MR. ROBERT AND A CERTAIN PARTY
We was havin' a directors' meetin'. Get that, do you? _We_, you know!
For nowadays, as private sec. and actin' head of Mutual Funding, I
crashes into all sorts of confidential pow-wows. Uh-huh! Right in where
they put a crimp in the surplus and make plots to slip things over on
the Commerce Board! Oh my, yes! I'm gettin' almost respectable enough to
be indicted.
Well, we'd just pared the dividend on common and was about breakin' up
the session when Mr. Robert misses some figures on export clearances
he'd had made up and was pawin' about on the table aimless.
"Didn't I see you stowin' that away in one of your desk pigeonholes
yesterday?" I suggests.
"By George!" says he. "Think you could find it for me, Torchy? And, by
the way, bring along my cigarettes too. You will find them in a leather
case somewhere about."
I locates the export notes first stab; but the dope sticks ain't in
sight. I claws through the whole top of the desk before I fin'lly
discovers, shoved clear into a corner, a thin old blue morocco affair
with a gold catch. By the time I gets back he's smokin' a borrowed brand
and tosses the case one side.
Half an hour later the meetin' is over. Mr. Robert sighs relieved,
bunches up a lot of papers in front of him, and begins feelin'
absent-minded in his pockets. Seein' which I pushes the leather case at
him.
"Ah, yes, thanks," says he, and snaps it open careless.
But no neat little row of paper pipes shows up. Inside is nothing but a
picture, one of these dinky portraits on ivory--mini'tures, ain't they?
It shows a young lady with a perky chin and kind of a quizzin' look in
her eyes: not a reg'lar front row pippin', you know, but a fairly good
looker of the highbrow type.
For a second Mr. Robert stares at the portrait foolish, and then he
glances up quick to see if I'm watchin'. As it happens, I am, and blamed
if he don't tint up over it!
"Excuse," says I. "Only leather case I could find. Besides, I didn't
know you had any such souvenirs as this on your desk."
He chuckles throaty. "Nor I," says he. "That is, I'd almost forgotten.
You see----"
"I see," says I. "She's one of the discards, eh?"
Sort of jolts him, that does. "Eh?" says he. "A discard? No, no!
I--er--I suppose, if I must confess, Torchy, that I am one of hers."
"Gwan!" says I. "You? Look like a discard, don't you? Tush, tush!"
The idea of him tryin' to feed that to me! Why, say, I expect there
ain't half a dozen bachelors in town that's rated any higher on the
eligible list than Mr. Bob Ellins. It's no dark secret, either. I've
heard of whole summer campaigns bein' planned just to land Mr. Robert,
of house parties made up special to give some fair young queen a chance
at him, and of one enterprisin' young widow that chased him up for two
seasons before she quit.
How he's been able to dodge the net so long has puzzled more than me,
and up to date I'd never had a hint that there was such a thing for him
as a certain party. So I expect I was gawpin' some curious at the
picture.
"Huh!" says I, but more or less to myself.
"Not intending any adverse criticism of the young lady, I trust?"
remarks Mr. Robert.
"Far be it from me!" says I. "Only--well, maybe the paintin' don't do
her justice."
"Rather discreetly phrased, that," says he, chucklin' quiet. "Thank you,
Torchy. And you are quite right. No mere painter ever could do her full
justice. While the likeness is excellent, the flesh tones much as I
remember them, yet I fancy a great deal has escaped the brush,--the
queer, quirky little smile, for instance, that used to come at times in
the mouth corners, a quick tilting of the chin as she talked, and that
trick of widening the eyes as she looked at you. China blue, I think her
eyes would be called; rather unusual eyes, in fact."
He seems to be enjoyin' the monologue; so I don't break in, but just
stands there while he gazes at the picture and holds forth enthusiastic.
Even after he's finished he still sits there starin'.
"Gee!" says I. "It ain't a hopeless case, is it, Mr. Robert?"
Which brings him out of his spell. He shrugs his shoulders, indulges in
an unconvincin' little laugh, snaps the case shut, and then tosses it
careless down onto the table.
"Perhaps you failed to notice the dust," says he. "The back part of the
bottom drawer is where that belongs, Torchy--or in the waste basket.
It's quite hopeless, you see."
"Huh!" says I as I turns to go. And this time I meant to get it across
to him.
Honest, I couldn't figure why a headliner like Mr. Robert, with all his
good bank ratin', good fam'ly, and good looks to back him, should get
the gate on any kind of a matrimonial proposition, unless it was a case
of coppin' a Princess of royal blood, and even then I'd back him to show
in the runnin'. Who was this finicky party with the willow-ware eyes,
anyway? Queen of what? Or was it wings she was demandin'?
