It was early in the evening, but the big house was lighted as if for a reception; lights in the rooms above, lights in the library and hall and drawing-room. Doctor Quimby's horse and buggy stood by one of the hitching posts and the Colton motor car was drawn up by the main entrance. From the open windows of the servants' quarters came the sounds of excited voices. I hastened to the front door. Before I could push the button of the electric bell the door was opened. Johnson, the butler, peered out at me. Most of his dignity was gone.
“Is it you, Mr. Paine?” he asked, anxiously. “Come in, sir, please. Miss Mabel has been asking for you not a minute ago, sir.”
I entered the hall. “What is it, Johnson?” I asked, quickly. “How is Mr. Colton?”
The butler looked behind him before replying. He shook his head dubiously.
“He's awful ill, sir,” he whispered. “The doctor's been with him for an hour; 'e's unconscious and Mrs. Colton is takin' on something terrible. It's awful, sir, ain't it!”
His nervousness was sufficient indication of the general demoralization of the household. And from one of the rooms above came the sobs of a hysterical woman.
“Brace up, man,” I whispered in reply. “This is no time for you to go to pieces. Where is Miss Colton?”
“She's with her father, sir. Step into the library and I'll call her.”
He was not obliged to call her, for, at that moment, I heard her voice speaking from the head of the stairs.
“Who is it, Johnson?” she asked, in a low tone.
“It's Mr. Paine, Miss Mabel.”
I heard a little exclamation, of relief it seemed to me. Then she appeared, descending the staircase. Her face was, as Lute had said, pale, but her manner was calm, much calmer than the butler's.
She came to me and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I was sure you would.”
“How is your father, Miss Colton?” I asked.
“He is no worse. Come into the library, please. Johnson, if Mother or the doctor need me, I shall be in the library. Come, Mr. Paine.”
We entered the library together. The room in which I had had my two memorable encounters with “Big Jim” Colton was without its dominant figure now. His big armchair was drawn up beside the table and the papers and writing materials were in the place where I had seen them. A half-burned cigar lay in the ash tray. But the strong fingers which had placed it there were weak enough now and the masterful general of finance was in his room upstairs fighting the hardest battle of his life, fighting for that life itself. A door at the end of the library, a door which I had not noticed before, was partially open and from within sounded at intervals a series of sharp clicks, the click of a telegraph instrument. I remembered that Colton had told me, in one of his conversations, that he had both a private telephone and telegraph in his house.
Miss Colton closed the door behind us, and turned to me.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, again. “I need help and I could think of no one but you. You have hurried dreadfully, haven't you!”
She was looking at my forehead. I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror above the mantel and reached for my handkerchief.
“I must have run every step of the way,” I answered. “I didn't realize it. But never mind that. Tell me about your father.”
“He was taken ill soon after he returned from your house. He was in the library here and I heard him call. When I reached him he was lying upon the couch, scarcely able to speak. He lost consciousness before we could get him to his room. The doctor says it is what he has feared, an attack of acute indigestion, brought on by anxiety and lack of rest. It was my fault, I am afraid. Last night's worry—Poor Father!”
For just a moment I feared she was going to break down. She covered her eyes with her hand. But she removed it almost immediately.
“The doctor is confident there is no great danger,” she went on. “Danger, of course, but not the greatest. He is still unconscious and will be for some time, but, if he is kept perfectly quiet and not permitted to worry in the least, he will soon be himself again.”
“Thank God for that!” I exclaimed, fervently. “And your mother—Mrs. Colton—how, is she?”
Her tone changed slightly. I inferred that Mrs. Colton's condition was more trying than serious.
“Mother is—well, in her nervous state any shock is disturbing. She is bearing the anxiety as well as we should expect.”
I judged that not much was expected.
“It was not on account of Father's illness that I sent for you, Mr. Paine,” she went on. “If he had not been ill I should not have needed you, of course. But there is something else. It could not have happened at a more unfortunate time and I am afraid you may not be able to give me the help I need. Oh, I hope you can! I don't know what to do. I know it must be dreadfully important. Father has been troubled about it for days. He has been saying that he must go to New York. But the doctor had warned us against his going and so we persuaded him to wait. And now . . . sit down, please. I want to ask your advice.”
I took the chair she indicated. She drew another beside me and seated herself.
“Mr. Paine—” she began. Then, noticing my expression, she asked, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I answered, “nothing except—Isn't that the telegraph instrument I hear? Isn't someone calling you?”
