The home of the Barton Randolphs, in West Adams street, was one of the
old mansions of that exclusive colony toward which the business district
of Los Angeles was advancing, block by block. Set back from the street,
its immaculate lawn dotted with shade-giving sycamore trees, it was
reminiscent of one of the "stately homes of England." An iron fence
topped with spear heads gave it a finishing touch of haughtiness.
John liked to think of homes and of trees as people. A stiffly built,
sharply roofed house with "gingerbread" trimmings reminded him of a prim
old maid. He imagined that he knew what sort of person owned a
particular house simply by studying it. Houses, especially old homes,
fascinated him and he worshiped trees with the fervor that inspired
Joyce Kilmer.
The Barton Randolph home made John think of a fine old aristocrat,
holding aloof from the world, conservative and with a love for old
fashions and old friends, a contempt for things that are modern. As he
stood at the gate he thought that the mansion was glaring at him with an
upturned nose and this imaginative quirk caused him to hesitate to
enter.
Before him on the cool green lawn moved groups of men and women, the
women in snowy white. At intervals there were tea tables around which
were couples, chatting languidly. Servants moved with quiet efficiency
from the tables to the house and back again. The shade spread by the
sycamore trees was pierced with shafts of sunlight that gave the lawn a
mottled look. It seemed a place removed from all the world.
Once more John looked at his shabby suit, his dusty, worn shoes.
Unconsciously he tugged at his coat tail because of an instinctive fear
that the patch was showing. An idea of waiting outside until the fete
was over came into his head.
"It can't be any worse than the wallop Battling Rodriguez gave me, so
here goes," he said, starting up the finely graveled driveway with the
same feeling he always had when he dashed down the beach to plunge into
the cold waters of the ocean.
He tramped steadily along until he discovered that the driveway was
circular and that if he kept on he would land out on the street again.
Boldly he started across the lawn in the direction of the house.
Somewhere on the grounds a stringed orchestra was playing. As he passed
the tea tables he heard the clinking of ice in glasses. Looking neither
to right nor left he felt that the eyes of everyone he passed were upon
him. He tugged again at his coat tail.
He saw a servant stop and wait for him and he marched straight toward
him.
"Tradesman?" asked the servant.
"Reporter," he said, looking straight into the other's eyes somewhat
defiantly.
"Whom do you wish to see?"
"Mrs. Barton Randolph."
"This way, please."
He followed, past more tables, past more eyes. He watched while the
servant approached the woman he knew to be Mrs. Barton Randolph, who
excused herself from the group around her. The servant returned.
"You were sent here from your office?" he asked.
John produced the admission card given him by his city editor.
"Very well. Mrs. Randolph instructs me to tell you that any information
you desire may be obtained from her secretary in half an hour. In the
meanwhile you are to consider yourself as one of the guests."
He was not long in reaching the gravel driveway again and he was headed
for the street, determined to wait there for the thirty minutes, when he
noticed that to his left only a few of the tables were occupied. At one
of these he could wait in the shade. Besides, he had a feeling that he
was little more than a coward if he went outside.
Far back from the driveway, in fact at the table farthest from the
drive, he seated himself with a sigh of relief. For a while he believed
himself well alone, before he discovered that directly facing him sat
another man, a man lounging in a wicker garden chair, alone, idly
smoking a cigarette and gazing at him somewhat intently. Instantly John
disliked this man, for two reasons: he was too immaculately dressed and
his hair was so perfect that it appeared to have been moulded on his
head.
The man continued to gaze at him, and John, feeling his face grow hot,
stared back.
Then the man flicked the ash from his cigarette, turned lazily in his
chair and raised his hand as a signal to a servant who was hovering over
a table and who hurried to him in response. He spoke to the servant and
inclined his head slightly in John's direction. The servant bowed and
came toward John's table.
"If you're not a guest here, sir, you will kindly leave the grounds," he
said.
John felt his blood gush through his veins. He saw the man in the wicker
chair smile mildly and look up into the branches of the tree overhead.
