II
Shortly after the departure of Artemus Duff, a dark, striking-looking young woman was ushered into Slack’s private office. She closed the door cautiously behind her.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Yvonne,” greeted Slack. “I thought you were on business west of here.”
“I was, J.J.,” she replied as familiarly. “But I hurried back yesterday. I have just come over from the limits to deliver this special message to you.”
She tossed a sealed official envelope on the desk.
Slack tore open the envelope, and, as he studied the contents, a worried frown gathered on his brow. “Won’t you be seated a moment, Miss Kovenay?” he requested absently.
Slack worked with a pencil on a pad of paper deciphering the letter, which, as was usual with orders from the same source, was in the North Star’s private code. It contained bald instructions, skeletonised of every spare word:—
Instruct North Star newspapers, east and west, drop conjectures re disappearance Gildersleeve. Print nil unless actually found dead or alive; then only barest details on inside pages, without display headings.
Put on double or triple shift, if necessary, on wireless ready any moment for emergency calls from limits station. File for wireless every day weather probabilities for east and west and full predictions Coster’s Weather Bureau soon as same come in.
IMPORTANT. Make no promises re Tugmen’s Union demand for increases and shorter hours, unless advised. Have papers print articles calculated to foment general seamen’s strike on our own and other great lakes vessels. Hire more socialist agitators to help stir up discontent. Strike MUST materialise before day that dredging contracts are completed.
Sending A. C. Smith to Montreal, special business. If time, his instructions are to call on you before leaving to confer on matters above mentioned.
(Sgd.) J. C. X.
It literally took the breath out of Slack.
That second last paragraph regarding the tugmen’s strike smote him like a club. The carrying out of these instructions, he felt, meant personal calamity for him—his political doom.
With cold sweat breaking at his temples he looked up to meet the questioning stare of Yvonne Kovenay’s dark eyes.
“You know who this is from?” He asked it absently like one who scarcely expects a reply.
“Yes,” she answered. Then leaning forward over the desk she said it in a whisper scarcely more than audible: “It is from J.C.X.”
“Yvonne, tell me, have you ever met him?”
“No!” There was a suppressed shudder in the emphasis. “I hope I never do meet him. If I did—” Her voice trailed off to incoherency.
Hon. J. J. Slack shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Oh, I know what you think, Yvonne. I know what you think—it’s what they all think.” But Slack’s indifferent shrug merely disguised the goose-flesh shiver that ran through his own frame.
“Was there anything else, Yvonne?”
“Yes—a personal favour.” She pulled nervously at the fingers of her gloves. “Tell me, what is that girl doing out at Amethyst Island?”
“Good heavens, how should I know? Is there a girl stopping at Amethyst Island?”
“You didn’t know she was there?”
“It’s all news to me, Yvonne. Doesn’t Acey Smith know?”
“She—she seems to be a friend of his.” The woman’s voice bore traces of deep agitation. “He spends a lot of time in her company.”
Yvonne Kovenay had risen. She bade Slack a hurried good-day and whisked out of his office.
Slack, staring speculatively at the door through which she had vanished, muttered to himself: “So Acey Smith has a flame, and that Kovenay girl he employs as head of his intelligence bureau is wild with jealousy. H’m, there’s real breakers ahead for Smith, or I miss my guess—and, if there’s a nasty fuss at this particular time I can see where I get a crisp order from J.C.X. to forthwith dispense with the services of a certain crafty superintendent. I can see that.”
But it was not possible pitfalls for Acey Smith which weighed heavily on the self-centred J. J. Slack—it was the nightmare of the coming strike of North Shore seamen that hung like a black cloud over him—the strike that he would have to precipitate and take the blame for. Until now he had understood the company’s stand-pat attitude was meant to be a temporary bluff only, and that the grievances of the men would be met before the strike actually came off. The orders he had just received dissipated all such fond illusions. His part in it would validate the total labour vote in his constituency. Good heavens, it meant ruin—complete ruin!
For a long period Slack paced the floor of his office. Futilely he tried to devise a way out. Five-thirty passed and the clerks in the outer office departed. Still he walked the floor. Yes—there was one way open. He would fight—bluff it through against this insane policy. Suddenly he came to a mental decision. He flung himself into his swivel chair and buried his face in his hands.
“I won’t do it! I won’t do it!” he spat out savagely. “I’ll see J.C.X. in hell first!”
“Why—in hell?”