A facial muscle quivered, as if the confirmation of what Tweedy had feared, yet hoped desperately against, had touched a raw nerve. He dropped down in one of the row of leather-covered chairs facing Main Street, and took out his handkerchief.
“My country!” he groaned, staring in bewilderment at his companion. “I don’t see how you can take it all so easy. You know as well as I do that there’s not a cent of insurance on the stock. You must realize that Lancaster was the only mill we had capable of taking care of a big drive.”
Bainbridge sat on the arm of the adjoining chair, one leg lightly swinging back and forth.
“That’s true enough,” he nodded, feeling for his cigarette case. “I’ve always contended, though, that with proper equipment, the mill at Colport could turn out a third more cut lumber than the Lancaster mill.”
Tweedy groaned, and cast up his eyes. “What if it could?” he demanded. “How in creation are we going to find out? We’re broke—busted—cleaned out!” Even in the stress of his emotion he remembered to lower his voice cautiously. “We’ve hardly an asset left except the drive. We’ve no credit. One of our notes for eight thousand dollars is due in less than twenty-four hours—due to the very scoundrel who’s brought us where we are, and whose plotting won’t stop there.”
At last he seemed to find a shaft capable of penetrating the armor of Bob’s self-possession. With a start, the young man dropped the match, and stared fixedly at Tweedy, the fresh-lighted cigarette dangling unheeded between the fingers of his other hand.
“Crane?” he exclaimed sharply. “You mean to say he’s bought up that note?”
“Precisely.”
“Huh!” Bainbridge lifted the cigarette, and took a thoughtful puff or two. “That must be why he sent the message I found here a little while ago. Said if I was quite ready to crawl he’d be in his office till two this afternoon.”
He hesitated a second longer, and then stood up with a sudden, determined squaring of his wide shoulders.