XXII
SMOKE AND FIRE
Downstairs Miss Jaffray entered her machine and was driven northward.
It is not for a moment to be supposed during the weeks which followed Mr. Egerton’s party that Miss Jaffray had retired from the social scene. And if her rebuff at Phil Gallatin’s hands had dampened the ardor of her enjoyment, no sign of it appeared. She was more joyously satirical, more unmitigably bored, more obtrusively indifferent than ever. But those who knew Nina best discovered a more daring unconvention in her opinions and a caustic manner of speech which spared no one, not even herself. She was, if anything, a concentrated essence of Nina Jaffray.
A woman’s potentiality for mischief proceeds in inverse ratio to her capacity for benevolence, and Nina’s altruism was subjective. She gave her charity unaffectedly to all four-legged things except the fox, which had been contributed to the economic scheme by a beneficent Providence for the especial uses of cross-country riders. She spent much care and sympathy upon her horses, and exacted its equivalent in muscular energy. Two-legged things enjoyed her liking in the exact proportion that they contributed to her amusement or in the measure that they did not interfere with her plans.
But the word benevolent applied to Nina with about as much fitness as it would to the Tropic of Capricorn.
The motto of New York is “The Devil Take the Hindmost,” and it feelingly voiced Nina’s sentiments in the world and in the hunting field. She had always made it a practice to ride well up with the leaders, and to keep clear of the underbrush, and had never had much sympathy for the laggards. There was a Spartan quality in her point of view with regard to others, which remained to be put to the test with regard to herself. The occasion for such a test, it seemed, had arrived. For the first time in her life she was apparently denied the thing she most wanted. She had even been willing to acknowledge to herself that she wouldn’t have wanted Phil Gallatin if she hadn’t discovered that he wanted some one else.
But her liking for him had been transmuted into a warmer regard with a rapidity which really puzzled her and forced her to the conclusion that she had cared for him always. And Phil Gallatin’s indifference had stimulated her interest in him to a degree which made it necessary for her to win him away from Jane Loring at all hazards.
She was not in the least unhappy about the matter. Here was a real difficulty to be overcome, the first in personal importance that she had ever faced, and she met it with a smile, aware that all of the arts which a woman may use (and some which she may not) must be brought into play to accomplish her ends.
As a matter of fact, Nina’s mechanism was working at the highest degree of efficiency and she was taking a real delight in life, such as she had never before experienced. Since the “Pot and Kettle” affair she had thought much and deeply, had noted Coleman Van Duyn’s attentions to Jane Loring, and her acceptance of them, had heard with an uncommon interest of their reported engagement and had kept herself informed as to the goings and comings of Phil Gallatin. And she read Jane Loring as one may read an open book. Their personal relations were the perfection of amiability. They had met informally on several occasions when Nina had noted with well-concealed amusement the slightly exaggerated warmth of Jane’s greeting, and had taken care to return this display of friendship in kind. Everything added to the conviction that Jane’s love of Phil was only exceeded by her hatred of Nina Jaffray.
And yet until this morning Nina had had moments of uncertainty, for the incident Jane had witnessed was too trivial to stand the test of sober second thought, and Jane was just silly enough to forgive and forget it.
Nina’s visit to Phil Gallatin’s office had agreeably surprised her, for Phil had made it perfectly clear that his estrangement from Jane still existed. But to make the matter doubly sure, Nina had decided to play a card she had been holding in reserve. In other words, more smoke was needed and Nina was prepared to provide the fuel.
First she met Coleman Van Duyn by appointment at her own house, and they had a long chat, during which, without his being aware of it, he was the subject of a searching examination which had for its object the revelation of the exact relation between himself and Miss Loring. Even Coley, it seemed, was not satisfied with the state of affairs. They were not engaged. No. He was willing to admit it, but he had hopes that before the winter was over Miss Loring would see things his way. His dislike of Phil Gallatin was thinly veiled and Nina played upon it with a skill which left nothing to be desired, to the end that at the last Coley came out into the open and declared himself flat-footed.
“I don’t know—your relations with him, Nina. Don’t care, really. You know your way about and all that sort of thing, but he’s going it too strong. I’m tired of beatin’ about the bush. I know a thing or two about Phil Gallatin and I’ll tell ’em soon. It’s time people knew the sort of a Johnny that fellow is.”
