THREE YEARS AFTER

In June, 1919, Janeway’s Fond du Lac offices occupied space embracing the northeast corner of the eighth floor of the Durand Building, in which the legal department and the executive offices of the Durand Companies were housed. As the first so-called skyscraper--though only an eight-story building--built in Fond du Lac, the Durand Building was noticeable in the business district for its cream-white terra-cotta exterior and marble interior. It stood as a substantial monument to the success of the steel industry in Fond du Lac, and to the progressive ideas of Robert Durand, who had been responsible, just prior to the great war, for the elegance of the building.

Janeway’s private office had the advantage of a corner facing the lake on two sides, and of profiting by the sun and the lake breezes. The room itself reflected the surroundings of a successful corporation lawyer. The doors and trim were mahogany, the walls beige, and the Mauresque rug green. The furnishings were simple. In the centre of the room--which was large--and facing the door stood a substantial and commodious mahogany table. Above the fireplace hung autographed portraits of two ex-Presidents; a portrait of the Chief Justice of the United States, autographed, hung between them. Against an inner wall stood a simple bookcase, filled not with law-books, but with books that had been read and given a place of honor higher than one in the general library or in the law libraries of the outer offices. Janeway was one of those professional men that know books and talk books that are outside their professional reading-ground. They talk them to their friends and clients. They thus make the source of pleasure they derive from general reading an asset in their business equipment. For to know or seem to know what the world is talking and reading about is, among successful American business men, an asset.

On the table lay a leather-covered blotting-pad. A telephone, a buzzer, an ink-well, and a slender silver rose vase, without a rose, comprised the rest of the table furnishings. Janeway’s revolving chair, at the back of the table, stood at an angle to the two office entrances--one from a private corridor, the other from the outside offices. Three other chairs, available for conference, were placed against the walls. The effect of the room was one of coldness and formality, and its aspect was in tone with the spirit of its deliberations.

On the first morning in June, Kennedy, standing at the table and alone in the room, was laying Janeway’s mail, opened, together with files of newspaper clippings, on the table, when the outer office door opened and Gertrude Durand came in, closing the door hastily behind her. Gertrude, in a white corduroy suit, with a black sport hat, looked very prosperous, but a little upset; her excitement showed in her wide-open eyes and the heightened color of her cheeks. She hastened to Kennedy, exclaiming: “Oh, Jim!”

Kennedy, never seriously disturbed, promptly kissed her, and pausing with the letters he was distributing, spoke calmly. “Has your cook struck, honey? What got you up so early?”

“Have you seen the morning papers, about the fight at the meeting last night?”

He pointed. “The stuff’s all here.”

“After what’s happened,” declared Gertrude, “Mr. Janeway and Bob are certain to quarrel.”

“Make no mistake,” returned Kennedy, with poise. “Mr. Janeway and Big Brother _have_ quarrelled. At ten minutes past ten o’clock last night, to be precise, I placed Mr. Janeway’s resignation as counsel for the Durand interests in Robert’s hands--and let me tell you he was full angry when he read it--with Simms and with me and Janeway and everybody else.”

“And Mr. Janeway,” said Gertrude, still looking wide-eyed at her fiancé, “had more influence with Bob than any man living.”

“Always and honorably excepting Mrs. Maymie Montgomery, baby.”

“But she’s not a man.”

“Sometimes I think she is; sometimes I think she isn’t. I read once about a Frenchman, who, by usurping the privileges of the opposite sex, inspired some doubt concerning his own. Maybe Maymie’s doing things in disguise.”

“But for us to lose Mr. Janeway now----”

“We haven’t lost Mr. Janeway. Far from it.”

“But he has lost his influence with Bob----”

“Wrong again. The head of the Durand Steel Corporation will pay even more attention to what Henry Janeway says as an enemy than he would as a friend. Brother Bob is afraid of Janeway. I hate to say it of as big a figure as our own Brother--for he’s my brother as well as yours, Trudie--he _can’t lose me_,” insisted Kennedy. “I’m going to marry you. I promised my mother I would, and I’m going to keep my word.”

