The room into which Sophie Carey showed Clancy was smaller than her
hostess' bedroom, but, in its way, just as exquisite. It made Clancy
think--with its marvelous dressing-table, divided into two parts, the
mirror between them, its soft rugs, its lacy covers on the bed--of
pictures in magazines devoted to the home. It brought, somehow, to a
focus, certain uneasy thoughts of the past day. So that her face was
troubled when, having donned a wonderful nightgown that Mrs. Carey had
lent her, and having put over this a fleecy dressing-gown, she turned to
receive her hostess, who was similarly attired. Mrs. Carey pulled up a
chair and sank into it.
"You're nervous," she announced.
Clancy shrugged faintly. If Sophie Carey knew just what Clancy had to be
nervous about!
"No; I've been wondering," she replied.
"Wondering what?" asked Mrs. Carey.
Clancy's forehead puckered.
"About all this," she replied.
She waved a hand vaguely about the little room. Sophie Carey laughed.
"Like it?" she asked languidly. "Care to live here?"
Clancy stared at her.
"'Live here?'" she demanded incredulously.
"Why not?"
"Why should I?" countered Clancy.
"I like you," Mrs. Carey said. "I think we'd get on well together."
Clancy frowned.
"Why, I couldn't begin to pay----"
"No one said anything about paying," interrupted Mrs. Carey.
"But I couldn't--I never accepted----" Clancy was prim.
Mrs. Carey laughed.
"You'll get over that, I fear. Now, as for the expense--if you feel that
way, we'll arrange what's fair."
"You really want me?" said Clancy.
"I told you earlier this evening that I liked success. Well, I like to
protégé success. You'll be a success. You're practically one already.
With Phil Vandervent interested and the Walbroughs enthusiastically
enlisted on your side--It was rather hard on David to-night, wasn't it?"
Clancy blushed.
"'Hard?'"
Mrs. Carey smiled.
"He had an open face, poor David! It tells what is in his heart quite
plainly. Oh, well, David is a remarkable youth in lots of ways, but Phil
Vandervent--he's a Vandervent."
"You don't really think, can't imagine--" Clancy paused, dazed at the
possibilities.
"Why not? Three Vandervents have married chorus-girls. You're a lady, my
dear. Phil could do a lot worse. And you could hardly hope to do
better."
Clancy shook her head.
"That isn't the career I came to New York to find."
Mrs. Carey chuckled.
"None of us find the career we were looking for. Half the bankers in the
world planned to be authors. Half the authors planned to be bankers. And
there you are! You'll live here?"
The offer opened up opportunities undreamed of by Clancy. To be
chaperoned, guided, protégé'd by a woman like Sophie Carey! She had come
to New York intent on making financial and, secondarily, of
course--Clancy was young--artistic success. To have a vista of social
achievement placed before her enraptured eyes----
"It would be pretty hard," she said naïvely, "to give up a thing like
this, wouldn't it? I mean--pretty clothes, a place to live in that was
beautiful. I stayed to-night because you wanted me to. But I was
wondering. I can see why girls--slide down. And I don't think it's
because they want what they haven't got; it's more because they can't
give up what they have. Isn't it?"
"It sounds convincing," admitted Mrs. Carey. She sighed. "Well, we're
going to be friends, anyway, my dear. It was good of you to spend the
night here. I--Donald didn't drop in as he'd threatened, and I'm
lonesome, and--blue." She rose suddenly. "I'm keeping you up. It isn't
fair." She walked toward the door and turned. "Do you know why I really
asked you to stay? Because I saw that something was on your mind, my
dear. And I didn't want you to do anything foolish."
"'Foolish?'" Clancy stared at her.
"David Randall would have insisted on taking you home. And--if he'd
proposed sudden marriage, what would you have done?"
"'Marriage?'"
"That's what I said," said Mrs. Carey. "You're nervous, a stranger,
and--I like you, little girl. I want you to have a fair chance to make
up your mind."
"But I wouldn't have--why, it's absurd!" said Clancy.
Her hostess shrugged.
"My third night in New York, I went to a dance. I was terribly
depressed. And a boy had conceived the same sudden sort of attachment
for me that David has conceived for you. Only one thing saved me from
making a little idiot of myself--not a minister would marry us without a
license. I'm confessing a lot, my dear. Good-night," she ended abruptly.
Alone, Clancy slipped out of the pretty dressing-gown and got into bed.
She could not doubt Sophie Carey's sincerity. Yet how absurd the woman
was in thinking that she and David-- She wondered. Suppose that Randall
_had_ proposed--in one of her reactions from bravado to fear. To have a
man to help her fight her battle, to extricate her from the predicament
into which her own frightened folly had hurried her! Sleepily, she
decided that Sophie Carey was a wonderful friend. Also, she decided that
Clancy Deane wasn't much of an actress. If _every one_ guessed that she
was worried----
Once, during the night, she half wakened. She thought that she'd heard
the door-bell ringing. But she slipped into unconsciousness again almost
at once. But in the morning she knew that she had not been mistaken.
For Sophie Carey woke her up, and Clancy saw a face that was like a
blush-rose.
"Miss Deane, you must wake up and meet him before he goes."
"Before who goes?" demanded Clancy.
Sophie Carey's face was like fire.
"Don. He came last night after all--late, and he isn't going to get a
divorce, because I won't let him." There was fiery pride and touchingly
soft self-abasement in her voice. "We've made it up. It was all my
fault, anyway."
Clancy, as she bathed and dressed, shook her head wonderingly. Mrs.
Carey's life was almost as kaleidoscopic as her own.
She put on the gray foulard and descended, shortly, to the dining-room.
