THROUGH THE WALL
BY
CLEVELAND MOFFETT
AUTHOR OF
THE BATTLE, ETC.
With Illustrations by
H. HEYER
NEW YORK 1909
TO
MY WIFE
AND OUR DELIGHTFUL PARIS HOME IN THE
VILLA MONTMORENCY, WHERE THIS
BOOK WAS WRITTEN
C. M.
NEW YORK, AUGUST 1, 1909.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.--A BLOOD-RED SKY
II.--COQUENIL'S GREATEST CASE
III.--PRIVATE ROOM NUMBER SIX
IV.--"IN THE NAME OF THE LAW"
V.--COQUENIL GETS IN THE GAME
VI.--THE WEAPON
VII.--THE FOOTPRINTS
VIII.--THROUGH THE WALL
IX.--COQUENIL MARKS HIS MAN
X.--GIBELIN SCORES A POINT
XI.--THE TOWERS OF NOTRE-DAME
XII.--BY SPECIAL ORDER
XIII.--LLOYD AND ALICE
XIV.--THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
XV.--PUSSY WILMOTT'S CONFESSION
XVI.--THE THIRD PAIR OF BOOTS
XVII.--"FROM HIGHER UP"
XVIII.--A LONG LITTLE FINGER
XIX.--TOUCHING A YELLOW TOOTH
XX.--THE MEMORY OF A DOG
XXI.--THE WOOD CARVER
XXII.--AT THE HAIRDRESSER'S
XXIII.--GROENER AT BAY
XXIV.--THIRTY IMPORTANT WORDS
XXV.--THE MOVING PICTURE
XXVI.--COQUENIL'S MOTHER
XXVII.--THE DIARY
XXVIII.--A GREAT CRIMINAL
XXIX.--THE LOST DOLLY
XXX.--MRS. LLOYD KITTREDGE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"'We'll show 'em, eh, Caesar?'"
"'Alice,' he cried ... 'Say it isn't true'"
"'I want you,' he said in a low voice"
"'I didn't _resign_; I was discharged'"
"On the floor lay a man"
"'Ask Beau Cocono,' he called back"
"'Alice, I am innocent'"
"'Have one?' said M. Paul, offering his cigarette case"
"'There it lies to the left of that heavy doorway'"
"'_Cherche!_' he ordered"
"He prolonged his victory, slowly increasing the pressure"
"Gibelin beamed. 'The old school has its good points, after all'"
"'I know _why_ you are thinking about that prison'"
"She was just bending over it when Coquenil entered"
"'Did you write this?'"
"And when he could think no longer, he listened to the pickpocket"
"'They all swore black and blue that Addison told the truth'"
"A door was opened suddenly and he was pushed into a room"
"'Stand still, I won't hurt you'"
"'There!' he said with a hideous grin, and he handed Tignol the tooth"
"'My dog, my dog!'"
"The confessional box was empty--_Alice was gone!_"
"'You mean that Father Anselm helped her to run away?' gasped Matthieu"
"'No nonsense, or you'll break your arm'"
"'It's the best disguise I ever saw, I'll take my hat off to you on that'"
"'You have ordered handcuffs put on a prisoner _for the last time_'"
"'No, no, no!' he shrieked. 'You dogs! You cowards!'"
"'What's the matter? Your eyes are shut'"
"And a moment later he had carried her safely through the flames"
CHAPTER I
A BLOOD-RED SKY
It is worthy of note that the most remarkable criminal case in which the
famous French detective, Paul Coquenil, was ever engaged, a case of more
baffling mystery than the Palais Royal diamond robbery and of far greater
peril to him than the Marseilles trunk drama--in short, a case that ranks
with the most important ones of modern police history--would never have
been undertaken by Coquenil (and in that event might never have been
solved) but for the extraordinary faith this man had in certain strange
intuitions or forms of half knowledge that came to him at critical moments
of his life, bringing marvelous guidance. Who but one possessed of such
faith would have given up fortune, high position, the reward of a whole
career, _simply because a girl whom he did not know spoke some chance words
that neither he nor she understood_. Yet that is exactly what Coquenil did.
It was late in the afternoon of a hot July day, the hottest day Paris had
known that year (1907) and M. Coquenil, followed by a splendid
white-and-brown shepherd dog, was walking down the Rue de la Cité, past the
somber mass of the city hospital. Before reaching the Place Notre-Dame he
stopped twice, once at a flower market that offered the grateful shade of
its gnarled polenia trees just beyond the Conciergerie prison, and once
under the heavy archway of the Prefecture de Police. At the flower market
he bought a white carnation from a woman in green apron and wooden shoes,
who looked in awe at his pale, grave face, and thrilled when he gave her a
smile and friendly word. She wondered if it was true, as people said, that
M. Coquenil always wore glasses with a slightly bluish tint so that no one
could see his eyes.
The detective walked on, busy with pleasant thoughts. This was the hour of
his triumph and justification, this made up for the cruel blow that had
fallen two years before and resulted, no one understood why, in his leaving
the Paris detective force at the very moment of his glory, when the whole
city was praising him for the St. Germain investigation. _Beau Cocono!_
That was the name they had given him; he could hear the night crowds
shouting it in a silly couplet:
Il nous faut-o
Beau Cocono-o!
And then what a change within a week! What bitterness and humiliation! M.
Paul Coquenil, after scores of brilliant successes, had withdrawn from the
police force for personal reasons, said the newspapers. His health was
affected, some declared; he had laid by a tidy fortune and wished to enjoy
it, thought others; but many shook their heads mysteriously and whispered
that there was something queer in all this. Coquenil himself said nothing.
But now facts would speak for him more eloquently than any words; now,
within twenty-four hours, it would be announced that he had been chosen,
_on the recommendation of the Paris police department_, to organize the
detective service of a foreign capital, with a life position at the head
of this service and a much larger salary than he had ever received, a
larger salary, in fact, than Paris paid to its own chief of police.
M. Coquenil had reached this point in his musings when he caught sight of a
red-faced man, with a large purplish nose and a suspiciously black mustache
(for his hair was gray), coming forward from the prefecture to meet him.
"Ah, Papa Tignol!" he said briskly. "How goes it?"
The old man saluted deferentially, and then, half shutting his small gray
eyes, replied with an ominous chuckle, as one who enjoys bad news: "Eh,
well enough, M. Paul; but I don't like _that_." And, lifting an unshaven
chin, he pointed over his shoulder with a long, grimy thumb to the western
sky.
"Always croaking!" laughed the other. "Why, it's a fine sunset, man!"
Tignol answered slowly, with objecting nod: "It's too red. And it's barred
with purple!"
"Like your nose. Ha, ha!" And Coquenil's face lighted gaily. "Forgive me,
Papa Tignol."
"Have your joke, if you will, but," he turned with sudden directness,
"don't you _remember_ when we had a blood-red sky like that? Ah, you don't
laugh now!"
It was true, Coquenil's look had deepened into one of somber reminiscence.
"You mean the murders in the Rue Montaigne?"
"Pre-cisely."
"Pooh! A foolish fancy! How many red sunsets have there been since we found
those two poor women stretched out in their white-and-gold _salon_? Well, I
must get on. Come to-night at nine. There will be news for you."
"News for me," echoed the old man. "_Au revoir_, M. Paul," and he watched
the slender, well-knit figure as the detective moved across the Place
Notre-Dame, snapping his fingers playfully at the splendid animal that
bounded beside him and speaking to the dog in confidential friendliness.
"We'll show 'em, eh, Caesar?" And the dog answered with eager barking and
quick-wagging tail.
[Illustration: "'We'll show 'em, eh, Caesar?'"]
So these two companions advanced toward the great cathedral, directing
their steps to the left-hand portal under the Northern tower. Here they
paused before statues of various saints and angels that overhang the
blackened doorway while Coquenil said something to a professional beggar,
who straightway disappeared inside the church. Caesar, meantime, with
panting tongue, was eying the decapitated St. Denis, asking himself, one
would say, how even a saint could carry his head in his hands.
And presently there appeared a white-bearded sacristan in a three-cornered
hat of blue and gold and a gold-embroidered coat. For all his brave apparel
he was a small, mild-mannered person, with kindly brown eyes and a way of
smiling sadly as if he had forgotten how to laugh.
"Ah, Bonneton, my friend!" said Coquenil, and then, with a quizzical
glance: "My decorative friend!"
"Good evening, M. Paul," answered the other, while he patted the dog
affectionately. "Shall I take Caesar?"
