THE LISTENING STENOGRAPHER
When Phil opened his eyes on the morning sunshine--both eyes--he was
gratified to note a slight improvement in the blackened orb. Before
retiring he had sent the newly returned Stinson around to the front of
the house to bring in the suitcase left by the verandah and had
instructed the valet to bring a piece of raw beefsteak to his room.
Nevertheless, as he studied his appearance in the mirror with some
anxiety he was glad that he was going to Sparrow Lake and thence to
North Bay as fast as he could get there. Thorpe would soon tire of
making witty remarks, and the fish would not care whether he had a
black eye or not.
As he dressed leisurely Kendrick's mind reverted soberly to the events
of the past twenty-four hours. Reviewing in detail the interview with
his uncle, there grew out of his confusion of thought an odd sense of
disquiet. Close questioning of Stinson had yielded the information
which his uncle had not seen fit to volunteer in regard to last night's
clandestine visitors at the Island residence--Nickleby, President of
the Interprovincial Loan & Savings Company; Alderson, of the Alderson
Construction Company; Blatchford Ferguson, the lawyer. If, as the
Honorable Milton had intimated, it had been a business meeting merely,
they must be planning a raid on the stock market to account for all the
secrecy with which the meeting had been shrouded. His uncle, Phil
knew, had invested heavily in mining stocks, and J. Cuthbert Nickleby
was the man who had been most closely associated with him in these
private investments, while for some time now Ferguson had been favored
with Waring's legal patronage in such deals as had come to Kendrick's
notice. As for Alderson, he was a comparative stranger to Phil--a
contractor who had risen rapidly during the real-estate boom, and who
very reasonably might be taking a flyer on the market.
It must be something of this sort, and in the face of his uncle's
evident desire for him to mind his own business Phil was inclined to
let it go at that. It was scarcely to be expected that his uncle would
break the custom of years in a sudden burst of confidence just because
his nephew happened to surprise him in one of his difficult situations.
His life was full of such difficult situations, no doubt,--had been for
years--and the Honorable Milton was accustomed to relying upon himself
to surmount them as he saw fit.
Far from feeling any resentment of his uncle's refusal of his boyish
offer of assistance, therefore, Phil now regarded the offer itself as
somewhat ridiculous from his uncle's standpoint. To one of such large
connections ten thousand dollars was the same as a hundred-dollar bill
to the average man. Yet his uncle had thanked him for his good
intentions and tactfully had made him feel that the appreciation was
sincere. At no time had the two been in closer sympathy than during
this unexpected interview. His uncle was not given to sentiment.
Perhaps the liquor----
Phil paused in the act of lacing his boot to frown out the window. The
Honorable Milton Waring undoubtedly was greatly worried about
something--financial affairs maybe. Or was that only one side of it,
incidental to something not so simple of adjustment? The searching
look, the solemnity of the words which had followed that sudden
outburst against political conditions of the day, that reference to one
man fighting a pack of wolves--what about that? No matter what
happened he wanted his nephew to continue believing that he had tried
to do his duty.
No matter what happened! It was this remark, more than any other,
which fostered Kendrick's disquietude. Something was liable to happen,
then?--something calling for a blind exercise of faith in his uncle;
something which on the surface might seem to question his--his what?
Integrity? Political honor? Social standing? Or was it merely an
emphasis of speech with no special significance? Phil shifted uneasily
on the chair as he thought of his aunt's position if some catastrophe
befell his uncle. If any trouble of that kind were likely to develop,
surely his uncle would have told him. Well, there was no use in
getting himself all worked up over nothing.
He began to whistle softly as he rummaged among his ties. Then his
thoughts switched to the girl with whom he had talked in the fog. If
he had only known then what he knew now! She had been spying upon the
Waring residence, upon this secret meeting with the Honorable Milton.
That much seemed certain. But why was she interested in what had
transpired? Who was she? And what had transpired? It was lack of
this information which made it difficult to analyze the situation
intelligently.
Had he done right in withholding from his uncle the fact of his unusual
encounter with this girl? He imagined the laugh with which the
Honorable Milton would be likely to greet relation of the incident. If
it were true that there was no use in sending a boy on a man's errand,
what about a woman on a spying expedition in a thick fog at two o'clock
in the morning? Perhaps her story of the party at a friend's house was
true, after all. Perhaps she and this "Joe" were a pair of sneak
thieves----!
