To Ross, with his rigid self-control, it seemed impossible that a human creature could safely endure such violent emotion as hers. She was so fragile; she looked ill, horribly ill, ghastly; he thought she would faint, would fall senseless at his feet. He sprang up the stairs to be with her.
“Amy!” he cried.
Her dark brows met in a somber frown; she shook her head, waving her forefinger in front of her face; an odd, foreign little gesture.
“No!” she said. “Keep quiet! Don’t speak to me. Let me think.”
“Think!” said Ross to himself. “I don’t believe you’re capable of it, my girl. But certainly you’re even less capable of listening to any one. Very well; go ahead with your thinking, then; and I’ll wait for the next development.”
He lit a cigarette, and leaned against the wall, smoking, not sorry for an interval of peace.
“Look at the time!” Amy commanded sharply “You’ll be late getting to the station, unless you hurry. Why didn’t you remind me?”
“Inexcusable of me,” said Ross. “I hope I shan’t lose my job.”
She apparently did not choose to notice this flippancy.
“Come!” she ordered, and went past him, down the stairs, and out of that sorry little cottage. She ran all the way to the car, and two or three times she said “Hurry!” to Ross, who kept easily at her side with his usual stride.
“Now!” she said. “Drive as fast as you possibly can!”
“Sorry,” said Ross, “but my only license is one I had in Manila—and even that’s expired. I can’t afford to take chances.”
She shrugged her shoulders, with an unpleasant little laugh. She was in a very evil temper; the light was on inside of the car, and now and then he glanced at her, saw her sitting there, her black eyes staring straight before her, her mouth set in a mutinous and scornful line.
She was in torment; he felt sure of that, but he felt equally sure that she would not hesitate to inflict torment upon others. She was cruel, reckless, blind, and deaf in her folly. He wondered why it was that he pitied her so.
Then he, too, shrugged his shoulders; mentally, that is, for he was incapable of so theatric a gesture in the flesh. He himself was in an odd humor, a sort of resigned indifference. He had, for the moment, lost interest in the whole affair. It was too fantastic, too confusing; he didn’t care very much what happened, just now.
“Let me out here!” she said. “There’s not time for you to take me up to the house. I’ll walk. Now hurry!”
He stopped the car at the corner of Wygatt Road; she got out, and he went on, alone. And he was surprised by the difference which her going made. It was as if a monstrous oppression were lifted from his spirit, and he could once more draw a free breath, and once more see the open sky. One clear star was out. No; it was not a mad world; there was awful and majestic order in the universe, inexorable law.
And she was truly pitiable, hurrying home beneath that one star; a poor, helpless futile young thing, defying the whole world for her own desire. She wanted him to help her! He would not help her in her desperate folly, but he would not leave her now. Not now.
These admirable ideas were entirely put out of his head by a new dilemma. He arrived at the station; he heard the train coming in, and he could find no advantageous place for his car. All the good places were taken. He had to stop where he was certain Mr. Solway would never find him, until, as the train came in, a taxi was seized by an alert woman, and Ross got his car into that vacant place.
Mr. Solway was not in the vanguard of the commuters; he came leisurely and with dignity, talking with another man. Ross stood beside the open door of the car; with a nod Mr. Solway got in, and the other man, too. They paid no attention whatever to Ross; they settled themselves, and went on talking, as if he were a ghost.
“They closed at five and an eighth,” said the other man. “I can’t help thinking that—”
“Now, see here!” Mr. Solway interrupted. “You hold on to them, my boy. I told you it was a good thing.”
“It would be,” said the other. “A very good thing, sir, if I could unload at five and an eighth—or even a bit less—when I bought at three and three-fourths.”
“Now, see here!” said Mr. Solway. “I’ll tell you something—which you needn’t mention anywhere. I’m buying at five and an eighth—up to six and a half. Buying, mind you, my boy!”
This was almost more than Ross could bear. This was just the sort of talk he had thirsted for; this was what he had come to New York for; to buy stocks at three and three-fourths and sell at six and one-half, or more. There he sat, with his peaked cap pulled down over his lean, impassive face, listening with a sort of rage. If he could only ask Mr. Solway questions, only tell him that he had a few thousands of his own all ready and waiting for a little venture like this.
