There was a lunch-room on Broadway, just below Eighth Street. Clancy,
walking westward from Astor Place, the station at which she emerged from
the subway, saw its window-display of not too appetizing appeal, and
paused. To-day was Friday; it was quite possible that Sally Henderson
would to-morrow give her new employee an advance upon salary. But Clancy
had learned something. That something was that New York is not a place
in which to reveal one's pecuniary embarrassment. It was not that New
York was hard-hearted, Clancy decided. It was that it was a busy place,
and had no time to listen to whines. To ask an advance on salary was, in
a way, to whine. Clancy was not going to begin her relationship with
Sally Henderson on anything but a basis of independence.
So her pause before the lunch-room was only momentary. She entered it
immediately. The Trevor was only two hundred yards away, but Clancy had
only a pitiful amount of money in her pocket. That is, money that
belonged to her. Grannis's ten thousand was not hers. To whom she would
give it, she did not yet know, but she did know that she would starve
before she used any of it. It might be that Sally Henderson would pay
her a half-week's salary to-morrow. She must hope for that. But she must
not rely on it. Hence she must live leanly.
This was only her fifth day in New York. It had been her fortune to eat
at restaurants of the better class, at a private home. Now, for the
first time since her arrival from Zenith, she had opportunity to find
out what might have been, what might still be, her lot. Not that the
food in the lunch-room was particularly bad. Of its kind, it was rather
good. But there was the stain of egg upon the table-cloth; the waiter
who served her was unshaven. The dishes in which the food was served
were of the heaviest of china. And Clancy was of the sort that prefers
indifferent food well served to good food execrably presented.
She paid her check--considering that she had had only corned-beef hash
and tea and bread, she thought that sixty cents was an exorbitant
charge--tipped the waiter a dime, and trudged out into the storm again.
The snow had ceased falling, but only one so weather-wise as the
Maine-bred Clancy would have known that. For the flurries blown by the
gale had all the appearance of a continuing blizzard. Bending forward,
she made her way to Fifth Avenue, and thence south across Washington
Square. Twice, feeling very much alone in the gloom, she made detours to
avoid coming too near men whom she observed moving her way. She was yet
to learn that, considering its enormous heterogeneous population, New
York holds few dangers for the unescorted girl. And so she ran the last
few yards, and breathed with relief when the latch-key that Mrs. Gerand
had given her admitted her to the lodging-house on the south side of the
square.
In her room, her outer clothing removed, she pulled a shabby
rocking-chair to the window and looked out upon the dimly descried
trees, ghostly in their snowy habiliments. Chin on elbow, she pondered.
The wraith of Florine Ladue was laid. So she believed. And she could
find no reason to fear a resurrection. Beiner, who knew her, could
recognize her as Florine Ladue, was dead. So was Fanchon DeLisle. Zenda,
Grannis, Weber, and the others of the poker-party at Zenda's knew that
she called herself "Florine." But it was quite a distance from knowing
that a young woman had named herself Florine to proof that the same
young woman's last name was Ladue, and that she had visited Morris
Beiner's office. Of course--and Clancy's brows knitted at the
thought--if there were any legal trouble over the Weber-Zenda-Grannis
matter and she testified in court, and Vandervent or Spofford or some
other of the district attorney's office heard or saw testimony which
involved the fact that she'd used the name "Florine," that person would
do some thinking, would wonder how much jesting had been behind her
announcement of herself under the name of the woman wanted for the
Beiner murder. In that case----
What about that case? Oddly enough--yet not so oddly, after all, when
one considers that Clancy was only twenty years of age--up to now she
had given a great deal of thought to her predicament and practically
none to the real way out of it. She marveled at herself.
Why in that case, she'd be in desperate danger, as great danger as she
had been in just before she picked up the paper in Vandervent's
anteroom, and the only way out of that danger, without lasting disgrace
at the least, would be the production of the real murderer of Morris
Beiner.
