NELSON WHITNEY pushed the door of R. H. Oliver's office open quickly
and stepped within with an air of stealthy triumph. He looked around
furtively with keen eyes, half fearful at what he might see.
But there was no one there but an elderly girl taking off her hat and
coat at the back of the room. She hung them on a couple of pegs in a
shadowy corner, patted her hair into prim shape before a small mirror,
and put a last dab of powder on a thin angular nose. He paused and
watched her uncertainly.
"Is Mr. Oliver in yet?" he asked as she turned inquiringly and came
toward him, her folded gloves and a large flat purse in her hand.
"Oh, no!" she said with a tang of amusement in her voice that set him
down for a country ninny. She glanced at the clock. "He never gets down
before half past if he does then."
Whitney cast a quick searching gaze around the room once more, as if
perchance the girl he sought might be hiding somewhere in the shadows.
"Mind if I wait here?" he asked, ignoring the contempt in the girl's
voice.
"Help yourself," said the girl in a chilly tone.
She unlocked the desk, and slung a typewriter out into the open from
some hidden recess, laid her pocketbook and gloves in a drawer, took
out a dust cloth and proceeded to polish her desk and clean her
typewriter. She had the appearance of not even remembering that the
young man existed. Presently she began to hum a jazzy little radio tune
to further shut him out of her immediate circle.
This just suited Whitney. He deliberately took in every corner of the
room, the beautiful furniture and the rich Oriental rug, and selected
a shadowy alcove behind the main door, facing toward the windows on
the other side of the room. It was a dark little corner, gloomy in
fact, the alcove being formed by the ground glass partition of an inner
office that ran out from the main wall ten feet and then down to the
back of the room. The angle of these walls would partly hide him, even
from the girl at her desk which stood well out in the middle of the
room. The gloom of the corner would not call attention to his presence.
He drew a carved walnut chair into the right position to give him a
view of the room and yet not bring him into notice and sat down. After
a calm minute or two, he unfurled a morning paper which he could not
possibly have read to advantage in the dim light, and prepared to hide
behind it at the approach of footsteps. Surely he ought to be able to
remain incognito here, for a while at least till matters developed,
seeing that none of the people who were likely to have a part in the
little drama about to be played had the slightest idea that he was in
that part of the country. They would scarcely recognize his shoes and
trousers, nor his hands, and that was all that the paper and the gloom
would reveal. He would just sit quietly here and see what happened.
The secretary finished her morning cleaning and began typing some
letters. The minutes ticked slowly by on the magnificent mahogany
grandfather clock that stood six feet against the opposite wall between
the two high windows. Nelson Whitney began to tell himself that he was
a fool, and had come on a fool's errand. Probably nobody would come at
all that he expected. Probably the morning would go by, and the man
Oliver would arrive and he wouldn't even know him from any other man,
let alone knowing what to say to him.
For the next five minutes he busied himself planning what errand he
might possibly have for visiting an unknown man in his office. A
perusal of the ground glass door into the hall did not help him. It
bore over Oliver's name the legend "Ransom, Oliver, Bates and Company"
nothing more. He did not know whether they sold bonds or automobiles
or insurance. They might be almost anything. There wasn't a scratch of
anything in the room that he could see that would give the slightest
clue. There was nothing on the wall within his vision but a framed
etching of old New York.
What should he do? Should he say he was waiting for friends who were
to meet him there? Should he tell the man when he arrived that he must
have come to the wrong address? It seemed that he would appear a fool
in almost anything he might say, yet he held his ground and sat behind
his paper trying to frame a reasonable excuse for his presence. He
decided that he might perhaps ask if the man wanted to employ a helper.
There was Jack Rector at home who was crazy to get a job in New York.
Yet what kind of a job would this be? Something that could be sold?
Jack would make a keen young salesman.
The minutes dragged on. The secretary typed incessantly and paid no
more attention to him than if he had been an empty chair. The room was
as still as an empty cell, sealed from the roar and rumble of the city
noises.
Nelson Whitney was still pondering possibilities when there came at
last the clang of an elevator, and steps, leisurely steps, outside the
door. His heart stood still and then leaped forward in great bounds for
it was a woman's step. Had the moment arrived at last? And if his girl
should see him, how would she take it? Would she think he, too, was in
league against her and be angry? He withdrew still further into the
depths of his paper, and the door swung open and admitted a lady.
