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In Carolyn Wells' book 'Wheels within Wheels', the reader is taken on a whirlwind journey through a complex web of interwoven mysteries. Wells' intricate plotting and clever use of misdirection keep the reader guessing until the very end. The novel, written in Wells' signature witty and fast-paced style, brings a fresh perspective to the traditional mystery genre. Set in the early 20th century, 'Wheels within Wheels' captures the essence of the time period with its vivid descriptions and attention to detail. Carolyn Wells, a prolific American author known for her mystery and detective fiction, was a trailblazer in the genre. Her keen intellect and sharp wit shine through in all her works, including 'Wheels within Wheels'. Wells' background in poetry and humor writing lends a unique voice to her mysteries, making them stand out in a crowded literary landscape. I highly recommend 'Wheels within Wheels' to any reader who enjoys a riveting mystery filled with unexpected twists and turns. Carolyn Wells' masterful storytelling and engaging characters make this book a must-read for fans of classic detective fiction.
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Wheels within Wheels
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Howlands
Among the most beautiful of the great country houses of America, and quite able to hold its own against many of the stately homes of England, was Howlands, the estate of Ralph Howland of Normandale, Connecticut, and of New York City.
The New England village was proud of its citizen, yet not over-appreciative, for your true New England village is aristocratic in and of itself and appraises with discernment the status of its inhabitants, rich and poor alike.
But the Howlands were favorites in the community, and had been for sixteen years, though few of the villagers had ever stepped foot across the threshold of the house. Perhaps it was sympathy that made the kindly feeling, perhaps pride of possession, but Normandale gloried in Howlands as in a treasure of its own.
On the outskirts of the little town yet within easy walking distance, the white house on its green hilltop could be seen from every West window in the village, and many glances from those windows were full of sympathy and pity even if tinged with curiosity or envy.
Of late years the summer stay of the Howlands had lengthened until it was nearly twice as long as their winter time in New York. And now it was October, and there was no sign of their return to the city.
Nor was it surprising that they should wish to linger. The hills were a glory of flame-like trees, the valley roads were bordered with yellow golden-rod and red sumac, and clouds of tiny purple asters were just beginning to appear. Color everywhere,—a blare of color, as if in flaunting defiance to the gray days and white winter that must soon follow.
Howlands was at its beautiful best. The big modern house was built on the truest and best colonial lines, its great semi-circular entrance portico upheld by four tall, splendid columns, white and dazzling in the sunlight. Green lawns rolled away from it and every side gave a view of picturesque landscape, flung across the hillsides, yet showing here and there little lakes, as clear and beautiful as only mountain lakes can be.
Yet the house breathed tragedy. Built sixteen years ago, the first season spent there had brought terrible grief to Ralph Howland and his wife and the place had remained closed for several seasons thereafter. But change of scene, foreign travel, all efforts at diversion had failed to obliterate the sorrow, and of later years the Howlands had returned, not in gayety and mirth, but reverently, as to a shrine.
“I think, Mary,” Howland said, as he watched the setting sun turn the blazing maples into deeper, softer tints, “that we must go down to town a little earlier this year. I’ve some big deals to put over, and then,—once things are settled,—we can come back as early as you like in the spring and never go away again unless you choose.”
“Yes, Ralph,” and Mary Howland, sitting on the balcony railing, looked indifferently at her husband.
Over forty, she had kept her youthful appearance, her youthful effects,—all but her youthful enthusiasms. Indifference was the keynote of her whole being.
She wore exquisite clothes, she had beautiful appointments in her house, the details of her home were charming, yet, without being exactly listless, she was uninterested in everything, even including her husband.
She loved him and there was strong sympathy and congeniality between the two, but any enthusiasm she might show was so palpably an effort, so obviously perfunctory, that Howland had ceased to expect or even want it, and she had ceased to display it.
They had occasional guests; they accepted and returned the village hospitalities, had house parties and larger social functions, but though Mary Howland was a perfect hostess, she greeted none with a real welcome.
Nor was Howland much more cordial. He had men friends, there was mutual liking, but little true comradeship or joy of meeting.
Yet he was a fine man. A few years short of fifty, his appearance was distinguished, without being impressive. Tallish, thinnish, grayish, and sharpish-featured, he had been handsome and was still good-looking. His deep-set eyes were knowing and seemed to appraise instantly and truly anything they looked upon. Correct in manner and deportment, widely informed on most subjects, he seemed cultured without being aristocratic, and his assured poise gave the effect of being acquired rather than innate.
