Clancy had, on the other occasions on which she had met David Randall,
been cool, aloof, mildly flirtatious, fun-making. Even when fear had
swayed her and he had guessed at some worry eating at her heart, she had
managed to preserve a verbal self-command.
But it was a Clancy whom he had never met before who faced him now. It
was an incoherent Clancy, who said brokenly, while his big hand still
held hers:
"What a surprise! I expected--I'm _glad_-- What a terrible storm--so
much snow--in a few hours-- Wasn't it fun--last night?"
Then the incoherence that, from a person who had heretofore been always
in complete possession of herself, was all the more charming, vanished.
She looked down at her hand, then demurely up at him. With Vandervent's
detectives ready to knock upon the front door--it is a peculiar thing
that one always thinks of detectives as knocking, never ringing--with
ten thousand dollars of venal money in her purse; with flight from the
city as her only escape--and that, her common sense told her, a
temporary one--from her amazing difficulties; with her career, not
merely the moving-picture ambitions but the new one of achieving success
with Miss Henderson, vanishing as the snow upon the streets would vanish
before the rain and sun; with more trouble than she could cope with,
Clancy became demure. She was thoroughly feminine. And a woman regards
a man as something to be swayed by her. So Clancy forgot her own
troubles for the moment in the pleasing task of making Randall's face
redder than it was.
"You like it?" she asked. He didn't understand her. "My hand," she
explained.
Randall dropped it at once. Her own incoherence communicated itself to
him.
"I didn't mean-- I didn't realize----"
"Oh, it's perfectly all right," said Clancy soothingly. "If I were you,
I'd probably like to hold my hand, too."
She laughed. Randall discovered from the laugh that he had not offended
irreparably. Emboldened, he snatched at the hand again. But they were in
the hall, and Mrs. Gerand, disapproving of eye as she looked at this
young couple violating the austerity of her house by open and bold
flirtation, was only twenty feet away.
"Let's go in the parlor," said Clancy.
There was a sort of sofa near the old-fashioned marble mantel in the
parlor, and in the exact center of this Clancy sat. Randall was forced
to deposit himself upon a chair, a rickety affair which he drew as near
to Clancy as he dared. He coughed nervously. Then he smiled--a broad
smile, the smile, he thought, of large friendliness, of kindly
impersonality. Clancy was not deceived by it.
"How'd you find me here?" she demanded. "Didn't I refuse to tell you my
address?"
"Mrs. Carey told me this morning."
"Oh, she did! Why did she do that?"
"It wasn't a crime, was it?" asked Randall aggrievedly. "I guess that
she thought she owed it to me--after last night."
"What do you mean?"
Randall's eyes lowered. He fidgeted uneasily in his chair. Then he
lifted his eyes until they met hers.
"Well, she wouldn't give me a chance last night."
"'A chance?' What do you mean?" Clancy sat bolt upright on the sofa.
"She was afraid that you might listen to me." The explanation didn't
quite explain.
"I'm listening to you now," she said.
"Yes; yes"--and Randall smiled rather wanly--"Mrs. Carey is a
mind-reader, I think. She knew that I intended--she knew what I intended
to say," he corrected his phrasing, "and she didn't want me to say it."
Into Clancy's eyes came glints of merriment.
"Oh, yes; she was afraid that you would propose to me."
Somehow or other, without Clancy putting it into words, her manner
indicated an amused scorn. Randall was in love--in love in that terrific
and overwhelmingly passionate fashion that only love at first sight can
attain. But he was a grown man, who had proved, by his business success,
his right to walk among men. He was good-natured, would always be
good-natured. But he had self-respect. And now he hit back.
"Oh, no," he said; "she was afraid that you would accept me."
Not afraid to hit back, nevertheless, for a moment, he feared that he
had struck too hard. He misread, at first, the light in Clancy's eyes.
He thought it was anger.
But, to his relieved amazement, she began to laugh.
"Some one has a flattering conception of you, Mr. Randall," she told
him.
He grinned cheerfully.
"Not flattering, Miss Deane--correct."
"Hm." Clancy pursed her lips. "You think well of Mr. David Randall,
don't you?"
"I couldn't offer you goods of whose value I had any doubt, Miss Deane,"
he retorted.
Clancy's respect for him reached an amazing altitude. He could, after
all, then, be quick of speech. And Clancy liked a man who could find
ready verbal expression for his thoughts.
"I take it, then, that you are definitely offering me your hand and
fifty per cent of all your worldly goods, Mr. Randall."
"Do you accept them?" he asked.
Clancy shook her head, smiling.
"Not to-day, thank you."
Randall frowned.
"Mrs. Carey is altogether too ambitious," he said. "She couldn't play
Fate."
Clancy made a _moue_.
"Oh, then, last night--you think it might have been different?"
"I have no thoughts, Miss Deane--merely hopes. But Mrs. Carey said that
you were worried-- I could see that, too--and she thought that it wasn't
fair----"
Clancy felt a sudden resentment at Sophie Carey. After all, even though
Mrs. Carey had been ever so kind, it had all been voluntary. Clancy
hadn't dreamed of asking anything of her. And even involuntary kindness,
grudging kindness, doesn't bestow upon the donor the right to direct
the affairs of the donee. Once again, she was rather certain that she
and Sophie Carey would never be real friends. She would always owe the
older woman gratitude, but----
"Not fair, eh? You didn't mind that, though."
