DOROTHY IS DISTURBED
Nothing, of course, had been seen or heard of Tavia’s bag. Mr. Schuman
himself had made the investigation, and he came to the girls personally
to tell them how extremely sorry he was. But being sorry did not help.
“I’m done for!” groaned Tavia, as they returned to their rooms at the
hotel just before luncheon. “I can’t even buy a stick of peppermint
candy to send to the kids at Dalton.”
“How about that five dollars in the bank?” asked Dorothy, suddenly
remembering Tavia’s previous and most surprising statement. “And how
did you ever come to have a bank account? Is it in the First National
of Dalton?”
There was a laugh from Tavia, a sudden flash of lingerie and the
display of a silk stocking. Then she held out to her chum a neatly
folded banknote wrapped in tissue paper.
[Illustration: THE TWO GIRLS STEPPED OUT OF THE ELEVATOR AND FOUND
GARRY KNAPP WAITING FOR THEM.
_Dorothy Dale’s Engagement_ _Page 41_
]
“First National Bank of Womankind,” she cried gaily. “I always carry it
there in case of accident—being run over, robbed, or an earthquake. But
that five dollars is all I own. Oh, dear! I wish I had stuffed the
whole roll into my stocking.”
“Don’t, Tavia! it’s not ladylike.”
“I don’t care. Pockets are out of style again,” pouted her friend.
“And, anyway, you must admit that _this_ was a stroke of genius, for I
would otherwise be without a penny.”
However, Tavia was too kind-hearted, as well as light-hearted, to allow
her loss to cloud the day for Dorothy. She was just as enthusiastic in
the afternoon in helping her friend select the goods she wished to buy
as though all the “pretties” were for herself.
They came home toward dusk, tired enough, and lay down for an
hour—“relaxing as per instructions of Lovely Lucy Larriper, the
afternoon newspaper statistician,” Tavia said.
“Why ‘statistician’?” asked Dorothy, wonderingly.
“Why! isn’t she a ‘figger’ expert?” laughed Tavia. “Now relax!”
A brisk bath followed and then, at seven, the two girls stepped out of
the elevator into the lobby of the hotel and found Garry Knapp waiting
for them. He was likewise well tubbed and scrubbed, but he did not
conform to city custom and wear evening dress. Indeed, Dorothy could
not imagine him in the black and severe habiliments of society.
“Not that his figure would not carry them well,” she thought.
“But he would somehow seem out of place. Some of his breeziness
and—and—yes!—his _nice_ kind of ‘freshness’ would be gone. That gray
business suit becomes him and so does his hat.”
But, of course, the hat was not in evidence at present. The captain of
the waiters had evidently expected this party, for he beckoned them to
a retired table the moment the trio entered the long dining-room.
“How cozy!” exclaimed Dorothy. “You must have what they call a ‘pull’
with people in authority, Mr. Knapp.”
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Why, you can get the best table in the dining-room, and this morning
you rescued us from trouble through your acquaintanceship with Mr.
Schuman.”
“The influence of the Almighty Dollar,” said Garry Knapp, briefly.
“This morning I had just spent several hundred dollars of Bob Douglass’
good money in that store. And here at this hotel Bob’s name is as good
as a gold certificate.”
“Oh, money! money!” groaned Tavia, “what crimes are committed in thy
name—and likewise, what benefits achieved! I wonder what the person who
stole it is doing with _my_ money?”
“Perhaps it was somebody who needed it more than you do,” said
Dorothy, rather quizzically.
“Can’t be such a person. And needy people seldom find money. Besides,
needy folk are always honest—in the books. I’m honest myself, and
heaven knows I’m needy!”
“Was it truly all the money you had with you?” asked Garry Knapp,
commiseratingly.
“Honest and true, black and blue, lay me down and cut me in two!”
chanted Tavia.
“All but the five dollars in the bank,” Dorothy said demurely, but with
dancing eyes.
And for once Tavia actually blushed and was silenced—for a moment.
Garry drawled:
“I wonder who did get your bag, Miss Travers? Of course, there are
always light-fingered people hanging about a store like that.”
“And the money will be put to no good use,” declared the loser,
dejectedly. “If the person finding it would only found a hospital—or
something—with it, I’d feel a lot better. But I know just what will
happen.”
“What?” asked Dorothy.
“The person who took my bag will go and blow themselves to a fancy
dinner—oh! better even than _this_ one. I only hope he or she will eat
so much that they will be sick——”
“Don’t! don’t!” begged Dorothy, stopping her ears. “You are dreadfully
mixed in your grammar.”
“Do you wonder? After having been robbed so ruthlessly?”
“But, certainly, dear,” cooed Dorothy, “your knowledge of grammar was
not in your bag, too?”
Thus they joked over Tavia’s tragedy; but all the time Dorothy’s agile
mind was working hard to scheme out a way to help her chum over this
very, very hard place.
Just at this time, however, she had to give some thought to Garry
Knapp. He took out three slips of pasteboard toward the end of the very
pleasant meal and flipped them upon the cloth.
“I took a chance,” he said, in his boyish way. “There’s a good show
down the street—kill a little time. Vaudeville and pictures. Good
seats.”
“Oh, let’s!” cried Tavia, clasping her hands.
Dorothy knew that the theatre in question was respectable enough,
although the entertainment was not of the Broadway class. But she knew,
too, that this young man from the West probably could not afford to pay
two dollars or more for a seat for an evening’s pleasure.
“Of course we’ll be delighted to go. And we’d better go at once,”
Dorothy said, without hesitation. “I’m ready. Are you, Tavia?”
“You dear!” whispered Tavia, squeezing her arm as they followed Garry
Knapp from the dining-room. “I never before knew you to be so amenable
where a young man was concerned.”
“Is that so?” drawled Dorothy, but hid her face from her friend’s sharp
eyes.
It was late, but a fine, bright, dry evening when the trio came out of
the theatre and walked slowly toward their hotel. On the block in the
middle of which the Fanuel was situated there were but few pedestrians.
As they approached the main entrance to the hotel a girl came slowly
toward them, peering, it seemed, sharply into their faces.
She was rather shabbily dressed, but was not at all an unattractive
looking girl. Dorothy noticed that her passing glance was for Garry
Knapp, not for herself or for Tavia. The young man had half dropped
behind as they approached the hotel entrance and was saying:
“I think I’ll take a brisk walk for a bit, having seen you ladies
home after a very charming evening. I feel kind of shut in after that
theatre, and want to expand my lungs.”
“Good-night, then, Mr. Knapp,” Dorothy said lightly. “And thank you for
a pleasant evening.”
“Ditto!” Tavia said, hiding a little yawn behind her gloved fingers.
The girls stepped toward the open door of the hotel. Garry Knapp
wheeled and started back the way they had come. Tavia clutched her
chum’s arm with excitement.
“Did you see that girl?”
“Why—yes,” Dorothy said wonderingly.
“Look back! Quick!”
Impelled by her chum’s tone, Dorothy turned and looked up the street.
Garry Knapp had overtaken the girl. The girl looked sidewise at
him—they could see her turn her head—and then she evidently spoke.
Garry dropped into slow step with her, and they strolled along, talking
eagerly.
“Why, he must know her!” gasped Tavia.
“Why didn’t he introduce her then?” Dorothy said shortly. “It serves me
right.”
“What serves you right?”
“For allowing you, as well as myself, to become so familiar with a
strange man.”
“Oh!” murmured Tavia, slowly. “It’s not so bad as all _that_. You’re
making a mountain out of a molehill.”
But Dorothy would not listen.