“Oh, I know, Coley. You’re prejudiced. You’ve got a right to be. A man doesn’t want any scandal hanging around the name of the girl he’s going to marry. Everybody knows, of course, that Phil and Jane Loring were together last summer up in the woods and that–”
Van Duyn had risen, his eyes more protrusive, his face more purple than was good for him. It was the first time he had heard that story spoken of with such freedom, and it shocked him.
“It wasn’t Jane,” he roared. “She wasn’t the only woman in Canada last summer. How do you know it was Jane?”
“She admitted it,” said Nina sadly.
“Oh, she did! Well, what of it? If I don’t care, what business is it of anybody else? She suits me and I’m going to marry her.”
He stopped and glared at Nina, as though it was she who was the sole author of his unhappiness. Nina only smiled up at him encouragingly.
“Of course, you are. That’s one of the things I wanted to see you about. I think I can help you, Coley, if you’ll let me.”
She made him sit down again and when he was more composed, went on.
“You see it’s this way. I don’t mind your running Phil down, if it gives you any pleasure, but you might as well know that I don’t share your opinions. He isn’t your sort, you don’t understand him, and he has managed to come between you and Jane. But I don’t see the slightest use in getting excited. These silly romantic affairs of the teens are seldom really dangerous. Phil’s infirmities excited her pity.”
“His infirmities!”
“Yes, but Jane Loring isn’t the kind of a girl to put up with that kind of thing long.”
“Rather—not!”
“Oh, I don’t mean what you do. I mean that she isn’t suited to him, that’s all. There are other women who might marry him and make something of him.”
“Who?” he sneered.
“I,” she said calmly.
Her quiet tone transfixed him.
“You want to—to marry him?”
“Yes—and I’m going to. Perhaps you understand now how we can help each other.”
“By George! I hadn’t an idea, Nina. I knew you’d been flirting with him—and all that—but marriage!”
She nodded.
“You are a good sort,” he grinned. “Do you really mean it? Of course I’ll help you if I can, but I hardly see–”
“You don’t have to see. Jane Loring may still have a fancy for Phil Gallatin, but it ought to be perfectly obvious that she can’t marry him if he’s going to marry me. All I want you to do just now is to make yourself necessary to Jane Loring. Propose to her again to-morrow,” and then with convincing assurance, “I think she’ll accept you.”
“You do? Why?”
“That, if you’ll pardon me, is a matter I do not care to discuss.” She arose and dismissed him gracefully, and Van Duyn wandered forth into Gramercy Park with a feeling very like that of a timorous hospital patient who has for the first time been subjected to the X-ray.
Nina lunched alone, then dressed for the afternoon and ordered her machine. She had made no mistake in presupposing that Jane Loring’s curiosity would outweigh her prejudices. In their talk upon the telephone there had been a slight hesitation, scarcely noticeable, on Jane’s part, after which, she had expressed herself as delighted at the opportunity of seeing Nina at the Loring house.
Miss Jaffray entered the portals of the vast establishment, her slender figure lost in the great drawing-room, as she moved restlessly from one object of art to another awaiting her hostess, like a mischievous and lonely bacillus newly liberated into a new field of endeavor.
“Nina, dear!” said Jane effusively as she entered. “So sweet of you. I haven’t really had a chance to have a talk with you for ages.”
“How wonderfully pretty you look, Jane? I’m simply wild with envy of you.”
It was the feminine convention. Each pecked the other just once below the eye and each wished that the other had never been born. Jane led the way into the library where they sat side by side on the big divan, where they both skillfully maneuvered for an opening for a while, feinting and parrying carte and tierce, advancing, retreating, neither of them willing to risk a thrust.
But at last, the preliminaries having given her the touch of her opponent’s foil, Nina returned.
“You’re really the success of the season, Jane. And you know when a back number like I am admits a thing like that about a débutante, it’s pretty apt to be true. But the thing I can’t understand is why you want to end it all and marry.”
“Marry—whom?”
“Coley.”
“Oh, you have some private source of information on the subject?” Jane asked pleasantly.
“None but your own actions,” Nina replied coolly. “It’s funny, too, because I’ve had an idea—ever since that Dryad story—I’ve feared that you were rather keen on Phil Gallatin.”
Nina was forced to admiration of the carelessness of Jane’s parry.
