"I think it's mighty nice of you to call down here, Miss Deane."
"You don't think it's bold of me?" she asked.
"Hardly. Would you like to go over the Tombs?"
Clancy shuddered.
"Indeed I wouldn't!"
"No morbid curiosity? I'm glad of that."
"'Glad?' Why?"
"Oh, well, just because," he blurted.
Clancy looked demurely downward, fixing a button on her glove. For a moment, there was silence. Then Clancy rose to her feet. She held out her hand to Vandervent.
"You've been so kind," she said. "If you'd arrested me for my silly joke, you'd have done to me what I deserved to have happen."
"Not at all," he said. "I feel that—that maybe I scared you when I came in——"
"Not a bit. I was—tired."
"You must let me take you home," he said.
She shook her head.
"I've troubled you enough.Please!"—as he seemed about to insist. "I'mreallyall right."
He eyed her doubtfully.
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"All right, then; but—I'dliketo."
She became mockingly stern.
"I've interrupted the course of justice enough for one day. Some other time, perhaps."
"There'll be another time?" he asked eagerly.
"Well"—she was doubtful—"I can't promise."
"But we might have luncheon together. Or tea? Or dinner?" He was flatteringly eager.
"I'll see," said Clancy.
Down-stairs, in the great lobby of the building, she marveled that she had escaped so easily. To have announced herself as Florine Ladue, the woman wanted for Beiner's murder, to have fainted when Vandervent came out, and still to have avoided, bya puerile explanation, all penalties was a piece of good luck that was incredible. She blessed the person unknown who had left the newspaper on the bench. The luckiest of chances had saved her from betrayal. Had she not read of Fanchon's death— She shuddered.
Then her eyes clouded. She had been fighting, with all the wit she owned, for liberty. She had not yet had opportunity to pay to Fanchon's death the tribute of sorrow that it demanded. She had known Fanchon but slightly; the woman was of a class to which Clancy could never belong—a coarse but good-hearted vulgarian. And she had tried to help Clancy in return for little kindnesses that Clancy had shown her when she lay ill with the "flu" in Zenith.
And now this same disease had finally killed the kindly soubrette. Her death had saved Clancy from disgrace—from worse, perhaps, if there is anything worse than disgrace— She suddenly realized how lucky she had been.
She stopped outside to adjust her veil. And she noticed that Spofford, the dyed-mustached gentleman of Vandervent's office, also emerged from the building. She shuddered. If her wit had not been quick, if she had not remembered, on, coming out of her faint, that the item in the paper had removed all danger, his hand might now be clasped about her wrist. Instead of walking toward the subway, she might now be on her way to the Tombs.
Spofford turned south toward the Brooklyn Bridge. She would never, thank God, see him again. For nothing would ever tempt her to the Criminal Courts Building another time. Its shadow would hang over her soul as long as she lived. She had hadthe narrowest escape that was possible, and she would not tempt fate again.
She would never learn. As her mind ceased to dwell upon the problem of her connection with Beiner's mysterious fate and moved on to consider what she should do with Grannis's ten thousand dollars, it was as though the Beiner incident were forever closed. Clancy had too much Irish in her for trouble to bear down upon her very long. She would never learn that issues are never avoided but must always be met. She was in a congratulatory mood toward herself because Vandervent had not suspected the grim truth behind what she called a jest. She had conquered this difficulty by the aid of fate; fate would help her again to handle the Grannis-Zenda-Weber matter. So she reasoned. It would straighten itself out, she assured herself.
There was a lunch-room on Broadway, just below Eighth Street. Clancy, walking westward from Astor Place, the station at which she emerged from the subway, saw its window-display of not too appetizing appeal, and paused. To-day was Friday; it was quite possible that Sally Henderson would to-morrow give her new employee an advance upon salary. But Clancy had learned something. That something was that New York is not a place in which to reveal one's pecuniary embarrassment. It was not that New York was hard-hearted, Clancy decided. It was that it was a busy place, and had no time to listen to whines. To ask an advance on salary was, in a way, to whine. Clancy was not going to begin her relationship with Sally Henderson on anything but a basis of independence.
So her pause before the lunch-room was only momentary. She entered it immediately. The Trevor was only two hundred yards away, but Clancy had only a pitiful amount of money in her pocket. That is, money that belonged to her. Grannis's ten thousand was not hers. To whom she would give it, she did not yet know, but she did know that she would starve before she used any of it. It might be that Sally Henderson would pay her a half-week's salary to-morrow. She must hope for that. But she must not rely on it. Hence she must live leanly.
This was only her fifth day in New York. It hadbeen her fortune to eat at restaurants of the better class, at a private home. Now, for the first time since her arrival from Zenith, she had opportunity to find out what might have been, what might still be, her lot. Not that the food in the lunch-room was particularly bad. Of its kind, it was rather good. But there was the stain of egg upon the table-cloth; the waiter who served her was unshaven. The dishes in which the food was served were of the heaviest of china. And Clancy was of the sort that prefers indifferent food well served to good food execrably presented.
She paid her check—considering that she had had only corned-beef hash and tea and bread, she thought that sixty cents was an exorbitant charge—tipped the waiter a dime, and trudged out into the storm again.
The snow had ceased falling, but only one so weather-wise as the Maine-bred Clancy would have known that. For the flurries blown by the gale had all the appearance of a continuing blizzard. Bending forward, she made her way to Fifth Avenue, and thence south across Washington Square. Twice, feeling very much alone in the gloom, she made detours to avoid coming too near men whom she observed moving her way. She was yet to learn that, considering its enormous heterogeneous population, New York holds few dangers for the unescorted girl. And so she ran the last few yards, and breathed with relief when the latch-key that Mrs. Gerand had given her admitted her to the lodging-house on the south side of the square.
In her room, her outer clothing removed, she pulled a shabby rocking-chair to the window and lookedout upon the dimly descried trees, ghostly in their snowy habiliments. Chin on elbow, she pondered.
The wraith of Florine Ladue was laid. So she believed. And she could find no reason to fear a resurrection. Beiner, who knew her, could recognize her as Florine Ladue, was dead. So was Fanchon DeLisle. Zenda, Grannis, Weber, and the others of the poker-party at Zenda's knew that she called herself "Florine." But it was quite a distance from knowing that a young woman had named herself Florine to proof that the same young woman's last name was Ladue, and that she had visited Morris Beiner's office. Of course—and Clancy's brows knitted at the thought—if there were any legal trouble over the Weber-Zenda-Grannis matter and she testified in court, and Vandervent or Spofford or some other of the district attorney's office heard or saw testimony which involved the fact that she'd used the name "Florine," that person would do some thinking, would wonder how much jesting had been behind her announcement of herself under the name of the woman wanted for the Beiner murder. In that case——
What about that case? Oddly enough—yet not so oddly, after all, when one considers that Clancy was only twenty years of age—up to now she had given a great deal of thought to her predicament and practically none to the real way out of it. She marveled at herself.
