Clay made no marked change in his mode of living, and shortly after his
visit to the doctor he engaged in a struggle with a group of speculators
who opposed one of his business schemes. They were clever men, with
money enough to make them troublesome enemies, and Clay realized that he
must spare no effort if he meant to win. He beat them and determined to
exact a heavy indemnity, but the battle was stubbornly fought and during
the month it lasted he had little rest by night or day. Long after the
city offices were closed he entertained his supporters in his rooms at
the hotel, and, rising early, altered and improved his plans before the
business day began.
To his delight, he felt no bad effects; he was somewhat limp and lazy,
but that, no doubt, was a natural reaction from the strain. He could
now, however, afford to take a few days' rest, and he telegraphed
Aynsley that he would spend the week-end at Osborne's house, which was
always open to both. Enjoying the first-fruits of his victory, in the
shape of some tempting offers, shortly before he left his office, he
traveled down the Sound in high content, and, to complete his
satisfaction, he learned on arriving that Aynsley had secured some large
and profitable orders for lumber.
Dinner was served early on the Saturday evening, and Clay, finding that
he had an excellent appetite, ate and drank more than usual. He was
quite well, he told himself, but had had an anxious time and needed
bracing. Miss Dexter watched him with disapproval when, after dinner was
finished, he stood in the hall with a large glass in his hand. The man
had a high color, but his eyes had a strained look and his lips a
curious bluish tinge. He appeared to be quite sober, which caused her
some surprise, but he was talking rather freely and his laugh was harsh.
She thought he looked coarse and overbearing in his present mood.
The large hall was tastefully paneled in cedar, a fire of pine logs
burned on the open hearth, and small lamps hung among the wooden
pillars. A drawing-room and a billiard-room, both warmed and lighted,
opened out of it, but Osborne left his guests to do what they liked
best, and nobody seemed inclined to move. Ruth and Aynsley were talking
near the hearth, Miss Dexter had some embroidery in her hands, and
Osborne lounged in a deep chair beside the table. Clay, with the now
empty glass in his hand, leaned negligently upon the table, feeling well
satisfied with himself. His manners were not polished, but he was aware
of it, and never pretended to graces he did not possess. He smiled when
he caught Miss Dexter's censorious glance.
"I'm often in trouble, ma'am, and find I can't fight on coffee and
ice-water," he explained humorously.
"Perhaps that's one of their advantages," Miss Dexter replied. "But as
we're not quarrelsome people, you ought to enjoy a few days' peace."
"That's so. I guess I warmed up over telling your brother-in-law about
my latest battle." He turned to Osborne. "Frame and Nesbitt were in this
morning, ready to take what I'd give them on their knees. Fletcher came
and tried to bluff, but he wilted when I cracked the whip. I have the
gang corralled, and they'll go broke before they get out."
Clay's rather obvious failings included an indulgence in coarse
vainglory, though he had generally the sense to check it when it might
prove a handicap. Now, however, he was in an expansive mood, inclined to
make the most of his triumph.
"The joke is that they were plumb-sure they'd squeeze me dry," he went
on. "Got hold of a tip about the development land purchase plan and
never guessed I'd planted it for them. Morgan cost me high, and his
nerve is bad, but he's a cute little rat, and works well in the dark."
"I thought the opposition had bought him," Osborne said.
"So they did," Clay chuckled. "Now they want his blood, and I believe
Denby's mad enough about it to have him sandbagged. That plays into my
hand, because the fellow will stick to me for protection. If he tries to
strike me for extra pay, I've only to threaten I'll throw him to the
wolves. Guess the way they're howling has scared him pretty bad."
"Have you begun the clean-up yet?"
"Washed out the first panful before I came away," Clay replied in
miners' phraseology. "Ten thousand dollars for two small back lots. It's
all good pay-dirt, carrying heavy metal."
"In a way, I'm sorry for Fletcher. He's had a bad time lately, and, as
he has got into low water, I'm afraid this will finish him."
"He joined the gang. Now he has to take the consequences."
Clay saw that Miss Dexter was listening with disapproval. He was not
averse to having an audience and he had spoken loudly.
"If you saw the people who'd conspired to rob you come to grief through
their greediness, what would you do about it, Miss Dexter?" he asked.
"I should try not to gloat over their downfall," she answered with some
asperity.
"Looks better," Clay agreed. "But when I have the fellows down, it seems
prudent to see that they don't get up again too soon."
Miss Dexter studied him. Admitting that modesty would have become him
better, she did not believe he was boasting at random. There was power
in the man, though she imagined he did not often use it well. She
disliked his principles, and he frequently repelled her, but sometimes
she felt attracted. He had, she thought, a better side than the one he
generally showed.
