CHAPTER XVII
LAURIE MAKES A CONFESSION
The lights of Long Island City greeted them with reassuring winksthrough the snow. Seeing these, Doris drew a deep breath. She had lether nerves run away with her, she subconsciously felt. Now, rising fromthe depths of her panic to a realization of contact with a living world,as they crossed the bridge to Manhattan, seeing hurrying men and womenabout her, hearing the blasts of motor horns and the voices of motordrivers, she fiercely assured herself that she had been an hystericalfool.
In the first moments of reaction she even experienced a sense ofpersonal injury and almost of resentment toward her companion. He hadput her through the most horrible half-hour of her life. It seemed thatno service he had rendered could compensate her for such suffering. Onthe other hand, he _had_ brought her safely back to New York, as he hadpromised to do. Surely, it was not for her to cavil at the manner inwhich he had done it. Something, of course, had happened, probably aracking fight between the two men. Laurie was exhausted, and was showingit; that was all.
With their arrival at her studio, his manner did not change. He assistedher from the car, punctiliously escorted her to the elevator, and lefther there.
"I have some telephoning to do," he explained. "I shall not leave thebuilding, and I expect to be with you again in about fifteen minutes.With your permission, I am asking my two partners to meet me in yourstudio, Rodney Bangs and Jacob Epstein. What I have to tell must be toldto all three of you, and"--his voice caught in a queer fashion--"it is athing I don't want to tell more than once. I think I can get them rightaway. They'll probably be in their rooms, dressing for dinner. May theycome here?"
"Of course."
Her panic was returning. His appearance in the lighted hall was nothingshort of terrifying, and not the least uncanny feature was his own utterunconsciousness of or indifference to it.
"Thanks. Then I'll wait for them down here, and bring them up to yourstudio when they come."
He left her with that, and Henry, the night elevator man, who went onduty at six o'clock, indifferently swung the lever and started his carupward.
In the studio, with her door shut against the world, Doris againresolutely took herself and her nerves in hand. She summoned endlessexplanations of Laurie's manner and appearance, explanations which,however, turn and twist them as she would, always left somethingunexplained.
There was, she realized, a strong probability that he had forced thetruth from Shaw. But even the truth would not make Laurie look and actlike that. Or would it? She tried to believe it would. Anything would bebetter than the thing she feared. She set her teeth; then, springingfrom the chair into which she had dropped, she turned on the studiolights and busied herself with preparations for her visitors. She simplydared not let her thoughts run on.
Five minutes passed--ten--fifteen--twenty. Save during the half-hour ofthat return journey from Sea Cliff, she had never known such dragging,horror-filled moments. A dozen times she fancied she heard the elevatorstop at her floor, and the sound of voices and footsteps approach. Adozen times she went to her windows and wildly gazed out on the storm.As she stared, she prayed. It was the same prayer, over and over.
"Dear God, please don't let it be that way!" The aspiration was thenearest she dared come to putting into words the terror that shook herheart.
The second fifteen minutes were almost up when she really heard theelevator stop. Quick footsteps approached her door, but there were novoices. The three men, if they were coming, were coming in uttersilence. Before they had time to rap she had opened the door and stoodback to let them enter. As they passed her she looked into their faces,and as she looked the familiar sense of panic, now immeasurablyintensified, again seized her in its grip.
Laurie, usually the most punctilious of men, made on this occasion anomission extraordinary for him. He did not present his partners to theirhostess. But not one of the three noticed that omission. Rodney Bangs,pale but carrying himself with a palpable effort at control, shoulderedhis way into the room in his characteristic fashion, as if he weremeeting and hurling back a foot-ball rush. Epstein, breathless andobviously greatly excited, actually stumbled over the threshold in hisunseeing haste. Laurie, slowly following the two, alone wore someresemblance to a normal manner. He was very serious but quite calm.
