It was John.
"Did you line up the stuff, Rodrigo?" came Dorning's distant voice. "I took a chance on finding you at the office. I wanted to make sure to-night that everything was all right and you were coming down here, because Hodge and Story's representative just got in and is all set to take the business away from us."
John! It was like the voice of a rescuing angel. Rodrigo with an effort composed himself and replied, "Everything is fine, John, and I'm taking a train in half an hour."
"Great," said the voice on the wire. "And Elise—did you have dinner with her? Have you seen her?"
Rodrigo replied, "No."
By the time he had hung up the receiver he had made his decision. Elise's spell was broken, broken by that trusting voice on the wire. He would not even telephone her that he was not coming to her. He could not trust himself to talk with her. If she were desperately offended, so much the better!
He seized his brief case and hat and made for the door and a taxi-cab.
Rodrigo flung himself into his berth on the midnight train to Philadelphia with no idea of sleep. One resolve kept pounding in his head. He would tell John Dorning everything when he saw him, and then he would clear out. He heard people shuffling in the aisle outside of his curtained resting place. They were addressing the porter and each other in that hoarse penetrating whisper that passengers affect on sleeping cars with the mistaken idea that it does not disturb the sleepers. He became conscious of the train getting under way with clanging bell and dashing about of human feet on the cement platform. For half the journey across the flats of New Jersey he was awake. Then, emotionally and physically exhausted, he fell into a doze.
Crisp, sunshiny weather greeted him as he stepped out into Broad Street, Philadelphia, some hours later. It had the effect of clearing his brain. The world was rolling along cheerfully, unconcerned, after all. Ferris and the other members of the library committee were already in session with John when Rodrigo appeared at Ferris's office.
John had the opportunity for only a word or two with his partner privately before the conference went into session. "Did you go to dinner and the concert with Elise?" Dorning asked eagerly. When Rodrigo shook his head in the negative, John frowned a little and went on dolefully, "Gad, how I miss her. Whatever the consequence, I'm not going to leave her again. I'll bring her along, no matter how bored she gets."
It seemed to Rodrigo in that instant that it would be nothing short of murder to shatter this man's dream. He simply couldn't do it, at least not for the present.
Nor was he any nearer to his confession that evening as John sat opposite him in the dining car on the way back to New York. John was elated. They had closed the contract successfully and he was going back to Elise. He chided Rodrigo several times with being so preoccupied. They parted at Grand Central Station, John having two minutes in which to catch the Greenwich-bound train.
Mary Drake was putting flowers in a vase on his desk when Rodrigo arrived at his office the next morning. She frequently did this, but considering the circumstances surrounding their last conversation, he was a little surprised to find her there. Nevertheless he greeted her gravely and stood standing until she would have finished her task and departed. But he became gradually aware that she was using the flowers as a subterfuge, that she did not intend to leave until she had spoken to him.
Mary said, with the air of a person who has been thinking something over for some time and is having some difficulty in expressing exactly what she means, "Rodrigo—there is something I should like to say." And, though he offered her no encouragement, she continued. "I have come to the conclusion that I was not as wise the last time I spoke to you as I thought I was. I have been thinking it over ever since. I was unjust to you. I belittled my feelings toward you. And I said there was a reason why we could never marry, and I didn't do you the justice to tell you what it was."
"I don't think telling me now will help either of us," he replied, striving to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Things have changed for me since then. I over-estimated myself. I told you I was a better man—than I am. To-day I see clearly that I was a fool."
She asked, suddenly apprehensive, "Something—that has taken away your love for me?"
His reply was bitter. "No, my faith in myself. Night before last, I weakened so that I don't deserve anybody's love, least of all, yours."
She recovered, smiled and came nearer to him, bravely intending to comfort him. "You are too hard on yourself, Rodrigo. You are angry and bitter. And that is my fault, I know."
"No, you have nothing to do with it," he said almost brutally. "I am going away from here too, as soon as I can. I shall stay away, forever."
He was surprised at the response in her face. She seemed glad, relieved. She hastened to explain. "Oh, Rodrigo, don't you see that that clears things up for us, for you and me? That eliminates the barrier that stood between us? I did not have the heart to tell you I could never say I loved you as long as you remained with Dorning and Son, as long as you and John were so closely associated. And I did not dare suggest breaking off your friendship."
"John?" he asked, mystified. "What has John got to do with you and me?"
"Not John, but——"
"Elise?"
She hesitated, then, "Yes. If I admitted to you that I loved you, I would always have had her to fight. And I couldn't. She spoke to me about you day before yesterday, and I saw that she would do anything to prevent us loving each other. I did not believe what she said about you. But it showed me to what lengths she would go, and I was afraid. Fighting her would mean the end of your friendship with John, of your connection with Dorning and Son. Oh, I realize the grip she has upon John. If it came to a choice between you and her, you know which he would keep. And I was not sure what your feeling for me might turn to if I were the cause of a break between you and John. Mrs. Dorning is clever, fascinating, and, I am afraid, quite relentless. I know her feelings toward you and how hard she has tried to——"
He cut in savagely, "Have I ever given you any reason to suppose that Elise and I——"
"No. Not you," she interrupted quietly. "I have overheard you talking to her on the telephone several times. I know how you have sought to avoid her. I can speak frankly about her to you, I think. You will know that I am not moved by jealousy or a desire to gossip or anything petty. But she has called John's office several times from the Van Clair Hotel, for instance, on occasions when she knew he was not here and was to meet her somewhere later. She has given me messages over the 'phone for him, and each time I heard voices laughing and shouting near her. One evening when I passed the Van Clair on the way to the subway, she got out of a taxi with a strange man and went in. That place had a bad reputation, you know. It is just as well for New York that it has burned down."
He stared at her, startled, and, striving to make the question casual. "There was a fire at the Van Clair? When?"
"Why, night before last, just after midnight. It was in all the papers. It burned to the ground."
Dismay gripped him, and he turned away quickly so that she could not see his face. At once Mary read that it had something to do with her, and she laid her hand upon his shoulder, her face flushed and smiling.
She said softly, "Perhaps it was that fire, the feeling it brought that we never know what will happen, never realize how short a time we may have to rectify a mistake, that showed me how wrong I was day before yesterday. I love you, Rodrigo. I will be your wife—if you still want me."
He turned a stricken face to her. He was held in a sudden fear and foreboding. He had hardly heard what she had said. And he had no time to answer her, for the door of his office was flung violently open and John Dorning, excited, disheveled, burst upon them.
"Rodrigo!" he cried from the door. Then, coming forward, "Thank God. I found you here."
He looked so badly that Mary asked in alarm, "You're ill, John. Can I do anything for you?"
"Thank you, Mary—no," he answered, and gathering from his tone that he wished to be alone with his friend, she left quietly.
He almost ran up to Rodrigo. "Elise was not there when I got home, Rodrigo! She left no word of any kind. I've called up everybody. I can't find her."
Rodrigo sagged against the desk, as if struck a blow. He repeated dully, "Can't find—Elise?"
"No. Rodrigo, do you know where she is—do you? I'm worried to death. Anything might happen to her in this town. Accidents—anything."
By this time, with a great effort, Rodrigo had recovered a semblance of control over himself. He spoke soothingly. "Oh, that's nonsense, John. Have you called her friends?"
"Everybody. I've been to the police. I've traced all the ambulance calls. I've found out about fatal fires, and there haven't been any, except one in some hotel. I've driven and telephoned all over town. People must think I'm crazy. I 'phoned Warren down at his place, and he's helping me search too." He ran his hands nervously through his damp, blond hair. He cried, "And I will go crazy, Rodrigo, if I don't get on track of her soon." He seized his friend's lapel and fixed wild eyes upon him. "You don't think she could have run away from me, left me without a word, do you? No, of course not. Not that. We loved each other too much." He fell to pacing the floor rapidly.
"There's probably some very obvious explanation of her absence," Rodrigo strove to soothe him, and himself. "There usually is. Have you called Mrs. Palmer?"
John turned abruptly, his whole expression changing to one of intense relief. "I'm an idiot!" he cried. "I never thought of her. My car's outside. I'll drive up there at once. Mrs. Palmer is ill, as a matter of fact. Perhaps she's taken a turn for the worse and Elise was called there suddenly. I'll run right up." He snatched up his hat and was gone.
Hardly had the door closed when Rodrigo bounded to the clothes-tree and took the unread morning paper from his overcoat pocket. He sank into his chair and spread the sheet eagerly on the desk in front of him. There, in screaming black headlines, it leaped out at him:
VAN CLAIR FIRE VICTIM ISSTILL UNIDENTIFIED————Body of Woman Guest Thought to HavePerished in Hotel Tragedy HasNot Been Found————
Up to an early hour this morning, the woman occupying the room on the ninth floor of the ill-fated Hotel Van Clair, which burned to the ground shortly after midnight Wednesday, remained unidentified, and no trace of her charred body had been found in the still smoking ruins. The hotel register, the only direct means of identification, has evidently burned and—
With a sudden cry of anguish, he crushed the paper violently between his hands, as if to destroy the devastating news it brought him. The sheet fell to the floor as he stretched his arms out in a gesture of hopelessness.
After a while he became aware of a hand upon his shoulder, and Mary's voice was saying gently, "I heard John leave, so I came back. What is wrong!"
He felt himself crumpling. He leaned against her, raising his fear-stricken eyes to her. "Elise! She's gone. John has been looking for her. He's half crazy. But he'll never find her. I know." And, as her face remained questioning, "The paper says a woman has been burned. The woman was Elise—and I—I sent her there. She came back here that night and—well, she fascinated me. I forgot everything. I was to meet her later at the Van Clair. She left me to meet me there later. Then John telephoned long distance, about the business, and I came to my senses. I didn't go to the hotel. She must have stayed there. The fire broke out half an hour after she left me. So you see, Mary—I sent her there—I killed Elise! And I can never tell John—never!"
Growing horror gathered in her eyes. She whispered, "It is—horrible."
"I sent John away on a fool's errand. I had to have time to think."
She said tensely, "But you say she came back to you, here? It was her idea, your going to the hotel? I know—the fascination of her, Rodrigo. And she went there alone—"
"What difference does that make?" he said wildly. "What good that I came to my senses? I sent her there. And now John! Counting on me to see him through—me!"
"You must tell John," she said firmly.
"I can't!"
"It would be kinder than to let him live not knowing, always wondering and hoping. It's cowardly not to tell him."
"Tell him—that, because of me, his wife, his wife, whom he adored, is dead?"
"Not because of you—in spite of you."
Rodrigo answered her, calmer, now reasoning. "You don't realize how he loved her, set her up as a saint upon an altar. I could not tell him the truth. It would blacken her forever before the whole world. I think he would prefer suffering any torture rather than that."
"That is a compromise, Rodrigo, and, therefore, wrong."
He said excitedly: "Call it what you please—I can't tell him!"
"Not even if I promise to help you with all the love I am capable of? Don't you see, Rodrigo?—I feel guilty with you. If I had not been so blind before, this might not have happened." She held out her hands, pleading with him, "Oh, Rodrigo, I love you. I did not realize how much until now. I can forgive everything in you—but cowardice. I will stand by you—but please, please tell John and ask him to forgive you. You can't see him through with that guilt always before you. It's impossible."
But he reiterated stubbornly. "No, I cannot tell him. I cannot kill him too. I would rather kill myself."
She asked quietly, "Not even if it means my love for you? Will you kill that too?"
He replied slowly, "There's nothing—could make me tell him." His voice was unsteady, hie eyes blinded with tears as he turned away from her, her whole body drooping.
The telephone shrilled like a crack of doom, and he fumblingly lifted the receiver as she waited.
"She hasn't been here, Rodrigo!" came John's anguished voice. "What am I to do? I don't know——"
"Don't lose your nerve, old man," Rodrigo replied, and his tones were weak, almost unrecognizable.
"I'm at my wits' end. I've questioned her aunt, the servants here, everybody."
"Come on back down here then, old man," urged Rodrigo. "We'll workout a plan. Don't worry. I'll be here waiting. Come right down."
He hung up the receiver, staring ahead of him, seeming unconscious that Mary was still there. When he became aware of her, he said as steadily as his trembling body allowed, "We'll all be upset terribly—for a while. Please—you will carry on temporarily, try to keep the place going, help us, won't you?"
She answered, "Yes, I will carry on. Don't worry about business. It will be all right." And her eyes too were full of tears.
Rodrigo sat on the edge of a chair in the living room of Henry Dorning's house at Greenwich. Near him, his frail body sunk deeply in the cushions of a large chair especially comfortably upholstered for his benefit, rested Henry Dorning. The attitude of both was one of nervous expectancy. Had you, however, been unacquainted personally with the two men and been told that one of them was a semi-invalid, you might have been excused for choosing Rodrigo as the ailing one. His lean face had grown thinner and his eyes were dark-ringed from the ordeal he was passing through. His clothing showed little trace of his usual sartorial fastidiousness. He fidgeted in his chair, and when he attempted to light a cigarette the match was held so unsteadily that the tobacco with difficulty caught fire. Henry Dorning, on the other hand, though affected very deeply by the plight of his son, maintained a surface calm that belied the turmoil within him.
Indeed, Henry Dorning was at somewhat of a loss to understand the extreme havoc which the disappearance of Elise had wrought in Rodrigo Torriani. He knew that the friendship between John and Rodrigo was so close that the catastrophe which had befallen his son would be shared by his son's friend. But, after all, Rodrigo was a man of the world, of considerable experience in emotional crises. Why had another's tragedy now broken him up so savagely that he seemed upon the verge of a breakdown? Had not more vital matters been pressing, Henry Dorning would have liked to discover the answer to this question.
As for John Dorning, his mad search for his missing wife had, in the physical sense, terminated for the time being. It had now been two weeks since the fatal fire in the Van Clair. The wild rushing about and pursuit of false clews, the almost total loss of sleep and food had caused John's frail body and almost his strong mind, to snap definitely that morning. For days Rodrigo had been warning him, urging him to abandon the search temporarily, tried with everything in his power, except the uttering of the truth about Elise, to prevent John from becoming a second victim. That morning John had collapsed in Rodrigo's arms and lain in the latter's apartment unconscious. Rodrigo had summoned a doctor and revived his friend. On the physician's advice, he had brought the stricken man at top speed in his car to Henry Dorning's home in Greenwich.
"DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT I THINK OF YOU?" MARY ASKED SOFTLY."DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT I THINK OF YOU?" MARY ASKED SOFTLY.
John had slumped, apparently more dead than alive, in the seat beside Rodrigo throughout that rapid ride. John's father and sister Alice, apprised in advance by telephone, had been awaiting their arrival. The tortured man, at last too weak to protest further, had been put to bed and the Dorning's family physician summoned.
The latter was now up with the sick man, as was Alice Pritchard. Henry Dorning and Rodrigo were at present waiting for the report upon John's condition.
"Hotchkiss is a long time about his examination," Henry Dorning said finally, breaking a long silence. He had been observing Rodrigo narrowly, and he thought perhaps occupying the Italian's mind with conversation might allay some of Rodrigo's evident nervousness. Otherwise he feared Dr. Hotchkiss might have another patient on his hands when he came downstairs.
Rodrigo nodded shortly.
"It is a blessing, in a way, that John has given out at last," Mr. Dorning went on seriously. "This break was bound to come. I could not stop his frantic search. Neither could you, I suppose. Now he will be kept quiet and will have a chance to recover." He was silent a moment, and then he asked suddenly, "Rodrigo, do you think Elise will ever be found?"
Rodrigo turned his tired eyes quickly to his questioner. "Why—I don't know," he faltered. "But I don't believe—she will."
"Nor do I," said Henry Dorning. "I think she ran away from my boy, and, in doing so, met with a fatal accident somewhere, probably in a motor car. That is my own theory, but of course I have nothing on which to base it. It is merely intuition."
"But she and John were so happy together, loved each other so dearly. Why should she run—"
"Nonsense," the elder Dorning said shortly. "John loved her with all his heart. But I have thought from the first that she had no especial regard for him. I diagnosed her at once as a selfish, frivolous woman. She married John for his money, after carefully sizing the situation up and deciding that I probably would not live very long. Oh, I know that is a brutal way of talking about a woman who is probably dead now. But I cannot help it. I always distrusted her and feared for what she would do to John. A number of her actions confirmed my first suspicions. I was never one to interfere in the private affairs of my children—both Alice and John will tell you that. But I could not help but notice how, for example, Elise would disappear the moment John had left on a business trip and not come back to Greenwich until a few hours before his return. And the type of people she brought into his house—riff-raff is the only word for them.
"Yes, Rodrigo—I may be a terrible old ogre for saying so—but I am glad that woman has gone. I do not, of course, wish her dead. I am afraid, however, that is what has happened. Otherwise she would certainly have communicated with John in some way by this time. You will remember that I had Warren ask you once what you knew of Elise. He said that you told him nothing. I am not going to question you, Rodrigo—now. But I will say that I believe you knew what sort of woman she really was and that you were afraid to tell John, because he was so infatuated with her that it would hurt him. I respect you for that and think you did wisely. I also respect you for trying to protect her when Warren questioned you. Any gentleman would have done the same, and I was foolish and a little caddish for having the question asked. However——"
But Rodrigo was never to know into what deep waters Henry Dorning's line of thought might have led them, for at that moment Dr. Hotchkiss appeared on the stairs and both men turned expectantly. The doctor was a splendid figure of a man, tall, gray and distinguished looking. He was a personal friend of Henry Dorning's as well as his medical advisor. His face now bore a grave expression that confirmed the fears of the patient's two best male friends.
Dr. Hotchkiss approached Rodrigo, who had risen and taken a step or two forward in his anxiety, and the still seated Henry Dorning, whose condition made it imperative that he walk only when necessary. The doctor said quietly, "There is no use in minimizing things. John is in a very serious condition. He is physically and mentally exhausted. I have telephoned for a nurse. It is too big a job for Alice, willing as she is. I don't want either of you to disturb John. I don't want anybody to go near him, except the nurse, until further instructions from me. To speak frankly, any kind of a shock now would bring on—well, something I don't want to contemplate. It will be a long hard pull, I can tell you, to bring him around. And I want you both—and Alice too—to cooperate with me by assuring John absolute quiet during the next weeks and months."
The two listeners nodded. There was a faint feeling of relief in their minds that Dr. Hotchkiss had not pronounced matters hopeless and had even implied that with good fortune and care John might come through satisfactorily.
When the medical man had left, Rodrigo prepared to follow him. He shook hands with Henry Dorning and received the latter's promise to inform him at once if there was any decided change in John's condition.
"As for continuing the search for Elise—you may use your own judgment about that," said Henry Dorning. "I suppose John would wish it pursued with the same zeal. But I leave it to you."
"Very well," Rodrigo replied softly. "I will use—my own judgment."
He drove back to New York at a snail's pace, the speed of his car in harmony with his thoughts of the long, dreary months of remorse ahead of him.
The next day Rodrigo tried hard to submerge himself in the numerous details of business that made up his work and John's with Dorning and Son. It was the only way now that he could stand by his stricken friend. Mary Drake was his able lieutenant—a silent, rather impersonal sort of lieutenant, to be sure, but he could expect nothing different now, he grimly told himself.
An alarming week followed at the Dorning home in Greenwich. For two or three days John's condition was very bad. There were periods in which he alternately raved in hysteric delirium and then sank into a coma, recognizing nobody and sustained by a scarcely detectable heart-beat. In his periods of delirium he called loudly upon Elise, upon Rodrigo, upon the mother who had died in his childhood, while the nurse, Alice Pritchard, and Doctor Hotchkiss labored with physical strength and opiates to quiet him. In that week, Rodrigo lived through a hundred hells, calling on the telephone every few hours to receive bulletins that sank his heart anew each time.
At the end of the week he learned from the doctor that John's physical condition had taken a slight turn for the better. Mentally, however, he was very bad. Dr. Hotchkiss indicated his fears that, unless the strain were in some way removed, his young patient's mind might go.
In disposing of the increased business worries placed upon his shoulders by the absence of John, Rodrigo found unexpectedly efficient assistance in the person of Max Rosner. For Rodrigo had taken a practical means of making good John's promise that something would be done for Rosner, after the dramatic encounter in which Rodrigo had saved his friend from the leaden danger in Rosner's revolver. John had advanced the little man a loan and placed his ill wife in the hospital. Rodrigo had suggested a way for the harassed little man to repay the money and regain his self-respect. John's responsibilities in Dorning and Son had always been too heavy. Rodrigo suggested the installation of Rosner as John's assistant, pointing out that while the ex-employee was no executive, he knew the business and would doubtless prove very acceptable in a subordinate capacity.
During the time Rosner was winning back his health and mental balance, his duties had been light. In the weeks just before Elise's disappearance, he had gradually been given larger responsibilities and had been executing them surprisingly well. Now, with John gone, he stepped manfully into the breach and performed yeoman service in enabling Rodrigo to carry on. Henry Madison was his usual capable self in managing the retail sales force; however, without the aid of Rosner, Rodrigo frequently told himself that the buying and important outside contract work of the concern, the part of the business on which the reputation of Dorning and Son rested, would have gone to pieces.
