Part 13

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 left hand, 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?"

"_Is_ he 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't matter 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, you _couldn't_ have 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? It _can't_ be 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. She walked 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.

XXIII

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 would _convict_ Miss 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 analyst of 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.

"This man told me that Judge Walbrough wanted to see me."

"I'm Walbrough," said the judge. "I want to know why you're annoying this young lady?"

"Me?" Spofford's mean eyes widened. His surprise was overdone. "Annoyin' her?"

"We want to know why you are watching her."

Spofford's eyes were cunning.

"Ask her," he said.

Judge Walbrough drew closer to the man.

"Spofford, you know, of course, that I am no longer on the bench. You also, I presume, know how long you will remain on the force if I want you put off."

Spofford thrust out his lower lip.

"And I guess you know, too, that there's somethin' comin' to the man who interferes with an officer in the performance of his duty. I don't care who you are. Threaten me, and see what you get."

The judge laughed.

"A fine spirit, Spofford! Thoroughly admirable! Only, my man, I'll not stop at putting you off the force. I'll run you out of town." His voice suddenly rose. "Answer me, or I'll knock you down."

The truculence of Spofford was always assumed. He knew, as did every New Yorker, that, ex-judge though he might be, the power of Walbrough was no inconsiderable thing.

"Aw, there's no need gettin' huffy about it. I'll tell you, if the young lady won't. She murdered Morris Beiner."

The judge's laugh was exquisitely rendered. He didn't guffaw; he merely chuckled. It was a marvelous bit of acting. Clancy, her heart beating and throat choky with fear, was nevertheless sufficient mistress of herself to be able to appreciate it. For the chuckle held mirth; it also held appreciation of the seriousness of the charge. Before it, the assumption of truculence on Spofford's features faded. He looked abashed, frightened. To have offended Judge Walbrough without any evidence was to have invited trouble. Spofford was not the sort that issues such invitations. He suddenly grew desperate.

"That's all right with me. Laugh if you want to. But I tell you we been lookin' for a dame that was in Beiner's office just before he was killed. And the elevator-boy at the Heberworth Building just took a slant at this dame and identified her as a woman he let off on the fourth floor round five o'clock on last Tuesday afternoon. And this woman was in Mr. Vandervent's office yesterday, and she sent in the name of Florine Ladue--the woman we been lookin' for, and----"

"Miss Deane has explained that. Wasn't Mr. Vandervent satisfied with her explanation?" demanded the judge.

"He was; but he ain't me!" cried Spofford. "I don't fall for them easy explanations. And, say--how did Miss Deane happen to guess what I was hangin' around for? If you know that she _explained_ things to Mr. Vandervent, why'd you ask me why I was watchin'?"

Judge Walbrough chuckled again.

"Stupid people always think in grooves, don't they, Spofford? Don't you suppose that Miss Deane might have told me an amusing practical joke that she had played upon Mr. Vandervent?"

"Yes; she might have," sneered Spofford. "It was funny, at that. So funny that she fainted when she played it. Perhaps that was part of the joke, though."

Judge Walbrough now became the alert lawyer.

"Spofford, does Mr. Vandervent know of this--er--independent investigation of yours?" he asked.

The detective shook his head.

"He'll know in the mornin', though. And if he won't listen, there's others that will."

"Certainly," said the judge. "If you have something to say. But, before you say it, you'd like to be quite certain of your facts, wouldn't you?"

Spofford nodded; his forehead wrinkled. Himself cunning, he was the sort that always is trying to figure out what lies behind another's statement. And that sort always thinks that it will do something cunning. He wasn't so far wrong in this particular instance.

"And, as I understand it, you make the charge of murder against Miss Deane because she played a joke upon Mr. Vandervent, and because an elevator-man claims to recognize her. His recognition doesn't justify an accusation of murder, you know."

"No; but it'll entitle her to a chance to do some more explainin'."

"Perhaps," said the judge. "Where is this elevator-man now?"

"He's where I can get hold of him," said Spofford.

"Excellent!" said the judge. "Because the police will want him to-morrow. And not for the reason that you imagine, Spofford. They'll want him for criminal slander and, possibly, if he sticks to the absurd story that he told, you, for perjury, also. At the time when this elevator-man claims to have seen Miss Deane in the Heberworth Building, she was having tea with me and my wife at our home."

It was a magnificent lie. But even as it was uttered, Clancy wondered at the judge. Why? He surely wouldn't, for a mere acquaintance, commit perjury. And if he would, surely his wife could not be expected to join him in the crime.

But its effect upon Spofford was remarkable. His lower lip lost its artificially pugnacious expression. It sunk in as though his lower teeth had been suddenly removed. It never occurred to him--not then, at any rate--to doubt the judge's statement. And if it had, his doubts would have been dissipated by Mrs. Walbrough's immediate corroboration.

"Tuesday afternoon, yes. I think, Tom, that Miss Deane didn't leave until a quarter after six."

Clancy's eyes dropped to the floor. Terrific had been the accusation, menacing had been the threat; and now both seemed to vanish, as though they had never been. For Spofford tried a grin. It was feeble, but it had the correct intention behind it.