He took off his coat, methodically folded it, and laid it on a near-bychair. To the brain back of each of the three pairs of eyes watchinghim, the same thought came. He had something appalling to tell them,and, cool as he seemed, he dared not tell it. He was playing for time.The strain of even the brief delay was too much for Epstein'sendurance. High-strung, his nerves on edge, almost before Laurie hadturned he sputtered forth questions like bullets from a machine-gun.
"Vell! vell!" he demanded, "vot's it all about? Vot's it mean? Over thetelephone you say you got to see us this minute. You say you got intotrouble, big trouble. Vell, vot trouble? Vot is it?"
Laurie looked at him, and something in the look almost spiked the biggun. But Epstein was a man of action, and, notwithstanding hisnervousness, a man of some nerve. The expression in the boy's black eyeshad stunned him, but with only an instant's hesitation he finished whathe had meant to say.
"I guess it ain't nothing ve can't fix up," he jerked out, trying tospeak with his usual assurance. "I guess ve fix it up all right."
Laurie shook his head. None of the thirty minutes he had spent on theground floor had been devoted to improving his appearance. His blackcurly hair, usually as shining as satin, was rough, matted, dirty.Across his left cheek the sinister cut still ran, raw, angry-looking,freshly irritated by the ice-laden wind.
"Sit down," he said, wearily. All the life had gone out of his voice. Ithad an uncanny effect of monotony, as if pitched on two flat notes. Tothose three, who knew so well the rich beauty of his speaking tones,this change in them was almost more alarming than the change in hislooks.
They sat down, as he had directed, but not an eye in the room moved fromhis face. Epstein, still wearing his hat and heavy coat, had droppedinto the big chair by the reading-lamp and was nervously gnawing hisunder lip. Bangs had mechanically tossed his hat toward a corner as hecame in. He took a chair as mechanically, and sat very still, his backto the window, his eyes trying vainly to meet his friend's. Doris hadmoved to the upper corner of the couch, where she crouched, elbows onknees, chin on hands, staring at a spot on the floor. Though in thegroup, she seemed alone, and felt alone.
Walking over to the mantel, Laurie rested an elbow heavily upon it, andfor the first time looked squarely from one to the other of his friends.As he looked, he tried to speak. They saw the effort and its failure,and understood both. With a gesture of hopelessness, he turned his backtoward them, and stood with sagging muscles and eyes fixed on the emptygrate. Epstein's nerves snapped.
"For God's sake, Devon," he begged, "cut out the vaits! Tell us vot yougot on your chest, and tell it quick."
Laurie turned and once more met his eyes. Under the look Epstein'soblique eyes shifted.
"I'm going to," Laurie said quietly and still in those new, flat tones."That's why I've brought you here. But--it's a hard job. You see,"--hisvoice again lost its steadiness--"I've got to hurt you--all ofyou--most awfully. And--and that's the hardest part of this business forme."
Doris, now staring up at him, told herself that she could not endureanother moment of this tension. She dared not glance at either of theothers, but she heard Epstein's heavy breathing and the creak of RodneyBangs's chair as he suddenly changed his position. Again it was Epsteinwho spoke, his voice rising on a shriller note.
"Vell! vell! Get it out! I s'pose you done something. Vot you done?"
For the first time Laurie's eyes met those of Doris. The look was socharged with meaning that she sat up under it as if she had received ashock. Yet she was not sure she understood it. Did he want her to helphim? She did not know. She only knew now that the thing she had fearedwas here, and that if she did not speak out something i
n her head wouldsnap.
"He killed Herbert Shaw," she almost whispered.
For a long moment there was utter silence in the room, through which thewords just spoken seemed to scurry like living things, anxious to be outand away. Laurie, his eyes on the girl, showed no change in hisposition, though a spasm crossed his face. Epstein, putting up one fathand, feebly beat the air with it as if trying to push back somethingthat was approaching him, something intangible but terrible. Bangs aloneseemed at last to have taken in the full meaning of the curtannouncement. As if it had galvanized him into movement, he sprang tohis feet and, head down, charged the situation.
"What the devil is she talking about?" he cried out. "Laurie! What doesshe mean?"