"Does it never pay to be merciful?" she asked.
"Very seldom. In my line of business you have, as a rule, to break or be
broken hard. It's a hard fight. I keep the rules of the ring. Sometimes
they're pretty liberally interpreted, but if you go too far, you get
hustled out and disqualified. In this country the stakes are high, but
I've been through the hardest training since I was a boy, and I've got
to win." He paused with a glance toward Aynsley. "Sounds pretty
egotistical, doesn't it? But I know my powers, and I can't be stopped."
His forceful air gave him a touch of dignity and redeemed the crude
daring of his boast. Osborne looked at him curiously, but Miss Dexter
felt half daunted. She thought his attitude grossly defiant; the
inordinate pride he showed would bring its punishment.
"It sounds very rash," she said. "You don't know what you may have to
contend with."
Clay laughed harshly.
"I've some suspicion; but there comes a time, often after years of
struggle, when a man knows he has only to hold on and win the game.
Curious, isn't it? But he does know, and sets his teeth as he braces
himself for the effort that's going to give him the prize."
He spoke with vehemence, the color darkening in his face. Miss Dexter
wondered whether the last glass of whisky and potass had gone to his
head; but the flush suddenly faded and his lips turned blue. Osborne was
the first to notice it. Jumping up, he grabbed Clay by the arms and
shoved him toward the nearest chair. Clay fell into it heavily, and
began fumbling at his vest pocket, but he soon let his hand drop in a
nerveless manner. The next moment Aynsley was at his side. The hall was
large, and the boy had been sitting some distance off, but he did not
run and he made no noise. He had inherited his father's swiftness of
action, and Ruth, following in alarm, noticed the lithe grace of his
movements. The girl's impressions were, however, somewhat blurred, and
it was not until afterward that the scene fixed itself vividly in her
mind.
"Perhaps we'd better get the car out," Aynsley said quickly. "We may
want it if this is going to last."
Osborne rang a bell and there was silence for a few moments while they
waited, uncertain what to do. Clay's face was livid and his eyes were
half shut. He seemed unconscious of their presence, and they imagined
that he was struggling against the weakness that was mastering him. His
lips were tight set, his brows knit, and his hand was firmly clenched.
Osborne gave an order to a servant, who immediately disappeared, and
then Clay's tense pose relaxed. He sank back in the chair, loose and
limp, as if all power had suddenly gone out of him.
The change was more startling to those watching than the first attack.
They had long known his strength and resolution; but now he lay inert,
with head falling forward, a bulky, flaccid figure, suddenly stripped of
everything that had made him feared. He was grotesque in his
helplessness, and Ruth had a curious feeling that there was something
unfitting, almost indecent, in their watching him. It appeared, however,
that he was conscious, for when Osborne held a glass to his lips he
feebly moved his head in refusal, and his slack fingers began to fumble
at the pocket again.
"There's something he wants there!" Ruth said sharply. "Perhaps it's
something he ought to take!"
Aynsley thrust his hand into the pocket and brought out a small bottle.
"Six drops," he read out and was about to lift his father's head when
Miss Dexter stopped him.
"No," she said; "you'll spill it. Wait for a spoon."
She brought one and with some trouble they administered the dose. For a
while there was no visible result, and then Clay sighed and with a slack
movement changed his pose. A little later he opened his eyes and
beckoned.
"The medicine!" Aynsley requested in a hoarse voice.
"No," said Miss Dexter firmly. "He has had six drops."
Aynsley yielded, for it was plain that his father was recovering. A
moment later Clay raised himself in his chair and looked at Miss Dexter
with a feeble, apologetic smile.
"Sorry I made this disturbance."
"Are you feeling better?" Aynsley asked.
"Quite all right in a minute." Clay turned to Osborne. "It would be bad
manners to blame your cook; guess the fault was mine. Got breakfast
early, and had no time for lunch."
Though he had made a hearty dinner, the explanation he suggested did not
satisfy the others, and Ruth thought it significant that he had made it
so promptly. They did not, however, trouble him with questions, and
after a while he rose and walked to another chair.
"The car won't be needed," Aynsley said to Osborne.
"The car?" Clay interposed. "What did you want it for?"
"We had thought of sending for a doctor," Aynsley answered
deprecatingly.
Clay frowned.
"Shucks! You're easily scared; I wouldn't have seen him. Where's that
bottle?" He slipped it hastily into his pocket and turned to Ruth. "Very
sorry all this happened; feel ashamed of myself. Now I wonder whether
you'll give us some music."