“Yes, yes, it is Mr. Davis, Father's confidential man, his broker, in New York. He is trying to get us, I am sure. He telephoned an hour ago. I got a part of his message and then the connection was broken off. Central says there is something the matter with the wire, a big storm in Connecticut somewhere. It may take a whole day to repair it. And it is SO important! It may mean—I don't know WHAT it may mean! Oh, Mr. Paine, DO you know anything about stocks?”
I looked at her blankly.
“Stocks?” I repeated.
“Yes, yes,” a trifle impatiently. “Stocks—the stock market—railroad shares—how they are bought and sold—do you know anything about them?”
I was more puzzled than ever, but I answered as best I could.
“A very little,” I replied. “I used to know a good deal about them once, and, of late, since I have been in the Denboro bank, my knowledge has been brushed up a bit. But I am afraid it is pretty fragmentary.”
“Do you know anything about Louisville and Transcontinental?”
I started. Louisville and Transcontinental was the one stock about which I did know something. Of late I had read everything the papers printed concerning it. It was the stock in which George Taylor had risked so much and which had come so near to ruining him. No wonder I was startled. Why did she mention that particular stock?
“What?” I stammered.
“Louisville and Transcontinental,” she repeated, eagerly. “DO you know anything about it? Why do you look at me like that?”
I must be careful. It was not possible that she could have learned George's secret. No one knew that except George himself, and his brokers, and I. Yet—yet why did she ask that question? I must be on my guard.
“I did not realize that I was looking at you in any extraordinary way, Miss Colton,” I answered.
“But you were. Why? Do you know anything about it? If you do—oh, if you do you may be able to help me, to advise me! And, for Father's sake, I want advice so much.”
For her father's sake! That did not sound as if her question concerned George or me. A trifle reassured, I tried to remember something of what I had read.
“I know, of course,” I answered, slowly, “what every one knows, that the California and Eastern has been, or is reported to have been, trying to get control of the L. and T. Its possession would give the California people the balance of power and mean the end of the present rate war with the Consolidated Pacific. The common stock has fluctuated between 30 and 50 for months and there have been all sorts of rumors. So much the newspapers have made common property. That is all I know.”
“You did not know then that Father and his associates control the California and Eastern?”
I leaned back in my chair.
“No,” I said, “I did not know that. Then your father—”
“Father tells me a great deal concerning his business affairs. I have been very much interested in this. It seems almost like a great war and as if Father were a general. He and his associates have gradually bought up the C. and E. until they practically own it. And they have been working to get the Louisville road. Last winter, you remember, there was a great excitement and the stock went up and then down again. That was when it looked as if the other side—the Consolidated Pacific—had beaten Father, but they had not. You remember that?”
I remembered it. That is to say, George had told me of the rise and fall of the stock. It was then that he had bought.
“Yes,” I said, “I remember something of it.”
“If Father had stayed in New York he would have won before this. Oh,” with a burst of pride, “they can NEVER beat him when he is leading the fight himself! He has, through his brokers, been selling—what do they call it? Oh, yes, selling the Louisville stock 'short' ever since. I am not sure just what that means, but perhaps you know.”
“I think I do,” I answered, thoughtfully. “He has been selling, quietly, so as to force the stock down, preparatory to buying in. I remember the papers have said that the C. and E. were reported as having lost interest in the Louisville. That was only a blind, I presume.”
“Yes. Father never gives up, you know that. But he was very anxious that the Consolidated Pacific people should think he had. And now—now, when he is so ill—comes this! Mr. Davis telephoned that—Yes, what is it?”
There had been a knock at the door. It opened and the butler appeared.
“A telegram for Mr. Colton, Miss Mabel,” he said.
“Give it to me. Tell the man to wait, Johnson. It is from Mr. Davis,” she exclaimed, turning to me. “I am sure it is. Yes. See!”
She handed me the yellow telegram. I read the following aloud:
“James W. Colton,
“Denboro, Mass.
“Galileo potato soap currency tomato deeds command army alcohol thief weather family—”
“What on earth—!” I exclaimed.
“That is in the code, Father's private code. Don't you see? The code book is here somewhere. I must find it.”
She was rummaging in the drawer of the desk. With a sigh of relief she produced a little blue leather-covered book.
“Here it is,” she said. “Now read me the telegram and I will write the translation. Hurry!”