"She told you." Laurie spoke as quietly as before, but without lookingup.
"You--mean--it's--true?"
Rodney still spoke in a loud, aggressive voice, as if trying to awakenhimself and the others from a nightmare.
"Take it in," muttered Laurie. "Pull yourselves up to it. I had to."
An uncontrollable shudder ran over him. As if his nerve had suddenlygiven way, he dropped his head on his bent arm. For another intervalBangs stood staring at him in a stupefaction through which a slow tremorran.
"I--I _can't_ take it in," he stammered at last.
"I know. That's the way I felt."
Laurie spoke without raising his head. Bangs, watching him, saw himshudder again, saw that his legs were giving under him, and that he wasliterally holding to the mantel for support. The sight steadied his ownnerves. He pushed his chair forward, and with an arm across the other'sshoulder, forced him down into it.
"Then, in God's name, why are we wasting time here?" he suddenlydemanded. "Your car's outside. I'll drive you--anywhere. We'll get outof the country. We'll travel at night and lie low in the daytime. Pullyourself together, old man." Urgently, he grasped the other's shoulder."We've got things to do."
Laurie shook his head. He tried to smile. There was something horriblein the resulting grimace of his twisted mouth.
"There were only two things to do," he said doggedly. "One was to tellyou three. I've done that. The other was to tell the district attorney.I've done that, too."
Bangs recoiled, as if from a physical blow. Epstein, who had slightlyroused himself at the prospect of action, sank back into a stunned,goggling silence.
"You've told him!" gasped Rodney, when he could speak.
"Yes." Laurie was pulling himself together. "We're friends, you know,Perkins and I," he went on, more naturally. "I've seen a good deal ofhim lately. He will make it as easy as he can. He has taken my parole.I've got--till morning." He let them take that in. Then, very simply, headded, "I have promised to be in my rooms at eight o'clock."
Under this, like a tree-trunk that goes down with the final stroke ofthe ax, Rodney Bangs collapsed.
"My God!" he muttered. "My--God!" He fell into the nearest chair and satthere, his head in his shaking hands.
As if the collapse of his friend were a call to his own strength, Lauriesuddenly sat up and took himself in hand.
"Now, listen," he said. "Let's take this sensibly. We've got to threshout the situation, and here's our last chance. I want to make one thingclear. Shaw was pure vermin. There's no place for his sort in a decentworld, and I have no more regret over--over exterminating him than Iwould have over killing a snake. Later, Miss Mayo will tell you why."
Under the effect of the clear, dispassionate voice, almost naturalagain, Epstein began to revive.
"It was self-defense," he croaked, eagerly. He caught at the idea as ifit were a life-line, and obviously began to drag himself out of a pitwith its help. "It was self-defense," he repeated. "You vas fighting, Is'pose. That lets you out."
"No," Laurie dully explained, "he wasn't armed. I thought he was. Ithought he was drawing some weapon. He had used chloroform on me oncebefore. I was mistaken. But no jury will believe that, of course."
His voice changed and flatted again. His young figure seemed to give inthe chair, as if its muscles sagged under a new burden. For a moment hesat silent.
"We may as well face all the facts," he went on, at last. "The one thingI won't endure is the horror of a trial."
"But you'll get off," choked Epstein. "It's self-defense--it's--it's--"
"Or a brain storm, or temporary insanity!" Laurie interrupted. "No, oldchap, that isn't good enough. No padded cell for me! And I'm not goingto have my name dragged through the courts, and the case figuring in thenewspapers for months. I've got a reason I think you will all admit is agood one." Again his voice changed. "That would break my sister'sheart," he ended brokenly.
At the words Bangs uttered an odd sound, half a gasp and half a groan.Epstein, again in his pit of wretchedness, caught it.
"Now you see the job ve done!" he muttered. "Now you see how ve lookedafter him, like she told us to!"
Bangs paid no attention to him.
"What are you going to do?" he heavily asked Laurie.
