KENDRICK MAKES A TOUCHDOWN
Phil's first impulse in hurrying back to the city had been to deliver
President Wade's letter to Nathaniel Lawson, and with that introduction
to find out how much Nat Lawson knew about his friend's plans. The
possibility that the financier might be able to throw some light upon
Ben Wade's object in placing McCorquodale on guard at Sparrow Lake at
first seemed sufficient justification for broaching the matter. But on
second thoughts, Phil hesitated; if his chief had not seen fit to
mention it to his own secretary who was most vitally concerned, it was
unlikely that he had said anything to Lawson. In that case Wade might
consider that his secretary had been very indiscreet in volunteering
the facts. By the time he was ringing the doorbell at the Lawson home
next evening, he had decided to say nothing about the matter.
Beneath the gentle courtesy of Old Nat's welcome Kendrick sensed a
strength of character that commanded deference. The young man liked
him at once. The ready pucker of the crowsfeet about those kind eyes
put him quickly at ease, and as they sat on the "back piazza" that
overlooked an old-fashioned flower garden they were chatting like a
pair of old acquaintances. Horticulture was a hobby with Nat Lawson
and Kendrick's intelligent interest in the subject placed them at once
on a friendly footing. It was a little early yet to see the wonderful
garden at its best, his host explained after they had made a tour of
it; he must come and see it in another month or so, or even in a few
weeks, when the pergola would be smothered in roses.
Among other things contained in Wade's letter, which Phil had just
delivered, it was evident that his new chief had asked Lawson to post
the bearer in regard to Loan Company affairs, particularly to tell all
he knew about J. C. Nickleby; for of his own accord "Old Nat" began to
talk freely of the past. It was soon apparent that he considered
Nickleby an impostor whose motives were not to be computed by a
self-respecting comptometer.
"Nickleby is a scamp and I might even qualify the statement, sir, by
addition of the word, 'damnable.' There you have my opinion, sum
total, and one of these new adding machines cannot give it to you more
quickly or accurately." The smile with which he said this faded as he
smoked for a moment in silence and a grim look settled in its place.
He stood up abruptly. "Excuse me a moment while I get a photograph
which will serve to illustrate a little story I'm going to tell you."
When he returned presently he thrust into Phil's hand the photo of a
young man whose expression was boyishly ingenuous.
"Nothing dishonest in that face, is there?" demanded Nat Lawson.
"That's Jimmy Stiles. He had to quit school to find work to support
his mother when she was taken sick. He came to me and I gave him his
first job. I found him loyal and trustworthy; but he made one little
slip that I want to tell you about."
It appeared that the boy had been inveigled into a get-rich-quick
investment which had gone the usual way of such things and left him in
a desperate plight; so that he had been tempted to "borrow" a few
dollars from the Interprovincial without permission. This money he
began putting back secretly every week, bit by bit out of his salary.
He had refunded about half of it when Nickleby discovered the small
shortage in the young bookkeeper's accounts. Instead of reporting the
matter, Nickleby, at that time secretary and office manager, told the
boy he would let him off if it did not occur again and made a great
show of befriending young Stiles.
But Stiles was so systematically reminded of his obligation to Nickleby
that he worried constantly over what he had done--came to such a keen
realization of his fault that one night he could stand it no longer and
went to the Lawson home. With nerves at the breaking point he
confessed his wrong to both Nathaniel Lawson and his daughter. The
boy's contrition had been so sincere that they both forgave him on the
spot, "Old Nat" patting him on the shoulder and assuring him that
nothing more would be said about it. Stiles said nothing to Nickleby
about this secret confession and for a time he recovered his spirits.
Then came the change in management. Nickleby's first move was to
dismiss one employee after another until almost the only member of the
old staff left was this young fellow, James Stiles, for whom Nickleby
seemed to have taken a strange fancy. The reason was not long in
doubt; for though the indebtedness long since had been wiped off the
slate the new president began to threaten exposure unless Stiles did
exactly as he was told, even when the instructions were contrary to
honest business ethics.
"That's the kind of man Mr. Nickleby is," concluded Lawson. "Cristy
and I--my daughter, Cristobel, Kendrick,--have tried to give Mrs.
Stiles financial assistance in the past, she being an honest deserving
woman; but of late we have not been able to do so much. For his
mother's sake I hope Jimmy turns out all right. But there are times
when I wonder if it would not have been better for him had he gone
somewhere out of reach of a man who would take advantage of a mere boy
instead of trying to help him to a fresh start."