“Stop your everlasting nonsense, and tell me about this fight. What _did_ happen?”

Kennedy adjusted himself to the recital with the precision of a careful man in telling a story to a woman--a precision meant to forestall unnecessary questions. “What did happen,” said he, “was only this. The Merchants’ Association called a citizens’ meeting last night to consider means to avert ‘our’ strike. Brother, they claim, won’t listen to reason, and the strike, you might say, is on right now. Bishop Marion was asked by the Merchants’ Association to preside at this meeting. The men agreed; Simms was asked; he agreed to it. He was strong for the Bishop as a peacemaker, and appealed personally to the Bishop to act.

“But the Bishop was suspicious of Simms and his overtures. He wouldn’t promise. So Simms and Brother coaxed Janeway to ask the Bishop, which he did--and the Bishop consented. But after it was all settled, Simms found the Bishop was out for three shifts and eight hours--while ‘we’ are for two shifts and twelve hours, so Brother made up his mind to trim Mr. Bishop. He asked Janeway to go to the meeting. Janeway didn’t fancy the idea, and didn’t hesitate to say so, but he finally agreed to go. Because he’s pretty well liked, Brother wanted him to represent the corporation and say a word for the company side, see?

“So Mr. Janeway went. But Brother also told Simms to be at the meeting with a bunch of strong-arm men, and told him to see that the meeting went ‘our’ way.”

Gertrude uttered an exclamation.

“When the Bishop was nominated for chairman, Simms reneged. He bobbed up and nominated a stool-pigeon of his own. He made a speech and got a laugh going--among the strong-arms. The Bishop then proposed to withdraw in favor of Simms’s man. The Merchants voted Simms down and put in the Bishop. When Simms saw the talk was going against the company, he began to row. He’d had a pretty good dinner, anyway. Pretty soon his men started to break up the meeting--they were half full, that’s about the size of it. Now some say Janeway was in the hall when it happened, some say he came in just about the time Simms’s men started to rush the Bishop. They claim Simms told ’em to; this morning, according to _The Tribune_, he ‘indignantly’ denies it. Anyway, they tried to urge the Bishop on a fox-trot through a second-story window, and it started the biggest row ever pulled in Fond du Lac since the night Jimmie Gentry threw the bantam fight at the armory.”

Gertrude followed the recital with bated breath. “Then what?” she asked, as Kennedy paused.

“Well, when Henry Janeway got to the Bishop and got a chair into action, the Bishop withdrew in good order to his second line. Then some of the rolling-mill men got into the hall and went at Simms’s strong-arms. A dozen or so huskies got mussed up pretty bad. That’s _all_ there was to it.”

Gertrude drew a breath. “Great heavens, it’s enough! It means a terrible break between Bob and Janeway.”

“It certainly looks as if Brother had spilled the beans.”

“Without Mr. Janeway I’ll never get Bob’s consent to marry you,” said Gertrude gloomily.

Kennedy regarded her quietly. “I had to go to France, didn’t I? I promised Brother if I got killed I wouldn’t marry you. But I didn’t promise him I would get killed. I’m back four months now, and we’re going to get married, quarrel or no quarrel, strike or no strike, Brother or no Brother. There’s nothing else to it.”

The corridor door, responding to the action of a pass-key, opened, and Janeway walked into the room. His eyes lighted at the sight of Gertrude. Three years had changed him little. He carried himself as stiffly as ever, and in the variations of the years had lost nothing of his positive air--an air that now rarely disappeared completely, even when pleading before a court. His expression was usually one of indifference and preoccupation, and at thirty-eight he was only somewhat worse than at thirty-five.

Yet Janeway understood courtesy, and when he had a mind to do so, could extend it. Always carefully dressed, for business reasons as well as from choice, he was of the type of men that are described as hard on their clothes, and on this morning his tweed suit, with its soft roll sack coat, showed he had forgotten to lay it aside.