But he _knew_ she wasn't, just as he knew that she was a girl of
education and refinement. A tantalizing thing to meet a disembodied
voice like that, a low laugh, a mystery! The lady might have a face
like a dried prune! (Only he knew that she hadn't!) Voices were not
to be relied upon. Take that "hello-girl," for instance; she had had
the softest lilting voice over the wire, then when he got a look at her
she hadn't been a day under forty-five and her face----! Certainly it
hadn't been the fairest that e'er the sun shone on! (Only in this case
he knew it must be different!) He was a hopeless fool if ever there
was one! The best thing he could do was to forget the whole affair and
with this sensible decision he reached into his pocket for the
souvenirs, and spent some time in re-examining the little hand-painted
shirt-waist pin with which she had fastened his pay to the canoe
cushion!
Phil breakfasted alone. Although the sun had climbed high enough to
dispel the fog his uncle still slept the heavy sleep of utter
exhaustion. Without disturbing him, therefore, Kendrick had Stinson
run the launch over to the city half an hour later. As a concession to
the possibility of there being a serious side to the espionage of the
girl and her accomplice, he had decided to advise his uncle's lawyer of
the adventure; Ferguson then could assume responsibility for the
consequences, using his own judgment as to its significance. Also Phil
intended to have a chat with President Wade, of the Canadian Lake
Shores Railway, if he happened to be in the city; Ben Wade was an old
boyhood friend of the Warings and Phil knew that he could talk to him
freely without fear of his confidences being abused.
At the docks almost the first person Kendrick encountered was Chic
White. Chic was the more or less renowned sporting editor of the
_Morning _Recorder__ and he had a most abominable habit of going
through the motions of spitting every little while as he talked, more a
matter of nervous habit than saliva. He spat dryly three times as he
stared at the approaching Kendrick and greeted the erstwhile captain of
the 'Varsity rugby champions with a grin that bared two rows of teeth.
"Ye gods! What a fall was there, my countrymen! Wow! Who slipped you
the haymaker, Ken?"
"Stick to the quotation, Chic," laughed Phil good-naturedly, barely
pausing in his stride. "Got it in the fog last night--Canoe Club
stairs in the dark. I had a pretty bad fall."
"So did Humpty-Dumpty!" Mr. White's grin widened, and with a
deliberate wink and a final spit he waved his hand and walked off,
laughing loudly.
The owner of the black eye went his way, face set in abnormally
forbidding lines. People smiled as they passed him on the street. He
would have given a ten-dollar bill to have met the redoubtable Mr.
McCorquodale around the next corner. He thought of buying one of those
pink shields; it would not hide it all, but it might help. He tried
tying his handkerchief over his eye as a bandage, but felt so foolish
that he tore it off and laughed at himself.
The office of Blatchford Ferguson, barrister, etc., in the Broker's
Bank Building, was laid out along somewhat unconventional lines. Of
course the public entrance from the corridor gave admission to an outer
office where two or three stenographers operated their typewriters
under the eye of a law student, while just inside the railing of the
entranceway sat a pompadoured office boy who occupied himself variously
with an old-fashioned letter-press alongside the vault, with sharpening
lead-pencils, chewing gum and guarding the gate in the railing. But
the partitions which enclosed this general office were built solid from
floor to ceiling and the only sign of an inner presence was a door
directly behind the youthful sentry, the ground glass of which bore the
single word, "Secretary," in neat gold and black lettering.
The Secretary's office had a private entrance from the public corridor
of the building and an inside door, lettered "Loans and Investments."
On through this office was still another door, inscribed "Insurance
Department," while beyond this second sanctum was a third door which
led into the _sanctum sanctorum_ with its unexpected exit upon a narrow
back hallway and a dusty flight of stairs by which it was possible
without undue publicity to reach the street or, rather, the back lane
where carters made deliveries.
At times this carefully planned office arrangement was found to be
highly convenient, no less by the confidential Mr. Ferguson than by
certain of his clients. For although Blatchford Ferguson, barrister,
etc., really could--and did--go barristering about the courts quite
legitimately, he also carried on a substantial business in et ceteras.
Thus, he could talk to an insurance prospect in a private office
provided with insurance files and hung with insurance company
calendars; or he could talk to a possible investor in a private office
which had just the right financial atmosphere to foster confidence.
Buying, selling, borrowing, lending, advising--nothing that could be
"farmed out" on a split commission was beneath the notice of Blatch
Ferguson, who would have negotiated a deal for a carload of Russian
whiskers could he have found a responsible master barber to make the
contract with a mattress factory which had the price!