“Mr. Gallatin!” she said, her eyes wide with wonder. “What in the world made you think of him? If I was ever grateful to the man for his kindness up there in the woods, every instinct in me revolted at the memory of what people said of us. Do you think I could care for a man who would let a thing like that be told?” She hesitated a moment and then added, “Besides, there are other reasons why Mr. Gallatin and I could never be friends.”
“Oh, I see,” Nina said slowly, her gaze on the fire. “You know, I’m very fond of Phil, and though you may not approve of him, he’s really one of the best fellows in the world.”
“Well, why don’t you marry him?” said Jane carelessly.
“Marry! Me!” Nina laughed softly up at the portrait over the mantel. “Good Lord, Jane, you want to bridle me! No, thanks. I’ve only one life, you know, and I hardly feel like spending it on the Bridge of Sighs. My recording angel wouldn’t stand domestication. She’s on the point of giving up the job already. I suppose I’ll have to marry some day, but when I do I’ll select the quiet, elderly widower of some capable person who has trained him properly. A well-trained husband may be a dull blessing, but he’s safe. Not Phil Gallatin, my dear. The girl who marries Phil will have her hands full. But he’s such a dear! So solemn, so innocent-looking, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and yet–” she paused and sighed audibly.
Jane glanced at her and was silent.
“I’ve never thought of Phil as a marrying man,” Nina went on. “The thing is impossible, and I’d very much rather have him as he is. But it does seem a pity about him because he has so many virtues—and he—he really makes love like an angel.”
“Does he?” asked Jane, yawning politely. “But then so many men do that.”
“Yes—I suppose so, but Phil is different somehow.”
Jane laughed. “Yes, I gathered that—at the ‘Pot and Kettle.’”
Nina glanced up and away. “You did see? It’s a pity. I’m sorry. Quite imprudent of me, wasn’t it? I suppose I ought to be horribly mortified, but I’m not. I’ve reached a point where I’m quite hardened to people’s opinions—even to yours, Jane. But I confess I was bothered a little about that. I am glad you don’t care for Phil, because it would have been awkward and it might have made a difference in our friendship. You’d have been sorry, wouldn’t you?”
Jane swallowed. “Oh—of course, I would.”
“But it doesn’t matter now whether you saw or not, because I’m sure that you and Coley understand.”
“I’m not sure that I do understand,” said Jane with a smile toward the cloisonné jar at the window. “As a form of diversion I can’t say that kissing has ever appealed to me.”
“But then, you know, Jane, you’re very young—may I say verdant? It’s an innocent amusement, if considered so. The harm of it is in considering it harmful. You’re a hopeless little Puritan. I can’t see how you and I have got along so well. I suppose it’s because we’re so different.”
“Yes, perhaps that’s it. But I’m sure we wouldn’t be nearly so friendly if we ever interfered with each other.”
“I’m glad we haven’t, Jane, darling. I’ve really gotten into the way of depending on your friendship. You don’t think I’ve strained it a little to-day by my—er—modern view of old conventions?”
“Not at all. For a Puritan I’m surprisingly liberal. I don’t care at all whom my friends kiss—or why. It’s none of my affair. I’d hardly make it so unless I was asked to.”
Nina laid her fingers on Jane’s arm. “But we do understand each other, don’t we, Jane?”
“Yes, wonderfully. I’m so glad that you think it worth while to confide in me.”
“I do. You’re so sensible and tolerant. I’m almost too much of a freethinker for most people, and they’re ready to believe almost anything of me. But you don’t care what they say, do you, Jane?”
“No, I don’t, Nina. It wouldn’t make the slightest difference to me what people said of you.”
And this was the truth, perhaps the first truth in fact or by inference which either of them had uttered. So far so good. Honors were even. Each of them was aware that the other was a hypocrite, each of them was playing the game of hide and seek, bringing into play all the arts of dissimulation to which the sex is heir. All is fair in love and war. This was both. Under such conditions, to the feminine conscience anything is justifiable. Nina had begun the combat with leisurely assurance; Jane, with a contempt which fortified her against mishap. The manners of each were friendly and confiding, their tones caressing, but neither of them deceived the other and each of them knew that she didn’t. Nina had taken the initiative. She had a mission and in this was at a slight advantage, for Jane had not yet begun to suspect what that mission was. She had made up her mind, feminine fashion, not to believe what Nina wanted her to believe; but before long she began to find that Nina was mixing truth and fiction with such skill that it was difficult to distinguish one from the other.
