Find the Woman

  VII

  For a moment, embarrassed silence fell upon them. At least, Clancy knewthat she was embarrassed, and she felt, from the slowly rising color onRandall's face, that he was also what the girls in Zenith--and otherplaces--term "fussed." And when he spoke, it was haltingly.

  "I hope--of course, Miss Deane--Mrs. Carey was joking. She didn't meanthat I--" He paused helplessly.

  "She didn't mean that you were so--fatally attractive?" asked Clancy,with wicked innocence. After all, she was beautiful, twenty, and talkingto a young man whom she had met under circumstances that to a Zenitherfilled many of the requirements of romance. She forgot, with theadaptable memory of youth, her troubles. Flirtation was not a habit withClancy Deane. It was an art.

  "Oh, now, Miss Deane!" protested Randall.

  "Then you haven't beguiled as many girls as Mrs. Carey says?" persistedClancy.

  "Why, I don't know any girls!" blurted Randall.

  "Not any? Impossible!" said Clancy. "Is there anything the matter withyou?"

  "Matter with me?" Randall stared at her.

  "I mean, your eyesight is perfectly good?"

  "I saw _you_," he said bluntly. It was Clancy's turn to color, and shedid so magnificently. Randall saw his advantage. "The very minute I sawyou," he said, "I knew--" He stopped. Clancy's chin had lifted atrifle.

  "Yes," she said gently. "You knew?"

  "That we'd meet again," he said bravely.

  "I didn't know that brokers were romantic," she said.

  "I'm not," he retorted.

  She eyed him carefully.

  "No; I don't think you are. Still, not to know any girls--and it isn'tbecause you haven't seen any, either. Well, there must be something elsewrong with you. What is it?"

  Randall fumbled in his pocket and produced a leather cigarette-case. Heopened it, looking at Clancy.

  "Will you have one?" he asked.

  She shook her head. He lighted the cigarette; the smoke seemed torestore his self-possession.

  "I've been too busy to meet girls," he declared.

  Clancy shrugged.

  "You weren't busy night before last."

  She was enjoying herself hugely. The night before last, when she had metmen at Zenda's party at the Chateau de la Reine, and, later, at Zenda'shome, she had been too awed by New York, too overcome by the reputationsof the people that she had met to think of any of the men as men. Butnow she was talking to a young man whose eyes, almost from the momentthat she had accosted him on Park Avenue, had shown a definite interestin her. Not the interest of any normal man in a pretty girl, but apersonal interest, and interest in _her_, Clancy Deane, not merely inthe face or figure of Clancy Deane.

  Randall was the sort of man, Clancy felt (still without knowing thatshe felt it), in whom one could repose confidences without fear ofbetrayal or, what is worse, misunderstanding. All of which unconscious,or subconscious, analysis on Clancy's part accounted for her own feelingof superiority toward him. For she had that feeling. A friendly enoughfeeling, but one that inclined her toward poking fun at him.

  "No," admitted Randall; "I was kind of lonesome, and--I saw you,and----"

  Clancy took the wheel and steered the bark of conversation deftly awayfrom herself.

  "Mrs. Carey must know many girls," she said. "And she seemed _quite_ anintimate friend of yours." Clancy had in her make-up the due proportionof cattishness.

  "She is," answered Randall promptly. "That is, she's been extremely kindto me. But I haven't known her long. She returned from Europe last monthand was interested in French securities. She bought them through myoffice, because an uncle of mine, who'd been on the boat with her, hadmentioned my name. That's all."

  The mention of Europe wakened some memory in Clancy.

  "She's not _the_ Mrs. Carey, is she? Not the artist who was decoratedfor bravery----"

  Randall nodded.

  "I guess she is, but you'd never think it from her talk. She nevermentions it, or refers to her work----"

  "Have you seen it?" asked Clancy.

  "Her paintings? Oh, yes; I've been in her studio. The fact is"--and hecolored--"I happened to be the right size, or shape, or something, fora male figure she wanted, and--well," he finished sheepishly, "I posedfor her."

  Clancy grinned.

  "You've never been in the chorus of a musical comedy, have you?"

  "No." Randall laughed. "And I won't unless you're in it."

  It was a perfectly innocent remark, as vapid as the remarks made byyoung people in the process of getting acquainted always are. Yet, for asecond, Clancy felt a cold chill round her heart. A glance at Randallassured her that there'd been no hidden meaning in the statement. Herown remark had inspired his response. But the mere casual connection ofherself with any matter theatrical brought back the events of the pasttwo days.

  She beckoned to her waiter and asked for her check. Randall made aninvoluntary movement toward his pocket, then thought better of it.Clancy liked him for the perfectly natural movement, but liked himbetter because he halted it.

  "You--I don't suppose--you'd care to go to the theater--or anything?" heasked.

  She shook her head.

  "I must go home," she declared.

  "Well, I can, at least, take you up-town," he said,

  "I don't live up-town. I live----"

  "You've moved?"

  "Yes," she answered. All the fears that for ten minutes had been shovedinto the background now came back to her. To-morrow's papers mightcontain the statement that the supposed murderess of Morris Beiner hadbeen traced to the Napoli, whence she had vanished. It wouldn't take avery keen brain to draw a connection between that vanished girl and thegirl now talking with Randall.

  "Well, I can take you to wherever you've moved," he announcedcheerfully.

