.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 48984
   :PG.Title: The Heart Line
   :PG.Released: 2015-05-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Gelett Burgess
   :MARCREL.ill: Lester Ralph
   :DC.Title: The Heart Line
              A Drama of San Francisco
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1907
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE HEART LINE
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      Cover art

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   .. _`He took her hand, testing its quality and texture Page 52`:

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      He took her hand, testing its quality and texture Page `52`_

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      THE HEART LINE

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      *A DRAMA OF SAN FRANCISCO*

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      *By*

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      GELETT BURGESS

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      Author of
      The White Cat, Vivette
      A Little Sister of Destiny, etc.

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      WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

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      LESTER RALPH

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      NEW YORK
      GROSSET & DUNLAP
      PUBLISHERS

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      COPYRIGHT 1907
      THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

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      OCTOBER

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      TO MAYSIE
      WHO KNEW THE PEOPLE
      AND
      LOVED THE PLACE

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      IN MEMORY OF
      THE CITY THAT WAS

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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`Prologue`_

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I  `The Palmist and Fancy Gray`_
II  `Tuition and Intuition`_
III  `The Spider's Nest`_
IV  `The Paysons`_
V  `The Rise and Fall of Gay \P. Summer`_
VI  `Side Lights`_
VII  `The Weaving of the Web`_
VIII  `Illumination`_
IX  `Coming On`_
X  `A Look Into the Mirror`_
XI  `The First Turning to the Left`_
XII  `The First Turning to the Right`_
XIII  `The Bloodsucker`_
XIV  `The Fore-Honeymoon`_
XV  `The Re-Entrant Angle`_
XVI  `Tit for Tat`_
XVII  `The Materializing Seance`_
XVIII  `A Return to Instinct`_
XIX  `Fancy Gray Accepts`_
XX  `Masterson's Manoeuvers`_
XXI  `The Sunrise`_

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`Epilogue`_

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.. _`PROLOGUE`:

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   THE HEART LINE

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   PROLOGUE

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In the year 1877 the Siskiyou House, originally a
third-class hotel patronized chiefly by mining men,
had fallen into such disrepute that it was scarcely
more than a cheap tenement.  Its office was now
frankly a bar-room; beside it, a narrow hallway
plunged into the shabby, shadowy interior; here a
steep stairway rose.  Above were disconsolate rooms
known to the police of San Francisco as the
occasional resort of counterfeiters, confidence workers
and lesser knaves; to the neighborhood the Siskiyou
Hotel had a local reputation as being the home of
Madam Grant, who occupied two rooms on the second
floor.

Her rooms were slovenly and squalid—almost
barbarous in the extremity of their neglect.  Upon the
floor was a matted carpet of dirt and rubbish inches
deep, piled higher at the corners, uneven with lumps
of refuse, bizarre with scraps of paper, cloth and
tangled strings.

In the rear room an unclean length of burlap was
stretched across a string, half concealing a disordered,
ramshackle cot, whose coverings were ragged, soiled
and moth-eaten.  A broken chair or two leaned crazily
against the wall.  The dusty windows looked
point-blank upon the damp wall of an abutting wooden
house.  There had once been paper upon the walls;
it was now torn, scratched and rubbed by grimy
shoulders into a harlequin pattern of dun and greasy
tones.

The front room, through the open rolling doors,
was, if possible, in a still worse state of decay, and
here wooden and paper boxes, tin cans, sacks of
rags (doing service for cushions), a three-legged
table and a smoked, rusty oil-stove, with its complement
of unclean pots and dishes, showed the place,
abominable as was its aspect, to be a human abode.
A print or two, torn from some newspaper or
magazine, was pinned to the wall in protest against the
sordidness of the interior.  The place gave forth a
fetid and moldy smell.  The air was damp, though
the sun struggled in through cracked panes, half
lighting the apartment.

There was, however, one piece of furniture, glossily,
splendidly new, incongruously set amidst the
disorder—an oak bookcase, its shelves well filled with
volumes.  Seated upon a cracker box in front of its
open doors, this afternoon, a boy of eight years sat
reading with rapt excitement the story of *Gulliver's
Travels*.

He, too, seemed strangely set in that environment,
for he was clean and sweet in person and dress.  His
hair was black and waving, his eyes deep blue, clear
and shrewd.  His cheeks were pink and gently
dimpled, his mouth ample, firm and well-cut, over a
square, deeply cleft chin.  He was patently a
handsome child, virile, graceful, determined in his pose.
His natural charm was made more picturesque by a
blue flannel suit, with white collar, cuffs and stockings.
Oblivious to his extraordinary surroundings, he read
on until he had finished the book.

He rose then, yawned and walked to the window in
the front room to look out upon the street.  Opposite
was a row of low buildings—a stable, a Chinese
laundry, two dreary rooming-houses and a saloon.  The
roof-line of the block, where the false wooden fronts,
met the sky, held his gaze for a few moments.  A
horse-car lumbered lazily past, and his eyes fell to
the cobble-paved thoroughfare and its passers-by.  To
the left, Market Street roared bustling a block away
and the throngs swept up and down.  To the right, a
little passage starting from two saloons, one on each
corner of the street, penetrated the slums.  The warm,
mellow California sunlight bathed the whole scene,
picking out, here and there, high lights on
window-glass that shot forth blinding sparks and flashes.

The boy yawned again, his hands in his pockets,
then turned to the sooty oil stove and peered rather
disgustedly amongst the frying-pans, tins and
pasteboard boxes.  There was nothing in the way of food
to be found.  He sniffed fastidiously at the corrupt
odor of cooking, then knelt upon the floor and began
a search, crawling gingerly on hands and knees.  The
ends of three matches projected slightly above the
surface of the matted layers of rubbish.  Here he
scraped the dirt away with a case-knife and came
upon a little paper-wrapped parcel which, opened,
disclosed three bright twenty-five-cent pieces.  He
wrapped them up again, tucked them into the hole in
the dirt and went on with his quest.

His next find, a foot or so from the base-board of
the double doors, was a *cache* containing a
pearl-handled pen-knife.  He put it back.  Here and there
in the subsoil he came upon other treasure trove, each
article carefully wrapped in paper or bits of rag—a
jet ear-ring, a folded calendar, a silver chain, two
watches, a dozen screw-eyes, several five-dollar gold
pieces, a roll of corset laces.  He returned them one
by one as he found them, and smoothed the dirt over
the place.

He had nearly exhausted the field in the front room,
when he came upon a small paper bag containing a
few macaroons.  These he sat down to eat, first
brushing off feathery bits of green mold.  He
discovered another bag containing peanuts.  He chewed
them slowly, throwing the shells upon the floor, his
eyes wandering, his air abstracted.

Leading off the front room was a smaller one whose
door was shut.  He opened it now, and went in
somewhat fearfully.  Here was another cot drawn up in
front of the window, and, upon nails driven in the
wall, women's hats and dresses.  Upon the inside of
the door was pinned a stained, yellowing newspaper
cut—the portrait of a man perhaps thirty years old,
with mustache and side-whiskers and a wide flowing
collar.  Beneath it was printed the name, "Oliver
Payson."  The boy gazed at it curiously for some
moments.

From this, he turned to a corner where stood an
old trunk covered with cowhide whose hair was
rubbed off in mangy spots.  Corroded brass-headed
nails held a rotting, pinked flap of red leather about
the edge of the cover.  On the top of the trunk, also
in brass-headed nails, were the letters "F.G."

He stooped over and tried the lid.  The trunk was
locked.  He lifted it, testing its weight, and found it
too heavy to be budged.  He rubbed the hair with his
hand, played with the handles and fingered the lock
longingly; then, after a last look, he left the room and
closed the door.

He had gone back to the bookcase and taken down
a volume of Montaigne's *Essays*, when he heard a
knock on the door of the back room leading into the
hallway.  He unlocked the door, opened it a few
inches and stood guarding the entrance.

A woman of middle age in a black bonnet, shawl
and gown attempted to pass him.  He stood stiffly in
her way, regarding her harsh, sour visage, thin, cruel
lips and pale, humid, bluish eyes.  At his resolute
defense her attitude weakened.

"Ain't Madam Grant to home?" she said.

"No, she is not.  What do you want?"

"Oh, I just wanted to see her; you let me come in
and wait a while—she'll be back soon, I s'pose?"

"She doesn't allow me to let anybody in when she's
away," the boy protested.

"Oh, that's all right, Frankie; I'm a particular friend
of hers.  I'll just come in and make myself to home
till she comes in.  I'm all winded comin' up them steep
stairs, and I've got to set down."

"I'm sorry," the boy said more politely, "but I
mustn't let you in.  I did let a lady in once, and Mamsy
scolded me for it.  The next day we missed a watch,
too."

"My sakes!  Does she keep her watches in the dirt
on the floor, too?" the woman said, her eyes sparkling
with curiosity.  "You needn't worry about me, my
dear; everybody knows me, and trusts me, too.  Besides,
my business is important and I've just *got* to see the
Madam, sure."

"You may wait on the stairs, if you like, but you
can't come in here.  She says that the neighbors are
altogether too curious."  The remark was made deliberately,
as if to aid his defense by its rudeness.  But
the woman's skin was tough.

"You're a pert one, you be!" she sniffed.  "I'd like
to know what you do here all day, anyway.  You
ought to be to school!  We'll have to look after you,
young man; they's societies that makes a business of
seeing to children that's neglected like you, and takes
'em away where they can be taught an education and
live decent."

The boy's face changed to dismay.  The tears came
into his eyes.  "I don't *want* to go away, I want to
live here, and I'm going to, too!  Besides, I can read
and write already, and I learn more things than you
can learn at school.  I'd just like to see them take
me away!"

"What do you learn, now?" said the woman insinuatingly.
"Do you learn how to tell fortunes?  Can you
tell mine, now?  I'll give you a nickel if you will!"

"I don't want a nickel.  I've got all the money I want!"

"Oh, you have, have you?  How much have you
got?  Say, I hear the Madam's pretty well fixed.
How much do you s'pose she's worth, now?"

"You can't work me that way."

She put forth a shaky hand to stroke his dark hair,
and he warded her off.  "Nor that way either!" he
said, beginning to grow angry.

"Say, sonny, do you ever see the spirits here?" she
began again.

"No, but I can smell 'em now," he replied.

She burst out into a cackle of laughter.  "Say, that's
pretty good!  You're a likely little feller, you be.  I
didn't mean no harm, noways."

"You mean that you didn't mean any harm, don't
you?" he asked soberly.

"No, I don't mean no harm, sure I don't!  What
d'you mean?"

"She says one shouldn't use double negatives."

"What's them, then?"

"I mean you don't use good English," said the boy.

"I don't talk English?  What do I talk
then—Dutch?  What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, I'm just studying grammar, that's all.  Now
you see I don't need to go to school, the way you said.
Mamsy teaches me every night."

"Oh, she does, does she?  Well, well!  I hear she
has a fine education; some say she's went to college,
even."

"Yes, she has.  She went to a woman's college in
the East, once."

"Then what's she living in this pigsty for, I'd like
to know!  It beats all, this room does.  Let me come
in for a moment and just look round a bit, will you?
I won't touch nothing at all, sure."

The boy protested, and it might have come to a
physical struggle had not footsteps been heard coming
up the narrow stairway.  The visitor peered over the
railing of the balusters.

"That's her!" she whispered hoarsely.

A head, rising, looked between the balusters, like
a wild animal gazing through the bars of its cage.
It was the head of a woman of twenty-seven or eight,
and though her face had a strange, wild expression,
with staring eyes, she was, or had undoubtedly been,
a lady.  Her hair, prematurely gray, was parted in
the center and brought down in waves over her ears.
Her eyebrows, in vivid contrast, were black; and
between them a single vertical line cleft her forehead.
What might have been a rare beauty was now distorted
into something fantastic and mysterious, though
when at rare intervals she smiled, a veil seemed to
be drawn aside and she became an engaging, familiar,
warm-hearted woman.  She was dressed in a brilliant
red gown and dolman of mosaic cloth with a Tyrolean
hat of the period.  Such striking color was, thirty
years ago, uncommon upon the streets, but, even had
it been more usual, the severity of her costume with
neither a bustle nor the elaborate ruffles and trimmings
then in vogue, would have made her conspicuous.

