Don't ladyship me, Cassy was about to reply, but judging that impolitic,
she sat down.
On the train in she had debated whether she would go first to Harlem or
to Lennox and in either case what afterward she should do. She had a few
dollars which her father would need. The thought of these assets
reminded her that in changing her clothes she had omitted to change back
into her own stockings. Well, when she changed again she would return
the pair which she had on and, as she determined on that, she saw
Paliser's face as she had seen it when she threw the vase. That relapse
into the primitive shamed her. She had behaved like a fish-wife. But
though she regretted the violence, she regretted even more deeply the
vase. The destruction of art is so despicably Hun! For moxa, she evoked
the Grantly masquerade.
The entire lack of art in that seemed to her incongruous with the
surface Paliser whom she had known. But had she even known the surface
which itself was a mask? Yet behind the mask was an intelligence which
at least was not ordinary, yet which, none the less, had descended to
that! She could not understand it. She could not understand, what some
one later explained to her, that a high order of intellect does not of
itself prevent a man from soiling it and, with it, himself and his
hands. The explanation came later, when other matters were occupying her
and when Paliser, headlined in the papers, was dead.
Meanwhile the train had landed her in the Grand Central and she decided
to go to Lennox first.
Now as she sat in his sitting-room where, for all she knew, she might
have to sit for hours, it comforted her to think that she had so
decided. If she had put it off until the morrow, Lennox would, by then,
have gone to the aviation-field, where he might be killed before she
could patch things up. At thought of that, she wondered whether he might
not stay out undiscoverably all night and send for his things to be
fetched to the station.
But in that case, Cassy promptly reflected, I'll go to her, pull her out
of bed, drag her there--and no thanks either. I didn't do it for you, I
did it for him. He's too good for you.
On the mantel, a clock struck, while thinly, through a lateral entrance,
Harris emerged.
"The hall-porter at Mr. Lennox' club says he's just gone out with Mr.
Jones. Yes, ma'am."
"Mr. Jones! What Mr. Jones? The novelist?"
"I'm thinking so, ma'am. A very haffable gentleman."
"Try to get him. Ask if Mr. Lennox, is there. Or, no, I'll do the
talking."
Then presently she was doing it, collaborating rather in the dialogue
that ensued.
"Mr. Jones?"
"Yes, darling."
Cassy, swallowing it, resumed: "Mr. Jones, forgive a stranger for
intruding, I----"
"Beautiful voice, forgive me. Triple brute that I am, I thought it was
my aunt."
"Then let me introduce myself. This is Miss Cara."
"Casta diva! You do me infinite honour!"
"Mr. Jones, I must see Mr. Lennox. It is a matter of life and death."
"Lennox is engaged with death now."
"What!"
"He is preparing for the great adventure. At this moment he is making
his will. Miss Cara?"
"Yes?"
"Lennox takes even serious matters gravely."
"But he is with you?"
"In my workshop and at your service as I am."
"You will let me come there?"
"Enthusiastically and yet with all humility for I have no red carpet to
run down the stair."
"Then hold on to him, please."
Ouf! sighed Cassy, as she hung it up. Another man who might be Mrs.
Yallum's husband! She took the telephone-book, found and memorised the
address and turned to Harris. "Thank you very much. Will you mind giving
me that package?"
"Beg pardon, ma'am," the little man said, as he opened the door for her.
"There's nothing more amiss, is there?"
Cassy covered him with her lovely eyes. "When Mr. Lennox comes back
here, he may tell you to unpack."
"Then may God bless your ladyship."
Cassy went on.
At Jones' shop, a floor in a reconstructed private house, a man who had
the air of performing a feat, showed her into a room that was summarily,
but not spartanly, furnished. On one side was a bookcase supported by
caryatides. Above, hung a stretch of silk on which was a flight of
dragons. Above the silk was an ivory mask. Fronting the bookcase was the
biggest table that Cassy had ever seen.
Jones, vacating the table, advanced to greet her. Perched on his
shoulder, was a cat that peered at her. It had long hair, the colour of
smoke; a bushy tail; the eyes of an angel and a ferocious moustache.
Although Cassy had other matters in hand, she exclaimed at it. "What a
duck!"
Jones, who saw, and at once, that she had not come to ask the time of
day, exclaimed also: "Yes, but ducky is as ducky does. That cat talks in
her sleep."
But now Lennox, advancing too, had taken her hand.
Withdrawing it, she put the bundle on the table, on which were papers,
and, noticeably, a dagger, brilliant, wicked, thin as a shadow. On the
blade was a promise--Penetrabo.
She looked up. Jones and the cat had gone. She looked at Lennox. "I
don't know where to begin."
Lennox could not tell her. On learning that she wanted to see him, he
had supposed it was about her father and he had said as much to Jones.
But in greeting her, the novelist knew from her vibrations that whatever
her object might be, at least it was not ordinary. Then, taking the cat,
he had gone.
Now, though, Cassy was at it. "The day you loaned me a hundred, you
remember? As I went out I had the money in my hand. In the hall was Miss
Austen. You had just shown me her picture. I recognised her at once.
With her was a woman, thin-faced, thin-lipped, thin-minded. She saw me,
saw the money, gave me a look. I did not forget it. But it is only
to-day that I learned what it meant. It meant that I am no better than I
ought to be--or you either."
Lennox had one hand on the table. He raised the other. "Who told you
this?"
"Paliser. He said it was the reason your engagement was broken."
In the palm of the upraised hand, the fingers moved forward and back,
regularly, methodically, mechanically. Lennox was unaware of it. He was
unaware of anything except the monstrous perversity of the tale.
"I came directly from him to your rooms. Your man said you were going
away. Thank goodness, I am not too late."
Cassy had seated herself, but now, reaching for the bundle, she stood
up. Across the street, in the house opposite, a boy was lowering a
shade. It seemed to Cassy that she had raised one. But there are
explanations that explain nothing. To Lennox there was a shade suspended
before Margaret, who had judged him unheard. It obscured her. He could
not see her at all.
Over the way, the boy lowered a second shade and Cassy, as though
prompted by it, raised another. "Paliser said you admitted it."
From the obscurity Lennox turned, but it was still about him. "Admitted
what?"