The humor left Randall's eyes. He was deadly serious as he answered,
"Miss Deane, any way that I could get you would be fair enough for me."
"But why hurry matters?" smiled Clancy.
"'Hurry?'" His smile was a little bit uneasy. "You--you're destined to a
great success, Miss Deane, and pretty soon I'm afraid that you'll be way
beyond my reach."
"I suppose that I should courtesy," said Clancy. "But I won't. I'll
simply tell you that----"
"Don't tell me anything unless it's something I want to hear," he
interposed.
"You'll like this, I'm sure," she said naïvely. "Because I was going to
tell you that I like you immensely, and--well, I like you."
"And you won't marry me?"
"Well, not now, at any rate," she replied.
He rose abruptly.
"I'm sorry--awfully sorry. You see--last night--it's altogether
ridiculous, I suppose, my expecting, daring to hope, even, that a girl
like you would fall in love with me so soon. But--you're so lovely!
Vandervent--last night--please don't be offended--and I'm leaving town
to-day."
"'Leaving town?'" Clancy was shocked.
"That's why. I'll be gone a month. And I've never met a girl like you.
Never will again; I know that. I--didn't want to tell you last night.
It wasn't absolutely decided. If I'd taken you home--well, I'd have told
you. Because I'd have proposed then. But not at Mrs. Carey's. I hoped
to--sort of surprise you in the taxi. But that chance went. You spent
the night at her house. And I'm leaving to-day."
"Where for?" she asked. She didn't know how dull her voice had suddenly
become. She wasn't in love with Randall. Clancy Deane was not the kind
to surrender her heart at the first request. Her head would not rule her
heart, yet it would guide it. Under normal conditions, even had she
fallen in love with Randall, she would not have married him offhand, as
he suggested. She would demand time in which to think the matter over.
But these were abnormal conditions. She was in danger. In the rare
moments, when she could force her mind to analyze the situation, she
believed that her danger was not great, that the police _must_ believe
her story. But she was a young and somewhat headstrong girl; fear
triumphed over reason most of the time.
If she loved Randall, she might have accepted him. Of course, she would
have told him her predicament. She was enough of a character-reader to
know that Randall would believe her and marry her. But she didn't love
him.
"California," he said. "A moving-picture combination. They've asked me
to handle the flotation of stock and the placing of the bonds. It's a
big thing, and I want to look the proposition over." He leaned suddenly
near to her. "Oh, don't you think that you can come with me? If you
knew how much I cared!"
She shook her head.
"I don't love you," she said.
He managed a smile. The nicest thing about him, Clancy decided, was his
sportsmanship.
"Well, I _have_ rushed matters, Miss Deane. But--don't forget me,
please."
"I won't," she promised. "And I hope you have a fine trip and make a
great success."
"Thank you," he said. "Good-by."
They touched hands for a moment, and then he was gone. Thus banal,
almost always, are the moments that follow upon the ones that have
reached for the height of emotion.
Clancy was left alone almost before she realized it. Up-stairs, in her
shabby bedroom, she wondered if any other girl had ever crowded so much
of differing experience into a few days. Truth was stranger than
fiction--save in this: in fiction, all difficulties were finally
surmounted, all problems solved.
But her own case-- One who flees always prejudices his case. Fanchon
DeLisle's reply to Vandervent's telegram would arrive by the morrow,
anyway. The only reason that Clancy had not been called upon by
Vandervent's men that she could conceive was that the storm had delayed
the transmission of telegrams. A thin reed on which to lean! She
suddenly wished with all her heart that she loved Randall. If she did
love him, she could demand his protection. That protection suddenly
loomed large before her frightened eyes.
Well, there was only one thing to do. Accepting defeat bravely is
better than running away from it eternally. Also, in her mind lived the
idea that Vandervent might possibly-- Absurd! He'd only met her last
night. And he was an officer of the law, sworn to do his duty.
She had no preconceived idea of what she'd do. She felt dull,
bewildered, dazed.
Surrender! It was the only thing to do. Better by far that than being
rudely taken to the Tombs. She'd read of the Tombs prison. What a
horrible name! How it suggested the gruesome things! Lesser characters
than Clancy for much less reason have had recourse to poison, to other
things-- It never even entered her head.
Mrs. Gerand, amazed at the question, told her where to find the district
attorney's office. Clancy fought her way to the Astor Place subway
station. She got off at Brooklyn Bridge. From there, a policeman
directed her to the Criminal Courts Building. In the lobby, an attendant
told her that Mr. Vandervent's office was on the third floor. She took
an elevator, and, after entering two offices, was correctly directed. To
a clerk who asked her business, she merely replied:
"Tell Mr. Vandervent that Florine Ladue wishes to see him."
The clerk showed no surprise. That was natural. Vandervent's underlings,
of course, knew nothing of the clue which Vandervent possessed to the
identity of the Beiner murderer. He departed toward an inner office.
Clancy sank down upon a wooden bench. Well, this was the end. She
supposed that she'd be handcuffed, locked in a cell. She picked up a
newspaper, a paper largely devoted to theatrical doings. Idly she read
the dramatic gossip. She turned a page, and glanced a second time at a
portrait displayed there.
It was a picture of Fanchon DeLisle. Her bosom rose; in her excitement
she did not breathe. For beneath the picture was a head-line reading: