Joan's Enemies/Chapter 17

HEN Mrs. Lismore came out of her alarming swoon, her first clear word was her husband's name.

“Father is in New York,” her daughter gently explained. “Would you like me to wire to him?”

Mrs. Lismore shook her head. “I had forgotten,” she murmured, and lay silent for a space. Then: “But I must send a wire to Mr. Grant, at once. Do you know his address in New York?”

“No, Mother,” Lottie answered.

“Then I will send it to Elm House. If he is not there, Joan will forward it. Get me a blank.”

“Shall I write it for you?” the girl asked presently.

“No. Yes—I can't write yet. But you must promise to forget it as soon as it is sent; at least, you must never mention it again,” the woman said wearily. She then uttered the message which was to reach Douglas during lunch. “Now take it, quickly, to the office.”

“Mother,” cried Lottie, “it's cruel to keep me in the dark! Does this mean something dreadful?”

“Hush, dear. In all probability the message is quite unnecessary; only I'm nervous.”

After sending her mother's message, Lottie hurried back to their rooms and quickly prepared for the second journey of the day. She lunched, and finding her mother apparently asleep, confided a vague message to their landlady, and made her escape.

And as her train rolled out of the station, Miss Gosling's rolled in.

N their way to town, Fairthorn, not without diffidence, put the question to Grant: “Something gone wrong, old man?”

“Yes,” was the reply, “but you wont mind if I don't discuss it at present?”

In his heart Douglas Grant made no pretense of misunderstanding the change in Joan any more than he ignored the danger he was in of losing her friendship—he dared not use a warmer word. In her service to him she had been subjected to villainous treatment, and he had appeared to side with the offenders, her enemies and his. That in itself was surely enough to chill any special regard Joan might have felt for him, but his case was made worse if, as he was forced to take into account, Joan suspected a secret understanding between Lottie Lismore and himself.

On arriving in town, Fairthorn suggested an hour at his club. There he picked up an afternoon paper and shortly afterward, with an exclamation, passed it to his companion. A half-column was devoted to details of a tragic occurrence in a city office. It appeared that a highly respected clerk, distracted by secret gambling-debts, had entered the private room of his employers armed with a revolver, and after vainly threatening one of the gentlemen, suddenly turned the weapon upon himself, inflicting a wound immediately fatal. One of the two partners had been completely overcome by the shock, but the other had, with praiseworthy promptitude, done all that could be done in the painful circumstances.

“What a ghastly business!” murmured Grant. “Not the sort of experience one would wish even to one's worst enemies.”

“Where shall we dine to-night?” Fairthorn asked presently.

“I'm sorry, old man, but I've got an engagement,” said Grant.

“All right!” Though signs were lacking, Fairthorn had been hoping that his little ruse at Elm House might have done his friend service after all.

The other's next remark extinguished the hope. “I am going to ask a favor, Fairthorn—which is, that you will stay at your rooms this evening in case a message should come from Miss March.”

“Why, certainly, I sha'n't go out until you turn up.”

“Thanks! I can't say just when that will be, though it ought not to be late. And I say, Fairthorn: I don't know that I'll ever be able to explain myself to you, but—”

“That's all right, also. Shall we get along to my rooms now?”

HE train came in late and crowded. After those two years in the wilds Grant encountered difficulties on the busy platform, but he caught sight of Lottie at last. Apparently recognition had come first to her, for already her smile had dawned—a sweet, pathetic little smile.

He was within a few yards of her when he beheld her expression changed in truly startling fashion. Amazement, anger, fear were depicted on her face, gone suddenly white. With a fierce little gesture of the hand, she seemed to warn some one back. Following her gaze, Douglas Grant glanced to his right—and saw the last man he wanted to see in this world. He stopped short.

And then Lottie, darting forward, clutched his hand, whispering: “Take me away—quick! I wont speak to him!”

Next moment Mr. Lismore was beside them.

“Your mother wired me,” he began. Then he recognized Grant, and drew in his breath as though he had been stricken with a lash.

As for Grant, his first thought was: “Harold Lismore! This old wreck of a man—impossible!”

Lottie pulled at his hand, her shoulder turned to the intruder.

“He's my father,” she said, no longer in a whisper, “but I wont speak to him. I wont! Let us go—at once.”

Lismore did not appear to hear; he was standing quite motionless, his head fallen forward.

“You—we cannot leave him like this,” Grant said at last. “Mr. Lismore—”

“Don't speak to him! How can you? He has treated you so abominably—and me too. He has stolen five thousand of mine, and—”

“Good heavens, Lottie! Remember where we are! Can't you see he is ill? You have not heard, I fancy, but I happen to know that he had a great shock at the office to-day.”

Lismore spoke. “Your mother wired me to meet you. Your mother wired me—”

Grant, crushing down his dislike, took the man's arm supportingly, saying: “We had better get a taxi.”

At the clasp Lismore shuddered and slightly raised his head.

Grant gave his arm a gentle, reassuring shake.. “Mr. Lismore, don't worry. We're going to drive you home now. You remember me surely—Grant—Douglas Grant—”

Beside herself, Lottie struck in with: “Yes, Douglas Grant, the man you got blamed for your crime—”

Lismore seemed to waken up. “Oh, my God!” he sighed.

“Stop!” said Grant almost savagely. “Lottie, you are saying what is not true.”

“Not true?”

“Your father had nothing to do with my taking the blame. I say it before him. You heard, Mr. Lismore?”

“Oh, I see,” cried the girl, and suddenly she smiled like a courtesan. “At least, I think I see what you mean, Douglas,” she added sweetly.

HEN came an interruption. A suave voice remarked: “Didn't intend to intrude, but I'm afraid you have your hands rather full, Grant. Glad to see you home again!” And Stormont, almost colorless, yet smiling gravely, was before them.

At that moment Grant could have forgiven the man much—all, indeed, except his treatment of Joan.

Without fuss Stormont took his partner's free arm and nodded to Grant.

“Come, Lottie,” he said kindly. “We had a trying affair in the office to-day, and I've been rather anxious about your father. Hope you left your mother well. You must get your father to join her at once. He ought to have a real rest from business now.”

Drooping and sullen, the girl walked half a pace behind him till they reached the taxi-stand.

“Now,” Stormont said briskly, when they had got their dazed charge on board, “I have just time to see you both home, Lottie. Allow me—no, sit beside your father, like a dutiful daughter.” He turned to Grant. “There is room,” he said courteously. “No? Then may I hope for another and happier meeting very soon?”

He did not seem to expect a reply. “You have forgiven my curt welcome, I trust,” he went on. “It was genuine. I have—and so has poor Lismore—a great deal to say to you—also something to explain. But this is not the time. Well, good night, Grant.” He did not offer his hand. Then having given the driver directions, he stepped in and drew shut the door. The cab started. “Oh, by the way,” he called from the window, “I'm due at Elm House at nine o'clock. Perhaps I may see you there!”