He overcame a wild impulse to step over and ruin the perfect hair.
"But it happens I am a guest," he said, as clearly as his choked back
temper permitted.
"You are, sir!" the servant pretended astonished humiliation. "Would you
be so good as to say by whose invitation?"
Then it happened. John afterwards was never quite sure what would have
taken place there had it not occurred.
To John she seemed to have blossomed up out of the ground before them.
He never saw anyone who looked more like a flower, a delicate, beautiful
flower. She was in white, a quaint frock with ridiculously tiny puffed
sleeves reaching only halfway to her elbows, gathered in with a narrow
black ribbon. Something about her, the way she looked, the dress, the
whole expression of her face, sent the thought "an old-fashioned girl"
coursing through John's brain.
The servant stepped back.
"Do you happen to be the newspaper reporter--?" she said.
John nodded.
"Then I am so glad to have found you. Mrs. Randolph felt she was rather
abrupt when you asked to see her and when she noticed you walking
rapidly away she feared you were offended. I volunteered to find you."
She was in the chair beside him.
"You are very kind and I am very happy," he managed to say. "I wasn't
offended. I was embarrassed and frightened."
"By what?"
"By all this. The servant asked me if I was a tradesman--whatever that
is--isn't that enough to frighten anyone?"
"I've read stories of reporters who never knew fear. And in plays the
reporter always does the bravest things."
"In stories and in plays," he repeated. "This, too, is like a story or a
play. Here I am rescued by a heroine who is--who is----"
"Who is what?"
"Beautiful." The word was no sooner spoken than he could have bitten off
his tongue.
He hoped she would laugh it away, but she only looked at him, her lips
parted, a hint of incredulousness in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. He was glad now that she had not laughed or taken
the word he had spoken lightly. He felt she knew he had not said it in
an attempt at silly flirtation.
"You spoke of being rescued," she said, smiling again.
"Yes, and the villain is yet in the background," he said. "A devilishly
handsome villain he is, too."
She glanced back over her shoulder. The servant had disappeared. The
man in the wicker chair was looking at them, a half smile on his lips.
"Surely," she said, "not Mr. Gibson?"
"If Mr. Gibson is the gentleman in the chair over there, yes."
"And why a villain?"
"Well, he whispered something to the servant who was here when you came
that caused him to come here and ask me to leave. That was how you
rescued me."
"It is like a book or a play, isn't it?"
"Only in books and plays dreams come true," he told her. "And villains
are vanquished."
"And what dream do you wish to come true?"
"A dream--a rather silly, hopeless, golden sort of dream--a dream of
meeting you again."
Once more he could have bitten off his tongue. Now she would think him a
maudlin flirt. He looked to the ground and saw his dusty, worn shoes. He
was afraid to hear her speak, afraid to look up. At last he did,
expecting to find her gone. But she was there, looking at him as she had
when he told her she was beautiful, the same hint of incredulousness in
her eyes.
"Don't say you're sorry," she said softly. "I'd like to think you meant
it."
They were silent. He saw the man in the wicker chair rise, toss aside
his cigarette and come toward them, slowly. They waited, without
speaking, until he reached their table.
His eyes met Gibson's steadily for two tense seconds. Then he saw Gibson
turn from him to the girl as if he was not there.
"Consuello," Gibson said.
She rose.
"Reggie," she said, "a friend, Mr.----"
"John Gallant," John said, slowly.
"Mr. Gallant, Mr. Gibson," she said. They shook hands.
"I believe I saw Mr. Gallant several nights ago," Gibson said.
John waited, wondering how Gibson would say it.
"He was very busily engaged with another gentleman"--he gave a slight
emphasis to the "gentleman"--"whose name, I believe, was Rodriguez."
"Really! You have met before?"
"Come, Consuello," said Gibson, "we must be trotting back to the house.
The afternoon will be gone soon."