I read again:
“'Galileo'—”
“That means 'Consolidated Pacific'. Go on.”
It took us five minutes to translate the telegram. When we had finished the result was:
“Consolidated Pacific crowd wise situation. Strong buying close market to-day. Expect worse to-morrow. We are bad shape. Can deliver only part. Sure big advance opening and more follow. What shall I do? Why do not you answer private telegraph line? Telephone out order. Wire instructions immediately. Better still come yourself. Davis.”
“Is that all?” asked Miss Colton. “What answer shall we make?”
“Wait. Wait, please, until I dig some sort of sense out of all this. 'Wise situation'—”
“Wise TO situation, I presume that means. The Consolidated Pacific is wise to the situation. 'Wise' is slang, isn't it? It used to be at college.”
“It is yet, even in Denboro. Humph! let me think. 'Sure big advance opening.' I suppose that means the market will open with Louisville and Transcontinental at a higher figure and that the price is sure to advance during the day.”
“Yes. Yes, it must mean that. But why should Mr. Davis be so excited about it? He said something about 'ruin' over the 'phone. What does 'We are bad shape' mean? And 'Can deliver only part'?”
“I don't know . . . unless . . . Humph! If we had some particulars. Why don't you answer on the private telegraph, as he says?”
“Because I can't. Don't you see? I can't. There is no telegraph operator in the house. When we first came Father had a secretary, who could use the telegraph; but he sent him back to New York. Said he was sick of the sight of him. They did not get on well together.”
“But your father must have used the telegraph since.”
“Yes. Father used it himself. He was a telegraph operator when he was a young man. Oh, you don't know what a wonderful man my father is! His story is like something in a book. He—But never mind that. Hark! there is the instrument going again. It must be dreadfully important. Mr. Davis is so worried.”
“He seems to be, certainly.”
“But what shall we do?”
“I wish I knew, but I don't. You know nothing of the particulars?”
“No. Nothing more than I have told you. Oh, CAN'T you help me? I feel somehow as if Father had left me in charge of his affairs and as if I must not fail. Now, when he is helpless! when he is . . . Oh, can't YOU do something, Mr. Paine? I thought you might. You are a banker.”
“A poor imitation only, I am afraid. Let me think. Did you tell this man Davis of your father's illness?”
“No. I thought perhaps Father would not wish it. And I had no opportunity . . . Oh, dear! there is someone at the door again! Who is it?”
Johnson's voice replied. “It is me, Miss Mabel,” he said. “The telegraph person says he can't wait any longer. He 'asn't 'ad his supper. And there is a twenty-five-cent charge for bringing the message, Miss.”
“Tell him he must wait a minute longer,” I answered, for her. “Miss Colton, it seems to me that, whether we can do anything or not, we should know the particulars. Tell that man—Phineas Cahoon, the depot master, I suppose it is—that there is an answer and he must wait for it. Now let's consult that code.”
She took the code book and I picked up a sheet of paper and a pencil from the table.
“We must ask him to send all the particulars,” I declared. “Look up 'send' in the code, Miss Colton.”
She was turning the pages of the little book when the butler knocked once more.
“He says he can't send any message until morning, Miss Mabel. The telegraph office closes at eight o'clock.”
The code book fell to the table. Miss Colton stared helplessly at me.
“What SHALL we do?” she breathed.
I rose to my feet. “Wait, Johnson,” I called. “Make that man wait a moment longer. Miss Colton, I have an idea. Would your father be willing to—but, that is silly! Of course he would! I'll see Cahoon myself.”
I found Phineas, long-legged and gaunt, sitting on the front step of the colonial portico. He had been invited into the hall, but had refused the invitation. “I had on my workin' duds,” he explained later. “A feller that's been handlin' freight all the afternoon ain't fit to set on gold-plated furniture.” He looked up in surprise as I came out.
“Well, for thunder sakes!” he exclaimed, in astonishment. “It's Ros Paine! What in the nation are you doin' in here, Ros? Ain't married into the family, have ye? Haw, haw!”
I could have kicked him for that pleasantry—if he had not been just then too important a personage to kick. As it was, his chance remark knocked my errand out of my head, momentarily.
“How's the old man, Ros?” he whispered. “They tell me it's brought on by high livin', champagne wine and such. Is it?”
“Phin,” said I, ignoring the question, “would you stay up all night for twenty dollars?”
He stared at me.
