XI

When Justin came to he felt as if he had been wrapped in several layers

of flour sacking. Then, with returning consciousness, he discovered

himself to be lying in his own bed in the house on Louisburg Square,

wearing the coarse heavy clothes Deborah had given him.

Deborah! A quick glance to his left revealed her lying beside him. He

put out a reassuring hand to stroke her face, felt its plastic coating,

got out of bed in a hurry.

"Come on," he said, "let's get that stuff off of you."

She moved like a girl in a trance. Her eyes ranged from the bed itself

to the electric light on the bedside table, to the telephone, to the

carpet, to the walls--then at last to Justin.

"Don't let it throw you, honey," he told her. "Think how I felt when I

woke up in _your_ bed."

She said in a near-whisper, "But _this_--this is more wonderful than

Belvoir itself!"

"Prepare yourself for another shock, honey--a twentieth-century

bathroom. We're going to get you cleaned up."

It was like showing a child its first Christmas tree. It took Justin

a full fifteen minutes to get Deborah safely ensconced in a hot tub.

He emerged, perspiring, carrying her clothes, and deposited them on a

chair, then began to strip off his own ill-fitting garments.

He stopped in the process of disrobing, picked up the phone, dialed the

Ritz and reserved a suite. He had no intention of having Marie walk in

to find Deborah there with him.

He found the spider again in his pocket, sat down on the bed to examine

it once more. On impulse he squirted some of the remaining plastic on

his hand, picked up a lighter, ran the flame beneath it. The stuff

flamed up like benzine, blistering his palm before he could extinguish

it. Justin shook his head and tossed it onto the table, feeling more

sweat bead his forehead.

This, he decided, was one invention he was definitely going to turn

down--if he still had his job with the Ninth of Boston, come the

morning. He got out of his absurd clothes, scratched his flanks with

relief, rummaged in the wardrobe for an extra robe.

Deborah called for help. She was having difficulty getting the plastic

out of her hair. Justin stood her under the shower, soaped her head

and turned on the warm water. "We'll get you a decent shampoo at a

beautician's tomorrow, honey," he told her.

It was at that moment that Marie appeared in the doorway. She looked

at Justin, then at Deborah incredulously. She was carrying the

blue-and-white dress of the girl from Old Boston in her hand. She said,

"I was going to ask you what this was, Justin--but I see there's no

need."

Justin turned off the water, tossed the girl a towel, escorted his wife

to the bedroom, shutting the bathroom door behind them. He glanced for

the first time at the clock beside the telephone, discovered it was

past two A.M. Ortine had had his little joke--instead of returning

them to the banker's house at the moment of his first summons, he had

allowed a few hours to elapse.

"What are you smiling about?" Marie asked him sharply. "I was coming

in to tell you I met a rather fascinating friend of yours--a Mrs.

Forrester--tonight. She suggested I drop in to give you her regards

before I turned in. And here I find you...."

"Did she give you a Cuban cigarette?" Justin asked mildly.

"Don't joke--your taste is sufficiently bad as it is."

"Well," said Justin, feeling almost grateful to Ortine for forcing the

issue into the open, "I suppose it had to happen sometime. We haven't

been of much use to each other lately."

"I wouldn't exactly say that," replied Marie, sitting down and tilting

a cigarette for him to light. "After all, I wonder just how far you'd

have got without me, Charles."

"And that makes a marriage?" Justin asked sharply.

Marie shrugged disinterestedly. "There are all kinds of marriages." She

yawned, added, "Where'd you pick her up? At a servants' costume ball?"

"Not exactly," Justin told her. "Actually it's been a rather remarkable

evening."

"I bet it has!" Marie's tone was sharp. "Well, what are you going to do

about it, Charles?"

"I've already made reservations at the Ritz," he told her. "We'll both

be out of here in a few minutes. By the way, could you loan Debby

something to wear?"

She regarded him with amusement. "Do you really think I should?" she

countered. "Perhaps the maid has something. I'll go and see. The

Ritz--hmmm. Well, gather ye rosebuds and all that, sweetheart. You know

I'll have your hide for this, don't you?"

"I never for a moment doubted it," he replied.

