The great audience caught its breath and hopefully returned attention to
the affairs of the French actress who so had shocked and fascinated them
at the first act's end. Stripped almost to the waist, the daring and
tuneful Zaza had left them. More conventionally, not to say comfortably
clad, she reappeared.
Pape, as deficient in French as in appreciation of opera arias, applied
himself hopefully at first to getting the gist of the piece, but soon
concluded that he must be clear "off trail in his lingo."
Out in Montana, the most meteoric stage luminary never would think of
singing a perfectly good wife and mother into handing over husband and
father merely because his eyes had gone sort of blinky star-gazing at
her. No. Such a translation didn't sound reasonable at all; was quite
too raw for the range. Better give his ears to the music and buy a
Hoyle-translated libretto to-morrow.
Settling back in his chair, Pape allowed his gaze and mind to
concentrate, after a habit acquired of late in Central Park, upon the
nearby. She had an expressive profile, the young woman whom he had
self-selected. If facial traits had real connection with character, that
protruding chin, although curved too youthfully to do justice to its
joints, suggested that she would not retreat unless punished beyond her
strength. If young Irene only would take one good look at her cousin's
chin she must give up in any contest between them.
But then, Irene's mental eye was on herself. To her, evidently, all
other women were more or less becoming backgrounds.
That she should be so near him, Jane; that he actually should get--oh,
it wasn't imagination--the fragrance of her hair; yet that he should be
so far away! ... She'd be annoyed and he must not do it, but he felt
tempted to train his hired glasses on her, as she had trained hers on
him only a few minutes since. He'd have liked again to draw her eyes
close to his through their lensed aid and study out the answer to that
teasing question--did she or did she not know that she didn't know him?
One thing was clear in the semi-gloom. Her neck and shoulders and back
looked more like marble than he'd have supposed live flesh could look.
And her lines were lovely--not too padded over to conceal the shoulder
blades, yet smooth. Above the narrow part of the V of silver lace, a
small, dark dot emphasized her whiteness. Was it a freckle or a mole?
Another than himself seemed interested to know. The handsome Mr. Harford
was leaning forward, elbows on knees and chin cupped in hand, his eyes
closed, his lips almost touching the beauty spot. Had he given up to the
welling wail of Zaza's attempt to out-sing conventions or was his
attention, too, on that tantalizing mark?
Whether or no, Pape felt at the moment that he must prevent the imminent
contact if he did not live to do anything else in life. He, too, leaned
forward. But his eyes did not close. They remained wide open, accurately
gauging the distance between a pair of sacrilegious mustached lips
and----
Tragedy was temporarily averted or, as it turned out, supplanted. An
usher appeared between the curtains; in subdued tones asked for Miss
Lauderdale; held up a square, white envelope.
Jane arose and passed into the cloak room. Mills Harford followed her.
Pape in turn, followed him. Observing the girl closely as she tore open
the envelope and read the enclosure, he saw alarm on her face; saw the
sudden tension of her figure; saw her lips lengthen into a thin line.
"Chauffeur brought it. He is waiting down stairs for an answer," the
usher advised her.
"Tell him," she said, "that I'll come at once."
The usher bowed and vanished.
"Anything wrong, Jane?" Harford asked.
"I can't stay for the last act. Aunt Helene has been--has sent for me."
As if fearful lest he should insist upon knowing the contents of her
note, she crumpled it in one hand; with the other reached for a brocaded
cape that hung on one side of the mirrored rack; allowed him to
anticipate her and lay it about her shoulders.
"I'll go with you," said he.
"No." She paused in her start toward the corridor and glanced into his
face uncertainly. "Tamo is waiting with the car. You must see the opera
out. The Farrar probably has thrills and thrills saved for the
_finale_."
"Not for me--without you. Of course I'll go with you, dear."
The ardor of the handsome chap's last pronouncement seemed to decide
her.
"Of course you won't." She shook his hand from her shoulder as if
offended. "You are giving this party. You owe it to the Allens to stay.
Explain to Irene and the rest that I----"
"At least let me put you into the car."
"No." Positively, she snapped this time. "I don't need you. I don't want
you, to be frank. You're coming up to the house to supper, all of you.
Perhaps then I'll explain."
"You'll explain on the way up--now."
Harford looked to have made up his mind; looked angry. He took her elbow
rather forcefully and started with her into the corridor.
On the sill she stopped and faced him defiantly. "I won't explain until
and unless I wish to. You can't use that tone with me, Mills, successful
as you may have found it with others. Mr. Pape is going to put me into
the car."
And lo, the Westerner found himself by her side, _his_ hand at her
elbow. He had felt electrified by her summons. Although not once had she
glanced toward where he stood just outside the curtains, uncertain
whether to advance or retreat, she apparently had been keen to his
presence and had felt his readiness to serve.