There she met Donald Carey. Weak-mouthed, its selfishness was partly
hidden by a short mustache, blond. If Clancy hadn't heard something of
him, she'd not have known, at first, the essential meanness of his
nature. Undoubtedly he had helped himself from one of the decanters on
the sideboard, for his nerves were well under control, and Clancy
gathered, from his own somewhat boastful remarks, that he'd been
intoxicated for the better--or worse--part of the week.
Last night, Sophie Carey had been so attracted by Clancy that not only
did she wish to protégé her but wished to support her. Her offer, last
night, had meant practically that. But events had transpired, Mrs. Carey
was no longer, in effect, a widow. She was a married woman
again--pridefully so. Her air of dependence half sickened Clancy. A
woman of prestige, ability, and charm, she was a plaything of the
momentary whim of the man whose name she bore. Last night independent,
mistress of her own destiny, this morning she was an appanage. And how
could Sophie Carey respect this weak sot?
But she had more to think about than the affairs of Sophie Carey, no
matter how those affairs might affect herself. Few persons, no matter
how temperamentally constituted, are nervous on first waking in the
morning. They may be cranky and irritable, but not nervous. So Clancy,
who had no irritation in her system, was calm until after breakfast.
Then she began to fret. This was the day! Assistant District Attorney
Philip Vandervent would receive an answer to his telegram to Fanchon
DeLisle. He would learn that the real name of the woman who had borne
Fanchon's card of introduction to the office of Morris Beiner was Clancy
Deane. Her arrest was a matter of--hours, at the outside.
She felt like one condemned, with the electric chair round a turn in the
corridor. Of course, she assured herself, the police must believe her
story. But even if they did, gone was her opportunity for success. She
would be the distasteful figure in a great scandal. Her breakfast was an
unsubstantial meal. But her hostess did not notice. She was too intent
on seeing that her husband's coy appetite was tempted.
Suddenly, Clancy felt a distaste for herself--a distaste for being
protégé'd, for having a patroness. Sophie Carey had taken a liking to
her. Sophie Carey had wished to do this and that and the other thing for
her. Now Sophie Carey was by the way of forgetting her existence. She
accepted the offer of her hostess' car to take her home, but gave vague
replies to Sophie's almost equally vague remarks about when they must
see each other again. It had been kind of Mrs. Carey to invite her to
spend the evening, but it had been a little too much like playing
Destiny. Suppose that Randall had proposed and that Clancy had, in a
moment of fright, accepted him. It would have been her own business,
wouldn't it?
She was almost sullen when she reached Washington Square. Up-stairs in
her dingy room, she fought against tears. She had voiced a great truth,
without being aware of it, last night, when she had said that what made
girls slide down-hill was the having to give up what they had, not the
desire for possession of those things which they'd never had.
She almost wished that Sophie Carey had not weakly surrendered to her
husband's first advances. Clancy might have been installed in the studio
home on Waverly Place, half-mistress of its comforts, its charms--a
parasite! That's what she had been by way of becoming within a week of
her arrival in the city where she had hoped, by the hardest sort of
work, to make a place for herself. Well, that was ended. Why the fact
that Sophie Carey had taken back her errant husband should have affected
Clancy's attitude toward life and the part she must play in it is one of
the incomprehensible things of that strange thing which we call
"character."
Yet it had done so. Perhaps, after all, because it had shown Clancy how
little dependence must be placed on other people. Not that she felt that
Sophie Carey would not be friendly to her, but that Sophie Carey's
interest would now be, for a while, at any rate, in the husband to whom
she surrendered so easily. And by the time that Sophie had rid herself
again of Donald Carey, Clancy would have been forgotten.
Forgotten! As, clad in the storm-overshoes that were necessities in
Zenith, she braved the drifts of Washington Square on her way to the
'bus, she laughed wryly. Forgotten! Possibly, but not until her name had
been blazoned in the press as a murderess----
Sally Henderson was not at the office when Clancy arrived there. She
telephoned later on that the storm was too much for her, and that she
would remain at home all day. She told young Guernsey to instruct Clancy
in the routine matters of the office.
By one o'clock, Clancy had begun to understand the office machinery.
Also, she was hungry, and when Guernsey announced that he was going out
to luncheon, Clancy welcomed the cessation of their activities. She had
been too apathetic to wonder why she had not heard from Zenda, and was
amazed when, just as she had buttoned her coat, the girl clerk summoned
her to the telephone.
"Miss Deane? This is Zenda talking. I got your letter. Can I see you
right away?"
Clancy vaguely wondered where Zenda had procured her working-address.
She had mentioned it this morning, after changing her dress, to Mrs.
Gerand, but Mrs. Gerand had been a bit frigid. Mrs. Gerand did not
approve of young lodgers of the female sex who spent the nights out.
Clancy didn't believe that Mrs. Gerand had heard her. However, inasmuch
as Zenda telephoned, the landlady must have heard her lodger's business
address.
"Yes," she answered.
It was the beginning of the end. Zenda would believe probably about her
connection with Fay Marston and Weber, but he'd perhaps know that
Florine Ladue had been in Beiner's office. She shook her head savagely.
As on Wednesday, when she'd read of Beiner's murder, she'd been unable
to think clearly, her brain now wandered off into absurdities.
For it didn't matter about Zenda. Philip Vandervent had wired Fanchon
DeLisle. What did Zenda matter? What did anything matter?
"Can you come over to my office, Miss Deane?"
"Yes," she replied.
"I'll be waiting for you," said Zenda.
She hung up the receiver. She shrugged her shoulders, and, telling the
telephone clerk that she was going out to luncheon, left the office.