she caused him to shave off the seven locks of his head.' Well, I'll be
hanged!" exclaimed Tutt. "Now, I would have staked a thousand dollars on
it. But look here, you don't win! Delilah did cut Samson's hair--through
her agent. '_Qui facit per alium facit per se!_'"
"Your point is overruled," said Mr. Tutt. "A barber cut Samson's hair.
Let it be a lesson to you never to take anything on hearsay. Always look
up your authorities yourself. Moreover"--and he looked severely at
Tutt--"the cerebral fluid--like malt extract--tends to become cloudy
with age."
"Well, anyhow, I'm no Samson," protested Tutt. "And I haven't met anyone
that looked like a Delilah. I guess after the procession of
adventuresses that have trailed through this office in the last twenty
years I'm reasonably safe."
"No man is safe," meditated Mr. Tutt. "For the reason that no man knows
the power of expansion of his heart. He thinks it's reached its
limit--and then he finds to his horror or his delight that it hasn't. To
put it another way, a man's capacity to love may be likened to a
thermometer. At twenty-five or thirty he meets some young person, falls
in love with her, thinks his amatory thermometer has reached the
boiling-point and accordingly marries her. In point of fact it
hasn't--it's only marking summer heat--hasn't even registered the
temperature of the blood. Well, he goes merrily on life's way and some
fine day another lady breezes by, and this safe and sane citizen, who
supposes his capacity for affection was reached in early youth, suddenly
discovers to his amazement that his mercury is on the jump and presently
that his old thermometer has blown its top off."
"Very interesting, Mr. Tutt," observed Tutt after a moment's silence.
"You seem to have made something of a study of these things."
"Only in a business way--only in a business way!" Mr. Tutt assured him.
"Now, if you're feeling stale--and we all are apt to get that way this
time of year--why don't you take a run down to Atlantic City?"
Now Tutt would have liked to go to Atlantic City could he have gone by
himself, but the idea of taking Abigail along robbed the idea of its
attraction. She had got more than ever on his nerves of late. But his
reply, whatever it might have been, was interrupted by the announcement
of Miss Wiggin, who entered at that moment, that a lady wished to see
him.
"She asked for Mr. Tutt," explained Minerva.
"But I think her case is more in your line," and she nodded to Tutt.
"Good looking?" inquired Tutt roguishly.
"Very," returned Miss Wiggin. "A blonde."
"Thanks," answered Tutt, smoothing his hair; "I'm on my way."
Now this free, almost vulgar manner of speech was in reality foreign to
both Tutt and Miss Wiggin and it was born of the instant, due doubtless
to some peculiar juxtaposition of astral bodies in Cupid's horoscope
unknown to them, but which none the less had its influence. Strange
things happen on the eve of St. Agnes and on Midsummer Night--even in
law offices.
Mrs. Allison was sitting by the window in Tutt's office when he came in,
and for a full minute he paused upon the threshold while she pretended
she did not know that he was there. The deluge of sunlight that fell
upon her face betrayed no crack or wrinkle--no flaw of any kind--in the
white marble of its perfection. It was indeed a lovely face, classic in
the chiseling of its transparent alabaster; and when she turned, her
eyes were like misty lakes of blue. Bar none, she was the most beautiful
creature--and there had been many--that had ever wandered into the
offices of Tutt & Tutt. He sought for a word. "Wonderful"; that was, it,
she was "wonderful." His stale spirit soared in ecstasy, and left him
tongue-tied. In vulgar parlance he was rattled to death, this
commonplace little lawyer who for a score of years had dealt cynically
with the loves and lives of the flock of female butterflies who
fluttered annually in and out of the office. Throughout that period he
had sat unemotionally behind his desk and listened in an aloof, cold,
professional manner to the stories of their wrongs as they sobbed or
hissed them forth. Wise little lawyer that he was, he had regarded them
all as just what they were and nothing else--specimens of the Cecropia.
And he had not even patted them upon the shoulder or squeezed their
hands when he had bade them good-by--maintaining always an impersonal
and dignified demeanor.
Therefore he was surprised to hear himself say in soothing, almost
cooing tones:
"Well, my dear, what can I do for you?"
Shades of Abigail! "Well, my dear!" Tutt--Tutt! Tutt!
"I am in great trouble," faltered Mrs. Allison, gazing in misty
helplessness out of her blue grottoes at him while her beautiful red
lips trembled.
