II
Before he read his mail Mills dispatched the check for a thousand dollars by special messenger. It was a pleasure to help Lindley in his work. A man who had to deal with such unpleasant specimens of humanity as collected at Lindley’s door shouldn’t be disregarded. He remembered having seen Lindley driving about in a rattletrap machine that was a disgrace to the parish and the town. It was a reflection upon St. Barnabas that its rector was obliged to go about his errands in so disreputable a car.
When Carroll came in with some reports Mills told him to see Henderson and order a Plantagenet for Lindley to be delivered at the clergyman’s house Christmas morning.
Carroll reported a court decision in Illinois sustaining the validity of some municipal bonds in which Mills had invested.
“Christmas presents coming in early,” Mills remarked as he read the telegram. “I thought I was stung there.”
He approved of the world and its ways. It was a pretty good world, after all; a world in which he wielded power, as he liked to wield it, quietly, without subjecting himself to the fever and fret of the market place. Among other memoranda Carroll had placed on his desk was a list of women—old friends of Mrs. Mills—to whom he had sent flowers every Christmas since her death. The list was kept in the office files from year to year to guard against omissions. Sentiment. Mills liked to believe himself singularly blessed with sentiment. He admired himself for this fidelity to his wife’s old friends. They probably spoke to one another of these annual remembrances as an evidence of the praiseworthy feeling he entertained for the old times.
“You told me to keep on picking up Rogers Trust whenever it was in the market,” said Carroll. “Gurley called up yesterday and asked if you wanted any more. I’ve got two hundred shares here—paid three eighteen. They’re closing the transfer books tomorrow so I went ahead without consulting you.”
“That part of it’s all right,” Mills remarked, scanning the certificate. “Who’s selling this?”
“It was in Gurley’s name—he’d bought it himself.”
“A little queer,” Mills remarked. “There were only a few old stockholders who had blocks of two hundred—Larsen, Skinner, Saintsbury; and Shep and Leila had the same amount. None of them would be selling now. Suppose you step over to the Trust Company and see where Gurley got this. It makes no particular difference—I’m just a little curious. There’s been no talk about the merger—no gossip?”
“Nothing that I’ve heard. I’m pretty sure Gurley had no inkling of it. If he had, of course he wouldn’t have let go at the price he asked.”
When Carroll went out Mills took a turn across the floor. Before resuming his chair he stood for a moment at the window looking off toward the low hills vaguely limned on the horizon. His mood had changed. He greatly disliked to be puzzled. And he was unable to account for the fact that Gurley, a broker with whom he rarely transacted any business, had become possessed of two hundred shares of Roger Trust just at this time.
Larsen, Skinner and Saintsbury were all in the secret of the impending merger with the Central States Company. There was Shepherd; he hadn’t told Shepherd, but there had been no reason why he should tell Shepherd any more than he would have made a confidante of Leila, who probably had forgotten that she owned the stock. Having acquired two-thirds of the Rogers shares, all that was necessary was to call a meeting of the stockholders and put the thing through in accordance with the formula already carefully prepared by his lawyers.
When Carroll came back he placed a memorandum on Mills’s desk and started to leave the room.
“Just a moment, Carroll”—Mills eyed the paper carefully. “So it was Shep who sold to Gurley—is that right?”
“Yes,” Carroll assented. “Gurley only held it a day before he offered it to me.”
“Shepherd—um—did Shep tell you he wanted to sell?”
“No; he never mentioned it,” Carroll replied, not relishing Mills’s inquiries.
“Call Shep and tell him to stop in this afternoon on his way home, and—Carroll”—Mills detained his secretary to impress him with his perfect equanimity—“call Mrs. Rawlings and ask how the Judge is. I understand he’s had a second stroke. I hate to see these older men going——”
“Yes, the Judge has been a great figure,” Carroll replied perfunctorily.
Carroll was troubled. He was fond of Shepherd Mills, recognized the young man’s fine qualities and sympathized with his high aims. There was something pitiful in the inability of father and son to understand each other. And he was not deceived by Franklin Mills’s characteristic attempt to conceal his displeasure at Shepherd’s sale of the stock.
It was evident from the manner in which the stock had passed through Gurley’s hands that Shepherd wished to hide the fact that he was selling. Poor Shep! There could have been no better illustration of his failure to understand his father than this. Carroll had watched much keener men than Shepherd Mills attempt to deceive Franklin Mills. Just why Shepherd should have sold the stock Carroll couldn’t imagine. Constance had, perhaps, been overreaching herself. No matter what had prompted the sale, Mills would undoubtedly make Shepherd uncomfortable about it—not explosively, for Mills never lost his perfect self-control—but with his own suave but effective method. Carroll wished there were something he could do to save Shep from the consequences of his folly in attempting to hide from Franklin Mills a transaction so obviously impossible of concealment.