The secretary jumped up, all smiles.
"Oh, good morning Mrs. Oliver! Aren't you downtown early? Didn't Mr.
Oliver come with you? I thought he was expecting to be in the office
this morning. There are some checks for him to sign."
Whitney lowered his paper and saw a woman about forty years old, a
sweet-faced woman with a lovely smile, and faultlessly dressed.
"Good morning, Miss Flinch," she said pleasantly. "Why, no, Mr. Oliver
and Katharine came down earlier. Hasn't he come yet? He said he would
surely be here by this time. I expected to find him in his office hard
at work, or else ready to chide me for being ten minutes later than I
promised. I was waiting for Gloria. She was to drive back with the car
and get me, but she telephoned that they had a flat tire, and she would
meet me here. Hasn't she come yet either?"
"No, Mrs. Oliver. But I guess they'll be here presently," assured the
secretary.
"Of course," said the lady. "Well, I'll just step into Mr. Oliver's
office and write a note. I was afraid I wouldn't have time to write it
at home, but it really ought to go."
The secretary smiled and the lady retreated through the ground glass
door of the inner office. The typewriter clicked on.
The clang of the elevator was becoming more frequent now, and there
were more and more footsteps going down the marble corridor. Whitney
scarcely realized that the hall door had opened again until he heard a
woman's clear voice speaking to the secretary.
"Has Mr. Oliver come in yet?"
"No," said the secretary severely.
"How soon do you expect him?"
"Almost any time now," said his keeper ungraciously. "Did you have an
appointment?"
"No," said the woman, "but he knows me well."
"He's very busy this morning," interrupted the secretary. "He's been
away for three weeks and there are a lot of things for him to attend
to. I don't know if he'll have time to see anybody," and she cast a
belligerent look toward the newspaper and the legs over in the gloomy
alcove.
"Don't worry," said the dominant voice of Mrs. Dunlap pleasantly, "I
shall not keep him a second. I merely want him to endorse a check for
me. I'm a personal friend. I'll just wait till he comes."
The secretary looked as if she thought that was a doubtful statement,
but she assented silently and went on typing.
Whitney wondered what there was about that voice that reminded him of
something recent? He lowered his paper and shot a glance at the woman
and then he saw there was another with her, a quiet, shrinking woman
with gray hair, and a sweet profile that he had known all his life. And
the other one was the woman that had been calling on Mrs. Sheldon when
he went to see Marguerite!
Well, at least he would not have to search for them. They were here.
Now, what should he do? Reveal himself to them at once and try to
make some plan? But no—there were more footsteps coming that way,
and the clang of the elevator continually now. It would not do to be
caught saying good morning to them if Marguerite should walk in. And
besides—just what should he say how explain his presence there? Should
he confess that he had read a letter that was not intended for his
eyes? Strange he had not remembered to think that all out and have some
plan. He had had all night to plan it and he had not done it.
The two women had stood hesitating a moment by the desk, but Mrs.
Dunlap went into action as Whitney stole a glance over his paper.
"Let's sit over here by the window," she said in a tone as if she were
quite at home.
She went to the corner she had indicated and whirled the chairs about
so that they would face away from the room, and put their occupants
with their backs toward anyone entering. But Mrs. Sheldon did not
follow immediately. She lingered hesitantly by the desk an instant
longer, a worried wistful look in her sweet eyes.
"My—daughter—hasn't come in yet, has she?" she hazarded. "She was
to—that is, she was expecting—I mean we expected to meet her here."
She glanced apologetically toward her companion, and then back
wistfully to the secretary.
"Nobody been in this morning but that man," said the secretary still
ungraciously, indicating with a sweep of her capable white hand the
legs in the alcove surmounted by the newspaper.
Daisy's mother gave a quick frightened glance toward the alcove without
realizing that those legs had often been a familiar sight in her house.
She retreated half frightened to the chair Mrs. Dunlap smilingly
offered, and the two women sank down quietly with two magazines that
Mrs. Dunlap produced from the window seat. Again the click of the
typewriter was the only sound that was heard.