She came up, with a white face, gasping for breath
after her climb, one hand to her heart.  For a moment
she seemed unable to speak.  Then suddenly and
sharply she said:

"Francis, shut the door!"

The boy obeyed, coming out into the hall, with a
hand still holding the knob.

"The lady wanted me to let her in, but I wouldn't
do it, Mamsy," he said.

Madam Grant turned her eyes upon the apologetic,
cringing figure, whose thin, skinny fingers plucked at
her shawl.

"I just called neighborly like, thinkin' maybe you'd
give me a settin', Madam Grant," she said.

Madam Grant had come nearer, now, and stood
gazing at her visitor.  The expression of scorn had
faded from her face, her eyes glazed.  She spoke
slowly in a deliberate monotone.

"Your name is Margaret Riley."

The woman nodded.  Her lips had fallen open, and
her eyes were fixed in awe.

"Who are the three men I see beside you?" demanded
Madam Grant.

"They was only two!  I swear to God they was only two!"

"There is a little child, too."

"For the love of Heaven!" Mrs. Riley moaned.
"Send 'em away, send 'em away, tell 'em to leave
me be!"

Madam Grant's eyes brightened a little, and her
color returned.

"Come in the room and I will see what I can do
for you."

The three entered, Mrs. Riley, half terrified but
curious, darting her eyes about the apartment,
sniffing at the foul odor, her furtive glances returning
ever to the mad woman.  Francis went to the
bookcase and resumed his reading without manifesting
further interest in the visitor.  Madam Grant seated
herself upon a wooden box covered with sacking and
untied the strings of her hat.

"What do you want to know?" she asked sharply.

"I got three tickets in the lottery, and I want to
know which one to keep," Mrs. Riley ventured,
somewhat shamefaced.

Madam Grant gave a fierce gesture, and the line
between her brows grew deeper.  "I'll answer such
questions for nobody!  That's the devil's work, not
mine.  How did your three husbands die, Margaret
Riley?"

The woman held up her hands in protest.  "Two,
only two!" she cried; "and they died in their beds
regular enough.  God knows I wore my fingers out
for 'em, too!"

"They died suddenly," Madam Grant replied impassively.
"Who's the other one with the smooth face—the
one who limps?"

Mrs. Riley coughed into her hands nervously.  "It
might be my brother."

"It is not your brother.  You know who it is,
Mrs. Riley; and he tells me that you must give back the
papers."

"Oh, I'll give 'em back; I was always meanin' to
give 'em back, God knows I was!  I'll do it this week."

"In a week it will be too late."

"I'll do it to-morrow."

"You'll do it to-day, Mrs. Riley."

"I will, oh, I will!"

"Now, if you want a sitting, I'll give you one,"
Madam Grant continued.  "That is, if I can get
Weenie.  I can't promise anything.  She comes and
she goes like the sun in spring."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Riley, rising abruptly.  "I
think I'll be going, after all."  She started toward
the door.

The clairvoyant's face had set again in a vacant,
far-away expression and her voice fell to the same
dead tone she had used before.  She clutched her
throat suddenly.

"He's in the water—he's drowning—he's passing
out now—he's gone!  You are responsible, you! you!
You drove him to it with your false tongue and your
crafty hands.  But you'll regret it.  You'll pay for it
in misery and pain, Margaret Riley.  Your old age
will be miserable.  You'll escape shame to suffer
torment!"

Mrs. Riley's face, haggard and terrified, was working
convulsively.  Without taking her eyes from the
medium, she ran into the front room and shook the
boy's shoulder.

"Wake her up, Frankie, I don't want no more of
this!  Wake her up, dear, and let me go!"

Francis arose lazily and walked over to Madam
Grant.  He put his arm tenderly about her and
whispered in her ear.

"Come back, Mamsy dear!  Come back, Mamsy, I
want you!"  He began stroking her hands firmly.

Mrs. Riley, still gazing, fascinated, at the group,
backed out of the room and closed the door.  Her
steps were heard stumbling down the stairs.  Madam
Grant's eyes quivered and opened slowly.  She
shuddered, then shook the blood back into her thin, white
hands.  Finally she looked up at Francis and smiled.
"All right, dear!"

Her smile, however, lasted but for the few moments
during which he caressed her; then the veil fell upon
her countenance, and her eyes grew strange and hard.
She gazed wildly here and there about the room.

"What's that in Boston?" she asked suddenly, the
pitch of her voice sharply raised, as she pointed to
the shells upon the rubbish of the floor.

"Only some peanuts I was eating, Mamsy," said the
boy, guiltily watching her.

"Somebody has been in Toledo, somebody has been
in New York!  I can see the smoke of the trains!"  Her
eyes traveled around an invisible path, from
mound to mound of dirt and scraps, noticing the
slight displacements the boy had made in his quest for
food.  He watched her sharply, but without fear.

"Oh, the train didn't stop, Mamsy; they were
express trains, you know."

"Don't tell me, don't tell me!"

She pointed with her slender forefinger here and
there.  "New Orleans is safe; New Orleans is always
a safe, strait-laced old town; but the place isn't what
it was!  They've left the French quarter now to the
Creoles, but I know a place on Royal Street where
the gallery whispers—O God! that gallery with the
magnolia trees—and the leper girl across the street
in the end room!"  Her voice had sunk to a harsh
whisper; now it rose again.  "Chicago—all right.  I
wouldn't care if it weren't.  Baltimore—*he* never was
in Baltimore.  But what's the matter with Denver?
Somebody's been to Denver!"  She turned her gaze
point-blank upon Francis.

He met it fairly.

"Oh, no, Mamsy, nobody ever goes to Denver,
Mamsy dear!"

She knelt down and groped tentatively, sensitively,
across the layer of dust that sloped toward the corner,
by the bay-window.  She turned, still on all-fours, to
shake her finger at him, and say solemnly: "Don't
ever go to Denver, Francis!  Denver's a bad place,
a very wicked place.  They gamble in Denver, they
gamble yellow money away."  She arose, apparently
either satisfied or diverted in her quest, to turn her
back to the boy and look inside the bag she had been
holding.

"Go outside, Francis!" she commanded, after
fumbling with its contents.

He walked to the door and passed into the hall.
Here he waited, listening listlessly, drumming softly
upon the railing.  The room was silent for a while;
then he heard a muffled pounding, as of one stamping
down the surface of the matted dirt.  At last she
called him and he went in again.  Madam Grant's
face was placid and kind.

She proceeded to occupy herself busily at the little
oil stove, putting into the greasy frying-pan some chops
which she had brought home with her.  The spluttering
and the pungent odor of the frying fat soon filled
the two rooms.  She cut a few slices from a loaf of
stale bread, and set the meager repast forth upon the
top of a wooden box.

"Come and have dinner, Francis!" she said, with a
sweet look at him.

That the boy was far older than his years was
evident by the way he watched her and took his cue
from her, humoring her in her madder moments,
restraining her in her moods of mystic exaltation,
pathetically affectionate during her lucid intervals.
She was in this last phase now, and from time to
time, in the course of their meal, his hand stole to
hers.  Its pressure was softly returned.

"What have you read to-day?"

"I finished *Gulliver*."

"What did you think of it?"

"Why, somehow, it seemed just like it might be true."

"*As if* it might be true, Francis—what did I tell
you?"  Her tone grew severe, almost pedagogic.
"You must be careful of your talk, my boy!  Never
forget; it is important.  You'll never get on if you're
careless and common.  You will often be judged by
your speech.  What else did you read?"

"I tried Montaigne's *Essays*, but I couldn't understand
much.  It seemed so dull to me.  But there's one,
*Whether the Governor of a Place Besieged Ought
Himself to go out to Parley*.  I like that!"

Madam Grant laughed.  "I'd like to have known
Montaigne; he was a kind of old maid, but he was a
modern, after all; common sense will do if you can't
get humor."

"Where did you get all these books, Mamsy?"

Her face grew blank again; her eyes wandered.
She recited in a sort of croon:

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..

   |  "Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never
   |      repented his sin.
   |  How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of
   |      his kin?"

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A frightened look came on the boy's face and his
hand went to hers again.

"Mamsy, Mamsy!" he cried.  "Come back, Mamsy!
I want you!"

She turned to him as if she had never seen him
before.  "Oh!" she said, and drew aside.  Then: "You
mustn't ask questions, my boy."

"I won't, Mamsy."

"You're a good little boy and you came out of the
dark," she pursued.

"Out of the dark?" he repeated, tempting her on.
His curiosity was manifest.

"Don't you remember?"

"I'm not sure.  They was a place—"

"There was a place," she corrected.

"There was a place where they beat me, and I ran
away, and I found you, and you were good to me."

"No, it is you who have been good—I'm not good;
I'm bad, Francis."

"I know you're good, Mamsy, because you teach
me to do everything right, and I love you!"

With a quick impulse she clasped him to her, but
even as she did so, her face changed again, this time
with an expression of pain.  She put her hand to her
heart suddenly and moaned.  He watched her in terror.

"Get the bottle!" she commanded huskily, dropping
to the floor, to support herself on her elbow.

He ran to a little bath-room beside the closet,
brought a bottle and spoon, poured out a dose of the
medicine and put it to her lips.  Finally she sat up,
listening.

"Somebody's coming.  *She* is coming!  Come here,
Francis!  Quickly!"

Taking him by the hand, she led him to the closet
in the back room, pushed him inside, closed the door
and locked it.

It was dark in the closet, but he knew its contents
as well as if he could see them.  Upon a row of
shelves were account-books and papers covered with
dust.  On nails in the wall his own small stock of
clothes hung, and in a wooden box on the floor were
his playthings—blocks, a wooden horse, several
precious bits of twine and leather, a collection of spools
and a toy globe.  He sat down on this box patiently
and waited.

Presently there came a knock at the hall door.
Madam Grant opened it and some one entered.  He
heard his guardian's voice saying:

"Come in, Grace, here I am, such as I am, and here
you are, such as you are."  Then her voice changed,
becoming tremulous and excited.  "Ah, but she's
beautiful!  May I kiss her, Grace?  Oh, what eyes!
Her father's eyes, aren't they?  Don't be afraid,
Grace, let her come to me."

There was a reply in a soft voice which Francis
could not make out, as they passed into the front
room.  He tried to peep through the keyhole, but as
the key had been left in, he could see nothing.  He
sat down upon the box again to wait, playing with
his toy globe.  After a while he noticed a thin streak
of light admitted by a crack in the panel of the door,
and rose to see if he could see through it.  At the
height of his eye it was too narrow to show him
anything in the room, but farther up it widened.  He
pulled down several account-books from the shelves
and piled them upon the box.  Standing tiptoe upon
these, he found that he could get a clear though
limited view of the bay-window.

Here a little girl sat quietly, vividly illuminated in
the sunshine.  She was scarcely more than four years
of age and was dressed in a navy blue silk frock whose
collar and pockets were elaborately trimmed with
ruffles of white satin and bows of ribbon.  She wore
a white muslin cap decorated with ribbon, lace and
rosebuds; white stockings showed above her high
buttoned boots; her hair was a truant mass of
fine-spun threads, curling, tawny yellow.  Her face was
round, her eyes extraordinarily wide apart under level,
straight brows.  What caught and held his attention,
however, as he watched, was a velvety mole upon her
left cheek, so placed as to be a piquant ornament rather
than a disfigurement to her countenance.  She sat
listening, tightly holding a woolly lamb in her plump
little arms.  The two women were out of his range
of vision.

The steady low sound of voices came to him, but
he made no attempt to listen—his attention was
riveted upon the figure of the little girl who was sharply
focused, as in an opera-glass, directly in his field of
view.  Occasionally, as she was spoken to, she smiled,
and her cheek dimpled; but she seemed to be looking
at him, through the door.  She scarcely moved her
eyes, but kept them fixed in his direction, as if
conscious of an invisible presence.