They went into the drawing-room, and Clay chose an easy chair at some
distance from the others. He cared nothing for music, but he felt shaky,
and he was glad of an excuse for sitting quiet. Moreover, he wanted time
to think. It looked as if the doctor, whom he had begun to doubt, had
after all been right. He had had a warning which he could not neglect;
and as he rather vacantly watched the girl at the piano it was borne in
upon him that she had probably saved his life. The others had thought
him insensible, but she had guessed that he was feeling for the remedy
which had pulled him round.
It was a pity she had refused Aynsley, but he bore her no ill-will,
although he was generally merciless to those who thwarted him. He would
have liked to thank her, but that was inadvisable, for he must not admit
that he had had a dangerous attack. Then it struck him that if he were
seriously threatened, it might be well to take precautions. There was a
good offer he had received for some property he wished to sell, but he
had not answered because all the terms were not settled, and he did not
wish to seem eager. It might be better to close the matter now. When he
had thanked Ruth for the song, he quietly made his way to Osborne's
writing-room.
It was necessary to write several letters, and he found his fingers
nerveless and composition difficult. Indeed, he laid the pen down and
then resolutely took it up again. He was not going to be beaten by a
bodily weakness, and nobody must notice that his writing was shaky. He
tore up the first letter and wrote it again in a firm, legible hand,
though the sweat the effort cost him gathered on his forehead. His
schemes must be completed and all his affairs straightened out before he
gave in. The man was ruthless and unscrupulous, but he had unflinching
courage and an indomitable will.
In the billiard-room Osborne was talking to Aynsley.
"What do you think about your father?" he asked.
"I'm anxious. Of course, he made light of the matter, and, so far as I
know, he's never been troubled in this way before, but I didn't like his
look."
"It struck me as significant that he'd seen a doctor," Osborne remarked.
"The bottle proves that. From the careful directions about the dose it
must have been made up from a prescription. Anyway, he's been overdoing
it lately, and perhaps you had better go along and see what he's about.
If he's attending to any business, make him stop and bring him down."
Aynsley entered the writing-room and left it in a few minutes, rudely
dismissed. Coming down, he made an excuse for taking Ruth into the hall.
"I know you'll do me a favor," he begged.
"Of course. I suppose it concerns your father?"
Aynsley nodded.
"He's writing letters, and I'm afraid it will do him harm. He looks far
from fit, but he's in a most contrary mood, and ordered me out when I
hinted that he'd better stop. Knowing what he's capable of, I thought
I'd better go."
He spoke lightly, but Ruth saw the uneasiness he wished to conceal.
"Do you think I could persuade him?"
"I'd like you to try. Anyway, he won't be rude to you; and I've a
suspicion that you have some influence over him. You ought to be
flattered, because nobody else has."
Ruth went to the writing-room and stood beside Clay with a reproachful
smile. She felt pitiful. The man looked ill.
"We really can't allow you to leave us in this way," she said. "Besides,
it's too late to think of business matters."
"I suppose Aynsley sent you," he answered with grim bluntness. "It would
be better if you took him in hand instead of me. The boy wants looking
after; he's got no nerve."
"You ought not to blame him for feeling anxious about you. However, I'm
your hostess and I don't think you are treating me well. When I tell you
to put away those papers you can't disobey."
Clay gave her a steady look.
"Anything you ask me will be done," he said. "But, as a favor, will you
give me another five minutes?"
"Of course. But you might exceed it, so I think I'll wait."
Before the time had quite elapsed Clay closed the last envelope with a
firm hand, and a few minutes later they entered the drawing-room and
Aynsley gave Ruth a grateful glance.
When Clay returned to Vancouver he called at once on the doctor; and
when he left his face was grim, for he had been plainly told that he was
worse, and must change his mode of life at once; but this was more than
Clay could consent to do. He had money in a number of ventures, none of
which had yet achieved the success he looked for. Time was needed before
he could bring them to the desired consummation, and if he sold out now
it must be at a sacrifice of the handsome profit that might otherwise be
secured. He would be left with only a moderate fortune, and he meant to
be rich. Ambitious as he was for his son, he had also a keen reluctance
to leaving his work half finished. In fact, it was obvious that he must
hold on for a year or two longer.
Moreover, the doctor had warned him against increasing the dose of the
restorative, which Clay admitted having done. The powerful drug had
braced him up when he suffered from reaction after any unusual strain
and he had come to regard it as a reliable standby. Now he must curtail
its use, and he would feel the deprivation. Then, since he was running
some risk, it was advisable to take precautions. First of all, the wreck
must be destroyed. If he should be cut off suddenly, no evidence must be
left behind to spoil his son's career. Aynsley must bear an untarnished
name.
The first step would be to get Jimmy Farquhar and his companions out of
the way--to buy them off if possible; if not--A hard look crept into
Clay's eyes, and he sat down at once and wrote a short note to Jimmy.