THE RED LEDGER. Frank L. Packard
of the Orchid when, half an hour later, he dropped off to sleep.
Chapter VI.
For Value Received
It was twenty minutes to ten in the morning, five minutes better than the railroad officials had promised, when the "special" rolled into Cleveland; and at ten minutes to ten, a taxi, after a wild dash through the city, deposited Stranway at the entrance to a large office building.
He stepped from the elevator on the fourth floor and walked rapidly down the corridor. Looking for the general office, he passed two doors each bearing the sign of the West County Tool and Machine Company, but with the word "private" underneath. There was evidently quite an extensive suite of offices. But before the third door, also marked "private," he halted abruptly. From within, sharp, imperative, suddenly raised in tone, he recognised Charlebois' voice.
With a perfunctory knock, he opened the door, stepped inside—and stood stock-still just beyond the threshold. Before a flat-topped desk in the centre of the room stood the little old gentleman of Dominic Court, stern-faced, revolver in his hand. Across the desk, huddled in a chair, his body crouched forward, was another man—a middle-aged man with grizzled hair, upon whose bloodless features, as he turned his head apathetically at the sound of the opening door; Stranway read utter misery and hopelessness.
"Ah, my boy!" Charlebois' expression had relaxed a little, and he spoke quietly now without emotion. "Ah, my boy; you have done well! Close the door."
Mechanically, his eyes playing now on Charlebois, now on the other, Stranway obeyed.
Charlebois, with a critical glance at the figure seated at the desk, pocketed the revolver. Then he turned again to Stranway.
"I am hardly ten minutes ahead of you," he said. "My train was late." He held out his hand. "Let me see what you have brought."
Stranway handed Charlebois the stock certificate and proxy without comment.
The little old gentleman examined them attentively; then thrust them hurriedly into his pocket as a side door connecting with an office beyond opened suddenly, and a stout, florid-faced man, with hard grey eyes, clean-shaven lips and short side-whiskers, stepped pompously into the room. The man stopped a foot from the door and glanced aggressively, impatiently around; then his eyes fixed upon the form at the desk, and something very like a sneer curled his lips.
"H'm!" said Charlebois abruptly. "Close the door, Poindexter."
The newcomer was very evidently not in the habit of being addressed without due respect, much less of receiving curt commands. The red flushed angrily to his face.
"Who the devil are you, sir?" he snapped.
"At present," Charlebois informed him gently, "I am a stockholder of the West County Tool and Machine Company."
"Oh!" Poindexter's laugh was short and brittle. "Oh, I see!" He jerked his hand toward the desk. "One of Gordon's crowd, eh? Well, we'll be glad to hear anything you've got to say in the board-room. It's ten o'clock now."
"I was going to ask for a postponement until, say—to-morrow," said Charlebois softly.
"Were you really?" inquired Poindexter ironically. "Well, that's too bad!"
"Until to-morrow," repeated Charlebois, but with sudden significance now.
"Eh—what!" Poindexter's voice was harsh, but into his eyes had crept a quick, startled expression, "What do you mean?"
"Close the door, Poindexter!" Charlebois' tones rose sharply.
A moment Poindexter hesitated, then he turned, banged the door shut and strode back into the room. "Now what's the meaning of all this?" he demanded viciously.
"Take this chair," invited Charlebois coolly. "This one opposite Mr. Gordon here."
With a gulp that seemed almost one of amazement at his own acquiescence, the other obeyed.
"I see that you do not remember me, or, perhaps, to be more accurate, do not recognise me," remarked Charlebois imperturbably.
"No; I do not!" rasped Poindexter. "But I would like to call your attention to the fact that time is an expensive commodity with me."
The faintest of smiles crossed the little old gentleman's lips.
"I venture to think that it is equally so in my case," he returned evenly; "and of late perhaps even more so than with you. However, I have no wish to detain you here an unnecessary moment. You do not recognise me? Well, no matter! I think you will before I am through. I want you to listen to a little story. Some twenty years ago there was a man who lived in a little town in the Middle West. I imagine he was about thirty-five years old then. He kept a small and, I fear, unprofitable general store." Charlebois paused.
Gordon raised his head suddenly. Poindexter, with a muttered growl, stared at Gordon, then settled heavily in his chair and glared at Charlebois. Stranway, at a slight nod from the little old gentleman, moved unostentatiously to the end of the desk between the two, facing Charlebois, who stood at the other end.
"This man," Charlebois resumed, "was of a mechanical turn of mind. He invented and patented an attachment for a lathe. I am not versed in such matters, and I do not pretend to say just what it was. In any case, it is immaterial now, except that it was of real value. This secured him an opening with a machine company, and he gave up the general store. The years went on, he added other patents to the first, gave all that was in him to the business, and, little by little, as he saved money, invested those savings in the company's stock, and eventually he rose to the presidency of the concern."
"Quite a pretty homily!" sneered Mr. John K. Poindexter.
"Quite," agreed Charlebois, nodding his head gravely. "About this time a certain group of promoters, who had acquired control of most of the machine interests in the country, decided that they wanted the patents of this company. They made an offer to purchase the company outright, with a threat to help themselves to it if the offer was refused—and their offer, as they meant it to be, was so low that there was no possibility of its acceptance. It had the desired effect, however. It frightened a lot of small shareholders. The trust bought their shares—transferred in blank to cover the operation until the trust was ready to show its hand; but, also, the trust took the precaution to have the stock accompanied by proxies made out in the same manner so that the stock could be voted at any time though the original holders still appeared on the company's books." Again Charlebois paused for an instant, and his sharp little steel-blue eyes rested grimly on Poindexter. "Like mechanics," he murmured, "I am not versed in matters of high finance, but I trust I am making myself clear. The president at this time owned thirty per cent. of the stock, and he took up the fight against the 'steal'—both as a matter of principle and to save himself. I shall not attempt to trace in detail what followed. By pledging his stock to the bank he obtained a loan. With this loan he bought other stock, got a further loan on that, and bought still more—pyramiding, I believe you term it. At first he had no difficulty in obtaining shares, and at a low price. Then the market began to tighten. The shares went up and up until they rose to an incredible figure"—Charlebois' hand went suddenly to his pocket—"and one lot, the block of twenty-five shares that I hold here, went for—fifty thousand dollars."
Livid-faced, Poindexter leaped to his feet.
"Let me see that certificate!" he cried hoarsely.
Charlebois spread it out on the desk.
Poindexter bent over it. "That's mine!" he shouted furiously, the next instant. "You're a thief, or worse than a thief! That's mine, do you hear? That's——"
"Sit down!" ordered Charlebois sternly.
"I won't! I——" Poindexter's voice broke in a snarl, as, at a motion from the little old gentleman, Stranway jerked the magnate back into his chair.
"You