The women talked on.  Occasionally Madam Grant's
voice rose to a more excited note, and a few words
came to him, betraying to his knowledge of her that
her mood had been interrupted by her customary
vagaries.  At such times the little girl would
withdraw her glance to gaze solemnly in Madam Grant's
direction; she showed, however, no signs of alarm.
It seemed, indeed, as if the little girl understood, even
as he understood, the temporary aberration.  Then her
eyes would return to his, as if drawn back by his gaze.

So the scene lasted for a half-hour, during which
time he caught no glimpse of the other visitor.  At
last a hand was outstretched and the little girl rose.
Francis stepped down for a moment to rest himself
from his strained position; when he had put his eye
again to the crack she had passed out of his line of
sight.

He was to catch a few words more, however, before
the callers left.

"I'm glad you came to-day," Madam Grant said.
"You were just in time."

"Why, are you going to leave here?"

"Yes, I'm going away."

"Felicia," the visitor said earnestly, "why won't you
let us take care of you?  This is no place for you—it
is dreadful to think of you here!  Now, while you
are able to talk to me, do let me do something for you!"

"No; it's too late.  Besides, there is Francis," said
Madam Grant.

"Let Francis come, too.  This is a terrible place
for a child.  Look at this room—look at the filth and
disorder!"

Madam Grant's voice rose again.  "Take her away,
take her away!" she cried raucously.  "She'll go to
New York, she'll go to Toledo—I don't want her in
Toledo meddling!  She'll be in New Orleans the first
thing you know; there she goes now!  Take her away,
take her away!"

The door closed.  Francis heard the key turn in
the lock.  Then there was the jarring sound of a fall
and finally all was still.  He waited for some moments,
then he called out:

"Mamsy, let me out! let me out!"

There was no reply.

"Mamsy!" he called out again.  "Where are you?
Come and let me out, *please* let me out!"

There was still no answer to his pleadings.  In
terror now, he pounded the panels, shook the handle
of the door, and then began to cry.  Climbing upon
the box again, he caught sight of Madam Grant's
skirt.  She was lying prone upon the floor.  As he
wept on, she moved and began to crawl slowly toward
him.  At last her hand groped to the door and the
key was turned in the lock.  He burst out into her
arms.

The blood was gone from her tense, anguished face;
one hand clutched at her heart.  She did not speak,
but gasped horribly for breath.  There was no need
now for her to direct him.  He poured out a dose of
medicine and forced it between her lips.  He gave her
another spoonful; the drops trickled from her mouth
and stained the front of her crimson gown.  Then,
with his assistance, she crept to his couch, pulled
herself upon it and lay down, groaning.  He sat on the
floor beside her, stroking her hand.

For some time she was too weak to speak.  Her
black eyebrows were drawn down, the cleft between
them was deep, like the gash of a knife.  Her white
hair fell about her head in disorder.  She drew a
ragged coverlid over her chest, as if suffering from
the cold, though the sun shone in upon her as she lay
and mercilessly illumined her desperate face.  The
spasm of agony abated, and after some minutes she
breathed more freely.  Then, with a sigh, her muscles
relaxed and her voice came clear and calm.

"You must be a good boy, Francis," she began,
"for I am going away.  It's all over now with the
worry and the puzzle and the pain.  What will you
do, I wonder?  Oliver might help, perhaps.  Oliver
isn't so bad, down in his heart.  He was fair enough.
There's money enough.  Francis, when I fall asleep,
look in the trunk and hide the money, if you
can—don't let them get it away from you!  Wait till I'm
asleep, though—the key is in my bag.  What a fool
I was!  I might have known.  There was my grandmother,
she was mad, too.  It may stop with me—oh,
she was a dear little thing, though!"

"Who was the little girl, Mamsy?" Francis inquired,
his curiosity overcoming his fear for her.

"Born with a veil, born with a veil!  I was a
seventh daughter, too—much good it did me!  I could tell
others—who could tell me?  Bosh! it's all rubbish—we'll
never know! fol-de-rol, Francis, it's all gammon—all
but Weenie.  Weenie knows.  Yellow hair, too;
it will grow gray soon enough!"  Then, as if she had
just heard his question she broke our querulously,
"Where did *you* see her?"

"I looked through a crack in the door, Mamsy."

She pulled herself up in a frenzy of anger and shook
her finger at him.  "Oh, you did, did you?  You
snooping, sniping monkey!  I'll tell you what you
were looking at, you were watching the train to New
York!  You'll go to Toledo, will you?  You won't
find anything there.  Go to New Orleans; there's
plenty to find out in New Orleans!  In Denver, too,
and way stations, but be careful, be careful!  I was
born in Toledo."  She sank back exhausted.

"Don't be worried, Mamsy," said Francis, attempting
to calm her.  "I won't never go to Toledo,
Mamsy!"

"'Won't never'!" She glared at him.  "What did
I say about double negatives, boy?  Two negatives
make a positive, two pints make a quart, two fools
make a quarrel, two quarrels make a fool.  What
language!  I was at Vassar, too—I was secretary of
my class!  Oh, I want to see Victoria!  She would
understand, I'm sure!  Oh, Francis!"  Her voice
dwindled away and her eyes closed.

For a moment she seemed to be asleep.  Then a
sudden convulsion frightened him.  She spoke again
without raising her lids.

"Why, there's mother!  Come and kiss me, mother!
Did Weenie send for you, mother?  Oh, Weenie!
Who's the old man?  Father?  I never saw father on
this side, did I, Weenie?  He passed out when I was
very little, didn't he?  So many people!  Why, the
room is full of them!  Yes, I'm coming—"

The boy was tugging frantically at her hand, calling
to her without ceasing, sobbing in his fright.  He
succeeded at last in bringing her out of her trance and
she opened her eyes to stare at him.  Her breath was
coming harder.  With a great effort she reached for
the boy's head and pulled it nearer, gazing into his
frightened eyes.

"Poor Francis!" she gasped.  "You've been so good,
dear—you've been my hope!  Felicia Grant's hope!
You have no name, dear; take that one, instead of
mine—Francis Granthope—oh, this pain!"

"Shan't I get you the medicine?" he asked, sobbing.

"No, it's no use."  She pushed him gently
away.  "I'm going—to sleep—now—  Don't call
me back, Francis; I want rest.  Remember the
trunk—good-by!"

She closed her eyes and rolled over on her side,
turning her face away from him.

He waited half an hour in silence.  Then he put his
hands to her arms softly.

"Mamsy!" he said quietly but insistently.  "Are
you asleep, Mamsy?"  There was no answer.

He arose and looked for her leather bag.  He
found it on the floor where she had fallen.  Opening
it, he found inside a heterogeneous collection—strings,
hair-pins, peppermints, papers, a lock of hair in
an envelope, a photograph, several gold pieces, and
the key—he took it and tiptoed into the little side room
with excited interest.  He had never looked inside the
trunk before and his eagerness made his hands tremble
as he unlocked it.

On top was a tray filled with account-books and
papers, letters, folded newspapers and a mahogany
box.  It was all he could do to lift it to get at what
was beneath.  He struggled with it until he had tilted
it up and slid it down to the floor.

Below was a mass of white satin and lace.  He
lifted this piece by piece, disclosing a heavy wedding
gown, silk-lined, wrapped in tissue paper, and many
accessories of an elaborate trousseau—a half-dozen
pairs of silk stockings, a pair of exquisite white satin
slippers, a box of long white gloves, another of lace
handkerchiefs, dozens of mysterious articles of lingerie,
embroidered and lace-trimmed.  In a lower corner was
a little, white vellum, gold-clasped prayer-book.

Lastly he found a package securely wrapped in
brown paper; opening this, he discovered six crisp,
green packages of bank-notes.  These he rewrapped
and slid them inside his full blue blouse.  Then he put
everything back in order, replaced the tray and locked
the trunk.

Finally he stole back to the form upon the couch.
"Mamsy, are you awake?" he whispered.

There was no answer, and he shook her shoulder
slightly.  Then, as she made no reply, he leaned over
and looked at her face.  Her eyes were open, fearfully
open, but they did not turn to his.  They were set and
glazed with film.

A horror came over him now, and he shook her
with all his strength.

"Mamsy, Mamsy!" he cried.  "Look at me, Mamsy!
What's the matter?"

Still she did not look at him, or speak, or move.  He
noticed that she was not breathing, and his fear
overcame him.  He dropped her cold hand and ran
screaming out into the hall.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PALMIST AND FANCY GRAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER I


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PALMIST AND FANCY GRAY

.. vspace:: 2

Fancy Gray was the lady's name and the lady's hair
was red.  Both were characteristic of her daringly
original character, for, as Fancy's name had once been
Fanny, Fanny's hair had once been brown.  Further
indication of Miss Gray's disposition was to be found
in her eyebrows, which were whimsically arched, and
her mouth, which was scarlet-lipped and tightly held.
Another detail of significance was her green silk
stockings, rather artfully displayed to lend a harmony to
her dark green cloth tailor-made suit, which fitted like
a kid glove over Miss Gray's cunningly rounded little
body.  Her eyes were brown and bright; they were as
quick as heliograph flashes, but could, when she
willed, burn as softly as glowing coals of fire.  Her
face seemed freshly washed, her complexion was
translucently clear, modified only by the violet shadows
under her eyes and an imperceptible tint of fine down
on her upper lip.  Her hands, well beringed and well
kept, were fully worth the admiration which, by her
willingness to display them to advantage, she seemed
to expect on their account.

In New York, a good guesser would have put her
age at twenty-three; but, taking into account the
precocious effect of the California climate, nineteen
might be nearer the mark.  She was, at all events, a
finished product; there was no evidence of diffidence
or *gaucherie* about Fancy Gray.  She appeared to be
very well satisfied with herself.  If, as she evidently
did, she considered herself beautiful, her claim would
undoubtedly be acknowledged by most men who met
her for the first time.  On those more fastidious, she
had but to smile and her mouth grew still more generous,
showing a double line of white teeth, those in the
lower jaw being set slightly zigzag, as if they were
so pretty that it had been wished to put in as many as
possible—her cheeks dimpled, her eyes half closed—and
she triumphed over her critic.  For there was
something more dangerous than beauty in that smile;
there was an elfin humor that captured and
bewildered—there was warmth and welcome in it.  It made
one feel happy.

As she sat at her desk in the waiting-room she could
look across the corner of Geary and Powell Streets to
catch the errant eye of passing cable-car conductors,
or gaze, in abstraction, at pedestrians crossing Union
Square, or at the oriental towers of the Synagogue
beyond.  With the bait of a promising smile, she
caught many an upward glance.  Fancy Gray was not
in the habit of hiding her charms, and she levied
tribute to her beauty on all mankind.  She gazed upon
women, however, far less indulgently than upon men;
never was there a more captious observer of her sex.
A glance up and a glance down she gave; and the
specimen was classified, appraised, appreciated,
condemned, condoned or complimented.  Not a pin missed
her scrutiny, not a variation of the mode escaped her
quest for revealing evidence.  A woman could hardly
pass from contact with Fancy's swift glance without
being robbed, mentally, of everything worth while that
she possessed in the matter of novelty in fashion or
deportment.  Fancy appropriated the ideas thus gained,
and made use of them at the earliest opportunity.
The waiting-room bore, upon the outside, the legend:

::

      +------------------------------+
      |                              |
      |  FRANCIS GRANTHOPE, PALMIST  |
      |                              |
      +------------------------------+

Inside, where Fancy sat daily from ten to four, the
apartment was walled and carpeted in red.  Upon
the walls, painted wooden Chinese grotesque masks,
grinning or scowling against the fire-cracker paper,
hung, at intervals, from black stained woodwork.
Between the two windows was a plaster column
bearing the winged head of Hypnos; at the other end of
the room was a row of casts of hands hanging on
hooks against a black panel.  The desk in the corner
was Fancy's station, and here she murmured into the
telephone, scribbled appointments in a blank-book, read
*The Second Wife*, gazed out into the green square,
or manicured her nails—according as the waiting-room
chairs were empty, or occupied with men or with
women.  Whatever company she had, she was never
careless of the light upon her or the condition of
her tinted hair.