The dangers of the social jungle develop remarkable perceptions in deer and bird of paradise, but these defensive instincts are not always proof against the craft of the cat tribe. If they were, the cat tribe would long since have ceased to exist as a species. Other things being equal, the stalker of prey has all the advantage. Nina knew that Jane knew that she was lying. So, to gain her point, she was prepared if necessary to use the simple expedient of telling the truth.
Nina was leaning forward, her chin in her hand, her gaze on the rug.
“You’ve heard, I suppose, this story people are telling about Phil and me,” she said in a lower tone.
“No,” said Jane in tones of curiosity. “Is it something very dreadful?”
“I’m afraid it is—at least people seem to think it so. It began with an accident to my motor and ended at a Parlor Heater.”
“A Parlor Heater! Do go on, Nina. I’m immensely interested.”
“Phil and I, on the way home from Egerton’s party, you remember? He went home in my motor. I know people thought it awfully rude of us as the other motors were so crowded—but it just happened so and we started home alone—after all the others had gone. We ran out of oil and had to put up for the night where we could. Unfortunate wasn’t it? We were miles from nowhere and not a gallon of gasoline in sight. The farmer seemed to think we were suspicious characters, but he let us in at last to sit beside his stove until morning. I’m sure he was peeping over the balusters most of the time to be sure we didn’t make off with the family Bible.” Nina laughed at the recollection, a little more loudly than seemed necessary.
“Phil was very sweet about it all. He was so afraid of compromising me, poor fellow. I really felt very sorry for him. The farmer wouldn’t volunteer to help us, so Phil wanted to trudge the five miles through the snow to get the oil. But I wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t, Jane. It was frightfully lonely there. The chauffeur was drunk and I was afraid.”
“Y—you were quite right,” said Jane in a suppressed tone.
Nina glanced at her and went on.
“We sat all night huddled in our furs on opposite sides of that dreadful parlor stove. I don’t think I can ever forget it. I’ve never been so miserable in my life—never! We spoke to each other in monosyllables for a while and at last—er—I went to sleep in disgust. I woke up with a frightful pain in my back from that dreadful chair. What a night! And to think that it was for this—this, that Phil and I have been talked about! It’s maddening, Jane. If we only had given them a little flame, just a tiny one—for all this smoke! Poor Phil! He was terribly provoked about it this morning. He wants to kill that wretched chauffeur, for of course the whole story came from him. You know, Jane, I discharged him as soon as we got back to town, and this was his revenge. Sweet, wasn’t it? It seems as if one was very much at the mercy of one’s mechanician. They’re servants, of course, but you can never get them to think that they are. I haven’t dared tell father. I don’t know what he would do about it. I’m afraid–”
Jane Loring had risen and was looking out of the window into the gathering dusk.
“What’s the use, Nina?” she asked quietly.
“The use of what?”
“Telling me all this. I understand, I think.”
“I hope you do,” said Nina quickly. “I wanted you to. That’s why I told you.”
She got up and took a few rapid paces forward.
“Jane!” she cried suddenly. “What do you mean? That I—you believe—? Oh, how could you?”
She stood a moment, her face hidden in her hands, as though the horror of it all had just come to her.
Jane Loring faced around calmly, her face grave.
“What difference does it make what I believe?” she asked.
Nina looked at her a long while, then dropped her gaze, turned away and picked up her accessories. Her mission here was ended.
“I’m sorry. I seem to have misjudged you—your friendship.”
“Yes,” said Jane. “I think perhaps you have.”
Nina moved toward the door, and Jane, motionless, watched her. She did not speak again—nor did Jane; and in a moment the door closed between them—for the last time.
Nina was smiling when she entered her machine, but Jane climbed the stairs wearily.
