Part 16 (2/2)
Mr. Leslie shrank back before the enraged engineer.
”Calm yourself, Mr. Blake!” he soothed in a quavering voice. ”Calm yourself! This illusion of yours about lost plans--”
”Illusion?” cried Blake. ”When I handed them in myself to your secretary--that dude, Ashton.”
Mr. Leslie sat up, keenly alert. ”To him? You say you handed in a set of bridge plans to my former secretary?”
”He wasn't a _former_ secretary then.”
”To young Ashton, at that time my secretary. Where was it?”
”In there,” muttered Blake, jerking his thumb towards the empty anteroom. ”I had to b.u.t.t in to get even that far.”
”Why didn't you show your receipt when you applied for your plans?”
”Hadn't a receipt.”
”You didn't take a receipt?”
”And after that Q. T. survey, too!” thrust Blake. ”I sure did play the fool, didn't I? But I was all up in the air over the way I had worked out that central span, and didn't think of anything but the committee you'd appointed to pa.s.s on the competing plans. Those judges were all right. I knew they'd be square.”
”Sure you had any plans? Where's your proof?” demanded Mr. Leslie with a shrewdness that won a sarcastic grin from Blake.
”Don't fash yourself,” he jeered. ”You're safe--legally. Of course my scratch copy of them went down in the steamer. The fact I wrote Griffith about them before the contest wouldn't cut any ice--with your lawyers across the table from any I could afford to hire.”
”Griffith knows about your plans?”
”Didn't get a chance to show them to him. All he knows is I wrote him I was drawing them to compete for the bridge--which of course was part of my plan to blackmail you,” gibed Blake. He rose, with a look that was almost good-humored. ”Well, guess we're through swapping compliments. I won't take up any of your valuable time discussing the weather.”
With shrewd eyes blinking uneasily under their s.h.a.ggy brows, Mr. Leslie watched his visitor cross towards the door. The engineer walked firmly and resolutely, with his head well up, yet without any trace of swagger or bravado.
As he reached for the doork.n.o.b, Mr. Leslie bent forward and called in an irritable tone: ”Wait! I want to tell you--”
”Excuse _me!_ My time's too valuable,” rejoined Blake, and he swung out of the room.
Mr. Leslie sat for a few moments with his forehead creased in intent thought. He roused, to touch a b.u.t.ton with an incisive thrust of his finger. To the clerk who came hastening in he ordered tersely: ”Phone Griffith--appointment nine-fifteen to-morrow. Important.”
CHAPTER IX
PLAYS FOR POSITION
About three o'clock of the same day a smart electric _coupe_ whirled up Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive under a rattling fusillade of sleet from over the lake. At the entrance of the grounds of the Leslie mansion it curved around and shot in under the _porte cochere._
A footman in the quiet dark green and black of the Leslie livery sprang out to open the _coupe_ door, while the footman with the _coupe_, whose livery was not so quiet, swung down to hand out the occupants. Before the servant could offer his services, Dolores Gantry darted out past him and in through the welcome doorway of the side entrance. Her mother followed with stately leisure, regardless of a wind-flung dash of sleet on her sealskins.
Having been relieved of their furs, the callers were shown to the drawing-room. As the footman glided away to inform his mistress of their arrival, Dolores danced across to the door of the rear drawing-room and called in a clear, full-throated, contralto voice: ”Ho, Vievie! Vievie! You in here? Hurry up! There's something I do so want to tell you.”
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