Trembling from weakness in the reaction, he leaned against the table,
wiping his sweating brow with sweating hands.
"But," she went on, "it must stay there."
He looked open-mouthed at her.
"You have brought the money out here for use in the convention," she
went on with perfect calmness. "You have tried to make me a partner in
that vile business. And--I refuse to play the part assigned me. I
shall keep the money until the convention is over."
He looked round like a terror-stricken drowning man, about to sink for
the last time.
"I'm ruined! I'm ruined!" he almost screamed.
"No," she said, still calm. "You will not be ruined, though you
deserve to be. But I understand why you have become callous to the
commonplace decencies of life, and I shall see to it that no harm comes
to you."
"Mr. Dumont will--DESTROY me! You don't realize, Mrs. Dumont. Vast
property interests are at stake on the result of this
convention--that's our cause. And you are imperiling it!"
"Imperiling a cause that needs lies and bribes to save it?" she said
ironically. "Please calm yourself, Mr. Culver. You certainly can't be
blamed for putting your money in a safe place. I take the
responsibility for the rest. And when you tell Mr. Dumont exactly what
happened, you will not be blamed or injured in any way."
"I shall telegraph him at once," he warned her.
"Certainly," said Pauline. "He might blame you severely for failing to
do that."
He paused in his pacing up and down the room. He flung his arms toward
her, his eyes blazing.
"I WILL have it!" he exclaimed. "Do you hear me, I WILL! I'll bring
men from down-town and have the safe blown open. The money is not
yours--it is----"
She advanced to the bell.
"Another word, Mr. Culver, and I'll have the servants show you the
door. Yours is a strange courage--to dare to speak thus to me when
your head should be hanging in shame for trying to make such base use
of me and my courtesy and friendliness."
His arms dropped, and he lowered his head.
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I'm not myself. I think I'm
going insane. PITY me!"
Pauline looked at him sadly. "I wish I had the right to. But--I
SYMPATHIZE, and I'm sorry--so sorry--to have to do this." A pause,
then--"Good afternoon, Mr. Culver." And she moved toward the door. At
the threshold she turned. "I must say one thing further--THE
CONVENTION MUST NOT BE PUT OFF. If it is adjourned to-morrow without
making nominations, I shall understand that you are getting the money
elsewhere. And--I shall be compelled to put such facts as I know in
the possession of--of those you came to injure." And she was gone.
Culver went to Merriweather's office and sent out for him and Larkin.
When they arrived he shut the doors and told them what had
happened--and in his manner there was not left a trace of the New
Yorker and ambassador condescending to westerners and underlings.
Larkin cursed; Merriweather gave no outward sign. Presently
Merriweather said: "Larkin, you must adjourn the convention over
to-morrow. Culver can go to Chicago and get back with the money by
to-morrow night."
"No use," groaned Culver. And he told them the last part of his talk
with Mrs. Dumont.
"She thought of that!" said Merriweather, and he looked the impartial
admiration of the connoisseur of cleverness.
"But she'd never carry out her threat--never in the world!" persisted
Larkin.
"If you had seen her when she said it, and if you'd known her as long
as I have, you wouldn't say that," replied Culver. "We must try to get
the money here, right away--at the banks."
"All shut," said Merriweather "I wonder how much cash there is at the
Woolens and the Oil and Steel offices? We must get together as much as
we can--quietly." And he rapidly outlined a program that put all three
at work within fifteen minutes. They met again at seven. Culver had
twenty-six hundred dollars, Larkin thirty-one hundred, Merriweather,
who had kept for himself the most difficult task, had only twelve
hundred.
"Sixty-nine hundred," said Merriweather, eying the heap, of paper in
packages and silver in bags.
"Better than nothing," suggested Culver, with a pitiful attempt to be
hopeful.
Merriweather shrugged his shoulders. "Let's get some supper," he said
to Culver. Then to Larkin: "Well, Joe, you'll have to try promises.
Will you keep this cash or shall I?"
"You might as well keep it," replied Larkin, with a string of oaths.
"It'd be ruination to pay one without paying all. Perhaps you can use
some of it between ballots to-morrow." Then, sharply to Culver:
"You've telegraphed Mr. Dumont?"
"Of course," said Culver. "And it took some time as I had to put the
whole story into cipher."
As Culver and Merriweather were seated, with the dinner before them
which Culver did not touch, and which Merriweather ate placidly, Culver
asked him whether there was "any hope at all."
"There's always hope," replied Merriweather. "Promises, especially
from Joe Larkin, will go a long way, though they don't rouse the white
hot enthusiasm that cold cash in the pocket does. We'll pull through
all right." He ate for a while in silence. Then: "This Mrs. Dumont
must be an uncommon woman." A few more mouthfuls and with his small,
icy, mirthless laugh, he added: "I've got one something like her at
home. I keep her there."
Culver decided to spend the night at the hotel. He hung round the
hotel office until two in the morning, expecting and dreading Dumont's
reply to his telegram. But nothing came either for him or for
Merriweather. "Queer we don't get word of some sort, isn't it?" said
he to Merriweather the next morning, as the latter was leaving for the
convention.
Merriweather made no reply beyond a smile so faint that Culver barely
saw it.
"She was right, after all," thought Culver, less despondent. "I'll get
the money just before I leave and take it back. And I'll not open this
subject with Dumont. Maybe he'll never speak of it to me."
And Dumont never did.