“And you’ll need all you can get, my boy,” Mr. Solway went on, “if you’re going to marry Amy.”
Then this was Gayle? Ross turned his head for one hasty glance—and then, encountering the astonished frown of Mr. Solway, realized what an improper thing he had done. Chauffeurs must not look.
He had had this look, though, and had gained a pretty accurate impression of the stranger. A tall young fellow, fair haired and gray eyed; he was stalwart and broad shouldered, and altogether manly, but there was in his face something singularly gentle and engaging.
“And that’s the fellow!” thought Ross. “That’s the fellow who’s going to be fooled and lied to.”
He liked him. And he liked the vigorous and blustering Mr. Solway, and he liked this rational, masculine conversation. It reassured him. He reflected that, after all, he was not alone in this miserable affair, not hopelessly cornered with the preposterous girl. No; Solway was her stepfather, and the other man was her “Gayle.” They were in it, too. They were his natural allies.
“She’s got to tell them, that’s all,” he said to himself. “They’ll both stand by her. I’ll make her tell them. I can’t handle this infernal mystery alone. I’m too much in the dark.”
He drove in at the gates, up the driveway, and stopped the car before the house with a smartness that pleased him. Mr. Solway bounced out.
“Here, now!” he said. “You—Moss—Moss, that’s it. Moss, just lend a hand with this bag. That’s right; up the stairs—first door on the left. That’s it! That’s it! There you are, Gayle, my boy!”
He turned to Ross.
“Moss,” he said. “Everything going along all right? That’s it! That’s it! You let me know if there’s anything wrong.”
Ross was hard put to it to suppress a smile. He imagined how it would be if he should say:
“Well, sir, there was one little thing—a dead man under the housekeeper’s sofa. But, perhaps I shouldn’t mention it.”
He looked for a moment into the bluff, scowling, kindly face of the man Eddy had called “a prince.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and turned away, down the hall toward the back stairs. And, as he came round the corner into the corridor, where the housekeeper’s room was, his quick ear caught some words of such remarkable personal interest to him that he stood still.
“Another James Ross!” Mrs. Jones was saying. “That’s a likely story, I must say! Amy, that man’s a fraud and a spy!”
“No, Nanna darling, he’s not!” answered Amy, with sweet obstinacy.
“I tell you he is, child. He’s got to go.”
“No, dear,” said Amy. “He’s going to help me.”
“Amy!” cried Mrs. Jones. “Can’t you trust me? I tell you it’s all right. He won’t come tonight. I promise you he won’t!”
“Oh, you mean well!” Amy remarked. “But you’ve made plenty of mistakes before this.”
“Amy, I promise you—”
“No,” said Amy. “You told me before that I needn’t worry, that you’d ‘settled everything.’ And what happened? No; I’m afraid you’re getting old, Nanna—old and stupid. I’m going to manage for myself now. And Jimmy’s going to help me.”
“Child!” Mrs. Jones protested. “That man will ferret out—”
“I don’t care if he does,” said Amy. “He won’t tell, anyhow. Now don’t bother me any more, Nanna. I’ve simply got to go.”
Ross stepped quickly backward along the hall for a few yards; then he went forward again, with a somewhat heavier tread. And just round the corner of the corridor, he came face to face with Amy.
Her beauty almost took his breath away. She wore a dress of white and silver, and round her slender throat a short string of pearls. And against all this gleaming white the pallor of her skin was rich and warm, with a tint almost golden; and her misty hair was like a cloud about her face, and her black eyes so soft, so limpid.
“Jimmy!” she whispered. “Do I look nice?”
“Er—yes; very nice,” Ross answered stiffly.
She came close to him, put her hand on his shoulder.
“Please, Jimmy!” she said, earnestly. “I do so awfully want to be happy—just for a little while!”
Ross had a moment of weakness. She was so young, so lovely; it seemed important, even necessary, that she should be happy. But he valiantly resisted the spell.
“Who doesn’t?” he inquired.
“Jimmy, dear!” she said. “I’m coming to the garage after dinner—to ask you something—to beg you to do something. Will you do it, my dear little Jimmy?”
“I’ll have to hear what it is first,” said Ross.
But she seemed satisfied.