Randall released Clancy's hand. He laughed embarrassedly.
"You _looked_ glad," he said.
Clancy's hand fell limply to her side. A moment ago, her hand-clasp
would have been firm, vital, a thing to thrill the young man. But now,
although that protection he might give was most desirable, she could not
respond to its presence.
For she was caught. Spofford, across the street, staring menacingly over
at her, had been too swift for her. Yet, trapped though she was, she
managed to look away from the attaché of the district attorney's office.
She met Randall's eyes.
"I _am_ glad," she said. As though to prove her words, she raised her
hand and offered it again to Randall.
He took it. Holding it, he turned and stared over his shoulder. Spofford
was still standing across the street; his companion was nodding his
head. It seemed as though, sensing some threat in Randall's stare, they
stood a little closer together. Something of that surly defiance that is
the city detective's most outstanding trait seeped across the street.
Clancy felt it. She wondered whether or not Randall did.
But he said nothing. With an air of proprietorship that was comforting,
he drew her hand through his bended arm and started guiding her through
the drifts.
Dully, Clancy permitted herself to be led. She wondered, almost
apathetically, if Spofford would halt them. Well, what difference would
it make? For a moment, she was vaguely interested in Randall's possible
attitude. Would he knock the man down?
Then, as they reached the two men, Randall stopped. His big right arm
moved backward; Clancy almost swung with it, back out of a possible
fracas.
"I thought summer-time was your hunting-season," said Randall.
Spofford eyed him sullenly.
"Who you talkin' to?" he demanded.
"Why, to you," said Randall. "I thought that all you old gentlemen with
dyed whiskers and toupées did your work in the pleasant months." He
half-wheeled and pointed west. "Know what's over that way? I'll tell
you--Jefferson Market. And the least that they give a masher is ten days
on the Island. That is, after he gets out of the hospital." He paused,
stared at Spofford a moment, then added "It's your move."
Spofford's red face bore a deeper color. But he met Randall's stare
calmly. Slowly he turned back the lapel of his jacket, affording a
glimpse of a nickel badge.
"Take a slant at that, friend," he advised. "I ain't mashin'; I'm
'tendin' to my business. Suppose," he finished truculently, "you 'tend
to yours."
Clancy, hanging on Randall's arm, felt his biceps tighten. But her
precarious position would not be improved by an attack upon Spofford.
She made her gripping fingers dig deeper. She felt the biceps soften.
Then, as she waited for Spofford to announce that she was under arrest,
the blue-coated man with the outthrust lower lip moved aside. She gave
Randall no time for digestion of the queer situation. Her fingers now
impelled him forward, and in a moment they were in the hall of Mrs.
Gerand's lodging-house.
She left him there while she went up-stairs. Clancy would have stopped
the procession to the death-house to powder her nose. And why not? Men
light a cigarette; women arrange their hair. Either act, calling for a
certain concentration, settles the nerves.
But Clancy's nerves were not to be settled this morning. Even though
Spofford had not arrested her, his presence with the elevator-man from
the Heberworth Building meant only one thing. He had not believed her
explanation of her visit to Philip Vandervent's office, and, acting upon
that disbelief, had produced, for purposes of identification, a man who
had seen Beiner's mysterious woman visitor last Tuesday afternoon.
Arrest was a mere matter of time, Clancy supposed.
Panicky, she peeped through the window, flattening her nose against the
pane. Outside, across the street now, was Spofford. She was quite
certain that his roving eyes sought her out, found her, and that his
mean mouth opened in an exultant laugh.
She shrugged--the hopeless shrug of the condemned. She could only wait.
Flight was useless. If Spofford suspected flight, he would not hesitate,
she felt, to arrest her. She could visualize what had happened since she
had entered the house. Spofford had told his witness to telephone for
instructions. She knew vaguely that warrants were necessary, that
certain informations and beliefs must be sworn to. How soon before a
uniformed man-- She almost ran down-stairs to Randall.
He was not in the hall, but she found him in the parlor. He was sitting
down, his wide shoulders hunched together, his forehead frowning. She
knew that he was thinking of the man outside, the man with the truculent
lower lip, who wore a detective's shield pinned inside his coat lapel.
Somehow, although, he had been willing to strike a blow for her a few
minutes ago, it seemed to her that he had lost his combativeness, that
the eyes which he lifted to her were uneasy.
Yet the smile that came to his lips was cheering. He moved over slightly
on the old-fashioned sofa on which he was sitting. Clancy took the hint;
she sat down beside him.
"Suppose you were surprised to see me so soon again?" he asked. The
banal question told Clancy that he intended to ignore the incident of
Spofford. She was surprised--and vaguely indignant. Yet the indignation
was not noticeable as she returned his smile.
"'Surprised?' I was thinking of you when I met you," she told him. "Of
course I was surprised, but----"
"You were thinking of me?" He seemed to forget Spofford.
"Why not? Does one forget in twenty-four hours a man who has proposed?"
"There are degrees of forgetfulness," he said.
Clancy held her right hand before her. She spread its fingers wide. With
the index-finger of her left hand, she began counting off, beginning
with the right thumb.
"Absolute zero of forgetfulness. M-m-m--no; not that." She touched her
right forefinger. "Freezing-point--no; not that." She completely forgot,
in the always delightful tactics of flirtation, the man lurking outside.
She paused.
"Please continue," pleaded Randall.