“What kind of conundrum's that?” he demanded. “'Would I set up all night for twenty dollars?' That may be a joke, but—”
“Would you? I mean it. Mr. Colton is sick and his daughter needs some one to send and receive messages over their private telegraph wire. She will pay you twenty dollars—or I will, if she doesn't—if you will stay here and do that for her. Will you?”
For a minute he sat there staring at me.
“You mean it, Ros?” he asked, slowly. “You do, hey! I thought p'raps—but no, it's long past April Fool day. WILL I do it? Show me the telegraph place quick, afore I wake up and come out of the ether. Twenty dollars! Consarn it, I send messages all the week for twelve, and hustle freight and sell tickets into the bargain. I ain't had no supper, but never mind. Make it twenty-five and I'll stay all day to-morrer.”
I led him into the library and explained his presence to Miss Colton. She was delighted.
“It is SO good of you, Mr. Cahoon,” she exclaimed. “And you shan't starve, either. I will have some supper sent in to you at once. You can eat it while you are at work, can't you?”
She hurried out to order the supper. Phineas, in accordance with my request, seated himself in the little room adjoining the library, before the telegraph instrument.
“Thunder!” he observed, looking about him. “I never expected to send messages for King Solomon in all his glory, but I cal'late I can stand it if Sol can. S'pose there'd be any objection to my takin' off my coat? Comes more nat'ral to work in my shirt sleeves.”
I bade him take it off and he did so.
“This feller's in some hurry,” he said, nodding toward the clicking instrument. “Shall I tell him we're on deck and ready for business?”
“Yes, tell him.”
His long fingers busied themselves with the sender. A sharp series of clicks answered the call. Phineas glanced apprehensively out into the library.
“Say, he ain't no parson, is he?” he chuckled. “Wants to know what in hell has been the trouble all this time. What'll I tell him?”
“Tell him to send particulars concerning L. and T. at once. All the particulars.”
The message was sent. The receiver rattled a hasty reply.
“He says you know all the particulars already. You must know 'em. Wants to know if this is Mr. Colton.”
“Tell him Mr. Colton is here, in the house. That will be true enough. And say we wish all particulars, figures and all. We want to know just where we stand.”
The demand for particulars was forwarded. There was more clicking.
“Give me a piece of paper and a pencil, quick,” urged Phineas. “This is a long feller.”
While he was writing the “long feller,” as the telegraph ticked it off, Miss Colton and the butler appeared, the latter bearing a loaded tray. He drew a little table up beside the operator and placed the tray upon it. Then he went away. The telegraph clicked and clicked and Cahoon wrote. Miss Colton and I watched him anxiously.
“Say,” observed Phineas, between intervals of clicks, “this feller's in some loony asylum, ain't he. This is pretty nigh as crazy as that message I fetched down. . . . Here 'tis. Maybe you folks know what it means, I don't. It's forty fathoms long, ain't it.”
It was long enough, surely. It was not all in the code jargon—Davis trusted the privacy of the wire sufficiently to send a portion of it in plain English—but he did not trust even that altogether. Miss Colton and I worked it out as we had the first telegram. As the translation progressed I could feel my hair tingling at the roots.
Was it to help in such a complication as this that I had been summoned? I, of all people! These waters were too deep for me.
Boiled down, the “particulars” for which Davis had been asked, and which he had sent, amounted to this: Colton, it seemed, had sold L. and T. “short” for a considerable period of time in order, as I had surmised, to force down the price and buy in at a reasonable figure. He had sold, in this way, about three-eighths of the common stock. Of this amount he had in his possession—in his broker's possession, that is—but two of the eighths. The “other crowd”—the Consolidated Pacific, presumably—had, as Davis now discovered, three-eighths actual certificates, in its pocket, had been acquiring them, on the quiet, while pretending to have lost interest. The public, unsuspecting powers in this, as in most of Wall Street little games, had still three-eighths. The “other crowd,” knowing “Big Jim's” position, had but to force immediate delivery of the missing one-eighth—the amount of Colton's over-selling—and he might be obliged to pay Heaven knew what for the shares. He MUST acquire them; he must buy them. And the price which he would be forced to pay might mean—perhaps not bankruptcy for him, the millionaire—but certainly the loss of a tremendous sum and all chance of acquiring control of the road. “This has been sprung on us all at once,” wired Davis. “They have got us cold. What shall I do? You must be here yourself before the market opens.”