“Mr. Janeway!” exclaimed Gertrude. “Jim’s been telling me about the fight last night. Why, it must have been awful!”

Janeway laughed. Kennedy took his hat. “Thank you, Jim. Why, Gertrude”--he turned toward her with little concern--“there was nothing to it.”

“But the newspapers!”

“Never believe the newspapers. Did they tell you,” asked Janeway, “that Jim saved my life and covered our retreat?”

Gertrude looked at Kennedy in amazement. “You never even told me you were there! Jim Kennedy, you can explain this evening.”

“There was no retreat to cover, believe me, Trudie,” returned Kennedy. “It was as fast going for three minutes as you’d want to see; but when Simms’s death battalion broke, it was a débâcle.”

“Jim,” interposed Janeway, “is a blood relative of the Irishman that saw a fight in the corner of a saloon, and asked whether it was a private affair, or if anybody might mix in. Sit down, Gertrude.”

“I can’t stay.”

“You must. And you must excuse me just long enough to write a short note.”

Kennedy was attentive. “Shall I send Miss Blenkiron, Mr. Janeway?” he asked, providing a chair for Gertrude.

“I’ll write this myself,” said Janeway, seating himself.

He reached for note-paper, which Kennedy placed near his hand. While writing in a deliberate and somewhat awkward fashion, he spoke to Gertrude. “How’s your baby club coming on?”

“The Day Nursery? Perfectly fine--the only trouble is to find babies for it. I suppose,” she added ruefully, “their mothers hate to trust them with any institution a Durand’s connected with. I’m interrupting your note,” she said as Janeway paused.

“This is not important--only a little surprise for your brother, Bob. Not much of a surprise, either, I guess,” he added.

“Well, _I_ have a surprise for him, this morning,” remarked Gertrude, with an air of importance.

“Jim,” said Janeway, folding and enclosing his note, “I want this to go up-stairs now, to Mr. Durand’s office. Don’t send it; take it yourself. If he’s there, hand it to him yourself. If he’s not, give it to his secretary to be delivered, without fail, when he comes in. Did you get Simms?”

“I did. He said he’d be here by ten-thirty; it’s nearly that now.”

Kennedy left with the note. Janeway turned to Gertrude. “Now for your surprise for your brother. I hope it’s not that you’re going to break your engagement and didn’t want Jim to hear about it?”

Gertrude liked Janeway when he threw off seriousness. “Don’t ever believe _that_,” she laughed.

“What is it, then?”

“Louise is back.”

With these simple words Gertrude achieved an unlooked-for effect. Janeway, a man under pretty good control, and on familiar terms with alarum, straightened perceptibly. “What do you mean?” he asked, almost involuntarily.

“Just what I say.”

“Mrs. Durand here?” She heard in his dry, hard tone the effect of her news. “In Fond du Lac?” he asked, almost irritably. “When did she come?”

“Just last night. And had to come in the midst of this riot!”

Janeway regarded his informant as he would a witness. “Where is she from?”

“Paris.”

“You hadn’t heard from her for a long time?”

“Not for months. Nobody had heard from her--not even her brother, George--not the bank.”

His eyes, which had regarded her searchingly, were almost half closed a moment under his stubborn brows. Then he looked suddenly up. “Where is she staying--not in her own house?”

“With me.”

Each question, coming slowly, seemed as if just occurring to his mind. “She’s well?”

“Quite.”

“Changed?”

“No--though I don’t know that I should say _that_, either,” added Gertrude, correcting herself. “She’s just the same, yet in some way she’s different. I can’t say just exactly how,” she went on, perplexed, “but”--Gertrude sustained the inflection an instant--“she _has_ changed a little.”

“The war and her contact with it would account for that,” hazarded Janeway. “The war changed everybody,” he added dogmatically. “All of us. Even those who opposed it the most--nobody escaped. But if the war has changed Mrs. Durand”--he went on, with his usual bluntness--“it must be for worse. It could hardly be for better.”