As he shook hands with Conway, the young student who presided over the
outer office, Kendrick was conscious that the office boy and the
stenographers behind him were enjoying the mild sensation which his
black eye inspired. Even Conway was grinning like an idiotic cat from
Cheshire. The two had known each other, somewhat casually, at the
university.
"I bumped into the parallel bars during a game of volley ball at the
gym the other night," he explained gravely. "Is Ferguson in?"
Conway told him to walk right through. Miss Williams would take in his
card. Thus it came about that Phil, unescorted, passed through the
gate in the railing and on through the door to the secretary's office.
As he closed this door behind him he paused for a moment in some
uncertainty at finding the secretary's office deserted. Her hat and
coat were hanging in place, however, and a half finished letter was in
her typewriter; so he ventured through to the open doorway beyond,
thinking she might have stepped into the adjoining office.
She had. She had gone right through it and through the second office
of the suite also. The young lady was visible through the vista of
open doorways and she was so absorbed in her own activities that she
was quite oblivious of his presence. For she was kneeling with her ear
to the keyhole of the farthest door of all, the one which led into the
_sanctum sanctorum_ of her employer, and there was no doubt whatever
that she was listening with all her might.
Not a little astonished, Kendrick watched her. Then at his slight
cough the girl straightened quickly and stared at him with widened
eyes. In answer to his beckoning finger she came towards him slowly,
her color mounting swiftly. When she had shut the last door behind her
she faced him with an air of defiance.
Kendrick gazed at her in speechless admiration of the picture she made
as she stood there, symmetrical figure gracefully erect, her head held
high with its elaborate coiffure of brown hair, her dark blue eyes
flashing resentment. The creamy column of her well shaped neck, the
firm chin, the almost classic perfection of her features, the rich red
of her cheeks--wherever did Ferguson go for his secretaries? She was
plainly dressed in some dark material with white collar and cuffs; but
the sensible office dress served only to heighten the pleasing effect.
There was only one jarring note--the fact that she was chewing gum,
chewing it rapidly as if to relieve nervous tension.
"Well! Hope you'll know me next time you see me! Get it off your
chest please! Whatcha goin' to do about it?"
Kendrick smiled slowly at the incongruity of the speech, even while
thankful that her voice at least was not in harsh discord with her
appearance, but well modulated.
"I beg your pardon," he apologized, realizing all at once that he had
been guilty of staring somewhat longer than was warranted even by the
unusual circumstances. "I am very short-sighted and there are times
when I cannot distinguish objects at a greater distance than a very few
feet. This morning my eyes are exceptionally bad."
She glanced at him quickly as if searching for indications of mockery
which were lacking in the courteous tones of his voice.
"If you will be good enough to take in my card----?" he suggested,
extending it.
She hesitated, then laid down her notebook and accepted the card
without speaking. Ferguson coming to meet him at the door with
extended hand, stopped short and stared.
"It's a peach, Phil! I must admit it's a peach!"
"A Lombard plum, you mean, Blatch. How'd I get it? Why, you see,--I
had the misfortune to step on a wayward banana skin---- Oh, well, if
you really must know, I tried to help an old lady pick up some bundles
she'd dropped and she hit me with her umbrella, thinking I was going to
grab them and run."
"Come right in. Come right in," chuckled Ferguson. "Here, have a
cigar?"
"Thanks, but I'm only staying a jiff. Got to make another call and
it's nearly noon now. Would you mind if I leave the door open? The
smoke's pretty thick."
"Hit you with an umbrella, eh?" chortled the lawyer with jovial
skepticism as he tilted back in his swivel chair. "Deduction: It had a
knob on the end of it! Sentence: Thirty days in the woods!" and Mr.
Ferguson stroked his nose while he permitted his shoulders to shake in
appreciation of his own pleasantry. Mr. Ferguson's nose was fleshy and
its color was red.
"On my way there now--going fishing down the French River with an old
schoolmate," grinned Phil. "Say, there was a meeting over at my
uncle's on the Island last night, Blatch," he added briskly. "I
believe you were there. Will you tell me what took place?"
Ferguson sat up. He ran his fingers over his head in a habitual
gesture which long since had worn a bald streak along the top. He
leaned back again in his chair, the tips of his fingers pressed
together, and for a moment scowled thoughtfully at the wall.
"You're getting into deep water, boy," he warned at last slowly. "I
don't know where the mischief you got that information; but I'll have
to refer you to the Chief himself for your answer. Why, what do you
want to know for?"