She saw the look in John's eyes before she answered:
"Reggie, you must excuse me. I'll be along shortly--with Mr. Gallant."
"Very well," Gibson turned leisurely and they watched him walk away.
He was only slightly incensed by Gibson's deliberate insult in strolling
away without acknowledging, by even so much as a nod of his head, their
introduction to each other by Consuello. He felt a tinge of
satisfaction, of even vengeance.
"You mustn't let me keep you," he said, as he saw she still looked at
Gibson's retreating figure and that an expression of astonishment was
puzzling her face.
"It was wrong of him--I do not understand," she said. She laughed
lightly. "But you must not believe him a villain. It was so unlike him.
I'm sure he will tell you so himself before you leave."
The hum of starting motors came to them and through the trees John saw
the first of the long line of automobiles go up the driveway toward the
house. The fete was ending; the guests were leaving. He remembered why
he was there; his appointment to meet Mrs. Randolph's secretary. They
started across the lawn.
"Mrs. Randolph will believe I'm lost," she said. "I shouldn't be
surprised if she has already sent someone to look for me."
"I hope----" he began.
"Yes."
"I hope you do not feel I have been bold," he said. "It was rude and
presumptuous for me to say the things I did to you. Please try to
understand and forgive me."
"If I say I believe I understand and that there is nothing to forgive,
will you think me vain?" she asked.
They reached the driveway. Luxurious sedans and limousines with liveried
chauffeurs blocked their crossing. She turned to him, her hand extended.
"Good afternoon," she said. "Sometime, soon perhaps, if you wish, we
will meet again; you will hear from me, because--because I--think you
meant it." She added the final words lightly and with a smile.
"I did," he said.
She turned to the driveway. An automobile stopped and she crossed over
in the gap of the line of motors it made for her. The machine moved
forward again, blocking any sight of her as she went on toward the
house.
The list of guests and the amount of money netted by the fete he
received from Mrs. Randolph's secretary in neatly typewritten lists. The
last of the motors were chugging up the driveway as he left. He walked
out into the street, toward the car line, bound for his office.
As he waited at the corner for his car a low, rakish roadster stopped
before him. He heard a creaking of brakes and saw the back wheels of the
machine lock as it came to a stop. He looked up. Gibson was at the
wheel, Consuello at his side.
"Mr. Gallant," Gibson called.
John stepped forward. Gibson leaned toward him, his hand outstretched.
"Miss Carrillo has reminded me I made rather a fool of myself back there
at the table," he said, smiling. "Perhaps you may understand the
position I was in. I offer my apologies."
John gripped his hand.
"Thanks," said Gibson. "You understand how it is."
"Yes," assented John, without really knowing what his answer meant.
"Sorry there isn't room to give you a lift to town," Gibson said, racing
the motor and shifting the gear. As the machine moved away John saw
Consuello smile and there was an echo of gladness in his heart.
But a disconcerting thought crept into John's mind as he watched
Gibson's machine disappear in the traffic. Had she only been kind to him
because of an instinctive sympathy, born of good breeding, for his
embarrassment there on the lawn? Was she laughing now with Gibson,
telling him of her experience with a flirtatious or sickly sentimental
cub reporter? Something in the manner of Gibson as he offered his
apology caused this suspicion to spring into his mind against her.
Yes, that was it. She had only pitied him, his awkwardness, his apparent
discomfort, his shabby suit, his worn shoes. She had led him artfully
into telling her she was beautiful and that he dreamed--he cursed
himself as he remembered his words, "a rather silly, hopeless, golden
sort of dream,"--of meeting her again. Meet him again? Why, she would
probably forget him tomorrow unless she recalled how he had acted and
told it as something to laugh over.
What a fool, what a weak, mawkish, insipid fool he had made of himself!
He burned with humiliation. Even if she had been sincere, what would she
think of him when Gibson told her of his fight at Vernon with Battling
Rodriguez? He could see her, in his imagination, assuring Gibson that
had she known he was a prize fighter, a brute who fought with his fists
for money, she would never have spoken to him. Of course, Gibson would
not tell her why he had fought at Vernon. He felt this instinctively.