[Illustration: "He seems to be enjoying the monologue; so I just stands
there while he gazes at the picture and holds forth enthusiastic."]
Say, I most got peeved with this unknown that had ditched Mr. Robert so
hard. All that evenin' I mulls over it, wonderin' how long ago it had
happened and if that accounted for him bein' so cagy in makin' social
dates. Not that he's what you'd call skirt-shy exactly; but I've noticed
that he's always cautious about bein' backed into a corner or paired off
with any special one.
Course, not knowin' the details of the tragedy, it wa'n't much use
speculatin'. And somehow I didn't feel like askin' for the whole story
right out. You know--there's times when you just can't. I ain't any more
curious than usual over this special case, either; but, seein' how many
good turns Mr. Robert's done for me along the only-girl line, I got to
wishin' there was some way I could sort of balance the account.
So when I stumbles across this concert folder it almost looks like a
special act, with the arrow pointin' my way. I was payin' my reg'lar
official Friday evenin' call. No, nothin' romantic. Just because Aunty's
mellowed up a bit since I'm announced proper by the front door help as
Mr. Ballard, don't get tangled up with the idea that she stands for any
dark corner twosin'. Nothin' like that! All the lights are on full
blast, Aunty's right there prominent with her crochet, and on the other
side of the table is me and Vee. And I couldn't be behavin' more
innocent if I'd been roped to the chair. All I was holdin' was a skein
of yarn. Uh-huh! You see, Vee got the knittin' habit last winter,
turnin' out stuff for the Belgians, and now she keeps right on; though
who she's goin' to wish a pink and white shawl onto in this weather is a
myst'ry.
"It's for a sufferer--isn't that enough?" says she.
"From what--chilblains on the ears?" says I.
"Silly!" says she. "There! Didn't I tell you to bend your thumbs? How
awkward!"
"Who, me?" says I. "Why, for a first attempt I thought I was puttin' up
a real classy performance. Say, lemme wind awhile, and let's see you try
this yarn-jugglin' act."
She won't, though; so it's me sittin' there playin' dummy, with my arms
held out stiff and my eyes roamin' around restless.
Which is how I happen to spot this folder with the halftone cut on it.
It's been tossed casual on the table, and the picture is wrong side to
from where I am; but even then there's something mighty familiar about
it. I wiggles around to get a better view, and lets half a dozen loops
of yarn slip off at a time.
"Stupid!" says Vee, runnin' her tongue out at me.
"Didn't I tell you you'd do better by drapin' it over a chair back?"
says I. "But say, time out while I snoop into something. Who's the girl
with the press notice stuff?" and I points an elbow at the halftone.
"That?" says she. "Oh, some concert singer, I think. Let's see.
Yes--Miss Elsa Hampton. She's to give a benefit song recital in the
Plutoria pink room for the Belgian war orphans, tickets two dollars.
Want to go?" And Vee flips the folder into my lap.
Gettin' the picture right side to, I lets out a whistle. No mistakin'
that. "Sure I want to go," says I.
"Why?" says Vee.
"Well, for one thing," says I, "she has china blue eyes that widen out
when they look at you, and a queer, quirky little smile that----"
"How thrilling!" says Vee. "You must know her very well."
"Almost that," says I. "Anyway, I know someone that did know her very
well--once."
"Oh!" says Vee, forgettin' all about the yarn windin' and hitchin' her
chair up close. "That does sound interesting. I hope it isn't a deep
secret."
"If it wa'n't," says I, "what would be the fun in tellin' it to you?"
"Goody!" says Vee. "Who is the poor man who knew her once but doesn't
any more?"
"Whisper!" says I. "It's Mr. Bob Ellins!"
"Wha-a-at!" gasps Vee. "Do you really mean it?"
I'd pulled a sensation, all right, and for the next half-hour she keeps
me busy tryin' to explain the details of a situation I hadn't more'n
half sketched out myself.
"Kept a miniature of her on his desk!" Vee rattles on. "And it hadn't
been opened for ever so long, you say? What makes you think it hadn't?"
"Dusty," says I.
"Oh!" says Vee. "Just fancy! And she must have given it to him
herself--an ivory miniature, you know. Was--was there another man, do
you think, or just some silly misunderstanding? I wonder?"
"I hadn't got in that deep," says I.
"But suppose it was," says Vee, "only a misunderstanding, wouldn't it be
lovely if we could find some way of--of--well, why don't you suggest
something?"