"I'll tell you, on one condition--that you give me your word, all threeof you, not to try in any way to interfere or to prevent it. Youcouldn't, anyway, so don't make the blunder of trying. You know what I'mup against. There's only one way out."
He looked at them in turn. Doris and Epstein merely stared back, withthe effect of not taking in what he was saying. But Bangs recoiled.
"No, by God!" he cried. "No! No!"
Laurie went on as if he had not spoken.
"I promised Perkins to be in my rooms at eight o'clock to-morrowmorning," he muttered, and they had to strain their ears to catch thewords. "I did _not_ promise to be--alive."
This time it was Doris who gasped out something that none of them heard.For a moment Laurie sat silent in his chair, watching her with a strangeintentness. Then, in turn, his black eyes went to the faces of Bangs andEpstein. Huddled in the big chair he occupied, the manager sat lookingstraight before him, his eyes set in agony, his jaw dropped. He had theaspect of a man about to have a stroke. Bangs sat leaning forward,staring at the floor. The remaining color had left his face. He appearedto have wholly forgotten the presence of others in the room. He wasmuttering something to himself, the same thing over and over and over:"And it's all up to us. It's--all--up--to us."
For an interval which none of the three ever forgot, Laurie watched thetableau. Then, rising briskly, he ostentatiously stretched himself, andin loud, cheerful tones answered Rodney's steady babble.
"Yes, old chap, it's all up to you," he said. "So what do you think ofthis as a climax for the play?"
Grinning down at his pal, he waited for a reply. It did not come.Epstein was still unable to speak or move. Doris seemed to have heardthe words without taking them in. But at last Bangs rose slowly, gropedhis way to his chum as if through a fog, and catching him by theshoulders looked wildly into his eyes.
"You mean--you mean," he stuttered at last,"that--that--this--was--all--a--hoax?"
"Of course it was," Laurie admitted, in his gayest voice. "It was theclimax of the hoax you have played on me. An hour ago Shaw confessed tome how you three arranged this whole plot of Miss Mayo's adventure, sothat I should be kept out of mischief and should think I was having anadventure myself. I thought a little excitement was due you in return.How do you like my climax, anyhow? Pretty fair, I call it."
He stopped short. Rodney had loosened his grip on his shoulders andstumbled to a chair. Now, his arm on its back and his head on his arm,his body shook with the relentless convulsion of a complete nervouscollapse. Epstein had produced a handkerchief and was feebly wiping hisforehead. Doris seemed to have ceased to breathe. Laurie walked over toher, took her hands, and drew them away from her face. Even yet, sheseemed not to understand.
"I'm sorry," he said, very gently. "I've given you three an awful jolt.But I think you will all admit that there was something coming to you.You've put me through a pretty bad week. I decided you could endure halfan hour of reprisal."
None of the three answered.
None of the three could. But, in theincandescent moments that followed, the face of Epstein brightenedslowly, like a moon emerging from black clouds. Bangs alone, who hadbest borne the situation up till now, was unable to meet the reaction.In the silence of the little studio he wept on, openly and gulpingly andunrestrainedly, as he had not wept since he was a little boy.
CHAPTER XVIII
A LITTLE LOOK FORWARD
"So Shaw told you!" muttered Epstein a few moments later.
"You bet he did!" Laurie blithely corroborated. "He had to, to save hisskin. But he was pretty game, I'll give him credit for that. I had tofire one shot past his head to convince him that I meant business.Besides, as I've said, I thought he was reaching for something. Isuppose I was a little nervous. Anyway, we clenched again,and--well--I'd have killed him, I guess, if he hadn't spoken."
He smiled reminiscently. All three were tactfully ignoring Bangs, whohad walked over to the window and by the exercise of all his will-powerwas now getting his nerves under control.
"Shaw didn't do the tale justice, he hadn't time to," Laurie continued,"and I was in such a hurry to get back to Miss Mayo that I didn't askfor many details. But on the way to the garage it occurred to me that Ihad a chance for a come-back that would keep you three from feeling toosmug and happy over the way I had gulped down your little plot. So Iplanned it, and I rather think," he added complacently, "that I put itover."