Why in that case, she'd be in desperate danger, as great danger as she had been in just before she picked up the paper in Vandervent's anteroom, and the only way out of that danger, without lastingdisgrace at the least, would be the production of the real murderer of Morris Beiner.
The real murderer! She drew in her breath with a whistle.
Beiner had been killed; she was suspected. These were facts, and the only facts that she had reckoned with. But the greater fact, though up to now ignored by her, was thatsomebodyhad killed Beiner. Some one had entered the man's office and slain him, probably as he lay unconscious on the floor. Thatsomebodywas foot-loose now, perhaps in New York, free from suspicion.
She straightened up, alert, nervous. Suddenly, horror—a horror which fear had managed to keep from her till now—assailed her.A murderer!And free! Free to commit other murders! She started as a knock sounded upon the door. And, queerly, she didn't think of the police; she thought of the murderer of Beiner. It was with difficulty that she mastered herself sufficiently to answer the knock.
It was Mrs. Gerand. Miss Deane was wanted on the telephone. It was not a moment when Clancy wished to talk to any one. She wished to be alone, to study upon this new problem—the problem that should have been in her mind these past three days but that had only popped into it now. But the telephone issued commands that just now she dared not disobey. It might be Grannis or Vandervent. She ran down-stairs ahead of Mrs. Gerand. A booming voice, recognition of which came to her at once, greeted her.
"Hello!"
"Miss Deane? This is Judge Walbrough speaking."
"Oh, how do you do?" said Clancy. In her relief, she was extremely enthusiastic.
The deep voice at the other end of the wire chuckled.
"You know the meaning of the word 'palaver,' don't you, young woman? The happy way you speak, any one'd think I was a gay young blade like David Randall or Vandervent instead of an old fogy."
"'Old fogy!' Why, Judge Walbrough!"
Clancy's tone was rebuking, politely incredulous, amused—everything, in short, that a young girl's voice should be when a man just passing middle age terms himself "old." Walbrough chuckled again.
"Oh, it's a great gift. Miss Deane; never lose it. The young men don't matter. Any girl can catch one of them. But to catch the oldsters like myself—oldsters who know that they can't catch you—that takes genius, Miss Deane."
Clancy laughed.
"Please don't flatter me, Judge. Because, you know, Ibelieveyou, and——"
"Sh," said Walbrough. As he uttered the warning, his voice became almost a roar. "The jealous woman might overhear us; she is listening in the next room now——"
There was the sound of a scuffle; then came to Clancy's ears the softer voice of Mrs. Walbrough.
"Miss Deane, the senile person who just spoke to you is absurd enough to think that if an old couple—I mean an old man and his young wife—asked you, you'd probably break an engagement with some dashing bachelor and sit with us at the opera."
"I don't know the senile person to whom you refer,"retorted Clancy, "but if you and the judge would like me to go, I'd love to, even though I have no engagement to break."
"We won't insist on the breaking, then. Will you run over and dine with us?"
Clancy was astonished. Then she remembered that she had dined rather early at the Broadway lunch-room. It really wasn't more than six-thirty now. People like the Walbroughs, of course, didn't dine until after seven, possibly until eight.
"I won't do that," she answered. "I'd intended to go to bed—it's such a terrible night. And I ate before I came home—but I'd love to come and sit with you," she finished impulsively.
There was something warm, motherly in the older woman's reply.
"And we'd love to have you, Miss Deane. I'll send the car around right away."
Clancy shrugged as she surveyed again her meager wardrobe. But the Walbroughs must know that she lived in a lodging-house—she supposed that they'd obtained her telephone-number and address from Sophie Carey—and the fact that she didn't possess a gorgeous evening gown wouldn't mean much to them, she hoped. And believed, too. For they were most human persons, even if they did, according to Sophie Carey, matter a lot in New York.
Mrs. Gerand was quite breathless when she announced to Clancy, half an hour after the telephone-call, that a big limousine was calling for the newest Gerand lodger. Clancy was already dressed in the pretty foulard that was her only evening frock. Mrs. Gerand solicitously helped her on with hershabby blue coat. Her voice was lowered in awe as she asked:
"It ain'ttheWalbroughs, is it? The chauffeur said, 'Judge Walbrough's car;' but notthejudge, is it?"
"Are there two of them?" laughed Clancy.
Mrs. Gerand shook her head.
"Not that I ever heard of, Miss Deane. But—gee, you got swell friends, ain't you?"
Clancy laughed again.
"Have I?"
"I'll say you have," said Mrs. Gerand.
The Walbrough home was on Murray Hill, though Clancy didn't know at the time that the section of the city directly south of the Grand Central Station was so named. It was not a new house, and it looked as though it was lived in—something that cannot always be said of New York homes, whether in apartment-buildings or in single houses. It was homey in the sense that the houses in Zenith were homey. And, even though a colored man in evening clothes opened the front door, and though a colored maid relieved Clancy of her coat, Clancy felt, from the moment that she passed the threshold, that she was in ahome.
Her host met her at the top of a flight of stairs. His great hands enveloped hers. They drew her toward him. Before she knew it, he had kissed her. And Clancy did the thing that made two admiring acquaintances adoring friends for life. She kissed the judge warmly in return. For Mrs. Walbrough was standing a trifle behind the judge, although Clancy hadn't seen her. She came forward now,wringing her hands with a would-be pathetic expression on her face.
"I can't trust the man a moment, Miss Deane. And, to make it worse, I find that I can't trust you." She drew Clancy close to her. She, too, kissed the girl, and found the kiss returned.
"Why shouldn't I kiss him?" demanded Clancy. "He brags so much, I wanted to find out if he knew how."
"Does he?" asked Mrs. Walbrough.
Clancy's eyes twinkled.
"Well, you see," she answered, "I'm not really a judge myself."
The judge exploded in a huge guffaw.
"With eyes like hers, Irish gray eyes, why shouldn't she have wit? Tell me, Miss Deane: You have Irish blood in you?"
"My first name is Clancy," replied the girl.
"Enough," said the judge. He heaved a great mock sigh. "Now, if only Martha would catch a convenient cold or headache——"
Mrs. Walbrough tapped him with an ostrich-plume fan.