Did I? Say, we was plottin' so lively there for a spell, with our heads
close together, that I can't tell for a fact which it was did get the
idea first.
But, anyway, when I'm busy at the Corrugated next mornin', openin' the
first batch of mail and sortin' the junk from the important letters, I
laid the mine. All I had to do was pick out an envelope postmarked
Madison Square, ditch the art dealers' card that came in it, and
substitute this song recital folder, opened so the picture couldn't be
missed. And when I stacks the letters on Mr. Robert's desk I tucks that
one in second from the top. Some grand little strategy that, eh?
Then I keeps my ear stretched for any remarks Mr. Robert may unload when
he makes the great discovery. But, say, when you try dopin' out such a
complicated party as Mr. Bob Ellins you've tackled some deep
proposition. Nothin' emotional about him, and although I'm sittin' only
a dozen feet off, half facin' his way too, I don't get even the hint of
a smothered gasp. Couldn't even tell whether he'd seen the picture or
not, and by the time I works up an excuse to drift over by his elbow
he's halfway through the pile.
"Nothin' startlin' in the mornin' run, eh?" I throws out.
"Oh, yes," says he. "Mallory reports that those St. Louis people have
applied for another injunction. Ring up Bates, will you, and have him
call a general council of our legal staff for two-thirty?"
"Right," says I. "Er--anything else, Mr. Robert?"
He simply shakes his head and dives into another letter. At that,
though, I was lookin' for him to sound me out sooner or later on the
picture business; but the forenoon breezes by without a word. By
lunchtime I'm more twisted than ever. Had he glanced at the halftone
without recognizin' her? Or was he just keepin' mum? Not until I gets a
chance to explore the waste basket did I get any line. The folder wa'n't
there. Neither was it on his desk. And all the hints I threw out durin'
the day he don't seem to notice at all. So I didn't have much to tell
Vee over the 'phone that night.
"Couldn't get a rise out of him at all," says I.
"But you're certain Miss Hampton is the one, are you?" says she.
"If she wa'n't," says I, "why should he keep the folder?"
"That's so," says Vee. "Then--then shall we do it?"
"I'm game if you are," says I.
"All right," says she, and I hears one of them ripplin' laughs of hers
comin' over the wire. "It's to-morrow at half after three, you know."
"I'll be on hand," says I.
And, believe me, when I gets there and sees the swell mob collectin' in
the pink ballroom, I'm some pleased with myself for gettin' that hunch
to doll up in my frock coat and lavender tie. It's mostly a fluff
audience; but there's enough of a sprinklin' of Johnnies and old sports
so I don't feel too conspicuous.
Course I wa'n't lookin' forward to any treat. I ain't so strong for this
recital stuff as a rule; but I was anxious to size up the young lady
who'd thrown the harpoon into Mr. Robert so hard. Same way with Vee. So
we edges through to a front seat and waits expectant.
And, say, what fin'lly glides out on the stage and bows offhand to the
soft patter of kid gloves is only an average looker. She's simple
dressed and simple actin'. No frills about Miss Hampton at all. Why, you
might easy mistake her for one of the girl ushers!
"Pooh!" says Vee.
"Also pooh for me," says I.
More or less easy and graceful in her motions Miss Hampton is, though, I
got to admit, as she stands there chattin' with the accompanist and
lettin' them big blue eyes of hers rove careless over the crowd in
front. They ain't the stary, baby blue sort, you know. China blue
describes 'em best, I guess; and they're the calm, steady kind that it's
sort of restful and fascinatin' to watch.
Almost before we know it she's stepped to the front and started in on
the programme. Italian folk songs is what is down on the card, and she
leads off with that swingin' rollickin' piece, "Santa Lucia." You've
heard it, eh? That's some song, ain't it?
But, say, I never knew how much snap and go there was to it until I
heard Miss Hampton trill it out. Why, she just tosses up that perky chin
of hers and turns loose the catchy melody until you felt the warm waves
splashin' and saw the moonlight dancin' across the bay! I don't know
where or what this Santa Lucia thing is, but she most made me homesick
to go back there. Honest! And if you think a set of odd-shaded blue eyes
can't light up and sparkle with diff'rent expressions, you should have
seen hers. When she finishes and springs that folksy, chummy sort of
smile--well, take it from me, the hand she gets ain't any polite,
halfway, for-charity's-sake applause. They just went to it strong,
gloves or no gloves.
"Isn't she bully?" whispers Vee.
"Uh-huh!" says I. "We take back the pooh-poohs, eh?"
