at home. The fighting instinct had done valiant work within him in the past hour, but he had not reached so sublime a height as that.
So, lacking the firmness of moderation, he adopted the only course left to a desperate man. He burned his bridges. In other words, he went to a Main Street restaurant and ate two mutton chops and some fried potatoes; and on his way back to the office he stopped at a furniture store and made certain purchases, stipulating that they be delivered within the hour.
Ten minutes later he stood before his desk regarding the telephone that stood upon it with an expression of fearsome dread. He was saying to himself, “I am about to perform the bravest act of my life — that is, I hope I am.”
He coughed twice for courage, whistled aloud, pressed his lips firmly together and stretched out a trembling hand toward the receiver. As he did so the bell rang violently. He jumped backward halfway across the office, knocking over a chair and bumping his head on the chandelier.
But it was only Mayor Slosson calling up to ask if he had seen Metcalf. Mr. Warner replied that he had.
“What did he have to say? Had they sent the check? What’s the game, Mr. Warner?”
“I can’t tell you over the telephone,” replied the lawyer; and hung up with a bang.
After a wait of a few seconds he took the receiver down again and gave the operator the number of his own home.
“Hello!”
Mr. Warner recognized the voice of Higgins, the maid. He requested in a firm tone that Mrs. Warner be called to the phone.
“Who is it wants to speak to her?” came the voice of Higgins.
“Mr. Warner.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Warner!”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Her husband — Timmie!” shouted the unhappy man.
“Oh — wait a minute!”
And then, in much less than a minute, came a well-known voice, clear and pleasant:
“Hello! Timmie?”
“Good evening, my dear,” said Mr. Warner.
“It would be a better one if you would come home to dinner.” There was a smile in the voice. “Where on earth are you? It’s nearly seven o’clock.”
Mr. Warner took his courage between his teeth. “I’m at the office. I’m going to sleep here. I’m having a cot sent in. I want to know if you could send Higgins or somebody over with my bag — a comb and brush — my things, you know—”
“My dear Timmie!” Mr. Warner could feel her astonishment and incredulity oozing through the wire. “Are you crazy? Come home at once.”
“No. I’m going to sleep here.”
“In the name of goodness, why?”
“Because I don’t think it would be exactly right for us to — that is, live together — while we — while this case — the Holdup Suit, you know. I’m retained for the city. I saw the mayor this morning. I’m going to stay here till the case is decided.”
“My dear Timmie” — his wife’s voice was becoming deliberate — “of all the silly notions you’ve ever had, this is certainly the silliest! What possible difference does that make?”
“It makes lots of difference. Will you send the bag?”
“No, I won’t! Come home!”
“Will you send it?”
“No!”
“Then I’ll do without it,” declared Mr. Warner with strange calmness; and again he hung up with a bang. Never in all his life, before that day, had he hung up with a bang even once.
He dropped into a chair, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The deed was done. Strange, bizarre emotions were leaping wildly about in his breast. He felt capable of anything. Suddenly he looked up quickly, while an expression of apprehension shot into his eyes. Suppose she did! It would be just like her. He walked to the door and locked it and put the key in his pocket.
As he sat down again the telephone bell rang. He turned around and eyed it malevolently. It rang again — a long insistent jingle. He reached out, took the receiver from the hook and set it on the table. Then, grinning, he took out his pipe, filled and lighted it, and cocked his feet upon the desk.