* * * * *

VII

The morning of the fifth day since Mrs. Marteen’s departure found Gard in early consultation in the directors’ room of his Wall Street office, facing a board of directors with but one opinion—­he must go at once to Washington.  Strangely enough, the plan met with stubborn resistance from his inner self.  There was every reason for his going, but he did not want to go.  His advisers and fellow directors looked in amazement as they saw him hesitate, and for once the Great Man was at a loss to explain.  He knew, and they knew, that there was nothing that should detain him, nothing that could by any twist be construed into a valid excuse for refusal.  He amazed himself and them by abruptly rising from his seat, bunching the muscles of his jaw in evident antagonism and hurling at them his ultimatum in a voice of defiance.

“Of course, gentlemen, it is evident that I must go, and I will.  The situation requires it.  But I ask you to name someone else—­the vice-president, and you, Corrighan—­in case something arises to prevent my leaving the city.”

Langley, the lawyer, rose protesting.

“But, Mr. Gard, no one can take your place.  It’s the penalty, perhaps, of being what and who you are, but the honor of your responsibilities demands it.  There is more at stake than your own interests, or the interest of your friends.  There’s the public, your stockholders.  You owe it to them and to yourself to shoulder this responsibility without any ‘ifs,’ ‘ands’ or ‘buts.’”

Gard turned as if to rend him.  “I have told you I’ll go, haven’t I?  But—­and there is a but—­gentlemen, you must select another delegate, or delegation, in case circumstances arise—­”

Denning’s voice interrupted from the end of the table.  “Gard, what excuse is the only excuse for not returning one’s partner’s lead?  Sudden death.”

“Or when you must have the lead yourself,” snapped Gard.  “I cannot go into this matter with you, gentlemen.  The contingency I speak of is very remote—­if it is a contingency at all.  But I must be frank.  I cannot have you take my enforced absence, if such should be necessary, as defalcation or a shirking of my duty—­so I warn you.”

“The chance is remote,” Denning replied in quiet tones that palliated.  “Let us decide, then, who, in case this vague possibility should shape itself, will act as delegates.  I do not think we can improve on the president’s suggestion, but,” and he turned to Gard sternly, “I trust the contingency is so remote that we may consider it an impossibility for all our sakes, and your own.”

Gard did not answer.  In silence he heard the motion carried, and silently and without his usual affability he turned and left the room.  The others eyed each other with open discomfiture.

“Well, gentlemen, the meeting is over,” said Denning gloomily.  “We may as well adjourn.”