The real murderer! She drew in her breath with a whistle.
Beiner had been killed; she was suspected. These were facts, and the
only facts that she had reckoned with. But the greater fact, though up
to now ignored by her, was that _somebody_ had killed Beiner. Some one
had entered the man's office and slain him, probably as he lay
unconscious on the floor. That _somebody_ was foot-loose now, perhaps in
New York, free from suspicion.
She straightened up, alert, nervous. Suddenly, horror--a horror which
fear had managed to keep from her till now--assailed her. _A murderer!_
And free! Free to commit other murders! She started as a knock sounded
upon the door. And, queerly, she didn't think of the police; she thought
of the murderer of Beiner. It was with difficulty that she mastered
herself sufficiently to answer the knock.
It was Mrs. Gerand. Miss Deane was wanted on the telephone. It was not a
moment when Clancy wished to talk to any one. She wished to be alone, to
study upon this new problem--the problem that should have been in her
mind these past three days but that had only popped into it now. But the
telephone issued commands that just now she dared not disobey. It might
be Grannis or Vandervent. She ran down-stairs ahead of Mrs. Gerand. A
booming voice, recognition of which came to her at once, greeted her.
"Hello!"
"Miss Deane? This is Judge Walbrough speaking."
"Oh, how do you do?" said Clancy. In her relief, she was extremely
enthusiastic.
The deep voice at the other end of the wire chuckled.
"You know the meaning of the word 'palaver,' don't you, young woman? The
happy way you speak, any one'd think I was a gay young blade like David
Randall or Vandervent instead of an old fogy."
"'Old fogy!' Why, Judge Walbrough!"
Clancy's tone was rebuking, politely incredulous, amused--everything, in
short, that a young girl's voice should be when a man just passing
middle age terms himself "old." Walbrough chuckled again.
"Oh, it's a great gift. Miss Deane; never lose it. The young men don't
matter. Any girl can catch one of them. But to catch the oldsters like
myself--oldsters who know that they can't catch you--that takes genius,
Miss Deane."
Clancy laughed.
"Please don't flatter me, Judge. Because, you know, I _believe_ you,
and----"
"Sh," said Walbrough. As he uttered the warning, his voice became almost
a roar. "The jealous woman might overhear us; she is listening in the
next room now----"
There was the sound of a scuffle; then came to Clancy's ears the softer
voice of Mrs. Walbrough.
"Miss Deane, the senile person who just spoke to you is absurd enough to
think that if an old couple--I mean an old man and his young wife--asked
you, you'd probably break an engagement with some dashing bachelor and
sit with us at the opera."
"I don't know the senile person to whom you refer," retorted Clancy,
"but if you and the judge would like me to go, I'd love to, even though
I have no engagement to break."
"We won't insist on the breaking, then. Will you run over and dine with
us?"
Clancy was astonished. Then she remembered that she had dined rather
early at the Broadway lunch-room. It really wasn't more than six-thirty
now. People like the Walbroughs, of course, didn't dine until after
seven, possibly until eight.
"I won't do that," she answered. "I'd intended to go to bed--it's such a
terrible night. And I ate before I came home--but I'd love to come and
sit with you," she finished impulsively.
There was something warm, motherly in the older woman's reply.
"And we'd love to have you, Miss Deane. I'll send the car around right
away."
Clancy shrugged as she surveyed again her meager wardrobe. But the
Walbroughs must know that she lived in a lodging-house--she supposed
that they'd obtained her telephone-number and address from Sophie
Carey--and the fact that she didn't possess a gorgeous evening gown
wouldn't mean much to them, she hoped. And believed, too. For they were
most human persons, even if they did, according to Sophie Carey, matter
a lot in New York.
Mrs. Gerand was quite breathless when she announced to Clancy, half an
hour after the telephone-call, that a big limousine was calling for the
newest Gerand lodger. Clancy was already dressed in the pretty foulard
that was her only evening frock. Mrs. Gerand solicitously helped her on
with her shabby blue coat. Her voice was lowered in awe as she asked:
"It ain't _the_ Walbroughs, is it? The chauffeur said, 'Judge
Walbrough's car;' but not _the_ judge, is it?"