With renewed interest Phil studied the photo in his hand before
returning it. The case of Jimmy Stiles did indeed throw a sidelight
upon the character of Nickleby. By adroit questioning he led the
founder of the Interprovincial Loan & Savings Company to continue
talking of the institution which represented his life's work and in the
welfare of which his whole soul was wrapped. Once started in these
reminiscences of his early struggles and hopes Nathaniel Lawson proved
himself an interesting talker and the hour was well advanced when
Kendrick finally glanced at his watch and, refusing any suggestion of
refreshments, prepared to go.
"I'll have the answer to Wade's letter ready for you first thing in the
morning," said Lawson as he shook hands heartily. "I've enjoyed the
evening immensely, Kendrick, and I hope I haven't bored you so much
that you won't come again. You'll be welcome any time."
Phil left the house with the feeling that he had spent not only a very
pleasant evening, but a profitable one. He had acquired a new
appreciation of "Old Nat" Lawson and, as Wade had predicted, a better
understanding of the situation which would help him in his
investigations. So absorbed was he in reviewing what he had learned
that he had walked several blocks before he became conscious of
somebody following him. What was at first merely a suspicion became a
certainty when he deliberately turned several successive corners only
to find the figure still in the rear.
The discovery was interesting, though entirely ridiculous. Who could
be interested in his movements? He resolved to throw the fellow off
the track and have a closer look at him. It should not be difficult to
do this in that district of tall hedges. He broke abruptly into a run,
dodged around a corner and dropped over behind the nearest hedge.
The sound of running steps ceased. But the man evidently was
attempting something to which he was unaccustomed; for on reaching the
corner he stopped, bewildered by the sudden disappearance of his
quarry. He stood there foolishly, staring about uncertainly and
grumbling to himself.
Kendrick peered out from his hiding-place with some amusement at this
discomfiture. The nearest arc light was too far away for a clear look
at the man; but just as Phil was about to jump the hedge and boldly
demand an explanation the other lighted a cigarette and with a shrug of
the shoulders went his way, leaving Kendrick sitting back on his heels,
racking his memory.
Revealed in the glow of the match the face had seemed familiar. The
young fellow was a full block away, however, before he recalled the
features. It was James Stiles, the young chap Nat Lawson had just been
telling him about and whose photo he had been studying with much
interest an hour or two ago.
Over the hedge went Kendrick just in time to see Jimmy Stiles disappear
around a corner. He ran rapidly down the street, keeping to the
boulevard turf, and when he reached the corner he waited until his man
was sufficiently in the lead to avoid discovery, then sauntered along
in the same direction just far enough behind to keep the other in
sight. For Phil's curiosity was now justifiably awake and he
determined to find out where young Stiles went, perhaps overhaul him
and ask him to explain himself.
With the situation thus reversed they progressed for several blocks
without incident. Jimmy Stiles was stepping out with the briskness of
one who knows exactly where he is going and is in a hurry to get there.
He did not alter his stride for perhaps twenty minutes; but as they
swung down towards Allan Gardens his pace became more leisurely, and
opposite the park itself he abruptly halted, looking this way and that
as if expecting to meet somebody here. In further support of this
interpretation he began to stroll slowly back and forth, occasionally
glancing at his watch.
Kendrick took up a position in the shadows where he could look on
without danger of observation, and waited patiently. Before long a
young woman approached from a sidestreet. Stiles raised his hat and
the two went into the park and sat down on a bench, where they soon
become lost in earnest conversation.
"'In the Spring a young man's fancy----'" murmured Phil with a nod of
comprehension; but he did not complete the quotation. There was
nothing lover-like in the actions of the pair on the park bench; in
fact, the young woman appeared to be taking Stiles to task about
something. Did the circumstances justify a closer approach with the
object of overhearing the conversation?
Kendrick still was debating this delicate problem when he saw two men
slinking cautiously behind the bench from the concealment of the park
shrubbery. Before he could shout a warning they had closed in silently
and swiftly upon the unsuspecting occupants. The girl's cry was
smothered by one assailant and Stiles was struggling desperately with
the other.
It happened so unexpectedly that Kendrick stood for an instant, held by
his amazement. Then without a sound he sped across the street, vaulted
the iron fence and charged into the middle of the excitement with ready
fists. The man who had Stiles down was nearest and Phil paused long
enough to send him reeling with a well-directed blow on the side of the
head. He leaped the overturned bench, and made for the girl's
attacker, who promptly took to his heels.
Phil chased him for several rods through the shrubbery before he swung
back toward the bench. But in the brief interval both the other fellow
and young Stiles himself had vanished and he found only the young
woman, calmly dusting her skirt. She stood in a finger of light from
the neighboring arc lamp and Kendrick stopped short, getting back his
breath and staring at her in undisguised astonishment. It seemed as if
she was always to find him staring at her--this cold and haughty and
very pretty stenographer from the office of Blatchford Ferguson!
