There was a dinner party at the house of Richard Barton to serve the double purpose of honoring Stephen Steele, head of the vast Jonathan Steele enterprises, and to announce the engagement of the beautiful Clarice Barton to one Timothy Cody. Though, as Clarice said, everybody at the dinner knew all about the engagement.
The guests were Steve and Rhoda and Upton Reynolds, the grand old sport, and myself, and Bill and Jim Bridgeman. Bill had his arm in a sling and both brothers were greatly embarrassed, even though, because of their point of view, none of us wore evening clothes.
Steve didn’t look bad at all and hadn’t had a bad time. They had fed him regularly, let him have books to read and told him nothing. He didn’t know that while he was locked in a room in his grandfather’s house, they were holding funeral services over what were supposed to be his remains in another part of the building. He hadn’t recognized me that night he looked out the window at the fight in the grounds below because he hadn’t expected to see me in California. His delight to find Rhoda waiting for him when he came back from the Castle in Palm Springs can be imagined.
Upton Reynolds was speaking. “My dear Mr. Steele,” he said, “while Roscoe Patterson was a criminal of the first water, while his intentions, of course, were to rook your estate, by concealing the death of your grandfather for a year, he actually performed a great service for you.”
Steve laughed in his good old way. “How do you make that out, sir?” he asked and squeezed Rhoda’s hand under the table.
“A year ago, the liquidation of the estate would have failed to bring enough to equal the total of Federal and State taxes. It is not impossible that such a forced liquidation would have caused a panic.
“Thanks to the great rise in the price of all sorts of securities and particularly motors, during the past year, the Steele holdings have almost tripled in value, while the taxes must be collected upon the valuation as of a year ago plus the nominal interest rates. Thus you will net sixty or seventy per cent of the value of your properties of a year ago after taxes have been paid instead of finding your inheritance amounting to nothing or only a few thousand dollars.”
“Just the same,” said Steve vindictively, “it’s lucky for him he committed suicide when he got the tip from Farrell that Donnegan was exposed — not because of what he tried to do to me but for his treatment of Rhoda and his attempt to have Tim put out of the way. Anyway I don’t care about the money. Rhoda and I would get along under any conditions.”
“Of course we would,” said Rhoda.
Steve laughed. “This Donnegan character appeals to me. I’m going to have a talk with him. Dick, can they jail the old man on this charge?”
“They certainly can.”
“But his impersonation seems to have saved me and my friends millions of dollars.”
“And he’s an old dear,” declared Clarice.
“So I’m going to keep him out of jail and give him a pension.”
Clarice rushed around the table, threw her arms around Steve’s neck and kissed him. For spite, I kissed Rhoda.
After quiet was restored Steve rapped on the table. “Dick,” he said, “I consider that you were acting as my attorney during this whole business. So present any bill you like over a million. As for you two boys” — he turned to Jim and Bill — “I rate your services in my behalf at ten thousand each.”
“Holy Mackerel!” exclaimed Jim. Bill said nothing but tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Of course,” said Rhoda, “you owe everything to Tim.”
“Rats,” I exclaimed. “What could I have done without Dick and Clarice?”
“As a matter of fact,” stated Dick Barton, “it was Upton Reynolds, that white whiskered old codger across the table, who turned the trick. First he doped out the whole plot and the motives behind it and then he raised the country and rescued us from the trap we were in. If it hadn’t been for Upton, they would have murdered the lot of us, taken Jonathan back to Santa Barbara and carried on. You, Steve, would still be in durance vile.”
“Mr. Reynolds, of course, will represent legally the Steele interests,” said Steve. “And you will be our western legal representative, Dick.”
“You’ve fixed us up,” remarked Dick. “But what are your plans for Tim Cody?”
Steve gave me the old grin. “Tim is up against it. He is going to Detroit and enter the plant as a mechanic.”
Clarice jumped up. “What’s that?” she cried with blazing eyes. “Why — you ingrate — I wish we’d left you in that awful place in Palm Springs.”
Dick yanked her back into her chair. “Sit down, you addlepate,” he snarled.
“Let go of me, you boot-licker. All of you — lapping up bones he tosses you like a lot of hound dogs—” she cried furiously.
“Clarice,” I cried sternly. She burst into tears.
“Don’t you see, Clarice,” said Steve, smiling, “Tim has to learn the business before I can promote him to be President of the Steele Motors Corporation — in two or three years now—” he stopped. The sun had come out on my sweetheart’s face. “Why, you... you darling!” she cried.
That’s the whole story as well as I can tell it. The Department of Justice at Washington had played its part by delving into the Steele Corporation’s affairs.
Steve came back the same swell guy he always was. And Clarice and I are married and living in Detroit and I come home covered with grime every night and we wash up, put on the soup and fish and go stepping.
I forgot to say that on our way east with Steve and Rhoda, we called on Paw and Maw Piper. They wouldn’t let us give them anything, but Steve paid their back taxes, bought all their stock at top prices, left a new Steele Six motor car in their barnyard and made them like it. And why wouldn’t he? If it wasn’t Maw’s gossiping about the upstart Donnegan family where would Steve have been? And we all wouldn’t have been sitting on top of the world.