"One moment; I have news for you." Then, while the other listened
anxiously, he told of his brilliant appointment in Rio Janeiro and of his
imminent departure. He was sailing for Brazil in three days.
"_Mon Dieu!_" murmured Bonneton in dismay. "Sailing for Brazil! So our
friends leave us. Of course I'm glad for you; it's a great chance,
but--_will_ you take Caesar?"
"I couldn't leave my dog, could I?" smiled Coquenil.
"Of course not! Of course not! And _such_ a dog! You've been kind to let
him guard the church since old Max died. Come, Caesar! Just a moment, M.
Paul." And with real emotion the sacristan led the dog away, leaving the
detective all unconscious that he had reached a critical moment in his
destiny.
How the course of events would have been changed had Paul Coquenil remained
outside Notre-Dame on this occasion it is impossible to know; the fact is
he did not remain outside, but, growing impatient at Bonneton's delay, he
pushed open the double swinging doors, with their coverings of leather and
red velvet, and entered the sanctuary. _And immediately he saw the girl_.
She was in the shadows near a statue of the Virgin before which candles
were burning. On the table were rosaries and talismans and candles of
different lengths that it was evidently the girl's business to sell. In
front of the Virgin's shrine was a _prie dieu_ at which a woman was
kneeling, but she presently rose and went out, and the girl sat there
alone. She was looking down at a piece of embroidery, and Coquenil noticed
her shapely white hands and the mass of red golden hair coiled above her
neck. When she lifted her eyes he saw that they were dark and beautiful,
though tinged with sadness. He was surprised to find this lovely young
woman selling candles here in Notre-Dame Church.
And suddenly he was more surprised, for as the girl glanced up she met his
gaze fixed on her, and immediately there came into her face a look so
strange, so glad, and yet so frightened that Coquenil went to her quickly
with reassuring smile. He was sure he had never seen her before, yet he
realized that somehow she was equally sure that she knew him.
What followed was seen by only one person, that is, the sacristan's wife, a
big, hard-faced woman with a faint mustache and a wart on her chin, who sat
by the great column near the door dispensing holy water out of a cracked
saucer and whining for pennies. Nothing escaped the hawklike eyes of Mother
Bonneton, and now, with growing curiosity, she watched the scene between
Coquenil and the candle seller. What interest could a great detective have
in this girl, Alice, whom she and her husband had taken in as a
half-charity boarder? Such airs as she gave herself! What was she saying
now? Why should he look at her like that? The baggage!
"Holy saints, how she talks!" grumbled the sacristan's wife. "And see the
eyes she makes! And how he listens! The man must be crazy to waste his time
on her! Now he asks a question and she talks again with that queer,
far-away look. He frowns and clinches his hands, and--upon my soul he seems
afraid of her! He says something and starts to come away. Ah, now he turns
and stares at her as if he had seen a ghost! _Mon Dieu, quelle folie!_"
This whole incident occupied scarcely five minutes, yet it wrought an
extraordinary change in Coquenil. All his buoyancy was gone, and he looked
worn, almost haggard, as he walked to the church door with hard-shut teeth
and face set in an ominous frown.
"There's some devil's work in this," he muttered, and as his eyes caught
the fires of the lurid sky he thought of Papa Tignol's words.
"What is it?" asked the sacristan, approaching timidly.
The detective faced him sharply. "Who is the girl in there? Where did she
come from? How did she get here? Why does she--" He stopped abruptly, and,
pressing the fingers of his two hands against his forehead, he stroked the
brows over his closed eyes as if he were combing away error. "No, no!" he
changed, "don't tell me yet. I must be alone; I must think. Come to me at
nine to-night."
"I--I'll try to come," said Bonneton, with visions of an objecting wife.
"You _must_ come," insisted the detective. "Remember, nine o'clock," and he
started to go.
"Yes, yes, quite so," murmured the sacristan, following him. "But, M.
Paul--er--which day do you sail?"
Coquenil turned and snapped out angrily: "I may not sail at all."
"But the--the position in Rio Janeiro?"
"A thousand thunders! Don't talk to me!" cried the other, and there was
such black rage in his look that Bonneton cowered away, clasping and
unclasping his hands and murmuring meekly: "Ah, yes, exactly."
