Part 22 (1/2)

Once safely ensconced behind the drawn shades, he thoughtfully removed the blue goggles, and sat silent and preoccupied, until the carriage paused before the most magnificent house on the wholly magnificent avenue, the famous residence of the famous head of the Combine. Just once during the drive did the man with the weak eyes allow himself a thought outside his mission; very slowly he shook his head, and half aloud began to frame a brief sentence, ”Of all the d.a.m.ned, cold-blooded--” and there he stopped, for the head of the Combine desired reports, and not comments, even from the man who was, perhaps, in his way, the most trusted little cog in the whole vast machinery of the big Trust's many activities. And so the sentence remained unfinished.

Gordon's second visitor; and the word is used advisedly, was his wife.

For the first time in a week, she invaded the privacy of his study, and stood by his desk, tall and slender and graceful, her neck and arms gleaming with jewels, her opera cloak over her arm, a copy of the evening paper in her hand.

”Well,” she said coldly. ”Is it as bad as they say?”

Gordon made a little deprecating gesture. ”You can read,” he answered shortly. ”The papers haven't got everything quite right, of course, but it's been bad enough. Yes,” he added with emphasis, ”the whole affair's been fully as bad as the papers make it out to be.”

She nodded, a cold gleam of anger in her eyes. ”You've done splendidly, haven't you?” she queried scornfully. ”You that were going to make yourself one of the richest men in the country before you got through. You that were going to see that I never lacked for anything I wanted to raise my finger for. You that said you never started out for anything that you didn't get it--”

She gave a scornful little laugh. Gordon, with a humility that sat strangely on him, rose quietly. ”I'm sorry,” he said simply. ”For myself, I don't mind, but I'm sorry for you. I think, though, in time--”

She cut him short. ”In time!” she echoed bitterly. ”And I've got to give up everything. To be pointed out as the wife of a man who went broke in the stock market. To be laughed at, pitied, patronized; oh, it's too much! I hate you, you fool! I'll tell you the truth now. I hate you! I despise you! I'd be glad--”

With a supreme effort at self-control Gordon clutched the rim of the table with both hands. In a red mist the room swam before his eyes.

Then, all at once, together his vision and his brain suddenly cleared.

He raised his right hand and pointed to the door.

”You'd better go,” he said, in a perfectly even tone. ”You've gone too far. I'll never own you as my wife again.”

She did not flinch. Her eye met his with a pa.s.sion less restrained, but the equal of his own. ”No,” she blazed, in sudden wrath, ”you won't. You never spoke a truer word. Perhaps--”

She stopped abruptly, then silently turned and swept from the room.

It was not until Sunday night that Gordon's third caller came. Doyle, hurrying post-haste from the West, consumed with anxiety, his fears increasing with every bulletin received on the way, burst into Gordon's study, travel-stained and weary, to find his chief sitting calmly in his easy chair, the long table in front of him, usually covered inches deep with papers, cleared bare, with the exception of two sheets, one a letter, one a memorandum covered with minute figures. Gordon nodded pleasantly.

”Well,” he said, ”glad you're back. You've missed all the excitement.

We've been making history since you left. All sorts, too.”

He pushed the letter across the table. Mechanically Doyle took it, and read the few brief lines through. Then he looked up with a gasp.

”Is it true?” he exclaimed. ”She's really gone?” Gordon nodded. ”Quick work, wasn't it?” he said pleasantly. ”She could have had a divorce, if she'd waited; but she was in a hurry, it seems. So they're off on a three years' tour of the world on Ogden's steam yacht. Quite romantic, isn't it?”

Doyle shook his head in mute sympathy. ”I'm awfully sorry--” he began, but Gordon, with a strange laugh, cut him short.

”Needn't be,” he said. ”You don't know the humorous side yet. When you do, you'll laugh, too. It's really funny.”

Doyle's face sufficiently showed his bewilderment. Inwardly he wondered whether it was Gordon or himself whose brain was giving way.

After a moment's pause Gordon continued, half, it seemed, as if to himself.

”You're the only man who's ever going to know the inside of this; this--and one other thing. The two are inseparably connected, as they say in books. Well, here's the story. You've heard gossip about my wife and Ogden?”

Doyle nodded reluctantly. Who, indeed, had not?

Gordon nodded in turn. ”I supposed so,” he said dryly. ”And I suppose, further, you've wondered at my inaction. Before this gossip started, I made a deal with Ogden, by which he lent me a very large sum of money to use in engineering a stock deal I'll be coming to in a few moments.

It was demand money, unfortunately, and Ogden, like the thorough gentleman he is, made use of the fact that he knew I needed it, to go on dancing attendance on my wife and getting her name coupled with his, feeling sure that I wouldn't be in a position to act, or even complain. Clever, I think. Don't you?”

Doyle's lip curled. ”Clever!” he cried. His tone was enough. Gordon smiled.