She rose, looked as puzzled as had Ortine. Love, pure love between man

and woman, was apparently as implausible to Marie as it was to the

master of Belvoir. She said, "Charles, you know that's rather sweet.

I'll see what I can do for your little friend. Better let me have a

look at her though--just for size."

Obeying an unexpected impulse, Justin kissed his wife on the forehead

and told her, "You know, Marie, that's the nicest thing you've said

since we've been married."

"Don't crowd your luck, Charles," Marie warned. "Call out the

concubine."

Deborah emerged hesitantly, her brown hair an uncontrolled mess,

Justin's robe flopping about her. She looked at Marie, then at Justin,

said, "Is this Mistress Justin, Charles?"

One of Marie's pale eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. She looked

at Justin, shocked, then blinked groggily and managed to say, "I don't

know who's whose mistress around here but I think I have an outfit that

will fit her fairly well. And, Charles, I don't know what she's done to

her hair but I'll bring along a snood."

* * * * *

Justin was late in reaching the office the following morning. Devereux

Chandler was there ahead of him, practicing chip shots on the carpet

with his cane.

Steeled for the worst, Justin was surprised at the half-mocking grin

with which Chandler greeted him. "I don't know what you did to my niece

last night, Charles," he said, "but you've been the devil of a long

time getting to it. She was on the phone this morning, demanding I have

you fired."

"I rather expected that, Dev," said Justin. "Drink?"

"Not now," said Chandler. He sank into an armchair, looked at Justin

quizzically. "I don't know what got into you, but then I don't know how

you could stand Marie this long. She's used you for all you were worth."

"That's not quite her story," said Justin, sitting on a corner of his

desk. "She seems to think that without you and her connection with you

I'd be counting change in a teller's cage out in Melrose."

"Possibly--but we'd be the losers, Charles," Chandler told him. "I

don't like to crowd your business hours but I thought it only proper to

set your mind at rest."

"Thanks--I appreciate it," said Justin.

There was a long, rather awkward pause. Then Chandler cleared his

throat and said, "I suppose Marie will trap Jack Fellowes next. Too

bad--he's not a bad apple."

"There are worse around."

Chandler stood up, cut at the carpet with his cane. He remarked without

looking up, "From what Marie tells me you seem to have come up with

a rather remarkable young woman. You wouldn't mind telling me how it

happened?"

"If I hadn't decided to turn in early," said Justin, "and if I hadn't

used a certain mental device to go back to sleep after you woke me

up with your call from the party...." He stopped and shook his head

helplessly. "You wouldn't believe me if I did explain it."

"Eh? Well, probably not--but I hope you'll ask me around for a drink

when you get settled."

"You'll be the very first," Justin assured him warmly.

Henri Dubois was ushered in shortly after Devereux Chandler left. This

time he came alone. Justin asked him where Miss Forrester was as he got

his visitor seated. Dubois replied, "She had to go away this morning on

a long trip."

"A very fascinating woman," said Justin, lighting a smoke. Then, "Mr.

Dubois, I can't offer any assurance that we'll be able to give you and

your movement the backing you want. But I can tell you this--I shall do

everything in my power to see that you get it."

Henri Dubois extended a warm hand across the desk, said, "Mr. Justin,

that's good enough for me."

Justin left early that afternoon. With his job safe and Dubois taken

care of there was nothing to keep him at his desk. He paused briefly

by the entrance to the Park Street Subway station to eye the vast

expanse of the modern city and compare it with the snowbound panorama

he had viewed from almost the same spot a few hours--or was it two

centuries?--earlier.

It seemed strangely like the dream he had, for awhile, believed it to

be. But Deborah was awaiting him at the Ritz. He began to walk faster.

So it hadn't been a dream at all. And, perhaps, he really had saved

the world from a savage and sudden retrogression from which it could

scarcely have recovered. He had had to lose his sanity to do it--for no

man in love is sane, he told himself.

But Deborah was awaiting him at the Ritz.

He crossed Charles Street, entered the Public Gardens. And it occurred

to him that perhaps he hadn't outwitted Ortine. Perhaps his behavior

was carefully plotted as part of some far subtler scheme. He wondered.

But Deborah was awaiting him at the Ritz.