IV

Before night Susannah had found a room which exactly suited her purpose.

This was as much a matter of design as of luck. She had heard of the

place before. It was a large building in the West Twenties which had

formerly been the imposing parsonage of an imposing and very important

church. The church had long ago gone the way of all old Manhattan

buildings. But the parsonage, divided into an infinite number of

cubby-hole rooms, had become a lodging-house. A lodging-house with a

difference, however. For whereas in the ordinary establishment of this

kind, one paid rent to a landlady who lived on the spot, here one paid

it to an agent who came from somewhere, promptly every Monday morning,

for the purpose of collection. It was a perfect hiding-place. You did

not know your neighbor. Your neighbor did not know you. With due care,

one could plan his life so that he met nobody.

Susannah, except for a choice of rooms, did not for an interval plan her

life at all. She made that choice instantly, however. Of two rooms

situated exactly opposite each other at the back of the second floor,

she chose one because it overlooked a yard containing a tree. It was a

tiny room, whitewashed; meagerly and nondescriptly furnished. But the

door-frame and window-frame offered decoration. Following the

ecclesiastical design of the whole house, they peaked into triangles of

carved wood.

Susannah gave scant observation to any of these things. Once alone in

her room, she locked the door. Then she removed two things from her

suitcase--a nightgown and the miniature of Glorious Lutie. The latter

she suspended by a thumbtack beside the mirror of her bureau. Then she

undressed and went to bed. She slept fitfully all the rest of that day

and all that night. Early in the morning she crept out, bought herself,

at a Seventh Avenue delicatessen shop, a jar of milk and a loaf of

bread. She lunched and dined in her room. She breakfasted next morning

on the remains.

Her sleep was deep and dreamless; but in her waking moments her thoughts

pursued the same treadmill.

"Glorious Lutie," she began one of the wordless monologues which she was

always addressing to the miniature, "I ought to have known long ago that

they were a gang of crooks! Why don't we trust our intuitions? I suppose

it's because our intuitions are not always right. I can't quite go with

anything so magic, so irrational as intuition! And then again I'm afraid

I'm too logical. But I'm always having the same thing happen to me.

Perhaps I'm talking with somebody I have met for the first time.

Suddenly that person makes a statement. Instantly--it's like a little

hammer knocking on my mind--something inside me says: 'That is a lie. He

is lying deliberately and he knows he lies.' Now you would think that I

would trust that lead, that I would follow it implicitly. But do I? No!

Never! I pay no more attention to it than as though it never happened.

And generally my intuition is right. But always I find it out too late.

Now that little hammer has been knocking its warnings about the

Warner-Byan-O'Hearn bunch ever since I started to work for them. But I

could not _make_ myself pay any attention to it. I did not want to

believe it, for one thing. And then of course the work was awfully

interesting. I kept calling myself all kinds of names for thinking-- And

they _were_ kind. I _wouldn't_ believe it. But my intuition kept telling

me that Warner was a hypocrite. And as for Byan--"

Perhaps Susannah could not voice, even to Glorious Lutie, the thoughts

that flooded her mind when she conjured up the image of Byan. For in her

heart Susannah knew that Byan admired her overmuch, that he would have

liked to flirt with her, that he had started-- But Warner had called him

off. The enigmatic phrase, which had come to her from Warner's office

and in Warner's voice, recurred. "Keep off clients and office employ--"

Susannah knew the end of it now--"employees" of course. Warner's rule

for his fellow crooks was that they must not flirt with clients or the

office force. Again and again in her fitful wakefulness she saw Byan

standing before her; slim, blade-like; his smartly cut suit adhering, as

though pasted there, to the lithe lines of his active body. And then

suddenly that revolver which came from--where? Byan was of course the

most attractive of them all. That floating, pathetic smile revealed such

white teeth! That deep look came from eyes so long-lashed! Warner with

his pseudo-clergyman, pseudo-actor oratory, deep-voiced and vibrant, was

the most obvious. O'Hearn, his lids perpetually down, except when they

lifted swiftly to let his glance lick up detail, was the most

mysterious. But Byan was the most attractive--

"Yes, Glorious Lutie, I was always receiving letters which started that

little hammer of intuition knocking. I was always overhearing bits of

conversation which started it; although often I could not understand a

word. I was always trying to piece things together--wondering-- Well,

the next time I'll know better. I've learned my lesson. But oh--think,

think, _think_ what I've helped to do. They robbed widows and orphans

and all kinds of helpless people. Of course I didn't know I was doing

it. But that's going to haunt me for a long, long time. I wish there

were some way I could make up. I've come out of it safe. But they--oh, I

mustn't think of this. I _mustn't_. I can't stand it if I do. Oh,

Glorious Lutie, believe me, my guardian angel was certainly on _that_

job. Otherwise I don't know what would have become of me. Are you my

guardian angel, I wonder?"

