Penny, pacing the drawing-room with pantheresque strides, came to a
tense halt as Remington entered.
"Well?" he said, his eyes hard, his unwelcoming hands thrust deep into
his pockets.
That identical "well" with its uptilt of question had been on George's
tongue. It was a monosyllable that demanded an answer. Penny had got
ahead of him, forced him, as it were, into the witness chair, and he
resented it.
"Seems to me," he began hotly, "that you were the one who was going to
make the statements--' whether or no,' I believe, we were to continue in
partnership."
"Perhaps," retorted Penny, with the air of allowing no great importance
to that angle of the argument, "but what I want to know is, _are_
you going to be a square man, and own up you were peeved into being
a tyrant? And when you've done that, are you going to tell Betty, and
apologize?"
George hesitated, trapped between his irritation and the still small
voice.
"Look here," he said, with that amiable suavity that had won him many a
concession, "you know well enough I don't want to hurt Betty's feelings.
If she feels that way about it, of course I'll apologize."
His partner looked at him in blank amazement.
"Gad!" he exclaimed as if examining a particularly fine specimen of some
rare beetle, "what a bounder."
"Meaning me?" snapped George.
"Don't dare to quibble. Look me in the eye."
There was a third degree fatality about the usually debonair Penny that
exacted obedience. George unwillingly looked him in the eye, and had a
ghastly feeling of having his suddenly realized smallness X-rayed.
"You know damned well you acted like a cad," Penny continued, "and I
want to know, for all our sakes, if you're man enough to own it?"
George's fundamental honesty mastered him. Anger died from his eyes. His
clenched hands relaxed and began an unconscious and nervous exploration
for a cigarette.
"Since you put it that way," he said, "and it happens that my conscience
agrees with you--I'll go you. I _was_ a cad, and I'll tell Betty so.
Confound it!" he growled, "I don't know _what's_ come over me these
days. I've got to get a grip on myself."
"You _bet_ you have," said Penny, hauling his fists from his trousers as
if with an effort. Then he grinned. "Betty said you would."
George's eyes darkened.
"And I'll tell you now," Penny went on, "since you've turned out at
least half-decent, Betty'll let you off that apology thing. _She_
wasn't the one who was exacting it--not she. _I_ couldn't stand for
your highfalutin excuses for being--well, never mind--we all get our off
days. But don't you get off again like that if----" Penny hesitated.
"If you want me for a partner," which seemed the obvious conclusion, was
tame. "If you want to hang on to any one's respect," he finished.
"Say, though," he murmured, "Betty'll give me 'what for' for drubbing
you. She actually took your side--said--oh, never mind--tried to make
me think of her just as if she was any old Mamie--the stenog--tried to
prune out personal feeling."
"By Jove," he ruminated, "that girl's a corker!"
He raised forgiving eyes from his contemplation of the rug.
"Well, old man, blow me to a Scotch and soda, and I'll be going. Dinged
if it wouldn't have broken me all up to have busted with you, even if
you are a box of prunes. Shake."
George shook, but he was far from happy. What he had gained in peace of
mind he had lost in self-conceit. His resentment against the pinch of
circumstance was deepening to cancerous vindictiveness.
As Pennington left with a cheery good-by and a final half-cynical word
of advice "to get onto himself" George mounted the stairs slowly and
came face to face with Genevieve, obviously in wait for him.
"What happened?" she inquired, with an anxious glance at his corrugated
brow.
George did not feel in a mood to describe his retreat, if not defeat.
"Oh, nothing. We had a highball. I think I made him--well--it's all
right."
"There, I knew Betty'd make him see reason," she smiled. "I'm awfully
glad. I've a real respect for Penny's judgment after all, you know."
"Meaning, you have your doubts about mine."
"No, meaning only just what I said--_just_ that. By the way, George, I
wish you'd take time to look into Alys' real estate. Somebody ought to,
and if you're really representing her----"
"Oh, good heavens!" he exclaimed impatiently, angered by her swift
transition from his own to another's affairs. "I can't! I simply can't!
Haven't you any conception of how busy I am?"
"I know, dear; I _do_ know. But something must be done. The Health
Department," she explained, "has sent in complaint after complaint,
and Miss Eliot simply won't handle the property unless she's allowed to
spend a lot setting things to rights. Alys says it's absurd; none of the
other property owners out there are doing anything, and _she_ won't. So,
nobody's looking after it, and somebody should."
"Who told you all this?" he demanded. "Miss E. Eliot, I suppose."
His wife nodded. "And she's right," she added.
"Well, perhaps she is," he allowed. "I'll get Alien to act as her agent
again. He's in with all the politicians; he ought to be able to stall
off the department."
The words slipped out before he realized their import, but at
Genevieve's wide stare of amazement he flushed crimson. "I mean--lots of
these complaints are really mere red tape; some self-important employee
is trying to look busy. A little investigation usually puts that
straight."
"Of course," she acquiesced, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "That
happens, too, but Miss Eliot says that the conditions out there are
really dreadful."
"I'll talk to Allen," said George with an affectation of easy dismissal
of the subject.
But Genevieve's mind appeared to have grown suddenly persistent.
At dinner she again brought up the subject, this time directing her
troubled gaze and troubling words at her guest.
"Alys," she said abruptly, "I really think you ought to go out to
Kentwood--to see about your property out there, I mean."
Mrs. Brewster-Smith looked up, rolling her large eyes in frank
amazement.
"Go out there? What for? It isn't the sort of a district a lady cares to
be seen in, I'm told; and, besides, George is looking after that for
me. _He_ understands such matters, and I frankly own _I_ don't. Business
makes me quite dizzy," she added with a flash of very white teeth.
Genevieve hesitated, then went to the point.
"But you must advise with your agent, Alys. The property is _yours_."
Alys raised sharply penciled brows. "I have utter confidence in George,"
she answered in a tone of finality that brought an adoring look from
Emelene, and her usual Boswellian echo: "Of _course_."
George squirmed uneasily. Such a vote of confidence implied accepted
responsibility, and he acknowledged to himself that he wanted to and
would dodge the unwelcome burden. He turned a benign Jovian expression
on Mrs. Brewster-Smith and condescended to explain.
"I have considered what is best for you, and I will myself see Allen and
request him to take your real-estate affairs in charge again. Neither
Sampson nor--er--Eliot is, I think, advisable for your best interests."
At the mention of the last name Genevieve's expressive face stretched to
speak; then she closed her lips with self-controlled determination. Mrs.
Brewster-Smith looked at her host in scandalized amazement.
"But I _told_ you," she almost whimpered, "that his wife is simply
impossible."
George smiled tolerantly. "But his wife isn't doing the business. It's
the business, not the social interests, we have to consider.
"Oh, but she is in the business," Alys explained. "I think it's because
she's jealous of him; she wants to be around the office and watch him."
Genevieve interposed. "Mrs. Allen owns a lot of land herself, and she
looks after it. It seems quite natural to me."
"But she _has_ a husband," Alys rebuked.
"Yes," agreed Genevieve, "but she probably married him for a husband,
not a business agent."
George felt the reins of the situation slipping from him, so he jerked
the curb of conversation.
"We are beside the issue," he said in his most legal manner. "The fact
is that Allen knows more about the Kentwood district and the factory
values than any one else, and I feel it my duty to advise Alys to leave
her affairs in his hands. I'll see him for you in the morning."
He turned to Alys with a return of tolerantly protective inflection in
his voice.
Genevieve shrugged, a faint ghost of a shrug. Had George been less
absorbed in his own mental discomforts, he would have discovered there
and then that the matter of his speech, not the manner of his delivery,
was what held his wife's attention. No longer could rounded periods and
eloquent sophistry hide from her his thoughts and intentions.
A telephone call interrupted the meal. He answered it with relief,
bowing a hurried, self-important excuse to the ladies. But the voice
that came over the wire was not modulated in tones of flattery.
"Say," drawled the campaign manager, "you'd better get a hump on, and
come over here to headquarters. There's a couple of gents here who want
a word with you."
The tone was ominous, and George stiffened. "Very well, I'll be right
over. But you can pretty well tell them where I stand on the main
issues. Who's at headquarters?"
A snort of disgust greeted the inquiry. The snort told George that
seasoned campaigners did not use the telephone with such casual lack of
circumspection. The words were in like manner enlightening. "Well, there
might be Mr. Julius Caesar, and then again Mr. George Washington might
drop in. What I'm putting you wise to," he added sharply, "is that you'd
better get on to your job."
There was a click as of a receiver hung up with a jerk, and a subdued
giggle that testified to the innocent attention of the telephone
operator.
With but a pale reflection of his usual courtesy the harassed candidate
left the bosom of his family. No sooner had he taken his departure than
the bosom heaved.
"My dear girl," said Alys, "if you take that tone with your husband
you'll never hold him--never. Men won't stand for it. You're only
hurting yourself."
"What tone?" Genevieve inquired as she rose calmly and led the way to
the drawing-room.
"I mean"--Mrs. Brewster-Smith slipped a firm, white hand across
Genevieve's shoulders--"you shouldn't try to force issues. It looks as
if you didn't have confidence in your husband, and men, to _do_ and _be_
their best, must feel perfect trust from the woman they love. You don't
mind my being so frank, dear, but we women must help one another--by our
experience and our intuitions."
Genevieve looked at her. Oblique angles had become irritatingly
fascinating. "I'm beginning to think so more and more," she replied.
"It's for your own good, dear," Alys smiled.
"Yes," Genevieve agreed. "I understand. Things that hurt are often for
our good, aren't they? We have to be _made_ to realize facts really to
know them."
"Coffee, dear?" inquired Alys, assuming the duties of hostess.
Genevieve shook her head. "No. I find I've been rather wakeful of late:
perhaps it's coffee. Excuse me. I must telephone."
A moment later she returned beaming.
"I have borrowed a car for tomorrow, and I want you and Emelene to come
with me for a little spin. We ought to have a bright day; the night is
wonderful. Poor George," she sighed, "I wish he didn't have to be away
so much."
"His career is yours, you know," kittenishly bromidic, Emelene comforted
her. The following day fulfilled the promise of its predecessor. Clear
and balmy, it invited to the outer, world, and it was with pleased
anticipation that Genevieve's guests prepared for the promised outing.
Genevieve glanced anxiously into her gold mesh bag. The motor was hired,
not borrowed.
She had permitted herself this one white lie.
She ushered her guests into the tonneau and took her place beside the
chauffeur. Their first few stops were for such prosaic purchases as the
household made necessary; there was a pause at the post office, another
at the Forum, where Genevieve left two highly disgruntled women waiting
for her while with a guilty sense of teasing her prey she prolonged her
business. The sight of their stiffened figures and averted faces when
she returned to them kindled a new amusement.
At last they were settled comfortably, and the car turned toward the
suburbs.
The town streets were passed and lines of villa homes thinned. The
ornate colonial gates of the Country Club flashed by. Now the sky to
the right was dark with the smoke of the belching chimneys of many
factories. For a block or two cottages of the better sort flanked the
road; then, grim, ugly and dilapidated, stretched the twin "improved"
sections of Kentwood and Powderville. In the air was an acrid odor. Soot
begrimed everything. The sodden ground was littered with refuse between
the shacks, which were dignified by the title of "Workmen's Cottages."
Amid the confusion, irregular trodden paths led, short-cutting, toward
the clattering, grinding munition plants. For a space of at least half
an acre around the huge iron buildings the ground, with sinister import,
was kept clear of dwellings, but in all directions outside of the
inclosure thousands of new yellow-pine shacks testified to the sudden
demand for labor. A large weather-beaten signboard at a wired cross-road
bore the name of "Kentwood," plus the advice that the office was
adjacent for the purchase or lease of the highly desirable villa sites.
The motor drew up and Genevieve alighted. For the first time since their
course had been turned toward the unlovely but productive outskirts,
Genevieve faced her passengers. Alys' face was pale. Emelene's
expression was puzzled and worried, as a child's is worried when the
child is suddenly confronted by strange and gloomy surroundings.
"There is some one in the renting office," said Genevieve with quiet
determination. "I'll find out. We shall need a guide to go around with
us. Emelene, you needn't get out unless you wish to."
Emelene shuffled uneasily, half rose, and collapsed helplessly back
on the cushions, like a baby who has encountered the resistance of his
buggy strap.
"I--if you'll excuse me, Genevieve, dear, I won't get out. I've only
got on my thin kid slippers. I didn't expect to put foot on the pavement
this morning, you know."
"Very well, then, Alys!" Genevieve's voice assumed a note of command her
mild accents had never before known.
Alys' brilliant eyes snapped. "I have no desire," she said firmly, with
all the dignity of an affronted lady, "to go into this matter." "I know
you haven't. But I'm going to walk through. _I_ am making a report for
the Woman's Forum."
Alys' face crimsoned with anger.
"You have no right to do such a thing," she exclaimed. "I shall refuse
you permission. You will have to obtain a permit."
"I have one," Genevieve retorted, "from the Health Department. And--I am
to meet one of the officers here."
Mrs. Brewster-Smith's descent from the tonneau was more rapid than
graceful.
"What are you trying to do?" she demanded. "Genevieve, I don't
understand you."
"Don't you?"
The diffident girl had suddenly assumed the incisive strength of
observant womanhood.
"I think you _do_. I am going to show you your own responsibilities, if
that's a possible thing. I'm not going to let you throw them on George
because he's a man and your kin; and I shan't let him throw them on an
irresponsible agent because he has neither the time nor the inclination
to do justice to himself, to you, nor to these people to whom he is
responsible."
She waved a hand down the muddy, jumbled street.
The advent of an automobile had had its effect. Eager faces appeared
at windows and doors. Children frankly curious and as frankly neglected
climbed over each other, hanging on the ragged fences. Two mongrel dogs
strained at their chains, yelping furiously. Genevieve crossed to
the little square building bearing a gilt "office" sign. There was no
response to her imperative knock, but a middle-aged man appeared on the
porch of the adjoining shack and observed her curiously.
"Wanta rent?" he called jeeringly.
"Are you in charge here?" Genevieve inquired.
"Sorter," he temporized. "Watcha want?"
"I want some one who knows something about it to go around Kentwood with
us."
"What for?" he snarled. "I got my orders."
"From whom?" countered Genevieve.
"None of your business, as I can see." He eyed her narrowly. "But my
orders is to keep every one nosin' around here without no good raison
_out_ of the place--and I don't think _you're_ here to rent, nor your
friend, neither. Besides, there ain't nothin' to rent."
Mrs. Brewster-Smith colored. The insult to her ownership of the premises
stung her to resentment.
"My good man," she said sharply. "I happen to be the proprietor of North
Kent wood."
"Then you'd better beat it." The guardian grinned. "There's a dame been
here with one of them fellers from the town office."
"Where are they now?" questioned Genevieve sharply.
"Went up factory way. But if you _ain't_ one of them lady nosies, you'd
better beat it, I tell you."
Genevieve looked up the street. "Very well, we'll walk on up. This is
North Kentwood, isn't it?"
"Ain't much choice," he shrugged, "but it is. You can smell it a mile.
Say, you lady owner there"--he laughed at his own astuteness in not
being taken in--"you know the monikers, don't you? South Kentwood,
'Stinktown'; North Kentwood, 'Swilltown'?" He grinned, pulled at his
hip pocket and, extracting a flat glass flask, took a prolonged swig and
replaced the bottle with a leer.
The two incongruous visitors were already negotiating the muddy
thoroughfare between the dilapidated dwellings. Presently these gave
place to roughly knocked together structures for two and three families.
The number of children was surprising. Now and again a shrill-voiced
woman, who seemed the prototype of her who lived in the shoe, came to
admonish her young and stare with hostile eyes at the invaders. Refuse,
barrels, cans, pigs, dogs, chickens, were on all sides, with here and
there a street watering trough, fed, apparently, by an occasional tap
at the wide-apart hydrants, installed by the factories for protection in
case of fire, as evidenced by the signs staked by the apparatus.
"What do they pay you for these cottages?" Genevieve inquired suddenly.
Mrs. Brewster-Smith, whose curiosity concerning her possessions had
been aroused by the physical evidence of the same, balanced on a rut and
surveyed her tormentor angrily.
"I'm sure I don't know. I've told you before I don't understand such
matters, and I see nothing to be gained by coming here."
Genevieve pushed open a battered gate, walked up to the door and
knocked.
"What are you doing?" her companion called, querulously.
A noise of many pattering feet on bare floors, a strident order for
silence, and the door swung open. A young girl stood in the doorway.
Behind her were a dozen or more children, varying from toddlers to gawky
girls and boys of school age.
Genevieve's eyes widened. "Dear me," she exclaimed, "they aren't all
_yours_!"
The young woman grinned mirthlessly. "I should say not!" she snapped.
"They pays me to look out for 'em--their fathers and mothers in the
factory. Watcha want?"
"What do you pay for a house like this?"
The hired mother's brow wrinkled, and her lips drew back in an ugly
snarl. "They robs us, these landlords does. We gotter be 'longside the
works, so they robs us. What do I pay for this? Thirty a month, and at
that 'tain't fit for no dawg to live in. I could knock up a shack like
this with tar paper, I could.
"And what do we get? I gotter haul the water in a bucket, and cook on an
oil stove, and they hists the price of the ile, 'cause he comes by in
a wagon with it. The landlords is squeezing the life out of us, I tell
ye."
She paused in her tirade to yell at her charges. Then she turned again
to the story of her wrongs.
"And of all the pest holes I ever seen, this is the plum worst. There's
chills an' fever an' typhoid till you can't rest, an' them kids is
abustin' with measles an' mumps an' scarlet fever. That I ain't got 'em
all myself's a miracle."
"You ought to have a district nurse and inspector/' said Genevieve,
amused, in spite of her indignation, at the dark picture presented.
"Distric' nothin'," the other sneered. "There ain't nothin' here but
rent an' taxes--doggone if I don't quit. There's plenty to do this here
mindin' work, an' I bet I could make more at the factory. They're payin'
grand for overtime."
Genevieve looked at the thin shoulders and narrow chest of the girl,
noted her growing pallor and wondered how long such a physique could
withstand the strain of hard work and overtime. She sighed. Something of
her thoughts must have shown in her face, for the girl reddened and
her lips tightened. Without another word she slammed the door in her
visitor's face.
Mrs. Brewster-Smith cackled thin laughter.
"That's what you get for interfering," she jeered, so angry with her
hostess for this forced inspection of her source of income that she
was ready to sacrifice the comforts of her extended visit to have the
satisfaction of airing her resentment.
"Poor soul!" said Genevieve. "Thirty a month!" Her eyes ran over the
rows of crowded shacks. "The owners must get together and do something
here," she said. "These conditions are simply vile."
"It's probably all these people are used to," Alys snapped, "And,
besides, if they went further into town it'd cost them the trolley both
ways, and all the time lost. It's the location they pay for. Mr. Alien
told me not two months ago he thought rents could be raised."
"If you all co-operate," Genevieve continued her own line of thought,
"you could at least clean the place and make it _safe_ to live in, even
if they haven't any comforts."
Her face brightened. Around the corner came the strong, solid figure of
Miss Eliot; behind her trotted a bespectacled young man who carried a
pigskin envelope under his arm and whose expression was far from happy.
"Hello!" called Miss Eliot. "So you did come. I'm glad of it. Let me
present Mr. Glass to you. The department lent him to me for the day. And
what do you think of it, now that you can see it?"
"Glad to meet you," said Genevieve, nodding to the health officer. "What
do I think of it? What does Mr. Glass think? That's more important. Oh,
let me present you--this is Mrs. Brewster-Smith."
