He had been in this position, puffing jerkily, for half an hour, when a knock sounded on the door. He jumped up, startled; then, remembering his purchase at the furniture store, crossed leisurely, taking the key from his pocket. But before he inserted it in the lock he called out:
“Who is it?”
Silence; then another knock.
“Who is it?” he repeated.
A well-known voice came:
“It’s I–Lora. Let me in!”
Mr. Warner felt his knees come together. He had not really expected this. He hoped the door was good and thick. Clutching the key firmly in his hand as though it were a weapon of defense, he called huskily:
“I won’t!”
“Timmie, open the door!”
“I tell you I won’t,” repeated Mr. Warner. Some of the huskiness left his voice. “I can’t, Lora. The mayor wouldn’t want me to. It wouldn’t be right. Did you bring the bag?”
“Yes. I want to give it to you.” The voice sharpened a little. “Don’t be an ass, Timmie! Open the door!”
But the brilliant Lora had made a mistake. At her confession that she had brought the bag Mr. Warner felt his heart leap with an intoxicating thrill. She had admitted to herself the possibility of defeat, then. He pressed his lips tightly together.
“If you’ve got the bag,” he said finally, between his teeth, “leave it in the hall and I’ll get it when you’re gone. I can’t let you in. I’m — I haven’t any clothes on.” This was a lie, but the poor man needed it. “Anyway,” he continued, “why should you want to come in? What do you want?”
“I want you to come home, of course.” The tone could not be called one of appeal, but neither was it that of command. “I honestly believe you need someone to look after you, Timmie. You’ve been acting queerly for weeks. Please open the door!”
“No!”
“Please!”
It was awfully hard; he could not remember that she had ever said please to him before. He gritted his teeth. “Go away!” he shouted savagely.
Silence followed for perhaps ten seconds; on the part of Mr. Warner, a breathless silence. Then came a sound as of something heavy dropped on the floor outside, and retreating footsteps. He ran to the window and looked out, and saw his wife cross the sidewalk and enter her car at the curb. The car started forward with a jerk and disappeared down Main Street. Mr. Warner dropped into a chair as one exhausted.
A little later he went into the hall and got the bag, which he found outside the door. Soon after that the cot came, and he put it up in a corner and went to bed, to dream strange dreams.
IV
The following morning Mr. Warner received a call from Mayor Slosson, who appeared to be slightly irritated at the discourtesy he had been subjected to the evening before. But he accepted the lawyer’s apology without reservation, and proceeded at once to inquire into the reason for the mysterious questions concerning the check the railway company hadn’t sent.
“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you,” replied Mr. Warner, glancing up at the calendar. “It’s August thirty-first, and it doesn’t matter now if the whole town knows it. Only we might as well keep the secret till we get in our work.”
“What is it?” inquired the mayor. “A puzzle?”
“Why, yes. It’s a puzzle to me, and a joke, too. But it won’t be a joke to Mr. Henry Blood Nelson. Listen.”
And Mr. Warner leaned forward and began to whisper. He whispered steadily for five minutes, save when he was interrupted by an exclamation of astonishment and delight from the mayor, which was often. When he had finished the mayor’s face was a study in exultation, glee, and triumph.
“By God, we’ve got ’em!” he cried; and he was not naturally a profane man.
“I think so,” agreed the lawyer.
“It’s certain. Certain! I’ll leave all details to you, Mr. Warner. But make the appointment for tomorrow if you can, and call me up as soon as you know. Of course, I won’t say a word to anyone.”
The mayor stayed half an hour longer, discussing the case from every possible angle. When he had gone Mr. Warner drew forth a sheet of paper from a drawer of his desk, took up a pen and wrote as follows:
MRS. LORA WARNER,
621 Main Street,
City.
Dear Madam:
I am writing to ask if it would be convenient for yourself and a representative of the Granton Electric Railway Company to receive a call from the undersigned in your office sometime tomorrow (Friday, September 1). Mayor James L. Slosson will probably be with me. We wish to confer concerning the suit brought by the City of Granton against the Granton Electric Railway Company.
Yours very truly,
A grim smile hovered about Mr. Warner’s lips as he signed this letter, sealed, and stamped it. Then he put on his hat and went out to the mailbox on the corner.
The following morning brought a reply, typewritten:
MR. TIMOTHY D. WARNER,
417 Main Street,
Granton.
Dear Sir:
Replying to your favor of August 31, I wish to say that Mr. John Henry Nelson, secretary of the Granton Electric Railway Company, and myself will expect you and the mayor at my office at 11 a.m. tomorrow (Friday). But I also wish to say that if it is your intention to offer any compromise in this matter the conference will be fruitless. My client has too high a confidence in the justice of his case to submit to any compromise whatever short of an unconditional withdrawal of the suit.
Yours truly,
Up to the receipt of this letter Mr. Warner had been conscious of a stubborn disinclination to do what he felt to be his duty both to the city and to himself. But the mention of young Nelson’s name drove away the last vestige of a qualm. Indeed, when he called up Mayor Slosson to tell him the hour of appointment there was a note of vindictiveness in his tone that caused the mayor to grin to himself. He thought he knew the reason for it, and perhaps he was not so far wrong at that.
At exactly one minute to eleven Mr. Warner and Mayor Slosson turned in at the entrance of 621 Main Street and mounted a flight of stairs to the most luxurious suite of law offices in Granton. The door at the end of the hall bore the inscription in gold letters:
“This way, gentlemen,” said a neatly dressed female clerk; and they were ushered through a door on the right into a large, sunny room facing on Main Street. At one end of a shining mahogany table sat Mrs. Lora Warner; behind her chair stood John Henry Nelson.
Everyone said good morning at once, and young Nelson placed chairs for the newcomers. None of the four appeared to be exactly at his ease; constraint was in the air. Mrs. Warner, who had remained seated at the end of the table, motioned young Nelson to a chair at her right; her husband, seated at the other end, was busily fumbling among some papers in a portfolio. His face was flushed.
“We await your pleasure, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Warner in a most professional tone.
The mayor glanced at Mr. Warner, who cleared his throat and looked around the table with steady eyes.
“In the first place,” he began, “we wish to announce our intention of withdrawing our suit against the Granton Electric Railway Company for excess profits. I speak for the City of Granton” — he looked at the mayor; the mayor nodded — “and we admit that under the terms of the present franchise our claim cannot be justified at law.”