IN WHICH VARNEY DOES NOT PAY A VISIT, BUT RECEIVES ONE
Coligny Smith had told the truth. Peter Maginnis had bought the
_Gazette_, and the _Cyprianl's_ troubles, from this source at any rate,
were at an end.
Varney found the new proprietor at the hotel, completing a hurried
supper, and Peter hailed him with astonishment and delight. All
afternoon he had been bursting with his great news, eager to get word of
it to Varney on the yacht. But there had been no trustworthy messenger
to send; his own time had been rilled to overflowing, with contracts,
bills of sale and deeds; and, besides, his certain knowledge that
everything was all right made it seem a minor matter that Varney should
know it too.
"But what the deuce," he exclaimed at once, "brings you at this hour to
the Palace Hotel and Restaurant?"
"I, too," quoted Varney, "have not been idle."
As they walked back to the _Gazette_ building, where Peter had still
various details to attend to, he gave a terse epitome of his afternoon's
experiences. At the news that he, too, had sought to buy the paper which
was so determinedly on their trail, Peter chuckled and started to speak;
but when he learned in the next sentence that Hammerton had their
secret at his mercy, his face grew suddenly grave.
"The rub is," he summed up meditatively, "he may take his walking-papers
rather than let go of such a scoop as that. Of course, he knows that the
New York papers would trample each other to death trying to snatch it
away from him. However, we can fix it somehow. We've got to--that's
all."
"He'll listen to reason, I dare say," said Varney briefly. "What put it
into your head to try to buy the paper, Peter?"
They sat in the business manager's little office at the rear of the long
counting-room downstairs, where Peter had thoughtfully paused and
snapped on all the lights. At this question an annoyed look settled
instantly on the new owner's open countenance.
"No brains of mine," he said shortly. "It's a queer thing."
He paused to light his battered pipe, which he produced ready-filled
from his pocket, and then said abruptly:
"Remember that old sneak named Higginson I mentioned to you yesterday?
Well, I bagged the idea from him. When I hit town this afternoon the
first thing I heard was that Higginson was going to buy the
_Gazette_--had bought it, some said."
"_Higginson!_" Varney stared. "What the mischief did he want with the
_Gazette?_"
"Echo answers. No good to us, you can bet," said Peter grimly. "Gave it
out, I believe, that he was acting for a syndicate of New Yorkers who
expected flush times with the change of administration, and were
rushing to get in on the ground floor. You can believe that if you want
to. To me it sounds too fishy to do even a beginner credit. You could
wake me up in the middle of the night and I could put over a better one
than that. However," he continued, frowning, "to get back to my story.
When I heard what Higginson was up to, it naturally flashed into my mind
that it would be a mighty convenient thing if I owned the _Gazette_
myself, instead of him. I raced off to Smith on the chance, shot an
offer at him from the door and to my surprise he accepted it--right off
the bat, cool as though the deal were for half a dozen copies of
yesterday's issue--"
"You got in ahead of Higginson, then?"
"On the contrary," said Peter. "And that's another queer thing--about
Smith, I mean. Higginson had been in and made him an offer an hour ahead
of me, and the fellow had turned him down flat. Yet I happen to know
that the price I offered was under Higginson's by a pretty good year's
income. Now what d' you think of that?"
Varney was silent a moment. "Smith wants a new deal all around, I
imagine," he said slowly. "He knew that you would make the _Gazette_ an
honest paper; he didn't know anything of the sort about the other man.
Probably he knew just the contrary. Bully for Smith, I say! But what do
you make of this chap Higginson?"
"Search me," said Peter, rather impatiently. "He's clearly imported by
Ryan for some definite purpose, but just what his game is beats me.
There'll be more developments, of course. After I'd signed up with Smith
I spent half an hour of valuable time looking for the rascal, but
couldn't find a footprint anywhere. He seems to have a special gift for
appearing and disappearing. If he decides to stay with us, though, he'll
explain himself to me to-morrow, or I'll know the reason why."
"Well, you've already pulled his teeth, haven't you? This little
purchase of yours knocks the wind out of his sails in any event."
"I wish I could be sure of that."
"And, by the way, that reminds me. Of course I'm in on this, you
understand--on what you paid for the _Gazette_."
"Not on my account," said Peter frankly. "When this town starts booming,
as it will in eight days from date--Higginson had that part of it right,
anyway--the _Gazette's_ going to be the prettiest little property you
ever saw in your life. I saw it first and you will kindly back away off
the grass. By the bye," he went on, "the lunch to-morrow. Hare and his
sister both accepted--two o'clock. You ought to have seen Hare's face
when I told him we owned this little old _Gazette_. Worth the price of
admission alone--he'd been hot as a stove all day about that story this
morning. I asked Mrs. Marne whether Miss Carstairs had happened to say
anything about coming, but she hadn't seen her to-day at all. I guess
there won't be any trouble in that quarter, though, when she gets
through reading the paper's apologies to-morrow."
"I don't know," said Varney. "I am going to her house to-night to find
out."
"Why?" said Peter, surprised. "What do you think we bought this paper
for, anyway?"
"The great trouble is that she may not believe the paper. This is
important, you see. The whole thing hinges on whether or not she is
coming to lunch with us. The only way I can be certain that she is
coming is to have her tell me so."
Peter jingled his keys. "Of course, we don't want to take chances,
but--"
"Another thing," said Varney. "She promised to lunch with Stanhope--the
celebrity--not me, you know."