When Susannah finally arose for good, she discovered, naturally enough,

that she was hungry. She went out immediately and, in the nearest

Child's restaurant, ordered a dinner which she afterward described to

Glorious Lutie as "magnanimously, munificently, magnificently

masculine." It consisted mainly of sirloin steak and boiled potatoes,

"and I certainly ate my fill of them both." Then she took a little

aimless, circumscribed walk; returned to her room. She unpacked her

tightly stratified suitcase; hung her clothes in her little closet;

ranged her small articles in the bureau drawer. As though she were going

to start clean in her new career, she bathed and washed her hair in the

public bathroom on the second floor. Coming back into her room, she sat

for a long time before the window while her dripping locks dried. She

sat there through the dusk.

"After all, Glorious Lutie," she reflected contentedly, "why do I ever

live in anything bigger than a hall bedroom? All a girl needs is a bed,

a bureau, one chair and a closet, and that is exactly what I've got. And

for full measure they have thrown in all those ducky little backyards

and a tree. I don't expect you to believe it, but I tell you true. A

tree in Manhattan. How do you suppose it got by the censor! And just

now, if you please, a tiny new moon all tangled up in its branches. It's

trying its best to get out, but it can't make it. I never saw a new moon

struggle so hard. Honest, I can hear it pant for breath. It looks like a

silver fish that tried to leap out of this window and got caught in a

green net. I suppose your Glorious Susie must be thinking of annexing a

job sometime, Glorious Lutie. Or else we'll cease to eat. But for a few

days I won't, if you don't mind; I'm fed up on jobs. And I've lost my

taste for offices. No, I think I'll take those few days off and do a

rubberneck trip around Manhattan. I feel like looking on innocent

objects that can't speak or think. And for a time I don't want to go any

place where I'd be likely to see my friends of the Carbonado Mining

Company. After a while the thought of them won't bother me so. Probably

by this time they have hired some other poor girl. Perhaps she won't

mind Mr. Cowler though. Anyway, I'm free of them."

When Susannah awoke the next morning, which was the third of her

occupancy of the little room, some of her normal vitality had flowed

back, her spirits began to mount. She sang--she even whistled--as she

bathed and dressed; and she indulged in no more than the usual number of

exasperated exclamations over the uncoilableness of her freshly

shampooed, sparkling hair. "Why do we launder our tresses, I ask you,

Glorious Lutie?" she questioned once. "And oh, why didn't I have regular

gold hair like yours instead of this garnet mane? I look like--I look

like--Azinnia! But oh, I ought never to complain when I reflect that

I've escaped the curse of white eyelashes."

A consideration first of the shimmery day outside, and next of the

clothes hanging in her closet, deflected her attention from this

grievance. She chose from her closet a salmon-colored linen gown,

slightly faded to a delicate golden rose. It was a long, slim dress and

it made as much as possible of every inch of Susannah's long slimness.

Moreover, it was notably successful in bringing out the blue of her

brilliant eyes, the red of her brilliant hair, the contrasting white of

her smooth warm skin. That face now so shone and smelled of soap that,

the instant she caught sight of it in the glass, she pulled open the top

drawer of her bureau and powdered it frantically.

"I always shine, Glorious Lutie, as though I had washed with brass

polish. I don't remember that you ever glistened. But I do remember that

you always smelled as sweet as--roses, or new-mown hay, or heliotrope. I

wonder what powder you did use? And it was a very foxy move on your

part, to have yourself painted in just that soft swirl of blue tulle.

You look as though you were rising from a cloud. I wonder what your

dresses were like? I seem to remember pale blues and pinks; very

delicate yellows and the most silvery grays. It seems to me that tulle

and tarlatan and maline were your dope. Do you think, Glorious Lutie,

when I reach your age, I shall be as good-looking as you?"

Glorious Lutie, with that reticence which distinguishes the inhabitants

of portraits, made no answer. But an observer might have said that the

young face, staring alternately at the mirror and at the miniature,

would some day mature to a face very like the one which stared back at

it from the gold frame. Both were blonde. But where Glorious Lutie's

eyes were a misty brown-lashed azure, Glorious Susie's were a spirited

dark-lashed turquoise. Glorious Lutie's hair was like a golden crown,

beautifully carved and burnished. Glorious Susie's turbulent mane was

red, and it made a rumpled, coppery bunch in her neck. However, family

resemblances peered from every angle of the two faces, although

differences of temperament made sharp contrast of their expressions.

Glorious Lutie was all soft, dreamy tenderness; Susannah, all spirit,

active charm, resolution.

