"I didn't see him. Guernsey told him where you were. Guernsey is an ass!
As if you'd have a brother almost fifty."
"What? I haven't any brother," cried Clancy.
"Lucky girl. When they weren't borrowing your money, they'd be getting
you to help them out of scrapes or mind your sister-in-law's babies.
Sorry. If you're frightened----"
"'Frightened?' Why?" demanded Clancy.
"Well, Guernsey told him where you were, and the man left here
apparently headed for you."
Clancy's forehead wrinkled.
"What did he look like?" she asked.
"Oh, Guernsey couldn't describe him very well. Said he wore a mustache
that looked dyed, and was short and stocky. That's all."
"Some mistake," said Clancy.
"Perhaps," said Miss Henderson dryly. "Anyway, you needn't let him in.
Might be somebody from Zenith who wanted to borrow money."
"Probably," said Clancy.
"Getting ahead with the work?"
"Checking up the inventory now," said Clancy.
"All right; take your time."
And Miss Henderson hung up.
Once again, Clancy sat upon the stairs. Spofford had distinctly said
that one of his men had followed Clancy down to this house. The
description that Guernsey had given fitted Spofford exactly.
Spofford, then, not one of his men, had trailed Clancy down here. Why
did he lie? Also, he must have known quite clearly who were the
occupants of this house. Why had he expressed a certain surprise when
Clancy had told him? He had said that, while he had been waiting
outside, Garland had come out. But why had Spofford been waiting
outside? Why hadn't he come right up and rung the door-bell? Could this
delay have been because he knew that Garland was inside the house, and
because he did not wish to encounter him? But how could he have known
that Garland was inside with Carey? Well, that was easily answered. He
might have arrived just as Garland was entering the house.
But there were other puzzling matters. Why had Spofford been so long in
recollecting that Don Carey had roused the suspicions of the police
because of the office he had maintained in the Heberworth Building?
Apparently, it had only occurred to him at the end of his rather long
conversation with Clancy.
Hadn't Spofford been a little too ingenuous? Could it be that he had
some slight suspicion of Don Carey? As a matter of fact, looking at the
matter as dispassionately as she could, hadn't Spofford dropped a strong
circumstantial case against Clancy Deane on rather slight cause? Against
the evidence of her presence in Beiner's office and her flight from the
Napoli, Spofford had pitted his own alleged knowledge of human nature.
Because Clancy had delayed flight until Wednesday, Spofford had decided
that she was innocent. She didn't believe it.
It had all been convincing when Spofford had said it. But now, in view
of the fact that she had detected in his apparent sincerity one untruth,
she wondered how many others there might be.
Would fear of the Vandervent and Walbrough influence cause him to drop
the trail of a woman whom he believed to be a murderess? No, she
decided; it would not. Then why had he dropped the belief in her guilt
that had animated his actions yesterday?
The answer came clearly to her. Because he felt that he had evidence
against some one else. Against Carey? She wondered. If against Carey,
why had he gone in search of Clancy at Sally Henderson's office?
But she could answer that. He wanted to hear her story. Finding that she
was at the very moment in Don Carey's house had been chance,
coincidence. He had known that Garland had not come here to see her; he
had known that Garland had come to see Carey. How much did he know? What
_was_ there to know?
Her brain became dizzy. Spofford had certainly not ceased to question
the Heberworth Building elevator-man when the man had identified Clancy.
Spofford had cunning, at the very lowest estimate of his mental ability.
He would have cross-examined Garland. The man might have dropped some
hint tying up Carey to the murder. She began to feel that Spofford was
not entirely through with her.
There was a way, an almost certain way, now, though, to end her
connection with the affair. If she told Philip Vandervent or Judge
Walbrough the threat that she had heard Garland utter, the elevator-man
would be under examination within a few hours.
Did she want that? Certainly not, just yet. She knew what scandal meant.
She doubted if even Sophie Carey, with her apparently unchallenged
artistic and social position, could live down the scandal of being the
wife of a man accused of murder. She must be fair to Sophie. Indeed, if
she were to live up to her own code--it was a code that demanded much
but gave more--she must be more than fair to her. Sophie had gotten her
work, had dressed her up. She did not like being under obligation to
Mrs. Carey. But, having accepted so much, repayment must be made. It
would be a shoddy requital of Sophie's generosity for Clancy Deane to
run to the police and repeat the threats of a blackmailer.
How did she know that those threats were founded upon any truth? She had
heard Garland say that Carey had possessed a key to Beiner's office; she
had seen the expression of fright upon Carey's face as Garland made the
charge. But fear didn't necessarily imply guilt. Clancy Deane had been a
pretty scared young lady several times during the past week, and she was
innocent. Don Carey might be just as guiltless.
Of course, Judge Walbrough and his wife had been unbelievably friendly,
Vandervent had shown a chivalry that--Clancy sighed slightly--might mask
something more personal. _Noblesse oblige._ But her first obligation was
to Sophie Carey. Until her debts were settled to Sophie she need not
consider the payment of others. Especially if the payment of those
others meant betrayal of Sophie. And an accusation against her husband
was, according to Clancy's lights, no less than that.
