Lawrence Berkely was doing scout duty in the neighborhood of the seat of war, keeping closely in touch with Wray by wire code. Although he had a room at the Brown Palace Hotel, he went elsewhere for his meals, and since the arrival of General Bent's party he had eluded the detection of Cornelius Bent, Curtis Janney, or Cortland. He had been advised by a brief wire from Gretchen Janney of the date of her departure from New York and had noted the arrival of his business enemies with mingled feelings. In response to his note to her room Gretchen had stolen away and met him quietly in one of the hotel parlors, where, unknown to Curtis Janney, they had renewed their vows of eternal fidelity.
Gretchen was, of course, familiar with Larry's position as a business rival of her father's pet company, and she had thought it best, since Larry's departure from New York, to keep their engagement a secret from her parents. She had heard from him regularly, and distance, it seemed, had made no difference in the nature of her feelings for him, but she knew from her father's disappointment at Cortland Bent's defection that the time to take her parents into her confidence had not yet arrived.
It had not occurred to Curtis Janney to think of Lawrence Berkely's attentions seriously, but Gretchen knew that her mother, at least, had breathed a sigh of relief when Larry had left New York. Mrs. Janney had questioned her daughter anxiously, but Gretchen had answered in riddles, and in the end had succeeded in convincing her that marriage was the last thing in the world she was thinking of. Gretchen was a little afraid of her father. Once or twice he had expressed himself rather freely as to the kind of man he expected his daughter to marry, from which it was clear that his list of eligibles did not include Lawrence Berkely. She had written all of this tearfully to Larry, so that when she reached Denver he decided that matters had reached a crisis which demanded some sort of an understanding with Janney père. The clandestine meetings, which rather appealed to Gretchen's sense of the romantic, made Larry unhappy. He had nothing to be ashamed of and saw no reason why he had to court the woman he loved under cover of darkness. So he made up his mind to settle the thing in his own way.
In this crisis it had occurred to Gretchen to enlist Mrs. Cheyne's services in their behalf, for Rita had always been a favorite of her father's; but an evening or two after her arrival in Denver that lady had mysteriously disappeared from the hotel, only leaving word that she had gone to visit friends in the neighborhood and would advise General Bent of her future plans. No one but Larry, with whom she had been talking, had for a moment suspected that the "friends" in the neighborhood were only Jeff, and, though she had not bound Larry to secrecy, both duty and discretion demanded his silence.
Larry's position was difficult, but when he discovered that nothing was to be gained by keeping his movements hidden from Cornelius Bent he took the bull by the horns and boldly sent up his card to Curtis Janney's suite. He was so full of his own affairs that Mr. Janney's possible misconception of the object of his visit had not occurred to him. He was welcomed cordially—so jovially, in fact, that for a moment he was taken off his guard.
"Well, Berkely, by George! glad to see you. Rather a surprise to find us all out here invading your own country, eh?"
Larry sat rather soberly, refused a cigar, and expressed well-bred surprise.
"I can't imagine anybody wanting to leave Braebank in April," he said.
"Well, I didn't want to, Berkely—I'm doing a little scientific farming this summer—but we had to come out on this smelter business—the General and I——" He stopped and puffed rapidly at his cigar. "It's too bad—really—I'm sorry, sorry, but I think Wray made a mistake. I like Wray, Berkely. He's got stuff in him, but he overleaped himself in this smelter business. It's a pity he thought he had to fight us, but you've got to admit we gave him every chance."
"I didn't come to see you about the smelter business, Mr. Janney," said Berkely rather quietly, "but on a matter of my own—a personal—a private matter."
Janney's face grew grave.
"A private matter?"
"Yes, sir." Larry closed his lips firmly for a moment, and then came to the point without further words. "Mr. Janney, I suppose I should have spoken to you before I left New York. Our business relations seemed to make it difficult. But the very fact that we can't be friends in business makes it necessary for me, at least, to be honest with you in this other matter."
"What on earth are you driving at?"
"I want to marry your daughter, sir, that's all," said Larry with the suddenness of desperation.
