"Yes." "Good. That gives us a clear night's sleep in a bed before Monday wakes up. Same old fight, is it?" "Yes, only something new this time. A fighting chance to put the enemy down and out. Bully for you, Dorns! I'll get that five o'clock train." "All right. You get the reservations--I'll meet you at the gate five minutes before the train goes. I'm busy. So long." Armstrong turned from the telephone. The thought of Dorothy leaped into his mind with a swiftly searching pang; he could not conquer it. After all, Indianapolis was so close to Evansville! He had no definite reason for seeing Tom Windsor, other than to demand a hearing. Perhaps, despite warnings, he would not have bothered about going except that-- "Maybe I'm a fool," he thought moodily. "I wonder if I've let this Windsor menace impress me too strongly--because of Evansville? It's not too late to change my mind--no, I'll go!" It did not occur to him that this urge and pull of spiritual forces, this compellant thought of Dorothy, might have any connection with practical things. Men are slow to believe in guardian angels. CHAPTER III Late in the afternoon of that same Saturday that saw Armstrong's departure for Indianapolis, the same Saturday that saw Findlater placed completely in the power of Lawrence Macgowan, Jimmy Wren called to see Mrs. Bird Fowler. The call was unheralded and purely on impulse, for Wren was harassed and at his wits' end to serve Armstrong; the latter had not confided in him about Todrank's warning, but Jimmy Wren had guessed the purport from what Armstrong had said. He was worried and nervous. Wren was sent up to the apartment and was received by the maid, who knew that he was a favored visitor. "Mrs. Fowler is out, sir," she told him, "but I'm expecting her back at any minute now. I know she'd not want to miss you. If you'd care to wait--" "Why, thanks, I will," said Jimmy Wren gratefully. "Would you care for a fire, or tea--" "No, nothing, until Mrs. Fowler comes," he rejoined, handing over his things. "I'll just sit around and smoke." "Make yourself at home, sir. If you want anything, I'll be in the kitchen." Jimmy Wren made his way to the cushioned window-seat, and with a sigh of relaxation settled down with a cigar. Mrs. Fowler's apartment was on the second floor, the windows overlooking the flashing street below, and the cool green distances of Central Park across the way were just emerging into the virginal glow of springtime. The restful quiet of the room soothed Jimmy Wren's nerves; the silence, the sense of being at home, were grateful in the extreme. He watched the slithering motors in the street below, the glint of water and the thronging people in the park opposite, and felt himself gradually return to normal. Presently Mrs. Fowler would come, and a bit of music, a little sympathetic talk, would clear the blues from his mind.