And so she couldn't make it. There was nothing to prevent her, though,
from endeavoring to discover whether or not Don Carey were guilty. If he
were--Clancy would pass that bridge when she came to it.
Meantime, she was supposed to be earning a salary of fifty dollars a
week. A few minutes ago, she had told Sally Henderson that she had begun
checking up the Carey household effects. She had not meant to deceive
her employer. She'd work very hard to make up for the delay that her own
affairs had caused.
The Careys' house was not "cluttered up," despite the artistic nature of
its mistress. Clancy, who knew what good housekeeping meant--in Zenith,
a dusty room means a soiled soul--pursed her lips with admiration as she
passed from room to room. Two hours she spent, checking Sophie Carey's
list. Then she let herself out of the house, locked the front door
carefully behind her, and walked over to Sixth Avenue, into the
restaurant where she had met Sophie Carey last Thursday morning.
Only that long ago! It was incredible. Whimsically ordering chicken
salad, rolls, tea, and pastry, Clancy considered the past few days. It
was the first time that she had been able to dwell upon them with any
feeling of humor. Now, her analysis of Spofford's words, more than the
words themselves, having given her confidence, she looked backward.
She wondered, had always wondered, exactly what was meant by the
statement that certain people had "lived." She knew that many summer
visitors from the great cities looked down upon the natives of Zenith
and were not chary of their opinions to the effect that people merely
existed in Zenith.
Yet she wondered if any of these supercilious ones had "lived" as much
as had Clancy Deane in the last week. She doubted it. Life, in the
_argot_ of the cosmopolitan, meant more than breathing, eating,
drinking, and sleeping. It meant experiencing sensation. Well, she had
experienced a-plenty, as a Zenither would have said.
From what had meant wealth to her she had dropped to real poverty, to a
bewilderment as to the source of to-morrow's dinner. From the quiet of a
country town she had been tossed into a moving maze of metropolitan
mystery. She, who had envied boys who dared to raid orchards, jealous of
their fearlessness of pursuing farmers, had defied a police force, the
press----
And she'd _liked_ it! This was the amazing thing that she discovered
about herself. Not once could she remember having regretted her
ambitions that had brought her to New York; not a single time had she
wished herself back in Zenith. With scandal, jail, even worse, perhaps,
waiting her, she'd not weakened.
Once only had she been tempted to flee the city, and then she'd not even
thought of going back to Zenith. And she knew perfectly well that had
Spofford failed to visit her this morning, and had some super-person
guaranteed her against all molestation if she would but return to her
Maine home, she would have refused scornfully.
Perhaps, she argued with herself, it was too much to say that she'd
enjoyed these experiences, but--she was glad she'd had them. Life
hereafter might become a monotonous round of renting furnished
apartments and houses; she'd have this week of thrills to look back
upon.
She ate her salad hungrily. Paying her check, she walked to Eighth
Street and took the street car to Sally Henderson's office. She learned
that Judge Walbrough had telephoned once during the forenoon and left a
message--which must have been cryptic to Sally Henderson--to the effect
that he had met the enemy and they were his.
Clancy assumed that Philip Vandervent had seen Spofford and that the man
had told of his visit to Clancy. She wished that Vandervent hadn't told
the judge; she'd have liked to surprise him with the news that Spofford,
the one person of all the police whom she dreaded, had called off the
chase. Oddly, she assumed that the judge and his wife would be as
thrilled over anything happening to her as if it had happened to
themselves. This very assumption that people were interested in her,
loved her, might have been one of the reasons that they were and did.
But it is futile to attempt analysis of charm.
She spent the afternoon with Miss Conover, the dressmaker. Business was
temporarily slack with Sally Henderson. Until the effects of the
blizzard had worn off, not so many persons would go house-hunting. And
the kindly interior decorator insisted that Clancy yield herself to Miss
Conover's ministrations.
Clancy had an eye for clothes. Although nothing had been completed, of
course, she could tell, even in their unfinished state, that she was
going to be dressed as she had never, in Zenith, dreamed. Heaven alone
knew what it would all cost, but what woman cares what clothing cost?
Clancy would have starved to obtain these garments. It is fashionable to
jibe at the girl who lunches on a chocolate soda in order that she may
dine in a silk dress. "She puts everything on her back," her plain
sisters say. But understanding persons respect the girl. While marriage,
for the mass, remains a market-place, she does well who best displays
the thing she has for sale.
It was a delightful afternoon, even though Miss Conover lost her good
nature as her back began to ache from so much bending and kneeling.
Clancy went down Fifth Avenue toward the Walbroughs' home walking, not
on snow, but on air.
Philip Vandervent had been attracted to her when he saw her in a
borrowed frock. When he beheld her in one that fitted her perfectly,
without the adventitious aid of pins---- Her smile was most adorable as
she looked up at the judge, waiting for her at the head of the stairs.
Quite naturally she held up her mouth to be kissed. Clancy unconsciously
knew how to win and retain love. It is not done by kisses alone, but
kisses play their delightful part. She had never granted them to young
men; she had rarely withheld them from dear old men.