And the man who “must be there himself” was critically ill and unconscious!
The long telegram, several hundred words of it, was before us. I read it through again, and Miss Colton sat and looked at me.
“Do you understand it—now?” she whispered, anxiously.
“Yes, I think I do. . . . What is it, Phin?”
“I was just wonderin',” drawled Cahoon's voice from the adjoining room, “if I couldn't eat a little mite of this supper. I've got to do it or have my nose and eyes tied up. Havin' all them good things settin' right where I can see and smell 'em is givin' me the fidgets.”
“Yes, yes, eat away,” I said, laughing. And even Miss Colton smiled. But my laugh and her smile were but transient.
“Is it—Does it mean that things are VERY wrong?” she asked, indicating the telegram.
“They are very serious; there is no doubt of that.”
The instrument clicked.
“Say, Ros,” said Phin, his mouth full, “this feller's gettin' as fidgety as I was afore I got afoul of this grub. He wants to know what his instructions are. What'll he do?”
“What shall you tell him?” asked Miss Colton.
“I don't know,” I answered. “I do not know. I am afraid I am of no use whatever. This is no countryman's job. No country banker, even a real one, should attempt to handle this. This is high finance with a vengeance. I don't know. I think he . . . Suppose we tell him to consult the people at your father's office.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “The people at the office know nothing of it. This was Father's own personal affair. No one knows of it but Mr. Davis.”
“How about them instructions?” this from Cahoon.
“Tell him—yes, tell him Mr. Colton cannot leave here at present and that he must use his own judgment, go ahead on his own responsibility. That is the only thing I see to do, Miss Colton. Don't worry; he must be a man of experience and judgment or your father never would use him. He will pull it through, I am sure.”
I was by no means as confident as I pretended to be, however, and the next message from Davis proved my forebodings to be well founded. His answer was prompt and emphatic:
Matter too important. Decline to take responsibility. Must have definite instructions or shall not act. Is this Mr. Colton himself?
“He would not act without Father's orders in a matter like this. I was afraid of it. And he is growing suspicious. Oh, CAN'T you help me, Mr. Paine? CAN'T you? I relied on you. I felt sure YOU would know what to do. I am—I am SO alone; and with Father so ill—I—I—”
She turned away and leaned her head upon her hand on the table. I felt again the desperate impulse I had felt when we were alone on board the launch, the impulse to take her in my arms and try to comfort her, to tell her that I would do anything—anything for her. And yet what could I do?
“Can't you help me?” she pleaded. “You have never failed me before.”
There came a knock at the door and Johnson's voice called her name.
“Miss Mabel,” he whispered, “Miss Mabel, will you come, please? The doctor wants you right away.”
She rose quickly, drawing her hand across her eyes as she did so.
“I am coming, Johnson,” she said. Then, turning to me, “I will be back as soon as I can. Do try—try to think. You MUST, for Father's sake, for all our sakes.”
She left the room. I rose and, with my hands in my pockets, began to pace the floor. This was the tightest place I had ever been in. There had been a time, years before, when I prided myself on my knowledge of the stock market and its idiosyncrasies. Then, in the confidence of youth, I might have risen to a situation like this, might have tackled it and had the nerve to pull it through or blame the other fellow if I failed. Now I was neither youthful nor confident. Whatever I did would be, in all human probability, the wrong thing, and to do the wrong thing now meant, perhaps, ruin for the sick man upstairs. And she had trusted me! She had sent for me in her trouble! I had “never failed her before”!
I walked the floor, trying hard to think. It was hard to think calmly, to be sensible, and yet I realized that common-sense and coolness were what I needed now. I tried to remember the outcome of similar situations in financial circles, but that did not help me. I remembered a play I had seen, “The Henrietta” was its name. In that play, a young man with more money than brains had saved the day for his father, a Wall Street magnate, by buying a certain stock in large quantities at a critical time. He arrived at his decision to buy, rather than sell, by tossing a coin. The father had declared that his son had hit upon the real secret of success in stock speculation. Possibly the old gentleman was right, but I could not make my decision in that way. No, whatever I did must have some reason to back it. Was there no situation, outside of Wall Street, which offered a parallel? After all, what was the situation? Some one wished to buy a certain thing, and some one else wished to buy it also. Neither party wanted the other to get it. There had been a general game of bluff and then . . . Humph! Why, in a way, it was like the original bidding for the Shore Lane land.