XXIII
THE MOUSE AND THE LION
There was an activity in the offices of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin chiefly centering around the doings of the youngest member of the firm which had caused the methodical Tooker some skeptical and unquiet moments. He had witnessed these spurts of industry before and remembered that they had always presaged the bursting of a bubble and the disappearance of the junior partner for a protracted period, at the end of which he would return to the office, pale, nervous and depressed. But as the weeks went by, far beyond the time usually marked for this event, Tooker began to realize that something unusual had happened. The chief clerk could hardly be called an observant man, for his business in life kept him in a narrow groove, but he awoke one morning to the discovery that a remarkable change had taken place in the manner and bearing of Mr. Gallatin. There were none of those fidgety movements of the fingers, that quick and sometimes overbearing speech, or the habit Mr. Gallatin had had (as his father had had it before him) of pacing up and down the floor of his room, his hands behind his back, his brows bent over sullen eyes. Mr. Gallatin’s manner and speech were quieter, his gaze more direct and more lasting. He smiled more, and his capacity for work seemed unlimited. Tooker waited for a long while, and then came to the conclusion that a new order of things had begun and that the junior partner had found himself.
There had been frequent important conferences in Mr. Kenyon’s office between the partners during which Philip Gallatin had advised the firm of the progress of the Sanborn case, but it was clear that for the present at least the junior partner dominated the situation. All his life Tooker had been accustomed to follow in the footsteps of others, and was prepared to follow Gallatin gladly, if the junior partner would give him footsteps to follow. And he was now beginning to appreciate the significance of those long visits of Mr. Gallatin in Pennsylvania, and the infinite care and study with which Gallatin had fortified himself. He understood, too, what those piles of documents on Mr. Gallatin’s desk were for, and in the conferences of the firm, when John Kenyon’s incisive voice cut in, he realized that it was more often in encouragement, advice, and appreciation, than in contention or argument.
The Sanborn Company’s directors were represented by the firm of Whitehead, Leuppold, Tyson and Leuppold. This was one of the firms previously mentioned which had offices upon an upper floor and included among its clients many large corporations closely identified with “The Interests.” A correspondence had been passing between Mr. Gallatin and Mr. Leuppold with all of which Tooker was familiar. Mr. Gallatin’s early letters stated that he hoped for a conference with Mr. Loring. Mr. Leuppold’s first replies were couched in polite formulas, the equivalent of which was, in plain English, that Mr. Gallatin might go to the devil, saying that Mr. Loring had nothing to do with the matter. Mr. Gallatin’s reply ignored this suggestion, and again proposed a conference. Mr. Leuppold refused in abrupt terms. Mr. Gallatin gave reasons for his request. Mr. Leuppold couldn’t see them. Mr. Gallatin patiently gave other reasons. Mr. Leuppold ignored this letter. Mr. Gallatin wrote another. Mr. Leuppold in reply considered the matter closed. Mr. Gallatin considered the matter just opened. Mr. Leuppold fulminated politely and satirically suggested intimidation. Mr. Gallatin regretted Mr. Leuppold’s implication but persisted, giving, as his reasons, the discovery of material evidence.
The next day Mr. Leuppold came in person, was shown into Mr. Gallatin’s office and Tooker had been present at the interview. It had been a memorable occasion. Mr. Leuppold wore that suave and confident manner for which he was noted and Gallatin received him with an old-fashioned courtesy and the deference of a younger man for an older, which left nothing to be desired. Accepting this as his due, Leuppold began in a fatherly way to impress upon Gallatin the utter futility of trying to win the injunction in the Court of Appeals. The contentions of Sanborn et al. had no basis either in law or in equity. Mr. Gallatin had doubtless been unduly influenced by doubtful precedents. He, Leuppold, was familiar with every phase of the case and had defended the previous suit which had been brought and lost by a legal firm in Philadelphia. There was absolutely nothing in Mr. Gallatin’s position as stated in his correspondence and he concluded by referring “his young friend” to certain marked passages in a volume which he had brought in under his arm. Gallatin read the passages through with interest and listened with a show of great seriousness to Mr. Leuppold’s interpretation of them. Mr. Leuppold had a mien which commanded attention. Gallatin gave it, but he said little in reply which could indicate his possible ground of action, except to express regret that Mr. Leuppold’s clients had taken such an intolerant view of his own client’s claims and to deplore the unfortunate tone of Mr. Leuppold’s own letter of some days ago.
When it was quite clear to Mr. Leuppold that the young man was not to be moved by persuasion, his manner changed.
“I have done my best, Mr. Gallatin,” he said irritably, “to prove to you the utter futility of your course. My clients have nothing to fear. I am only trying to save them the expense of further litigation. But if you insist on bringing this case to trial, we will welcome the opportunity to show further evidence in our possession. We have been content for the sake of peace to let matters go on as they have been going, but if this suit is pressed, I warn you that it will be unfortunate for your clients.”