At present there were but few guests at the house.
One of these, Leonard Swift, strolled across the terrace, and sat himself down beside Mary on the balcony railing.
“Going down soon, are you?” he asked, overhearing. “Sorry,—it will cut my visit here short.”
“Stay after we go, if you like, Len,” Mary said; “I’ll leave enough servants to keep you comfortable—”
“No, thanks. I love the place with people about, but not solitude up here. I’d get the creeps.”
“What are you talking about?” said Howland, indignantly. “This is no bogey place,—the house isn’t haunted.”
“Awful lonesome, though, except with plenty of company.”
“As you choose,” said Mary indifferently.
Swift was Howland’s cousin and the two men were not unlike. But Swift was twelve years younger, and black of hair and mustache, whereas the other showed a graying tendency.
Sharp, dark eyes both men had, and a quick, alert manner, that was the direct result of their nervous energy.
This had been modified in the case of the older man, but Leonard Swift was a live wire, and few things escaped or mystified his attention. He got on famously with Howland, but was never quite at ease with Mary. Indeed, few people were at ease with the sad-eyed, absent-minded woman.
But a cheerful element in the house just now was the presence of a light-hearted, youngish couple with rubber-ball temperaments and irrepressible dispositions.
Rob and Sally Peters were of that pleasant type who are bromidic enough to say they “never grew up,” and yet not stupid enough to have it true.
Bob was stocky and red-faced, with an air of being determinedly well-groomed; for his intractable stiff hair and irrepressible fast-growing beard called for a strong will to keep them in order. Moreover, he couldn’t make his clothes behave. His coat would wrinkle, his shirt bosoms would crumple, and his ties would fetch crooked at times. But his merry wide smile and his kindly crinkling eye-corners betokened a generous viewpoint and a humorous soul.
Sally had the round infantile face that comes to some women in happy middle life.
She was complacent and self-satisfied, idly ready to listen to gossip, but too indolent to remember or repeat much of it. Her large light-blue eyes gathered up a great deal as they rolled tranquilly about, and her bedangled ears took in all details that interested her and but few that did not.
Her tastes ran to wearing semi-precious stones and drawing threads out of linen.
But owing to the insistence of her more athletically inclined husband, Sally trailed about the golf-links of the near-by country club day after day, unwilling but dutiful.
To the trio on the verandah they now appeared, tired but happy. Bob happy, because he always was. Sally happy, because Bob was.
“Good golf?” asked Howland, genially.
“Great!” Sally returned. “And the best of it is, it’s over! I always say the best part of golf is the coming home after it.”
“That’s the best part of anything, isn’t it?” asked Swift, but when he saw Mary’s suddenly agonized face, and her sad shake of the head, he regretted his unfortunate question.
For Mary Howland’s broken home and broken life were carefully avoided, even in indirect reference, by all who knew her.
“We met the foolish Conrad on the way home,” Sally put in quickly, with a kindly intent to change the subject. “It’s awful to laugh at the poor unfortunate chap, but he is so funny!”
“He is,” and Mary smiled. “He comes up here pretty often, and yesterday he came to where I was sitting, on the terrace, and he looked for all the world as a squirrel does, when warily approaching.”
“That’s it, exactly,” exclaimed Sally. “He has just that funny little roguish look of a squirrel. As if he’d come ahead if all’s well, and scoot if it isn’t.”
“I don’t think he’s funny at all,—or even interesting,” said Swift. “I can’t bear to see him. He’s—why, he’s demented!”
“Oh, no, don’t call it that,” Howland said; “he’s touched,—if you like, he’s half-witted—”
“No, he isn’t,” Peters interrupted. “If he had a little more brains he’d be half-witted, but as is, he’s a third-witted or even less.”
“Well,” and Howland spoke indulgently, “he’s the Village Half-Wit, so let it go at that. I’m told there’s always a village half-wit—”
“Are there any village whole-wits,—that’s what I want to know,” said Bob Peters smiling.
“There weren’t till you came,” said Howland. “Then now there are two,” and Sally chuckled her happy little laugh.
“But you know, now,—that Conrad,” and Bob Peters looked serious, “he has, I think, a homicidal mania—”
“Oh, no,” Howland smiled. “You’re way off. Conrad Stryker is half-witted, he is demented, if you like, but he’s no maniac. He hasn’t a vicious hair in his head, he hasn’t a criminal thought in his mind.”
“On the contrary,” and Mary Howland spoke with a kindly light in her eyes, “he’s a gentle, affectionate nature. He’s always letting things out.”