It was like it, and yet it was not. I owned the land and Colton wanted to buy it; so also did Jed Dean. Each side had made bids and had been refused. Then the bidders had, professedly, stood pat, but, in reality, they had not. Jed had told me, in his latest interview, that he would have paid almost anything for that land, if he had had to. And Colton—Colton had invented the Bay Shore Development Company. That company had fooled Elnathan Mullet and other property holders. It had fooled Captain Jed. It had come very near to fooling me. If Mabel Colton had not given me the hint I might have been tricked into selling. Then Colton would have won, have won on a “bluff.” A good bluff did sometimes win. I wondered . . .
I was still pacing the floor when Miss Colton returned to the library. She was trying hard to appear calm, but I could see that she was greatly agitated.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is he—”
“He is not as well just now. I—I must not leave him—or Mother. But I came back for a moment, as I told you I would. Is there anything new?”
“No. Davis has repeated his declaration to do nothing without orders from your father.”
She nodded. “Very well,” she said, “then it is over. We are beaten—Father is beaten for the first time. It makes little difference, I suppose. If he—if he is taken from us, nothing else matters. But I hoped you . . . never mind. I thank you, Mr. Paine. You would have helped him if you could, I know.”
Somehow this surrender, and the tone in which it was made, stirred me more than all else. She had trusted me and I had failed. I would not have it so.
“Miss Colton,” I said, earnestly, “suppose—suppose I should go ahead and make this fight, on my own hook. Suppose I should give Davis the 'instructions' he is begging for. Have I permission to do it?”
She looked at me in surprise. “Of course,” she said, simply.
“Do you mean it? It may mean complete smash. I am no railroad man, no stock manipulator. I have an idea and if this trouble were mine I should act upon it. But it is not mine. It is your father's—and yours. I may be crazy to risk such a thing—”
She stepped forward. “Do it,” she commanded. “I tell you to do it. If it fails I will take the responsibility.”
“That you shall not do. But I will take the chance. Phin!”
“Yup; here I be.”
“Send this message at once: 'Try your hardest to get hold of any shares you can, at almost any figure in reason, before the market opens. When it opens begin buying everything offered.' Got that?”
“Yup. I've got it.”
“Sign it 'Colton' and send it along. I am using your father's name,” I added, turning to her. “It seems to me the only way to avoid suspicion and get action. No one must know that 'Big Jim' is critically ill; you understand that.”
“Yes, I understand. But,” hesitatingly, “to buy may mean paying tremendous prices, may it not? Can we—”
“We must. Here is Davis's reply coming. What is it, Phin?”
Cahoon read off the message as the receiver clicked.
“You are insane. Buying at such prices will be suicide.”
“Tell him no. Tell him to let it leak out that Colton is seizing the opportunity to clinch his control of the road. The other crowd will think, if he is willing to buy at any price, that he cannot be so short as they supposed. Send all that, Phin. It is a bluff, Miss Colton, nothing but a bluff, but it may win. God knows I hope it will.”
She did not answer. Together we waited for the reply. It came as follows:
All right if you say so, of course, but still think it suicide. I am off on the still hunt for those shares but don't believe one to be had, Consolidated bunch too sharp for that. Stay by the wire. Will report when I can. Good luck and good-by.
“He's gone, I cal'late,” observed Phineas. “Need me any more, do you think?”
“Yes. You must stay here all night, just as I told you.”
“Right you be. Send word to the old woman, that's all, if you can. Cal'late she's waitin' at the kitchen door with a rollin' pin, by this time.”
“I will send the word, Mr. Cahoon,” replied Miss Colton. “And—don't you think you could go home now, Mr. Paine? I know how exhausted you must be, after last night.”
“No home for me,” I answered, with assumed cheerfulness. “Admirals of Finance are expected to stick by the ship. I will lie down here on the couch and Phineas can call me if I am needed. Don't worry, Miss Colton. Go to your father and forget us altogether, if you can. If—if I should be needed for—for any other cause, please speak.”
She looked at me in silence for a moment. Then she came toward me and held out her hand. “I shall not forget, whatever else I may do,” she said, brokenly. “And I will speak if I need you, my friend.”
She turned hastily and went to the door.
“I will send word to your people as well as Mr. Cahoon's,” she added. “Try and sleep, if you can. Good night.”
The door closed behind her. Sleep! I was not likely to sleep. A man who has lighted the fuse of the powder magazine beneath him does not sleep much.
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