“I’m glad to hear you stand up for her,” said Gertrude stoutly. “Bob has treated her shamefully. And she’s worried to death now over his divorce suit; that’s one reason why I came this morning to see you, Mr. Janeway. If she knew, she wouldn’t approve of my speaking to you at all. But I just know you want her to have fair play--just as I want her to.”

Janeway regarded Gertrude’s resolute air with contemplative interest. “You’re not afraid of anybody, are you?”

“Uncle Sid probably told you that. Well, this is what I want to say: She’s going to consult some lawyer--some one to protect her interests.”

“Why, Simms engaged old Mr. Johnson to represent her.”

“But that poor man is doddering!”

“Mr. Johnson”--Janeway paused drily--“is certainly no longer aggressive.”

“Whom _can_ she consult?” asked Gertrude anxiously. “I don’t know, of course; and I asked Jim, and he said he’d talk it over with you. But there’s no time to lose.”

Janeway paused again. “Advise her not to consult any one,” he said at length; “at least, not to-day. Her interests will not suffer. Tell her I say so, and assure her I’ll be responsible for what I say.”

Gertrude rose, relieved. “Then I ought to see her before she goes out this morning.”

“Do,” assented Janeway, rising in turn. A file clerk opened the office door.

“Mr. Simms, Mr. Janeway.”

“He may come in.” Janeway, walking after Gertrude, opened the corridor door. They encountered Kennedy returning from up-stairs. “Did you deliver the note?” asked Janeway.

“Mr. Durand hadn’t come in. I gave it to his secretary.”

“Will you intercept Mrs. Durand and tell her what I said?” asked Janeway, turning to Gertrude.

“If I’m not too late.”

“Don’t be too late,” he urged peremptorily. “I’ll call on you both this afternoon.”

“About what time?”

“Say four o’clock.”

He was back at his table when Simms walked in. Simms, past forty, was portly, tall, and muscular, with the jocular manner known to American business men as that of a “mixer.” Usually alert and voluble in utterance, he was a man with a wide circle of those acquaintances not properly termed friends. His utterance was jerky. He wore a soft black hat of the sort affected by congressional statesmen and country lawyers, and as a reinforcement to professional dignity, a double-breasted frock coat, the tails of which bobbed with his brisk steps. His face and brown eyes bore traces of whiskey--though not much--and a closely trimmed mustache gave his mouth a cropped appearance.

He tossed his hat and laid his cane on the table, and greeted Janeway with a laugh, harsh but unctuous.

“Well, Henry, you played the devil last night; you certainly did. And you can do it. Seen Durand this morning?”

Janeway’s response was of an indifferent sort. “Not yet. Sit down.”

“Kennedy telephoned you wanted to talk to me. About the riot, eh?” Simms broke into a laugh.

“No,” said Janeway, cutting him off almost impatiently. “It’s about this divorce suit of Durand’s.”

“Well, what about it?” asked Simms briskly. There was a note of suspicion in his tone and manner.

“I spoke to you yesterday,” said Janeway, “about the unpleasant allegations in his bill--allegations that were not only unnecessary but bad for public effect and of a nature to reflect on Mrs. Durand--her cruelty, for example; her absenting herself from her home--neglecting it. Why drag that bunk into it?” Janeway sat back in his chair with his head inclined forward; his chin rested on the bow of his cravat. He thus regarded Simms from under overhanging eyebrows, and spoke in a manner indicating not alone that the subject was distasteful, but that he was very angry.

“Have you substituted me out of the case?” he demanded shortly.

“Not yet, Janeway. You only asked me to yesterday afternoon. I told Durand last night you had made such a demand. I’ll attend to it.”

Simms was ready for an encounter. Naturally afraid of Janeway, whose influence as the chief legal reliance of Durand he feared, Simms had now remembrance of the events of the evening before to embolden him; and though without knowledge of the resignation, he felt that he knew what Janeway’s conduct must precipitate. “Look here,” he continued, with just enough pause to stiffen his utterance, “can I ask you a fair question?”

“You might try,” suggested Janeway, in a contemptuous utterance.