.. vspace:: 2

It was a cool, blustering afternoon in August.
San Francisco was at its worst phase.  The wind
was high and harsh, harassing the city with its
burden of dust.  Over the mountains, on the
Marin shore, a high fog hung, its advance guard
scudding in through the Golden Gate, piling over
the hills by the Twin Peaks and preparing its
line of battle for a general assault upon the
peninsula at nightfall.  In the streets men and women
clung to their hats savagely as they passed gusty
corners, and coat collars were turned up against the
raw air.  Summer had, so far, spent its effort in four
violently hot days, when the humid atmosphere made
the temperature unbearable.  Now the weather had
flung back to an extreme as unpleasant; open fires
were in order.  There was one now burning in
Granthope's reception-room, to which Fancy Gray
made frequent excursions.  She was there, making a
picture of herself beside the hearth, having resolutely
held her pose for some time in anticipation of his
coming, when Francis Granthope arrived.

Tall, erect and able-bodied, with the physique of an
athlete, and a strong, leonine head covered with crisp,
waving, black hair, Francis Granthope had the complement
of the actor's type of looks; but his alertness of
carriage and his swift, searching glance distinguished
him from the professional male beauty.  Fine eyes of
deep, rich blue, fine teeth often exposed in compelling
smiles, a resolute mouth and a firm, deeply cleft chin
he had; and all these attractions were set off by his
precise dress—gloves, bell-tailed overcoat, sharply
creased trousers, varnished boots and silk hat.  A
short mustache, curling upward slightly at the ends,
and a small, triangular tuft of hair on his lower lip
gave him a somewhat foreign aspect.  He had an air, a
manner, that kept up the illusion.  Men would perhaps
have distrusted him as too obviously handsome; women
would talk about him as soon as he had left the room.
Stage managers would have complimented his "presence";
children would have watched him, fascinated,
reserving their judgment.  He seemed to fill the room
with electricity.

He sent a smile to Fancy, half of welcome, half of
amusement at her picturesque posture, and, with
cordial "Good morning!" in a mellow barytone, removed
his overcoat and hat, putting them into a closet near
the hall door.  He reappeared in morning coat, white
waistcoat and pin-checked trousers, with a red
carnation in his buttonhole.  He held his hands for a
moment before the fire, then looked indulgently at his
blithe assistant.

Now, one of Fancy's charms was a slender, pointed
tongue.  This she was wont to exhibit, on occasion,
by sticking it out of her mouth coquettishly, and
shaking it saucily in the direction of her nostrils—a
joyous exploit which was vouchsafed only upon rare
and intimate occasions.  This, now, she did, tilting her
head backward to give piquancy to the performance.

Granthope laughed, and went over to where she sat.

"You're a saucy bird, Fancy," he commented,
leaning over her, both hands upon the desk.  "Do you
know I rather like you!"

Her face grew drolly sober; her whimsical eyebrows
lifted.

"I don't know as I blame you," she replied.  "You
always did have good taste, though."

"I believe that I might go so far as to imprint a
salute upon your chaste brow!"

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

He stooped over and kissed her.  She was graciously
resigned.

"Thank you, Frank," she said demurely.  "Small
contributions gratefully received."  She tucked her
head into the corner of his arm, and he looked down
upon her kindly.

"Poor little Fancy!" he said softly.

"Have you missed me, Frank?"

"Horribly!"

"Don't laugh at me!"

"How can I help it, O toy queen?"

"Am I so awfully young?"

"You're pretty juvenile, Fancy, but you'll grow up,
I think."

She was quite sober now.  "Oh, there's an awful
lot of time wasted in growing up," she said.  Then
she squirmed her head so that she could look upward
at him.  "You've been awfully good to me, Frank!"  Her
tone was wistful.

"You deserve more than you will ever get, I'm
afraid," was his answer as he patted her hair.

"I think you do like me a little."

He shook his finger at her.  "No fair falling in love!"

She laughed.  "I believe you're afraid, Frank!"

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Fancy.
We've been through a good deal together, first and
last, haven't we?"

"Yes, we've had a good time.  I'd like to do it all
over again."

"Heavens, no!" he exclaimed.  "I wouldn't!  There's
enough ahead.  From what I've seen of life, things
don't really begin to happen till you're thirty, at least.
All this will seem like a dream."

"Sometimes I hope it will."  Fancy was looking
away, now.  Her gaze returned to him after a moment
of silence.  "Don't you ever think of getting out of
this, Frank?  You're too good for these fakirs, really
you are!  Why, you could mix with millionaires, easy!
And you've got a good start, now.  They like you.
You've got the style and the education and the 'know'
for it."

He went back to the fireplace, standing there with
his hands behind his back.

"Oh, this is amusing enough.  What does it matter,
anyway?  There are as big fools and shams in society
as there are in my business.  Look at the women that
come down here, and the things they tell me!  Why,
I know them a good deal better now than I should if
I were on their calling-lists and took tea with them!
But you are right, in a way.  I suppose some day I
must quit this and take to honest theft."

"Don't say that, Frank!  I hate you when you're
cynical."

"What else can I be, in my profession?"

"Oh, I do want you to quit, Frank, really I do, and
yet, I hate to think of it.  What should I do?  I'd lose
you sure!  I could never make good with the swells.
I'm only a drifter."

"Oh, you can't lose me, Fan; we've pulled together
too long.  You could make good all right.  You've got
a pose and a poise that some ladies would give their
teeth for.  I don't believe you've ever really been
surprised in your life, have you?"

"I guess not."  Fancy shook her head thoughtfully.
"When I *am* surprised, it'll be a woman who'll do it.
No man can, that's sure."

"No.  I fancy you know all there is to know about
men.  I wish I did.  You'll do, Fancy Gray!"  He
approached her and playfully chucked her under the
chin.  Then he looked at her gravely.  "I wonder why
you're willing to drudge along here with me, anyway.
You could get a much better position easily—with
your face—and brains."

"*And* figure.  Don't forget that!"  Fancy shook
her finger at him.

"Yes."  He looked her over approvingly.

"No woman ought to be blue with a figure like mine,
ought she?"

He laughed.  "I can't imagine your ever being blue,
Fancy!"

Fancy opened her eyes very wide.

"There's a whole lot you don't know about women
yet," she said sagely.

"That's likely."

"Am I to understand that I'm fired, then?"  She
tried to appear demure.

"Not yet.  I'm only too afraid you'll resign.  It's
queer you don't get married.  You must have had lots
of chances.  Why don't you, Fancy?"

"I never explain," said Fancy.  "It only wastes
time."

He went over to her again and very affectionately
boxed her ears.

She freed herself, and turned her face up to him.
"Frank," she said, "do you think I'm pretty?"

"You're too pretty—that's the trouble!" he answered,
smiling, as at a familiar trait.

"No, but really—do you honestly think so?"  Her
face had again grown plaintive.

"Yes, Fancy.  Far be it from me to flatter or cajole
with the compliments of a five-dollar reading, but as
between friends, and with my hand on my heart, I
assert that you are beautiful."

"I don't mean that at all," said Fancy.  "I want to be
*pretty*.  That's what men like—pretty girls.  Beautiful
women never get anywhere except into the divorce
courts.  Do say I'm pretty!"

"Fancy, you know I'm a connoisseur of women.
You are actually and absolutely pretty."

"Well, that's a great relief, if I can only believe you.
I have to hear it once a day, at least, to keep up my
courage.  Now that's settled, let's go to work."

He went back to the fireplace and yawned.  "All
right.  What's doing to-day?"

"Full up, except from eleven to twelve."

"Who are they?"

Fancy jauntily flipped open the appointment book
and ran her forefinger down the page.

"Ten o'clock, stranger, Fleurette Heller.  Telephone
appointment.  Girl with a nice voice."

"Be sure and look at her," Granthope remarked; "I
may want a tip."

"Ten-thirty, Mrs. Page."

Granthope smiled and Fancy smiled.

"Do you remember what I told her?"

Fancy looked puzzled.  "What do you mean?  About
her husband?"

"No, not that.  The last time she came I tried a
psychological experiment with her.  I told her that
normally she was a quiet, restrained, modest, discreet
woman, but that at times her emotional nature would
get the better of her; that she couldn't help breaking
out and would suddenly let go.  I thought she was
about due this week.  There's been something doing
and she wants to tell me about it to appease her
conscience.  Give them what they want, and anything
goes!"

Fancy listened, frowning, the point of her pencil
between her lips.  "You don't need any of my tips on
Mrs. Page," she said with sarcasm.  "At eleven,
Mr. Summer, whoever *he* is."

"I don't care, if he's got the price."

"It bores you to read for men, doesn't it, Frank?  I
wish you'd let me do it."

As she spoke, the telephone bell on the desk rang,
and she took up the receiver, drooping her head
coquettishly.

"Yes?" she said dreamily, her eyes on Granthope,
who had lighted a cigarette.

"Yes, half-past eleven o'clock, if that would be
convenient.  What name, please? ... No, any name will
do.....  Miss Smith?  All right—good-by."

She entered the appointment in her book, and then
remarked decidedly, "*She's* pretty!"

"No objections; they're my specialty," Granthope
replied; "only I doubt it."

"Never failed yet," said Fancy.

Granthope looked at his watch, then passed through
a red anteroom to his studio beyond.  Fancy began to
draw little squares and circles and fuzzy heads of men
with mustaches upon a sheet of paper.  In a few
moments the palmist returned, his morning coat
replaced by a black velvet jacket tight-fitting and
buttoned close.

"Oh, Fancy, take a few notes, please; you didn't get
that last one yesterday, I believe."

She reached for a lacquered tin box, containing a
card catalogue, withdrew a blank slip and dipped her
pen in the ink.  Then, as he stopped to think, she
remarked:

"I don't see why you go to all this trouble, Frank.
Nobody else does.  You've a good enough memory,
and I think it's silly.  I feel as if I were a bookkeeper
in a business house."

"One might as well be systematic," he returned.
"There's no knowing when all this will come in handy.
I don't intend to give five-dollar readings all my life.
I'm going to develop this thing till it's a fine art.
I've got to do something to dignify the trade.  This
doesn't use nearly all that's in me.  I wish I had
something to do that would take all my intellect—it's all
too easy!  I don't half try.  But it's a living.  God
knows I don't care for the money—nor for fame either,
for that matter.  Fame's a gold brick; you always pay
more for it than it's worth.  I suppose it's the sheer
love of the game.  I have a scientific delight in doing
my stunt better than it has ever been done before.
Some play on fiddles, I play on women—and make
'em dance, too!  Some love machinery, some study
electricity—but the wireless, wheel-less mechanics of
psychology for mine.  Practical psychology with a
human laboratory.  Pour the acid of flattery, and
human litmus turns red with delight.  Try the
alkali of disapproval, and it grows blue with
disappointment.  I give 'em a run for their money, too.
I make life wonderful for poor fools who haven't the
wit to do it for themselves.  I peddle imagination,
Fancy."

"You get good prices," Fancy said, smiling a bit
sadly.  "There are perquisites.  There aren't many men
who have the chances you do, Frank.  Women are
certainly crazy about you, and now that you're taken up
by the smart set, I expect you will be spoiled pretty
quick."  She shook her head coquettishly and dropped
her eyes.

He shrugged his shoulders.  "I should think you
would be almost ashamed of being a woman, Fan,
sometimes," he said.  "They are all alike, I believe."

Fancy bridled.  Then she bit her lip.  "You'll meet
your match some day!"

"God, I hope so!  It'll make things interesting.
Nothing matters now.  I haven't really wanted
anything for years; and when you don't want anything,
Fancy, the garlands are hung for you in every house."

"Did you ever have a conscience, Frank?"