“Secrets?” and Sally looked interested.
“No, not that,” and Mary really smiled now, “but, I mean, if he sees a chance to free a small animal from a snare or trap, he lets it out. Why, they say, he opens his mother’s mousetraps and lets the creatures free!”
“Oh, heavens! talk about something else,” and Sally shuddered. “I’m not afraid of idiots, even those with homicidal mania, but I am of mice!”
“But he isn’t an idiot,” Howland persisted. “I’ve no especial interest in Conrad Stryker, but I do believe in justice. He is a simple-minded, harmless boy—”
“Boy!” broke in Leonard Swift, “he’s thirty if he’s a day!”
“I don’t mean a boy in years, but in mentality. His is a case of arrested development, or whatever the doctors call it, and though his brains are weak and undeveloped, they are there and they are not distorted, as in the case of a real maniac.”
“Mr. Howland,” said a soft voice from the house door, and most of them looked up to see a vision of beauty framed in the doorway.
A vision of beauty is usually a hyperbolic term, but in this instance it was pretty nearly true.
A girl, with an expression half-apologetic, half-dictatorial, whose big gray eyes took in everybody present, but who only looked at Howland. She was not petite, and though not overly plump was well rounded and her flesh had a look of wholesome soundness.
And this wholesome soundness was very much in evidence, for Miss Mills, Howland’s stenographer, wore her skirts very short, notwithstanding the news from Paris of descending hem lines. Also the collarless neck of her one-piece frock was as low as it could conveniently be, and her sleeves were chopped off in a straight line just below her rounded shoulders.
Her frock was without trimming, save for a binding or piping of a contrasting color, and a narrow belt defined her sound and wholesome waistline.
The short one-piece disclosed a bewildering length of silken hose, enclosing the sound and wholesome legs of Miss Mills, and it goes without saying that her shoes were impeccable.
The face, which one came to, after a rapturous and comprehensive glance at the rest of her wholesome soundness was oval and cream-colored, with tempestuous gray eyes that turned up at you appealingly and a mouth that quivered slightly if you were unsympathetic.
But few were unsympathetic with or to Miss Mills.
Swift had seen her before and so was not bowled over by the vision, but it was a new one on the Peterses and they gasped.
“What is it?” asked Howland, shortly.
“The telephone, Mr. Howland.”
“Necessary?”
“Yes, sir.”
Without further word, Ralph Howland rose and went into the house, following in the wake of his stenographer.
“A museum piece,” commented Peters, and Mary Howland smiled.
“Might as well be,” she said, “for all the humanity or personality she possesses. Miss Mills is a beauty, but also she is a perfect worker. Ralph couldn’t get along without her.”
“I couldn’t either,” rhapsodized Peters, “that is, if I could get along with her.”
“Get along with you,” and his wife smiled at him comfortably. “Come on, now, it’s time to dress for dinner. Any guests, Mary?”
“A few. None of any especial interest. Wear some of your beaded things.”
“I don’t want to go just yet,” begged Peters. “I’ve got something to talk over with Ralph.”
“Talk it over with him after dinner,” dictated his wife. “You’ll be late if you wait now. Won’t he, Mary?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so. Go on, Bob. You’re an awfully slow dresser.”
The Peterses departed and Swift came over and took a chair nearer his hostess.
“Mary,” he said, “don’t let Ralph go into that fool scheme with Peters. It’s a wild cat game, and not only will Ralph lose a lot of money, but he may get himself into more serious trouble.”
“What is it, Len? I don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s why I’m telling you. Never mind details, it’s called the Righto mine,—but it’s all wrong. I know,—oh, Mary, you can’t understand these things, but please do as I advise—”
“Just what are you advising?”
“Only that you persuade Ralph,—beg him, coax him, manage him any way you like,—but make him keep out of it.”
“If it’s wrong in any way, he’ll keep out of it himself.”
“But he doesn’t know it’s wrong,—and Peters is a cajoling sort. He’ll wind Ralph round his finger—”
“Does Bob know it’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure,” and Swift looked perplexed. “I’d hate to think he did and yet I don’t see how he can help it. But in either case, we want to keep Ralph out of it.”
“Len,” and his hostess looked at him amusedly, “what has come over you? Since when have you,—or have I, become Ralph’s keeper? It’s rather funny to think of our advising that man!”