Susannah spent three days--almost carefree--of of what she described to

the miniature as "touristing." She had very little time to converse with

Glorious Lutie; for the little room saw her only at morning and night.

But she gave her confidante a detailed account of the day's adventures.

"It was the Bronx Zoo this morning, Glorious Lutie," she would say.

"Have you ever noticed how satisfactory little beasties are? They don't

lay traps for you and try to put you in a tortured position that you

can't wriggle out of?" Though her question was humorous in spirit,

Susannah's eyes grew black, as with a sudden terror. "No, _we_ lay traps

for _them_. I guess I've never before even tried to guess what it means

to be trapped?" Or, "It was the Art Museum this afternoon, Glorious

Lutie. I've looked at everything from a pretty nearly life-size replica

of the Parthenon to a needle used by a little Egyptian girl ten million

years ago. I'm so full of information and dope and facts that, if an

autopsy were to be held over me at this moment, it would be found that

my brain had turned into an Encyclopaedia Britannica. In fact, I will

modestly admit that I know everything." Or, "It was the Aquarium this

morning, Glorious Lutie. Why didn't you tell me that fish were

interesting? I've always hated a fish. They won't roll over or jump

through for you and practically none of them bark or sing--or anything.

I have always thought of them only as something you eat unwillingly on

Fridays. But some of them are really beautiful; and interesting. I

stayed there three hours; and I suppose if it hadn't been for the horrid

stenchy smell I'd be there yet."

But in spite of these vivacious, wordless monologues, her spirits were a

long time rising to their normal height. The frightened look had not

completely left her eyes; and often on her long, lonely walks, she would

stop short suddenly, trembling like a spirited horse, as though some

inner consideration harassed her. Then she would take up her walk at a

frantic pace. Ultimately, however, she succeeded in leaving those

terrifying considerations behind. And inevitably in the end, the

resilience of youth conquered. The day came when Susannah leaped out of

bed as lightly as though it were her first morning in New York.

"Glorious Lutie," began her ante-breakfast address, "we are not a

millionairess; ergo, today we buy all the morning papers and read them

at breakfast in order to hunt for a job via the ads. And perhaps the

next time your Glorious Susie begins to earn money, you might advise her

to save a little against an unexpected situation. Of course I shouldn't

have squandered my money the way I did. But I never had had so much

before in my life--and oh, the joy of having cut-steel buckles and a

perfectly beautiful raincoat--and my first set of furs--and perfumery

and everything."

The advertising columns were not, she found (and attributed it to the

return of so many men from France), very fecund. Each newspaper offered

only from two to six chances worth considering. One, which appeared in

all of them, seemed to afford the best opening. It read:

"_Wanted_: A stenographer, lady-like appearance and address,

with some executive experience. Steady job and quick advancement

to right woman. Apply between 9 and 11, room 1009, Carman

Building."

"I am requested to apply for this spectacular job at the office itself,

Glorious Lutie," she confided on her return to her room, "and I'm going

out immediately after it. It's a romantic thing, getting a job through

an advertisement. I hope I float up to the forty-sixth floor of a

skyscraper, sail into a suite of offices which fill the entire top

story; all Turkish rugs on the highly polished floor; all expensive

paintings on the delicately tinted walls; all cut flowers with yard-long

stems in the finely cut crystal vases. I should like to find there a new

employer; tall, young, handsome, and dark. Dark he must be, Glorious

Lutie. I cannot marry a blond; our children would be albinos. He would

address me thus: 'Most Beauteous Blonde--you arrive at a moment when we

are so much in need of a secretary that if you don't immediately seat

yourself at yon machine, we shall go out of business. Your salary is one

hundred dollars a week. This exquisite rose-lined boudoir is for your

private use. You will find a bunch of fresh violets on your desk every

morning. May I offer you my Rolls-Royce to bring you back and forth to

work? And,' having fallen in love with me instantly, 'how soon may I ask

you to marry me?'"

Susannah took the Subway to Wall Street; walked through that busy

city-canyon to the Carman Building. She strode into the elevator, almost

empty in the hour which followed the morning rush; started to emerge, as

directed by the elevator-man, at the tenth floor. But she did not

emerge. Instead, her face as white as paper, she leaped back into the

elevator; ascended with it to the top floor; descended with it;

hurriedly left the building.

That first casual glance down the corridor had given her a glimpse of H.

Withington Warner sauntering slowly away from the elevator.

"Say, Eloise," she said late that afternoon over the telephone to the

friend she had made at the Dorothy Dorr Home. "When can I see you?...