"Not I.  I shouldn't know what to do with it, if I
had one.  I don't see much difference between right
and wrong.  We give them what they want, as clergymen
do.  It may be true and it may be false.  So may
religion.  There are a hundred different kinds—some
of them teach that you ought to kill your grandmother
when she gets to be fifty years old.  Some teach
clothing and some teach nakedness.  Some preach
chastity—and some the other thing.  Who's going to
tell what's right?  My readings are scientific; my
predictions may be true, for all I know.  Some I help and
some I harm, no doubt.  But from all I can see, God
Himself does that.  Take that Bennett affair!  He lost
his money, but didn't he have a good taste of life?
We'll never know the truth, anyway.  Why not fool
fools who think there's an answer to everything, and
make 'em happy?  Do you remember that first time
we played for Harry Wing?  I was new at it then.
When I crawled through the panel and put on the robe,
the tears were streaming down my face to think I was
going to fool an old man into believing I was his dead
son.  What was the result?  He was so happy that he
gave me his gold watch to be dematerialized for
identification.  He got more solid satisfaction and
comfort out of that trick than he had out of a year of
sermons.  I only wish I could fool myself as easily as
I can fool others—then I could be happy myself."

"Why, aren't you happy, Frank?" Fancy asked, her
eyes full of him.  "I wish I could do something to
make you happy—I'd do anything!"

"Oh, I'm not unhappy," he said lightly, neglecting
her appeal.  "I can't seem to suffer any more than I
can really enjoy.  I suppose I haven't any soul.  I need
ambition—inspiration.  But we must get to work.
Are you ready?"

Fancy nodded.

"August 5th," he dictated.  "Mrs. Riley.  Age
sixty-five.  Spatulate, extreme type.  Wrist, B.  Fingers,
B, X, 5.  Life 27.  Head 18.  Heart 4.  Fate 12.  3
girdles.  Venus B.  Mars A.  Thumb phalange
over-developed.  Right, ditto.  Now:—married three times,
arm broken in '94, one daughter, takes cocaine,
interested in mines.  Last husband knew General Custer
and Lew Wallace.  Accidentally drowned, 1877.
Accused of murder and acquitted in 1878.  Very poor.

"Don't forget to look up Lew Wallace, Fancy!  Go
down to the library to-night, will you?" he said, laying
down his note-book.

"Where did you ever get that old dame?"

"Madam Spoll sent her here.  She's easy, but no
money in her.  Still, I like to be thorough, even with
charity cases; you never know what may come of them."

The telephone bell prevented Fancy's reply.  She
took up the receiver and said "Yes" in a languishing
drawl.

"Yes.  Number 15? .... Payson?  Spell it .... Hold
the line a minute."  She turned to Granthope,
her ear still to the receiver, her hand muffling the
mouth-piece.

"Funny.  Speak of angels—here's Madam Spoll
now!  She wants to know if you've got anything about
Oliver Payson?"

"Payson?" he repeated.  "Oliver Payson?  No, I
don't think so, have we?"

"I don't remember the name, but I'll run over
the cards.  Talk about method!  I wish Madam
Spoll had some!  P., Packard, Page—no; no Payson
here."  She returned to the telephone.  "No, we have
nothing at all.  Good-by."  Then she hung up the
receiver.

Granthope, meanwhile, had been walking up and
down the room, frowning.

"It's queer—that name is somehow familiar; I've
heard of it somewhere.  Oliver Payson—Oliver Payson."

"Funny how you never can think of a thing when
you want to," said Fancy, sharpening her pencil.

"I know something about Oliver Payson," Granthope
insisted.  "But it's no use, I can't get it.  Perhaps it
will come to me."

"You never know what you can do till you stop
trying," Fancy offered sagely.

Granthope spoke abstractedly, gazing at the ceiling.
"It's something about a picture, it seems to me."

He walked into his studio, still puzzling with blurred
memories.  Fancy took up *The Second Wife*.

At ten o'clock the door opened, and Fancy's hand
flew to her back hair.  A girl of perhaps twenty years
with intense eyes entered timidly.  Her hair was
distracted by the wind and her color was high, increasing
the charm of her pretty, earnest, finely freckled face.
She wore a jacket a little too small for her, with frayed
cuffs.  Her shoes were badly worn; her hat was cheap,
but effective.

"I called to see Mr. Granthope; I think I have an
appointment at ten," she said.

"Miss Heller?" Fancy asked.  The girl nodded.
Fancy took inventory of the girl's points, looking her
up and down before she replied, "All right; just be
seated for a moment, please."

She walked to the studio and met Granthope coming
out.  They spoke in whispers.

"Let her down easy," Fancy suggested.  "It's a love
affair.  She has a letter in her coat pocket, all folded
up; you can see the wrinkles where it bulges out.
Hat pin made of an army button, and she doesn't
know enough to paint.  Make her take off her coat
and see if her right sleeve isn't soiled above where she
usually wears a paper cuff to protect it.  She is half
frightened to death and she has been crying."

"All right," said Granthope.  "I'll give her five
dollars' worth of optimism."

Fancy put her hand in his softly.  "Say, Frank, just
charge this to me and be good to her, will you?"

"All right.  If you like her, I'll do my best.  She'll
be smiling when she comes out, you see if she isn't."

As the girl went in for her reading, Mrs. Page walked
into the reception-room, and nodded condescendingly.
She was a dashing woman of thirty-five, full of the
exuberance and flamboyant color of California.  Her
hair was jet black and glossy, massively coiled upon her
head; her features were large, but regular and well
formed; her figure somewhat voluptuous in its tightly
fitting tailor suit of black.  She was a vivid creature,
with impellent animal life and temperament linked,
apparently, to a rather silly, feminine brain.  Her
mouth was large, and in it white teeth shone.  She was
all shadows and flashes, high lights and depths of
velvety black.  From her ears, two spots of diamond
radiance twinkled as she shook her head.  When she
drew off her gloves, with a manner, more twinkles
illuminated her hands.  Still others shone from the
cut steel buckles of her shoes.  She was somewhat
overgrown, flavorless and gaudy, like California fruit,
and her ways were kittenish.  Her movements were
all intense.  When she looked at anything, she opened
her eyes very wide; when she spoke she pursed her lips
a bit too much.  Altogether she seemed to have a
superfluous ounce of blood in her veins that infused
her with useless energy.

Fancy eyed her pragmatically, added her up,
extracted her square root and greatest common divisor.
The result she reached was evident only by the
imperious way in which she invited her to be seated
and the nonchalant manner in which, after that, she
gazed out upon Geary Street.

Mrs. Page, however, would be loquacious.

"Shall I have to wait long?" she asked.  "I have
an engagement at eleven and I simply *must* see
Mr. Granthope first!  It's very important."

"I don't know," said Fancy coolly.  "It depends
upon whether he has an interesting sitter or not.
Sometimes he's an hour, and sometimes he's only
fifteen minutes."  She spoke with a slightly stinging
emphasis, examining, meanwhile, the spots on her own
finger-nails.

"Oh," said Mrs. Page, and it was evident that the
remark gave her an idea as to her own personal powers
of attraction.  "I thought Mr. Granthope treated all
his patrons alike."

"Sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn't," was
Fancy's cryptic retort.  She watched the effect under
drooped lashes.

The effect was to make Mrs. Page squirm uneasily,
as if she didn't know whether she had been hit or not.
She took refuge in the remark: "Well, I hope he will
give me a good reading this time."

"It all depends on what's in your hand," Fancy
followed her up, smiling amiably.

Mrs. Page minced and simpered: "Do you know,
somehow I *hate* to have him look at my hand, after
what he said before.  He told me such *dreadful* things,
I'm afraid he'll discover more."

"Why do you give him a chance, then?" said Fancy
coldly.

"Oh, I hope he'll find something better, this time!"

"Weren't you satisfied with what he gave you?"
Fancy asked.  "I have found Mr. Granthope usually
strikes it about right."

"Oh, of course, I'm satisfied," Mrs. Page admitted.
"In fact, I trust him so implicitly that I have acted
on his advice.  But it's rather dreadful to know the
truth, don't you think?"

Fancy nodded her head soberly.  "*Sometimes* it
is."  She accented the adverb mischievously.

"Oh, I don't mean what you mean at all!"

"I know.  You mean it's dreadful to have other
people know the truth?"

"No; but I can't help my character, can I?  It's not
*my* fault if I *have* faults.  It's all written in my palm
and I can't alter it.  Only, I mean it's awful to know
exactly what's going to happen and not be able to
prevent it."

"It's worse not to want to."  Fancy waved her hand
to some one in the street.

Mrs. Page withdrew from the conversation, routed,
and devoted herself to a study of the Chinese masks,
casting an occasional impatient glance into the
anteroom.  Fancy polished her rings with her
handkerchief.

Granthope's voice was now heard, talking pleasantly
with Fleurette, who was smiling, as he had
promised.  As she left, flushed and happy, Granthope
greeted Mrs. Page, and escorted her, bubbling with
talk, into the studio.  The door closed upon a
pervading odor of sandalwood, Mrs. Page's legacy to
Fancy, who sniffed at it scornfully.

Many cable-cars had passed without Fancy's having
recognized any one worth bowing to, before the next
client appeared; but, at that visitor's entry, she became
a different creature.  Her eyes never really left him,
although she seemed, as he waited, to be busy about
many things.

He was a smart young man, a sort of a bank-clerk
person, dressed neatly, with evidence of considerable
premeditation.  His hair was parted in the middle,
his face was cleanly shaven.  His sparkling, laughing
eyes, devilishly audacious, his pink cheeks and his cool
self-assured manner gave him an appearance of
juvenile, immaculate freshness, which rendered an
acquaintance with such a San Francisco girl as Fancy
Gray, easy and agreeable.  He laid his hat and stick
against his hip jauntily, and asked:

"Could I get a reading from Mr. Granthope without
waiting all day for it?"  As he spoke he loosed a
frivolous, engaging glance at her.

"He'll be out in just a moment," Fancy replied with
more interest than she had heretofore shown.  "Won't
you sit down and wait, please?"

He withdrew his eyes long enough to gallop round
the room with them, but they returned to her like
horses making for a stable.  He took a seat, pulled
up his trousers over his knees, drew down his cuffs,
felt the knot in his tie and smoothed his hair, all with
the quick, accurate motion due to long habit.  "Horrible
weather," he volunteered debonairly.

"It's something fierce, isn't it?" said Fancy, opening
and shutting drawers, searching for nothing.  "It
gets on my nerves.  I wish we'd have one good warm
day for a change."

"Been out to the beach lately?" he asked, eying her
with undisguised approval.  He breathed on the crown
of his derby hat and then smelt of it.

"No," she replied.  "I don't have much time to
myself.  I hate to go alone, anyway."  Fancy looked
aimlessly into the top drawer of her desk.

"That's too bad!  But I shouldn't think you'd ever
have to go alone.  You don't look it."

"Really?"  Fancy's tone was arch.

"That's right!  I know some one who'd be willing
to chase out there with you at the drop of the hat."

Fancy, appearing to feel that the acquaintance was
making too rapid progress, said, "I don't care much
for the beach; it's too crowded."

"That depends upon when you go.  I've got a car out
there where we could get lost easy enough.  Then you
can have a quiet little dinner at the Cliff House almost
any night."

"Can you?  I never tried it."

"It's time you did.  Suppose you try it with me?"

Fancy opened her eyes very wide at him and let him
have the full benefit of her stare.  "Isn't this rather
sudden?  You're rushing it a little too fast, seems
to me."

"Not for me.  I'm sorry you can't keep up.  You
don't look slow."

Fancy turned to her engagement book.

"You must have known some pretty easy ones," she
said sarcastically.

The snub did not silence him for long.  He recrossed
his legs, drummed on the brim of his hat, and began:

"Say, did you ever go to Carminetti's?"

"No, where is it?"

"Down on Davis Street.  They have a pretty lively
time there on Sunday nights.  Everybody goes, you
know—gay old crowd.  They sing and everything.
It's the only really Bohemian place in town now."

"I'm never hungry on Sundays," Fancy said coolly.

"Nor thirsty, either?"

"Sir?" she said in mock reproof, and then burst
into a laugh.

"Say, you scared me all right, *that* time!"

"You don't look like you would be scared easy.
I guess it's kind of hard to call *you* down."

He folded his arms and squared his shoulders.  "I
don't know," he said.  "I don't seem to make much of
a hit with *you*!"

"Oh, you may improve!"

"Upon acquaintance?"

"Perhaps.  You're not in a hurry, are you?"

"That's what I am!"  He went at her now with more
vigor.  "I say, would you mind telling me your name?
Here's my card."

He rose, and, walking over to the desk, laid down a
card upon which was printed, "Mr. Gay P. Summer."  Fancy
examined it deliberately.  Then she looked up
and said:

"My name is Miss Gray, if you *must* know.  What
are you going to do about it?"

"I'll show you!" he laughed, drawing nearer.
What might possibly have happened (for things do
happen in San Francisco) was interrupted by sounds
predicting Mrs. Page's return.

"Say, Miss Gray, I'll ring you up later and make a
date," he said under his breath.  Then he turned to
Mrs. Page and stared her out of the room with
undisguised curiosity.

"You can see Mr. Granthope now," said Fancy,
unruffled by the competition.

He made an airy gesture and followed the palmist
into the anteroom.

Fancy grew listless and abstracted.  After a while
she went to the closet, examined herself in the glass
on the door, adjusted the back of her belt, fluffed her
hair over her ears and reseated herself.  Then she took
her book languidly and began to read.

There came a knock on the door.

"Come in," Fancy called out, arousing herself again.
The new-comer was one who, though at least twenty-seven,
was still graciously modeled with the lines of
youth.  Her head was poised with spirit on her neck,
but, like a flower on its stem, ready to move with her
varying moods, from languor to vivacity.  Her hair
was a light, tawny grayish-brown, almost yellow,
undulant and fine as gossamer.  In the pure oval of her
face, under level, golden brows, her eyes were now
questioning, now peremptory, but usually smoldering
with dreams, hiding their color.  Their customary
quiescence, however, was contradicted by the
responsiveness of her perfectly drawn mouth—a springing
bow, like those of Du Maurier's most beautiful women.
The upper lip, narrow, scarlet, so short that it seldom
touched the lower, showed, beneath its lively curve,
a row of well-cut teeth.  With such charm and delicacy
of person her small, flat ears and her proud, sensitive
nostrils fell into lovely accord.  She wore a veil, and
was dressed in a concord of cool grays, modishly
accented with black.  Her movements were slow and
graceful, as if she had never to hurry.

"I believe I have an appointment with Mr. Granthope
for half-past eleven," she said in a smooth,
low, rather monotonous voice.

"Miss Smith?" Fancy asked briskly, but with a more
respectful manner than she had shown Mrs. Page.

The lady blushed an unnecessary pink, and blushed
again to find herself blushing.  She admitted the
pseudonym with a nod.

"Take a seat, please," Fancy said.  "Mr. Granthope
will be ready for you in a few minutes."  Then her
eyes fluttered over the visitor's costume, rested for a
second upon her long black gloves, darted to her little,
patent-leather shoes, mounted to her black, picturesque
hat, and sought here and there, but without success,
for jewelry.

The lady took a seat in silence.  She repaired the
mischief the wind had done to her hair, raising her
hand abstractedly, as she looked about the room.  The
Chinese masks did not entertain her long, but the head
of Hypnos she appeared to recognize with interest.
From that to Fancy, and from Fancy to the row of
casts, her glance went, slowly, deliberately.  Then she
took a large bunch of violets from her corsage, and
smelled them thoughtfully.

Fancy began to play with one of her bracelets,
clasping and unclasping it.  The lock caught in a
bangle-chain, and, frowning, she bent to unfasten it.
In an instant the lady noticed her dilemma, smiled
frankly, and walked over to the desk, drawing off
her long glove as she did so.

"Let me do it for you!" she said, and, taking
Fancy's hand, she busied herself with the clasp.

Fancy watched her amusedly.  The lady was so
close that she could enjoy the odor of the violets and a
fainter, more exquisite perfume that came from the
diaphanous embroidered linen blouse, whose cost
Fancy might have reckoned in terms of her week's
salary.  With careful, skilful movements the chain was
unfastened, but the lady still held Fancy's hand in
her own.

"Oh, what beautiful hands you have!" she exclaimed.
"I never saw anything so lovely in my life!
Let me see them both!  I wonder if you know how
pretty they are!"

She looked questioningly into Fancy's face and the
twinkle in Fancy's eyes answered her.

"Oh, of course you do!  Mr. Granthope must have
told you!  He has never seen a prettier pair, I'm
sure!" She laid them carefully down, palms to the
table, and smiled at Fancy.

"I see you've got the right idea about hands," said
Fancy Gray archly.  "That second finger's pretty
good; did you notice it?"

Both laughed.

"I hope you don't think I'm rude," said the lady.

"You don't worry me a bit, so long as you can keep
it up.  I'm only afraid you're going to stop!  But it
seems to me you've got a pretty small pair of hands
yourself!  No wonder you noticed mine!"  Fancy
gazed at them, as if she were surprised to find any
one who could compete with her own specialty.

For answer, Miss Smith, as she had called herself,
drew her violets from her coat, kissed them and handed
them to Fancy.  Fancy played up; kissed them too,
nodded, as if drinking a health, and tucked them
safely away on her own breast.  Then she treated
Miss Smith to the by-play of her delicious dimples,
as she said, "Come in as often as you like, especially
when you have flowers!"

"Miss Smith's" face had become wonderfully
alive, and she gazed at Fancy so frankly admiring
that now Fancy had to drop her own eyes in
embarrassment.  At this moment Granthope's voice was
heard as he came out of his studio with Gay P. Summer.
A kind of shyness seemed to envelop the
visitor and she drew back, her color mounting, her
lids drooping.

"I'm all ready for you, Miss Smith," said
Granthope, coming into the room and bowing suavely.
"Come in, please."

Leaving Mr. Summer in conversational dalliance
with Fancy Gray, the lady followed the palmist into
his studio.  As she walked, her graceful, long-limbed
tread, with its easy swing, seemed almost leopard-like
in its unconscious freedom, her head was carried
somewhat forward, questing, her arms were slightly
extended tentatively from her side, as if she almost
expected to touch something she could not see.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TUITION AND INTUITION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium bold

   TUITION AND INTUITION

.. vspace:: 2

It was a large room, unfurnished except for a
couch in a recess of the wall and a table with two
chairs drawn up under an electric-light bulb which
hung from the ceiling.  The walls were covered from
floor to cornice by an arras of black velvet, falling
in full, vertical folds, sequestering the apartment in
soft gloom.  Over the couch, this drapery was
embroidered with the signs of the zodiac in a
circle—all else was shadowy and mysterious.

The young woman walked into the place with her
leisurely stride—her chin a little up-tilted, her eyes
curious.  In the center of the room she stopped and
looked slowly and deliberately about her.  The
corners of her mouth lifted slightly with amusement,
evidently at the obvious picturesqueness of the studio.

Granthope watched her keenly.  With his eyes and
ears full of Fancy Gray's ardent, dramatic youth,
sparkling with the sophistication of the city, slangy,
audacious, gay, this girl seemed almost unreal in her
delicacy and exquisite virginity, a creature of dreams
and faery, the personification of an ideal too fine and
fragile for every-day.  Her face showed caste in every
line.  He was a little afraid of her.  Her bearing
compelled not only respect, but, in a way, reverence—a
tribute he seldom had felt inclined to pay to the
*mondaines* who visited him.

His confidence, however, soon asserted itself.  He
had found that all women were alike—there were, as
in chess, several openings to his game, but, once
started, the strategy was simple.

"Well, how do you like my studio?"

"It's like dreams I've had," she said.  "I like it.
It's so simple."

"Most people think it too somber."

"It is somber; but that purple-black is wonderful
in the way it takes the light.  And it's all so different!"

"Yes, I flatter myself it is that.  But I'm 'different'
myself."

"Are you?"  She turned her eyes steadfastly upon
him for the first time, as if mentally appraising him,
as he stood, six feet of virility, handsome, vivid and
nonchalant.  The color which had risen to her cheeks
still remained.

"You are, too," he went on, examining her as
deliberately.

She smiled faintly and took a seat by the table and
removed her veil.  Her face was now clearly
illuminated, and Granthope's eyes, traveling from
feature to feature in quest of significant details, fell
upon her left cheek.  His look was arrested at the
sight of a brown velvety mole, a veritable beauty-spot,
heightening the color of her skin.  It was charming,
making her face piquant and human.  His hand
went to his forehead thoughtfully.

At the sight of this mark upon her cheek, something
troubled him.  His mind, always alert to suggestive
influences, registered the faintest impression of a
thought at first too elusive to be called an idea.  It
was like the ultimate, dying ripple from some far-off
shock to his consciousness.  The impact died almost
as it reached him—a flash, vaguely stimulating to his
imagination, and then it was gone, its mysterious
message uncomprehended.

She watched him a little impatiently, seeming to
resent his scrutiny.  Noticing this, he summoned his
distracted attention and seated himself at the table.
But, from time to time, now, his glance darted to
her cheek surreptitiously, searching for the lost clue.
He had learned the value of such subtle intuitions and
would not give up his efforts to take advantage of
this one.

She laid her bare hand upon the black velvet
cushion beneath the light, saying, "I'm sorry that
something has disturbed you."  She looked at him,
and then away.

"Why, nothing has disturbed me," he said.  "Why
should you think so?"  Even as he pulled himself
together for this denial her quick perception gave him
another cause for wonder.

"I'm rather sensitive to other people's moods
sometimes.  That's one reason why I came.  I didn't
know but you might tell me something about it—how
far to trust it, perhaps—though I came, I confess,
more from curiosity."

Her air was still so detached that her conversational
approaches seemed almost experimental.  She spoke
with pauses between her phrases, while her eyes, now
showing full and clear gray, lit upon him only to rove
off, returned and departed again, but never rapidly, as
if she sought for her words here and there in the
room, and brought them calmly back to him.  She
did not shun a direct gaze, but her look wandered as
her thought wandered in its logical course, for the
time seeming to forget his presence.

.. _`52`:

He took her hand and felt of it, testing its quality
and texture, preparing himself for his speech.  Her
hand was long and slim, with scarcely a fiber more
flesh upon the bones than was necessary to cover
them admirably.  He had no thought at first except
to give his ordinary routine of reading, but his study
of her showed her to be an exceptional character.
She was beautiful, with the loveliness of an aristocratic
and slightly bewildering spiritual type.  Her hand in
his was magnetic, delicious of contact, subtly alive
even though not consciously responsive.  Other women
with more obvious charm had left him cold.  She,
aided by no suggestion of coquetry or complaisance,
allured him.  She awakened in him a desire not wholly
physical, although he could not fail to regard her
primarily in the sex relation that, so far, had been
his chief interest in women.  She, as a woman,
answered, in some secret way, him, as a man.  This
was his first wave of feeling.  Her hint amused him,
true as her intuition had been; she had stumbled upon
his embarrassment, no doubt, and had claimed
prescience, a common enough form of feminine conceit.
There he had a valuable suggestion as to the direction
of her line of least resistance to his wiles.

Following upon this, as the first feeling of her
unreality faded, upon contact, came the thought of her
as a wealthy and credulous girl, who might minister to
his ambitions.  He was without real social aspirations,
except in so far as his success in the fashionable
world favored the game he was playing.  Years of
contact with credulity and hypocrisy had carried him,
mentally, too far to value the lionizing and the
hero-worship he had tasted from his smarter clients.  But
the patronage of such a fair and finished creature as
this girl, especially if he could establish a more
intimate relation, might secure the permanence of his
position and his opportunities.  He saw vistas of
delight and satisfaction in such an acquaintance.  He
had had his fill of silly women whose favors were
paid for in ministrations to their vanity.  Such tribute,
easy as it was for him with his facility, irked him.
Here, perhaps, was one who might hold his interest
by her fineness and her mentality, and by the very
difficulty he might find in impressing her.  There
would be zest to the pursuit.

Beneath these waves of feeling, however, and
beneath his active intelligence, there was an inchoate
disturbance in some subconscious stratum of his mind.
He felt it only as the slight mental perplexity the
mole upon her cheek had caused; he had no time,
now, to pursue that incipient idea.  His impression
of her as a desirable, pleasurable quarry incited him
to devise the psychological method necessary for her
capture.  He knew to a hair, usually, what he could
do with women; but now he was forced to gain time
by a preamble in the conventional patter of the
palmist's cult.

Her hand, it appeared, was of a mixed type, neither
square nor conic, with long fingers, inclined to be
psychic.  He remarked the extraordinary sensitiveness
denoted by their cushioned tips.  Nails, healthy and
oval; knuckles indicating a good sense of order in
mental and physical life.  She was, in short, of strong,
vigorous mentality, well-balanced, artistic, generous,
liberal; but (he referred to the Mount of Jupiter)
with a tendency to be a looker-on rather than a
sharer in the ordinary social pleasures of life.
Saturn, developed more toward the finger, gave her
a slightly melancholy temperament; Apollo showed a
great appreciation of the beautiful in nature, with
no little critical knowledge of art; Mercury was less
developed, and implied a lack of humor; Venus
betrayed a well-controlled but warm feeling; it was
soft—she was, consequently, easily moved.  Her
thumb was wilful rather than logical, her fingers
suggested respectively, pride, perception, self-respect,
morbidity, love of the beautiful as distinguished from the
ornamental, tact.

He had thrown himself into a pose so habitual as
to become almost unconscious, though it was keyed to
the theatrical pitch of his picturesque appearance and
surroundings.  The girl's expression showed, to his
alert eye, a slight disappointment at the conventionality
of his remarks.  This spurred him to more
originality and definiteness.  He tossed his hair back
with one hand in a quick gesture and turned to
the lines in her palm, examining them first with a
magnifying glass and then tracing them with an
ivory stylus.  Her eyes were fixed upon his, as if she
were more interested in the manner than the matter
of his task.

"You are the sort of person," he said, "who is, in
a certain sense, egoistic.  That is, after a criticism of
any one, you would immediately ask yourself, 'Would
I not have done the same thing, under the same
circumstances?'  You're stupendously frank—you'd own
up to anything, any faults you thought you possessed;
you'd even exaggerate a jestingly ignoble confession
of motives because you hate hypocrisy so much in
others.  You are eminently fair and just, as you are
generous.  You have none of the ordinary feminine
arts of coquetry.  If you liked a man you would say
so frankly."

It was typical of Granthope's enthusiasm for his
game that he dared thus play it so boldly with his
cards face up upon the table.  His visitor began to show
more interest; it was evident that she appreciated the
ingeniousness of his phrasing.  Her lip curved into a
dainty smile.  Her eyes gleamed slyly, then withdrew
their fire.

He continued: "You are slow in action, but when
the time comes, you can act swiftly without regard of
the consequences.  You are not prudish.  You are
willing to look upon anything that can be regarded as
evidence as to the facts of life, even though you may
not care to go into things purely for the sake of
experience.  You are faithful and loyal, but you are not
of the type that believes 'the king can do no wrong'—you
see your friends' faults and love them in spite
of those faults, yet you are absolutely indifferent to
most persons who make no special appeal.  You are
lazy, but physically, not mentally—there is no effort
you will spare yourself to think things out and get
to the final solution of a psychological or moral
problem.  You love modernness, complexity of living, the
wonderful adjustments that money and culture effect,
but not enough to endure the conventionality that
sort of life demands.  You are not particularly
economical—you'd never go all over your town for a
bargain or to 'pick up' antiques—you would prefer
to go to a good shop and pay a fair price.  You are
fond of children—not of all children, however, only
bright and interesting ones.  You are fond of dress
in a sensuous sort of way; that is, you like silk
stockings, because they feel cool and smooth; silk skirts,
because they fall gracefully and make a pleasant
swish against your heels; furs, on account of the color
and softness, but none of these merely because of
their richness or splendor."

His face was intent, almost scowling, two vertical
lines persisting between his brows; his mouth was
fixed.  His concentration seemed to hold no personal
element; there was nothing to resent in the contact of
his fingers or the absorption of his gaze.  Suddenly,
however, he looked up and smiled—he knew how to
smile, did Granthope—and the relation between them
became so personal and intimate that she involuntarily
drew away her hand.  He was instantly sensitive to
this and by his attitude reassured her.  Not, however,
before she had blushed furiously, in spite of evident
efforts to control herself.

His eyes glanced again at the mole on her cheek.
Then, as if electrified by the sudden kindling and
intensification of her personality, his subconscious
mind finished its work without the aid of reason.
As a bubble might separate itself from the bottom of
the sea and ascend, quivering, to the surface, his
memory unloosed its secret, and it rose, to break in
his mind.  The mole—*he had seen it before*—where?
Like a tiny explosion the answer came—*upon the
cheek of the little girl who visited them that day*,
twenty-three years ago, at Madam Grant's—the day
she died.  It reached him with the certainty of truth.
It did not even occur to him to doubt its verity.
In a flash, he saw what sensational use he could make
of the intelligence.  Another idea followed it—an old
trick—perhaps it would work again.

"Would you mind taking off that ring?" he asked.

She drew off a simple gold band set with three
turquoises.  He laid it upon the cushion, turning it
between his fingers as he did so.  In a single glance he
had read the inscription engraved inside.  His ruse
was undetected; her eyes had roved about the room.
He turned to her again.

"You are twenty-seven years old.  You have a lover,
or, rather, a man is making love to you.  I do not
advise you to marry him.  You have traveled a good
deal and will take another journey within a year.
Something is happening in connection with a male
relative that worries you.  It will not be settled for
some time.  Are there any questions you would like
to ask?"

"I think you have answered them already," she
replied.

He leaned back, to shake his hands and pass them
across his forehead, theatrically.  Another bubble had
broken in his consciousness.  "Oliver Payson!"—the
name came sharply to his inner ear like a voice in a
telephone.  Oliver Payson—he recalled now where he
had seen the name—*upon the newspaper cut pinned
to the door of Madam Grant's bedroom*.  Like two
drops of quicksilver combining, this thought fused
with that suggested by the mole on the girl's cheek.
"Clytie Payson"—this name came to him, springing
unconjured to his mind.  He determined to hazard a
test of the inspiration.  He simulated the typical
symptoms of obsession, trembled, shuddered and
writhed in the professional manner.  Then he said:

"Would you like a clairvoyant reading?  I think I
might get something interesting, for I feel your
magnetism very strongly."

She assented with an alacrity she had not shown
before.  Her eyes opened wider, she threw off her
lassitude, awakening to a mild excitement.

"Let me take your hands again—both of them.
This is something I don't often do, but I'll see what I
can get."

He shut his eyes and spoke monotonously:

"I see a name—C, l, y—"

The girl's hands gave an involuntary convulsion.

"—t, i, e.  Is that it?  Clytie!  Wait—I get the
name—"

Beneath slightly trembling lids, a fine, sharp glance
shot out at her and was withdrawn again.  It was as
if he had stolen something from her.

"Payson!"

The girl withdrew her hands suddenly; she drew
in her breath swiftly, paling a little.

"That's my name, Clytie Payson!  It's wonderful!
Go on, please!"

She gave him her gracilent, dewy hands again, and
he thrilled to their provocative spell.  He took
advantage of her distraction to enjoy them lightly.  When
he spoke there was no hesitation in his voice.

"I don't understand this!  I don't know who these
people are, or where they are, and it seems ridiculous
to tell it.  But there is a fearfully disordered room
with the sun coming in through dirty, broken windows.
The floor is covered with rubbish, there's no furniture
but a few old boxes.  I see two women and a little
girl.  They are in old-fashioned costumes."

Clytie's face was pale, now, and she watched him
breathlessly.

"One of the women has white hair and vivid black
eyebrows.  She talks wildly sometimes; sometimes
she's quite calm.  The other woman is middle-aged
and has a soft voice.  The little girl is dressed in
blue; she is sitting on a box listening.  The crazy
woman is kissing her."

He shook himself, shuddered and opened his eyes,
to find Miss Payson gazing upon him, her hand to
her heart.

"It's strange!" she said.

"It sounds nonsensical, I suppose," he said, "but
that's just what I get.  Can you make anything of it?"'

"It's all true!" said Clytie.  "That very thing
happened to me when I was a little girl—so long ago, that
I had almost forgotten it."

"You remember it, then?"

"Yes, it all comes back to me—though I have
wondered vaguely about it often enough.  It was when
I was four years old and I went with my mother to
call on this strange, crazy woman—if she were crazy!
I never knew.  I never dared speak to father about it.
He never knew that we went, I think.  I had an
idea that he wouldn't have liked it, had he known."

"And your mother?"

"She died—the same year, I think.  We left San
Francisco, father and I, soon after, and we lived
abroad for several years.  I didn't even remember the
scene until long afterward, when something brought
it up.  Then it was like a dream or a vision."

"Do you know, Miss Payson, I feel that you have
very strong mediumistic powers; I can feel your
magnetism.  I think that you might develop yourself so as
to be able to use your psychic force."

She took it seriously.

"Yes, I think I do have a certain amount of capacity
that way.  I can never depend upon it, though, but my
intuitions are very strong and occasionally rather
strange things have happened to me."

It amused him to see how quickly she had fallen
into the trap he had set for her.  Experience had
taught him it was a common enough assertion for
women to make, and he was cynically incredulous.
He was a little disappointed, too; as, in his opinion,
it discounted her intelligence.  Nevertheless, he found
in it a way to manipulate her.

"Perhaps I might help you to develop it," he
suggested, "although I'm not much of a clairvoyant
myself; I claim only to be a scientific palmist."

"I think you are wonderful," Clytie asserted, giving
him a glance of frank admiration.  "This test alone
would prove it.  You see, having some slight power
myself, I'm more ready to believe that others have it."

He waived her compliment with apparent modesty.

"Women are more apt to be gifted that way—it isn't
often I attempt a psychic reading.  What is written
in the palm I can read; as a physician diagnoses a
case from symptoms in the pulse and tongue and
temperature, so I read a person's character from
what I see in the hand.  I have been particularly
interested in yours, Miss Payson, and perhaps I have
been able to give you more than usual.  I hope I may
have the opportunity of seeing you again; I'm quite
sure I can help you, or put you in the way of assistance."

She arose and slowly drew on her gloves, her mind
full of the revelation.  He watched every motion with
delight.  Her brief mood of irradiation had given
place to her customary languor, and her fragile
loveliness, emphasizing the opposite to every one of his
virile, ardent traits, allured him with the appeal of
one extreme to another.  Most of all, her mouth,
wayward with its ravishing smile, enchanted him.
It was controlled by no coquetry, he knew, and it
moved him the more for that reason.  Yet she seemed
loath to go and moved slowly about the room.  She
stopped to point with a sweeping gesture at one side
of the velvet-hung wall.

"It's rather too bad to hide the windows, isn't it?"

He smiled at her divination, doubtful of its origin.

"You have a very good sense of direction, haven't you?"

She appeared to notice his incredulity, but not to
resent it.

"Indeed, I have very little," she said; then, giving
him her hand with a quick impulse of cordiality, she
smiled, nodded and turned to the anteroom.

He glanced at the table, saw her ring, and made a
motion toward it.  Then it occurred to him that it
might be used as an excuse for seeing her again and
he followed her out.

In the reception-room, Fancy was yawning; seeing
them, she brought her hand quickly to her mouth and
raised her eyebrows at Granthope.  He made no sign
in reply.  Clytie walked up to her impulsively and
held out her hand.

"I do hope I'll see you again, sometime," she said.

Fancy laughed.  "I do, too.  You're the only one
who's ever really appreciated me.  You make me
almost wish I was a lady."  By her tone, there was
some old wound that bled.

"You're that, and better, I'm sure," Clytie
answered softly; "you're yourself!"

She turned to leave.  Granthope, who had watched
the two women, amused, opened the door for her,
received her long, steady glance, her quiet, low "Good
morning," and bowed her out.

As soon as she had fairly left, he turned quickly to
Fancy.  "Where's Philip?"

"In the back room, I suppose."  Fancy looked
surprised.

"Go and get him, please; tell him to find out where
this girl lives, and all he can about her."

"Say, Frank—" Fancy began, rising.