"Put it over!" groaned Epstein. "Mein Gott, I should think you did putit over! You took twenty years off my life, young man; that's von surething."
He spoke with feeling, and his appearance bore out his words. Even inthese moments of immense relief he looked years older than when heentered the room.
"You'll revive." Laurie turned to Rodney, who was now facing them. "Allright, old man?"
"I guess so," gulped Rodney. There was no self-consciousness in hismanner. He had passed through blazing hell in the last twenty minutes,and he did not care who knew it.
"Then," urged Laurie, seeking to divert him, "you may give me thedetails Shaw had to skip. How the dickens did you happen to start thisframe-up, anyhow?"
"How much did Shaw tell you?" Rodney tried to speak naturally.
"That the whole adventure was a plant you and Epstein had fixed up tokeep me out of mischief," Laurie repeated, patiently. "He explained thatyou had engaged a company to put it over, headed by Miss Mayo, who is afriend of Mrs. Ordway, and who has a burning ambition to go on thestage. He said you promised her that if she made a success of it, shewas to have the leading role in our next play. That's about all he toldme."
He did not look at Doris as he spoke, and she observed the omission,though she dared not look at him. Also, she caught the coldness of hisrich young voice. She hid her face in her hands.
"That's all I know," ended Laurie. "But I want to know some more. Whosebright little idea was this, in the first place?"
"Mrs. Ordway's."
"Louise's!" Unconsciously Laurie's face softened.
"Yes. I went to see her one day," Bangs explained, "and I mentioned thatwe couldn't get any work out of you till you'd had the adventure youwere insisting on. Mrs. Ordway said, 'Well, why don't you give him anadventure?' That," confessed Rodney, "started me off."
"Obviously," corroborated his friend. "So it was Louise's idea. PoorLouise! I hope she got some fun out of it."
"You bet she did!" corroborated Bangs, eagerly. "I kept her posted everyday. She said it was more fun than a play, and that it was keeping heralive."
"Humph! Well, go on. Tell me how it started." Laurie was smiling. If thelittle episode just ended had been, as it were, a bobolink singing toLouise Ordway during her final days on earth, it was not he who wouldfind fault with the bird or with those who had set it singing.
"The day we saw the caretaker in the window across the park," continuedRodney, "and I realized how interested you were, it occurred to me thatwe'd engage that studio and put Miss Mayo into it. Miss Mayo lives inRichmond, Virginia, and she had been making a big hit in amateurtheatricals. She wanted to get on the legitimate stage, as Shaw toldyou; so Mrs. Ordway suggested that Epstein and I try her out--"
"Never mind all that!" interrupted Laurie. "Perhaps later Miss Mayo willtell me about it herself."
Bangs accepted the snub without resentment.
"Epstein thought it was a corking idea," he went on, "especially as weexpected to try out some of the scenes I have in mind for the new play.But the only one you let us really get over was the suicide scene in thefirst act. You balled up everything else we attempted," he ended with asigh.
Laurie smiled happily.
"Were your elevator boys in on the secret?" he asked Doris.
"No, of course not."
"Now, what I meant to do was this--" Rodney spoke briskly. He wasrecovering poise with extraordinary rapidity. His color was returning,his brown eyes were again full of life. And, as always when his thoughtswere on his work, he was utterly oblivious to any other interest. "Thesecond act was to be--"
He stopped and stared. Epstein had risen, had ponderously approachedhim, and had resolutely grasped him by one ear.
"Rodney," said the manager, with ostentatious subtlety, "you don't knowit, but you got a date up-town in five minutes."
His voice and manner enlightened the obtuse Mr. Bangs.
"Oh, er--yes," stammered that youth, confusedly, and reluctantly got tohis feet.
"Wait a minute," said Laurie. "Before you fellows go, there's one morelittle matter we've got to straighten out." They turned to him, and atthe expression of utter devotion on the two faces the sternness leftyoung Devon's eyes. "I was pretty mad about this business for a fewminutes after Shaw explained it," he went on. "You folks didn't havemuch mercy, you know. You fooled me to the top of my bent. But now Ifeel that we've at least broken even."
"Even! Mein Gott!" repeated Epstein with a groan. "You've taken tenyears--"
"You've got back ten already," the young man blithely reminded him."That's fine! As I say, we're even. But from this time on, one thingmust be definitely understood: Henceforth I'm not in leading-strings ofany kind, however kindly they are put on me. If this association is tocontinue, there must be no more practical jokes, no more supervision, nomore interference with me or my affairs. Is that agreed?"
"You bet it is!" corroborated Epstein. Again he wiped his brow. "I can'tstand the pace you fellas set," he admitted.
Bangs nodded. "That's agreed. You're too good a boomerang for littleRodney."
"For my part," continued Laurie, "I promise to get to work on the newplay, beginning next Monday."
"You will!" the two men almost shouted.
"I will. I've got to stand by Louise for the next two or three months,and we'll write the play while I'm doing it. Then, whether Americaenters the war this spring or not, I'm going to France. But we'll talkover all that later. Are you off?"
He ushered them to the door.
"And it's all right, boy?" Epstein asked wistfully. "You know how vellve meant. You ain't got no hard feelings about this?"
"Not one." Laurie wrung his hand. Then, with an arm across Rodney'sshoulders, he gave him a bearish hug. "I'll see you a little later," hepromised.
Rodney suddenly looked self-conscious.
"Perhaps then you'll give me a chance to tell you some news," hesuggested, with a mixture of triumph and embarrassment. Epstein'sknowing grin enlightened Laurie.
"Sonya?" he asked eagerly.
"Yep. Great, isn't it?"
Laurie stared at him.
"By Jove, you _have_ been busy!" he conceded. "Between manufacturing aframe-up for me, and winning a wife, you must have put in a fairly fullweek even for you." His arm tightened round his chum's shoulders. "I'mdelighted, old man," he ended, seriously. "Sonya is the salt of theearth. Tell her she has my blessing."
When he reentered the room he found Doris standing in its center,waiting for him. Something in her pose reminded him of their firstmoments together in that familiar setting. S
he had carried off theoriginal scene very well. Indeed, she had carried off very well most ofthe scenes she had been given.
"You'll be a big hit in the new play," he cheerfully remarked, as hecame toward her.
"Laurie--" Her voice trembled. "You have forgiven the others. Can't youforgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive," he quietly told her. "You saw a chance andyou took it. In the same conditions, I suppose any other girl would havedone the same thing. It's quite all right, and I wish you the best luckin the world. We'll try to make the new play worthy of you."
He held out his hand, but she shrank away from it.
"You're _not_ going to forgive me!" she cried. "And--I don't blame you!"
She walked away from him, and, sinking into the chair Epstein had sorecently vacated, sat bending forward, her elbow resting on its broadarm, her chin in her hand. It was the pose he knew so well and had lovedso much.
"I don't blame you," she repeated. "What I was doing was--horrible. Iknew it all the time, and I tried to get out of it the second day. Butthey wouldn't let me."
She waited, but he did not speak.
"Can't you understand?" she went on. "I've hated it from the start. I'vehated deceiving you. You see--I--I didn't know you when I began. Ithought it was just a good joke and awfully interesting. Then, when Imet you, and you were so stunning, always, I felt like a beast. I toldthem I simply couldn't go on, but they coaxed and begged, and told mewhat it would mean to you as well as to me-- They made a big point ofthat."
He took his favorite position by the mantel and watched her as shetalked.
"Don't feel that way," he said at last. "You were playing for bigstakes. You were justified in everything you said and did."
"I hated it," she repeated, ignoring the interruption. "And to-day, thisafternoon, I tried to tell you everything. Don't you remember?"
"Yes, I remember." He spoke as he would to a child, kindly andsoothingly. "Don't worry about it any more," he said. "You'll forget allthis when we begin rehearsing."
She sprang to her feet.