Moreover, Rodrigo discovered in Rosner, whom he had hitherto regarded with some distaste, personal qualities and a sympathy that made him really like the frail middle-aged man and established a bond between them.
It started in the second week of John's illness when Rosner, who fairly worshipped Rodrigo now for the kindness he had done him, said timidly at the end of a business conference, "How is John this morning?"
"Improving a little, as rapidly as anybody could expect."
Rosner continued hesitantly, "You're not looking at all well yourself, Count Torriani. You're worrying too much about John. It's time you thought about yourself a little. If you don't—well, you may be where he is."
"Would to God that I were!" Rodrigo cried with a suddenness and vehemence that startled Rosner. In the next instant he was angry at himself for losing control, for his manifestation of the jumpy state of his nerves. He continued more calmly, "Thanks for your sympathy, Rosner, but don't worry about me. I'm all right."
"If you wanted to go away a while, for a rest—I could manage, I think, after a fashion," Rosner offered.
"Thanks. I know you could. You're doing wonderful work—you and Miss Drake and all the rest of the people. But I'll stick around until John gets back in harness. Then I'm going away for a long rest, abroad probably."
After Rosner had gone, Rodrigo realized that their little conversation had been a relief, even his explosive demonstration of his nervous condition. The only other person in the establishment with whom he discussed John's illness was Mary Drake, and to her he merely communicated briefly the latest news from Greenwich daily, in answer to her question. There was no mention of their former relations to each other, merely a question and answer about some one in whom both felt a deep concern. Beyond this and the daily contacts into which the routine of the business brought them, Rodrigo and Mary were now to all intents and purposes just an employer and a trusted employee. Of the frequent anxious and sympathetic glances which Mary cast at him when he chanced to be facing away from her, Rodrigo, of course, knew nothing.
It was December, when his illness had run along for nearly two months, that John Dorning showed a definite improvement and return to normal. One morning Rodrigo received word by telephone that John was to leave two days later for southern California, in charge of his sister and his nurse, and would like to see Rodrigo before he departed. The doctor had declared that a change of scene would help the patient as soon as he was in condition to travel. It was thought that John was now strong enough, and the plans had been made for an indefinite stay in the region of San Diego.
Rodrigo drove up to Greenwich that afternoon. Alice Pritchard ushered him into John's room, near a window at which his friend was seated, looking moodily out upon the snow-clad lawn. Though he was prepared to see a change in John's appearance, Rodrigo was shocked in spite of himself at the actuality. The face of the man in the chair was white and gaunt. His blond hair was streaked with gray. He looked at least ten years older than he had on the day Rodrigo had seen him last. And as, aware of visitors, he turned, Rodrigo saw that his eyes looked sunken and lack-lustre.
Rodrigo managed a smile as he advanced with hand outstretched. A semblance of a smile appeared on John's wan face also, and he said in a low voice, "This is good, old man."
"It is, indeed," Rodrigo said heartily. "I'm glad to see you looking better."
"Yes, I am feeling better. I want to thank you for sticking by me through it all, Rodrigo. They've told me of the constant interest you've shown and the fine work you're doing at the shop. I'm sorry to have to impose upon you any longer—but they tell me I must go away for a time. I don't know that it will do any good." His weak voice fell away, and his head bowed a little.
"Oh, it's bound to," Rodrigo cut in cheerfully. "New faces, new scenes. You'll come back a new man, ready to pitch in like a whirlwind."
But John had hardly listened to him. Alice had left the room, as the patient discovered when he looked cautiously around. At once he caught Rodrigo's sleeve with his thin fingers and looked at him so pathetically that the latter wanted to turn his head away. John asked, "Have you learned anything at all about Elise, Rodrigo?" And when Rodrigo shook his head slowly, John's hand and head fell and he whispered, "Nothing—in all these months? It's unbelievable—it's maddening."
Rodrigo hastened to soothe him, to change the subject. A few moments later Alice returned with the nurse, and Rodrigo deduced that it was time that he left. The two men shook hands and, with an encouraging caution to come back strong and healthy, Rodrigo was out of the room.
During the remainder of the winter, the word from California was of John's constant improvement. He was living almost in the open air and doing little besides eat and sleep. In February he started writing short notes to Rodrigo in his own hand. By the first of March, the notes had grown longer and had lost both their unsteadiness of chirography and the perfunctory air of being written by a man too tired mentally to use his imagination.
John was taking an interest in life again. He took to commenting upon the beauty of the natural scenery about him and upon the desecration being wrought upon Nature by some of the architectural monstrosities of the region. He told in subsequent letters of having lunch with mutual business friends of theirs, of a trip to Catalina Island. He even made some inquiries about certain projects he had left unfinished upon the occasion of his abrupt leave-taking from Dorning and Son and urged Rodrigo to tell him in detail of his business problems of the hour. This last, to Rodrigo, was the most encouraging sign of all.
Early in April, John Dorning returned to Greenwich. Rodrigo spent the week-end there and rejoiced to see his friend looking so changed for the better. Though he was still thin and fragile-looking, there was color in his cheeks and life in his eyes. And whatever his mood might be when alone, in the presence of his family and of Rodrigo, John was now nearly his old self. He had, right at the start of Rodrigo's visit, made an effort to prove this by meeting his friend at the station in the Dorning sedan and driving him to the house. In answer to Rodrigo's joyous greeting and eager questioning, he replied, "Yes, I'm in quite good shape now. In fact, Dr. Hotchkiss is so pleased with me that he says I may come in a couple of days next week for an hour or so each day and kind of get in touch with things at the shop. And I'll be glad to do it, I can tell you."
Though Rodrigo sensed somehow that the thought of the missing Elise still occupied the back of John Dorning's mind, to the exclusion of everything else, her name was not mentioned at all throughout the week-end.
Sunday morning, Rodrigo rode horseback with John, a pastime which Dr. Hotchkiss had recommended and which had led to the purchase of two excellent saddle-horses and their installation in the long empty Dorning barn. The bridle-path led them quite close to the Millbank development, where stood the vacant home of John and Elise. Rodrigo did not, of course, allude to this and even glanced anxiously at John as they passed the place.
"I am going over to my old house next week sometime and take out the stuff I left there," John said calmly, though Rodrigo wondered if there was not suppressed emotion behind those quiet words. "I have put the place on the market and intend to dispose of it." John was frowning and his lips were clenched tightly.
Rodrigo did not answer him, but soon afterward prodded his horse into a gallop. John followed him, and they finished their journey at a very rapid pace. Rodrigo left for New York that evening, very much pleased with his friend's condition. Some of the heavy load was lifted off the young Italian's mind at last. Though he had not permitted himself to think about it during all the long months of that sad winter and early spring, he was utterly worn out in body and mind. On the rare occasions when he relaxed the grim guard upon his mind and was weak enough to pity himself, it seemed to him that soon he must, must get away.
No returning hero ever received a more sincere welcome from his associates than did John Dorning when he walked into the shop on Wednesday of the week following. The whole staff abruptly dropped what they were doing and clustered around him. Hands were outstretched and grasped. In many eyes there were tears. John, smiling happily, was very close to crying himself. He thanked them all collectively for carrying on in his absence, with special mention of Rodrigo, Henry Madison, Rosner and Mary Drake. The last named dabbed at her eyes furtively and stole a proud glance at Rodrigo, which he did not catch.
John remained scarcely half an hour, spending the time in a short conference with the four who composed the executive staff of the business. On Friday, however, he came in again, this time with a tentative sketch suggestion for the murals Dorning and Son were to submit for a new art theatre building to be erected in New York. After this his appearance became steadily more frequent and for longer intervals.
Two weeks later, he said, at the end of the first full day he had spent at the shop. "Monday I intend to resume my place here in earnest, Rodrigo. I'm feeling well now, and I'm perfectly capable of putting on the harness. In fact, the harder I work, the better I feel. But you've been working too hard, Rodrigo. You're looking tired and seedy. I really believe I appear healthier than you do. Don't I, Mary?" The scene was John's office. Mary had just come in to take away the signed letters. She looked around and smiled at his question, flashing a glance at Rodrigo but not committing herself to an answer. "Mary has been a big help to me in getting back into the swim," John smiled. "And I intend to lean upon her more than ever." He looked so affectionately at the grave girl that Rodrigo glanced from one to the other and experienced a sudden flash of foreboding. John and Mary—now that Elise was gone—John's need of someone to lean upon—the realization, to him, of Mary's worth——
But Rodrigo dismissed it from his mind with an effort. He simply would not think of it. The ache of loving Mary was still too raw in his own heart.
"Why don't you take a long vacation, Rodrigo?" John was saying. "Go abroad, to Italy, or something. You certainly deserve it. We'll carry on here."
And another portion of the heavy load on Rodrigo's mind lifted. He felt like sighing audibly with relief. At last he could put into effect the plan that had been forming in his brain ever since that awful morning. John was well now, reasonably happy, as happy as he perhaps ever would be again. The burden of keeping the faith by carrying on his business for him had been taken from Rodrigo's shoulders. The guilt in Rodrigo's soul could never be taken away, of course. But at least he could gain some surcease by going away from this man whom he could never again look in the eye with a clear conscience, never again see without feeling how he had betrayed him. He would go away, and stay away. When his heart cried, "But Mary?—You love Mary. You cannot give her up," he tried to stifle that cry, and resolved, just the same, to go.
He voiced this resolution to John. "I do need a vacation, John. I'm glad you suggested it. If you can get along without me, I think I shall book passage to Italy. My house over there is vacant, you know, and I want to see about selling it, for one thing. And I should like to see some of my old friends. And the Bay of Naples, and all the old places. It will do me good. And perhaps I can pick up some treasures over there at bargain prices. I'll keep that in mind too."
Rodrigo sailed four weeks later on a Saturday. John bade him good-bye at the close of the day's work on the afternoon previous, for John was under the doctor's orders to take two full days' vacation each week-end.
"When will you be back, Rodrigo?" John asked.
And Rodrigo had hesitated and finally answered, "I—can't tell."
"Well, take your time—but I'll be awfully eager to see you again. I'll miss you like the dickens," John said rather wistfully.
Rodrigo, his baggage already aboard, arrived early at the steamer that Saturday. In the midst of the passengers waving and calling to the swarms of friends standing in the doorways of the pier-sheds, he stood alone on the deck, looking ashore. He was probably the only one there to whom someone was not wishing bon voyage, he told himself rather grimly. Then suddenly he saw Mary Drake and she had finally managed to thrust her slim way through the gesticulating groups on shore and was searching the deck of the ship with her eyes.
Rodrigo turned abruptly and hurried down the gangplank. He pushed to her side.
"This is good of you, Mary," he said to her.
She started, turned, smiled, and said seriously, "I came down to ask you to reconsider not coming back."
"How do you know I am not coming back?" he echoed the seriousness in her voice.
"You told me once that you were going away and not return. I guessed you were only waiting until John was firmly on his feet. He is there now. And you are sailing away."
"Would you like me to come back—for yourself, Mary?" he asked hopefully.
"I am not to be considered," she answered almost coldly, though there was a little catch in her throat. "You should come back for the sake of your own soul. To run away and stay away is cowardice. You will spend the rest of your life hating yourself." She lifted her face to his appealingly. "Oh, Rodrigo, can't you see that the only right way is to tell John the truth, even now? He can stand it now. And you will save yourself. You are not happy. You will never be happy as long as this terrible thing is in your heart."
"Is that question of telling John always to stand between us, Mary? Do I have to wreck John's life all over again in order to make you love me?" He asked almost bitterly.
She did not reply. The whistle of the great vessel beside them shrieked mightily amid the hiss of escaping steam.
"Good-bye, Mary," he said brokenly, taking her hand. He hesitated, lifted it to his lips, and, without another glance at her, half ran to the gangplank, which had already been lifted a foot off the dock. So he did not see the tears that streamed down her face, and what was written behind the tears as she lifted her eyes and realized he was gone.
The weather, for the winter season, was unusually fine during the first five or six days of the voyage eastward, and Rodrigo kept closely to his cabin. He slept much. It seemed to him that for six months he had gone virtually without sleep. The slight motion of the ship, the changed environment soothed him like a lullaby. He rested soundly at night and took frequent naps during the day. By the time the inevitable change in the weather came and stormy seas tossed the staunch vessel about so violently that his cabin had become virtually untenantable, he was fit and ready to endure the gusty blasts and angry, slanting rain. Rodrigo was an excellent sailor and really enjoyed the decks of a wave-tossed ship.
On a cloudy afternoon, with the wind lashing the rigging with screams and whines and the waves shooting spray as high as the canvas-protected bridge, Rodrigo sat wrapped in blankets in a steamer chair and calmly watched the mountainous watery madness on the other side of the rail. So thoroughly was the little man in the steamer chair beside him sheltered in overcoat, cap, and a whole battalion of blankets that Rodrigo was unaware that another foolish soul, in addition to himself, was on deck. Indeed he looked around bewildered for a moment to discover where the voice was coming from when his neighbor addressed him with a chuckle, "'What fools these mortals be', eh? Freezing to death up here when we might be down in nice warm cabins?"
Rodrigo laughed, "The cabins may be warm, but most of them are very damp by this time, I guess, and full of mal de mer germs."
He observed the habitation of this deep, cheerful voice more closely and saw that it came out of the fat, ruddy, cheerful face of a man about fifty years old, an American. Rodrigo suddenly became aware that he was very glad to hear a friendly voice, that he was in need of human companionship. They continued the conversation and Rodrigo learned that his companion was a Dr. Woodward from Washington, bound for Rome on a holiday. Still talking on inconsequential topics in a light, mind-easing vein, they later walked the abandoned deck together, sloshing through the water that the waves frequently splattered about them. That evening Woodward transferred his place in the dining saloon, now also practically abandoned save for them, to the table where Rodrigo had been eating alone heretofore.
Learning Rodrigo's line of business and having had explained to him how a titled Italian happened to be connected with a Fifth Avenue art emporium, David Woodward revealed casually, between courses of a rather damp dinner, that he was head of the psychiatric ward at the Luther Mead Hospital, Washington. His charges were for the most part, he explained, shell-shocked veterans of the late war, though they also included a number of civilian patients with mental disorders.
"Perhaps it's my association with mental deficients ashore that leads me to enjoy irrational pursuits, such as getting my feet soaked on a wave-washed deck," Woodward chortled.
During the next few days which continued monotonously stormy, the two became quite well acquainted. Under Rodrigo's questioning, Woodward talked further about his own profession, in which he was deeply immersed and stood very high.
On deck one day he made the remark in a discussion of mental disorders that insanity comes often from too much introspection or the abandonment of the mind to a single obsession. On an impulse, Rodrigo told him of John Dorning's experience, making the case hypothetical and, of course, not mentioning names. Having stated the circumstances, he asked Dr. Woodward whether there was a chance that the victim might suffer a relapse and topple over the border-line or whether he might in time completely efface from his mind the harrowing event that had unbalanced him.
The psychiatrist pondered a moment and then answered, "I should say that if this man never learns anything definite about his wife's fate, that is, does not receive information that would give him a new shock, he will go on much as he is at present. I gather from what you say that he has made a partial recovery, so that he again finds life tolerable, but that he is in a measure living under the shadow of the initial shock. Well, that is not so bad. Most of us are concealing a major worry or two. On the other hand, this man's salvation probably lies in falling in love with another woman, a different type of woman from his former wife. That would be an almost sure way of healing his wound. And I should say that the chances of this happening are excellent, particularly if the man is being brought into daily contact with a woman of a sympathetic turn of mind. That's when men frequently fall in love, you know—when they have suffered tragedy and are desperately in need of the sort of sympathy only a woman can give."
Rodrigo suddenly abandoned the subject, for in this "woman of a sympathetic turn of mind" he had seen, in a flash, Mary. Would she and John, thrown together now, with John aching for someone to minister to his bruised mind, fall in love? Having, as he tortured himself into believing, lost Elise to John, would he now be called upon to give up Mary to his friend, as if in retribution? He made an excuse, arose abruptly and started to pace the deck. But this was foolishness, he told himself at length. What if Mary and Dorning should learn to love each other? It was natural. They had much in common. They were both fine, wonderful characters. And had he not virtually abandoned her, lost her by being what she termed a "coward," revealed to her he would never return?
He told himself savagely that he was the most selfish man in the world. And in the next moment he was praying silently that this thing would not happen, that the two people he loved best in the world would not fall in love with each other. His heart ached with a pain that was physical.
Just before they parted at Naples, whence Dr. Woodward was to entrain at once for Rome, the psychiatrist said half-seriously to Rodrigo, "I have been observing you all the way over, young man. It's a habit of my profession. You have something on your mind that is gnawing at it. Take my warning and get rid of it. Get drunk, get married, get anything—but forget it. Remember what I told you. Don't think too much. It's a bad habit."
Rodrigo walked alone along the crowded, dirty streets of the familiar city, which was bathed in a warmth and sunshine far different from the damp and cold that had remained with them the greater part of the voyage over. He secured a room at the Hotel Metropole and, upon awaking and dressing the next morning, strolled out upon the balcony of his room to hear the cries of his countrymen driving their carts past the hotel, the protesting shrieks of the miniature trolley cars as they crawled up the hilly streets of the city, the automobiles bustling about with reckless young Italian chauffeurs at the wheel, the old smell and the gay colors that he had grown up with.
He paid a visit before lunch to the real estate man who had the palace of the Torrianis in charge and was told by that brisk, sharp-faced individual that his cable had been received and that he was awaiting Rodrigo's word before renting the place again.
So it was that the heir of the Torrianis was bumped out to his palace in a hired automobile a few hours later and had the doubtful pleasure of strolling through the great empty rooms of the dwelling of his ancestors. The place had suffered a little from the American tenants who had occupied it. Some of the precious frescoes had been chipped, and the whole establishment was musty and dirty. Rodrigo prepared to leave the historic pile with a feeling of depression. Its sorry condition, contrasted with the spick-and-span modernity of the surroundings he had become accustomed to in New York, weakened whatever idea he might have had of settling there. Nevertheless, sentiment and his now comparative affluence demanded that he restore the palace to a habitable condition. He was therefore doubly glad, as well as surprised, to observe standing beside his rented conveyance a familiar, corpulent female form as he came out.
Maria had been talking excitedly to the chauffeur and now came waddling up to meet her former master. A smile covered her wide and usually stolid face. Rodrigo greeted her heartily and learned from the torrent of words that came from her toothless mouth that she was working in a neighboring villa, which, like the palace of the Torrianis, had been rented by Americans. But, she explained, her Americans were leaving. Had Master Rodrigo come home for good? Would he, perhaps, want old Maria again? She had many times, after the departure of Rodrigo's American tenants, tried to get into the place to clean it. But the pig of a real estate man had refused her a key—her, Maria! Rodrigo, upon the spot, hired her as the permanent caretaker of the palace and turned over to her the massive keys to the outer gate and to the main entrance of the building. She beamed at him as he stepped into the ancient automobile. She shouted blessings upon his head until he disappeared over the hill in a cloud of dust.
It seemed his afternoon for renewing old acquaintances, for a little over a mile from Naples he was about to pass a man and a woman plodding along the dusty road when suddenly the woman raised her head from under the heavy cloth-wrapped bundle she was carrying. It was Rosa Minardi. Rodrigo at once had his car stopped. Rosa, smiling, set down her bundle, and the man with her, who was quite unencumbered and was smoking a long, curved pipe, followed her leisurely to the side of the automobile. Rosa, after the first greeting, introduced the loose-jointed, lazy-looking fellow as her husband.
She looked older, stouter, and considerably less attractive than she had when Rodrigo had last seen her. He wondered if she had really changed or whether it was because that painful scene in which her father had extorted five thousand liras from him seemed now to have taken place years, instead of months, ago, in quite another world. Certainly there seemed nothing particularly alluring about her now, though she was rolling her bright, black eyes at him hopefully and striking attitudes to display the outlines of her too buxom figure as she talked. She was finding the pose difficult, however. There were tired, aging lines under those eyes. And there was the slouching hulk of a man watching her mildly, her husband. Rosa glanced from Rodrigo to this husband, and sighed. The Minardis never had luck. Her worthless father had long since spent his tainted profits from her love affair with Rodrigo. That same worthless father had saddled this equally worthless husband upon her, with the promise that the man was rich, and had then borrowed what little money his son-in-law possessed and disappeared once more to Rome.
This, Rosa did not, of course, tell Rodrigo. Instead she said soberly, "You are looking pale, my friend, and older. Has life not been so gay in America, eh?
"Oh, it has been gay enough," he replied, and he began to admit to himself that he too must have changed, what with John and Dr. Woodward and now Rosa telling him of it.
"Do you think, then, to remain in Italy?" she asked, and he thought he detected a little gleam in those once inviting eyes.
The question having thus been put to him directly, he made a decision and said, "No. I am going to travel a while. Later—I do not know. But I am, as you have guessed, Rosa, not so gay. Perhaps in Paris or London I shall be gayer."