"I hope I can help you!" he breathed. "Tell me all about it! Take your
time. May I relieve you of your wrap?"
She wriggled out of it gratefully and he saw for the first time the
round, slender pillar of her neck. What a head she had--in its nimbus of
hazy gold. What a figure! His forty-eight-year-old lawyer's heart
trembled under its heavy layer of half-calf dust. He found difficulty in
articulating. He stammered, staring at her most shamelessly both of
which symptoms she did not notice. She was used to them in the other
sex. Tutt did not know what was the matter with him. He had in fact
entered upon that phase at which the wise man, be he old or young, turns
and runs.
But Tutt did not run. In legal phrase he stopped, looked and listened,
experiencing a curious feeling of expansion. This enchanting creature
transmuted the dingy office lined with its rows of calfskin bindings
into a golden grot in which he stood spellbound by the low murmur of her
voice. A sense of infinite leisure emanated from her--a subtle denial of
the ordinary responsibilities--very relaxing and delightful to Tutt. But
what twitched his very heartstrings was the dimple that came and went
with that pathetic little twisted smile of hers.
"I came to you," said Mrs. Allison, "because I knew you were both kind
and clever."
Tutt smiled sweetly.
"Kind, perhaps--not clever!" he beamed.
"Why, everyone says you are one of the cleverest lawyers in New York,"
she protested. Then, raising her innocent China-blue eyes to his she
murmured, "And I so need kindness!"
Tutt's breast swelled with an emotion which he was forced to admit was
not altogether avuncular--that curious sentimental mixture that
middle-aged men feel of paternal pity, Platonic tenderness and
protectiveness, together with all those other euphemistic synonyms, that
make them eager to assist the weak and fragile, to try to educate and
elevate, and particularly to find out just how weak, fragile, uneducated
and unelevated a helpless lady may be. But in spite of his half century
of experience Tutt's knowledge of these things was purely vicarious. He
could have told another man when to run, but he didn't know when to run
himself. He could have saved another, himself he could not save--at any
rate from Mrs. Allison.
He had never seen anyone like her. He pulled his chair a little nearer.
She was so slender, so supple, so--what was it?--svelte! And she had an
air of childish dignity that appealed to him tremendously. There was
nothing, he assured himself, of the vamp about her at all.
"I only want to get my rights," she said, tremulously. "I'm nearly out
of my mind. I don't know what to do or where to turn!"
"Is there"--he forced himself to utter the word with difficulty--"a--a
man involved?"
She flushed and bowed her head sadly, and instantly a poignant rage
possessed him.
"A man I trusted absolutely," she replied in a low voice.
"His name?"
"Winthrop Oaklander."
Tutt gasped audibly, for the name was that of one of Manhattan's most
distinguished families, the founder of which had swapped glass beads and
red-flannel shirts with the aborigines for what was now the most
precious water frontage in the world--and moreover, Mrs. Allison
informed Tutt, he was a clergyman.
"I don't wonder you're surprised!" agreed Mrs. Allison.
"Why--I--I'm--not surprised at all!" prevaricated Tutt, at the same time
groping for his silk handkerchief. "You don't mean to say you've got a
case against this man Oaklander!"
"I have indeed!" she retorted with firmly compressed lips. "That is, if
it is what you call a case for a man to promise to marry a woman and
then in the end refuse to do so."
"Of course it is!" answered Tutt. "But why on earth wouldn't he?"
"He found out I had been divorced," she explained. "Up to that time
everything had been lovely. You see he thought I was a widow."
"Ah!"
Mr. Tutt experienced another pang of resentment against mankind in
general.
"I had a leading part in one of the season's successes on Broadway," she
continued miserably. "But when Mr. Oaklander promised to marry me I left
the stage; and now--I have nothing!"
"Poor child!" sighed Tutt.
He would have liked to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he
always kept the door into the outer office open on principle.
"You know, Mr. Oaklander is the pastor of St. Lukes-Over-the-Way," said
Mrs. Allison. "I thought that maybe rather than have any publicity he
might do a little something for me."
"I suppose you've got something in the way of evidence, haven't you?
Letters or photographs or something?" inquired Tutt, reverting
absent-mindedly to his more professional manner.
"No," she answered. "We never wrote to one another. And when we went out
it was usually in the evening. I don't suppose half a dozen people have
ever seen us together."