Miss Eliot's face showed no surprise, though her eyes twinkled, but Mr.
Glass was frankly taken aback.
"Mrs. Brewster--Smith----Brewster--Smith," he stammered. "Oh--er--" he
gripped his pigskin folio as if about to search its contents to verify
the name. "The--er--the owner?" he inquired.
Alys stiffened. "My dear husband left me this property. I have never
before seen it."
"I'm very glad," beamed Mr. Glass, "to see that we shall have
your co-operation in our efforts to do something definite for this
section--and measures must be taken quickly. As you see, there is no
sanitation, no trenching, no mosquito-extermination plant. Malaria and
typhoid are prevalent; it's all very bad, very bad, indeed. And you'd
hardly believe, Mrs. Brewster-Smith, what difficulties we are having
with the owners as a class. The five biggest have formed an association.
I suppose you've heard about it. They must have made an effort to
interest you "--he stopped short, remembering that her name appeared on
the lists of the "Protective League."
"Really"--Alys had recovered her hauteur and the aloofness becoming the
situation--"I know nothing whatever about what measures my agents have
thought it advisable to take."
Mr. Glass choked and glanced uneasily at Miss Eliot.
That lady grinned, almost the grin of a gamin. "You needn't look at
_me_, Mr. Glass. I don't represent Mrs. Brewster-Smith."
"Oh, I know, I know," Mr. Glass hastened to exonerate his companion.
"I believe Miss Eliot declined the honor," Genevieve's voice was heard.
"I did," the agent affirmed. She laughed shortly. "Otherwise you would
hardly find me here in my present capacity. One does not 'run with the
hare and hunt with the hounds,' you know."
Alys lost her temper. It seemed to her she was ruthlessly being forced
to shoulder responsibilities she had been taught to shirk as a sacred
feminine right. Therefore, feeling injured, she voiced her innocence.
"Your husband, my dear Genevieve, has been good enough to administer my
little estate. Whatever he has done, or now plans to do, meets with _my_
entire approval."
The thrust went home in more directions than one. Miss Eliot turned
her frank gaze upon the speaker, while she slowly nodded her head as
if studying a perfect specimen of a noxious species. Mr. Glass gasped.
There was political material in the statement. He looked anxiously at
the wife of the gentleman implicated, but in her was no fear and no
manner of trembling. Instead, the light of battle shone in her eyes.
"My dear Alys," she said, "my husband has told you that he is too busy a
man to give your affairs his personal attention. He can only advise you
and turn the executive side over to another. His experience does not
extend to the stock market or to real estate. It is an imposition to
throw your burdens upon him. If you derive benefits from ownership, you
must educate yourself to accept your duty to society."
"Indeed!" flared Alys, furious at this public arraignment. "May I ask
if you intend to continue this insulting attitude?" "If you mean, do I
expect hereafter to be a live woman and not a parasite--I do."
Mrs. Brewster-Smith turned on her heel and walked away, teetering over
the ruts and holes of the path.
Genevieve looked distressed. "I'm sorry," she breathed, "I'm ashamed,
but it _had_ to come out. I--I couldn't stand it any longer. I--beg
everybody's pardon. I'm sure, it was awfully bad manners of me. Oh,
dear--" she faltered, half turned, and, with a gesture of appeal toward
Mrs. Brewster-Smith's slowly retreating back, moved as if to follow.
"I wouldn't go after her," said E. Eliot. "Of course, you haven't had
experience. You don't know how much self-restraint you've got to build
up, but you're here now, and I'm sure Mr. Glass understands. _He's_
got to come up against all sorts of exasperations on _his_ job, too. He
won't take any stock in Mrs. Brewster-Smith's trying to tie your husband
up to these wretched conditions.
"He's looking forward to seeing an honest, public-spirited district
attorney get into office--even if your husband doesn't yet see that
women have anything to say about it. They may heckle him in order
to force him to come out on his intentions about the graft, and the
eight-hour day, and the enforcement of the law, but they don't doubt his
honesty. When he know's what's what, I guess the public can trust him to
do the right thing. Only he's got to be shown."
