For a moment, embarrassed silence fell upon them. At least, Clancy knew
that she was embarrassed, and she felt, from the slowly rising color on
Randall's face, that he was also what the girls in Zenith--and other
places--term "fussed." And when he spoke, it was haltingly.
"I hope--of course, Miss Deane--Mrs. Carey was joking. She didn't mean
that I--" He paused helplessly.
"She didn't mean that you were so--fatally attractive?" asked Clancy,
with wicked innocence. After all, she was beautiful, twenty, and talking
to a young man whom she had met under circumstances that to a Zenither
filled many of the requirements of romance. She forgot, with the
adaptable memory of youth, her troubles. Flirtation was not a habit with
Clancy Deane. It was an art.
"Oh, now, Miss Deane!" protested Randall.
"Then you haven't beguiled as many girls as Mrs. Carey says?" persisted
Clancy.
"Why, I don't know any girls!" blurted Randall.
"Not any? Impossible!" said Clancy. "Is there anything the matter with
you?"
"Matter with me?" Randall stared at her.
"I mean, your eyesight is perfectly good?"
"I saw _you_," he said bluntly. It was Clancy's turn to color, and she
did so magnificently. Randall saw his advantage. "The very minute I saw
you," he said, "I knew--" He stopped. Clancy's chin had lifted a
trifle.
"Yes," she said gently. "You knew?"
"That we'd meet again," he said bravely.
"I didn't know that brokers were romantic," she said.
"I'm not," he retorted.
She eyed him carefully.
"No; I don't think you are. Still, not to know any girls--and it isn't
because you haven't seen any, either. Well, there must be something else
wrong with you. What is it?"
Randall fumbled in his pocket and produced a leather cigarette-case. He
opened it, looking at Clancy.
"Will you have one?" he asked.
She shook her head. He lighted the cigarette; the smoke seemed to
restore his self-possession.
"I've been too busy to meet girls," he declared.
Clancy shrugged.
"You weren't busy night before last."
She was enjoying herself hugely. The night before last, when she had met
men at Zenda's party at the Château de la Reine, and, later, at Zenda's
home, she had been too awed by New York, too overcome by the reputations
of the people that she had met to think of any of the men as men. But
now she was talking to a young man whose eyes, almost from the moment
that she had accosted him on Park Avenue, had shown a definite interest
in her. Not the interest of any normal man in a pretty girl, but a
personal interest, and interest in _her_, Clancy Deane, not merely in
the face or figure of Clancy Deane.
Randall was the sort of man, Clancy felt (still without knowing that
she felt it), in whom one could repose confidences without fear of
betrayal or, what is worse, misunderstanding. All of which unconscious,
or subconscious, analysis on Clancy's part accounted for her own feeling
of superiority toward him. For she had that feeling. A friendly enough
feeling, but one that inclined her toward poking fun at him.
"No," admitted Randall; "I was kind of lonesome, and--I saw you,
and----"
Clancy took the wheel and steered the bark of conversation deftly away
from herself.
"Mrs. Carey must know many girls," she said. "And she seemed _quite_ an
intimate friend of yours." Clancy had in her make-up the due proportion
of cattishness.
"She is," answered Randall promptly. "That is, she's been extremely kind
to me. But I haven't known her long. She returned from Europe last month
and was interested in French securities. She bought them through my
office, because an uncle of mine, who'd been on the boat with her, had
mentioned my name. That's all."
The mention of Europe wakened some memory in Clancy.
"She's not _the_ Mrs. Carey, is she? Not the artist who was decorated
for bravery----"
Randall nodded.
"I guess she is, but you'd never think it from her talk. She never
mentions it, or refers to her work----"
"Have you seen it?" asked Clancy.
"Her paintings? Oh, yes; I've been in her studio. The fact is"--and he
colored--"I happened to be the right size, or shape, or something, for
a male figure she wanted, and--well," he finished sheepishly, "I posed
for her."
Clancy grinned.
"You've never been in the chorus of a musical comedy, have you?"
"No." Randall laughed. "And I won't unless you're in it."
It was a perfectly innocent remark, as vapid as the remarks made by
young people in the process of getting acquainted always are. Yet, for a
second, Clancy felt a cold chill round her heart. A glance at Randall
assured her that there'd been no hidden meaning in the statement. Her
own remark had inspired his response. But the mere casual connection of
herself with any matter theatrical brought back the events of the past
two days.
She beckoned to her waiter and asked for her check. Randall made an
involuntary movement toward his pocket, then thought better of it.
Clancy liked him for the perfectly natural movement, but liked him
better because he halted it.
"You--I don't suppose--you'd care to go to the theater--or anything?" he
asked.
She shook her head.
"I must go home," she declared.
"Well, I can, at least, take you up-town," he said,
"I don't live up-town. I live----"
"You've moved?"
"Yes," she answered. All the fears that for ten minutes had been shoved
into the background now came back to her. To-morrow's papers might
contain the statement that the supposed murderess of Morris Beiner had
been traced to the Napoli, whence she had vanished. It wouldn't take a
very keen brain to draw a connection between that vanished girl and the
girl now talking with Randall.
"Well, I can take you to wherever you've moved," he announced
cheerfully.
"I--I'd rather you wouldn't," said Clancy.
Randall's face reddened. He colored, Clancy thought, more easily and
frequently than any man she'd known.
The waiter brought her change. She gave him fifteen cents, an exact ten
per cent. of her bill, and rose. Then she bent over to pick up her
evening paper. Randall forestalled her. He handed it to her, and his
eyes lighted on the "want ad" columns.
"You aren't looking for work, are you?" he asked. "I mean--I don't want
to be rude, but----"
"Well?" said Clancy coldly.
"I--if you happened to know stenography--do you?"
"Well?" she said again.
"I need a--stenographer," he blurted.
She eyed him.
"You move rapidly, don't you?"
"I'm fresh, you think? Well, I suppose it seems that way, but--I don't
mean to be, Miss Deane. Only--well, my name and address are in the
telephone-book. If you ever happened--to want to see me again--you could
reach me easily."
"Thank you," said Clancy. "Good-night." For a moment, her fingers rested
in his huge hand; then, with a little nod, she left the restaurant.
She did not look behind her as she walked down Fifth Avenue and across
Washington Square. Randall was not the sort to spy upon her, no matter
how anxious he was to know where she lived. And he was anxious--Clancy
felt sure of that. She didn't know whether to be pleased or alarmed over
that surety.
She felt annoyed with herself that she was even interested in Randall's
attitude toward her. She had come to New York with a very definite
purpose, and that purpose contemplated no man in its foreground.
Entering Mrs. Gerand's lodging-house, she passed the telephone fastened
against the wall in the front hall. It was the idlest curiosity,
still--it wouldn't do any harm to know Randall's address. She looked it
up in the telephone directory. He had offices in the Guaranty Building
and lived in the Monarch apartment-house on Park Avenue.
She was more exhausted than she realized. Not even fear could keep her
awake to-night, and fear did its utmost. For, alone in her room, she
felt her helplessness. She had avoided the police for a day--but how
much longer could she hope to do so?
In the morning, courage came to her again. She asked Mrs. Gerand for
permission to look at the morning paper before she left the house. The
Beiner mystery was given less space this morning than yesterday
afternoon. The paper reported no new discoveries.
And there were no suspicious police-looking persons loitering outside
Mrs. Gerand's house. Three rods from the front door and Clancy's
confidence in her own ability to thwart the whole New York detective
force had returned.
Mrs. Gerand had recommended that she breakfast in a restaurant on Sixth
Avenue, praising the coffee and boiled eggs highly. Clancy found it
without difficulty. It was a sort of bakery, lunch-room, and pastry
shop.
Blown by a brisk wind, Clancy stopped before a mirror to readjust her
hat and hair. In the mirror, she saw a friendly face smiling at her. She
turned. At a marble-topped table sat Mrs. Carey. She beckoned for
Clancy. Short of actual rudeness, there was nothing for Clancy to do but
to accept the invitation.
"You look," Mrs. Carey greeted her, "as though you'd been out in your
catboat already. Sit down with me. Jennie!" she called to a waitress.
"Take Miss Deane's order."
Clancy let Mrs. Carey order for her. She envied the older woman's air of
authority, her easiness of manner.
"New York hasn't corrupted you as yet, Miss Deane, has it? You keep
Maine hours. Fancy meeting any one breakfasting at seven-thirty."
"But I've met you, and you're a New Yorker," said Clancy.
Mrs. Carey laughed.
"I have to work."
"So do I," said Clancy.
"Whereabouts? At what?" asked Mrs. Carey.
"I don't know," Clancy confessed. "I've made a list of firms that
advertise for stenographers."
"'Stenographer?' With that skin? And those eyes? And your hair? Bless
your heart, Miss Deane, you ought to go on the stage--or into the
movies."
Clancy lowered her eyes to the grapefruit which the waitress had
brought.
"I--don't think I'd care for either of those," she answered.
"Hm. Wouldn't care to do a little posing? Oh, of course not. No future
in that--" Mrs. Carey's brows wrinkled. She broke a roll and buttered
it. "Nothing," she said, "happens without good reason. I was alarmed
about my cook this morning. Laid up in bed. I think it's--'flu,' though
I hope not. Anyway, the doctor says it's not serious; she'll be well in
a day or so. But I hated to go out for my breakfast instead of eating in
bed. And I can't cook a thing!"
"No?" said Clancy. Into her tones crept frigidity. Mrs. Carey laughed
suddenly.
"Bless your sweet heart, did you think I was offering you a place as
cook? No; in my roundabout, verbose way, Miss Deane, I was explaining
that my cook's illness was a matter for congratulation. It sent me
outdoors, enabled me to meet you, and--after breakfast come over to my
studio. Sally Henderson needs an assistant, and spoke to me the other
day. You'll do."
"What sort of work is it?" asked Clancy timidly.
"Interior decorating--and renting apartments."
"But I--don't know anything about that sort of thing."
Mrs. Carey laughed.
"Neither does Sally. Her father died five years ago. He was a doctor.
Lots of money, but spent it all. Sally had to do _something_. So she
became an interior decorator. Don't argue with me, my dear. I intend to
play Destiny for you. How are the buckwheat cakes?"
"Fine!" Clancy murmured from a full mouth.