The postman came in presently and left a great stack of mail which gave
the secretary a rest from her typing while she went resolutely through
the letters, sorting them into piles.
There were many footsteps going down the corridor now, and the three
whose hearts were listening for a certain step, could not be certain at
all. The mother started nervously whenever any one approached the door.
The elevator was clanging incessantly. Presently a nervous step came
down the corridor, almost breathlessly, as if the owner had hurried,
then hesitated a moment in front of the door. The knob turned, slowly,
almost timidly.
Somehow Whitney knew that step—knew in his heart that she had come
at last, and felt the horror that would be in her white face as she
discovered the name she had come to disprove shining golden in the
noonday light. The paper in his hand trembled and he dared to peer
around it at the little white frightened, almost belligerent face of
the girl he loved.
She stood in the doorway for an instant and swept the room with her
glance, not carefully for she was too nervous, and she was not looking
for people from home. Whitney was at one side, almost behind her now,
for she was standing in the middle of the room wide-eyed, and she had
scarcely noticed the backs of the two women shrinking into their chairs
in the window corner earnestly reading magazines.
She went straight up to the desk and her voice trembled a little as she
asked her questions.
"Is this Mr. R. H. Oliver's office?"
Miss Flinch surveyed her impersonally before she nodded.
"May I see him at once?" asked Marguerite, growing more certain of
herself now, and speaking excitedly.
"He isn't here yet."
"Not here?" the little catch in Marguerite's voice could be heard
around the room. "How soon will he be in? I've got to catch a Western
train and there's only three quarters of an hour."
"I can't say when he'll be in," said the secretary regarding her
indifferently. "It might be in five minutes, it might be half an hour."
"But you're sure he is coming? This morning?"
"Positive," said the laconic secretary. "His wife's in the private
office waiting for him now. There's all these people waiting to see
him, and he's awfully busy besides. He's got to sign a lot of letters
and meet two men at one o'clock, and he's taking his wife and children
off for a holiday. If that isn't a full day, I don't know where you
come in. But you can sit down and wait if you think there's any chance
for you."
"Oh, I won't keep him but an instant. If I can just see him!"
The secretary waved her to a chair.
"You'll have to take your turn," she warned her.
Marguerite cast a swift appraising glance around the room, at the two
huddled figures in the chairs by the window, two oldish backs upon whom
her glance scarcely rested and a pair of gentlemanly legs surmounted by
a newspaper. Strangers in a land that was strange to her, what could
they mean to her but hindrances to her completed race? It was hours
later than she had meant to be, and she ought to get out of New York,
and away to seek her beloved.
She knew that her mother would presently stir up something. She was not
a woman to lie idly by and see her only daughter lost in the world,
with an undesirable marriage in the offing. She would presently set
something going somehow to hinder. Her mother was never balked when
the welfare of one beloved was concerned. She simply must get a train
right away as soon as she had seen this man. Of course he would not be
the right one. Of course that lying Mrs. Dunlap had merely given the
name of some one she knew as a bluff to gain her point. And as soon as
she laid eyes on the man and saw he was not anyone she had ever seen
before, she would apologize pleasantly, say she must have the wrong
address, and depart.
While she was dressing she had remembered a way to find Rufus. She
would get that minister friend of his that was to have married them, on
the long distance telephone, and find out how best to reach him. The
rest would be easy of course. Then she would get away from New York as
fast as possible, somewhere, anywhere, it didn't matter much, just a
little way, so she could not be traced, and then get off and telephone
Rufus. She would plan to meet him wherever he said and be married at
once. Perhaps she might even suggest this to the minister friend of
his when she found the address, just say they were going to be married
at once, that all difficulties had been cleared away or something like
that.
How fortunate it was that she remembered the name and address of that
minister so well. She had watched Rufus writing out the telegram as he
argued, and he had written Rev. Lee Spencer, D.D. so beautifully. He
had a wonderful, bold way of writing that thrilled her to watch, it
seemed so masterful!
All these thoughts went racing through Marguerite's mind as she dropped
into a chair near the desk facing the entrance, her eyes glued to the
door that she might get the first glimpse of the man as he entered.
