On Wednesday morning Mr. Courtney, sitting as rigidly at his desk as if he were in church, was handed the card of Morton Washer. He laid the card face down and placed a paper-weight on it, as if he feared it might get away. He turned a callous eye on his secretary and, in his driest and most husky tones, directed: "Tell Mr. Washer I will see him in five minutes."
During that five minutes Mr. Courtney signed letters as solemnly as a judge pronouncing a death sentence. At last he paused and looked at himself for a solid half-minute in the bookcase mirror across from his desk. Apparently he was as mournful as an undertaker, but at the end of the inspection his mouth suddenly stretched in a wide grin, which bristled the silver-white beard upon his cheeks; his eyes screwed themselves up into knots of jovial wrinkles and he winked—actually winked—at his reflection in the glass! Thereupon he straightened his face and sent for Morton Washer.
Mr. Washer, proprietor of two of the largest hotels in New York, and half a dozen enormous winter and summer places, looked no more like a boniface than he did like a little girl on communion Sunday. He was a small, wispy, waspish fellow with a violently upright, raging pompadour, a mustache which, in spite of careful attempts at waxing, persisted in sticking straight forward, and a sharp hard nose which had apparently been tempered to a delicate purple.
"Hear you've revived your hotel project," he said to Mr. Courtney.
"No," denied Courtney. "Sold the property."
"I know," agreed Mr. Washer with absolute disbelief. "What'll you take for it?"
"I told you it was sold. Here's the contract." And, with great satisfaction, Courtney passed over the document.
"Two million six hundred and fifty!" snorted Washer. "That's half a million more than it's worth."
"You told my friends you intended to buy the railroad plot at three and a half," Courtney gladly reminded him.
"It's four hundred feet deep."
"You said you only wanted two hundred feet square, which is the size of this plot—and this is an equally good location."
"I know," admitted Washer, contemptuous of all such trifles. "What will you take for the property—spot cash?"
"It's sold, I tell you. If you want to buy it see Mr. Gamble."
"Who's Gamble?"
"The man who is organizing the Terminal Hotel Company."
"How much stock has he subscribed?"
"You will have to see Mr. Gamble about that."
"Did you take any?"
"Half a million."
"Humph! You could afford to. Now give me the straight of it, Courtney: Is it any use to talk to you?"
"Not a bit. You'll—"
"I know. I'll have to see Mr. Gamble! Well, where do I find him?"
Mr. Courtney kindly wrote the address on a slip of paper. Mr. Washer looked at it with a grunt, stuffed it in his waistcoat pocket and slammed out of the door. Mr. Courtney winked at himself in the glass. Old Mort Washer would try to take advantage of him, to the extent of an eighth of a million dollars, would he! Make his old friend Courtney take an eighth of a million less than he paid, eh? Mr. Courtney whistled a merry little tune.
Fifteen minutes later, Old Mort Washer bounced into Loring's office.
"Mr. Gamble?" he popped out.
Both gentlemen turned to him, but Loring turned away.
"I'm Gamble," stated that individual.
"I'm Morton Washer."
Since Mr. Gamble was aware of that fact and was expecting this visit, he betrayed no surprise.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Washer?" he inquired.
"Are you taking bona fide subscriptions to your Terminal Hotel Company?"
"No other kind interests me."
"How nearly is your company filled?"
"Why do you want to know? Do you figure on taking some stock?"
"No."
"What do you want?"
"Your price on the property. Will you sell it?"
"Of course I will—at a profit."
"How much?"
"Two million seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
"Keep it!" snapped Washer, and started for the door.
"Much obliged," returned Johnny cheerfully, and returned to his combination daybook, journal, ledger and diary. "Ashley, I put in four hours' overtime, Monday. Do I enter that on the debit or credit side?"
Loring stifled a snicker.
"I think I'd open a separate account for that," he solemnly advised.
"I say," renewed Washer, returning one pace, "who are some of your prospective stockholders?"
"Close, of the Fourth National, is one; Mr. Courtney is another; Colonel Bouncer is another. I have more."
"Thanks!" snapped Washer. "I'll give you two and a half millions for that property."
"I'd rather finance the Terminal Hotel. Let me show you a perspective sketch of it, Mr. Washer," and he opened the drawer of his desk.
"You'll have to excuse me," blurted Mr. Washer. "Good day!" and he was gone.
"I didn't know you had Close," commented Loring in surprise. "How did you hypnotize him?"
"Showed him a profit. Mr. Courtney told me last night that Close boosted me yesterday, so I sold him some stock this morning. Say, Loring, how did you square that fifteen thousand attachment?"
"None of your business," said Loring.
Mr. Washer rushed in to see Mr. Close.
"I see you've subscribed for stock in the Terminal Hotel Company," he observed. "To accommodate a client?"
"No, because I thought it would be a good investment," Mr. Close informed him, turning up the edge of a piece of paper and creasing it as carefully as if it had been money. "Of course I would not care to have my action influence others."
"Do you think Gamble can fully organize such a company?"
"I think so," stated Mr. Close. "Understand, I do not recommend the investment; and my stock is subscribed only on condition that he obtains his full quota of capital."