“I know it, and yet, Mary, such times come to the best and cleverest of men. Just because Ralph is so wise and so experienced, just because he is so sophisticated and so sure of himself, it makes it all the easier for him to accept the unproved word of a friend like Peters and go into the thing without investigation.”
“Have you investigated it?”
“Enough to know that it’s a fake,—a deliberate fraud,—and if Ralph even so much as touches it, he’ll scorch his reputation badly!”
“Why don’t you tell Ralph this yourself?”
“I did, but he thinks I know nothing of business matters. He thinks, compared to himself and Peters, I’m a babe in arms! Maybe I am, but I see farther through this millstone than they do! Mary, you must—”
“Must what?” and Howland reappeared, a sudden light in his eyes as he overheard Swift’s words.
“Why, Ralph,” and Mary turned to him, “Len wants me to urge you not to have anything to do with that mine proposition of—”
“No, that wasn’t it!” and Howland looked quietly incredulous. “That wasn’t the subject on which Swift was speaking to you so earnestly,—it couldn’t have been—”
“But it was,” reiterated Mary, “wasn’t it, Len?”
“I don’t understand you, Ralph,” Swift spoke deliberately and scornfully. “And I disdain to answer your question. Your wife made an assertion. You should be ashamed to ask for its corroboration.”
Howland smiled coldly. “That high and mighty air doesn’t suit you, Len. But you’re right. Mary, why do you discuss my business affairs with Leonard?”
“It wasn’t a discussion, exactly,” Mary Howland said wearily; “Len asked me to urge you—”
“I know, you said that before. But why bring up the subject at all, in my absence?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Ralph!” Mary spoke almost pettishly. “We just referred to it by chance. Don’t be disagreeable about it.”
Howland was silent a moment, and then said, “All right, dear, I won’t. But Leonard, you and I will talk over the matter this evening. Be in my library at eleven, will you?”
“Of course I will. Glad to. I tell you, Ralph—”
“Very well, but tell me then,—don’t tell me now.” Howland went away again, and the two were rather silent.
“He’s a strange guy,” Swift said at last. “Doesn’t he annoy you sometimes, Mary?”
“Nothing annoys me,—just as nothing rejoices me.
“No, I suppose not. But I do wish you’d try to rouse yourself from that attitude,—that somewhat determined pessimism of yours—”
“Pessimism! I rather think that if you—”
“Yes, I know,—I know. But, when everybody is trying to help you, when everybody is doing all that’s possible for your good, for your happiness, I do think you might try—just try, you know, to do a little for yourself.”
“You’re right, Len,—and I know it. But,—oh, I can’t! Sally tries to brighten me up and cheer me, until I nearly go frantic. But it doesn’t do a bit of good,—I think it makes me worse.”
“Oh, well, if you persist in that frame of mind, I dare say nothing can help you. But why, why, Mary, can’t you make a big, splendid effort and conquer it all—”
“Conquer what?” her eyes blazed at him. “Memory?”
“No, no, of course not. But morbidity, melancholy, despair. Put up a fight—”
“Oh, hush, Len, I don’t want to fight. You think, I suppose, you’re saying something original, something novel. I’ve had that propaganda dinned into my ears by all sorts and conditions of people for sixteen years.”
“Magee?”
“Yes, of course by Mr. Magee, and by the rector, and by the doctor and by Nurse Lane, and even by Miss Mills.”
“Good Lord, what does she say to you?”
“Oh, she’s no simpleton, you know. In fact, she gives me about the best advice of any one. Just to go outdoors a lot, and ride, and golf, and read, and mix with people,—just general good advice. I’ve even tried it,—but it does no good. To-night, I’m more than usually unstrung, because there’s a thunderstorm coming up.”
“A thunderstorm! In October?”
“Yes; such things aren’t unknown. Anyway, there’s one coming. You’ll see.”
“Rheumatic twinges?”
Mary smiled. “No, silly, not that. But nervous tremors and jumpy heart action.”
Chapter 2 The Thunderstorm
As one entered the wide and beautiful hall of Howlands, on the right was the living-room and on the left was the library, in which the master of the house spent most of his time. Back of the library was a billiard room and back of that the large and formal drawing-room.
On the other side, that is, back of the living-room, were the dining-room and kitchens.
Simple of plan, the rooms were so large and spacious and so well proportioned that there was an effect of long vistas, and the great staircase which rose from the center of the hall and branched to either side was an architectural triumph in itself.
On the second floor, the bedrooms were ample and luxurious. The Howlands’ own suite was over the living-room, while across the hall, above the library, were guest rooms now occupied by the Peterses.
