CHAPTER XII
It was after ten the next morning when Armstrong entered his own home.
Wearily, he discarded his things and turned to the living room, where he glimpsed the figure of Dorothy. Why she had not come to meet him, he did not know or care. He thought only of the news he bore, hesitating to face her with word of complete defeat. He was overwhelmed by a sense of futility. Even though the defeat were temporary, even though his conscience were clear, even though that indictment were certain to be dismissed—what was being gained by a prolonged fight?
"I might still get out of it, turn over my Consolidated stock to Findlater, and be rid of it all," he thought in despondency. "I've failed at every point, and might better acknowledge it. I could go to work at something else—"
So the temptation gnawed, as he came forward to join his wife. He was too dejected even to observe her manner or the distinct challenge of her greeting. He threw himself into a chair and stared at the fire.
"I've failed," he said abruptly. "Macgowan has beaten us all along the line, lady. Last night we tried to compromise, and failed. We've lost, but he's beaten us illegally; we'll fight on and in the end, we'll win. But that's not the worst news I have."
Dorothy did not answer. Armstrong stole a glance, found her gaze fastened steadily upon him. Something in her eyes frightened him. He realized that she had not welcomed him home.
"Dot! What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she responded calmly. "I'm sorry you were beaten, Reese. I have some news for you, too, but finish what you have to say."
The dreadful quietude of her manner shook him to the depths. One blow after another had reached him; now he began to fear something vaster and deeper—he knew not what.