The Silent Battle

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.”

In the offices upstairs, Mr. Leuppold’s return was the signal for an immediate consultation of the entire firm, which would have flattered and encouraged Philip Gallatin had he been aware of it. Mr. Tyson and Mr. Whitehead discovered in Mr. Leuppold’s account of the interview undue cause for alarm. They were themselves adepts in the game Mr. Gallatin was evidently playing and could be depended upon at the proper moment to out-maneuver him. Mr. Leuppold disagreed and was forced to admit the weakness of Mr. Loring’s position, if, as he suspected, Mr. Gallatin had succeeded in fortifying himself with the proper evidence. The stock was, of course, not in Mr. Loring’s name, but a man of resource might have been able to find means to establish a legal connection of the mine with the railroad. Mr. Leuppold’s opinions usually bore weight, but just now he seemed to have no definite opinions.

The conference of the partners lasted until late in the afternoon, during which time messengers came and went between the firm’s offices and those of the Pequot Coal Company and that of the President of the L. and P. Henry K. Loring was out of town and would not return until the end of the week. A wire was sent to him to return to New York at once, and it was decided that no reply to Mr. Gallatin’s letter should be sent until Mr. Loring had been advised.

Phil Gallatin, in high good humor, lunched that morning with the senior partner at a fashionable restaurant uptown. His work on the Sanborn case was finished. He had been at it very hard for two months, and the two of them had planned to spend the afternoon and following day up at John Kenyon’s farm in Westchester, where they would do some riding, some walking and some resting, of which both were in need. The lunch was a preliminary luxury and they found a table in a corner on the Avenue and ordered.

There was no talk of office matters. John Kenyon had been thoroughly advised of Phil’s work and knew that there was nothing in the way of suggestion or advice that he could offer. He had noticed for some days the gaunt look in his young partner’s face. There were indications of his growing maturity and shadows of the struggle through which he had passed, but there were marks which John Kenyon knew belonged to a different kind of trouble. Gallatin had told him what had happened in the woods and Kenyon had learned something of Phil’s romance in New York. But Kenyon was not given to idle or curious questioning, and he knew that when Phil was ready to speak of private matters he would do so.

Their oysters had been served and their planked fish brought when a fashionable party entered and was conducted by the head waiter to an adjoining table which had been decorated for the occasion. Mrs. Pennington led the way, followed by Miss Ledyard, Mrs. Perrine and Miss Loring. Behind them followed Ogden Spencer, Bibby Worthington, Colonel Broadhurst and Coleman Van Duyn, who was, it appeared, the host.

Phil had hoped that his presence might pass unnoticed; but Nellie Pennington espied him and nodded gayly, so that he had to rise and greet her. This drew the eyes of others and when the party was seated he discovered that Miss Loring, on Van Duyn’s right, was seated facing him and that her eyes after one blank look in his direction were assiduously turned elsewhere. John Kenyon caught the change in Gallatin’s expression, but in a moment Phil had resumed their conversation upon the comparative merits of the Delaware River and Potomac River shad, and their luncheon went on to its conclusion. But the spirits of John Kenyon’s guest had fallen, and Kenyon’s most persuasive stories failed to find a response. In spite of himself Phil Gallatin found himself looking at Jane and thinking of Arcadia. It was three weeks now since that much to be remembered and regretted interview at the Loring house had taken place. The glance he stole at Jane assured him that if he had ever had a hope of reconciliation, the chances for it were now more remote than ever. She wore a huge hat which screened her effectually, and the glimpses he had of her face showed it dimpling in smiles for Coleman Van Duyn or Bibby Worthington, who sat on either side of her. When their eyes had first met he had thought her pale, but as the moments passed a warm color mounted her cheeks. It seemed to Gallatin that never before within his memory had she ever appeared so care-free. She was youth untrammeled, a sister to Euphrosyne, the spirit of joy. It seemed as if she realized that the grim specter which had stolen into her life for a while had been exorcised away, and that she had already forgotten it in the beckoning of the jocund hours. Phil Gallatin had come into her life and gone, leaving no trace in her mind or in her heart.

After this their eyes met but once. He was looking at her, thinking of these things, oblivious of what John Kenyon was saying, unaware of the intentness of his gaze, which at last compelled her to look in his direction. It was a startled glance that she gave him, wide-eyed, almost fearful, as though he had challenged her to this silent combat. Then her lids lowered insolently, her chin lifted and she turned aside.

Their coffee had been served. Phil gulped his down hastily. “Come, Uncle John,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s get out of this, will you?”

