McLaughlin turned. "Come in!" he shouted.

The boy entered and handed the senior partner a card.

"Send him in." He turned to Perkins. "It's Billings. Just you think this over to-night, Perk."

"h.e.l.lo, Billings."

CHAPTER VIII

CHICKENS COMING HOME TO ROOST

Skinner _did_ look worried, but what ailed him was very foreign to the cause that McLaughlin and Perkins suspected. He was worrying about his diminishing bank account. But it was n't the actual diminution of funds that worried him so much--he was afraid Honey would find him out.

For a long time this fear had haunted him. Like a wasp, it had buzzed constantly about his ears, threatening to sting him at any moment. It had become a veritable obsession, a mean, haunting, appet.i.te-destroying, sleep-banishing obsession.

There were many ways in which this fear might be realized. For instance, Honey had told him that she was thinking of studying finance so as to find out all the little leakages and help them save, and that she was going to ask Mr. Waldron, the teller of the Meadeville National, to instruct her in the intricacies of banking.

What inadvertent remark might not that functionary drop and thus sow suspicion in Honey? At first, Skinner had thought of warning the teller not to discuss these things with Honey. But he made up his mind that that might direct Waldron's attention to their account and lead him to suspect something from the new process of circulation which Skinner had set going when he promoted himself. No--better let sleeping dogs lie in that direction. Instead, Skinner persuaded Honey that it would be an imposition on Mr. Waldron, take up too much of his time. He, Skinner, would give her what instruction she needed.

The more the "cage man" schemed to keep his wife from finding out the deception he'd practiced on her, the more possibilities of exposure developed, and the more apprehensive he became.

No sooner did Honey promise not to bother Mr. Waldron than another danger popped up. By Jingo! There was Mrs. McLaughlin! Honey might again mention to her something about his raise, reiterate what she had hinted at on the night of the First Presbyterian reception. No doubt, if she did, Mrs. McLaughlin would quiz her this time, find out what she was driving at, and report it to McLaughlin and make him, Skinner, a laughing-stock in the eyes of the boss. Then, by a series of recoils, McLaughlin would deny it to his wife, Mrs. McLaughlin would deny it to Honey, and there'd be the devil to pay. And paying the devil, in this particular instance, Skinner apprehended, would be a hard proposition.

Instigated by this fear, ever since the night of the First Presbyterian affair Skinner had schemed to keep Mrs. McLaughlin and Honey apart. It was easy enough at first, when they were only invited to a few affairs, but with the enlargement of their social horizon the danger loomed bigger.

Skinner knew enough about women not to warn Honey against talking confidentially with Mrs. McLaughlin, since this would excite her suspicions and recoil upon him, Skinner, with a shower of inconvenient questions. The only thing he could do, then, was to see to it that he and Honey should avoid places where the McLaughlins were liable to be.

Skinner had been put to all sorts of devices to find out if the McLaughlins were going to certain parties to which he and Honey had been invited. He could n't do this very well by discussing the thing with the boss. So he had endeavored to determine the exact social status of the McLaughlins in that community and avoid the stratum in which they might circulate.

But this rule had failed him once or twice, for in communities of the description of Meadeville social life was more or less democratic and nondescript. When he had thought himself secure on certain occasions, he had b.u.mped right into the McLaughlins and then it behooved him to stick pretty close to Honey all the evening.

This was not what he counted on, for Skinner was beginning to enjoy the sweets of broader social intercourse. He was beginning to like to talk with and dance with other women.

At times, when Skinner had received information at the last moment that the McLaughlins were to be at a party, he had affected a headache. On one of these occasions, Honey had set her heart on going and told Skinner that the Lewises had offered to take her along with them in case he should be delayed at the office--for Skinner had even pretended once or twice to be thus delayed. Presto! at Honey's words about the Lewises, Dearie's headache had disappeared.

Skinner thought with a humorous chuckle how Honey had said, "Dearie, I believe you're jealous of Tom Lewis."

"Perhaps I am," the miserable Skinner had admitted.

Skinner pictured the effect of exposure in all sorts of dramatic ways.

But not once did he see himself suffering--only Honey. That's what worried him. He could bear pain without flinching, but he could not bear seeing other persons bear pain--particularly Honey. He knew he could throw himself on her mercy and confess and that she would forgive him because she'd know he did it on her account. But the hurt, the real hurt, would be hers to bear--and Skinner loved Honey.

Whenever Skinner had felt apprehensive or blue because of his self-promotion and the consequent difficulties he found himself plunged into, he had looked at his little book, and the credit side of the dress-suit account had always cheered him. But this infallible method was not infallible to-night. Going out on the train Skinner had the "blues" and "had them good." Gloom was closing in on all sides; he could n't tell why, unless the growing fear of exposure to Honey was taking hold on his subconsciousness and manifesting itself in chronic, indefinite apprehension.

At Meadeville, he purposely avoided Black, his next-door neighbor, with whom he customarily walked home from the depot--for Skinner was not the man to inflict an uncordial condition upon an innocent person.

When Skinner reached home, Honey drew him gently into the dining-room and pointed to the table. As she began, "Look, Dearie, oysters, and later--beefsteak! Think of it! Beefsteak!"--the now familiar formula that had come to portend some new extravagance,--Dearie stopped her.

"Don't, Honey, don't tell me what you've got for dinner, course by course. Give me the whole thing at once, or give me a series of surprises as dinner develops."

"I think you're horrid to stop me," Honey pouted reproachfully. "If I tell you what I 've got, you'll enjoy it twice as much--once in antic.i.p.ation, once in realization."

"But what does this wonderful layout portend or promise?"

"To do good is a privilege, is n't it?"

"Granted."

"Then it's a promise," was Honey's cryptic answer.

Honey had certain little obstinacies, one of which was a way of teasing Dearie by making him wait when he wanted to know a thing. It was no use--Skinner could n't budge her.

"I'll wait," said he.

But all the circ.u.mstances pointed to the probability of a new "touch,"

which did not add greatly to his appet.i.te.

After his demi-ta.s.se, Skinner said to Honey, "Come, Honey, spring it."

"Not till you 've got your cigar. I want you to be perfectly comfortable."

Skinner lighted up, leaned back in his chair, and affected--so far as he was able--the appearance of indulgent nonchalance.

"Shoot."

Honey leaned her elbows on the table, rested her chin in the little basket formed by her interlacing fingers, and looked at Dearie in a way that she knew to be particularly engaging and effective.

"I 've always wanted to do a certain thing," she began. "_You_ have always been my first concern, but now--I want to do something very personal--very much for my own pleasure. Will you promise to let me do it?"

"You bet I will," said Skinner; "nothing's too good for you!"

Skinner was genuinely and enthusiastically generous. Also, it would be a good scheme to indulge Honey, since he might have to ask her indulgence later on.

"I had a letter from mother this morning."

"Indeed?" There was little warmth in Skinner's tone. "I suppose she spoke pleasantly, not to say flatteringly, of me."

"Now, Dearie, don't talk that way. I know mother is perfectly unreasonable about you."

"She came darned near making me lose you. That's the only thing I've got against her."

"She has n't really anything against you--she only thinks she has,"

observed Honey.

"The only thing she's got against me is that she acted contrary to my advice and lost her money. She's hated me ever since!"

"It _is_ wrong of her, but we 're not any of us infallible. Besides, she's my mother--and I can't help worrying about her."