As she talked, giving Genevieve time to recover from her upheaval, the
three investigators were plowing their way up and down byways equally
depressing and insanitary. Silence ensued. Occasionally an expression of
commiseration or condemnation escaped one or another of the party.
Suddenly a raucous whistle tore the air, followed by another and
another, declaring the armistice of the noon hour. Iron gates in the
surrounding wall were opened, a stream of men and women poured out,
grimed, sweat-streaked and voluble. The two women and their escort
paused and watched the oncoming swarm of humanity.
Around the corner, just ahead, strode a giant of a man, followed by a
red-faced, unkempt, familiar figure--the man in charge of the renting
office. The giant came forward threateningly.
"What youse doing?" he growled. He jerked his jersey, displaying a brass
badge, P. A. Guard.
"Git outer here--git," he called.
Mr. Glass stepped forward, displaying his Health Department permit. The
giant laughed.
"Say, sonny," he sneered, "that don't go--see. Them tin fakes don't git
by. If you're one of them guys, you come here wit' McLaughlin, and youse
can rubber. But we've had enough of this stuff. Them dames is no blind,
neither. I'm guard for the owners here, and we ain't takin' no chances
wit' trouble makers--git. Git a move on!"
"The department," spluttered Glass, "shall hear of this."
"That's all right. McLaughlin's the boss. Tell 'em not to send a kid to
do a man's job."
Genevieve was too amazed to protest. It was her first experience of
defiance of Law and Order by Law and Order.
Meanwhile, the first stragglers of the released army of toilers were
nearly upon them. The giant observed their approach, and the look of
menace deepened on his huge, congested face.
"Move on, now--move on," he snarled, and herded them forward in advance
of the workers.
Sheepishly the three obeyed, but Miss Eliot was not silent.
"Your name?" she demanded in judicial command.
The very terseness of her question seemed to jerk an unwilling answer
from the guard.
"Michael Mehan."
"And you're employed by the Owners' Protective League?"
"Sure."
"Have they given you orders to keep strangers out of the district?"
"I have me orders, and I know what they be. I'm duly sworn in as extra
guard--and I'm not the only one, neither."
"Did _he_ come after you?" Miss Eliot indicated the ruffian at his side.
"I seen the lady owner blew the bunch," that worthy remarked with a
hoarse chuckle. "I wised Mike, all right. Whatcha goin' to do about it?"
"Mrs. Brewster-Smith, the owner," Miss Eliot observed, "didn't seem to
know that she had employed you. How about that?"
"I'm put here by the O.P.L. That's good enough fer yer lady
owner--now--ain't it? The things them nosey dames thinks they can git by
wit'!" he observed to the guard, and swore an oath that made Mr. Glass
turn to him with unexpected fury.
"You may pretend to think that I'm not what I represent myself to be,
but let me tell you, McLaughlin is going to hear of this. One more
insult to these ladies and I'll make it my business to go personally to
your employers. Get me?"
"Shut your trap, Jim," snarled Mehan. "Yer ain't got no orders fer no
fancy language." He leered at Genevieve. "Now we've shooed the chickens
out, we're tru'." With a wave of his huge paw he indicated the highway
the turn of the path revealed.
Genevieve looked to the right, where the car should be waiting her. It
was gone. Evidently the indignant Mrs. Brewster-Smith had expedited the
departure. Miss Eliot read her discomfiture.
"My car is right down here behind that palatial mansion with the hole
in the roof and the tin-can extension. Thank you very much for your
escort," she added, turning to the two representatives of the Protective
League. "My name, by the way, is E. Eliot. I am a real-estate agent and
my office is at 22 Braston Street. You might mention it in your report."
The little car stood waiting, surrounded by a group of admiring
children. Its owner stepped in briskly, backed around and received her
passengers.
"Well," she smiled as they drew out on the traveled highway, "how do you
like the purlieus of our noble little city?"
Genevieve was silent. Then she spoke with conviction.
"When George is in power--and he's _got_ to be--the Law will be the Law.
I know him."