Joan's Enemies/Chapter 12

N the previous night—the only one spent by him, thus far, at Atlantic City—Mr. Lismore had experienced the unprecedented, a scene with his daughter. Of course the rebellion had been speedily quashed, and Mr. Lismore had returned to town in the morning with a vaguely uneasy recollection of the episode, but nothing at all in the way of forebodings.

He and Stormont were seated now in the smoking-room of his house, to which the latter had come, a couple of hours ago, with certain great good news.

“No, I should never have thought of it, myself, Stormont,” he was saying for perhaps the tenth time, shortly after eleven o'clock. And he took a sip of his whisky and soda with relish.

“You wouldn't,” the other pleasantly replied. “It's a pity we can't bag the entire forty thousand ounces, but all the same, to have reduced Grant's share from thirty thousand to ten thousand, and raised our own shares from five thousand to fifteen thousand was not a bad day's work. Only I don't want such a job again. To convert a three into a one and so forth, without showing one's handiwork, is not easy. Only Rufus's heavy, sprawling handwriting made it not impossible.”

“A masterpiece!” Lismore exclaimed. “What did you feel when you were returning the strip to the safe at Elm House?”

“Nothing till after the deed was done. Then I felt a bit cheap—had to fall back on those beastly tabloids. I suppose I ought to see a doctor again, but— Hello, who's that ringing at this time of night? No need to turn ghastly, man! I'll go if you like.”

“I'm all right,” said Lismore, getting up. “Don't know why I got so scared. Some one come to the wrong house, I expect.” He left the room, closing the door after him.

Lightly and swiftly Stormont crossed the floor and noiselessly opened the door an inch. Presently he heard a key turned harshly, and next moment Lismore's voice risen high with astonishment:

“Lottie! What's wrong? What brings you this time of night?”

Promptly, clearly, Lottie replied: “Father, I want my five thousand dollars.”

“Confound it,” thought the listener, “that girl may spoil everything! I shall have to play the lovelorn swain, after all!”

He heard Lismore hiss: “Hush, for heaven's sake! Stormont is here!”

“I don't care,” was the retort. “Perhaps he'll make you give me my five thousand.” And she stepped straight for the smoking-room. Her father shut the door and followed, seething but helpless. He was suddenly and seriously afraid of his daughter.

Stormont sprang from his seat as she entered; his smile suggested admiration, which was never unpleasing to the girl.

“What a happy surprise!” he exclaimed. “But you must be very tired, though you don't look it.”

Lottie's sullen look, which had gone for a moment or two, came back. All the way from the Elm House she had kept commanding herself: “You must not give in; you must simply make him give up the money!”

“Wont you sit down, Lottie?” Stormont said solicitously. “Your father must forage for some supper. I'm afraid the servants have gone to bed. I hope you left Mrs. Lismore well.”

Lismore would willingly have taken the hint to forage, but his daughter said quickly:

“No, I don't want anything—except my five thousand dollars. Mr. Stormont,” she went on, “my father has the five thousand Mr. Cran left me. Please make him give it me.”

Stormont regarded her sympathetically. “Surely,” he said gently, “you don't doubt that it is safe with your father.”

“Perhaps not; but I want it for myself.”

“But you didn't expect him to produce five thousand dollars here and now, Lottie.”

Lottie could not have told what she had expected, but she rejoined with that simple formula of creditors of all peoples and all ages: “I want my money.”

The same words were familiar enough to the two men, who at this time could not have raised anything like five thousand between them.

Lismore cleared his throat. “It's too bad of you, Lottie. I explained to you last night that the money had been invested in our new business, and once more I promise you that you shall be well paid for the use of it—before long.”

“You may rest assured of that,” said Stormont blandly.

Lottie shook her pretty head and its pretty hat. Then paling, she said: “Father, I must have it, and if you wont give it to me, I shall go and tell Joan March everything!”

Stormont, perceiving a dreadful expression growing on his partner's countenance, said swiftly: “No, no, Lottie; you would never go so far as to do that. Besides—”

She wheeled upon him. “What do you know about it?” she faltered.

“Very little, I'm afraid, except that the letter you took from the safe—”

“Oh! Well, he made me take it.”

“Did he? And where is the letter now, do you suppose?”

“He has it. He said it would compel Joan to give up Elm House and—”

“Possibly. But, you see, your father has not got the letter. It is at present in Miss March's safe.”

“Nonsense! I don't believe it. How do you know?”

“I can only give you my word for it, Lottie.”

“Does—does Joan know?”

“One must suppose that she does. Still—”

“Oh, oh, what will happen to me? Father, you wont allow—”

“Nothing at all is going to happen to you,” said Stormont soothingly. “And don't fret any more about your own five thousand. If you want a few hundred to go on with, I dare say we can manage it—eh, Lismore?”

Lottie's determination was completely broken. Tears were not far away.

“I've just come from Elm House,” she murmured. “I didn't mean to tell you unless I got my—but I will now. Douglas Grant is home. I heard him talking in the library..... What have I said?”

Her father had started and turned away, the old fear upon him, and the visitor had a hard, alert look in his eyes—which, however, gave place immediately to a gleam of gayety.

“That is splendid news,” cried the latter. “Isn't it, Lismore? Thank you, Lottie!”

“Yes, yes, but—it took me by surprise. You had better get off to bed, Lottie. You shall have all your money, and much more, very soon.”