Mrs. Dunlap half leaned over toward Mrs. Sheldon to whisper, and then
thought better of it. They exchanged lifted eyebrows, and a question
stood in their eyes for an instant. Then suddenly a quick eager young
step came rushing down the corridor. The door opened with a rush and
closed with a bang as a slim pretty girl entered panting as if she had
run up several flights of stairs.
"Oh, Miss Flinch," she gasped, "has Daddy come yet? I've simply ruined
myself running up all the stairs. I couldn't wait for the elevator. I
was afraid Dad and Mother wouldn't wait for me. Oh hasn't he come yet?
Oh, I'm glad! But Muth is here isn't she? I thought she would be. I
telephoned her I had a flat tire, and I had to leave the tiresome old
car in a garage away uptown, and walk three blocks to get a bus, and
then it didn't come forever and an age. The bus service in this town is
the limit isn't it? Did you say Muth was here?"
"Yes, Miss Gloria, she came half an hour ago. She's in your father's
office writing a letter."
"Oh, I know. She said it simply had to go or she couldn't go with
us. You know, Miss Flinch, it's her birthday, and Daddy came home
especially for it. We're going off on a spree. Daddy won't tell us
where, but we're going in the new car, and it's to be a surprise party
for us all. Muth doesn't even know which way we are taking.
"But I can't think what's keeping Daddy and Katharine. You know, Miss
Flinch," Gloria lowered her voice with a glance toward the ground glass
partition, "they've gone to get her present. She doesn't know a thing
about it of course. Katharine picked it out weeks ago and she and I
had it put away till Daddy would get back. We knew he'd love it for
her, and I know it's just what she wants. It's a platinum wristwatch
and bracelet with diamonds and sapphires all set around the edge. Oh,
it's perfectly darling. She'll show it to you of course. But I'm just
dying to see what she says when he gives it to her. Oh, dear! Why don't
they come? I do hope there isn't some stupid old mistake. Perhaps some
dumbbell of a salesman has sold it to someone else. Wouldn't that
simply be unbearable? Perhaps they've had to hunt around for another.
But I never saw any as precious as this one."
"I wouldn't worry, Miss Gloria," said the secretary fondly. "They've
likely been delayed in traffic. There! There's the elevator! Maybe
they're coming now. Yes, I think that's Mr. Oliver's step."
"Oh, it is, it is! The day is saved," cried Gloria tragically.
The door opened and another very pretty girl scarcely older than the
first entered, and behind her a gentleman.
"There! Daddy! You're late yourself. I've won the bet and you've got
to pay up! A five-pound box of chocolates! Remember! You promised! And
a new pair of slippers for the party! Muth and I've been here a long
time—and I had a flat tire, too, and a lot of trouble."
The gentleman stepped in and closed the door, gave a quick glance at
the legs and the newspaper in the alcove, another toward the window
where huddled the two women, and then faced toward the desk where
for the instant his two daughters had so grouped themselves as to
completely hide the white-faced girl from his vision.
Gloria boomed forth again:
"Now, Daddy, you've simply got to come into the office and show it to
her at once. I can't wait another second. I'm dying to see what she
thinks of it. Come on in now before Miss Flinch gets you into a lot of
tiresome checks and letters you have to sign. Come on, Daddy it won't
take long, and then Muth can enjoy it while she waits."
Gloria caught his hands and pulled him toward the door of the inner
office, and Katharine moved to follow, when suddenly the man saw the
white-faced girl. She had risen from her seat, and exclaimed eagerly,
pleadingly, as if somehow the sight of her eyes, the hearing of her
ears had deceived her, and this was some horrible dream which would
presently be explained:
"Rufus! Oh Rufus—I've come—!"
The man turned ashen color, and looked as if he were going to drop.
He stopped where he stood, apparently unable to move further, feebly
drawing his hands away from the eager girls who kept trying to draw him
on.
"Go! Go!" he said to them in a voice that sounded more like a croak.
"Go to your mother! I'll come in a moment!"
There was something in his voice that made the girls obey, though
reluctantly.
"What is the matter now?" murmured Gloria, impatiently. "Didn't you get
it? Didn't he like it, Kath?"
"Yes, and he's crazy about it. I'm sure I don't know what's the matter.
Some tiresome old business probably. It's always that way."
As the inner door closed on them, Gloria's perplexed voice asked:
"What did that girl mean 'Rufus'?"