"Tom, Miss Deane is our guest. Please stop annoying her. The suggestion that she should spend an hour alone with you must be horrifying to any young lady. Come."
The judge gave an arm to each of the ladies, and they walked, with much stateliness on the part of the judge, to a dining-room that opened off the landing at the head of the stairs.
Clancy felt happier than she had deemed it possible for her to be. Perhaps the judge's humor was a little crude; perhaps it was even stupid. But to bewith two people who so evidently liked her, and who so patently adored each other, was to partake of their happiness, no matter how desperate her own fears.
Dinner passed quickly enough, and Clancy found out that she had an appetite, after all. The judge and his wife showed no undue interest in her. Clancy would have sworn that they knew nothing about her when dinner ended and they started for the opera. She did not know that, before he went upon the bench, Judge Walbrough had been the cleverest cross-examiner at the bar, and that all through dinner he had been verifying his first estimate of her character. For the Walbroughs, as she was later to learn, did not "pick up" every lovely young female whom they chanced to meet and admire. A happy couple, they still were lonely at times—lonely for the sound of younger voices.
And the significant glance that the judge cast at his wife at the end of the dinner went unnoticed by Clancy. She did not know that they had passed upon her and found her worth while.
And with this friendly couple she heard her first opera. It was "Manon," and Farrar sang. From the beginning to the tragic dénouement, Clancy was held enthralled. She was different from the average country girl who attends the opera. She was not at all interested in the persons, though they were personages, who were in the boxes. She was interested in the singers, and in them only. She had never heard great music before, save from a phonograph. She made a mental vow that she would hear more again—soon.
The judge and his wife were true music-lovers and didn't attend the opera for social reasons. Nevertheless, they knew, seemingly, every one of importance in the artistic, financial, professional, and social world. During the entr'actes, the judge pointed out to Clancy persons with whom he was acquainted. Ordinarily, Clancy would have been thrilled at the mere sight of the demi-gods and goddesses. To-night, they left her cold. Yet, out of courtesy, she professed interest.
"And there's my little friend Darcy," she heard the judge say.
She roused herself from abstraction, an abstraction in which she was mentally reviewing the acting and singing of the superb Farrar.
"Who is he?" she asked.
The judge smiled.
"Munitions. Used to live in Pennsylvania. Now he dwelleth in the Land of Easy Come."
For a second, her thoughts far away, Clancy did not get the implication. Then she replied.
"But I thought that the munitions millionaires made so much that they found it hard to get rid of it."
"This is a wonderful town, Miss Deane. It affords opportunity for everyone and everything. No man ever made money so fast that New York couldn't take it away from him. If the ordinary methods arenot sufficient, some brilliant New Yorker will invent something new. And they're inventing them for Darcy—and ten thousand other Darcys, too."
Clancy stared at the squat little millionaire a few seats away.
"He doesn't look very brilliant," she announced.
"He isn't," said the judge.
"But he's worth millions," protested Clancy.
"That doesn't prove brilliance. It proves knack and tenacity, that's all," said her host. "Some of the most brilliant men I know are paupers; some of the most stupid are millionaires."
"And vice versa?" suggested Clancy.
The judge shrugged.
"The brilliant millionaires are wealthy despite their brilliance. My child, money was never so easy to make—or so easy to spend. And those who make it are spending it."
"But isn't every one spending, not only the millionaires?" demanded Clancy.
"It's the fashion," said the judge. "But fashions change. I'm not worried about America."
The curtain rose, cutting short Walbrough's disquisition. But, for a moment, Clancy pondered on what he had said. "The Land of Easy Come." The people that she had met, the moving-picture millionaires—theirs had come easily— Would it go as easily? Even David Randall, worth approximately half a million before his thirtieth birthday—she'd read enough to know that brokers went bankrupt over-night. The hotels that she knew were crowded almost beyond capacity with people who were willing to pay any price for any sort of accommodation. The outrageous prices charged—and paid—inthe restaurants. The gorgeous motor-cars. The marvelous costly clothing that the women wore. Some one must produce these luxuries. Who were paying for them? Surely not persons who had toiled and sweated to amass a few dollars. Easy come! Her own little nest-egg, bequeathed to her by a distant relative—it had come easily; it had gone as easily. Of course, she hadn't spent it, but—it was gone. But she was too young to philosophize; she forgot herself in the performance.
She was throbbing with gratitude to the Walbroughs as, the opera over, they slowly made their way through the chattering thousands toward the lobby. They had given her the most wonderful evening of her life.
She was about to say something to this effect when some one accosted the judge. For the moment, he was separated from the two women, and verbal expression of Clancy's feelings was postponed. For when the judge joined them, he was accompanied by a man whose mop of hair would have rendered him noticeable without the fading bruise upon his face. It was Zenda!
His recognition was as quick as Clancy's. His dreamy brown eyes—one of them still discolored—lighted keenly. But he had been an actor before he had become one of the most famous directors in Screendom. He held out his hand quite casually.
"Hello, Florine!" he said.
Walbrough stared from one to the other.
"You know each other? 'Florine?'"
"A name," said Clancy quickly, "that I called myself when—when I hoped to get work upon the screen."
She breathed deeply. Of course, Judge Walbrough and Zenda didn't know that a woman named Florine Ladue was wanted for Beiner's murder; but still——
"'On the screen?' That's funny," said the judge. "Sophie Carey told us that you were thinking of stenography until she put you in touch with Sally Henderson. Huh! No fool like an old fool! I was thinking I would put a new idea in your head, and you have it already. Darcy stopped me and introduced his friend Mr. Zenda, and I immediately thought that a girl like you with your beauty—" He interrupted himself a moment while he presented Zenda to his wife. Then he turned to Clancy. "Couldn't you get work?" he asked, abruptly.
They were on the sidewalk now, and the starter was signaling, by electrically lighted numbers, for the judge's car. It was a clear, crisp, wonderful night, and the stars vied with the lights of Broadway.
Clancy looked up and down the street. She had no intention of running away. She'd tried to reach Zenda to-day, and had been told that he was too ill to receive visitors. Nevertheless, the impulse to flee was roused in her again. Then, listening to reason, she conquered it.
She answered the judge.
"'Get work?' I didn't try very long."
"And she didn't come to me," said Zenda. He put into his words a meaning that the Walbroughs could not suspect. Clancy got it.
"Oh, but I did!" she said. "I've tried to get you on the telephone. Central wouldn't give me your number. I wrote you a letter in care of Zenda Films.Your partner, Mr. Grannis, opened it. And to-day I called at your apartment and was told that you were ill."
Zenda's face, which had been stern, softened.
"Is that so?" he asked.
The judge, a trifle mystified, broke into the conversation.
"Well, she seems to have proved that she didn't neglect you, Mr. Zenda. Don't see why she should go to such pains, unless"—and he laughed—"Miss Deane wants to prove that she played fair;—didn't give any one else a prior opportunity to make a million dollars out of her pretty face."
"Miss Deane can easily prove that she is playing fair," said Zenda.
"I want to," said Clancy quickly.
Walbrough was a clever man. It was pardonable in him not to have suspected earlier that there was some byplay of talk to whose meaning he was not privy. But now he knew that there was some meaning not understood by him in this talk.
"Here's the car," he said. "Suppose you ride home with us, Zenda?"
"I have some friends. If you'll wait a moment—" And Zenda was off.
In silence, Clancy entered the judge's limousine. Then Mrs. Walbrough, settling herself comfortably, suddenly patted the girl upon the hand. She was a keen woman, was Mrs. Walbrough; she sensed that something was troubling Clancy. And the judge cleared his throat portentously.
"Miss Deane," he said, "I don't know your relation to Mr. Zenda. But, if you'd care to consider yourself my client——"
"Thank you," said Clancy.
Then Zenda reappeared. He crowded himself into the car.
"I just telephoned my apartment, Miss Deane. The door-man went on at noon and stays until midnight. He says that a young lady answering your description called on me to-day."
"Did you need verification, Zenda?" asked the judge angrily.
Zenda shrugged.
"In a matter involving a hundred thousand and more, corroboration does no harm, and my obtaining it should not be offensive to Miss Deane."
"Oh, it isn't, it isn't!" said Clancy tremulously.
The judge's eyes narrowed.
"I must inform you, Zenda, that Miss Deane is my client," he said.
Zenda bowed.
"I couldn't wish a better adviser for Miss Deane. Farrar was in excellent voice to-night, didn't you think?"
No one challenged the change of subject, and until they were settled in the Walbrough library, the opera was the only subject of discussion. But, once there, Zenda came to business with celerity.
"Judge Walbrough, I have been swindled in a poker game, in a series of poker games, out of thousands of dollars. Last Monday night, we caught the man who did the cheating. There was trouble. Miss Deane was present at the game, in my apartment. She came as the guest of one Ike Weber. She disappeared during the quarrel. It has been my assumption that she was present as the aide of Weber. At the Star Club, on Tuesday, I stated, to associatesof Weber, that the man was a swindler. Yesterday, I was told that he intended bringing suit against me. So I have denied myself to all possible process-servers on the plea of illness."
"Why? If the man is a swindler——"
But Zenda cut the judge short.
"I can't prove it. I don't want scandal. Suit would precipitate it. If I could get proof against Weber, I'd confront him with it, and the suit would be dropped. Also, I would recover my money. Not that that matters much. Miss Deane, why did you come to see me?"
Clancy drew a long breath; then she began to talk. Carefully avoiding all reference to Morris Beiner, she told everything else that had to do with Zenda, Weber, and Grannis. The judge spoke first after she ceased.
"I don't get Grannis's connection."
"I do!" snapped Zenda. "He's been trying to get control of the company— I'm not nearly so rich as people think I am. The company has a contract with me for a term of years at no very huge salary. I expected to make my money out of the profits. But now we've quarreled over business methods. If he could get me entirely out, use my name—the company has the right to—increase the capitalization, and sell stock to the public on the strength of my reputation, Grannis would become rich more quickly that way than by making pictures. And the quicker Grannis broke me, so that I'd have to sell my stock—every little bit helps. If Weber won a million from me——"
"'A million!'" gasped Walbrough.
Zenda's voice was self-contemptuous.
"Easy come, Judge," he said. "I'm an easy mark. Weber had a good start toward the million, would have had a better if it hadn't been for Mrs. Zenda."
"It's an incredible story!" cried the judge.
"What's incredible? That I should gamble, and that some one should swindle me? What's strange about that in this town, Judge? In any town, for that matter?"
Clancy, eyes half closed, hardly heard what they were saying. How easy it would be to confess! For, what had she to confess? Nothing whatever of wrong-doing. Then why had it not been easy to call on Zenda the first thing on Tuesday morning and tell him of Fay Marston's involuntary confession? Because she had been afraid of scandal? Her lips curled in contempt for herself. To avoid doing right because of possible scandal? She was overly harsh with herself. Yet, to balance too much harshness, she became too lenient in her self-judgment when it occurred to her that only fear of scandal kept her from confessing to Vandervent that shewasFlorine Ladue. That was adifferentsort of scandal; also, there was danger in it. No; she could not blame herself because she kept that matter quiet.
"And you'd advise me to keep it out of the courts, Judge?" she heard Zenda asking.
"If possible," replied the judge. "It will do you no good. The mere threat of it will be enough. Offer Grannis a fair price for his stock, deducting, of course, from that price whatever have been your poker losses to Weber. For the two are partners, unquestionably. Tell Grannis that, if he doesn't accept your offer, you will prosecute both Weber and himself for swindling. That's much the better way."
"I agree," said Zenda. "But I haven't the cash to swing Grannis's stock."
"Plenty of people have," said the judge. "In fact, I have a client who will take that stock."
"It's a bet," said Zenda. He rose briskly. "Can't thank you enough, Miss Deane. Will you be at the offices of Zenda Films to-morrow morning with Judge Walbrough?"
He turned to the judge and arranged the hour, then turned back to Clancy.
"And as soon asthat'ssettled, we'll make a test of you, Miss Deane."
He was gone in another moment. The judge stared at Clancy.
"Little girl," he said, "if it weren't so late, I'd give you a long, long lecture."
"You'll lecture her no lectures, Tom Walbrough," said his wife firmly. "Hasn't she put you in the way of an investment for a client? You'll thank her, instead of scolding her."
The judge laughed.
"Right enough! But Iwillgive her advice."
"And I'll follow it," said Clancy earnestly.
And she did. But not to the extent of doing as age, or proven experience, or ability advised her. She would always act upon the impulse, would follow her own way—a way which, because she was the lovely Clancy Deane, might honestly be termed her own sweet way.
When she and Judge Walbrough—the Walbroughs sent their car for her at nine-thirty—arrived in the offices of Zenda Films, they were ushered into an inner office by the same overdressed youth who had shown Clancy in there yesterday.