John Kenyon paid the check and they rose. Unfortunately the only path to the door lay by Mr. Van Duyn’s table, and as Gallatin passed, nodding to his acquaintances, Mrs. Pennington got up and stood in front of him.

“I do so want to see you for a moment, Phil. Will you excuse me, Coley?” she said, and led the way into a room where she found an unoccupied corner. John Kenyon went elsewhere to smoke his cigar.

“Oh, Phil!” she whispered. “Why wouldn’t you come to see me? I’ve had so much to talk to you about.”

“I—I’ve been very busy, Nellie. I haven’t been anywhere.”

“My house isn’t ‘anywhere.’ I want to talk to you—you know what I mean.”

“It won’t do any good, Nellie,” he muttered. “There isn’t anything more to be said.”

“Perhaps not—but I want to say it just the same. I want you to promise–”

“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t ask me to come and talk to you—about that.”

“Well, then, come and talk to me about other things.”

“I can’t. If I come I must talk about what you remind me of.”

She hesitated, looking at him critically.

“Phil, you’re an idiot,” she said at last.

“Thanks,” he replied, “I’m aware of it.”

“Are you going to give up?”

“I’ve given up.”

Nellie Pennington shrugged. “For good? You’re going to let—Oh, I’ve no patience with you.”

“I’m sorry. You did what you could and I’m thankful. Don’t think I’m ungrateful. I’m not. One of these days I’ll prove it. You did a lot. I’m awake, Nellie. You woke me and I’m not going to sleep again.”

“I’m proud of you, Phil, but you’re not awake—not really awake or you couldn’t sit by and see the girl you love forced into an engagement with a man she doesn’t care for.”

Gallatin flushed.

“Is that—” he asked slowly, “is that what this—this luncheon means?”

“Judge for yourself. He is with her always. And they’ve even rebelled against my chaperonage. Their relations are talked of freely in Jane’s presence and she laughs acquiescence. Imagine it!”

Gallatin turned away.

“I—I have no further interest in—in Miss Loring,” he said quietly.

“Well, I have. And I’m not going to let her make a fool of herself if I can help it.”

“Miss Loring will probably not agree with you.”

“I hardly expect her to.” She hesitated. “Phil,” she asked at last.

“What, Nellie?”

“Will you answer a question?”

“What?”

“Was this story they’re telling about you and Nina mentioned?”

“Yes, it was.”

“I thought so,” triumphantly. “Phil we must talk this thing out.”

“It can do no good–”

“And no harm. There’s been a mistake somewhere—something neither you nor I understand.” She stopped and tapped her forehead with her index finger. “I can’t tell what—but I sense it—here. Something has gone wrong—what, I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it.”

“Yes—it’s gone wrong—and it can’t be righted.”

“Perhaps not,” she said rising. “But I do want you to come to see me. Won’t you?”

“You’re very persistent, aren’t you? Very well, I’ll come.”

“I must go now. Coley will be furious. I hope so, at any rate.”

She smiled at him again and went back to her luncheon party while Gallatin found John Kenyon and drove to the Grand Central station.

XXIV

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND

It was the middle of March, and fashionable New York, having been at least twice through its winter wardrobe, had gone southward for a change of speed. Aiken, Jekyl Island and Palm Beach had all done their share in the midwinter rejuvenation, but the particular set of people with which this story concerns itself were spending the last days of the Lenten season at the Dorsey-Martin’s place in Virginia.

Dorsey-Martin was rich beyond the dreams of Alnaschar, but unlike the unfortunate brother of the barber, had not smashed the glassware in his basket until he had sold it to somebody else, when he was enabled to buy it in again at a much reduced rate. His particular specialty was not glassware, but railroads which, while equally fragile, could be put together again and be made (to all appearances) as good as new.

The fruits of this fortunate talent were in evidence in his well-appointed house in New York with its collection of old English portraits, his palace at Newport just finished, and in his “shooting place” in Virginia.

The Dorsey-Martins had “arrived.” They had been ten years in transit, and their ways had been devious, but their present welcome more than compensated for the pains and money which had been spent in the pilgrimage. The Virginia place, “Clovelly” adjoined that of the Ledyards, and consisted of a thousand acres of preserved woodland and dale, within a night’s journey of New York. Autumn, of course, was the season when “Clovelly” was most in use, but spring frequently found it the scene of gay gatherings such as the present one, for in addition to the squash courts and swimming pool there was court tennis, with a marker constantly in attendance, a good stable, and hospitable neighbors.