"You used to be—very gay," she mused, and again smiled at him coquettishly, but heavily, as if trying to say that it was not impossible that those happy times might be revived. But, though he returned her smile, she failed to stimulate him. Indeed he found her more depressing even than the palace of his fathers. Bright-eyed Rosa turned drudge, slave of a dirty, indolent Italian husband! Well, that was life. As he started on again and looked back at her, trudging under her burden along the dusty road, the man walking, hands in his pockets, by her side, Rodrigo knew that, even had she been twice as pretty as ever, she would not have struck a spark in him. His old weakness for a pretty face had been killed. And the pity of it was that it had been killed just too late.
He visited Paris, Paris striving to display its old pre-war gayety in the sunny days of a perfect spring. He looked up some old acquaintances, English and Italian artists of the Latin Quarter for the most part, and drank wine with them and talked and tried to recapture some of the old carefree spirit in the musty cafés of Montmartre. He attended the theatre, alone and in the company of his friends and browsed among the galleries and shops, making a few purchases and forwarding them to Dorning and Son. For he could not forget that he was still, in name, John's partner. He found himself frequently speculating, almost unconsciously, as to the outcome of business projects he had had under way when he left and had more than one impulse to write or cable about them. Would he, after all, go back? Dorning and Son had become even more of a part of him that he had suspected. And John and Mary—yes, he wanted that adopted world of his back again intensely already, though he had been gone hardly a month.
Yet the prospect of facing John Dorning day after day, facing his dearest friend with a guilty lie in his heart—and the ache of being near Mary and knowing she was lost to him—he could not endure that!
He crossed the Channel in May, reaching London on a wet and foggy night and establishing himself at the Savoy. For the next few days he loitered in his room, sleeping late and eating only when he felt an active hunger, and walking purposelessly about the streets. On the third evening, over a lonesome dinner, he read by chance in the paper of a play that had opened the night before. It was a problem play called "The Drifters" and, according to the reviewer, possessed considerable merit. Rodrigo was surprised and interested to see the name of Sophie Binner in the cast. Far down in the review, he read a paragraph devoted to Sophie's performance. It said that Miss Binner, late of the musical comedy stage, showed distinct promise in her first straight dramatic role, that the mannerisms which used to delight revue patrons had quite disappeared, that "the former Christy ingenue has demonstrated that she is a character actress of polished competence and, of course, outstanding beauty."
Rodrigo was viewing "The Drifters" an hour later. He found its opening act rather ponderous and talky, until the entrance of Sophie. In the plain tailored suit and subdued make-up which her role called for, she was, he was surprised to discover, more striking in appearance than she had ever been in the tinsel costumes she had worn for Gilbert Christy. Her shiny golden hair, now cropped and confined closely to her head, instead of flying in the breeze as previously, set off her piquant, innocent-wise face in fascinating effectiveness. Her voice had somewhere lost its rasping overtone and acquired clarity and gentility. She moved surely and with an understanding of her part that was in amazing contrast to the slovenly manner in which she had always filled the meager requirements of the bits she had played in Christy's sketches. Formerly Sophie had been able only to sing, dance, and display her figure; now, Rodrigo admitted, she was a real actress. He became interested in discovering how the metamorphosis had come about. His chance came more quickly than he had bargained on.
Just before the curtain rose for the second act, an usher handed Rodrigo a card as he resumed his chair very near the stage. The card read:
Rodrigo:
I noticed you in the audience. I would like to talk with you. Come to my dressing-room after the show, if you care to.
SOPHIE.
It was significant of the change in her, he realized, that later she kept him waiting outside her dressing-room, when he knocked, instead of crying carelessly for him to enter. When she appeared at the door at last, she was dressed simply and becomingly, far more modestly than in the old days. She greeted him cordially enough and accepted his invitation for a bite of supper in a small restaurant just off Piccadilly.
"You are thinner and older," she accused him, when later they were seated cosily in a corner of the smoke-filled and talk-filled room, for the place was a popular rendezvous for after-theatre crowds, though nothing in the way of entertainment was offered except excellent food and a congenial atmosphere.
"You have changed yourself," he retorted. "Tell me how it happened—why you decided to become an actress."
"I think your friend John Dorning had more to do with it than anything," she surprised him by replying.
"John—but how? Do you mean something he said or did the time you—" He stopped in confusion.
"Go on. I don't mind," she laughed. "All that seems very far away now. I don't know whether or not he told you—I imagined he wouldn't—but I came to see you when I was down and out and—well, I got two thousand dollars from Mr. Dorning by a rather shabby trick. But I received a lot more from him than that, though he'll probably never know it. He's a wonderful man. I was in no mood then for being preached at though, but somehow he made me listen and he got over to me, without preaching at all, just where I was headed. He said that no woman had ever found real happiness in living on other people and that if I was any good and had any real love for the stage I would dig out on my own and try to get somewhere.
"When he handed over the two thousand dollars, he said that if I was wise, I would take it and use it to tide myself over while I tried to build a real career. What's more, he offered to send me more if I needed it and could prove I was honestly making an effort to succeed in my profession. That was real sportsmanship, wasn't it? I thought so. So I chucked the musical comedy business and caught on with a small stock company in Leeds. I studied day and night, I worked like a dog, and well, I'm a little way on the road to somewhere now."
"I'm glad, Sophie," he said honestly. "John's a prince. I know that too." He looked across the table into her grave blue eyes so intently that her eyes widened into questioning. Then she smiled understandingly.
"I know what you are thinking, Rodrigo," she said softly. "You are thinking that this is the first time you have ever been with me alone that you did not want to take me in your arms and kiss me. The first time that we could sit here comfortably as friends, without making love. I have been thinking the same thing. And it's true. I used to be an awful man-hunter. I used to think I wasn't living unless I was mad about some man—one or more. I remember that I could have killed you that night you left me in New York. But I have learned different. I have your friend, John Dorning, largely to thank for that."
When he left her at her apartment later, he felt that he had gained a friend.
A letter was handed him by the room clerk that night when he called at the desk of the hotel for his key. Rodrigo stared at the rectangle of white. In the corner was the neat, familiar name of Dorning and Son. The envelope bore his name, typewritten, was addressed to the Palace di Torriani, Naples, and contained scribblings on its face in pencil that had forwarded it to Paris and thence to London. Maria, he decided, had been the original recipient and had sent it to the address he had given her in Paris. He thrust the letter into his pocket and summoned the lift to take him to his room. He wanted to read this message in seclusion, for he had a foreboding of its importance. His original quaking thought that something had happened to John, he assured himself, was absurd. In that event, he felt, Mary would have cabled him.
He sank into a chair, lit a cigarette, and applied trembling fingers to the envelope.
Dear Rodrigo:
I do not know how firmly your mind is set by this time upon remaining in Europe. I do know that something unexpected has developed here that vitally affects you and John and all of us.
John is sure you will return soon and intends to tell you then. I am not so sure you are coming back, but I emphatically urge you, for your own sake, to do so, at least until you can learn of these developments from John's own lips. Return to Europe later if you like, but—come now.
I cannot tell you more. Perhaps I have told too much already.