* * * * *
So much for the humble influence that turned Paul Coquenil toward an
unbelievable decision and led him ultimately into the most desperate
struggle of his long and exciting career. A day of sinister portent this
must have been, for scarcely had Coquenil left Notre-Dame when another
scene was enacted there that should have been happy, but that, alas! showed
only a rough and devious way stretching before two lovers. And again it was
the girl who made trouble, this seller of candles, with her fine hands and
her hair and her wistful dark eyes. A strange and pathetic figure she was,
sitting there alone in the somber church. Quite alone now, for it was
closing time, Mother Bonneton had shuffled off rheumatically after a
cutting word--she knew better than to ask what had happened--and the old
sacristan, lantern in hand and Caesar before him, was making his round of
the galleries, securing doors and windows.
With a shiver of apprehension Alice turned away from the whispering shadows
and went to the Virgin's shrine, where she knelt and tried to pray. The
candles sputtered before her, and she shut her eyes tight, which made
colored patterns come and go behind the lids, fascinating geometrical
figures that changed and faded and grew stronger. And suddenly, inside a
widening green circle, she saw a face, the face of a young man with
laughing gray eyes, and her heart beat with joy. She loved him, she loved
him!--that was her secret and the cause of her unhappiness, for she must
hide her love, especially from him; she must give him some cold word, some
evasive reason, not the real one, when he should come presently for his
answer. Ah, that was the great fact, he was coming for his answer--he, her
hero man, her impetuous American with the name she liked so much, Lloyd
Kittredge--how often she had murmured that name in her lonely hours!--_he_
would be here shortly for his answer.
And alas! she must say "No" to him, she must give him pain; she could not
hope to make him understand--how could anyone understand?--and then,
perhaps, he would misjudge her, perhaps he would leave her in anger and not
come back any more. Not come back any more! The thought cut with a sharp
pang, and in her distress she moved her lips silently in the familiar
prayer printed before her:
O Marie, souvenez vous du moment supreme où Jesus votre divin Fils,
expirant sur la croix, nous confia à votre maternelle solicitude.
Her thoughts wandered from the page and flew back to her lover; Why was he
so impatient? Why was he not willing to let their friendship go on as it
had been all these months? Why must he ask this inconceivable question and
insist on having an answer? His wife! Her cheeks flamed at the word and her
heart throbbed wildly. His wife! How wonderful that he should have chosen
her, so poor and obscure, for such an honor, the highest he could pay a
woman! Whatever happened she would at least have this beautiful memory to
comfort her loneliness and sorrow.
A descending step on the tower stairs broke in upon her meditations, and
she rose quickly from her knees. The sacristan had finished his rounds and
was coming to close the outer doors. It was time for her to go. And, with a
glance at her hair in a little glass and a touch to her hat, she went out
into the garden back of Notre-Dame, where she knew her lover would be
waiting. There he was, strolling along the graveled walk near the fountain,
switching his cane impatiently. He had not seen her yet, and she stood
still, looking at him fondly, dreading what was to come, yet longing to
hear the sound of his voice. How handsome he was! What a nice gray suit,
and--then Kittredge turned.
"Ah, at last!" he exclaimed, springing toward her with a mirthful, boyish
smile. His face was ruddy and clean shaven, the twinkling eyes and humorous
lines about the mouth suggesting some joke or drollery always ready on his
lips. Yet his was a frank, manly face, easily likable. He was a man of
twenty-seven, slender of build, but carrying himself well. In dress he had
the quiet good taste that some men are born with, besides a willingness to
take pains about shirts, boots, and cravats--in short, he looked like a
well-groomed Englishman. Unlike the average Englishman, however, he spoke
almost perfect French, owing to the fact that his American father had
married into one of the old Creole families of New Orleans.
"How is your royal American constitution?" She smiled, repeating in
excellent English one of the nonsensical phrases he was fond of using. She
tried to say it gayly, but he was not deceived, and answered seriously in
French:
"Hold on. There's something wrong. We've been sad, eh?"
"Why--er--" she began, "I--er----"
"Been worrying, I know. Too much church. Too much of that old she dragon.
Come over here and tell me about it." He led her to a bench shaded by a
friendly sycamore tree. "Now, then."
She faced him with troubled eyes, searching vainly for words and finding
nothing. The crisis had come, and she did not know how to meet it. Her red
lips trembled, her eyes grew melting, and she sat there silent and
delicious in her perplexity. Kittredge thrilled under the spell of her
beauty; he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her.
"Suppose we go back a little," he said reassuringly. "About six months ago,
I think it was in January, a young chap in a fur overcoat drifted into this
old stone barn and took a turn around it. He saw the treasure and the fake
relics and the white marble French gentleman trying to get out of his
coffin. And he didn't care a hang about any of 'em until he saw you. Then
he began to take notice. The next day he came back and you sold him a
little red guidebook that told all about the twenty-five chapels and the
seven hundred and ninety-two saints. No, seven hundred and ninety-three,
for there was one saint with wonderful eyes and glorious hair and----"
"Please don't," she murmured.
"Why not? You don't know which saint I was talking about. It was My Lady of
the Candles. She had the most beautiful hands in the world, and all day
long she sat at a table making stitches on cloth of gold. Which was bad for
her eyes, by the way."
"Ah, yes!" sighed Alice.
"There are all kinds of miracles in Notre-Dame," he went on playfully, "but
the greatest miracle is how this saint with the eyes and the hands and the
hair ever dropped down at that little table. Nobody could explain it, so
the young fellow with the fur overcoat kept coming back and coming back to
see if he could figure it out. Only soon he came without his overcoat."
"In bitter cold weather," she said reproachfully.
"He was pretty blue that day, wasn't he? Dead sore on the game. Money all
blown in, overcoat up the spout, nothing ahead, and a whole year of--of
damned foolishness behind. Excuse _me_, but that's what it was. Well, he
blew in that day and--he walked over to where you were sitting, you darling
little saint!"
"No, no," murmured Alice, "not a saint, only a poor girl who saw you were
unhappy and--and was sorry."
Their eyes met tenderly, and for a moment neither spoke. Then Kittredge
went on unsteadily: "Anyhow you were kind to me, and I opened up a little.
I told you a few things, and--when I went away I felt more like a man. I
said to myself: 'Lloyd Kittredge, if you're any good you'll cut out this
thing that's been raising hell with you'--excuse _me_, but that's what it
was--'and you'll make a new start, right now.' And I did it. There's a lot
you don't know, but you can bet all your rosaries and relics that I've made
a fair fight since then. I've worked and--been decent and--I did it all for
you." His voice was vibrant now with passion; he caught her hand in his
and repeated the words, leaning closer, so that she felt his warm breath on
her cheek. "All for you. You know that, don't you, Alice?"
What a moment for a girl whose whole soul was quivering with fondness! What
a proud, beautiful moment! He loved her, he loved her! Yet she drew her
hand away and forced herself to say, as if reprovingly: "You mustn't do
that!"
He looked at her in surprise, and then, with challenging directness: "Why
not?"
"Because I cannot be what you--what you want me to be," she answered,
looking down.
"I want you to be my wife."
"I know."
"And--and you refuse me?"
For a moment she did not speak. Then slowly she nodded, as if pronouncing
her own doom.
"Alice," he cried, "look up here! You don't mean it. Say it isn't true."
She lifted her eyes bravely and faced him. "It _is_ true, Lloyd; I can
never be your wife."
"But why? Why?"
"I--I cannot tell you," she faltered.
He was about to speak impatiently, but before her evident distress he
checked the words and asked gently: "Is it something against me?"
"Oh, no!" she answered quickly.
"Sure? Isn't it something you've heard that I've done or--or not done?
Don't be afraid to hurt my feelings. I'll make a clean breast of it all, if
you say so. God knows I was a fool, but I've kept straight since I knew
you, I'll swear to that."
"I believe you, dear."
"You believe me, you call me 'dear,' you look at me out of those wonderful
eyes as if you cared for me."
"I do, I do," she murmured.
[Illustration: "'Alice,' he cried ... 'Say it isn't true.'"]
"You care for me, and yet you turn me down," he said bitterly. "It reminds
me of a verse I read," and drawing a small volume from his pocket he turned
the pages quickly. "Ah, here it is," and he marked some lines with a
pencil. "There!"
Alice took the volume and began to read in a low voice:
"Je n'aimais qu'elle au monde, et vivre un jour sans elle
Me semblait un destin plus affreux que la mort.
Je me souviens pourtant qu'en cette nuit cruelle
Pour briser mon lien je fis un long effort.
Je la nommai cent fois perfide et déloyale,
Je comptai tous les maux qu'elle m'avait causés."
She stopped suddenly, her eyes full of pain.
"You don't think that, you _can't_ think that of me?" she pleaded.