"Gretchen? My daughter?" Janney said, explosively. He rose, with one hand on the back of his chair, and glared at Larry as though he doubted his sanity. "You want to marry Gretchen?" Then he laughed—and Larry discovered in that laugh wherein Janney and General Bent had points of contact. Janney took three long strides to the window, then wheeled suddenly. "You must be crazy. My daughter—marry you?"
Larry had risen and met Janney's impertinent scrutiny with some dignity.
"Yes, sir; I'm not aware of anything in my family, my connections, my prospects, or my character which can be found objectionable. Your daughter cares for me——"
"Why, you insolent young fortune-hunter!"
"Wait a moment!" and Larry's voice dominated. "You'll speak to me as one gentleman does to another—or you'll not speak to me at all." He took up his hat from the table, and then, more evenly, "I take it, you refuse your consent?"
By this time Curtis Janney's usual poise had completely deserted him.
"Refuse—my consent? Well, rather!"
He went to the door through which Berkely had entered. But instead of opening the door Janney turned and put his back to it.
"See here, young man, you don't like my language. Perhaps you'll like it less when I'm through talking. Colorado seems to breed big ambitions. I know nothing of your family and care less. But I do know something of your prospects. Inside of forty-eight hours you won't have prospects of any kind. You're going to be blotted out. Do you understand? I've made other plans for my daughter—and I'm not in the mood to listen to any silly romantic nonsense from her or any far-sighted propositions from you. Your proposal is impudent sir, d—d impudent—the proposition of a desperate man who, failing to win by fair means——"
"Will you open the door, sir?" said Larry, now white with rage. "If not, I'll find means to open it myself." He took a step forward, and the two men glared into each other's eyes not a pace apart. There was no mistaking Larry's determination, and Mr. Janney's surprise was manifest. This was not the manner of the fortune-hunters he had met. Somewhat uncertainly he stood aside, and Berkely put his hand on the door-knob.
"I did you an honor in consulting you, sir. It's a pity you couldn't appreciate it. In the future I'll act on my own initiative. Good afternoon."
And, before the older man had even realized what the words meant, Larry had opened the door and was gone. He hurried down the corridor, still trembling at the meaning of Janney's insults, which had touched his Southern pride. For Gretchen's sake it would have been better if he could have kept himself under control, and he realized that he had lost every chance of getting Curtis Janney's permission and approval. But that did not daunt him. He had acquitted his mind of a responsibility, and he was glad that in the future there could be no misunderstanding. If he could not marry Gretchen with the approval of her family, he would marry her without it.
Halfway up the block above the hotel on Seventeenth Street Larry stopped, able for the first time to review more calmly the incidents of the last half hour. What was it Curtis Janney had said about his prospects? In forty-eight hours he would be wiped off the earth. That meant Jeff, too. He had a sudden guilty sense of shock, that in his selfish absorption in his own affairs he had for the moment forgotten Jeff and the business of the Company. Forty-eight hours! That was important information—and Janney had let it slip in anger—there was no doubt about that. What did it mean? That all the Amalgamated Company's wires were laid, and the only thing left was to touch the button which would blow the Wray interests to pieces?
It looked that way, and yet Larry still hoped. The rails of the Saguache Short Line would be joined to those of the D. & C. to-morrow. Much depended on Symonds. Larry hurried over to the offices of the Denver and California and emerged later with a look of satisfaction. Symonds was still General Manager and was still loyal. Within thirty-six hours, at his orders, a locomotive and one passenger car from the D. & C. yards at Pueblo would carry Clinton, Symonds, Mulrennan, Judge Weigel, and other stockholders of the Development Company from Pueblo over the line to Saguache, establishing their connection at Pueblo in accordance with Jeff's agreements with the road. It would take some queer construction of the law for Jeff's enemies to get around that. Larry knew that it meant a long fight, one which lack of money might lose in the end, but he assured himself that he could establish a nice legal point which would be worth fighting for. The calling of Jeff's loans by the banks was a more dangerous matter. Larry had hoped that this could have been arranged, but only a small amount of the money had been forthcoming, and where Jeff was going to raise the rest of it Providence only knew!
