"What's wrong with me? I don't know—except that, maybe, I've always trusted you, Armstrong! If you've lied to us, deceived us, then you'll land us all in jail. Nothing's wrong with me if—if you're straight. Nobody knows that except you. Because I had faith in you, believed in you, I came straight here—Macgowan didn't want me to, and said he might get things settled without bothering you—but it's gone too far. If they close up the business—"
Armstrong's hand gripped his shoulder and set him back in the chair from which he had half risen in his excited burst of speech.
"Sit down, Jimmy. There must be a cursed good explanation of what you've just said! Take it easy, now. Start at the beginning of all this nonsense. Let's have all that has happened. Did Macgowan go to Washington the night I left New York?"
"Yes. He didn't know what Findlater was up to. Nobody did."
Armstrong's eyes glinted. "Findlater! What's he done?"
"I guess he was back of that letter from Seattle."
At this moment Dorothy interposed. She had been watching Jimmy Wren, a pallor rising in her face. Now she looked at Armstrong and spoke.
"What letter do you mean?"
Armstrong was burning with anxiety to hear what had happened. The business wrecked, indictments in the air, Jimmy Wren in wild panic—all this meant some disaster out of the blue. Something inconceivable had been going on in New York. He was profoundly stirred by Wren's almost incoherent words.
It was characteristic of Armstrong that, apparently cool as ever, he now turned to Dorothy and quietly told her of the letter Macgowan had received from Seattle. His poise had an immediate effect on Jimmy Wren.