CHAPTER IX
Wednesday night in New York—a warm, sweet night of April. The windows of Mrs. Fowler's apartment were open to the touch of melting spring that drifted in from Central Park, just across the street.
Lawrence Macgowan glanced across the room, caught the eye of Mrs. Fowler, and a slight smile touched his lips. Undoubtedly his hostess quite comprehended the subtle depths of that smile, for her answering glance was whimsical and flitted lightly to Mrs. Findlater. For Henry C. Findlater was here, pursily important, and his wife—a meek, colorless woman who was distinctly not at her ease.
Here, too, was Milligan, of the law firm in which Macgowan was silently interested; and Harry Lorenz, a cynically genial bachelor who cherished a fancied resemblance to John Drew; and finally Mrs. Fowler's accompanist, one Percival Hemingway. This last was a smoothly sweet person who spoke in lisping accents mild and was a delicately cultured soul. His affiliations with a musical journal made him quite useful at times.
Over this gathering Macgowan reigned supreme, for various and sundry reasons. He was deferred to and lionized, and enjoyed himself mightily—enjoyed the half-frightened toadying of Findlater, enjoyed above all the art of his hostess. For Mrs. Fowler could sing, and Macgowan, possessing a real discrimination, laid at her feet a tribute of appreciation which was sincere.
When she rose and asked for suggestions, it was at Macgowan that she glanced.
"Don't let Percival trot out any of his favorite problem pieces," he responded. "Save 'em for the concerts, Percy—sweet angel! Let's have something with music in it, and none of this French and Swedish stuff. The older the better, I say."
Harry Lorenz spoke up, his mustache lifting in a thin and ironic smile.
"Quite so, quite so!" he approved smoothly. "There's one thing, Mrs. Fowler, which I should like to hear you sing. I believe it would be distinctly appropriate, and is quite in line with Mac's suggestion. My request number is—'He Shall Feed His Flock.'"
At this, Milligan broke into a roar of laughter, while Findlater discreetly smothered his smile. Macgowan, relishing the cynicism of his friend, tendered Mrs. Fowler a smiling nod of assent.
"By all means! It's one of the few perfect things; the simplest is always the best in music, despite the critics. Percival, don't look so pained! It won't hurt you to get back to the farm for once and see where real music came from. Have you the number? And look up some Cherubini while you're about it."
Hemingway began to rustle through the cabinet. Macgowan turned to the others, with his amused chuckle.
"Harry, there's more truth than poetry in your palpable hit! I've a grand idea for Consolidated to take hold of, if our esteemed president in the corner yonder doesn't sit on the notion. How about an Academy of Musical Art, eh? Plenty of money in the idea—at least, in the stock end of it. Something new in the stock line, too."
Findlater started slightly. "Come, Lawrence! You're not serious?"
"Dead serious." Macgowan eyed his uneasy victim and chuckled again. "Put Mrs. Fowler at the head of it. Get some of these vaudeville hicks from the Village, plaster 'em with Russian names and titles, call it the Imperial Russian Academy. How's that? Can't you see the provinces falling for that stuff, Harry?"
"Splendid!" responded Lorenz with enthusiasm. "You've said something, Mac! Why not widen out into a general cultural establishment? Teach the fine arts, writing, painting, dancing, a course on social accuracy and when to tuck napkins in the neck! Anybody can teach anything. With a prince or a countess in charge of each department you'll put the S.R.O. sign up in a month's time! Even Broadway will fall for it hard."
Findlater struggled for air. "But, Macgowan—er—you don't really purpose that Consolidated should back such a project?"
"Surely you'd not veto it?" returned Macgowan. His genial words, however, were accompanied by a sudden flashing glance which caused Findlater to change countenance. "Think of it, Henry C.! Every one who buys a share of stock can send the young hopeful to the Imperial Russian Academy at reduced rates; think how the nobility worshipers will eat it up! What say, Milligan?"
The lawyer nodded thoughtful approval.
"It looks like a good scheme. As a stock proposition, can you get away with it?"
"Wait and see. Didn't we get away with Consolidated?"
Findlater flung an uneasy glance at his wife. Harry Lorenz turned serious.
"Don't shout until you're out of the woods; you're not through with that case yet! What's become of your old pal Armstrong?"
"He's headed for the high places," said Macgowan coolly. "Going to jail, and soon." He glanced up and smiled slightly at Mrs. Fowler. "Academically speaking, he's headed for prison. At least, I had a tip that such is the case. I'm shedding no tears."
There was a general laugh, and then Hemingway intervened.
"Ready, Mrs. Fowler?" he piped up hopefully, and a chord from the piano silenced the talk.
Macgowan leaned forward, intent, drinking in the music with eager senses. He was supremely content with the world, supremely confident in himself and his ability. This was his hour of relaxation, of triumph. Success had crowned his talents, and in the past week he had been drinking deep from the cup of victory.
As the final chords of the music died away, Macgowan was aware of the maid, who leaned over his shoulder with a quiet word.
"There's a gentleman in the hall, sir, who wants to see you. He wouldn't give his name or come inside."
Macgowan nodded, and under cover of the applause, rose and left the room. He passed out into the entrance-hall and closed the room door behind him. The closing of that door was symbolic, had he but known it.
He found himself face to face with Robert Dorns, and behind Dorns was the blue-clad figure of an officer.
"Come along, Mac," said Dorns.