A FACE IN THE NIGHT
Clay did his best under the handicap of a lack of _entente_ between him
and the authorities to search New York for Kitty. He used the personal
columns of the newspapers. He got in touch with taxicab drivers,
ticket-sellers, postmen, and station guards. So far as possible he
even employed the police through the medium of Johnnie. The East Side
water-front and the cheap lodging-houses of that part of the city he
combed with especial care. All the time he knew that in such a maze as
Manhattan it would be a miracle if he found her.
But miracles are made possible by miracle-workers. The Westerner was a
sixty-horse-power dynamo of energy. He felt responsible for Kitty and
he gave himself with single-minded devotion to the job of discovering
her.
His rides and walks with Beatrice were rare events now because he was
so keen on the business of looking for his Colorado protegee. He gave
them up reluctantly. Every time they went out together into the open
Miss Whitford became more discontented with the hothouse existence she
was living. He felt there was just a chance that if he were constant
enough, he might sweep her off her feet into that deeper current of
life that lay beyond the social shallows. But he had to sacrifice this
chance. He was not going to let Kitty's young soul be ship-wrecked if
he could help it, and he had an intuition that she was not wise enough
nor strong enough to keep off the rocks alone.
A part of his distress lay in the coolness of his imperious young
friend who lived on the Drive. Beatrice resented his divided
allegiance, though her own was very much in that condition. Clay and
she had from the first been good comrades. No man had ever so deeply
responded to her need of friendship. All sorts of things he understood
without explanations. A day with him was one that brought the deep
content of happiness. That, no doubt, she explained to herself, was
because he was such a contrast to the men of cramped lives she knew.
He was a splendid tonic, but of course one did not take tonics except
occasionally.
Yet though Beatrice intended to remain heart-whole, she wanted to be
the one woman in Clay's life until she released him. It hurt her
vanity, and perhaps something deeper than her vanity, that such a girl
as she conceived Kitty Mason to be should have first claim on the time
she had come to consider her own. She made it plain to him, in the
wordless way expert young women have at command, that she did not mean
to share with him such odd hours as he chose to ask for. He had to
come when she wanted him or not at all. Without the name of Kitty
having been mentioned, he was given to understand that if he wished to
remain in the good graces of Beatrice Whitford he must put the
cigarette girl out of his mind.
For all his good nature Clay was the last man in the world to accept
dictation of this sort. He would go through with anything he started,
and especially where it was a plain call of duty. Beatrice might like
it or not as she pleased. He would make his own decisions as to his
conduct.
He did.
Bee was furious at him. She told herself that there was either a weak
streak in him or a low one, else he would not be so obsessed by the
disappearance of this flirtatious little fool who had tried to entrap
him. But she did not believe it. A glance at this brown-faced man was
sufficient evidence that he trod with dynamic force the way of the
strong. A look into his clear eyes was certificate enough of his
decency.
When Clay met Kitty at last it was quite by chance. As it happened
Beatrice was present at the time.
He had been giving a box party at the Empire. The gay little group was
gathered under the awning outside the foyer while the limousine that
was to take them to Shanley's for supper was being called. Colin
Whitford, looking out into the rain that pelted down, uttered an
exclamatory "By Jove!"
Clay turned to him inquiringly.
"A woman was looking out of that doorway at us," he said. "If she's
not in deep water I'm a bad guesser. I thought for a moment she knew
me or some one of us. She started to reach out her hands and then
shrank back."
"Young or old?" asked the cattleman.
"Young--a girl."
"Which door?"
"The third."
"Excuse me." The host was off in an instant, almost on the run.
But the woman had gone, swallowed in the semi-darkness of a side
street. Clay followed.
Beatrice turned to her father, eyebrows lifted. There was a moment's
awkward silence.
"Mr. Lindsay will be back presently," Whitford said. "We'll get in and
wait for him out of the way a little farther up the street."
When Clay rejoined them he was without his overcoat. He stood in the
heavy rain beside the car, a figure of supple grace even in his evening
clothes, and talked in a low voice with Beatrice's father. The mining
man nodded agreement and Lindsay turned to the others.
"I'm called away," he explained aloud. "Mr. Whitford has kindly
promised to play host in my place. I'm right sorry to leave, but it's
urgent."
His grave smile asked Beatrice to be charitable in her findings. The
eyes she gave him were coldly hostile. She, too, had caught a glimpse
of the haggard face in the shadows and she hardened her will against
him. The bottom of his heart went out as he turned away. He knew
Beatrice did not and would not understand.
The girl was waiting where Clay had left her, crouched against a
basement milliner's door under the shelter of the steps. She was
wearing the overcoat he had flung around her. In its pallid despair
her face was pitiable.
A waterproofed policeman glanced suspiciously at them as he sloshed
along the sidewalk in the splashing rain.
"I--I've looked for you everywhere," moaned the girl. "It's
been--awful."
"I know, but it's goin' to be all right now, Kitty," he comforted.
"You're goin' home with me to-night. To-morrow we'll talk it all over."
He tucked an arm under hers and led her along the wet, shining street
to a taxicab. She crouched in a corner of the cab, her body shaken
with sobs.
The young man moved closer and put a strong arm around her shoulders.
"Don't you worry, Kitty. Yore big brother is on the job now."
"I--I wanted to--to kill myself," she faltered. "I tried to--in the
river--and--it was so black--I couldn't." The girl shivered with cold.
She had been exposed to the night rain for hours without a coat.
He knew her story now in its essentials as well as he did later when
she wept it out to him in confession. And because she was who she was,
born to lean on a stronger will, he acquitted her of blame.
They swung into Broadway and passed taxis and limousines filled with
gay parties just out of the theaters. Young women in rich furs,
wrapped from the cruelty of life by the caste system in which wealth
had encased them, exchanged badinage with sleek, well-dressed men. A
ripple of care-free laughter floated to him across the gulf that
separated this girl from them. By the cluster lights of Broadway he
could see how cruelly life had mauled her soft youth. The bloom of her
was gone, all the brave pride and joy of girlhood. It would probably
never wholly return.
He saw as in a vision the infinite procession of her hopeless sisters
who had traveled the road from which he was rescuing her, saw them
first as sweet and merry children bubbling with joy, and again, after
the world had misused them for its pleasure, haggard and tawdry, with
dragging steps trailing toward the oblivion that awaited them. He
wondered if life must always be so terribly wasted, made a bruised and
broken thing instead of the fine, brave adventure for which it was
meant.