When Larry reached his room at the hotel he found a brief note from Gretchen:
"I have heard about everything. I shall never speak to father again. You must marry me at once, Larry. I can't stand the suspense any longer. Mother is here with me, but I'm going to get away somehow. Meet me at the Shirley at ten o'clock."
Larry smiled and kissed the penciled scrawl rapturously. "God bless you, I'll do it—Gretchen, dear," he said to himself.
That was a busy evening for Larry. It was six o'clock when he wrote a line to Gretchen and rang for a page, to whom he gave careful instructions—also, some money. Then he sat at his desk and with his code sent a long wire to Jeff. At half-past six he was dressing carefully in the intervals between packing a suit case and 'phoning to a legal friend of his, Dick Wetherall, about a minister and a license. At seven-thirty he dined with Wetherall. At eight he received Rita Cheyne's mysterious wire. At nine he found the cashier of the Tenth National Bank at his home and planned for the taking up of the Development Company's notes and arranging to deposit Mrs. Cheyne's money to Jeff Wray's account on the following morning. At ten he met Gretchen at the Shirley Hotel, and, at half-past ten, had married her.
* * * * *
In response to Larry's first telegram and speeding eastward on the early train, Jeff Wray read all this astonishing news in the sheaf of telegrams handed him at the station by Ike Matthews. His brow lifted, and the hard lines at his mouth relaxed in a smile. Good old Larry! He tried to conjure a vision of Curtis Janney's face as he heard the news. Larry was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance.
It took Jeff longer to decipher the second telegram:
"Mrs. Cheyne has arranged with her Denver agents—deposit eight hundred thousand dollars your credit Tenth National to-morrow morning. Await instructions."
It seemed incredible. When had Rita done this? The grim lines that his long night's vigil had seared at the corners of his mouth grew deeper, but his eyes glowed with a sombre fire. There was still an even chance to win—for Larry was holding the fort awaiting reinforcements, and Rita Cheyne had restored the break in Jeff's line of communication. The astonishing information in Larry's last wire seemed to clear his mind of the doubts which had assailed it all night long. The possibility of success now gave his own affairs a different complexion. He could never have told the truth to General Bent (Jeff couldn't think of him as a father) unless he won the fight for the independence of the Saguache Smelter. Jeff was no man to come cringing in the hour of failure at the feet of his enemy, asking immunity on the strength of such a relationship as that which existed between them. It had been clear to Jeff all night long that if he lost his fight he could never face General Bent with the truth. That was the real bitterness of defeat.
But if he won? The long years of dishonor through which he had struggled, without a name, without kindred, without friends, loomed large before him—mute, merciless years of struggle, privation, and emptiness. If he won, there was more than one victory to be gained in this fight, a moral victory as well as a physical one—the triumph of an eternal truth, the vindication of a forgotten wrong. If he won he would tell General Bent the truth—not as a son to a father, but as one merciless enemy to another, asking no quarter and giving none.
The only connection for Kinney at Saguache was with the later train, but Jeff had arranged for a motor-car which took him over the Pass and landed him at Kinney in time for the twelve o'clock train for Denver, where he arrived at six o'clock that evening. Larry met him at the station, smiling broadly.
"I think we've put a spoke in their wheel, Jeff," he laughed. "But we must keep dark. To-morrow morning when the banks open you're going to take up that stock, then we're going to call on the General."
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes, Symonds is standing pat, but they don't know it. The new General Manager comes in to-morrow, but Symonds's orders will go through first. That train will run, Jeff—sure."
"Poor old Larry! a fine honeymoon you're having! Where's your wife?"
"At the Wetherall Ranch. Went out there last night. Her mother has been out to see her. It looks as though they might come around. It's too bad I had to go against them just now, but Mr. Janney forced my hand, and I had to. You understand, don't you, Jeff?" And, explaining as they went, Berkely followed Jeff out of the station, into a motor-car that was awaiting them.