THE RED LEDGER. Frank L. Packard
his cries would attract the notice of any one within a radius of blocks.
Running like a deer, Stranway made for the corner. As he reached it, a glance over his shoulder showed him the watchman just emerging from the building—and then a stream of flame cut the blackness, and the roar of a revolver shot echoed up and down the deserted street.
Grimly Stranway flung himself around the corner. The dark mass of his car showed just ahead. And then, startled, he paused for the fraction of a second. He had stopped his engine, but the quick throb and pound of it came to him now. Had Steener had enough sense for that? A form loomed up from the driver's seat. A voice, low, tense, vibrant, came to him.
"Quick!" it called.
Chapter V.
Against Time
Stranway threw himself into the tonneau. The car leaped forward like a greyhound from the leash. There was another shot—from the corner this time. And then a skid, a whir, the off wheels lifted from the ground and the car had swerved into the first side street. But to Stranway all this was as something extraneous, something apart, as he scrambled wildly now over into the front seat. It wasn't Steener who was driving—it wasn't even a man.
And then a street lamp for a flashing instant caught the beauty of the girl's face, the truant strands of hair whipping at her cheeks, the dark eyes bright with excitement fixed steadily on the road ahead; threw into relief the slim figure crouched over the steering wheel, and Stranway caught a glimpse of a delicate flower nestling in the dark setting of her dress—a purple orchid.
For a moment, breathless from his race, Stranway could not speak. He was conscious of a suddenly pounding pulse that was not due to his extreme exertions. The Orchid! From what Charlebois had said weeks ago, he had had a vague hope from the moment he had left Dominic Court that somehow, somewhere, he might see her to-night since he was at last on "active service"; but he had not dreamed it would be like this.
"You!" he cried out.
She turned and looked at him, flashing him a smile.
"I was wondering," she said, "if you remembered me."
"Remembered you!" Stranway gasped. And then he laughed because her eyes were mischievous. "Well, you haven't given me much chance to in the last month," he said; "but I guess you've made up for it to-night with compound interest."
They had swung on to Broadway, and headed up-town. There was no longer any sound of pursuit. But the car was still running at terrific speed.
"That sounds like dear old Charlebois," she said. "'Compound interest!' And speaking of Charlebois——"
"We won't!" said Stranway decisively. "We'll talk about you. This is the first chance I've had, you know."
She shook her head.
"I'm afraid there's hardly time for that," she said.
"Oh, yes; there is!" asserted Stranway. "We're quite safe now, and you're running much too fast. Stop the car, and let me drive."
But now the laughter had gone out of her face and eyes.
"Presently—not yet," she answered. Then quickly, seriously: "You were to leave for Cleveland to-morrow to be in time for a meeting on the following morning—with the stock? You were to meet Charlebois there?"
Something in her tone caused him alarm.
"Yes," he said. "Yes—what is it? What has happened?"
"I do not know," she replied hurriedly, "except that it is a matter of life and death to have that certificate and the proxy at the meeting, and——"
"Well," Stranway broke in reassuringly, "I've got them."
"I supposed you had," she said hastily. "It is not that. There has been a wretched mistake. I do not know whether one of our men has blundered badly, or how it was caused. The meeting is for to-morrow morning, not the day after."
"To-morrow morning!" repeated Stranway mechanically, as though not fully sensing the meaning of the words—and then with a rush it came upon him in all its grim significance. At any cost do not fail, Charlebois had said. To-morrow morning—it was this morning now! "You are sure—you are sure?" he cried. "Charlebois—does Charlebois know?"
"He knows—now," she said. "It was from him I received the news. He is travelling on the same train with Poindexter. He wired duplicate telegrams en route to both of us. I received mine three-quarters of an hour ago. Yours is probably at the Court. I was afraid it would have arrived after you had left there, and that is why you found me here in the car."
This morning! Stranway's mind, wrestling with the problem forced suddenly upon him, was groping for a solution. He pulled out his watch, managed to make out the time, and groaned. It was fourteen minutes to one. There were nine hours left. Cleveland must be, roughly, something like four hundred and fifty miles away. Nine into four hundred and fifty was—fifty miles an hour. It was possible, just possible, if only all were ready; but the time it would take now to make the arrangements left the chance a desperate one at best. It was, however, the only chance he could see. He turned to her.
"A special——"
"Is being made up now," she supplied coolly. "It will be ready for you by the time you reach the Grand Central. I told them you would be there by one o'clock. They have agreed to make Cleveland by a quarter to ten in the morning, and I have wired Charlebois on the train that you will meet him at the office of the Machine Company."
"You did that!" ejaculated Stranway, staring at her in amazement and unveiled admiration; and then, with a start: "But what are you slowing for now? I didn't know you were racing for a train when I said anything about speed a moment ago, and——"
His words ended in a surprised gasp. The car had come to a complete standstill at the corner of an intersecting street, and she had sprung lightly to the sidewalk.
"Flint will meet you with your bag at the station, and bring back the car," she said quickly. "You understand everything now, and I have work yet to do. Hurry! There isn't a moment to spare. You will need all the time you've got to make the station—and you mustn't fail!"
Dazedly, he squeezed into the seat behind the wheel and leaned out toward her.
"Yes, that's all right," he protested, "but surely there's no necessity for you——"
She did not answer—she had simply disappeared around the corner.
"Well, I'm damned!" said Stranway earnestly to himself; and then conscious that her last words were the key to the situation, that he must not fail, that every minute was literally now a priceless asset, he sent the car leaping forward on its way uptown again.
Twelve minutes later, as he ran through the gates and out on the platform of the Grand Central Station, he found his train waiting for him. He snatched his bag from Flint's hand, and sprang on the car's steps. A conductor, watch in hand, raised two fingers to the cab—and the "special" with a marked-up schedule, rights over every mortal thing on earth, that was undoubtedly already eliciting benedictions of pungent unholiness from dispatchers many miles away as they rearranged and readjusted their train sheets, began to glide out of the station.
Stranway's brain was in a whirl as he turned into his berth. The events of the night had followed each other with stunning rapidity. Question upon question surged upon him. Charlebois' promise, Charlebois' character itself, seemed strangely at variance with his acts to-night in so far as Steener was concerned. What did it mean? And this blunder in the dates, so nearly fatal, how had that come about? And Poindexter, the capitalist—why had Charlebois so suddenly and unexpectedly left for Cleveland on the same train with him? What was this meeting that made of these few paltry shares, twenty-five of them out of an issue of thousands doubtless, of such vital importance?
And