  "I--I'd rather you wouldn't," said Clancy.

  Randall's face reddened. He colored, Clancy thought, more easily andfrequently than any man she'd known.

  The waiter brought her change. She gave him fifteen cents, an exact tenper cent. of her bill, and rose. Then she bent over to pick up herevening paper. Randall forestalled her. He handed it to her, and hiseyes lighted on the "want ad" columns.

  "You aren't looking for work, are you?" he asked. "I mean--I don't wantto be rude, but----"

  "Well?" said Clancy coldly.

  "I--if you happened to know stenography--do you?"

  "Well?" she said again.

  "I need a--stenographer," he blurted.

  She eyed him.

  "You move rapidly, don't you?"

  "I'm fresh, you think? Well, I suppose it seems that way, but--I don'tmean to be, Miss Deane. Only--well, my name and address are in thetelephone-book. If you ever happened--to want to see me again--you couldreach me easily."

  "Thank you," said Clancy. "Good-night." For a moment, her fingers restedin his huge hand; then, with a little nod, she left the restaurant.

  She did not look behind her as she walked down Fifth Avenue and acrossWashington Square. Randall was not the sort to spy upon her, no matterhow anxious he was to know where she lived. And he was anxious--Clancyfelt sure of that. She didn't know whether to be pleased or alarmed overthat surety.

  She felt annoyed with herself that she was even interested in Randall'sattitude toward her. She had come to New York with a very definitepurpose, and that purpose contemplated no man in its foreground.Entering Mrs. Gerand's lodging-house, she passed the telephone fastenedagainst the wall in the front hall. It was the idlest curiosity,still--it wouldn't do any harm to know Randall's address. She looked itup in the telephone directory. He had offices in the Guaranty Buildingand lived in the Monarch apartment-house on Park Avenue.

  She was more exhausted than she realized. Not even fear could keep herawake to-night, and fear did its utmost. For, alone in her room, shefelt her helplessness. She had avoided the police for a day--but howmuch longer could she hope to do so?

  In the morning, courage came to her again. She asked Mrs. Gerand forpermiss
ion to look at the morning paper before she left the house. TheBeiner mystery was given less space this morning than yesterdayafternoon. The paper reported no new discoveries.

  And there were no suspicious police-looking persons loitering outsideMrs. Gerand's house. Three rods from the front door and Clancy'sconfidence in her own ability to thwart the whole New York detectiveforce had returned.

  Mrs. Gerand had recommended that she breakfast in a restaurant on SixthAvenue, praising the coffee and boiled eggs highly. Clancy found itwithout difficulty. It was a sort of bakery, lunch-room, and pastryshop.

  Blown by a brisk wind, Clancy stopped before a mirror to readjust herhat and hair. In the mirror, she saw a friendly face smiling at her. Sheturned. At a marble-topped table sat Mrs. Carey. She beckoned forClancy. Short of actual rudeness, there was nothing for Clancy to do butto accept the invitation.

  "You look," Mrs. Carey greeted her, "as though you'd been out in yourcatboat already. Sit down with me. Jennie!" she called to a waitress."Take Miss Deane's order."

  Clancy let Mrs. Carey order for her. She envied the older woman's air ofauthority, her easiness of manner.

  "New York hasn't corrupted you as yet, Miss Deane, has it? You keepMaine hours. Fancy meeting any one breakfasting at seven-thirty."

  "But I've met you, and you're a New Yorker," said Clancy.

  Mrs. Carey laughed.

  "I have to work."

  "So do I," said Clancy.

  "Whereabouts? At what?" asked Mrs. Carey.

  "I don't know," Clancy confessed. "I've made a list of firms thatadvertise for stenographers."

  "'Stenographer?' With that skin? And those eyes? And your hair? Blessyour heart, Miss Deane, you ought to go on the stage--or into themovies."

  Clancy lowered her eyes to the grapefruit which the waitress hadbrought.

  "I--don't think I'd care for either of those," she answered.

  "Hm. Wouldn't care to do a little posing? Oh, of course not. No futurein that--" Mrs. Carey's brows wrinkled. She broke a roll and butteredit. "Nothing," she said, "happens without good reason. I was alarmedabout my cook this morning. Laid up in bed. I think it's--'flu,' thoughI hope not. Anyway, the doctor says it's not serious; she'll be well ina day or so. But I hated to go out for my breakfast instead of eating inbed. And I can't cook a thing!"

  "No?" said Clancy. Into her tones crept frigidity. Mrs. Carey laughedsuddenly.

  "Bless your sweet heart, did you think I was offering you a place ascook? No; in my roundabout, verbose way, Miss Deane, I was explainingthat my cook's illness was a matter for congratulation. It sent meoutdoors, enabled me to meet you, and--after breakfast come over to mystudio. Sally Henderson needs an assistant, and spoke to me the otherday. You'll do."

  "What sort of work is it?" asked Clancy timidly.

  "Interior decorating--and renting apartments."

  "But I--don't know anything about that sort of thing."

  Mrs. Carey laughed.

  "Neither does Sally. Her father died five years ago. He was a doctor.Lots of money, but spent it all. Sally had to do _something_. So shebecame an interior decorator. Don't argue with me, my dear. I intend toplay Destiny for you. How are the buckwheat cakes?"

  "Fine!" Clancy murmured from a full mouth.