"What sort of a man is he?"
"A very reliable young man, I believe," responded Mr. Close, carefully testing an ink-eaten steel pen point to see if it was really time for it to be thrown away. "Of course I could not state Mr. Gamble to be financially responsible, but personally I would trust him. I would not urge or even recommend any one to take part in his projects; but personally I feel quite safe in investing with him, though I would not care to have that fact generally known, because of the influence it might have. Perhaps you had better see some of the other subscribers."
"No, I've seen enough," announced Mr. Washer. "Thanks!" and he dashed out of the door.
Ten minutes later he was in Loring's office again.
"Now, name your bottom price for that property," he ordered.
"Two million seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars," obliged Johnny with careful emphasis on each word.
"It's too much money."
"Don't buy it, then," advised Johnny, smiling quite cheerfully.
"Come on; let's close it up," offered Washer resignedly. "I might have to pay more if I waited."
"All right," said Johnny. "It's a bargain, then?"
"It's a bargain—confound it!" agreed Mr. Washer quite affably, now that the struggle was over. "Where do we go?"
"To Mallard Tyne, the six original owners and myself will all take a piece of your two and three-quarter millions."
"I ought to take a body-guard," grinned Washer; "but I'll chance it. Come on."
While the foregoing was in progress Constance Joy was entertaining Paul Gresham, who had the effrontery to drop in for lunch. Of course the conversation turned to Johnny Gamble. Neither of them could avoid it. They had reached the point where Gresham was angry and Constance was enjoying herself.
"I have great faith in him," she was saying. "He has a wonderful project under way just now."
"And he doesn't care who suffers by it," charged Gresham, furious that she should be so well-informed. "You'll see that he'll involve Courtney's property with some of his old debts."
Constance's eyes widened.
"Do you think so?" she inquired as quietly as possible.
"Of course he will. His creditors are certain to take advantage of this immediately. I warned Courtney."
She hastily arose and went into the hall.
"Oh, Aunt Pattie!" she called up the stairs. "Mr. Gresham is here." Then to Gresham: "You'll excuse me for a little while, won't you? Aunt Pattie is coming down."
Five minutes after Johnny and Mr. Washer had gone, Constance Joy came into Johnny's office with carefully concealed timidity. Her manner was coldly gracious and self-possessed, and her toilet was perfect; but she carried one ripped glove.
"Is Mr. Loring in?" she asked with perfect assurance and also with suddenly accelerated dignity; for the stenographer was really quite neat-looking—not pretty, you know, but neat.
"He has just gone out," replied the stenographer with tremendous sweetness. Anybody could look pretty in expensive clothes like Constance Joy's.
There was a moment's hesitation.
"Is Mr. Gamble in?"
The girl smiled quite brightly.
"Mr. Gamble has just gone out," she stated, and smiled again. She was not at all pretty when she smiled—not by any means—neat, though.
"Could you tell me where I would be likely to find Mr. Loring?" asked Constance stiffly.
"Haven't the slightest idea," answered the girl happily, and gave her hair a touch. Ah! there was a rip under her sleeve!
"Do you know where Mr. Gamble has gone?" and Constance was suddenly pleasant through and through.
"Mr. Gamble?" repeated the girl, wondering at the sudden sweetness and suspicious of it. "Oh, Mr. Gamble has gone over to the office of Mallard back in a few minutes. He's in and out a great deal, but he seldom stays out of the office long at a time."
"Thank you," said Constance hastily, reflecting that there was a public telephone booth in the drug store on the corner, so she need not inquire the address of Mallard & Tyne.
Mr. Gamble, Mr. Courtney, and Mr. Washer were in Mr. Mallard's private office, with that acutely earnest real estate gentleman, when a boy came in to advise Mr. Gamble that he was wanted on the telephone. Johnny Gamble had never heard the voice of Constance over a thin wire, but he recognized it in an instant; and he hitched his chair six inches closer to the instrument. He gave her a fool greeting, which he tried to remember afterward so that he could be confused about it; but Constance wasted no time in preliminaries.
"Have you any property which could be attached?" she wanted to know.
"Just at the present minute I have," he admitted. "I shall have a nominal title in a big building plot, for a day or two—or until the necessary papers can be signed."
"You mustn't wait!" she hastily ordered him. "You must get rid of it right this minute."
"I'll burn it up if you don't like it," he heartily promised her. "What's the matter with it?"
"It isn't safe for you to have it an instant. I've wasted so much time trying to find Polly or Loring, so that they could warn you, that I haven't time to explain. Just get rid of it immediately—can't you?"
"I can do anything you say," he earnestly informed her, hitching his chair closer. There was only an inch left, but he took that. "You'll explain to me to-night what all this is about, won't you?"
"You may come, but you mustn't ask questions."
"I'll be there as soon as I'm through here," he promptly informed her.
"Not so early," she protested, panic-stricken, "I have a caller just now. You must hurry, Mr. Gamble."
"Yes, I will," and he tried to hitch his chair closer. "You're telephoning from the house, then?"
"No-o-o-o!" and he thought he detected a stifled snicker. "I left him with Aunt Pattie and slipped out for a minute."