"Oh, nothing in particular, except--it was very foggy, you remember?--a
pretty good night for concealment, if anybody happened to be interested
in spying on you people over there. You know more about that than I
do."
Mr. Ferguson played a good game of poker; he prided himself upon his
self-control. But the seriousness of his manner indicated that he was
startled.
"Just what do you mean by that, Phil? You've come here to tell me
something. What is it?"
So Kendrick told him, omitting nothing except the fact that the girl
had dared him to kiss her, and that when he had done so he had gone in
for an involuntary swim.
"And you let that woman go home alone at that hour of the morning? You
are neglectful both of your opportunities and your etiquette!" but
although the lawyer's tone was light he was very serious as he pursed
his lips and scowled.
"Don't go blaming me, Blatch. As soon as I helped her ashore she ran
off and the fog was so thick you couldn't see anybody within a couple
of feet of you. I tried my best to find out who she was; but she
ducked. Besides, how was I to know the thing mattered? I didn't know
Uncle Milt was in town even--not at the time."
"I didn't say it mattered, Phil," said Ferguson hastily. He laughed at
the idea. "Whatever put it into your head to think this--er--lady was
spying on a--an ordinary business meeting? Supposing she was--why,
what earthly good would it do her?"
"Search me, Blatch. Thought I'd better tell you about it anyway."
"Quite right, of course. Hm--just so. She got away without leaving a
single clue, eh? Not that it matters in the least, but---- You did
right in reporting it. Thanks."
"Would you mind telling me if you had anybody in the office here with
you just before I came in? Or were you using the telephone?"
"Why," hesitated Ferguson in some surprise, "I was called on the 'phone
by an old newspaper acquaintance--yes. Perhaps you know him--Hughey
Podmore? He got a job recently as President Wade's private
secretary--Canadian Lake Shores Railway. We used to work on the same
paper long ago. Why?"
"Oh, nothing--just my idle curiosity. Say, there's something you can
do for me, like a good fellow, before I go. Give me a knock-down to
the lady outside, will you? Didn't know you owned a peach orchard,
Blatch? Who is she?"
Ferguson chuckled as he pressed a button.
"Name's Margaret Williams. My regular stenographer was taken sick
suddenly the other day and she sent around this friend of hers to
substitute. She's a dandy good worker, too. But you're too late, my
boy. She's leaving soon to marry a fellow at Buffalo--er--Miss
Williams, allow me to present Mr. Philip Kendrick."
Her bow was very formal and as, at her employer's request, she escorted
him to the private exit at her own end of the office, her manner was
equally cold.
"I hope you bear me no ill will, Miss Williams," smiled Phil. "I
assure you I have done nothing to merit it."
"That is for me to judge," she retorted calmly. "Please go. I do not
care to know you, Mr. Kendrick."
Phil turned quickly. It was the second time within twelve hours that a
girl had told him that--in those very words, with that same disdainful
tone. Why, if he were to shut his eyes he felt sure he could imagine
it to be the very voice inflection used by his Fog Lady when delivering
the same sentence of exile. Again he found himself guilty of staring.
"Have you ever seen a real, honest-to-goodness amulet, Miss Williams?"
he asked eagerly, reaching into his pocket. "I'd like to show you mine
before I go, if I may." He slowly unfolded the dollar bill and held
out the hand-painted blouse pin, watching her closely.
"What a pretty pin!" she said in a flat, disinterested voice. She
looked at it perfunctorily. "I know a man who used to carry a potato
to chase rheumatism away. It was planted by a one-eyed, left-handed
negro, born on the thirteenth of the month. I've heard of an elk's
tooth for pleurisy and a rabbit's foot for evil spirits; but a pin like
that? It will lead you into danger instead of away from it."
"Not when it is pinned to a canoe cushion by a beautiful girl at the
hour of three o'clock in the morning in a dense fog," declared Kendrick
significantly.
"That is very silly," said the haughty Miss Williams with a bored air
as she handed it back to him and turned towards her typewriter.
"Good-day, Mr. Kendrick. I really must get on with my work."
It was with an unreasonable feeling of disappointment that he bowed
himself out. She had not blinked an eyelash! Who was the idiot who
first started looking for needles in haystacks anyway? A fool's quest!
Mumma! but wasn't he _de trop_ with the ladies? Well, he would buy
cigars with the dollar and make a present of the pin to Mrs. Parlby,
his uncle's estimable housekeeper.
But he did neither of these things. Instead, he was to continue the
folly of keeping both souvenirs and the equal folly of looking at them
from time to time--to see if they were safe.