IN WHICH MR. BAXTER SHOWS HIMSELF A MAN OF RESOURCES
It was just eight o'clock when Johnson gave three excited raps with the
heavy iron knocker on the door of Mr. Baxter's house in Madison Avenue.
A personage in purple evening clothes drew the door wide open, but on
seeing the sartorial character of the caller he filled the doorway with
his own immaculate figure.
"Is Mr. Baxter at home?" asked Johnson eagerly.
"He is just going out," the other condescended to reply.
That should have been enough to dispose of this common fellow. But
Johnson kept his place. "I want to see him, for just a minute. Tell him
my name. He'll see me. It's Johnson."
The personage considered a space, then disappeared to search for Mr.
Baxter; first showing his discretion by closing the door--with Johnson
outside of it. He quickly reappeared and led Johnson across a hall that
was as large as Johnson's flat, up a broad stairway, and through a wide
doorway into the library, where he left him, standing, to gain what he
could from sight of the rows and rows of leather-backed volumes.
Almost at once Mr. Baxter entered, dressed in a dinner coat.
"You have something to tell me?" he asked quickly.
"Yes."
"This way." Mr. Baxter led Johnson into a smaller room, opening upon the
library, furnished with little else besides a flat-top walnut desk, a
telephone, and a typewriter on a low table. Here Mr. Baxter sometimes
attended to his correspondence, with the assistance of a stenographer
sent from the office, when he did not feel like going downtown; and in
here, when the mood was on him, he sometimes slipped to write bits of
verse, a few of which he had published in magazines under a pseudonym.
Mr. Baxter closed the door, took the chair at the desk and waved Johnson
to the stenographer's. "I have only a minute. What is it?"
For all his previous calls on Mr. Baxter, this refined presence made
Johnson dumb with embarrassment. He would have been more at his ease had
he had the comfort of fumbling his hat, but the purple personage had
gingerly taken his battered derby from him at the door.
"Well?" said Mr. Baxter, a bit impatiently.
Johnson found his voice and rapidly told of Tom's discovery, as he had
heard it from Tom twenty minutes before, and of the exposure that was
going to be made that evening. At first Mr. Baxter seemed to start; the
hand on the desk did certainly tighten. But that was all.
"Did Mr. Keating say, in this story he proposes to tell, whether we
offered Mr. Foley money to sell out, or whether Mr. Foley demanded it?"
he asked, when Johnson had ended.
"He didn't say. He didn't seem to know."
Mr. Baxter did not speak for a little while; then he said, with a quiet
carelessness: "What you have told me is of no great importance, though
it probably seems so to you. It might, however, have been of great
value. So I want to say to you that I thoroughly appreciate the
promptness with which you have brought me this intelligence. If I can
still depend upon your faithfulness, and your secrecy----" Mr. Baxter
paused.
"Always," said Johnson eagerly.
"And your secrecy--" this with a slight emphasis, the gray eyes looking
right through Johnson; "you can count upon an early token of
appreciation, in excess of what regularly comes to you."
"You've always found you could count on me, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"And you always can!"
Mr. Baxter touched a button beneath his desk. "Have Mitchell show Mr.
Johnson out," he said to the maid who answered the ring. "Do you know
where Mrs. Baxter is?"
"In her room, sir."
Johnson bowed awkwardly, and backed away after the maid.
"Good-night," Mr. Baxter said shortly, and followed the two out. He
crossed the library with the intention of going to the room of his
wife, who had come to town to be with him during the crisis of the
expected victory, but he met her in the hall ready to go out.
"My dear, some important business has just come up," he said. "I'm
afraid there's nothing for me to do but to attend to it to-night."
"That's too bad! I don't care for myself, for it's only one of those
stupid musical comedies. I only cared to go because I thought it would
help you through the suspense of the evening."
After the exchange of a few more words he kissed her and she went
quietly back to her room. He watched her a moment, wondering if she
would bear herself with such calm grace if she knew what awaited him in
to-morrow's papers.
He passed quickly back into the little office, and locked the door
behind him. Then the composure he had worn before Johnson and his wife
swiftly vanished; and he sat at the desk with interlocked hands, facing
the most critical situation of his life. There was no doubting what
Johnson had told him.
When to-morrow's papers appeared with their certain stories--first page,
big headlines--of how he and other members of the Executive Committee,
all gentlemen of reputation, had bribed a walking delegate, and a
notoriously corrupt walking delegate, to sell out the Iron Workers'
strike--the members of the committee would be dishonored forever, and he
dishonored more than all. And his wife, how could she bear this? How
could he explain to her, who believed him nothing but honor, once this
story was out?
He forced these sickening thoughts from his brain. He had no time for
them. Disgrace must be avoided, if possible, and every minute was of
honor's consequence. He strained his mind upon the crisis. The strike
was now nothing; of first importance, of only importance, was how to
escape disgrace.
It was the peculiar quality of Mr. Baxter's trained mind that he saw,
with almost instant directness, the best chance in a business situation.
Two days before it had taken Tom from eleven to eleven, twelve hours, to
see his only chance. Mr. Baxter now saw his only chance in less than
twelve minutes.
His only chance was to forestall exposure, by being the first to tell
the story publicly. He saw his course clearly--to rush straight to the
District Attorney, to tell a story almost identical with Tom's, and that
varied from the facts on only two points. First of these two points, the
District Attorney was to be told that Foley had come to them demanding
fifty thousand dollars as the price of settlement. Second, that they had
seen in this demand a chance to get the hands of the law upon this
notorious walking delegate; that they had gone into the plan with the
sole purpose of gaining evidence against him and bringing him to
justice; that they had been able to secure a strong case of extortion
against him, and now demanded his arrest. This same story was to go to
the newspapers before they could possibly get Tom's. The committee would
then appear to the world in no worse light than having stooped to the
use of somewhat doubtful means to rid themselves and the union of a
piratical blackmailer.
Mr. Baxter glanced at his watch. It was half-past eight. He stepped to
the telephone, found the number of the home telephone of the District
Attorney, and rang him up. He was in, luckily, and soon had the receiver
at his ear. Could Mr. Baxter see him in half an hour on a matter of
importance--of great public importance? Mr. Baxter could.
He next rang up Mr. Murphy, who had been with him in his office that
morning when the money had been handed to Foley. Mr. Murphy was also at
home, and answered the telephone himself. Could Mr. Baxter meet him in
fifteen minutes in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria? Very important. Mr.
Murphy could.
As he left the telephone it struck him that while the committee must
seemingly make every effort to secure Foley's arrest, it would be far
better for them if Foley escaped. If arrested, he would naturally turn
upon them and tell his side of the affair. Nobody would believe him, for
he was one against five, but all the same he could start a most
unpleasant story.
One instant the danger flashed upon Mr. Baxter. The next instant his
plan for its avoidance was ready. He seated himself at the typewriter,
drew off its black sole-leather case, ran in a sheet of plain white
paper, and, picking at the keys, slowly wrote a message to Foley. That
finished, he ran in a plain envelope, which he addressed to Foley at
Potomac Hall. This letter he would leave at the nearest messenger
office.
Five minutes later Mr. Baxter, in a business suit, passed calmly through
his front door, opened for him by the purple personage, and out into the
street.