SARDOU

About a week later James went to the head of his firm, the classmate's father who had offered him his position, and asked for a few days' leave of absence.

"Why didn't you go to Smith?" said his employer, naming the head of the department in which James was working.

"I didn't think he'd let me off without your leave, sir."

"Hm.... You must go, must you?"

"I'm afraid I must. Indeed, I'm bound to say, sir, that I shall go, leave or no leave."

"Hm. Well, you can go; but if you take more than half a week it'll have to come off your annual vacation."

"Thank you, sir, I shan't need more than that," said James and the interview was closed. No word was spoken of the reason for James' departure. Jonathan McClellan, founder and owner of the McClellan Automobile Company, knew a thing or two beside how to run an automobile business. He also read the papers.

That was on a Thursday. In the course of the evening James conducted an interview with his friend Laffan and at midnight or thereabouts he took train for Chicago. He proceeded next day to New York, and thence, on Saturday, to New Haven, arriving there early in the afternoon.

He went straight from the station to the law offices of Messrs. Raynham and Rummidge and remained there upwards of half an hour. Every sign of satisfaction was visible on his face as he emerged, but Raynham, who escorted him to the outer door, seemed not nearly so well pleased.

"I wish you'd change your mind, even now, and leave it to us," he said, just loud enough for the stenographer in the outer office not to hear.

"Plain enough sailing, now," replied James, smiling encouragingly. "I don't think you need to worry."

"Well, if you get into trouble, don't lose your head or your temper, or try to bluff. Just say you'll leave the rest to your lawyers, and get out!"

James proceeded up Chapel Street in excellent spirits. A light snow was falling, melting on the pavements but covering the grassy expanse of the Green with a soft white blanket, and bringing each gaunt black branch of the elm trees into strong relief. James walked on the Green side of the street, so as to avoid the greetings of possible acquaintances, and kept his eyes on the broad square. He noticed that some elm trees had been clipped and others felled since he had last been in town; he was sorry to see them go and wished the authorities could find some way of preserving them better....

He walked unhesitatingly into the shop and, disregarding the obsequious gestures of the line of barbers, went straight to the very end, where he knew he would find her, with her glass-topped table and her instruments and her disgusting little basin.... She was there, but a broad black back obtruded itself in front of her.

"One moment," she said, looking up and smiling.

James retreated a few steps to a row of chairs placed there for the use of the expectant. He sat down, and cursed himself for a fool. What business had he here? Why hadn't he left it all to Raynham, like a sensible person? He knew he would mess it all now, in spite of everything; he remembered stories of commanders who had been ousted out of impregnable positions by the mere confident attitude of their opponents. It was her appearance, her manner, her faultless smile, that unnerved him. It was, as he mentally phrased it to himself, because she looked "so damned refined." Never had he dreamed it would be as bad as this.

The black back shuffled inchoately out of his vision; his moment had come. He walked forward.

"You are Miss Mowbray, are you not?" he asked, speaking slowly and steadying his voice with difficulty.

"Yes?"

"My name is Wimbourne. I think you know my brother.... I would like to talk to you, if I might. When will you be at liberty?"

"Why shouldn't we talk right here?" she said cheerfully. "If you'll sit down there.... You had better let me tend to your nails—they need it."

"Very well." James sat down. He felt his courage returning; her self-possession stimulated him. Not one shadow of a change of expression had passed over her face when he told her he was Harry's brother; her manner remained the perfection of professional cordiality. Well, if she could show nerve, he could, too.

She filled her bowl with warm water and arranged her instruments with perfect composure. When she was ready James surrendered his right hand.

"Miss Mowbray," he began at length, "as I understand the matter, you are suing my brother for breach of promise. Is that right?"

"It is."

"Well, I'm sorry. It's a bad business. Bad for you as well as for him, because you can't possibly win. Now, Miss Mowbray, I will be frank with you. You are not going to get that forty thousand dollars—your suit will not even get into court. I know that, but I don't want to have to go into the reasons why. I don't want scenes, I hate them; I want to make this interview as easy and as short as possible, so I will open it with an offer. I will give you five hundred dollars if you will agree to withdraw your suit and clear out of town, within a week. Do you accept?"

"I do not." Her smile was more than cordial now, there was pity in it. "Why do you suppose I took the trouble to sue for forty thousand dollars, if I would be content with five hundred, Mr. Wimbourne?"

"Oh, must we go into arguments? Why can't you simply take my word for it that your suit is impossible, and close with me? Five hundred dollars—think what it means! It would pay all your costs and leave you enough to start in with somewhere else."

"The sum is just eighty times too small."

"You won't, then? Think it over a little! I'll leave the offer open for five minutes; you needn't answer definitely till then."

James was thoroughly sure of himself and at ease now; he smiled to himself with a certain grim pleasure at his little touch of melodrama, reminiscent of—what? Sardou? A common trick, of course, but never without its effect. He ceased thinking about it, and watched the clock. Presently he was aware that his companion, always busy with her scraping and cleaning and rubbing, was speaking in a low, calm voice.

"No, Mr. Wimbourne, I am not quite the fool you take me for, I'm afraid. You may not know it, but your brother has treated me very badly. He deserves to be punished. A man cannot make a fool of a woman, as he has of me, and get off scot free. There is such a thing as law and justice for those that are abused, and I have been abused. I should be very silly now if I did not go on and take all that is coming to me. I shall only be taking my right, Mr. Wimbourne; remember that. Fun is all very well if it is innocent fun; but when it hurts other people it has to be paid for."

"The five minutes are up," said James; "but I will willingly extend the time if there is any chance of your reconsidering. What do you think?"

No answer. James watched her calm face, with its pleasing and well-chiseled features, enlivened now by only the merest suggestion of a smile that was not really there, but still seemed latent, ready for instant use if called upon. About the mouth hung a shade of impatience, of obstinacy; anything else? No, assuredly no, search as he would. She was extraordinary!

"Oh, dear," he said with a gentle sigh, "you will go in for all the unpleasantness, I'm afraid.... Miss Mowbray, you have no right to sue my brother for breach of promise. You have been acting under false pretenses to him from the first. You were married to a man called Edward Jennings, in the city of Minneapolis, on the 3rd of last September."

"You have proofs, no doubt?" The tone was sharp and defiant, the smile scornful and satirical, but she did blench—no doubt of it. James' heart leaped within him.

"Oh, yes—lots, right here in my breast pocket. Tiresome things, but lawyers love them. If you will release my right hand for a moment—" He chose to smile ingratiatingly at her, and it gave him a little thrill of revenge to observe how obviously forced her answering smile was. She was not proof against her own weapons. But his triumph faded almost immediately, and pity took its place. Poor thing, what a ridiculous game she had been playing! How could it possibly succeed? Could she not have known that some one who knew of her marriage would be sure to turn up at the wrong moment and spoil the whole affair? She looked so small, so defenseless, so crumpled as she sat there, waiting for him to produce his proofs; surely she was never made for this sort of a career! Then her smiles of a little while ago came back to him, and he reflected that perhaps she was, after all.

"First, here is a little history of your career. You were born in Minneapolis, June 16, 188-. At the age of sixteen you went to New York City, where you entered the theatrical profession. For some years you were on the vaudeville stage, playing occasionally in New York, but mostly on the road. Your stage name was Rosa Montagu. You left the profession about three years ago, and have been engaged in this place as manicure for a little less than two years. You resumed the name of Myrtle Mowbray, which as far as I can make out is your own, on leaving the stage, but you were married, last September, under your stage name. Here is a copy of your marriage lines, sworn to by the Minneapolis License Bureau. Here is a photograph of you as Rosa Montagu...." "Suppose you let me finish manicuring your hands, Mr. Wimbourne." James replaced the papers in his pocket and his hand on the glass-topped table, and professional duties were resumed. They continued in silence for some time; neither party really had much to say now. It occurred to James that even now she might be trying to take him in by her indifference, to "bluff" him; but a careful study of her face dispelled the idea. He admired her nerve now no less than before.

"Are you satisfied, Miss Mowbray?" he asked at length.

"No. I'm beaten, though." James liked the reply immensely; liked, also, the manner in which it was given—hardly betraying anything more than good-humored disgust.

"When can I see you again to-day or to-morrow?" he asked again after a short pause. "There will be papers to sign, and that sort of thing."

"Is it possible that Mr. Raynham sent you out without a written statement for me to sign in your pocket?" she rejoined, looking fearlessly up at him.

"No—that is—yes, he did." Of course he had not, but James was already planning a little coup of his own not included in Mr. Raynham's arrangements.

