Randall, who had been hovering near, rushed to her.
"The first dance? Please, Miss Deane!"
Mrs. Walbrough smiled.
"Don't forget to give one to Tom by and by," she said.
"Indeed I won't," promised Clancy.
She and Randall were the first couple to reach the studio. The easels
had been removed, and chairs were lined against the walls. At the far
end of the room, behind some hastily imported tubs of plants, was a
negro orchestra of four men. Into the steps of the fox-trot Randall
swung her.
He was not an extremely good dancer. That is, he knew few steps. But he
had a sense of rhythm, the dancer's most valuable asset, and he was tall
enough, so that their figures blended well. Clancy enjoyed the dance.
Before they had finished, the room was thronged. Mrs. Carey, Clancy
decided, must be extremely popular. For Randall knew many of the guests,
and their names were familiar, from newspaper reading, even to Clancy
Deane, from far-off Zenith. She was extremely interested in seeing
people who had been mere names to her. It was interesting to know that a
man who drew what Clancy thought were the most beautiful girls in the
world was an undistinguished-appearing bald man. It was thrilling to
look at a multimillionaire, even though he wore a rather stupid grin on
a rather stupid face; to see a great editor, a famous author, a woman
whose name was known on two continents for her gorgeous entertainments,
an ex-mayor of the city. A score of celebrities danced, laughed, and
made merry. And Sophie Carey had managed to summon this crowd upon
almost a moment's notice. She must be more than popular; she must be a
power. And this popular power had chosen to befriend Clancy Deane, the
undistinguished Clancy Deane, a nobody from Zenith, Maine!
Randall surrendered her, after the first dance, to Judge Walbrough. Like
most fat men who can dance at all, he danced extremely well. And Clancy
found his flowery compliments amusing.
Then Sophie Carey brought forward a young man of whose interested regard
Clancy had been conscious for several minutes. He was good-looking, with
a mouth whose firmness verged on stubbornness. His dinner jacket sat
snugly upon broad shoulders. He wore glasses that did not entirely
disguise the fact that his eyes were gray and keen. A most presentable
young man, it was not his youth or good looks that compared favorably
with Randall's similar qualities, that thrilled Clancy; it was the name
that he bore--Vandervent.
"Our famous district attorney," Sophie Carey said, as she presented him.
All America had read of the appointment of Philip Vandervent to an
assistant district attorneyship. Scion of a family notable in financial
and social annals, the fact that he had chosen to adopt the legal
profession, instead of becoming the figurehead president of half a
dozen trust companies, had been a newspaper sensation five years ago.
And three months ago not a paper in the United States had failed to
carry the news that he had been appointed an assistant to the district
attorney of New York County.
Almost any girl would have been thrilled at meeting Philip Vandervent.
And for Clancy Deane, from a little fishing-village in Maine, dancing
with him was a distinction that she had never dreamed of achieving.
They slid easily into a one-step, and for one circuit of the room
Vandervent said nothing. Then, suddenly, he remarked that she danced
well, adding thereto his opinion that most girls didn't.
He spoke nervously; an upward glance confirmed Clancy in an amazing
impression, an impression that, when she had observed him staring at her
as she danced, she had put down to her own vanity. But now she decided
that a Vandervent was as easily conquerable as a Randall. And the
thought was extremely agreeable.
"I suppose," she said, "that the district attorney's office is an
interesting place."
It was a banal remark, but his own nervousness confused her, and she
must say _something_. So she said this desperately. Usually she was at
home when flirtation began. But the Vandervent name awed her.
"Not very," he said. "Not unless one _makes_ it interesting. That's what
I've decided to do. I started something to-day that ought to be
interesting. Very."
"What is it?" asked Clancy. "Or shouldn't I ask?"
Vandervent caught her eyes as he reversed. He looked swiftly away again.
"Oh, I wouldn't mind telling _you_," he said.
Clancy knew that Vandervent intended flirtation--in the way of all men,
using exactly the same words, the same emphasis on the objective
personal pronoun.
"I'd love to hear it," she said. And she cast him an upward glance that
might have meant anything, but that really meant that Clancy Deane
enjoyed flirtation.
"Difficulty in our office," said Vandervent jerkily, "is lack of
cooperation with us by the police. Different political parties. Police
lie down often. Doing it now on the Beiner murder."
"On what?" Clancy almost shrieked the question. Luckily, the negro
musicians were blaring loudly. Vandervent didn't notice her excitement.
"The Beiner mystery," he repeated. "They don't usually lie down on a
murder. Fact is, I don't really mean that now. But there's inefficiency.
We're going to show them up."
"How?" asked Clancy. Her throat was dry; her lips seemed as though they
were cracked.
"By catching the murderess," said Vandervent.
"'Murderess?'" All the fears that had departed from Clancy returned to
her, magnified.
Vandervent enjoyed the effect of his speech.
"Yes; a woman did it. And we know her name."
"You do?" Once again the young man thought her excitement due to
admiration.
"Yes. I'm taking personal charge of the case. Discovered a card of
introduction to Beiner. Only one we could find in his desk. Right out on
top, too, as though he'd just placed it there. Of course, we may be all
wrong, but--we'll know better to-morrow."
"So soon?" asked Clancy. Her feet were leaden.
"I hope so. We've found out the company that the woman who gave the card
of introduction is playing in. We've sent a wire to her asking her to
tell us where we can find the woman, Florine Ladue."
"Are--are you sure?" asked Clancy.
"Sure of what? That the Ladue woman committed the murder? Well, no. But
a woman escaped through the window of Beiner's office--you've read the
case? Well, she ran down the fire-escape and then entered the Heberworth
Building by another window. Why did she do it? We want to ask her that.
Of course, this Ladue woman may not be the one, but if she isn't, she
can easily prove it." The music ceased. "I say, I shouldn't talk so
much. You understand that----"
"Oh, I sha'n't repeat it," said Clancy. She marveled at the calm, the
lightness with which she spoke.
Repeat it? If Vandervent could only know the grimness of the humor in
which she uttered the promise! If this young multimillionaire whom she
had been captivating by her grace and beauty only knew that the woman
whom he had sought had been in his arms these past ten minutes! In
cynicism, she forgot alarm. But only for a moment. It came racing back
to her.
And she'd written to Zenda! He'd look her up to-morrow. What a fool
she'd been! Her face was haggard, almost old, as she surrendered herself
to the arms of Randall.