"I don't want the play!" she cried passionately. "I wouldn't appear init now under any conditions. I don't want to go on the stage. It wasjust a notion, an impulse. I've lost it, all of it, forever. I'm goingback home, to my own people and my--own Virginia, to--to try to forgetall this. I'm going to-morrow."
"You're excited," said Laurie, soothingly. He took her hands and heldthem. "I've put you through a bad half-hour. You understand, of course,that I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't been made to realize that yourwhole thought, throughout this experiment, has been of the play, andonly of the play."
She drew back and looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Why--" It was hard to explain, but he blundered on. "I mean that, for alittle time, I was fool enough to hope that--that--some day you mightcare for me. For of course you know, you've known all along--thatI--love you. But when I got the truth--"
"You haven't got the truth." She was interrupting him, but her face hadflashed into flame. "You haven't had it for one second; but you're goingto get it now. I'm not going to let our lives be wrecked by any sillymisunderstanding."
She stopped, then rushed on.
"Oh, Laurie, can't you see? The only truth that counts between us isthat I--I--adore you! I have from the very first--almost from the dayyou came here--Oh, it's dreadful of you to make me say all this!"
She was sobbing now, in his arms. For a long moment he held her veryclose and in utter silence. Like Bangs, but in a different way, he wasfeeling the effects of a tremendous reaction.
"You'll make a man of me, Doris," he said brokenly, when he could speak."I'm not afraid to let you risk the effort. And when I come back fromFrance--"
"When you come back from France you'll come back to your wife," she toldhim steadily. "If you're going, I'll marry you before you go. Then I'llwait and pray, and pray and wait, till you come again. And you will comeback to me," she whispered. "Something makes me sure of it."
"I'll come back," he promised. "Now, for the first time, I am sure ofthat, too."
Four hours later Mr. Laurence Devon, lingeringly bidding good night tothe lady of his heart, was surprised by a final confidence.
"Laurie," said Doris, holding him fast by, one button as they stoodtogether on the threshold of the little studio, "do you know my realreason for giving up my ambition to go on the stage?"
"Yes. Me," said young Mr. Devon promptly and brilliantly. "But youneedn't do it. I'm not going to be the ball-and-chain type of husband."
"I know. But there are reasons within the reason." She twisted thebutton thoughtfully. "It's because you're the real actor in the family.When I remember what you did to the three of us in that murder scene,and so quietly and naturally, without any heroics--"
She broke off. "There are seven million things about you that I love,"she ended, "but the one I think I love the best of all is this: even inyour biggest moments, Laurie darling, you never, never 'emote'!"
CHAPTER XIX
"WHAT ABOUT LAURIE?"
From the _New York Sun_, January 7, 1919:--
"Among the patients on the hospital ship _Comfort_, which arrivedyesterday with nine hundred wounded soldiers on board, was CaptainLaurence Devon, of the American Flying Forces in France.
"Captain Devon was seriously injured in a combat with two German planes,which occurred only forty-eight hours before the signing of thearmistice. He brought down both machines and though his own plane was onfire and he was badly wounded, he succeeded in reaching the Americanlines. He has since been in the base hospital at C----, but is nowconvalescent.
"Captain Devon is an American 'ace,' with eleven air victoriesofficially to his credit. He was awarded the French _Croix de Guerre_and the American Distinguished Service Medal for extraordinary heroismon August 9, 1918, when he went to the assistance of a French aviatorwho was fighting four Fokker planes. In the combat the four Germanmachines were downed and their pilots killed. The Frenchman was badlyhurt but eventually recovered.
"Captain Devon is well known in American social and professional life.He is the only son of the late Horace Devon, of Devondale, Ohio, and thebrother-in-law of Robert J. Warren, of New York. Before the war he was asuccessful playwright. Just before sailing for France last year, hemarried Miss Doris Mayo, daughter of the late General Frederick Mayo, ofRichmond, Virginia. On reaching his New York home to-day he will see forthe first time his infant son, Rodney Jacob Devon."
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
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