"H'm," said Peter cogitatively, and added: "I guess you're right. I'm
sure everything's all serene, but it'll do no harm to press a call.
Well! I must fly upstairs for a while and see how things are going."
"What about the _Daily?_"
"That's what I've got to do right now--settle the _Daily_ and dictate a
strong _Gazette_ story for to-morrow's issue, stripping the socks off
the Stanhope lie and all that. I've got to show the boys upstairs
exactly how we want the whole thing, handled."
"Fire away, old top."
"It's all sketched out in my mind," continued Peter, rising. "Did it at
the hotel over my chuck-steak. I won't be long. You wait here for me,
will you? I've chartered an automobile for a week and I'll run you up to
the Carstairs house and wait outside till you're ready to go back to the
yacht."
"Why these civilities, my son?"
"The fact is," said Peter, a little reluctantly, "that story this
morning seems to have pulled open a lot of old sores, just as it was
meant to. Hare's picked up some loose odds and ends of talk about town
to-day. I noticed two men hanging around here as we came in just now who
didn't look right to me. I can't get it out of my head that there's
something in the wind to-night, and Higginson's back of it. Anyway,
there's no use of running needless risks, now that we've practically got
a strangle-hold on the whole proposition."
Varney glanced at his watch. "Right for you. It's too early to call yet,
anyway. I'll wait."
"Correct," said Peter at the door. "One last item of news. Stanhope
himself, the real one, is coming to-morrow."
"Here--to stay?"
Peter nodded. "The caretaker of his cottage told Hare--told him not to
tell a soul. But I don't believe he'll stay long. The fellow's clearly a
fool as well as a dog."
"We ought to warn him how things stand here," said Varney, "no matter
what kind of person he is. You and I know that we 've made matters a
good deal worse for him."
"He's made them a good deal worse for us, also. But I'll see that he's
promptly advised to leave while the leaving's good. Back in an hour at
the farthest."
Peter tramped off down the passageway, banging the front door behind
him; and Varney was left alone in the little office to attend his
return. At once it came to him that this was exactly what he had been
doing ever since he had been in Hunston,--waiting for Peter.
"I am the greatest waiter that the human race has yet produced," he
thought, despondently, and dropping down into a chair, stared long at
the shut door.
What a day it had been!--beginning with cut-and-dried little plans that
seemed sure, running off in the middle into black depths of hopeless
complications, blossoming suddenly into unlooked-for triumph. Yes,
complete triumph at last. The visit that he meant to pay a little later
was merely an added precaution; he felt no doubts as to how matters
would turn out now. To-morrow, the _Gazette_, Peter's paper, would set
him square before all Hunston, and Mary Carstairs, sorry for the wrong
she had done him, would come to the yacht as she had engaged to do. With
the clairvoyance born of his swift revulsion of feeling, he knew that
his victory was already won. Yet he did not feel now as a conqueror
feels. In the loneliness of the tight-shut little office, he confronted
the knowledge that he did not think of Uncle Elbert's daughter as his
enemy, and that it mattered to him that she was to hate him and worse....
Suddenly in the entire stillness, he heard a sound close by, and
straightened up sharply. Some one was gently trying the front door. He
felt quite sure of it. He got up quickly and quietly, and hurried down
the passageway to the front; but there was nothing to be seen.
Outside, the street, from the brilliantly-lighted room, looked inky
black. He stood a moment listening intently. He thought he heard
footsteps not far away, swiftly receding, but he could not be sure. Then
he remembered the men that Peter had seen in the street a little while
before, and understood.
Somebody was watching him, apparently waiting for a chance. Those whom
Stanhope had wronged had been spurred to square the old account, and the
_Gazette's_ canard had not been undone yet. He yearned to dash after
those retreating footsteps and find out who was the prudent proprietor
of them. But even to stand here was hardly fair to Elbert Carstairs.
"How can I go sailing to-morrow," he said aloud, musingly, "if I'm laid
up in a hospital, or laid out in the morgue?"
He went back to his office, shut himself in again; and with the closing
of the door he shut out all thought of the enemies of Ferris Stanhope.
Soon his mind broke away from him, and went galloping off to the morrow.
Great vividness marked the pictures that danced before the eye of his
thought. Now the luncheon, the planned and fought for, was over. They
were there, strung out gayly along deck,--Mrs. Marne, Hare, Peter, Mary
Carstairs, and he. Then, by some deft stratagem, the others were gone
and he was sitting alone by Mary at the rail. The _Cypriani_ was slowly
moving, as though for a ten-minute spin down the river. And then, as she
gathered headway, he turned suddenly to Mary and told her everything:
how he had deceived and tricked her, and how she would not go back to
Hunston that afternoon....
It might have been ten minutes that he sat like this. It might have been
half an hour. But after a time he heard, suddenly and distinctly, that
noise at the door again.
There was the less doubt about it this time, in that the shutting of the
door was now clearly audible, and there followed the distinct sound of
some one moving in the main office. Then the door in the passageway
swung open and footsteps pattered, coming nearer. The light firm steps
drew nearer, halted; and there came a small rap upon his door.
"Come in," he called loudly, encouragingly. "I'm here, all right. Come
in."
The door opened, a little slowly, as though not quite certain whether it
was going to open or not, and Mary Carstairs stood upon the threshold,
silhouetted in the sudden frame.