True to his resolve, John Scidmore took an early train to San Francisco
next morning, although he could not have said why. It was as impossible
to place insurance at eight-thirty as it was at three A.M., since no
self-respecting insurance office opened until nine. Still there is a
certain comfort in even futile activity when one has the fidgets.
It was a beautiful October morning such as often veils the Berkeley
hills in faint purple and draws a soft glamour over the city of San
Francisco; and as Scidmore walked briskly down the elm-shaded streets of
Berkeley toward the train, he felt elusively happy, notwithstanding the
ripples below the surface of his content.
The office-boy was taking books out of the safe when he arrived at the
office. In a corner by the wash-basin one of the stenographers stood,
fluffing up her hair. A janitor dusted the desks with casual attention.
As Scidmore entered he noticed a woman sitting near the counter. She
rose instantly, lifting her veil, smiling a welcome at him. He crossed
over to her--it was Julia Norris. His heart began to beat violently, but
the next moment he had recovered himself and was able to smile back at
her in perfect self-control.
'You are early,' he said, offering her his hand.
'Yes, and I'm in trouble. You know those flats I insured last week--they
burned down early this morning. They tell me there isn't a stick left
standing.'
His hand fell as if a blow had wilted it. 'The flats you insured last
week--' he echoed, sparring for time. 'I don't believe I--understand.'
'Why, didn't you get my telephone message? I 'phoned last Tuesday. I
thought I talked to _you_. I was sure it was your voice. Could I have
rung up the wrong office?'
Her uncertainty steadied him. Unconsciously she opened a door of escape.
Scidmore laid his hat on the counter. Julia Norris fluttered back to her
seat and he sat down beside her.
'I suppose I've bungled things again,' she went on. 'Usually I leave
everything to Mr. Rice, but this insurance matter I took into my own
hands. I wanted you to have the business, so I left positive
instructions with Mr. Rice to let me know when the next insurance policy
expired. That was last Friday. I 'phoned you at once. I can't imagine--'
As she rattled on, pointing an accusing finger at herself, John Scidmore
grew surer and surer of his next step. There was not the faintest note
of calculation in his attitude; confused and dazed he merely followed
her lead.
'And you never received any policy?' he questioned. 'Not after a week?
You must have thought we were rather inattentive--or slow.'
She shook her head. 'I forgot the whole transaction--until this morning.
Rice 'phoned me at eight o'clock.'
'But there may still be a chance,' Scidmore suggested, shamed by the
very ease with which he was escaping. 'Perhaps another clerk got the
message. I'll question them all. Or--maybe you rang up the Falcon's
office direct.'
She laid a gloved hand on his arm as she shrugged.
He shook his head. 'You can't imagine how this bothers me,' he went on.
He began to feel a certain boldness, such as thieves feel when they put
over a sharp trick. He wanted to prolong the discussion, to dally with
danger. 'To think that in trying to be of service to me you should have
gone astray. I wouldn't have had it happen for--Let me see, what was the
amount of your order?'
'Ten thousand dollars.'
'_Ten thousand dollars!_ That's a lot of money.'
'Yes,' she admitted slowly, as she moved toward the door. 'I'm pretty
comfortable, but nobody likes to throw money into the street.'
He thrust his hands into his pockets in an effort at nonchalance. He
could feel his temples throbbing. But his confusion cleared before Julia
Norris's unruffled smile, deepening a growing sense of irritation. She
was not greatly concerned, first, because she did not have to be, and
second, because her faith in his integrity was unshaken. Her complacency
and trustfulness enraged him. What was ten thousand dollars to her?
In the midst of his musings, her voice, curiously remote, roused him.
'I'm going to have lunch with Kitty,' she said, almost gayly.
'Lunch with Kitty?' he echoed. Then, floundering with mingled
consternation and embarrassment, he finished, 'Oh, yes,--won't that be
fine! Yes, by all means do!'
And yet, unnerved as he was, he went through the conventional motions of
courtesy, bowing her to the door, pressing her hand cordially, sweeping
her a good-bye with exaggerated warmth. Even when she was gone her
unperturbed smile mocked him. She did not have the slightest suspicion
of his unworthiness, and therein lay the essence of the sudden and
unqualified hate he began to feel for her.
John Scidmore questioned all the clerks as they entered the office. Had
any one received a telephone message about a week ago from Mrs. Julia
Norris? He was playing his game so earnestly that he would not have been
surprised to find somebody acknowledging the transaction. The manager
came in at ten o'clock; Scidmore even presented the case to _him_: Mrs.
Julia Norris, a client of his, had telephoned an order for insurance
over a week ago. Nobody remembered it. The property to be insured had
burned up. Of course, Mrs. Norris might have been mistaken (she admitted
as much), but there was just a chance--
The manager, instantly interested, adjusted his glasses. A
ten-thousand-dollar line neglected! Incredible! He began to investigate
personally, calling up one clerk after another, while Scidmore listened
like a highwayman, tempting chance from a spirit of sheer bravado.
Nobody remembered, even under the most searching cross-examination. The
private exchange operator, who was usually very keen about such matters,
could not place the call.
Then came a discussion as to how to prevent such a lapse should one
occur. Scidmore sat at the manager's desk, quite the hero of the hour--a
very important personage, whose ten-thousand-dollar client had come to
grief. It was years since he had figured in a question of office policy.
Gradually the uniqueness of his position pushed Julia Norris and her
loss into a hazy background.
He returned to his routine work with a gay spirit. Several times during
the morning the manager called him for further conference and inquiry.
Finally a letter was drafted to Mrs. Julia Norris, to the effect that
the California Insurance Brokers' Company regretted exceedingly to
inform her that upon closer examination no trace could be found of her
telephone message. They could only conclude that she inadvertently had
rung up the wrong office. Inquiry at the Falcon Company's office,
however, developed that no such insurance had been placed, even by a
rival firm. They hoped that this unfortunate occurrence would not stand
in the way of other favors at her hands, and so forth.
John Scidmore signed the letter with a flourish.
All morning the fiction of Julia Norris's mistake still persisted. Why
had she not taken greater precautions? The idea of telephoning in a line
of insurance and not inquiring the name of the person who took the
message! Common sense would dictate such a course. He began to feel
abused, as if Julia Norris had betrayed him in some way.