"That's awkward!" meditated Tutt, "if he denies it."
"Of course he will deny it!"
"You can't tell. He may not."
"Oh, yes, he will! Why, he even refuses to admit that he ever met me!"
declared Mrs. Allison indignantly.
Now, to Tutt's credit be it said that neither at this point nor at any
other did any suspicion of Mrs. Allison's sincerity enter his mind. For
the first time in his professional existence he accepted what a lady
client told him at its face value. Indeed he felt that no one, not even
a clergyman, could help loving so miraculous a woman, or that loving her
one could refrain from marrying her save for some religious or other
permanent obstacle He was sublimely, ecstatically happy in the mere
thought that he, Tutt, might be of help to such a celestial being, and
he desired no reward other than the privilege of being her willing slave
and of reading her gratitude in those melting, misty eyes.
Mrs. Allison went away just before lunch time, leaving her telephone
number, her handkerchief, a pungent odor of violet talc, and a
disconsolate but highly excited Tutt. Never, at any rate within twenty
years, had he felt so young. Life seemed tinged with every color of the
spectrum. The radiant fact was that he would--he simply had to--see her
again. What he might do for her professionally--all that aspect of the
affair was shoved far into the background of his mind. His only thought
was how to get her back into his office at the earliest possible moment.
"Shall I enter the lady's name in the address book?" inquired Miss
Wiggin coldly as he went out to get a bite of lunch.
Tutt hesitated.
"Mrs. Georgie Allison is her name," he said in a detached sort of way.
"Address?"
Tutt felt in his waistcoat pocket.
"By George!" he muttered, "I didn't take it. But her telephone number is
Lincoln Square 9187."
To chronicle the details of Tutt's second blooming would be needlessly
to derogate from the dignity of the history of Tutt & Tutt. There is a
silly season in the life of everyone--even of every lawyer--who can call
himself a man, and out of such silliness comes the gravity of knowledge.
Tutt found it necessary for his new client to come to the office almost
every day, and as she usually arrived about the noon hour what was more
natural than that he should invite her out to lunch? Twice he walked
home with her. The telephone was busy constantly. And the only thorn in
the rose of Tutt's delirious happiness was the fear lest Abigail might
discover something. The thought gave him many an anxious hour, cost him
several sleepless nights. At times this nervousness about his wife
almost exceeded the delight of having Mrs. Allison for a friend. Yet
each day he became on more and more cordial terms with her, and the
lunches became longer and more intimate.
The Reverend Winthrop Oaklander gave no sign of life, however. The
customary barrage of legal letters had been laid down, but without
eliciting any response. The Reverend Winthrop must be a wise one, opined
Tutt, and he began to have a hearty contempt as well as hatred for his
quarry. The first letter had been the usual vague hint that the
clergyman might and probably would find it to his advantage to call at
the offices of Tutt & Tutt, and so on. The Reverend Winthrop, however
did not seem to care to secure said advantage whatever it might be. The
second epistle gave the name of the client and proposed a friendly
discussion of her affairs. No reply. The third hinted at legal
proceedings. Total silence. The fourth demanded ten thousand dollars
damages and threatened immediate suit.
In answer to this last appeared the Reverend Winthrop himself. He was a
fine-looking young chap with a clear eye--almost as blue as
Georgie's--and a skin even pinker than hers, and he stood six feet five
in his Oxfords and his fist looked to Tutt as big as a coconut.
"Are you the blackmailer who's been writing me those letters?" he
demanded, springing into Tutt's office. "If you are, let me tell you
something. You've got hold of the wrong monkey. I've been dealing with
fellows of your variety ever since I got out of the seminary. I don't
know the lady you pretend to represent, and I never heard of her. If I
get any more letters from you I'll go down and lay the case before the
district attorney; and if he doesn't put you in jail I'll come up here
and knock your head off. Understand? Good day!"
At any other period in his existence Tutt could not have failed to be
impressed with the honesty of this husky exponent of the church
militant, but he was drugged as by the drowsy mandragora. The blatant
defiance of this muscular preacher outraged him. This canting hypocrite,
this wolf in priest's clothing must be brought to book. But how? Mrs.
Allison had admitted the literal truth when she had told him that there
were no letters, no photographs. There was no use commencing an action
for breach of promise if there was no evidence to support it. And once
the papers were filed their bolt would have been shot. Some way must be
devised whereby the Reverend Winthrop Oaklander could be made to
perceive that Tutt & Tutt meant business, and--equally imperative
--whereby Georgie would be impressed with the fact that not
for nothing had she come to them--that is, to him--for help.
The fact of the matter was that the whole thing had become rather
hysterical. Tutt, though having nothing seriously to reproach himself
with, was constantly haunted by a sense of being rather ridiculous and
doing something behind his wife's back. He told himself that his
Platonic regard for Georgie was a noble thing and did him honor, but it
was an honor which he preferred to wear as an entirely private
decoration. He was conscious of being laughed at by Willie and Scraggs
and disapproved of by Miss Wiggin, who was very snippy to him. And in
addition there was the omnipresent horror of having Abigail unearth his
philandering. He now not only thought of Mrs. Allison as Georgie but
addressed her thus, and there was quite a tidy little bill at the
florist's for flowers that he had sent her. In one respect only did he
exhibit even the most elementary caution--he wrote and signed all his
letters to her himself upon the typewriter, and filed copies in the
safe.
"So there we are!" he sighed as he gave to Mrs. Allison a somewhat
expurgated, or rather emasculated version of the Reverend Winthrop's
visit. "We have got to hand him something hot or make up our minds to
surrender. In a word we have got to scare him--Georgie."
And then it was that, like the apocryphal mosquito, the Fat and Skinny
Club justified its attempted existence. For the indefatigable Sorg made
an unheralded reappearance in the outer office and insisted upon seeing
Tutt, loudly asserting that he had reason to believe that if a new
application were now made to another judge--whom he knew--it would be
more favorably received. Tutt went to the doorway and stood there
barring the entrance and expostulating with him.
"All right!" shouted Sorg. "All right! I hear you! But don't tell me
that a man named Solomon Swackhamer can change his name to Phillips
Brooks Vanderbilt and in the same breath a reputable body of citizens be
denied the right to call themselves what they please!"
"He don't understand!" explained Tutt to Georgie, who had listened with
wide, dreamy eyes. "He don't appreciate the difference between doing a
thing as an individual and as a group."
"What thing?"
"Why, taking a name."
"I don't get you," said Georgie.
"Sorg wanted to call his crowd the Fat and Skinny Club, and the court
wouldn't let him--thought it was silly."
"Well?"
"But he could have called himself Mr. Fat or Mr. Skinny or Mr. Anything
Else without having to ask anybody--Oh, I say!"
Tutt had stiffened into sculpture.
"What is it?" demanded Georgie fascinated.
"I've got an idea," he cried. "You can call yourself anything you like.
Why not call yourself Mrs. Winthrop Oaklander?"
"But what good would that do?" she asked vaguely.
"Look here!" directed Tutt. "This is the surest thing you know! Just go
up to the Biltmore and register as Mrs. Winthrop Oaklander. You have a
perfect legal right to do it. You could call yourself Mrs. Julius Caesar
if you wanted to. Take a room and stay there until our young Christian
soldier offers you a suitable inducement to move along. Even if you're
violating the law somehow his first attempt to make trouble for you will
bring about the very publicity he is anxious to avoid. Why, it's
marvelous--and absolutely safe? They can't touch you. He'll come across
inside of two hours. If he doesn't a word to the reporters will start
things in the right direction."
For a moment Mrs. Allison looked puzzled. Then her beautiful face broke
into an enthusiastic classic smile and she laid her little hand softly
on his arm.
"What a clever boy you are--Sammy!"
A subdued snigger came from the direction of the desk usually occupied
by William. Tutt flushed. It was one thing to call Mrs. Allison
"Georgie" in private and another to have her "Sammy" him within hearing
of the office force. And just then Miss Wiggin passed by with her nose
slightly in the air.
"What a perfectly wonderful idea!" went on Mrs. Allison rapturously. "A
perfectly wonderful idea!"
Then she smiled a strange, mysterious, significant smile that almost
tore Tutt's heart out by the roots.
"Listen, Sammy," she whispered, with a new light in those beautiful
eyes. "I want five thousand dollars."
"Five?" repeated Tutt simply. "I thought you wanted ten thousand!"
"Only five from you, Sammy!"
"Me!" he gagged.
"You--dearest!"
Tutt turned blazing hot; then cold, dizzy and sea-sick. His sight was
slightly blurred. Slowly he groped for the door and closed it
cautiously.
