"Huh!" grinned Jim, "think what she'll be like at forty."
A fortnight dragged by. Jim busied himself with routine matters
without, however, allowing the main focus of his attention to waver
from the Lannigan matter. Occasionally he made it a point to meet Mary
in the park. She had nothing to tell him and he talked things over
with her only for her own sake--to keep her courage and optimism keyed
to the proper pitch. There was something heroic in her doggedness. He
shook his head in wonderment at the thought that until recently she had
been playing a lone hand--just as grim, just as determined--"I sort of
reckon," he mused, "that she sort of might be what you'd call kinder
crazy about that Tim Lannigan."
It was not until another week had passed that anything happened. It was
early October and the air was chill with the portent of coming winter.
Jim Hanvey was sprawled on the lounge in the untidy living room of his
apartment reading the pugilistic news in a current sporting weekly.
The air was fetid with the odor of his vile cigar, his stockinged feet
were cocked upon the table and he had allowed his flowered suspenders
to drop comfortably about his tremendous waist. It was a considerable
effort to answer the summons of the telephone and his voice was none
too gentle----
"Hey! Hello! What you ringin' so much about?"
"Jim? This is Mary."
His expression altered like magic. He caught the nuance of excitement
in her carefully modulated tones.
"Yeh?"
"Are you alone?"
"Entirely."
"Can I come up--now?"
"You tell 'em. I'll fix it with the telephone boy so's he won't start
no scandal."
A half hour later she was with him. She threw open the window despite
his protest. His eyes were fixed steadily upon the attractive vividity
of her face. Then he yawned and appeared to sink into an indifferent
lethargic doze. It was only when she had drawn up a chair and placed
her hands on his arm that the sleepy eyes uncurtained with an
indication of interest.
"A'right, Sister--shoot."
She found difficulty in selecting a starting point, and when she
did eventually speak it was with an incoherence which was rather
unusual--"He's slipping, Jim--and I'm watching."
"You don't say."
"Yes--I do. I knew it would come ... if I just watched close enough.
Of course I've had to keep pretty much out of the way and I haven't
learned all that I might, but--"
"At that," interjected Jim dryly, "you learned a heap more an' a heap
faster than I am now."
She laughed--a semi-hysterical little quaver--and pulled herself
together. "Jim, Noah Lathrop is up to something."