The next number was diff'rent, but just as good. At the finish of the
fourth a wide old dame in the middle row unpins a cluster of orchids
from her belt and aims 'em enthusiastic at the stage. Course they swats
a dignified old boy three seats beyond me back of the ear; but that
starts the floral offerings. I gets a quick nudge from Vee.
"Go on, Torchy," she whispers. "Do it now!"
We hadn't been sure first off that we'd have the nerve to carry the
thing that far; but we'd come all primed. So I yanks the tissue paper
off a dozen long-stemmed American beauts that I'd smuggled in under my
coat, Vee ties on the card, and I tosses the bunch so accurate it lands
almost on Miss Hampton's toes.
Course any paid performer would have been tickled to death to have a
crowd break loose like that; but Miss Hampton acts a bit dazed by it
all. For a second or so she stands there gazin' sort of puzzled, bitin'
her upper lip. Then she springs that quirky, good-natured smile of hers,
bows a couple of times, and proceeds to help the accompanist gather up
the flowers and stack 'em on the piano.
When she comes to our big bunch she swoops it up graceful, and is about
to pile it with the rest when her eyes must have caught the card. Just
as easy and natural as if she'd been at home, she turns it over and
reads the name.
And, say, for a minute there I thought we had bust up the show. Talk
about goin' pink! Why, you could see the strawb'rry tint spread over her
cheeks and up into her ears! Blamed if her eyes don't moisten up too,
and she sweeps over the audience with a quick nervous glance, like she
was tryin' to single someone out! She don't seem to know what to do
next. Once she turns as if she meant to beat it into the wings; but as
the applause simmers down the pianist strikes up the beginning of an
encore. So she had to stick it out.
Her voice is more or less shaky at the start; but pretty soon she
strikes her gait again and sings the last verse better than she had
before. Then comes an intermission, and when Miss Hampton appears again
she's wearin' that whole dozen roses pinned over her heart. Vee nudges
me excited when she spots it.
"See, Torchy?" says she.
"Guess we've started something, eh?" says I.
Just what it was, though, we didn't know. I didn't get cold feet either,
until the concert is all over and the folks begun swarmin' around the
stage to pass over the hot-air congratulations.
But Miss Hampton wa'n't content to stand there quiet and take 'em. She
seems to have something on her mind, and the next thing I knew she was
pikin' down the steps right towards the middle aisle.
"Gee!" says I, grabbin' Vee by the arm. "Maybe she saw who passed 'em
up. Let's do the quick exit."
We was gettin' away as fast as we could too, squirmin' through the push,
when I looks over my shoulder and discovers that Miss Hampton is almost
on our heels.
"Good-night!" says I.
Believe me, I was doin' some high-tension thinkin' about then, tryin' to
frame up an alibi, when she reaches over my shoulder and holds out her
hand to someone leanin' against a pillar. It's Mr. Robert.
"How absurd of you, Robert!" says she.
"Eh! I--I beg pardon?" I hears him gasp out.
And, say, I expect that's the first and only time I've ever seen him
good and fussed. Why, he's flyin' the scarlatina signal clear to the
back of his neck!
"The roses, you know," she goes on. "So nice of you to remember me. I--I
thought you'd forgotten. Thank you for them."
"Roses?" says he husky, starin' stupid at the bunch.
Then he turns his head a bit, and his eyes light on me, strugglin' to
slip behind a tall female party who's bein' helped into her silk wrap. I
must have looked guilty or something; for he shoots me a crisp, knowin'
glance.
"Oh, yes--the--the roses," I hears him go on. "It was silly of me,
wasn't it? I--I'll explain some time, if I may."
"Oh!" says she. "Of course you may, if they really need explaining."
Which was the last we heard, as Vee had found an openin' into the
corridor and was dashin' out panicky. You can bet I follows!
"Did--did you ever?" pants Vee as we gets out to the carriage entrance.
"Now we have done it, haven't we?"
"And I'm caught with the goods on, I guess," says I.
"Just fancy!" says she. "Mr. Robert was there all the time. I wonder
what he will----"
"Pardon me, you pair of mischief makers," says a voice behind, "but I
haven't quite decided."
It's Mr. Robert!
"Hel-lup!" says I gaspy.
"Do I understand," he goes on, "that one of my cards went with those
roses?"
"Yep," says I prompt. "Little idea of mine. I--I wanted to see what
would happen."
"Really!" says he sarcastic. "Well, I trust that my part of the
performance was quite satisfactory to you." And with that he wheels and
marches off.
"Whiffo!" says I, drawin' in a long breath. "But he is grouched for
fair, ain't he!"
All the sympathy I gets from Vee, though, is a chuckle. "Don't you
believe a word of it," says she. "Just wait!"