It was a problem which Barry Houston, in spite of wakefulness, failed
to solve. Next morning, eager for a repetition of the recital, in the
hope of some forgotten detail, some clue which might lead him to an
absolute decision, he sought the young doctor, only to find that he had
left the train at dawn. A doorway of the past had been opened to
Houston, only to be closed again before he could clearly discern
beyond. He went on to Boston, still struggling to reconstruct it all,
striving to figure what connection it might have had, but in vain. And
with his departure from the train, new thoughts, new problems, arose to
take the place of memories. His purposes now were of the future, not
of the past.
And naturally, he turned first to the office of his father's
attorney,--the bleak place where he had conferred so many times in the
black days. Old Judge Mason, accustomed to seeing Barry in time of
stress, tried his best to be jovial.
"Well, boy, what is it this time?"
"Money." Houston came directly to the point. "I've come back to
Boston to find out if any one will trust me."
"With or without security."
"With it--the best in the world." Then he brought forward a copy of
the contract. Mason studied it at length, then, with a slow gesture,
raised his glasses to a resting place on his forehead.
"I--I don't know, boy," he said at last. "It's a rather hard problem
to crack. I wish there was some one in the family we could go to for
the money."
"But there isn't."
"No. Your uncle Walt might have it. But I'm afraid that he wouldn't
feel like lending it to you. He still believes--well, you know how
fathers are about their boys. He's forgotten most of Tom's bad points
by now."
"We'll drop him from the list. How about the bankers."
"We'll have to see. I'm a little afraid there. I know you'll pardon
me for saying it, Barry, but they like to have a man come to them with
clean hands. Not that you haven't got them," he interjected,
"but--well, you know bankers. What's the money for; running expenses?"
"No. Machinery. The other mill burned down, you know--and as usual,
without insurance. We have a makeshift thing set up there now--but
it's nothing to what will be needed. I've got to have a good,
smooth-working plant--otherwise I won't be able to live up to
specifications."
"You're not," and the old lawyer smiled quizzically, "going to favor
your dearly beloved friend with the order, are you?"
"Who?"
"Worthington."
"The district attorney?"
"That was. Plutocrat now, and member of society, you know. He came
into his father's money, just after he went out of office, and bought
into the East Coast Machinery Company when it was on its last legs.
His money was like new blood. They've got a good big plant. He's
president," again the smile, "and I know he'd be glad to have your
order."
Houston continued the sarcasm.
"I'd be overjoyed to give it to him. In fact, I think I'd refuse to
buy any machinery if I couldn't get it from such a dear friend as
Worthington was. It wasn't his fault that I wasn't sent to the
penitentiary."
"No, that's right, boy." Old Lawyer Mason was quietly reminiscent.
"He tried his best. It seemed to me in those days he was more of a
persecutor than prosecutor."
"Let's forget it." Houston laughed uneasily.
"Now, to go back to the bankers--"
"There isn't much for us to do but to try them, one after another. I
guess we might as well start now as any time."
Late that afternoon they were again in the office, the features of
Mason wrinkled with thought, those of Barry Houston plainly
discouraged. They had failed. The refusals had been courteous,
fraught with many apologies for a tight market, and effusive regrets
that it would be impossible to loan money on such a gilt-edged
proposition as the contract seemed to hold forth, but-- There had
always been that one word, that stumbling-block against which they had
run time after time, shielded and padded by courtesy, but present
nevertheless. Nor were Houston and Mason unaware of the real fact
which lay behind it all; that the bankers did not care to trust their
money in the hands of a man who had been accused of murder and who had
escaped the penalty of such a charge by a margin, which to Boston, at
least, had seemed exceedingly slight. One after another, there in the
office, Mason went over the list of his business acquaintances, seeking
for some name that might mean magic to them. But no such inspiration
came.
"Drop back to-morrow, boy," he said at last. "I'll think over the
thing to-night, and I may be able to get a bright idea. It's going to
be tough sledding--too tough, I'm afraid. If only we didn't have to
buck up against that trial, and the ideas people seem to have gotten of
it, we'd be all right. But--"
There it was again, that one word, that immutable obstacle which seemed
to arise always. Houston reached for his hat.