"Are there two of them?" laughed Clancy.
Mrs. Gerand shook her head.
"Not that I ever heard of, Miss Deane. But--gee, you got swell friends,
ain't you?"
Clancy laughed again.
"Have I?"
"I'll say you have," said Mrs. Gerand.
* * * * *
The Walbrough home was on Murray Hill, though Clancy didn't know at the
time that the section of the city directly south of the Grand Central
Station was so named. It was not a new house, and it looked as though it
was lived in--something that cannot always be said of New York homes,
whether in apartment-buildings or in single houses. It was homey in the
sense that the houses in Zenith were homey. And, even though a colored
man in evening clothes opened the front door, and though a colored maid
relieved Clancy of her coat, Clancy felt, from the moment that she
passed the threshold, that she was in a _home_.
Her host met her at the top of a flight of stairs. His great hands
enveloped hers. They drew her toward him. Before she knew it, he had
kissed her. And Clancy did the thing that made two admiring
acquaintances adoring friends for life. She kissed the judge warmly in
return. For Mrs. Walbrough was standing a trifle behind the judge,
although Clancy hadn't seen her. She came forward now, wringing her
hands with a would-be pathetic expression on her face.
"I can't trust the man a moment, Miss Deane. And, to make it worse, I
find that I can't trust you." She drew Clancy close to her. She, too,
kissed the girl, and found the kiss returned.
"Why shouldn't I kiss him?" demanded Clancy. "He brags so much, I wanted
to find out if he knew how."
"Does he?" asked Mrs. Walbrough.
Clancy's eyes twinkled.
"Well, you see," she answered, "I'm not really a judge myself."
The judge exploded in a huge guffaw.
"With eyes like hers, Irish gray eyes, why shouldn't she have wit? Tell
me, Miss Deane: You have Irish blood in you?"
"My first name is Clancy," replied the girl.
"Enough," said the judge. He heaved a great mock sigh. "Now, if only
Martha would catch a convenient cold or headache----"
Mrs. Walbrough tapped him with an ostrich-plume fan.
"Tom, Miss Deane is our guest. Please stop annoying her. The suggestion
that she should spend an hour alone with you must be horrifying to any
young lady. Come."
The judge gave an arm to each of the ladies, and they walked, with much
stateliness on the part of the judge, to a dining-room that opened off
the landing at the head of the stairs.
Clancy felt happier than she had deemed it possible for her to be.
Perhaps the judge's humor was a little crude; perhaps it was even
stupid. But to be with two people who so evidently liked her, and who
so patently adored each other, was to partake of their happiness, no
matter how desperate her own fears.
Dinner passed quickly enough, and Clancy found out that she had an
appetite, after all. The judge and his wife showed no undue interest in
her. Clancy would have sworn that they knew nothing about her when
dinner ended and they started for the opera. She did not know that,
before he went upon the bench, Judge Walbrough had been the cleverest
cross-examiner at the bar, and that all through dinner he had been
verifying his first estimate of her character. For the Walbroughs, as
she was later to learn, did not "pick up" every lovely young female whom
they chanced to meet and admire. A happy couple, they still were lonely
at times--lonely for the sound of younger voices.
And the significant glance that the judge cast at his wife at the end of
the dinner went unnoticed by Clancy. She did not know that they had
passed upon her and found her worth while.
And with this friendly couple she heard her first opera. It was "Manon,"
and Farrar sang. From the beginning to the tragic dénouement, Clancy was
held enthralled. She was different from the average country girl who
attends the opera. She was not at all interested in the persons, though
they were personages, who were in the boxes. She was interested in the
singers, and in them only. She had never heard great music before, save
from a phonograph. She made a mental vow that she would hear more
again--soon.