“I hope not. I hope we won’t have to bring suit,” replied Gallatin easily. “I’m only asking for a conference of all the parties interested, Mr. Leuppold. That certainly is little enough, an amicable conference, a discussion—if you like–”
“There is nothing to discuss.”
“I beg to differ. Leaving aside for a moment the question of the new evidence in the Sanborn case, do you think that Mr. Loring, who controls its stock, would care to have his connection with the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company brought into court?”
Mr. Leuppold gasped. He couldn’t help it. How and where had this polite but surprising young man obtained this information, which no member of his own firm besides himself possessed. It was uncanny. Was this the fellow they had talked about and smiled over upstairs? Mr. Leuppold took to cover skillfully, hiding his uneasiness under a bland smile.
“You’re dreaming, sir,” he said.
Gallatin shook his head.
“No, I’m not dreaming.”
Gallatin rose and took a few paces up and down the room. “See here, Mr. Leuppold, I’m not prepared to discuss the matter further now. I’ve asked you for a conference and you call my request intimidation—which might mean a much uglier thing. You’ve treated my correspondence in a casual way and you’ve patronized me in my own office. I’ve kept my temper pretty well, and I’m keeping it still; but I warn you that you have been and still are making a mistake. I’ve asked for a conference because I believe this matter can be settled out of court, and because I didn’t think it fair to your client to go to court without giving him a chance to save himself. We have no desire to enter into a long and expensive litigation, but we are prepared to do so and will take the preliminary steps at once, unless we have some immediate consideration of our claims. If you stand suit on this appeal you will lose, and I fancy the evidence presented will be of such character that you will not care to take the matter further. Don’t reply now, Mr. Leuppold. Think it over and let me hear from you in writing.”
Mr. Leuppold had not moved. He was watching Gallatin keenly from under his beetling brows. Was this mere guess work? What did the young man really know? What evidence had he? Was it a bluff? If so, he made it in tones with which Leuppold was unfamiliar. But it was no time to back water now. He smiled approvingly at Phil Gallatin’s inkwell.
“Mr. Gallatin, your imagination does you credit. A good lawyer must have intuition. But he’s got to have discretion, too. You think, because the interests we represent are wealthy ones, that you can throw a stick in our direction and be sure of hitting something. Unfortunately you have been misinformed—on all points. Mr. Loring has voluntarily submitted his holdings in Pennsylvania to investigation. You can never prove any connection between the Pequot Coal Company and the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad. There is none.”
He rose pompously and took up his hat and books.
“There isn’t any use in our talking over this case. It will lead us nowhere. But I’ll promise you if you’ll put your proposition in writing to submit it to careful consideration.”
“Thanks,” said Gallatin dryly. He picked a large envelope up from the table and handed it to his visitor. “I have already done so. Will you take it with you or shall I mail it?”
“I—you may give it to me, Mr. Gallatin.”
Gallatin walked to the outer door and politely bowed him out, while Tooker, his thin frame writhing with ecstasy, fussed with some papers on the big table in the junior partner’s office until he was more composed, and then went on about his daily routine. He realized now for the first time the full stature of the junior partner. In a night, it almost seemed to Tooker, he had outgrown his boyhood, his brilliant wayward boyhood that had promised so much and achieved so little. He was like his father now, but there was a difference. Philip Gallatin, the elder, he remembered, had dominated his office by the mere force of his intellect. He had directed the preparation of his cases with an unerring legal sense and he had won them through his mastery of detail and the elimination of the unessential. But it was when presenting his case to a jury that he was at his strongest, for such was the personal quality of his magnetism that jurors were willing to be convinced less by the value of his cause than by the magic of his sophistry. But to Tooker, who was little more than a piece of legal machinery, there was something in the methods of the son which compensated for the more spectacular talents of the father, the painstaking and diligent way in which Gallatin had planned and carried out his present investigations and the confidence with which he was putting his information to use. It was clear to Tooker that Leuppold had been unprepared for Philip Gallatin’s revelations. Even now Tooker doubted the wisdom of them, for Mr. Leuppold would not be slow to take advantage of his information and to cover the traces left by his clients as well as he might. But when he spoke of it to Gallatin, the junior partner had laughed.
“Don’t you bother, old man. Wait a while. We’ll hear from Mr. Leuppold very soon—before the week is out, I think.”