CHAPTER I
Mrs. Bird Fowler's apartment reflected, in a high degree, the personality and beauty of its occupant. The large living room was chastely but exquisitely furnished in suspiciously solid mahogany which had, of course, belonged to Mrs. Fowler's great-grandmother. A portrait of the great-grandmother hung over the black marble mantel. Mrs. Fowler's resemblance to that long-dead belle of the blue-grass was quite remarkable; the same sweetly curving features, the same Grecian profile, so purely drawn as to seem chiseled, the same rare hazel eyes and delicately rippling brown hair.
Jimmy Wren thought of this resemblance as he looked up at the portrait and waited. Mrs. Fowler had been summoned to the telephone. He glanced around, relaxing in the beauty and soft luxury of the room; the invisible lighting over piano and music cabinet, the quiet tones of walls and hangings and curtains, the few but excellent pictures.
There was not a book in the room. This was a point, however, of which the usual guests were quite oblivious.
Jimmy glanced up eagerly as his hostess appeared. She wore white, as she usually did; and even now, on Christmas night, she wore it with flawless taste and distinction that set off the clear beauty of face and figure. She came and sat beside him, on the lounge that faced the fireplace, and stretched forth a hand to the smoking stand.
"You'll not change your mind?" asked Jimmy Wren pleadingly.
"Dear Jimmy, I can't!" she responded, after lighting her cigarette and sinking back among the cushions. "And you may stay just half an hour and no more. I have my packing to do, and the train goes at midnight, you know."
"You'll let me see you off, anyhow?"
She smiled as she denied this request. "You poor boy, you've been traveling like mad for two days! I want you to go home and sleep, not come downtown and fuss around a railroad station when we could only see each other for a minute."
"By gad," exclaimed Wren, "I don't see why you have to go chasing off to Tampa like this, just at the time I need you most! You don't know how much it means to me to be able to come up here and talk with you—why, it gets me into another world! A touch of music, and your understanding of everything—"
"Confession is good for the soul, they say," and she laughed lightly. "I don't know, for I'm such an insignificant little person that I haven't much to confess. No, Jimmy, I must leave for Tampa to-night; I have some property down there that has to be attended to at once. Why don't you take a vacation and run down to Florida too?"
"You know why." Jimmy Wren shook his head. "Well, there's going to be a battle around these parts when Armstrong comes, that's all! You'll only be gone a couple of weeks? That's one good thing."
"You'll write me how things go with you?"
"You bet! Maybe, with Armstrong and Macgowan in action, everything will be settled very quickly. You don't know Macgowan?"'
"I have just met him." Mrs. Fowler carefully shook the ash from her cigarette. "He seems to be a very charming sort of man. I know that Harry Lorenz thinks highly of him."
"So does everybody," said Jimmy Wren. "Even Armstrong, who takes advice from mighty few men, listens with all his ears to Mac."
"He's on your side in this fight, isn't he?"
"Who, Mac? You bet he is. I wish I could be as certain of the outcome as Armstrong is! There's a real man, I tell you. Mighty few like him alive!"
Mrs. Fowler sighed.
"I wish I could encourage you, Jimmy dear," she said softly. "But you see, I know so much about this man Findlater and his associates!"
"Eh?" Jimmy Wren looked up at her. "You know him?"
"Not personally, no. But I do wish that you had almost any other man in town to fight against! They say that Henry C. Findlater never opens battle until he has all his wires laid—and then he simply blows up his opponents."
"He'll have a hard job blowing us up," said Wren, but the worried and anxious look began to creep back about his eyes.
"Let's hope so! You know, Jimmy, he's said to be in pretty strong with the political crowd, both here and upstate. He's no giant himself, I gather, but he's in with the big ones. Wasn't there some story about his having such a strong pull that he once landed a prominent banker in the penitentiary—just because the poor man differed with him?"
"I don't know," murmured Wren. "Never heard it. Henry C. is a poor pill, himself."
"Never underestimate an enemy, particularly in New York, Jimmy—but there! All this is silly. You'll win out, of course, and when I come home we'll celebrate the victory. Shall we?"
"You've said something!" declared Jimmy promptly. "Where? Sherry's new place?"
"Anywhere you say." Mrs. Fowler rose. "Now, my dear man, I'm frightfully sorry to send you away—but I'll look forward to seeing you again. It was delightful of you to devote your Christmas evening to a poor lonely—"
"To a goddess, you mean," struck in Jimmy, as he rose and took her hand in his. Their eyes met and held, and something that he read in those hazel depths brought the color to Wren's cheeks.
"Good-by, and come home soon," he said unsteadily, "and don't forget our celebration. Oh, I do wish you weren't going! Won't you change your mind and stay?"
"I can't." Her fingers tightened on his. "But I wish you luck and success, dear Jimmy! And it's Christmas night—"
She leaned forward and kissed him, frankly—and Jimmy Wren departed with a lilt of song in his heart and a shining gladness in his eyes.
Mrs. Fowler went to the telephone in her boudoir, sat down, and called a number.
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Macgowan, please," she said when the response came. And, a moment later, she put her lips to the telephone. "Hello, Lawrence? Is this you?"
"Why, hello! Merry Christmas to you!" came Macgowan's cheerful, incisive tones. "You don't mean that he's back already?"
"Yes. He'll see you first thing in the morning."
"Things are all right, then?"
"Yes, absolutely. There's not a shadow of suspicion anywhere. Henry C. is the supposed nigger in the woodpile. And, Lawrence, he's pitifully easy to work on; I've got him all worked up this minute about Henry C."
"Fine!" Macgowan's chuckle came over the wire. "Fine! You're getting off to-night?"
"Of course."
"Well, leave the rest to me," said Macgowan. "I'll have him in Tampa inside of two days, and the passports will follow as quickly as they can be rushed down there. I'll send you a check to cover all expenses. Work it any way you like, but get him out of the country, understand! A sea voyage to Spain and back will brace you up a lot—and don't go and do anything foolish, old girl."
"You play your game as well as I play mine, and you'll win," said Mrs. Fowler with emphasis.
"I believe you," laughed Macgowan. "Good night, then, and good-by! I'll not come to see you off; he might be hanging around. Good-by!"
"Good-by."
Mrs. Fowler hung up the receiver, and smiled into the mirror.