He pictured her and Gibson together at all sorts of places, on a yacht
cruising around Catalina island, on the links at a country club, a ball
at the Ambassador, racing along the coast road to Santa Barbara in
Gibson's expensive car, at the opera and supper later. Then thought of
the patch on his own trousers. Oh, what a fool he had been!
When he returned to the office--it was after 5 o'clock--he found it
deserted except for Brennan and P. Q. Brennan was squatted on the city
editor's desk. P. Q. was leaning back in his swivel chair, his feet
perched on the desk before him.
"Well, son, how did you enjoy your afternoon in society?" he asked as
John handed in the typewritten sheets given him by Mrs. Randolph's
secretary. He glanced at the list of guests.
"I see Gibson's name here--Reginald Gibson--did you happen to meet him
or see him out there?"
John was startled. He had heard the reporters tell of P. Q.'s superhuman
ability of knowing, without being told, what his men did out on
assignments. What made him ask if he had met Gibson?
"Yes--I saw--I met him," he replied.
"You did, huh? Well, you must have been mixing in proper. I wish I'd
known Gibson was out there. Brennan, here, has been trying to find him
all afternoon. You don't happen to know where he is now, do you?"
"I saw him leave."
"Alone?"
"No, there was someone with him in his car."
"Who was it?" Brennan asked.
"Miss Consuello Carrillo," John answered, puzzled by this
cross-examination.
"Good!" exclaimed Brennan, sliding from his perch on the desk and
seizing a telephone book.
"How did you happen to know who it was with Gibson?" asked P. Q., as
Brennan disappeared into a telephone booth.
"I--I--met her," John said, his puzzled feeling turning to astonishment.
"Well, well, you WERE mixing in, weren't you?" P. Q. smiled. "Gibson was
appointed police commissioner a few hours ago. He's a good man for you
to know, because if we're not mistaken he's going to start something
that will keep him on the front page for some time to come."
Brennan came hustling out of the phone booth.
"She asked if you were here--wants to speak to you," he said.
"To me? Who?" asked John.
"Miss Carrillo. I telephoned her place to try to reach Gibson. She said
he had just left and asked me if you had returned yet. Get in there and
find out if anyone's got to Gibson yet about his appointment as police
commissioner."
Brennan stuck his head in the booth to listen as John lifted the
receiver.
"Hello," he said.
"Mr. Gallant?" it was her voice.
"Yes."
"You see, he did not forget. I did not ask him to make that apology; I
only told him I thought he had been forgetful."
"Yes," said John, realizing she was referring to the apology offered him
by Gibson.
"Now that he is a police commissioner he will need you, as a newspaper
man, for a friend."
"Ask her if he has given any interviews yet," Brennan put in.
"Has Mr. Gibson made a statement concerning his appointment?" John
asked.
"No, I don't believe he knows yet that he has been appointed."
"Where is he now?" prompted Brennan.
"Do you know where he went when he left your place?"
"No, I'm sorry, I don't. Home, I suppose."
"Thank you, Miss Carrillo."
"Mr. Gallant----"
"Yes."
"Don't think him a--a--a villain, will you?"
"Why should I?"
"You thought him one at the fete this afternoon. I'm sure you know now
that he is not. And remember, we are to see each other again."
"Yes, indeed."
"I won't forget. Good-by."
"Good-by."
"What did she say?" demanded Brennan.
"She says Gibson doesn't know yet that he had been appointed
commissioner and that she supposes he started for home when he left her
place."
Brennan eyed him shrewdly.
"You seem to know her rather well," he ventured.
P. Q. said it was too late to get anything Gibson might say if they
located him into the last edition for that day. He instructed Brennan to
see Gibson as early as possible in the morning.
"And suppose you take Gallant along with you. He seems to have got
acquainted with Gibson," he added.
"And Consuello," appended Brennan.