THE RED LEDGER. Frank L. Packard

That telegram, received on the train this morning, informs me that he was persuaded to sign a statement of fact before a notary public. You should know Steener's calibre well enough to enable you to form your own opinion as to whether that is true or not; but you are permitted to doubt if you choose—until you can verify it."

      Poindexter snatched up the telegram, read it, swallowed hard once or twice, laid it down, scowled at Gordon, and then shook his fist under Charlebois' nose.

      "I don't know who in the fiend's name you are," he spluttered fiercely; "but I'll make it my business to find out, you understand? Meanwhile, I know when I'm beaten. I'll get you another time, Gordon. Go on with your meeting; I won't embarrass you with my presence. And you"—he shook his fist at Charlebois again—"I'm not through with you, either! You get that, don't you?" He jerked his chair away, and started for the door.

      "I admire a good loser," said Charlebois grimly. "But just a moment before you go, Mr. Poindexter! There is one other little matter."

      Poindexter swung around with an ugly scowl.

      "Well?" he growled out. "What is it?"

      "I believe you bank at the Fourteenth National, do you not?" inquired Charlebois pleasantly, as he extracted a slip of paper from his pocket, laid it on the desk and extended his fountain pen invitingly to the other.

      "What's that?" demanded Poindexter roughly.

      "When you have signed it," replied the little old gentleman softly, "it will be a cheque on the Fourteenth National Bank, payable to bearer, for forty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars."

      Poindexter's cheeks puffed in and out, and his face grew scarlet again.

      "Sign that!" he fairly screamed, his rage pitching his voice in a high falsetto. "Sign that! You—you blackmailing, highway robber, you—you——" He choked. "I'll—I'll see you damned first!" he ended fervently.

      "The par value of this stock," said Charlebois in a musing tone, picking up the certificate, "is one hundred dollars. It was due to your own machinations that the price was forced upward, and that you paid, I believe, considerably more for this particular block—to be exact, so I am credibly informed, two hundred and ten dollars a share. I am afraid I am over-generous, but I prefer to err in that regard rather than in any other. You will receive exactly what you paid for it. Twenty-five shares at two hundred and ten dollars per share is five thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. The difference between that amount and fifty thousand dollars is—forty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars. Have I made a mistake?"

      "You have!" roared Poindexter. "You have, if you think I'm fool enough to make you a present of forty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars! I thought you said a minute ago that I sold you that stock—well, you've got it, haven't you?"

      "You knew what I wanted it for," said Charlebois quietly. "If you had handed it over without attempting to rob me of its value by juggling the date of the meeting I should have been well content to have paid the price I offered—fifty thousand dollars. As it is——"

      "As it is," broke in Mr. Poindexter, with a sneer—Mr. Poindexter was getting a grip on himself again, "you have paid fifty thousand dollars."

      "As it is," continued Charlebois, as though he had not heard the interruption, "unless you sign that cheque I shall sue you for the amount on the ground of obtaining money under false pretences."

      "Haw! Haw, haw!" guffawed Mr. Poindexter. "Why, you senile old fool, you couldn't win a suit like that in a million years! You admitted yourself before these witnesses that you bought the stock at your own price."

      "H'm," said Charlebois gravely. "Yes; that is true. I am inclined to agree with you. I doubt very seriously if a court would uphold my claim."

      "Well, then," snorted Mr. Poindexter, "why did you try to ram a fool bluff like that down my throat?"

      "It is not a bluff," said the little old gentleman Patiently. "I should still sue—for the sake of publicity. I have too high a regard for the financiers of this country to accept you as a type. I prefer to believe that the majority of the moneyed men, your associates, are too high principled to look with favour on such shady transactions as they would then know you to be capable of; and as for the others, those of your own ilk, I imagine that in their eyes your sin would be the most grievous you could have committed—the sin of failure, with its accompanying loss of prestige, and, I fancy too, a modicum of ridicule that I understand the 'street' knows how to make the most of." Charlebois paused and smiled deprecatingly. "I fear," he murmured, "that I have stated the case poorly. You are perhaps better able than I to judge just what exposure would——"

      Poindexter's face was mottled.

      "Have I your pledge," he gurgled, "that nothing will be known of this matter if I—I sign that cheque?"

      "You have," said Charlebois, his tones cold again.

      "Give me the pen," snarled Poindexter.

      He scrawled his name across the bottom of the cheque, flung the pen upon the desk—and the next instant the door banged behind him.

      Slowly Gordon turned and faced Charlebois.

      "I don't know what this means," he said brokenly. "I only know that an hour ago I was a ruined man and—and that I had lost the courage to fight it any longer. I've a wife and a little girl, almost a woman, and—and you have saved them—and me. I cannot thank you, no words could do that; but tell me who you are so that I——"

      "Tut, tut," said the little old gentleman brusquely, beginning suddenly to lose his sang-froid and squirm uneasily. "There are no thanks required, for no thanks are due. My name is of no consequence. I have simply liquidated a debt I owed you. Here, take this!" He thrust the stock certificate and proxy hurriedly into the other's hand. "This gives you control. You have nothing more to fear from Poindexter."

      "A debt? A debt?" said Gordon blankly, accepting the papers mechanically. "You owed me a debt?" He shook his head. "I do not know of any."

      "Yes," said Charlebois sharply, as though his veracity were being assailed and he were taking umbrage at it. "Yes, sir; a debt! Do you remember, when you kept that general store, that you gave a meal and a night's lodging to a ragged, pitiful wretch who came to you one night? Do you remember that you sent him away the next morning with a pair of shoes, a cheery smile, and a grip of the hand that gave him new courage and new heart? Well, sir, I am that poor devil."

      "A pair of shoes!" The words came weakly from Gordon. His eyes fell on the certificate in his hand, and he held it suddenly closer to him, staring at it in amazement. "It's—it's transferred to me!" he faltered. His eyes filled suddenly with tears, and he stretched out his hands to Charlebois. "I don't understand it," he said huskily. "I don't pretend to understand it—a pair of shoes! What can I say? I do not understand it, but God bless you over and over again, and——"

      "No! No-no-no!" cried the strange little old gentleman, quite panic-stricken now. "No! I—I cannot have thanks. Here, Stranway, my boy, here!" He jerked Gordon's revolver out from his pocket and pushed it into Stranway's hand. "Here, keep him here, even if you have to use this, until I—until I am gone"—and with his short, quick little steps Henri Raoul Charlebois rushed incontinently from the room.

      For a moment, as Gordon leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, Stranway did not move; then he laid the revolver quietly down on the desk, and walked slowly toward the door. He was conscious that somehow his month in Dominic Court had, in the last half hour, crystallised into something of fuller, deeper, more worth-while significance than he had known before. He stepped into the hall, closed the door softly behind him—and a smile, one now of a new and strange affection, lighted up his face.

      Down the corridor, the little old gentleman was punching frantically at every elevator bell within reach.

      Chapter VII.

       A Matter of Identity