Him! Him, eh? And she had slipped out to telephone her friend, Johnny, the bit of hot information!
He covered the transmitter with his hand to turn aside and smile. This was a pleasant world after all!
"Many, many thanks!" he jubilated. "I think I'll arrange a little dinner of jollification to-night and hand you the official score. I'll have the colonel, and Mr. Courtney, and Polly, and—"
"You may call me up and tell me about it as soon as you get that property off your hands," she interrupted him.
"All right," he reluctantly agreed. "You'll come to the dinner, won't you?"
"Well, I have a partial engagement," she hesitated.
"Then you'll come," he exultantly knew.
"Maybe," she replied. "Hurry!"
He declared that he would—but he was talking into a dead telephone.
"I guess I'll hurry," he decided, and stalked into Mallard's room. "Look here, fellows. Can't we cut this thing short?" he suggested. "There's no use in Mr. Courtney's completing his purchase from Mallard & Tyne, or me mine from Mr. Courtney, or Mr. Washer his from me. All that poppy-cock is just to conceal out profits. What Mr. Washer wants is the ground; and Courtney and I want half a million dollars, besides the eighth of a million that Mr. Courtney had already invested. Mr. Washer, give Courtney your check for five-eighths of a million—and both Courtney and I will tear up our contracts and give you the pieces. Then you settle with Mallard & Tyne for two and an eighth millions."
"Look here, Courtney, is this a put-up job between you and Gamble?" demanded Washer.
"No," returned Courtney, with that rarely seen smile of his, "it's only the finish of that job you put up on me when you persuaded my friends to drop out of my hotel company."
Washer looked petulant. Johnny Gamble patted him on the shoulder.
"Cheer up," he said—"but hurry. If you don't hurry I'll sell you some stock in my Terminal Hotel Company."
"Give me some papers to sign," ordered Washer, producing his check-book.
Gresham met the colonel and Courtney on Broadway in full regalia just as they were turning in at the newest big cafe to dine that night.
"I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Courtney, that my warning of this noon was not unfounded," he remarked. "Perhaps, however, you already know it."
"No, I don't," returned Courtney, eying the correctly dressed Gresham with some dissatisfaction. "I'm not even sure of what you mean."
"About a certain man with whom you are doing business."
"Oh—Gamble?"
"What's the matter with Gamble?" bristled the colonel.
"Why, Gresham hinted to me this morning that Gamble had financial obligations he could not meet," explained Courtney. "It seems that he met them, however."
"Of course he did!" snorted the colonel.
"I hadn't intended to make the matter public property," stated Gresham with an uncomfortable feeling that he was combating an unassailable and unaccountable prejudice.
"Bless my soul, you're succeeding mighty well!" blurted the colonel. "Now, tell us all you know about my friend Gamble. Out with it!"
"I beg you to understand, Mr. Courtney, that I am inspired by a purely friendly interest," insisted Gresham with very stiff dignity. "I thought it might be of value for you to know—if you were not already informed—that an attachment for fifty thousand dollars upon Mr. Gamble was laid against your Terminal Hotel property this afternoon."
Mr. Courtney paused to consider.
"At what time was this attachment issued?"
"At three-thirty, I was informed."
Mr. Courtney's reception of that important bit of news was rather unusual, in consideration of its gravity. He threw back his head and laughed; he turned to the colonel and, putting his hand upon his old friend's shoulder, laughed again; he put his other hand upon Gresham's shoulder and laughed more. The colonel was a slower thinker. He looked painfully puzzled for a moment—then suddenly it dawned upon him, and he laughed uproariously; he punched his old friend Courtney in the ribs and laughed more uproariously; he punched Gresham in the ribs and laughed most uproariously.
"Why, bless my heart, boy!" he explained for Courtney. "At two-thirty, neither Courtney nor Johnny Gamble owned a penny's worth of interest in the Terminal Hotel site, if that's the property you mean—and of course you do."
"No," laughed Courtney. "At that hour we sold it outright to Morton Washer for a cool half-million profit, which my friend Johnny and I divide equally. I saw him make the entry in his book. He has twenty-four hours in which to loaf on that remarkable schedule of his. Johnny Gamble is a wonderful young man!"
"Who's that's such a wonderful young man?" snapped a jerky little voice. "Johnny Gamble? You bet he is! He skinned me!"
Turning, Courtney grasped the hands of lean little Morton Washer and of wiry-faced Joe Close.
"We're all here now except the youngsters and the ladies," said Courtney. "Possibly they're inside. Coming in, Gresham?"
"No, I think not," announced Gresham, sickly. "Who's giving the party?"
"Johnny Gamble," snapped Washer. "It's in honor of me!"
A limousine drove up just then. In it were sweet-faced Mrs. Parsons—Polly's mother by adoption—Polly, Loring and Sammy Chirp, the latter gentleman being laden with the wraps of everybody but Loring.
Just behind the limousine was a taxi. In it were Aunt Pattie Boyden, Constance Joy and Johnny Gamble. Gresham, who had held a partial engagement for the evening, went to his club instead.
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