"'Scuse me, lady--Miss Deane. I been locked out, and all the time thinkin' I had the key in my pocket. Well, I guess I'll be moseyin' along, ladies and gents. No hard feelin's, I hope. A guy sees his dooty, and he likes to do it, y' know. I'll sure wear out a knuckle or two on this elevator-man." He waited a moment. He had made grave charges. Walbrough was a power; he wanted to read his fate if he could. He felt assured, for Walbrough smiled and inclined his head. Sheepishly he shuffled from the room.

There was silence until the outer door had crashed behind him. Then the judge leaped into activity.

"The Heberworth Building. Part of the Vandervent estate, isn't it, Randall?"

Randall shook his head. He was a clever business man, doubtless, thought Clancy, but his mind seemed not nearly so quick as the judge's.

"I don't know," he answered.

"Well, I do," said the judge. "It's a shame; it's tough on Phil to make him suborn perjury, but I don't see any other way out of it. Where's the telephone, Miss Deane?"

"It's out of order," Clancy gasped.

The judge frowned.

"Well, it doesn't matter. Half an hour from now will do as well as earlier, I guess. Run up-stairs and pack your things." He turned to his wife. "Better help her," he suggested.

"'Pack?'" gasped Clancy.

"Of course. You're coming home with us. That chap Spofford is not an _absolute_ fool, even if he is a plain-clothes man. By the time he's thought over two or three little things, he'll be back again. And he might get somebody to swear out a warrant. Might even take a chance and arrest without it. But if you're in my house, there'll be lots of hesitation about warrants and things like that until there's been more evidence brought forward. And there won't be. Hurry along, young lady."

Clancy stared at him.

"Do you know," she said slowly, "I want to cry."

"Certainly you do. Perfectly correct. Cry away, my dear!"

Clancy suddenly grinned.

"I want to laugh even more," she said. "Judge Walbrough, you're the dearest, kindest-- I can't let you do it."

"Do what?" demanded the judge.

"Why, tell lies for me. They'll jail you, and----"

Judge Walbrough winked broadly at Randall.

"I guess that wouldn't bother you, would it, Mr. Randall? Jail for a girl like Miss Deane? Then I think an old-timer like myself has a right to do something that a young man would be wild to do--even if he has a jealous wife who hates every woman who looks at him."

It was heavy, as most of Walbrough's humor was apt to be, Clancy couldn't be sure that it was even in good taste. But it cleared the atmosphere of tears. Her laugh that followed the threat of weeping had been a bit hysterical. Now, as she went up-stairs with Mrs. Walbrough, it was normal. She could climb up as quickly as she could descend.

XXIV

Vandervent entered the Walbrough living-room with a jerky stride that testified to his excitement. A dozen questions were crowded against his teeth. But, though the swift motor-ride down-town had not been too brief for him to marshal them in the order of their importance, he forgot them as he met Clancy's eyes.

They should have been penitent eyes; and they were not. They should have been frightened eyes; and they were not. They should have been pleading eyes; and they were not. Instead, they were mischievous, mocking, almost. Also, they were deep, fathomless. Looking into them, the reproach died out in Vandervent's own. The pleading that should have been in Clancy's appeared in Vandervent's, although he undoubtedly was unconscious of the fact.

On the way there, he had been aware of himself as a trained lawyer confronted with a desperate, a possibly tragic situation. Now he was aware of himself only as a man confronting a woman.

He acknowledged the presence of the Walbroughs and of Randall with a carelessness that seemed quite natural to the older people but which made Randall eye the newcomer curiously. In love himself, Randall was quick to suspect its existence in the heart of another man.

"So," said Vandervent, "you weren't joking with me Friday, eh, Miss Deane?"

She shook her head slowly. There was something in her manner that seemed to say to him that she had transferred her difficulties to him, and that, if he were half the man she believed him to be, he'd accept them ungrudgingly.

"Suppose I hear the whole story," suggested Vandervent.

Intently, he listened as, prompted by the judge when she slid over matters that seemed unimportant to her, she retold the tale of the past week. The judge took up the burden of speech as soon as she relinquished it.

"So you see, Vandervent, your job is to get hold of this elevator-man and persuade him that his identification is all wrong."

Vandervent pursed his lips; he whistled softly.

"I haven't as good a memory as I ought to have, Judge. I can't recall the exact penalty for interference with the course of justice."

Clancy's eyes blazed.

"Judge, please don't ask Mr. Vandervent to do anything wrong. I wouldn't have him take any risk. I----"

Vandervent colored.

"Please, Miss Deane! You should know that I intend--that I will do anything--I was intending to be a little humorous."

"No time for humor," grunted the judge.

Vandervent looked at Mrs. Walbrough. Her glance was uncompromisingly hostile. Only in Randall's eyes did he read anything approximating sympathy. And he resented finding it there.

"The--er--difficulties----" he began.

"Not much difficulty in shutting an elevator-boy's mouth, is there?" demanded the judge. "It isn't as though we were asking you really to interfere with the course of justice, Vandervent. You realize that Miss Deane is innocent, don't you?"