The meeting that loomed ahead of her was fraught, she believed, with tremendous dramatic possibilities. Of course, none of the people who would take part in it knew that she had visited the office of Morris Beiner, yet she might be called again by the name "Florine" in the presence of some one who knew.
Zenda was already there, seated at the large table. At the far end of it were Weber and Grannis. There were no introductions. Zenda greeted the new arrivals, and merely stated:
"Judge Walbrough will act as my attorney. If you want a lawyer, Grannis, you, of course, are entitled to one."
Grannis grunted unintelligibly. Zenda drummed a moment on the table with his slender fingers. Then he spoke.
"I won't go over everything again, Grannis. I've the goods on you. I've plenty on Weber, too. Judge Walbrough is prepared to offer you, on behalf of a client, seventy-five for your stock."
Here the judge nodded acquiescently. He opened an important-seeming wallet and withdrew a check.
"I went to the bank first thing this morning,Zenda," he said. "It's certified. Three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for half the stock—five thousand shares."
"That's correct," said Zenda. "It doesn't take account of my poker losses, but"—he leaned toward Weber—"I'm not going to slug you, Ike. I'm not going to sue you. I'm not going to do anything. Not now. But, so surely as you stay in this town, so surely as you mix into the film businessanywhere, I'm going to land you in jail." He turned to his erstwhile partner. "I haven't much to say to you, Grannis. The judge is offering you a price that's fair, considering that he's deducted about what you and Ike trimmed me of from his offer. That's O.K. I'm willing to let his client in, sort of at my expense, in order to get rid of you. Now, do you accept?"
Clancy held her breath. But Zenda and Grannis must have held some earlier conversation this morning or last night. For Grannis produced a sheaf of engraved documents. He put them on the table. Zenda reached for them and handed them to the judge. The latter examined them carefully, then nodded in acceptance.
"The certificates are properly endorsed in blank, Zenda. It's all right." He pushed across the table his certified check. Grannis took it. He rose and looked uncertainly at Zenda.
The film-director met his glance fairly.
"You're a pretty wise bird, Grannis," he said slowly. "But it isn'treallywise to double-cross your friend and partner."
That was all that was said. Grannis and Weber had left the room when Clancy suddenly remembered something.
"The ten thousand dollars they gave me!" she cried. "Have you returned it?"
She had given it, for safe-keeping, into Walbrough's hands last night.
Zenda laughed.
"My dear Miss Deane," he said, "I've lost scores of thousands at stud to Grannis and Weber. That ten thousand dollars is my money. That is, itwasmy money."
Clancy stared at him. The judge chuckled.
"Considering that your evidence saved Zenda from a nasty lawsuit, that it ridded him of a crooked partner, that it gave him a chance to continue his business with a partner who will not interfere with him, both he and myself agree that you are entitled to that ten thousand dollars."
Clancy had been pale as wax. But now the color surged into her cheeks.
"For simply doing what I ought to do? No, indeed!" she cried.
Nor could their united protests move her. Zenda finally ceased. An idea struck him. He beamed upon her.
"You said, last night, that you had film ambitions. Well, Miss Deane, here's my chance to repay you."
Her eyes lighted.
"Oh, I don't want you to feel that——"
Zenda scribbled upon a card.
"Take this to the studio. Johansen will make a test of you. He'll do it right away. On Monday, you telephone——"
"And then begins the big career!" cried the judge. "Well, well, Miss Deane; I shall expect to see ZendaFilms advertising the newest star all over the city. Eh, Zenda?"
Zenda smiled.
"I can always use a pretty girl with intelligence," he said. "Miss Deane is certainly pretty and just as certainly intelligent. If she screens as well as I hope——"
His unuttered promise seemed to open the gates of Fortune to Clancy. She hardly knew afterward what she said by way of thanks. She only knew that Judge Walbrough insisted that she use his limousine—stating that he himself was going to take the subway down-town—and that Zenda wrung her hand warmly, and that, a moment later, she had descended in the elevator and was in the big motor, on her way to the East-Side studio of Zenda Films, Incorporated.
In the car, she managed to collect herself. Once again she saw herself the peer of the famous women of the screen; she saw herself famous, rich. Oddly enough, she thought of David Randall. She wondered how he would feel if he knew that she was on the threshold of international fame. For she never doubted it. She knew that all she needed was opportunity.
Johansen, a thin, bald, worried-seeming Swede, eyed her keenly with deep-set blue eyes. He was in his shirt-sleeves, superintending the erection of a "set." But he ceased that work and summoned a camera-man. The Zenda command caused all to put themselves at her service. Johansen even superintended her making-up process, of which she was abysmally ignorant. Also, he rearranged her hair.Then he conducted her to the "set" which he was erecting.
There was a table in the middle of the scene. Johansen instructed her. He put a letter on the table.
"Now, Miss Deane, you enter from the left there, you're kinda blue, downhearted—see? Then you spy this letter. You pick it up. It's for you, and you recognize the handwriting. It's from your sweetie—get me? You smile. You open the letter. Then your smile fades away and you weep. Get me? Try it. Now, mind, it don't really matter if you can act or not. Zenda wouldn't care about that. He could teach a wooden image to act. It's just your registering—that's all. Ready? Camera!"
In Zenith, when she had played in the high-school shows, Clancy had been self-conscious, she knew. And here, with only a bored assistant director and an equally bored camera-man to observe her, she was even more self-conscious. So she was agreeably surprised when Johansen complimented her after the scene had been taken.
"You done fine!" he said. "Now let's try another. This time, you come in from the right, happy-like. You see the letter and get blue. You read it and get happy. Got it? Shoot!"
She went through the little scene, this time with less self-consciousness. Johansen smiled kindly upon her.
"I think you got something," he told her. "Can't tell, of course, yet. The screen is funny. Prettiest girl in the world may be a lemon on the screen. Same goes both ways. But we'll hope."
But he couldn't dash her sense of success. Sherode on air to Sally Henderson's office. Her employer was not there, Clancy had telephoned before meeting Walbrough, asking permission to be late, and also apologizing for not having returned to the office the afternoon before.
"Miss Henderson's gone out of town for the week-end," young Guernsey, the too foppishly-dressed office-manager, told her. "She left this for you."
"This" was an envelope which Clancy quickly opened. It contained, not her discharge, which she had vaguely expected—why should her employer write to her otherwise?—but twenty-five dollars, half a week's salary. And Clancy was down to her last dollar!