Yes.... No.... Well, you see I'm out of a job at present.... No, I can't

tell you about it. This is a rooming-house. There is no telephone in my

room. I am telephoning from the hall. And so I'd rather wait until I see

you. But in brief, I'm eating at Child's, soda-fountains and even peanut

stands. I'm really getting back my girlish figure. Only I think I'm

going to be a regular O. Henry story. Headlines as follows: _Beautiful

Titian-haired_ (mark that _Titian-haired_, Eloise) _Blonde Dead of

Starvation. Drops Dead on Fifth Avenue. Too Proud to Beg._ I hope that

none of those wicked reporters will guess that my new shoes with the

cut-steel buckles cost thirty-five dollars. All right! All right.... The

'Attic' at seven. I'll be there promptly as usual and you'll get there

late as usual.... Oh yes, you will! Thanks awfully, Eloise. I feel just

like going out to dinner."

Eloise, living up to her promise, made so noble an effort that she was

only ten minutes late. Then, as usual, she came dashing and sparkling

into the room; a slim brown girl, much browner than usual, for her coat

of seashore tan; with narrow topaz eyes and deep dimples; very smart in

embroidered linen and summer furs. The Attic restaurant occupied the

whole top floor of a very high, downtown West Side skyscraper. Its main

business came at luncheon, so the girls sat almost alone in its long,

cool quiet. They found a table in a little stall whose window overhung

the gray, fog-swathed river which seamlessly joined gray fog-misted sky.

A moon, opaque as a scarlet wafer, seemed to be pasted at a spot that

could be either river or sky. The girls ordered their inconsequent

dinner. They talked their inconsequent girl chatter. They drank each a

glass of May wine.

Susannah had quite recovered her poise and her spirit. She described her

new room with great detail. She suggested that Eloise, whom she

invariably addressed as, "you pampered minion of millions, you!" should

call on her in that scrubby hall bedroom. In fact, her narrative went

from joke to joke in a vein so steadily and so augmentingly gay that,

when Eloise had paid the bill and they sat dawdling over their coffee,

suddenly she found herself on the verge of breaking her vow of secrecy,

of relating the horrors of the last week.

"Eloise," she began, "I'm going to tell you something that I don't want

you ever to--"

And then the words dried on her lips. Her tongue seemed to turn to wood.

She paled. She froze. Her eyes set on--

O'Hearn was walking into the Attic.

He did not perceive that instant terror of petrification; for it

happened he did not even glance in their direction. He walked,

self-absorbed apparently, to the other end of the room. But his

face--Susannah got it clearly--was stony too. It had the look somehow of

a man about to perform a deed repugnant to him.

"What's the matter, Sue?" Eloise asked in alarm. "You look awfully ill

all of a sudden."

"The fact is," Susannah answered with instant composure, "I feel a

little faint, Eloise. Do you mind if we go now? I really should like to

have a little air."

"Not at all," Eloise answered. "Any time you say. Come on!"

They made rapidly for the elevator. Susannah did not glance back. But

inwardly she thanked her guardian-angel for the fortuitous miracle by

which intervening waiters formed a screen. Not until they had walked

block after block, turning and twisting at her own suggestion, did

Susannah feel safe.

"Oh, what was it you were going to tell me, Susannah," Eloise

interrupted suddenly, "just before we left the Attic?"

"I don't seem to remember at this moment," Susannah evaded. "Perhaps it

will come to me later."

* * * * *

Susannah did not sleep very well that night. But by morning she had

recovered her poise. "Glorious Lutie," she said wordlessly from her bed,

"I think I'll go seriously to the business of getting a job. It'll take

my mind off--things. I'm going to ignore that little _rencontre_ of

yesterday. Don't you despair. The handsome young employer with his

romantic eyes and movie-star eyelashes awaits me somewhere. And just as

soon as we're married, you shall be hung in a manner befitting your

birth and station in a drawing-room as big as Central Park. I wish it

weren't so darn hot. Somehow too, I don't feel so strong about answering

ads in _person_ as I did two days ago."

On her way to breakfast she bought all the newspapers. She spent her

morning answering advertisements by letter. She received no replies to

this first batch; but she pursued the same course for three days.

"Glorious Lutie," she addressed the miniature a few days later, "this is

beginning to get serious. I am now almost within sight of the end bill

in my wad. In point of fact I will not conceal from you that today I

pawned my one and only jewel--my jade ring. You don't know how naked I

feel without it. It will keep us for--perhaps it will last three weeks.

And after that-- However, I don't think we'll either of us starve. You

don't take any sustenance and I take very little these days. I wish this

weather would change. You are so cool living in that blue cloud,

Glorious Lutie, that you don't appreciate what it's like when it's

ninety in the shade and still going up. I'm getting pretty sick of it. I

guess," she concluded, smiling, "I'll make out a list of the friends I

can appeal to in case of need."

The idea seemed to raise her spirits. She sat down and turned to the

unused memorandum portion of her diary. Her list ran something like

this: