THE RED LEDGER. Frank L. Packard

were in the hands of two men—the president of the company and the head of the trust. The president was heavily involved; what real estate he had was mortgaged, he had borrowed on personal notes where he could, his stock was pledged to the bank to secure his loans, every resource was gone in his desperate fight—and he had lost by less than twenty-five shares, egged on to ruin with remorseless cunning by the other side because he had dared to oppose them. He was ruined, penniless, in debt. The trust had now only to demand a meeting of the shareholders and vote to sell the company to itself, for it held, until this certificate came into my possession, the majority of stock, but"—Charlebois turned the certificate over, took out his fountain pen and began to fill in the blank line—"but with an——"

      "You write any name but mine as the transferee of that stock and I'll put you behind the bars!" yelled Poindexter in a fury, jumping to his feet again. "It's forgery! It's felony! You stole it, you—you——"

      His voice trailed off apoplectically.

      Charlebois completed the signature, brushed the certificate to the far side of the desk away from Poindexter's reach, and took a step suddenly toward the other. The steel-blue eyes were hard as flint, and before them Poindexter fell back a pace. And now Gordon, too, was on his feet, leaning heavily against the desk, his face, a little colour back in it, full of changing expressions—a dawning hope, fear, wonder and amazement each struggling for the mastery.

      For a tense moment the tableau held, then Charlebois' voice, addressing Poindexter, rang through the room.

      "You!" he cried in cold fury. "You should be upon your knees thanking your God that this man's blood is not upon your soul! I found him with a pistol at his head fifteen minutes ago. Does that effect you any? Or are you too calloused? Is money too omnipotently your only god?" Charlebois' words were coming now in short, quick, deadly sentences. "I am a thief, you say! This is your certificate, you say! But the trap worked well, did it not, and you liked the bait? Even you, with all your money, were greedy for fifty thousand dollars—if it could be yours with so little effort. Fifty thousand dollars for twenty-five shares! You laughed in your sleeve at the poor fool who would offer that. You could spare those twenty-five shares and still have a majority of the stock—if those twenty-five shares were not voted. It was too ridiculously easy; and fifty thousand dollars at a hand's turn was—fifty thousand dollars. You refused the offer, of course, for you could not afford to appear in the matter personally; but, nevertheless, you must not let fifty thousand dollars slip through your fingers. You had two things to consider: you must not be known in the transaction; and the shares must not be voted at the meeting. After the meeting it did not matter; the West County Tool and Machine Company would have lost its entity. I did not know how you would snatch at the bait. I only knew, for I knew you, that the bait was irresistible. You refused the offer of the man who visited you; and then you sent your secretary to him to——"

      "You lie!" shrieked Poindexter wildly. "I did nothing of the kind. I had no hand in it. He's a scoundrel, a thief! He's played me false, he——"

      "You anticipate a little—dangerously—do you not?" Charlebois interrupted in the same merciless tones. "This certificate was not stolen. It was sold by your instructions. Your secretary was coached by you in his part. He was to say that he had overheard the offer, that for the sum mentioned, in cash, he would undertake to get the shares, to steal them from you and——"

      Stranway, with a quick, involuntary movement, leaned across the table toward Charlebois.

      "Steener!" he gasped out. "You say Steener was in the game? Oh, good Lord!"

      "Ah!" said Charlebois whimsically. "You, eh, my boy? And your conscience? Is that it? I had not heard the details, but I take it Steener played his part with commendable realism." He turned again sharply to Poindexter. "But I am encroaching on your valuable time. Let us bring this interview to an end. You planned to have the stock turned over too late to be used to-day here in Cleveland, but the purchaser was not to know that, naturally. He asked your secretary the date of this meeting at the time the 'theft' was being planned. Your secretary said he did not know; he said that as you now had control it remained with you to demand a meeting when you would, but that legal notice would have to be given to the shareholders. He stated that he did not know whether this notice had been given or not, but that of course Mr. Gordon here would know. He suggested that a wire be sent to Mr. Gordon asking for that information. That was really your cleverest move, Poindexter, your cleverest move—and for such gratification as it may afford you, I will admit that it was almost successful. The wire was sent—but Mr. Gordon, though still president, never received it. Some scoundrel of yours in these offices here in Cleveland—whom I trust Mr. Gordon will in due course unearth and deal with as he deserves—was on the watch for it, intercepted it, and wired back, signing Mr. Gordon's name, saying that the meeting was called for the eighteenth—that is, to-morrow—whereas, in reality, it was set for to-day. And your secretary had promised to deliver the shares last night, which was ample time in which to get them here for the—eighteenth. I knew——"

      "My God!" interjected Gordon, in a hoarse, passionate whisper. He was swaying on his feet, reaching out with a queer, slow, ominous movement of his hands across the desk toward Poindexter.

      Charlebois stepped instantly toward him and forced him back.

      "Leave this matter in my hands, Gordon; do not interfere," he said sharply, but not unkindly. He faced Poindexter again. "I knew, of course, that you were up to some crooked work, that you did not for a minute intend to allow those shares to go where they could do you any harm—even for fifty thousand dollars—but just what form your rascality was to take I did not know. You left New York for Cleveland last night. I left with you on the same train. You say you do not recognise me. I thank you for the unconscious compliment, for you have met me under rather intimate conditions on two occasions. Do you remember the little Jewish gentleman who made you the offer in the first place? He was rather coarse in manner and seedy in appearance, but he had the money with him—in cash. You had no hesitancy in concluding he would be a willing party to a theft—or anything else that would enable him to get what he was offering fifty thousand dollars to obtain."

      Poindexter was clawing at the table with his hand. His face had lost much of its scarlet hue. A sweat bead glistened on his forehead.

      "It's a lie!" he said gutturally.

      "Well, then, do you remember," Charlebois went on in a voice whose very mildness enhanced its menace, "the innocuous little clergyman, who listened so humbly and with such awe and admiration to the great man's dissertations last night in the Pullman? Do you remember enlightening him ponderously on the intricacies of corporations and their control, very highly pleased with the impression you created? The little man was almost overwhelmed with your presence—with the thought of conversing so familiarly with the great John K. Poindexter, was he not? Do you remember, while dwelling on the subject of corporations, that you casually, with a casual wave of your hand, mentioned, without naming it specifically, a merger, or so you were pleased to term it, that you were about to effect this morning? And why should you not? You were already far from New York on the last train out of there for Cleveland; and your companion was so gratifyingly ingenuous, so appreciative of the condescension that you graciously accorded him—he would speak of John K. Poindexter in glowing terms ever after! Do you recognise me now? Yes, I see you do. Your game became clear then. Your hand was on the table. The meeting was to be twenty-four hours ahead of the time given in the forged telegram from Mr. Gordon. The rest was very simple—a wire to New York from the train's first stop—and in response a 'special' that has brought us"—he laid his hand on the stock certificate—"this little piece of paper, and its accompanying proxy."

      "It's a lie!" choked Poindexter. "A lie! A lie!"

      "Your vocabulary seems strangely stunted compared with last night," said Charlebois calmly. "But the game is up. I have witnesses who overheard you when you drilled Steener in the part he was to play—and I have Steener's confession."

      "Steener's—confession!" The words came in gulps from Poindexter.

      "Exactly!" said Charlebois. He drew a telegram from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. "Steener was in my hands within