"Why, Miss Williams!" he exclaimed, and stepped forward quickly. "Are
you hurt at all?" He righted the bench. "Perhaps you had better sit
down," he urged with polite anxiety.
"It's Mr. Kendrick, aint it? No, I'm all right." Nevertheless she
seated herself, patting nervously at a disarranged strand of hair. "It
was so kind of you----"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Phil in deprecation. "I was passing along the
street and luckily happened to glance over at the park just as those
fellows attacked you. How many of them were there?--three?" he asked
innocently. "I wasn't sure which of those two who were fighting I
ought to hit," he laughed.
"It was a case of purse-snatchin'," she said hastily with a shrug of
unconcern. "They--they were fightin' over it." He had hard work to
maintain the proper expression of polite interest under the direct
appraisal of those grave eyes. "The purse set me back on'y fifty-eight
cents at Eaton's at a Friday sale and it had in it on'y some street-car
tickets, a handkerchief, about thirty-five cents change an'--a nickle's
worth of gum. So, you see, it really aint worth botherin' about." She
smiled faintly as she stood up and held out her hand. "Thanks again,
Mr. Kendrick. I must be toddlin' along."
But Kendrick was not to be dismissed in this arbitrary fashion. He
insisted upon seeing her safely home and as it was so logically the
thing to do, she accepted his escort with what grace she could.
Throughout the short walk, however, her manner toward him was one of
cold formality, and although Phil was by no means an uninteresting
conversationalist on occasion, his best efforts failed to break down
this reserve.
Several times he deliberately directed the conversation to afford her
the opportunity of referring to the keyhole incidents only to have her
ignore the opening altogether. It was equally apparent that she had no
intention of mentioning Jimmy Stiles, and he was half inclined to
regret the lead he had given her in this connection. Why had she been
so eager to misrepresent the situation? Why had Stiles disappeared so
suddenly? What was the meaning of the attack by these two ruffians?
Was robbery really the motive, or was she lying about that, too? He
had seen no sign of a purse. Why had she and young Stiles met by
appointment at that late hour and in that particular place? It must be
some very secret matter to require a clandestine meeting. And she had
been scolding Jimmy Stiles--no mistake about that.
Thus ran the undercurrent of his thoughts as he tried to decide whether
he had better shatter that self-contained keep-your-distance attitude
of hers with plain questions. He would have to right-about-face on the
whole situation to do it, and he was not sure that this was wise just
then. One thing was certain, Miss Margaret Williams was worth studying
very carefully and he could not afford to make any mistakes in his
approach.
She settled his indecision for him somewhat unexpectedly by stopping
abruptly opposite a row of old brick houses with red sandstone fronts.
"Here's where I live," she said. "'Night, Mr. Kendrick, an' thanks
awfully."
Phil raised his hat. Before he could say a word she had left him and
running up the steps, disappeared inside the nearest vestibule.
For a moment only he hesitated, then went far enough in the walk to
make sure of the house number, jotting it down on the back of an
envelope. A large white card in one of the front windows announced
"Board and Rooms." He went away, determined to return next day and
have a chat with the landlady. Perhaps he might even go so far as to
rent a room from her for a time.
But when Kendrick called next morning in pursuance of this plan he was
surprised to find that no young woman such as he described lived there.
The landlady proved to be an elderly widow who was quite talkative once
she had satisfied herself that the polite, good-looking young man with
the pleasant smile was not an agent seeking to walk away with some of
her hard-earned dollars. Miss Margaret Williams? No, there was nobody
living there by that name. The only stenographer she had among her
boarders at present was a Miss Turner who worked in the office of a
candy factory, not a lawyer's office at all. And sometimes of a
Saturday she brought home a big box of candy for Sunday, knowing that
Mrs. Parker had such a sweet tooth, and she was such an obliging girl,
was Miss Turner, and getting along so well at the office, she was.
Only the other night she had made the remark----
Phil got away at last. He was not interested in the fortunes of Miss
Turner or the gossip of Mrs. Parker's boarding-house. He was too
supremely interested in the strange actions of the mysterious Miss
Williams. Darn the girl anyway! She deliberately had run inside the
first boarding-house they had come to, stopping calmly in the vestibule
until he had gone his way, when she probably had come out again and
gone home without an escort. Or perhaps she had met Stiles again. Or
perhaps----
"What d'you know about it?" he muttered as he sat down on a boulevard
railing and mopped his forehead in disgust.
