was wondering," she said, "if you remembered me."
"Remembered you!" Stranway gasped. And then he laughed because her eyes were mischievous. "Well, you haven't given me much chance to in the last month," he said; "but I guess you've made up for it to-night with compound interest."
They had swung on to Broadway, and headed up-town. There was no longer any sound of pursuit. But the car was still running at terrific speed.
"That sounds like dear old Charlebois," she said. "'Compound interest!' And speaking of Charlebois——"
"We won't!" said Stranway decisively. "We'll talk about you. This is the first chance I've had, you know."
She shook her head.
"I'm afraid there's hardly time for that," she said.
"Oh, yes; there is!" asserted Stranway. "We're quite safe now, and you're running much too fast. Stop the car, and let me drive."
But now the laughter had gone out of her face and eyes.
"Presently—not yet," she answered. Then quickly, seriously: "You were to leave for Cleveland to-morrow to be in time for a meeting on the following morning—with the stock? You were to meet Charlebois there?"
Something in her tone caused him alarm.
"Yes," he said. "Yes—what is it? What has happened?"
"I do not know," she replied hurriedly, "except that it is a matter of life and death to have that certificate and the proxy at the meeting, and——"
"Well," Stranway broke in reassuringly, "I've got them."
"I supposed you had," she said hastily. "It is not that. There has been a wretched mistake. I do not know whether one of our men has blundered badly, or how it was caused. The meeting is for to-morrow morning, not the day after."
"To-morrow morning!" repeated Stranway mechanically, as though not fully sensing the meaning of the words—and then with a rush it came upon him in all its grim significance. At any cost do not fail, Charlebois had said. To-morrow morning—it was this morning now! "You are sure—you are sure?" he cried. "Charlebois—does Charlebois know?"
"He knows—now," she said. "It was from him I received the news. He is travelling on the same train with Poindexter. He wired duplicate telegrams en route to both of us. I received mine three-quarters of an hour ago. Yours is probably at the Court. I was afraid it would have arrived after you had left there, and that is why you found me here in the car."
This morning! Stranway's mind, wrestling with the problem forced suddenly upon him, was groping for a solution. He pulled out his watch, managed to make out the time, and groaned. It was fourteen minutes to one. There were nine hours left. Cleveland must be, roughly, something like four hundred and fifty miles away. Nine into four hundred and fifty was—fifty miles an hour. It was possible, just possible, if only all were ready; but the time it would take now to make the arrangements left the chance a desperate one at best. It was, however, the only chance he could see. He turned to her.
"A special——"
"Is being made up now," she supplied coolly. "It will be ready for you by the time you reach the Grand Central. I told them you would be there by one o'clock. They have agreed to make Cleveland by a quarter to ten in the morning, and I have wired Charlebois on the train that you will meet him at the office of the Machine Company."
"You did that!" ejaculated Stranway, staring at her in amazement and unveiled admiration; and then, with a start: "But what are you slowing for now? I didn't know you were racing for a train when I said anything about speed a moment ago, and——"
His words ended in a surprised gasp. The car had come to a complete standstill at the corner of an intersecting street, and she had sprung lightly to the sidewalk.
"Flint will meet you with your bag at the station, and bring back the car," she said quickly. "You understand everything now, and I have work yet to do. Hurry! There isn't a moment to spare. You will need all the time you've got to make the station—and you mustn't fail!"
Dazedly, he squeezed into the seat behind the wheel and leaned out toward her.
"Yes, that's all right," he protested, "but surely there's no necessity for you——"
She did not answer—she had simply disappeared around the corner.
"Well, I'm damned!" said Stranway earnestly to himself; and then conscious that her last words were the key to the situation, that he must not fail, that every minute was literally now a priceless asset, he sent the car leaping forward on its way uptown again.
Twelve minutes later, as he ran through the gates and out on the platform of the Grand Central Station, he found his train waiting for him. He snatched his bag from Flint's hand, and sprang on the car's steps. A conductor, watch in hand, raised two fingers to the cab—and the "special" with a marked-up schedule, rights over every mortal thing on earth, that was undoubtedly already eliciting benedictions of pungent unholiness from dispatchers many miles away as they rearranged and readjusted their train sheets, began to glide out of the station.
Stranway's brain was in a whirl as he turned into his berth. The events of the night had followed each other with stunning rapidity. Question upon question surged upon him. Charlebois' promise, Charlebois' character itself, seemed strangely at variance with his acts to-night in so far as Steener was concerned. What did it mean? And this blunder in the dates, so nearly fatal, how had that come about? And Poindexter, the capitalist—why had Charlebois so suddenly and unexpectedly left for Cleveland on the same train with him? What was this meeting that made of these few paltry shares, twenty-five of them out of an issue of thousands doubtless, of such vital importance?
And the Orchid—he was still thinking of the Orchid when, half an hour later, he dropped off to sleep.
Chapter VI.
For Value Received
It was twenty minutes to ten in the morning, five minutes better than the railroad officials had promised, when the "special" rolled into Cleveland; and at ten minutes to ten, a taxi, after a wild dash through the city, deposited Stranway at the entrance to a large office building.
He stepped from the elevator on the fourth floor and walked rapidly down the corridor. Looking for the general office, he passed two doors each bearing the sign of the West County Tool and Machine Company, but with the word "private" underneath. There was evidently quite an extensive suite of offices. But before the third door, also marked "private," he halted abruptly. From within, sharp, imperative, suddenly raised in tone, he recognised Charlebois' voice.
With a perfunctory knock, he opened the door, stepped inside—and stood stock-still just beyond the threshold. Before a flat-topped desk in the centre of the room stood the little old gentleman of Dominic Court, stern-faced, revolver in his hand. Across the desk, huddled in a chair, his body crouched forward, was another man—a middle-aged man with grizzled hair, upon whose bloodless features, as he turned his head apathetically at the sound of the opening door; Stranway read utter misery and hopelessness.
"Ah, my boy!" Charlebois' expression had relaxed a