Back of these was Leonard Swift’s room, and behind that the pretty room of Miss Mills.
Next back of the Howlands’ rooms was the room of Austin Magee, Ralph Howland’s secretary, and back of this, the room of Nurse Lane, who though classed among the servants was a most important member of the household,—indeed, almost a member of the family.
Magee was dressing for dinner and was thinking about the mining scheme in which Rob Peters was so determined to interest Howland.
The secretary had his employer’s interests deeply at heart, and though he never had presumed to advise, he was carefully considering whether it was not his duty to do so in this case.
Austin Magee had what is called a round head, but it was also a long head and a level head.
Moreover, it was well set and well carried on his shoulders, for the man, though not specially well born, had a poise that a statesman might envy. His very walk across a room gave an impression of dignity and importance, yet he was in no way bumptious or assertive and was absolutely devoid of any appearance of self-consciousness.
His self-respect and self-reliance were plainly written on his strong, unhandsome face, and determination was, quite evidently, his besetting sin or his chief virtue, according to the object of his will.
His industry was tireless, his will power indomitable and his energy inexhaustible; and though at times a daredevil spirit was manifest, yet when Magee smiled he had the effect of a lovable scamp.
Though he had little originality or creative ability he was adaptable and quick-witted, and through these traits he had achieved much.
Indeed, so adaptable was he to influence or atmosphere that he was almost chameleonic. He took color from his surroundings or his associations to such an extent that he seemed able to merge into any condition of life without effort, and also without detriment to his own imperturbable poise and his individual calm.
Yet he was saved from being a stone image by his sense of humor. A sudden radiant smile would light up his face at hearing a really happy quip or a quaint conceit, and his imagination was boundless when he gave it rein.
At thirty, Magee had achieved a position that pleased him. He was private secretary and general manager to Ralph Howland, a magnate of wide interests and various enterprises.
Or rather, Howland had been actively engaged in high finance, but now, nearly fifty, he was retiring from business life and was winding up and disposing of many matters with a view to a leisurely old age.
Though possessed of a city home, a forest camp and a seashore place, Ralph Howland liked best of all his New England country estate at Normandale and enjoyed most his summer months when spent there.
Yet the place breathed tragedy.
Built sixteen years ago, the first summer they lived there had brought terrible grief to Ralph and Mary Howland.
For in that first season, in the first happiness of their new home, an epidemic of sleeping sickness had claimed their only child, the little five-year-old Angela.
Change of scene, foreign travel, amusements of all sorts, failed to divert the distracted mother or cheer the saddened father.
And though for many years the Normandale place remained closed and empty, of late, Mary Howland had found that, after all, she came nearer to a quiet content there than at any other of their homes.
Save for her apathy and indifference, Mary Howland was a most attractive woman. Talented, cultured, of quick perceptions, she was fitted to grace her position as chatelaine of the great house. But entertaining bored her, and much of the time the family were alone.
Leonard Swift was looked upon as one of themselves, and both Magee and Edith Mills were also part of the family circle.
Nurse Amy Lane had been the nurse of baby Angela, and had remained with Mary ever since the loss of the child. Solicitous for the health and comfort of her mistress, Lane had been a bit spoiled and was, of late, growing domineering and dictatorial, as is the way with old family servants.
But, on the whole, her presence was valuable, even necessary to Mary’s well-being, and though disliked by the other servants, Lane was also feared and respected.
The sudden death of the child, during the excitement and disaster of the fearful epidemic had been tragic in many ways.
There had been no funeral, and the tiny casket had been taken away from the house during a violent and terrifying thunderstorm.
This incident had so affected the nerves of the stricken mother, that ever since, she had been especially sensitive to weather conditions, and knew instinctively of the approach of the dreaded electric storms.
And now, even in October, she was right as to the coming of one.
Dressing for dinner, she continually and apprehensively glanced from her windows to watch the heavens.
Ralph Howland, through long experience, knew the futility of trying to soothe her fears, and the only thing to do was to have Nurse Lane in watchful readiness to care for her mistress when the storm broke.
But it held off and there were only distant rumblings and occasional faint flashes of lightning.
Mary, assisted by Etta, her maid, was getting into an evening gown of soft white that showed a bit of silver lace here and there.
A long sash end of silver ribbon hung at one side, and her silver slippers tapped impatiently as she was being hooked up.
“There now,” admonished Lane, “don’t you begin tapping your foot, Mrs. Howland. You’ll get all feezed up if you don’t hold on to yourself.”