Well, if this girl sought to avoid him she was going the wrong way
about it. You bet he would make it his business now to find out
exactly what was what; also what her friend, Jimmy Stiles, was up to.
People here in Toronto didn't go around following other people and
being set upon in the public parks--not ordinarily. The more he
thought it over the more certain he became that their actions were
linked up somehow with his own investigations. Why not? The girl had
spied upon Podmore, who was in league with Nickleby; she had dealings
with Jimmy Stiles who, according to Nathaniel Lawson, was very much
under Nickleby's thumb. There was enough Nickleby mixed up in it for
all sorts of possibilities. He wondered what Podmore knew about her.
There was the next move for him to make--go and see Podmore and find
out. He got to his feet at once and started for the nearest street-car
line. He ought to be able to catch Podmore just finishing a late
breakfast at the Queen's.
"Sorry, sir, but Mr. Podmore checked out last night," the clerk
informed him when at last he reached the hotel.
"Checked out?" echoed Phil in surprise. "Last night, you say? Did he
leave any message for me?"
"No, sir."
"And you don't know where he went, eh?"
"I'm sorry, sir; but he didn't say. I believe the porter took some
baggage for him over to the Union Station; so he's evidently gone out
of town."
Kendrick walked off slowly. It was not hard to guess whither the
time-serving Mr. Podmore was bound. He was running true to form and
Phil grinned as he thought of the surprise that lay awaiting in the
hollow stump beside the tank at the Thorlakson siding. It would be
worth something to see the expression on Podmore's face when he opened
that fake envelope of Wade's with its bogus bills.
Well, he could eliminate Podmore for the present. What now? Had he
better go down to Ferguson's office and boldly demand from the haughty
Miss Williams answers to a few pointed questions, or had he better
locate Stiles first and choke the truth out of him? He glanced at his
watch. Nat Lawson would be expecting him to call for that letter to
Wade and he decided to go there first. After that he would be free to
follow his own investigations in his own way.
Nathaniel Lawson was at work in the garden, but went into the house at
once for the letter and insisted on Phil going inside for a cigar.
"Now you sit down in that big chair there, Kendrick. I'm the
celebrated inventor of a new phosphate drink that ought to hit the spot
on a morning like this. Trouble nothing, sir! I was just on the point
of mixing one for myself. Make yourself at home, my boy. I won't be
long."
Kendrick lounged gratefully in the comfortable leather chair. He had
not realized just how hot it was outside until he found himself thus
ensconced in the cool interior of what his host had called "the den."
A good old scout, Nat Lawson.
Phil had decided it was best to say nothing of his previous evening's
experiences, but he had asked where young Jimmy Stiles was working now
and learned that the bookkeeper was with the Alderson Construction
Company. It was one of Nickleby's "mushroom" concerns and apparently
Nathaniel Lawson did not have much respect for any side-line enterprise
in which Mr. Nickleby was interested. Phil smiled as he jotted down
the address. Nobody who had heard the Lawson side of the situation
could blame him for that attitude.
So Stiles worked for the Alderson Construction Company, eh?--the
concern that was mixed up in that campaign fund contribution that had
been stolen. Question: Had Jimmy Stiles been forced by Nickleby
to----? No, that was not tenable because Nickleby would not be trying
to steal from himself. Well, he'd soon get the hang of things when he
went to see Stiles. It was going to be an interesting little pow-wow
with that young man.
Kendrick idly watched the smoke from his cigar sail towards the long
box of geraniums on the sill of the open window. He whistled to the
canary that swung in a brass cage above the foliage. Then his glance
wandered about the room, over the bookcases, the bric-a-brac on the
mantel, the----
He sat up in his chair rather suddenly. He stood up and hastily
crossed the room for a closer look at a large, attractive photo which
hung above the mantel in a silver frame--the photo of a beautiful young
woman in a summer dress. The face was unmistakable. He was gazing at
the photo of the stenographer in Blatch Ferguson's office--the girl who
had listened at the keyhole, who had met Stiles in the park last night
and had been attacked by the two strangers, who had taken so much
trouble to get rid of her escort by the ruse of the boarding-house!
The elaborate coiffure was missing; but those beautiful classic
features were the same.
He turned as Lawson entered the room, stepping slowly and carefully,
with a tray and two goblets which tinkled with ice.
"I was just admiring that photo in the silver frame, Mr. Lawson. It is
a remarkably fine piece of photography. The tones are wonderful.
Would you consider it rude if I asked who the young lady is?"
Nat Lawson slowly deposited the tray and chuckled to himself.
Unconsciously he raised his head proudly.
"That is my daughter, sir,--my daughter, Cristy. I'm sorry that just
now she is not at home."