Sincerely yours,MARY DRAKE.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Mary! He had known instinctively, when the letter was handed to him, that it was from Mary. Suddenly its meaning flashed upon him. She and John loved each other, were going to be married, and wanted to tell him about it, wanted him to take charge of the business while they were away on their honeymoon. In vain he told himself that the thought was absurd, that, if such a thing had really happened, Mary would have written him a straightforward letter about it instead of this cryptic note. Ever since he had left New York, this idea—yes, he might as well admit it—this dread of Mary and John loving each other had hung over his head. Yet why should he dread it? It was no more than fair. A love for a love. He had taken Elise from John; now John was taking Mary from him.
He lay awake all that night, fearing, restless, unhappier than he had ever been in his life. The next morning he engaged passage for New York on a steamer leaving within three days.
Rodrigo nodded his way through the surprised, cheerful greetings of Dorning and Son's staff stationed out in the exhibition rooms and approached the open door of John Dorning's office with an odd mixture of eagerness and reluctance to confirm the fears within him. Almost on the threshold, a voice stopped Rodrigo and he turned to face the smiling visage and outstretched hand of Henry Madison.
"Well, well, this is a surprise," Madison chuckled. "John will be delighted to see you." And in answer to the questioning look in Rodrigo's eyes, he added reassuringly in a lowered voice, "John is quite his old self now—thanks to Mary Drake. She's done wonders with him, made a new man out of him. You'll see." He shook hands again and suggested—"I'll drop into your office later if I may and hear about your trip."
"Yes—do," invited Rodrigo in a preoccupied tone.
When he stepped into the doorway of John's office, he heard the precise accents of his friend's voice dictating a letter. The voice was strong, firm. Yes, John must be quite his old self, as Madison had said. "She's done wonders with him." In the next moment, Rodrigo had walked into the room. The dictation ceased abruptly, a cry of surprised joy burst from John's lips as he rose and rushed toward Rodrigo. He pumped the returned voyager's hand, pounded him upon the back. It was several moments before Rodrigo could turn to Mary, who had also risen and was standing quietly near the exultant John. She was smiling too as he took her hand and pressed it hard. But as Rodrigo turned to John again, she quietly left the room, pausing at the door and looking her gladness at the two reunited friends.
"Yes, I am feeling very well now," John answered Rodrigo's congratulations upon his improved condition. "Thanks to Mary. She's been a wonder. I don't know how I could have gotten along without her. She's worked her head off helping me get back into my stride again. I've had her up to Greenwich with me several week-ends at Dad's house helping me catch up with my correspondence. Alice and she have become great pals, and Dad thinks there's nobody like her."
"There isn't," Rodrigo cut in succinctly.
John regarded him curiously. "Nobody can help loving Mary," he said. "She's one of the best."
Rosner, having learned of Rodrigo's arrival, walked in at that moment and greeted the prodigal with his nervous effusiveness. He, too, was looking in ruddy health. Everything at Dorning and Son's, indeed, seemed to be progressing excellently without him, Rodrigo thought a trifle wistfully. When the little man had departed, the Italian turned to John and announced, "I must see about getting my baggage through. I'll see you later!"
"By all means," said John. "I'm living at our apartment again, you know. I'll meet you there and we'll go out to dinner. Later we'll go back and have a long talk. I've something important to tell you, old man, something that vitally concerns us both." John's face had turned very sober, and there was a return of the old sombreness about his eyes that had been part of the outward sign of his recent ordeal.
Rodrigo strolled into his own office, intending to greet his secretary and inspect the mail that had arrived in his absence. That worthy and very homely lady was, for the moment, out of the building somewhere, but, opening the center drawer in his desk, he discovered an accumulation of letters neatly stowed away. He sat down, and, spreading the mail upon his desk, started leisurely to slit the envelopes. He looked up and arose as Mary slipped into the room.
"I wanted to see you alone and tell you how glad I am that you have—come back," she said eagerly, a look of gladness in her eyes that caused his pulse to quicken a little.
"I came because of your letter," he declared. He braced himself and added fairly steadily, "What are the 'developments' you spoke of?"
"Hasn't John told you?"
"No."
"Then he will—a little later. You will find they are worth changing your plans for."
He fingered the paper-cutter nervously. "John looks like a different man than he was when I last saw him," he said. "He seems at peace with the world at last, to have forgotten—his tragedy. I think you are the cause of it, Mary."
She paled a little. "What do you mean?" His tense voice frightened her.
And then he found he could not voice his fears, could not bear to force her to tell him that he had lost her. "Why, he has learned to depend upon you, and you have given him a new outlook on things, cheered him up, made a man of him again. You have been such a—wonderful friend to him."
She looked at him quizzically, alarmed at his peculiar manner. "Everybody is his friend," she said soberly. "Everybody loves John. He is the salt of the earth."
"He is that," Rodrigo agreed, and he watched her go away from him, back to John.
He sank into his chair, debating his problem. There was in Rodrigo a strange intuition about women. His success with them had, apart from his physical attractiveness, consisted in an ability, far greater than that of the usual predatory male, to understand them. He thought now that he understood Mary. In a quiet, conventional way she had fallen in love with John Dorning, he reasoned from his recent observation of them, and John with her. Their love was still in its budding state. Unless it were interfered with, it would grow steadily into a steadfast union. John would ask her to marry him and she would assent. Her love would be mingled with pity, but yet it would be as near pure love as modern marriages usually subsist upon.
"Unless it were interfered with." In this last meeting with Mary, brief as it had been, Rodrigo detected something that would ordinarily have set his heart to exulting. Mary's coming to him, her eagerness to extend her personal greetings alone, her face and manner, her desire to remain longer and her obvious disappointment at his rather, curt reception of her, had convinced him of something that, never addicted to false modesty, he did not hide.
"Unless it were interfered with." Well, he took a sad little triumph in assuring himself, he could interfere if he chose, successfully interfere. Just now, when she was here, he could have, if he had yielded to his selfish desire, swept her into his arms and made her his forever. He could have killed that budding love for John within her by appealing to the force of her original love for himself, by rushing her off her feet with his superior strength and feeling. He was sure of this.
Mary Drake still loved him, was the refrain that kept pounding in his heart. He could have her now if he wanted to take her. If he remained near her, he would not be able to keep his love silent. He would have to tell her. Every fibre of his being would revolt against the sacrifice. He would not be strong enough to give her up to John, though John needed her, loved her, depended upon her to keep him out of the dark shadows that had so tragically enveloped him.
No, Rodrigo concluded, he would have to go away—and stay away. Go away at any cost. Go away as soon as he decently could.
Having spent the day in the details of securing his baggage and unpacking it amid the familiar scenes of the Park Avenue apartment, he met John and had dinner with him at their favorite little French restaurant. Afterward, in the softly lighted living-room of the apartment, over their pipes they talked.
"I have been wondering," John said, "why you came back so suddenly, without warning us. I had been expecting a letter or cablegram for weeks. I had begun to worry about you. You left no forwarding address with me. And, of course, I would not have asked you to cut short your vacation anyway. Poor chap, you were tired out, and, to tell you the truth, you don't look particularly chipper now."