"Well, could you come back here this evening? Toward ten? We close then, on Saturdays."

"Very well."

Both were silent for some time. At last, when the manicuring was almost completed, James said with a sudden burst of friendly curiosity:

"Honestly, Miss Mowbray, why did you do it? Get married to him first, I mean."

She looked coldly up at him. "I really don't see why I should answer that question, Mr. Wimbourne."

"Of course not. There's not the slightest reason why you should answer it, if you don't want to."

She was not proof against his candor or his smile. She smiled back, in spite of herself, without rancor or affectation.

"I have an idea that you are quite an unusual young man, Mr. Wimbourne. You are, without doubt, the worst enemy I have in the world, and yet you give me the impression of being a friend. I think I like you better than your brother."

James made no reply to this, but only reddened slightly, and she went on:

"I married him because I lacked the courage not to. I was afraid to burn my bridges behind me. He had been wanting me to for a long time, and at the last he became very impatient.... It was the only way I could keep him, and I dared not let him go. Things had not been going well here.... So I went back and married him, on condition that it was to be kept an absolute secret. I was determined to come out here and try my luck for one more year.... Of course I was very sorry that I did it, this fall. But I determined to go through with ... the business, for there was a big prize at stake."

"And you never knew he had a brother in Minneapolis?"

"No—he simply told me he had an elder brother in the West. I had no suspicion of anything; it seemed perfectly safe. How did you find out, anyway, if I may ask?"

"I happened to see you—perhaps a minute after you were married, coming out of the marriage license office, with a man. Compromising! You had been pointed out to me before, here, so I knew what you looked like. But what made you so keen to go through with—with the business? You don't look like that kind, somehow...."

She gave the last finishing touch to his hand and started to gather up her belongings before replying. "You don't know what it is not to have plenty of money, Mr. Wimbourne, or you would not ask that question. You don't know what it is to watch other people sailing by in sixty horsepower limousines and realize that you would look every bit as well there as any of them, and better than most, and to realize, above all, that you could make so much more out of your wealth than most of them. I am under no delusions about myself; I know perfectly well that I'm not a manicure type. I have brains, I have good looks, I have social possibilities. Only, I happened to be born without money or social position, and the handicap is too great.... Well, it's all up now. There's no hope for anything better now."

The tone in which she spoke these words was so perfectly quiet and resigned, so utterly lacking in vulgar desire to advertise her woes, that James felt deeply moved. He could not think of anything to say to reassure or encourage her. Presently he blurted out, desperately:

"You've got a good husband in Edward Jennings, anyway. He's a good chap, according to all accounts...."

She smiled, deprecatorily. "He's a nice boy. But he'll never make any money."

James made up an excuse to consult Mr. Raynham again, and after that walked the snow-covered streets till dinner time. His first impulse was to look up Harry, but he discarded the idea; he would not see him, Aunt Selina, any one, till his task was done, every detail completed. He dined alone in an obscure restaurant and with some difficulty succeeded in frittering away the time till ten o'clock, at which hour he returned to the barber shop on Chapel Street.

He proceeded at once to business, taking out two papers which he gave to Miss Mowbray to sign. She read and signed without comment. When she had finished he said: "Would you mind delivering this for me?" and handed her an unsealed envelope bearing the simple superscription "Mr. Edward Jennings."

Miss Mowbray fingered the envelope indecisively a moment; then she opened it and took out the contents.

She rose from her seat and glanced apprehensively at James. "I can't—we—thank you, but I simply can't accept this," she whispered.

"Nobody asked you to do anything, except deliver the letter," replied James cheerfully. "I'd like to know what business you have opening other people's letters, anyway. It isn't nice.—Wedding present, you know," he went on, with a change of voice; "I'm rather hoping to have the honor of giving you your first. Please try to make him accept it from me, won't you? Good-by!"

He shook her hand quickly and was actually off before she had time to offer another word of objection.

He made his way straight across the snowy street to Harry's rooms in Vanderbilt Hall. There was no answer to his knock, but the door yielded to a turn of the knob—how like Harry to leave it unlocked! The room was dark and empty, but he went in and found the embers of a fire dying on the hearth. He threw off his hat and overcoat, struck a light and looked about for materials with which to rebuild the fire.

In a few minutes the logs were blazing merrily before him. He turned out the gas, drew up an armchair and sat down in front of the fire to wait for Harry.