"I'd rather think you a coquette than--" Again he checked himself at the
sight of her trouble. He could not speak harshly to her.
"You dear child," he went on tenderly. "I'll never believe any ill of you,
never. I won't even ask your reasons; but I want some encouragement,
something to work for. I've got to have it. Just let me go on hoping; say
that in six months or--or even a year you will be my own
sweetheart--promise me that and I'll wait patiently. Can't you promise me
that?"
But again she shook her head, while her eyes filled slowly with tears.
And now his face darkened. "Then you will never be my wife? Never? No
matter what I do or how long I wait? Is that it?"
"That's it," she repeated with a little sob.
Kittredge rose, eying her sternly. "I understand," he said, "or rather I
don't understand; but there's no use talking any more. I'll take my
medicine and--good-by."
She looked at him in frightened supplication. "You won't leave me? Lloyd,
you won't leave me?"
He laughed harshly. "What do you think I am? A jumping jack for you to pull
a string and make me dance? Well, I guess not. Leave you? Of course I'll
leave you. I wish I had never seen you; I'm sorry I ever came inside this
blooming church!"
"Oh!" she gasped, in sudden pain.
"You don't play fair," he went on recklessly. "You haven't played fair at
all. You knew I loved you, and--you led me on, and--this is the end of
it."
"No," she cried, stung by his words, "it's _not_ the end of it. I _won't_
be judged like that. I _have_ played fair with you. If I hadn't I would
have accepted you, for I love you, Lloyd, I love you with all my heart!"
"I like the way you show it," he answered, unrelenting.
"Haven't I helped you all these months? Isn't my friendship something?"
He shook his head. "It isn't enough for me."
"Then how about _me_, if I want _your_ friendship, if I'm hungry for it, if
it's all I have in life? How about that, Lloyd?" Under their dark lashes
her violet eyes were burning on him, but he hardened his heart to their
pleading.
"It sounds well, but there's no sense in it. I can't stand for this
let-me-be-a-sister-to-you game, and I won't."
He turned away impatiently and glanced at his watch.
"Lloyd," she said gently, "come to the house to-night."
He shook his head. "Got an appointment."
"An appointment?"
"Yes, a banquet."
She looked at him in surprise. "You didn't tell me!"
"No."
She was silent a moment. "Where is the banquet?"
"At the Ansonia. It's a new restaurant on the Champs Elysées, very swell. I
didn't tell you because--well, because I didn't."
"Lloyd," she whispered, "don't go to the banquet."
"Don't go? Why, this is our national holiday. I'm down to tell some
stories. I've _got_ to go. Besides, I wouldn't come to you, anyway. What's
the use? I've said all I can, and you've said 'No.' So it's all off--that's
right, Alice, _it's all off_." His eyes were kinder now, but he spoke
firmly.
"Lloyd," she begged, "come _after_ the banquet."
"No!"
"I ask it for _you_. I--I feel that something is going to happen. Don't
laugh. Look at the sky, there beyond the black towers. It's red, red like
blood, and--Lloyd, I'm afraid."
Her eyes were fixed in the west with an enthralled expression, as if she
saw something there besides the masses of red and purple that crowned the
setting sun, something strange and terrifying. And in her agitation she
took the book and pencil from the bench, and nervously, almost
unconsciously wrote something on one of the fly leaves.
"Good-by, Alice," he said, holding out his hand.
"Good-by, Lloyd," she answered in a dull, tired voice, putting down the
book and giving him her own little hand.
As he turned to go he picked up the volume and his eye fell on the fly
leaf.
"Why," he started, "what is this?" He looked more closely at the words,
then sharply at her.
"I--I'm _so_ sorry," she stammered. "Have I spoiled your book?"
"Never mind the book, but--how did you come to write this?"
"I--I didn't notice what I wrote," she said, in confusion.
"Do you mean to say that you don't _know_ what you wrote?"
"I don't know at all," she replied with evident sincerity.
"It's the damnedest thing I ever heard of," he muttered. And then, with a
puzzled look: "See here, I guess I've been too previous. I'll cut out that
banquet to-night--that is, I'll show up for soup and fish, and then I'll
come to you. Do I get a smile now?"
"O Lloyd!" she murmured happily.
"I'll be there about nine."
"About nine," she repeated, and again her eyes turned anxiously to the
blood-red western sky.