“Just one moment!” Mr. Warner’s words purled on. His tone was low, his accent bland—but his voice stopped her instantly. “Miss Ayer, you don’t understand yet. Unless we get some money—a great deal of money—we shan’t last another two weeks. The situation is—but I won’t take the time to explain that. Unless we clean up that aforesaid money, we go to jail—for a good long term. If we get the money—we don’t. Never mind the details. I assure you it’s true.”
“I’m sorry,” said Susannah, her lips scarcely moving as she spoke, “but I fail to see what I have to do with that—”
“I was about to go on to say, Miss Ayer, that you have everything to do with it. You must be aware, if you look back over your service with us, that you are as much involved as anyone. Your name is on our letterhead. You have signed hundreds and perhaps thousands of letters to woman investors. Putting a disagreeable fact rather baldly, what happens to us happens to you. If it’s the stir—if it’s jail—for us, it’s jail for you.”
Susannah stared at him. She grew rigid. But she roused herself to a trembling weak defense.
“I’ll tell them, if they arrest me ... all that has gone on here ...” she began.
“If you do,” put in Mr. Warner smoothly, “you only create for yourself an unfavorable impression. You put yourself in the position of going back on your pals, and it will not get you immunity. If Mr. Cowler comes through, you are entitled to a share of the proceeds. Whether you take it or no is a matter for your private feelings. But the main point is that with Cowler in, this thing will be fixed, and without him in, you are in jail or a fugitive from justice.”
He paused now and looked at Susannah—paused not as one who pities but as one who asks himself if he has said enough. Susannah’s face proved that he had.
“Now of course you won’t feel like working this morning. And I don’t blame you. Go home and think it over. Your first instinct, probably, will be to see a lawyer. For your own sake, I advise you not to do that. For ours, I hope you do. If he tells you the truth, he will show you how deeply involved you are in this thing. No lawyer whom you can command will handle your case. What you’d better do is lie down and take a nap. Then at about five o’clock this afternoon, send for hot coffee and doll yourself up—Mr. Cowler will call for you at seven.”
Susannah took part of Mr. Warner’s advice. She went home immediately. But she did not take a nap. Instead, she walked up and down her bedroom for an hour, thinking hard. She could think now; in her passage home on the Subway, her first wild panic had beaten its desperate black wings to quiet. What Warner had told her she now believed implicitly. She was as much caught in the trap as any one of the three crooks with whom she had been associated. The only difference was that she did not mean to stay in the trap. She meant to escape. Also she did not mean to let it drive her from the city in which she was challenging success. She meant to stay in New York. She meant to escape. But how?
If there were only somebody to whom she could go! She had in New York a few acquaintances—but no real friends. Besides, she didn’t want anybody to know; all she wanted was to get away from—to vanish from their sight. But where could she go—when—how?