"We close at one on Saturdays," Guernsey informed her. He himself was beating the closing-time by three-quarters of an hour, but Clancy waited until one o'clock. Then she left. She called upon Miss Conover, but the plump, merry little dressmaker had nothing ready to try on her newest customer.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Zenda had caused a test to be made of her—and Clancy Deane would be upon the screen.
She wondered just what sort of parts Zenda would give her. Of course, she'd have to begin with little "bits," as Fanchon had called them. But soon—oh, very soon!—she'd work up to great rôles. She wanted emotional parts; she felt that she could bring to the screen something new in the way of interpretation. All the Clancys of the world, whether it is acting or writing or singing that they wish to do, feel the same.
She took in a matinée in the afternoon. She supped, in lonely splendor, at the Trevor. And,equipped with a novel, she went to bed early. But she could not concentrate. Her mind wandered; and it didn't wander to the mystery of Morris Beiner's death, or to the possibility that some one in Vandervent's office would definitely decide that shewasFlorine Ladue, nearly so often as it wandered to the Zenda studios.
She had fooled Philip Vandervent yesterday. Grannis and Weber had passed, so she believed, out of her life. Why should she worry? She had done no wrong. Resolutely, she refused to fret. Instead, she went off to sleep, prepared for roseate dreams. She had them, but the awakening was not so roseate.
Mrs. Gerand, who, by request, roused all her lodgers on week-days, permitted them to slumber as late as they chose on Sundays. The lodging-house, usually from seven o'clock until nine a noisy place, filled with the bustle of departing men and women, was silent as the tomb on Sunday morning. And Clancy slept until eleven o'clock, to be awakened by the landlady.
"I hate to do it, Miss Deane," she apologized, "but when letters come by special messenger, they're important as telegrams, I think. So I brought this up."
Clancy, sitting up in bed, took the note from Mrs. Gerand's hand. After the landlady had gone, she opened it. And then she put her head upon the pillow and wept. For Zenda had written:
Dear Miss Deane:I am at the studio, where I had them run off your test of yesterday morning. You see, I didn't waste any time. And I'm sorry to tell you that you won't do for the screen. One cannot explain it. Your skin, yourfeatures, your hair—everything about you is beautiful. And you have brains. But the camera is a tricky and unreasonable thing. All of that beauty and charm which is yours fails to register upon the screen. I cannot tell you how sorry I am, and I shall be only too glad to let you see the test yourself, so that you will not possibly doubt my good faith. If, in any other way, I can be of service to you, please command.
Dear Miss Deane:
I am at the studio, where I had them run off your test of yesterday morning. You see, I didn't waste any time. And I'm sorry to tell you that you won't do for the screen. One cannot explain it. Your skin, yourfeatures, your hair—everything about you is beautiful. And you have brains. But the camera is a tricky and unreasonable thing. All of that beauty and charm which is yours fails to register upon the screen. I cannot tell you how sorry I am, and I shall be only too glad to let you see the test yourself, so that you will not possibly doubt my good faith. If, in any other way, I can be of service to you, please command.
Yours faithfully,Zenda.
All her illusions were shattered. She didn't wish to see the test. She believed Zenda.
Slowly her sobs ceased. She had no lack of courage. Also, she was young, and youth turns from defeat to future victory in a moment's time.
Carefully, as she bathed, she removed the traces of tears. Dressed, she breakfasted at the Trevor. Then, feeling more lonely than she had ever felt in her life, she went out upon Fifth Avenue. Groups of people were entering a church a block away. She was not a particularly devout young person, but she had been a regular churchgoer at Zenith. She walked up the avenue and into the church. She expected no consolation there; a girl or boy of twenty who can acquire consolation from religion is not exactly normal. Age turns to religion; youth away from it. But she did manage to forget herself in the solemn service, the mellow music.
Emerging, she envied the groups that paused to chat with each other. In Zenith, she knew everybody, would have also stopped to exchange comment and gossip. But here—she had failed in her great ambition. The rest was makeshift, a stop-gap until—until what? She didn't know. Vaguely shewondered where Randall was. Probably hundreds of miles beyond Chicago now.
And then, as she crossed the square, her heart leaped. For she saw him reluctantly descending the steps of her lodging house. She quickened her pace. He saw her. His reluctant tread also quickened. Unmindful of the drifts, Randall plowed across the street and joined her. She wondered why he had not started on his Western trip.
And then Clancy's heart, which had been beating joyously with a gladness that she did not quite understand, seemed to drop to some region inches below where it belonged. For, coming round the corner of Thompson Street—no, not coming, but stopping as he perceived her—was Spofford, the dyed-mustached detective of Vandervent's office. And with him was a shorter slighter person. Fear aided recognition. He was the elevator-man of the Heberworth Building, who had taken her up to Beiner's office last Tuesday afternoon.
Randall released Clancy's hand. He laughed embarrassedly.
"Youlookedglad," he said.
Clancy's hand fell limply to her side. A moment ago, her hand-clasp would have been firm, vital, a thing to thrill the young man. But now, although that protection he might give was most desirable, she could not respond to its presence.
For she was caught. Spofford, across the street, staring menacingly over at her, had been too swift for her. Yet, trapped though she was, she managed to look away from the attaché of the district attorney's office. She met Randall's eyes.
"Iamglad," she said. As though to prove her words, she raised her hand and offered it again to Randall.
He took it. Holding it, he turned and stared over his shoulder. Spofford was still standing across the street; his companion was nodding his head. It seemed as though, sensing some threat in Randall's stare, they stood a little closer together. Something of that surly defiance that is the city detective's most outstanding trait seeped across the street. Clancy felt it. She wondered whether or not Randall did.
But he said nothing. With an air of proprietorship that was comforting, he drew her hand throughhis bended arm and started guiding her through the drifts.
Dully, Clancy permitted herself to be led. She wondered, almost apathetically, if Spofford would halt them. Well, what difference would it make? For a moment, she was vaguely interested in Randall's possible attitude. Would he knock the man down?
Then, as they reached the two men, Randall stopped. His big right arm moved backward; Clancy almost swung with it, back out of a possible fracas.
"I thought summer-time was your hunting-season," said Randall.
Spofford eyed him sullenly.
"Who you talkin' to?" he demanded.
"Why, to you," said Randall. "I thought that all you old gentlemen with dyed whiskers and toupées did your work in the pleasant months." He half-wheeled and pointed west. "Know what's over that way? I'll tell you—Jefferson Market. And the least that they give a masher is ten days on the Island. That is, after he gets out of the hospital." He paused, stared at Spofford a moment, then added "It's your move."