Their last glance at Harford showed his face auburn as his hair. They
hurried down the grand stairway, passed the regal doorman and queried
the resplendent starter. His signal brought the Sturgis limousine,
parked on Broadway in consideration of the emergency call. The driver, a
Japanese, was alone on the seat in front.
Jane had not volunteered one word on the way down, and Pape was mindful
to profit by the recent demonstration of her resentment of inquiries.
Now, however, he began to fear that she had forgotten his existence
entirely. A nod from her kept the chauffeur from scrambling out. She let
herself into the car and tried the inside catch of the door as if to
make sure that she was well shut in--alone.
But Pape's habit of initiative overruled his caution. He had fractured
too many rules of convention to-night to be intimidated at this vital
moment. With the same sweep of the hand he demanded a moment more of the
driver and pulled open the door.
"Of course I'm going along, Jane dear," said he.
She gasped from shock of his impudence; a long moment stared at him;
then, with a flash of the same temper she had shown Mills, returned him
value received.
"Of course you're not, Peter dar-rling."
"Why not?"
Stubbornly he placed his shiny, large, hurting right foot on the
running-board.
"Because you're not a possible person. You're quite impossible." And
with the waspish exclamation she leaned out, took him by the coat lapels
and literally pushed him out of her way. "I know that I don't know you
at all. Did you think you had deceived me for one instant? I am not in
the habit of scraping acquaintance with strangers, even at grand opera."
"But--but----" he began stammered protest.
"It was partly my fault to-night. I did stare at you," she continued
hurriedly. "You looked so different from the regular run of men in black
and white. Maybe my curiosity did invite you and you showed nerve that I
learned to like out West by accepting. I couldn't be such a poor sport
as to turn you down before the rest. But it's time now for the good-by
we _didn't_ say in the Yellowstone." She turned to the speaking tube.
"Ready, Tamo. And don't mind the speed limit getting home."
From the decision of her voice, the man from Montana knew that she meant
what she said. Never had he found it necessary to force his presence
upon a woman. He stepped aside, heard the door pulled to with a slam;
watched the heavy machine roll away. Its purr did not soothe him.
"Not good-by. Just _au revoir_, as Zaza'd say."
That was all he had managed to reply to her. In his memory it sounded
simpering as the refrain of some silly song. He hadn't played much of a
part, compared to hers. What an opponent she would make at stud poker,
holding to the last card! She was a credit to his judgment, this first
woman of his independent self-selection.... Good-by? The word she had
used was too final--too downright Montanan. Although far from a
linguist, as had been impressed upon him during his late jaunt overseas,
he had learned from the French people to prefer the pleasanter
possibilities of their substitute--of _au revoir_.
As to when and where he should see her again--The shrug of his shoulders
said plainly as words, "_Quien sabe_?" The lift of his hair in the
street breeze caused him to realize his bare-headed state. A thought of
the precipitation with which he had left both hat and coat on his
hundred-fifty-simoleon hook brought a flash of Irene and the outraged
glance she had cast toward his departure. She had said that she "doted"
on all Westerners. Perhaps if he returned to the Harford box on the
legitimate errand of bidding his new acquaintances a ceremonious
good-night she might come to dote on him enough in the course of another
half hour or so to invite him to that supper which----
In the vacuum left by the sudden withdrawal of the evening's chief
distraction, he gave up for a moment to his pedal agony. He'd a heap
rather return at once to his hotel, where he could take off his new
shoes. At least he could loosen the buttons of the patent pincers. This
he stooped to do, but never did.
Lying beside the curb to which, from his stand in the street, he had
lifted the more painful foot, was something that interested
him--something small, white, crumpled. The overbearing Miss Lauderdale
must have dropped it in her violent effort to shove him from the
running-board. Had her flash of fury toward him been as sincere as it
had sounded? Had she left him the note, whether consciously or sub, by
way of suggestion? Under urge of such undeveloped possibilities, Pape
strode to the nearest light and smoothed out the crumpled sheet. It bore
an engraved address in the eight-hundreds of Fifth Avenue, and read:
_Jane_, dear:--Have just discovered the wall-safe open. That
antique _tabatiere_ you entrusted to my care is gone. I can't
understand, but fear we have been robbed. Don't frighten Irene
or the others, but do come home at once. Tamo will be waiting
for you with the car. Please hurry.
_Aunt Helene_.
So! She had been robbed of some trinket, the very threat of whose loss
had stopped the blood in her veins. Perhaps her predicament was his
opportunity to advance a good start. He had all details of the case
literally in hand, down to the engraved house address.
Jane had proved herself the honest sort he liked in acknowledging that
first, probably involuntary invitation of her eyes. At least it had been
the invitation of Fate. Was this the second--_her_ second?
Why not find out--_why not_?