"Oh, I wouldn't want to," she told him. "You see, one finally reaches
the boiling-point, which isn't forgetfulness at all, and--why are you in
New York?" she suddenly demanded.
"Train reached Albany hours late--account of the snow. I had time to
think it over, and--what's business when a lady beckons."
"Did I beckon?" she asked demurely. "I thought that I pointed."
"You did," he agreed. "But pointing is vulgar, and I knew that you
couldn't be that."
She grinned--the irrepressible Clancy grin that told of the merry heart
within her.
"Did you return to New York to apologize for thinking me vulgar," she
inquired. Randall had never been so near to winning her admiration. She
liked him, of course, thought him trustworthy, dependable, and safe, the
possessor of all those qualities which women respect in sons, fathers,
brothers, and husbands, but not in suitors. But, for the first time
since she had met him--not so long ago, as age reckons, but long enough
as youth knows time--he was showing a lightness of touch. He wasn't
witty, but, to Clancy, he seemed so, and the soul of wit is not so much
its brevity as it is its audience. He seemed witty, for the moment, to
Clancy. And so, admirable.
But the lightness left him as quickly as it had come. He shook his head
gravely.
"I had time to think it over," he said again. "And--Miss Deane, if I
could fall in love with you in a week, so could other men."
"Are you proposing again?" she demanded.
His shoulders were broad; they could carry for two. He was kindly; she
forgot that, a moment ago, he hadn't seemed combative. She liked him
better than she had. And then, even as she was admiring and liking him,
she became conscious that he was restless, uneasy. Instinctively, she
knew that it was not because of his love for her; it was because of the
man outside.
That she could let Randall leave this house without some sort of
explanation of Spofford's queer manner had never been in her thoughts.
She knew that Randall would demand an explanation. She knew that he had
been conscious of her fright at sight of Spofford.
"'Proposing again,'" echoed Randall. "Why--you know----"
She cut into his speech. She wasted no time.
"That man outside! Do you know why he's watching me?"
"_Is_ he watching you?" Randall's surprise was palpably assumed. It
annoyed Clancy.
"You know that he is!" she cried. "Aren't you curious?"
Randall breathed heavily. He sat bolt upright.
"I want you to know, Miss Deane, that it doesn't matter a bit to me.
Whatever you may have done, I am sure that you can explain."
At any other time, Clancy would have flamed fire at his tone. Into his
speech had entered a certain stiltedness, a priggishness, almost, that
would have roused all the rage of which she was capable. And as she
would be able to love greatly, so would she be able--temporarily--to
hate. But now she was intent on self; she had no thought to spare for
Randall--save in so far as he might aid her.
"'Explain?'" Her voice almost broke. "It's--it's pretty hard to explain
murder, isn't it?"
Randall's lower jaw hung down.
"'Murder!' You--you're joking, Miss Deane!" Yet, somehow, Clancy knew
that he knew that she was not joking.
"I'm not joking. He--he thinks that I killed Morris Beiner."
"Murder! Morris Beiner!" he gasped.
"You've read about it. I'm the woman! The one that ran down the
fire-escape, that the police want!"
Slowly Randall digested it. Once again he gasped the word:
"Murder!"
"Goodness me!" Clancy became New England in her expression. "What else
did you think it was?"
"Why--I supposed--something--I didn't know--murder! That's absurd!"
"You seem relieved," she said. He puzzled her.
"Well, of course," he said.
"I don't see why."
"Well, you _couldn't_ have committed murder," he replied, with an air of
having uttered explanation of his relief.
"I wish the police could think so!" she cried.
"'Think so?' I'll make them think so. I'll tell that chap out there----"
"But it won't do any good!" cried Clancy. Her cry was almost a wail.
Once before she had practically confessed, then withdrawn her
confession. Now she could not withdraw. Words rushed from her as from a
broken water-main. But, because she was Clancy Deane, they were not
words of exculpation, or of apology. They were the facts. Silently
Randall heard them through. Then he spoke slowly.
"Any jury in the world would believe you," he said.
"But I don't want to tell it to any jury!" screamed Clancy.
"Why--why--the disgrace--I--I----"
Confession is always dramatic, and the dramatic is emotional. The tears
welled in her eyes. Through the blur of tears, Randall seemed bigger,
sturdier than ever. She reached out her arms toward him.
"You asked me to marry you!" she cried. "I--I--would you want to marry
me now?"
Randall smiled.
"You know it," he said. "Just as soon as this affair is fixed up, we'll
be married, and----" He rose and took her hands in his. Quite
unaccountably, Clancy released her hands.
"Fix it up? It _can't_ be fixed up," she said.
"Well, we can try," said Randall. "I'll call in this man outside----" He
hesitated. "Judge Walbrough has been mighty nice to you, hasn't he?
Suppose I get him on the telephone?"
He didn't wait for Clancy to reply. He walked briskly from the room and
she heard him at the telephone. She didn't listen to what he said. She
walked to the window. Spofford was still outside. What right had he to
act upon his own responsibility? Why hadn't the word of Philip
Vandervent been enough for him?
She turned as Randall entered the room.
"The telephone is out of order," he said. "I think I'd better run up to
the Walbroughs' house and get him."
"And leave me here!" cried Clancy.
Randall shrugged.
"I'm afraid that man wouldn't let you go with me."
"He may come in here and arrest me," she said.
He shook his head.
"I don't think so. And, if he does, Walbrough and I'll be right down
after you. You'd better let me go."
She made no further protest. Suddenly, unaccountably, she wanted him to
go.