Spofford's red face bore a deeper color. But he met Randall's stare calmly. Slowly he turned back the lapel of his jacket, affording a glimpse of a nickel badge.
"Take a slant at that, friend," he advised. "I ain't mashin'; I'm 'tendin' to my business. Suppose," he finished truculently, "you 'tend to yours."
Clancy, hanging on Randall's arm, felt his biceps tighten. But her precarious position would not be improved by an attack upon Spofford. She made hergripping fingers dig deeper. She felt the biceps soften.
Then, as she waited for Spofford to announce that she was under arrest, the blue-coated man with the outthrust lower lip moved aside. She gave Randall no time for digestion of the queer situation. Her fingers now impelled him forward, and in a moment they were in the hall of Mrs. Gerand's lodging-house.
She left him there while she went up-stairs. Clancy would have stopped the procession to the death-house to powder her nose. And why not? Men light a cigarette; women arrange their hair. Either act, calling for a certain concentration, settles the nerves.
But Clancy's nerves were not to be settled this morning. Even though Spofford had not arrested her, his presence with the elevator-man from the Heberworth Building meant only one thing. He had not believed her explanation of her visit to Philip Vandervent's office, and, acting upon that disbelief, had produced, for purposes of identification, a man who had seen Beiner's mysterious woman visitor last Tuesday afternoon. Arrest was a mere matter of time, Clancy supposed.
Panicky, she peeped through the window, flattening her nose against the pane. Outside, across the street now, was Spofford. She was quite certain that his roving eyes sought her out, found her, and that his mean mouth opened in an exultant laugh.
She shrugged—the hopeless shrug of the condemned. She could only wait. Flight was useless. If Spofford suspected flight, he would not hesitate, she felt, to arrest her. She could visualize what had happened since she had entered the house. Spofford had told his witness to telephone for instructions.She knew vaguely that warrants were necessary, that certain informations and beliefs must be sworn to. How soon before a uniformed man— She almost ran down-stairs to Randall.
He was not in the hall, but she found him in the parlor. He was sitting down, his wide shoulders hunched together, his forehead frowning. She knew that he was thinking of the man outside, the man with the truculent lower lip, who wore a detective's shield pinned inside his coat lapel. Somehow, although, he had been willing to strike a blow for her a few minutes ago, it seemed to her that he had lost his combativeness, that the eyes which he lifted to her were uneasy.
Yet the smile that came to his lips was cheering. He moved over slightly on the old-fashioned sofa on which he was sitting. Clancy took the hint; she sat down beside him.
"Suppose you were surprised to see me so soon again?" he asked. The banal question told Clancy that he intended to ignore the incident of Spofford. She was surprised—and vaguely indignant. Yet the indignation was not noticeable as she returned his smile.
"'Surprised?' I was thinking of you when I met you," she told him. "Of course I was surprised, but——"
"You were thinking of me?" He seemed to forget Spofford.
"Why not? Does one forget in twenty-four hours a man who has proposed?"
"There are degrees of forgetfulness," he said.
Clancy held her right hand before her. She spread its fingers wide. With the index-finger of her lefthand, she began counting off, beginning with the right thumb.
"Absolute zero of forgetfulness. M-m-m—no; not that." She touched her right forefinger. "Freezing-point—no; not that." She completely forgot, in the always delightful tactics of flirtation, the man lurking outside. She paused.
"Please continue," pleaded Randall.
"Oh, I wouldn't want to," she told him. "You see, one finally reaches the boiling-point, which isn't forgetfulness at all, and—why are you in New York?" she suddenly demanded.
"Train reached Albany hours late—account of the snow. I had time to think it over, and—what's business when a lady beckons."
"Did I beckon?" she asked demurely. "I thought that I pointed."
"You did," he agreed. "But pointing is vulgar, and I knew that you couldn't be that."
She grinned—the irrepressible Clancy grin that told of the merry heart within her.
"Did you return to New York to apologize for thinking me vulgar," she inquired. Randall had never been so near to winning her admiration. She liked him, of course, thought him trustworthy, dependable, and safe, the possessor of all those qualities which women respect in sons, fathers, brothers, and husbands, but not in suitors. But, for the first time since she had met him—not so long ago, as age reckons, but long enough as youth knows time—he was showing a lightness of touch. He wasn't witty, but, to Clancy, he seemed so, and the soul of wit is not so much its brevity as it is its audience.He seemed witty, for the moment, to Clancy. And so, admirable.
But the lightness left him as quickly as it had come. He shook his head gravely.
"I had time to think it over," he said again. "And—Miss Deane, if I could fall in love with you in a week, so could other men."
"Are you proposing again?" she demanded.
His shoulders were broad; they could carry for two. He was kindly; she forgot that, a moment ago, he hadn't seemed combative. She liked him better than she had. And then, even as she was admiring and liking him, she became conscious that he was restless, uneasy. Instinctively, she knew that it was not because of his love for her; it was because of the man outside.
That she could let Randall leave this house without some sort of explanation of Spofford's queer manner had never been in her thoughts. She knew that Randall would demand an explanation. She knew that he had been conscious of her fright at sight of Spofford.
"'Proposing again,'" echoed Randall. "Why—you know——"
She cut into his speech. She wasted no time.
"That man outside! Do you know why he's watching me?"
"Ishe watching you?" Randall's surprise was palpably assumed. It annoyed Clancy.
"You know that he is!" she cried. "Aren't you curious?"
Randall breathed heavily. He sat bolt upright.
"I want you to know, Miss Deane, that it doesn'tmatter a bit to me. Whatever you may have done, I am sure that you can explain."
At any other time, Clancy would have flamed fire at his tone. Into his speech had entered a certain stiltedness, a priggishness, almost, that would have roused all the rage of which she was capable. And as she would be able to love greatly, so would she be able—temporarily—to hate. But now she was intent on self; she had no thought to spare for Randall—save in so far as he might aid her.
"'Explain?'" Her voice almost broke. "It's—it's pretty hard to explain murder, isn't it?"
Randall's lower jaw hung down.
"'Murder!' You—you're joking, Miss Deane!" Yet, somehow, Clancy knew that he knew that she was not joking.
"I'm not joking. He—he thinks that I killed Morris Beiner."
"Murder! Morris Beiner!" he gasped.
"You've read about it. I'm the woman! The one that ran down the fire-escape, that the police want!"
Slowly Randall digested it. Once again he gasped the word:
"Murder!"
"Goodness me!" Clancy became New England in her expression. "What else did you think it was?"
"Why—I supposed—something—I didn't know—murder! That's absurd!"
"You seem relieved," she said. He puzzled her.