“She won’t, if you’ll only let her alone,” Etta flashed back.
There was constant war between these two, for each scorned the other and each felt the other’s presence unnecessary.
Etta, trim, smart and capable, looked disdainfully at Amy Lane, whose red face and tawny gray hair were as unattractive as her blunt speech was annoying.
Yet both were devoted to Mary, and this kept both in attendance and kept their mutual antagonism fairly well under subjection.
For Mary Howland permitted no bickering in her presence. When by themselves the two satellites might wage battles royal, but when with their mistress at least outward peace was enjoined.
Sometimes an irrepressible flaunt broke forth, but a mere glance from Mary Howland prevented the obvious retort.
So now, Nurse Lane gave Etta only an indignant look and held her tongue.
She was a gaunt, ungraceful woman, with prominent elbows and knees, and had a bearing like a grenadier.
Yet every gesture or motion showed capability and efficiency and though aggressive of manner and unprepossessing of face, she yet inspired confidence and gained from most a begrudged, unwilling admiration.
Her face, of the equine type, was framed in straying wisps of yellowish gray hair, and what are known as scolding locks were always escaping from the invisible hairpins that visibly failed to confine them.
Her eyes were faded and colorless, with sandy brows and lashes, yet even this effect of weakness was offset by her large nose and firm, hard mouth. A martinet, a virago, she looked,—and was,—but toward her idolized mistress she was all gentleness and affection.
“There, there, dearie,” she would say, and taking Mary in her arms would wipe her tearful eyes as she would those of a child.
“Going to put it over, Bob?” Sally Peters asked, as she powdered her little round nose, and then proceeded to powder her expanse of white chest preparatory to decking it with a complicated arrangement of aquamarines chained together by tiny metal links.
“Doubtful,” responded her husband, retying an already overtied tie. “Yet it all depends. I’m to see him to-night, after the dinner is over and if he’s in genial mood, I do think I can persuade him. Oh, I must persuade him,—or entice him,—or,—force him! Why, Sally, he’s got to do it,—I tell you, he’s got to! I can’t lose this opportunity,—it means everything,—everything!”
“Of course it does, dear. He’ll do it,—I’m sure. How much do you want him to put in—”
“That isn’t it,—not entirely. I want him to back it,—to sanction it,—hang it all, why, I want him to buy it,—to buy the mine outright,—and then—”
“I believe after all, I’ll wear my amethysts,” and Sally held up another handful of glitter from her roomy jewel case. “What do you think, Bob?”
“I think you’re heavenly in anything,—but why string the junk on, anyway? Why not a simple string of pearls, like Mary wears?”
“Sell the mine to Ralph, and buy me such a string, and you’ll come out about even,” said Sally, smiling at him.
“Oh, I don’t mean real pearls—”
“And I don’t want any other kind. Can I do anything in the business?”
“No; unless you drop a hint to Mary that—”
“That wouldn’t do any good. A hint to Austin Magee might.”
“Dubious. Sit next him at table, though, can’t you, and then, if there’s a good chance just remark on the surety of the scheme.”
“Austin Magee is pretty hard-headed—”
“But not hard-hearted,—and,—you’re a very pretty woman, my dear.”
“To you, my best beloved,—but not to the world at large,” and Sally smiled.
“Then the world is blind,” and her husband spoke with a sincere conviction that delighted his wife.
But Austin Magee, carefully and skillfully tying his own tie at that moment, was about as far from being influenced by Sally Peters’ charm as a granite obelisk would be.
His notion of the mining scheme was to let it alone, quietly, if possible,—insistently, if necessary.
Yet he feared that Howland would be drawn into it.
A smaller deal Magee would have ignored, but this was enormous; it might wreck Howland’s whole fortune. Something must be done, and at risk of incurring his employer’s deep displeasure, Magee decided he must interfere.
Many times had Ralph Howland quoted to his secretary a favorite line, “Interference is the very hind hoof of the devil,” and Magee had taken the hint and up to now had never given unasked advice or suggested any change of plan or procedure.
But now,—this fool mine! It would be too dreadful if a great man like Howland should fall for such a questionable enterprise! Yet, of late, Magee had realized that Ralph Howland’s judgment was not quite what it had been. A few times and in minor matters, the secretary had been amazed at his superior’s decisions.
That was why he feared for the result of the conference with Peters on the mine matter.
Peters was a persuasive talker, was a long-time friend of Howland’s, was, though honest, so far as Magee knew, not of flawless impeccability in his business standards.