"What--are--you--talking about?" he choked, though he knew perfectly
well.
Georgie had thrown herself back in the leather chair by his desk and had
opened her gold mesh-bag.
"About five thousand dollars," she replied with the careful enunciation
of a New England school-mistress.
"What five thousand dollars?"
"The five you're going to hand me before I leave this office, Sammy
darling," she retorted dazzlingly.
Tutt's head swam and he sank weakly into his swivel chair. It was
incredible that he, a veteran of the criminal bar, should have been so
tricked. Instantly, as when a reagent is injected into a retort of
chemicals and a precipitate is formed leaving the previously cloudy
liquid like crystal, Tutt's addled brain cleared. He was caught! The
victim of his own asininity. He dared not look at this woman who had
wound him thus round her finger, innocent as he was of any wrongdoing;
he was ashamed to think of his wife.
"My Lord!" he murmured, realizing for the first time the depth of his
weakness.
"Oh, it isn't as bad as that!" she laughed. "Remember you were going to
charge Oaklander ten thousand. This costs you only five. Special rates
for physicians and lawyers!"
"And suppose I don't choose to give it to you?" he asked.
"Listen here, you funny little man!" she answered in caressing tones
that made him writhe. "You'd stand for twenty if I insisted on it. Oh,
don't jump! I'm not going to. You're getting off easy--too easy. But I
want to stay on good terms with you. I may need you sometime in my
business. Your certified check for five thousand dollars--and I leave
you."
She struck a match and started to light a tiny gold-tipped cigarette.
"Don't!" he gasped. "Not in the office."
"Do I get the five thousand?"
He ground his teeth, not yet willing to concede defeat.
"You silly old bird!" she said. "Do you know how many times you've had
me down here in your office in the last three weeks? Fifteen. How many
times you've taken me out to lunch? Ten. How often you've called me on
the telephone? Eighty-nine How many times you've sent me flowers?
Twelve. How many letters you've written me? Eleven! Oh, I realize
they're typewritten, but a photograph enlargement would show they were
typed in your office. Every typewriter has its own individuality, you
know. Your clerks and office boy have heard me call you Sammy. Why,
every time you've moved with me beside you someone has seen you. That's
enough, isn't it? But now, on top of all that, you go and hand me
exactly what I need on a gold plate."
He gazed at her stupidly.
"Why, if now you don't give me that check I shall simply go up to the
Biltmore and register as Mrs. Samuel Tutt. I shall take a room and stay
there until you offer me a proper inducement to move on." She giggled
delightedly. "It's marvelous--absolutely safe," she quoted. "They can't
touch me. You'll come across inside of two hours. If you don't a word to
the reporters will start things in the right direction."
"Don't!" he groaned. "I must have been crazy. That was simply
blackmail!"
"That's exactly what it was!" she agreed. "There aren't any letters
except these typewritten ones, or photographs, or any evidence at all,
but you're going to give me five thousand dollars just the same. Just so
that your wife won't know what a silly old fool you've been. Where's
your check book, Sam?"
Tutt pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and slowly removed his
personal check book. With his fountain pen in his hand he paused and
looked at her.
"Rather than give you another cent I'd stand the gaff," he remarked
defiantly.
"I know it," she answered. "I looked you up before I came here the first
time. You are good for exactly five thousand dollars."
Tutt filled out the check to cash and sent Willie across the street to
the bank to have it certified. The sun was just sinking over the Jersey
shore beyond the Statue of Liberty and the surface of the harbor
undulated like iridescent watered silk. The clouds were torn into
golden-purple rents, and the air was so clear that one could look down
the Narrows far out to the open sea. Standing there by the window Mrs.
Allison looked as innocently beautiful as the day Tutt had first beheld
her. After all, he thought, perhaps the experience had been worth the
money.
Something of the same thought may have occurred to the lady, for as she
took the check and carefully examined the certification she remarked
with a distinct access of cordiality: "Really, Sammy, you're quite a
nice little man. I rather like you."
Tutt stood after she had gone watching the sunset until the west was
only a mass of leaden shadows Then, strangely relieved, he took his hat
and started out of the office. Somewhat to his surprise he found Miss
Wiggin still at her desk.
"By the way," she remarked casually as he passed her, "what shall I
charge that check to? The one you just drew to cash for five thousand
dollars?"
"Charge it to life insurance," he said shortly.