"Well, of course," he said.
"I don't see why."
"Well, youcouldn'thave committed murder," he replied, with an air of having uttered explanation of his relief.
"I wish the police could think so!" she cried.
"'Think so?' I'll make them think so. I'll tell that chap out there——"
"But it won't do any good!" cried Clancy. Her cry was almost a wail. Once before she had practically confessed, then withdrawn her confession. Now she could not withdraw. Words rushed from her as from a broken water-main. But, because she was Clancy Deane, they were not words of exculpation, or of apology. They were the facts. Silently Randall heard them through. Then he spoke slowly.
"Any jury in the world would believe you," he said.
"But I don't want to tell it to any jury!" screamed Clancy. "Why—why—the disgrace—I—I——"
Confession is always dramatic, and the dramatic is emotional. The tears welled in her eyes. Through the blur of tears, Randall seemed bigger, sturdier than ever. She reached out her arms toward him.
"You asked me to marry you!" she cried. "I—I—would you want to marry me now?"
Randall smiled.
"You know it," he said. "Just as soon as this affair is fixed up, we'll be married, and——" He rose and took her hands in his. Quite unaccountably, Clancy released her hands.
"Fix it up? Itcan'tbe fixed up," she said.
"Well, we can try," said Randall. "I'll call in this man outside——" He hesitated. "Judge Walbrough has been mighty nice to you, hasn't he? Suppose I get him on the telephone?"
He didn't wait for Clancy to reply. He walked briskly from the room and she heard him at the telephone. She didn't listen to what he said. Shewalked to the window. Spofford was still outside. What right had he to act upon his own responsibility? Why hadn't the word of Philip Vandervent been enough for him?
She turned as Randall entered the room.
"The telephone is out of order," he said. "I think I'd better run up to the Walbroughs' house and get him."
"And leave me here!" cried Clancy.
Randall shrugged.
"I'm afraid that man wouldn't let you go with me."
"He may come in here and arrest me," she said.
He shook his head.
"I don't think so. And, if he does, Walbrough and I'll be right down after you. You'd better let me go."
She made no further protest. Suddenly, unaccountably, she wanted him to go.
Up in her room, alternating between moments of almost hysterical defiance when she would stare through the window-panes at Spofford, and moments when she would hurl herself upon the narrow bed, she waited for Randall's return.
Somewhere she had read, or heard, that murder was not a bailable offense. That meant that she would be detained in prison, awaiting trial. With a curious detachment, she studied herself. As though she were some formless spirit, remote, yet infinitely near, she looked at Clancy Deane. How silly it all was—how futile! Billions of humans had conspired together, had laid down for themselves millions of queer rules, transgression of which was so simple a matter that she wondered that any one avoided it.
For a moment she had that odd clairvoyance that comes to persons who, by some quirk of fate, are compelled to think for themselves. She might escape from the present net, but what nets would the demon set for her in the years to come? Would she avoid them all? A horror of the future, a future in which she saw herself eternally attempting extrication from the inextricable, loomed before her.
And then that queer, blurry clairvoyance left her. She came back to the present. Mrs. Gerand, knocking at her door, announced that two gentlemen wished to see her. She ran to the window. Spofford was still there.
Down-stairs she ran. Mrs. Gerand had not told her that three persons were calling. And it was the third to whom Clancy ran, upon whose capacious bosom she let loose a flood of tears.
Mrs. Walbrough patted her head, drew her close to her, kissed her; with her own handkerchief wiped Clancy's eyes, from her own little vanity case offered Clancy those replenishments of the toilet without which the modern woman is more helpless than a man lost in the jungle without food or arms.
The judge noisily cleared his throat. Though he ever afterward disputed Mrs. Walbrough's testimony, it is nevertheless the fact that he used his own handkerchief upon his eyes. As for Randall, Clancy, lifting her head from Mrs. Walbrough's breast, was subtly aware that his reddened face bore an expression that was not merely embarrassment. He appeared once again uneasy. It almost seemed to her that he avoided her eyes.
Judge Walbrough cleared his throat a second time.
"Mr. Randall has told us a lot, Miss Deane. Suppose you tell us the whole story."
It was easy to talk to Walbrough. He possessed the art of asking the question that illuminated the speaker's mind, made him, or her, see clearly things that had seemed of little relevance. Not until she had finished did Clancy wonder if she had dropped in the Walbrough regard, if she had lost a patronage, a friendship that, in so brief a time, had come to mean so much.
"What must you think of me?" she cried, as Walbrough tapped his cheek with his fingers.
The judge smiled.
"I think that you've been a sensible young woman."
Clancy gasped. Her eyes widened with amazement.
"Why, I was sure that you'd blame me——"
"What for?" demanded the judge.
"For running away—hiding—everything," said Clancy.
The judge's voice was grim.
"If you'd voluntarily surrendered yourself to the indignities of arrest, I'd have thought you an idiot."
"But won't the fact that she remained in hiding go against her, Judge Walbrough?" asked Randall.
Walbrough surveyed the younger man frowningly.
"'Go against her?' Where? You certainly don't imagine that any jury wouldconvictMiss Deane?"
"Of course not," stammered Randall.
"And public opinion will certainly not condemn an innocent girl for trying to avoid scandal, will it?" insisted the judge.
"No," admitted Randall.
"Then Miss Deane did the proper thing. Of course, the police will try to make it seem that flight was the admission of guilt, but we won't worry about them."
Clancy seized his hand.
"Do you mean that I won't be arrested?" she cried.
"Exactly what I mean," said the judge. Yet, had Clancy been in a calmer frame of mind, she would have observed that the judge's kindly smile was of the lips, not of the eyes. She was not old enough in the world's experiences to realize that a good lawyer is like a good doctor—he cheers up his client. But, for that matter, it took not merely an older person to know always what lay behind Judge Walbrough's smile; it took an extremely keen analystof human nature. Even his wife, who knew him quite as well as any wife knows a husband, was deceived by his confidence. Her hug was more reassuring to Clancy than even the judge's words.
"Bring that man in," the judge said to Randall, who went out to the street to tell Spofford that Judge Walbrough wished to see him.
The judge walked up and down the room while Randall was gone. Clancy, watching him, was content to ask no questions, to beg for no more reassurances. She felt as might a little child toward a parent. Nor did her faith in him lessen as Randall, accompanied by Spofford, returned. The judge ceased his pacing up and down the floor. He held the detective with an eye from which all kindliness had vanished.
"You know who I am?" he demanded.
Spofford jerked a thumb at Randall.