Simms was too intent on the matter in hand to take notice of the retort.

“Doesn’t it look almighty queer for you”--Simms went on--“Durand’s own lawyer as much as I am----”

Janeway broke in with delicate shading: “Not quite as much.”

Simms pushed harder. “For you, his own general counsel, to be calling me down, his personal attorney, on a bill that I file for his divorce? Say!”

Janeway showed no impatience. “I don’t feel I can have an unfair bill railroaded through against Mrs. Durand. And what’s flat,” he added, with cattish emphasis, “I won’t.”

Simms brought fresh energy into play. “Hell’s delight, man! Hasn’t Johnson got the case in hand for Mrs. Durand? Wasn’t Mrs. Durand consulted about it--notified by Johnson the bill had been filed, and didn’t she cable him to look out for her interests?”

Janeway shrugged his shoulders. “Johnson is a cipher. You know that. And you rigged his appointment.”

“Rigged it! On her cabled assent? Janeway, I don’t understand you!”

Janeway became increasingly contemptuous. “I understand you--that’s enough. Mrs. Durand is not to be slandered in a bill brought by you or any one else. She is entitled to respectful treatment at the hands of every one--including her own husband.”

“She refused to live with him, didn’t she, when she went to Europe?”

“Would you live with him?”

Simms coughed. “Hem--er--I’m not on the witness-stand, am I, Janeway?”

“You’re not making a stump speech, either. What’s the present status of this suit?”

Simms seemed both placated and placating. “The decree will be entered this morning.”

“What sum has been named for her in the settlement?”

Simms, as if scenting objection, adopted a frank and manly tone. “I had quite a time,” he began, “bringing Durand around to a suitable figure.”

“I told him, myself, at the time he asked me, what he ought to do,” interposed Janeway, with no effort to conceal his impatience, if not disgust.

Simms hastened on as if aware there were rapids to shoot. “I know that; I know it. But he kicked when it came up, Henry; he certainly kicked.”

“Name the sum.”

“Well--er--in addition to the large amount representing her estate from her father--you asked, you know, to have that fixed after negotiation with Fargo--Durand now adds the further sum of fifty thousand dollars.”

“Fifty thousand dollars!” Janeway jumped in his chair. His face grew dark as it flushed, and his unruly hair flopped forward. “What do you mean?” he demanded explosively. “She should have ten times that.”

Simms was not unused to outbreaks against injustice. “Easy, easy! Why get excited? Why----”

Janeway, standing over his table, pressed the buzzer angrily. “Of all the contemptible things that scoundrel has been guilty of!”

Simms sat down, not unhappy over the outbreak. Kennedy opened the office door. Janeway was as cold and cracky as ice again, but Kennedy knew his turns so well that he saw his anger. “Kennedy!” he snapped, “You said Durand had made me an attorney of record in this Durand-Durand case?”

“I did, Mr. Janeway.”

“Get Judge Bellows on the ’phone before court opens,” Janeway went on. “Ask him to take no further action in the case until I can see him. Report to me, please, Kennedy.”

“Yes, Mr. Janeway. Bishop Marion is in the office.”

“Show him in,” directed Janeway instantly.

Simms looked alarmed, being in no wise minded to encounter the Bishop. He rose and stood in front of the table. “It _isn’t_ enough; I know that; but you know what kind of a man Bob is to handle.”

“He’ll mend his ways before he gets what he wants in this case.”

“And look here, Henry.” Simms leaned forward in friendly fashion. “Durand is coming in here this morning. There’ll be pretty hard words flying. Don’t say anything to hurt me with Durand. Nothing about any--er--old matters, eh?”

Janeway gave assurance indifferently. “You need feel no uneasiness.”

But Simms was really solicitous. “Honor bright?”

“Are you afraid of my word?” asked Janeway sharply.

“No, no. No, no. Your word’s enough. Well!” Simms laughed sardonically. “Things are mixed; they’re pretty well mixed! Happy days!” And picking up his hat and stick, he walked quickly to the corridor door and was gone.