"I'm going to keep on trying, anyway, Mr. Mason. I'll be back
to-morrow. I'm going to get that money if I have to make a canvass of
Boston, if I have to go out and sell shares at a dollar apiece and if I
go broke paying dividends. I've made my promise to go through--and I'm
going!"
"Good. I'll be looking for you."
But half an hour later, following a wandering, aimless journey through
the crooked streets, Barry Houston suddenly straightened with an
inspiration. He whirled, he dived for a cigar store and for a
telephone.
"Hello!" he called, after the long wait for connections. "Mr. Mason?
Don't look for me tomorrow--I believe I'll not be there."
"But you haven't given it up?"
"Given up?" Houston laughed with sudden enthusiasm. "No--I've just
started. Put the date off a day or two until I can try something
that's buzzing around in my head. It's a wild idea--but it may work.
If it doesn't, I'll see you Thursday."
Then he turned from the telephone and toward the railroad station.
"One, to New York," he ordered hurriedly through the ticket window.
"I've got time to make that seven-forty, if you rush it."
And the next morning, Barry Houston was in New York, swirling along
Seventh Avenue toward Bellstrand Hospital. There he sought the
executive offices and told his story. "Five minutes later he was
looking at the books of the institution, searching, searching,--at last
to stifle a cry of excitement and bend closer to a closely written page.
"August second," he read. "Kilbane Worthington, district attorney,
Boston, Mass. Acc by Drs. Horton, Mayer and Brensteam. Investigations
into effect of blows on skull. Eight cadavers."
With fingers that were almost frenzied, Houston copied the notation,
closed the book, and hurried again for a taxicab. It yet was only nine
o'clock. It the traffic were not too thick, if the driver were
skilful--
He raced through the gate at Grand Central just as it was closing. He
made the train in unison with the last drawling cry of the conductor.
Then for hours, in the Pullman chair car, he fidgeted, counting the
telegraph posts, checking off the stations as they flipped past the
windows, through a day of eagerness, of excited, racking anticipation.
It was night when he reached Boston, but Houston did not hesitate. A
glance at a telephone book, another rocking ride in a taxicab, and
Barry stood on the veranda of a large house, awaiting the answer to his
ring at the bell. Finally it came.
"Mr. Worthington," he demanded. The butler arched his eyebrows.
"Sorry, but Mr. Worthington has left orders not to be--"
"Tell him that it is a matter of urgent business. That it is something
of the utmost importance to him."
A wait. The butler returned.
"Sorry, sir. But Mr. Worthington is just ready to retire."
"You tell Mr. Worthington," answered Houston in a crisp voice, "that he
either will see me or regret it. Tell him that I am very sorry, but
that just now, I am forced to use his own methods--and that if he
doesn't see me within five minutes, there will be something in the
morning papers that will be, to say the least, extremely distasteful to
him."
"The name, please?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Are you from a newspaper?"
"I'm not saying. Whether I go to one directly from here, depends
entirely upon Mr. Worthington. Will you please take my message?"
"I'm afraid--"
"Take my message!"
"Directly, sir!"
Another wait. Then:
"Mr. Worthington will see you in the library, sir."
"Thanks." Houston almost bounded into the hall. A moment later, in
the dimness of the heavily furnished, somewhat mysterious appearing
library, Barry Houston again faced the man whom, at one time, he had
hoped never again to see. Kilbane Worthington was seated at the large
table, much in the manner which he had affected in court, elbows on the
surface, chin cupped in his thin, nervous hands. The light was not
good for recognizing faces; without realizing it, the former district
attorney had placed himself at a disadvantage. Squinting, he sought to
make out the features of the man who had hurried into the room, and
failing, rose.
"Well," he asked somewhat brusquely, "may I inquire--"
"Certainly. My name's Houston."
"Houston--Houston--it seems to me--"
"Maybe your memory needs refreshing. Such little things as I figured
in probably slipped your mind the minute you were through with them.
To be explicit, my name is Barry Houston, son of the late William K.
Houston. You and I met--in the courtroom. You once did me the very
high honor to accuse me of murder and then tried your level best to
send me to the penitentiary for life when you knew, absolutely and
thoroughly, that I was an innocent man!"