"Hurry, please!  I don't want him to miss her.
She's a good thing!"

"She's *too* good, Frank, that's just it!"

"That's why I want her.  I don't catch one like that
every day.  Why, she's worth all the rest put
together."  He looked impatiently at her.

Fancy shrugged her shoulders and sailed airily out
of the room.

Granthope stood for some time, his hands thrust into
the pockets of his velvet coat, gazing abstractedly at
the red wall of his reception-room.  Then he took up
the telephone and called for Madam Spoll's number.

He made himself known and then said, "I'll be
round to-night before your séance.  I want to talk
something over."





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.. _`THE SPIDER'S NEST`:

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   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SPIDER'S NEST

.. vspace:: 2

The architecture of San Francisco was, in early
days, simple and unpretentious, befitting the modest
aspirations of a trading and mining town.  Builders
accepted their constructive limitations and did their
honest best.  False fronts, indeed, there were, making
one-story houses appear to be two stories high, but
redwood made no attempts in those days to
masquerade as marble or granite.

During the sixties, a few French architects
imported a taste for classic art, and for a time, within
demure limits, their exotic taste prevailed.  The
simple, flat, front wall of houses, now grown to three
honest stories high, they embellished with dentil
cornice, egg-and-dart moldings and chaste consoles; they
added to the second story a little Greek portico with
Corinthian columns accurately designed, led up to by a
flight of wooden steps; the façade was broken by a
single bay-window, ornamented with conventional
severity.  Block after block of such dwelling-houses
were built.  They had a sort of restful regularity, they
broke no artistic hearts.

In later days, when San Francisco had begun to take
its place in the world, a greater degree of sophistication
ensued.  Capitals of columns became more fanciful,
ornament more grotesquely original, till ambitious
turners and wood-carvers gave full play to their
morbific imagination.  Then was the day of scrolls
and finials, bosses, rosettes, brackets, grille-work
and comic balusters.  Conical towers became the rage,
wild windows, odd porches and decorations nailed on,
regardless of design, made San Francisco's nightmare
architecture the jest of tourists.  Lastly, after an
interregnum of Queen Anne vagaries, came the
Renaissance and the Age of Stone, heralded by
concrete imitations and plaster walls of bogus granite.

Madam Spoll's house was of that commonplace,
anemically classic style which, after all, was then the
least offensive type of residence.  It was painted
appropriately in lead color—for the house, with the rest
of the block, seemed to have been cast in a mold—a
tone which did its best to make Eddy Street prosaic.
It had been long abandoned by fashion and was now
hardly on speaking terms with respectability.  It
occupied a place in a row of boarding-houses, cheap
millinery establishments and unpretentious domiciles.
There was a dreary little unkempt yard in front,
with a passage leading to an entrance under the front
steps; above, the sign "Madam Spoll, Clairvoyant and
Medium," was displayed on ground glass, and below,
hanging on a nail against the wall, was a transparency.
When the lamp was lighted inside this, one read the
words: "Circle To-night.  Admittance ten cents."

This Thursday the lamp was lighted.  It was
half-past seven o'clock.

Devotees had begun to arrive, and, entering by the
lower door, they paid their dimes to Mr. Spoll, who
stood beside the little table at the entrance, left their
"tests"—envelopes, flowers, jewelry or what not—and
passed into the audience-room.

This had once been a dining-room and its walls
were covered with a figured paper, above which was a
bright red border decorated with Japanese fans and
parasols.  A few gaudy paper lanterns hung from
the ceiling, and here and there were hung framed
mottoes: "There Is No Death"—"We Shall Meet
Again"—"There Is a Land that is Fairer than
Day."  This room was filled with chairs set in rows,
and would hold some forty or fifty persons.  It was
separated by an arch from a smaller room beyond,
where, upon a platform, stood a table with an open
Bible, an organ, two chairs and a folding screen.

Only the front seats were at present occupied, these
by habitués of the place, all firm believers, a
picturesque group showing at a glance the stigmata of
eccentricity or mental aberration.  For the most part
they were women in black; they bowed to one another
as they sat down, then waited in stolid patience for
the séance to open.  The others were pale, blue-eyed
men with drooping mustaches and carefully parted
hair, and a whiskered, bald-headed old gentleman or
two who sat in silence.  The room was dimly
illuminated by side lights.

Farther down the hallway, opposite the foot of a
flight of stairs leading upward to her living-rooms,
was Madam Spoll's "study," and here she was, this
evening, preparing for business.

This room was small and crowded with furniture.
The marble mantel held an assortment of bisque
bric-à-brac, sea-shells, paper knives and cheap curiosities.
The walls were covered with photographs, a placque
or two, fans and picture cards.  A huge folding
bed, foolishly imitating a mirrored sideboard,
occupied one corner of the room.  A couch covered with
fancy cushions and tidies ran beside it.  A table,
heavily draped, a three-legged tea-stand, an easel with
a satin sash bearing the portrait, photographically
enlarged in crayon, of a bold, smirking, overdressed
little girl, a ragged trunk and several plush-covered
chairs were huddled, higgledy-piggledy, along the
other side of the room.

Upon the couch Madam Spoll sat, spraying
envelopes with alcohol from an atomizer on a small
bamboo stand before her.

She was an enormous woman of masculine type,
with short, briskly curling, iron-gray hair and a triple
chin.  Heavy eyebrows, heavy lips, heavy ears and
cheeks had Madam Spoll, but her forehead was unlined
with wrinkles; her expression was serene, and, when
she smiled, engaging and conciliating.  She was
dressed in black satin with wing-like sleeves, the front
of her waist being covered with a triangular decoration
of bead-work.

Watching her with roving, black eyes was
Professor Vixley, smoking a vile cigar.  His face was
sallow, of a predatory mold with a pointed, mangy
beard, and sharp, yellow teeth.  He wore a soft,
striped flannel shirt with a flowing pink tie.  From
the sleeves of his shiny, cutaway coat, faded to a
purplish hue, his thin, tanned, muscular hands showed
like the claws of a vulture.

"You seem to be doin' a pretty good business," he
remarked, dropping his ashes carelessly upon the floor.

"So-so," Madam Spoll answered.  "If things go
well we hope to get a new hall up on Post Street, but
there ain't nothing in tests.  Straight clairvoyance is
the future of *this* business.  Of course, we have to
give cheap circles to draw the crowd, but it's a lot
of bother and expense and it does tire me all out.
Then there's always the trouble from the newspapers
likely to come up."

"Pshaw!  I wouldn't mind gettin' into the newspapers
occasionally, it's good advertisin'.  The more
you're exposed the better you get along, I believe."

"'Lay low and set on your eggs' is my motto," said
the Madam.  "I don't like too much talk.  I prefer to
work in the dark—there's more money in it in the
long run.  I don't care if I only have a few
customers; if they're good and easy I can make all I
want."

"What do you bother with sealed messages for,
Gert?" Professor Vixley asked.

"Oh, I got to fix a lot of skeptics to-night.  I can
usually open the ballots right on the table easy
enough behind the flowers, but I want to read a few
sealed messages besides.  It may help along with
Payson, too."  She took up an envelope numbered
"275."  It was saturated with alcohol.  She held it
to the light, and squinting at the transparent paper,
she read: "'When is Susie coming home?'  Now,
ain't that a fool question?  I'll take a rise out of *her*,
see if I don't!  That's that woman who got into
trouble in that poisoning case."

"Say, the alcohol trick's a pretty good stunt when
you get a chance to use it!  But I don't have time for
it in my business."

"Yes, it's easy enough if you use good, grain
alcohol, but I wish I had an egg-tester.  They save
a lot of time, and you can read through four or
five thicknesses of paper with 'em.  Spoll, he has plenty
of chance to hold out the ballots and bring 'em in to
me; his coming and going ain't noticed, because he
has to fetch 'em up to the table, anyway.  By the time
I go on, all the smell's faded out.  If it ain't, my
handkerchief is so full of perfumery that you can't notice
anything else.  I'm going to fit up my table with one
o' them glass plates with an electric flash-light
underneath that I can turn on with a switch.  You can read
right through the envelope then.  But I don't often
consent to tests like that.  It deteriorates your powers.
And my regular customers are usually contented to
send their ballots up open and glad of the chance to
get an answer.  *They* don't want to give the spirits
no trouble!  Lord, I wish I had the power I had when
I begun."  She smiled pleasantly at her companion.

"I see old Mrs. Purinton on the front row as I
come in," Vixley observed, shifting his cigar labially
from one corner of his mouth to the other.

"Say, there's a grafter for fair!" she exclaimed.
"She's been coming here to the publics for two years
and never once has she gave me a private setting.
That's what I call close.  She's as near as matches!
And always the same old song—little Willie's croup or
when's Henry going to write, and woozly rubbish
like that.  I got a good mind to hand her a dig.
I could make a laughing-stock out of her, and scare
her away easy.  Folks do like a laugh at a public
séance; you know that, Professor."

"Sure!  It don't do no harm as long as you hit
the right one."

"Oh, I ain't out for nothing but paper-sports and
grafters.  I know a good thing when I see it.  I
hope there'll be something doing worth while in this
Payson business.  He may show up to-night.  Lulu
claims she conned him good."

"I hope I'll have a slice off him," said Professor
Vixley, his beady, black eyes shining.  "We got to get
up a new game for him before we pass him down the
line."

"Oh, if anybody can I guess we can; there's more'n
one way to kill a cat, besides a-kissing of it to death."

"Yes, smotherin' it in hot air, for instance!" Vixley
grinned.

"They's one thing I wish," said Madam Spoll, "and
that is that we had a regular blue-book like they have
in the East.  Why, they tell me there's six thousand
names printed for Boston alone.  If we had some way
of getting a lead with this Payson it would be lots
easier.  But I expect the San Francisco mediums will
get better organized some day and coöperate more
shipshape."

Here Mr. Spoll entered, a tall, thin, bony, wild-eyed
individual with a rolling pompadour of red hair, his
face spattered with freckles.  He walked on tiptoe, as
if at a funeral, bowed to the Professor, coughed into
his hand, and took up the letters Madam Spoll had
been investigating, putting down some new ones.

"Oh, here's that 'S.F.B.' that Ringa told me about,"
she said, glancing at an envelope.  "Is Ringa come
in yet?"

"I ain't seen him; but it's early," said Spoll.  "He'll
show up all right.  I'll send him right in."

"Is Mr. Perry in front?"

"You bet!"  Spoll was still tiptoeing about the room
on some mysterious errand.  "Perry ain't likely to
lose a chance to make a dollar, not him!"

"He's a good one!"  Madam Spoll smiled at the
Professor.  "I don't hardly know what I'd do without
him.  I can always depend upon him to make good.
He ain't too willing, and sometimes, I declare, he
almost fools me, even.  I've known him to stand up
and denounce me something fierce, especially when
there was newspaper men in the audience, and then
just gradually calm down and admit everything I
wanted him to.  He looks the part, too.  Why, I
sent him round to Mrs. Stepson's circle one night,
when she first come to town, and she was fooled good.
I've seen him cry at a materializing séance so hard
it would almost break your heart."

"Does he play spook?"

"No, he's best in the audience.  He's a good capper,
but I don't believe he could play spook—besides, he's
getting too fleshy."

"Who else have you got regular?" asked Professor
Vixley.

"Only two or three.  I don't need so many touts as
most.  I pride myself on doing my own work without
much help.  Of course, you got to give a name
sometimes when a fishing test won't work, and a friend in
the audience helps.  Miss French, she's pretty good,
but she's tricky.  I'm afraid of her.  I was gave away
once to the *Chronicle* and I lost a whole lot of business.
Men are safer.  Harry Debert is straight enough, but
he's stupid.  He's the too-willing kind, and you don't
have a chance to get any effect.

"Say, Spoll," she added to her husband, "be sure
and don't take no combs nor gloves!  I ain't going to
do no diagnosing in public—not for ten cents.  Them
that want it can pay for it and take a private setting."

"They're mostly flowers to-night," said Spoll as he
crept out of the room.

"Lord, I do hate a flower test!" she groaned.  "It's
too hard work.  Of course, they're apt to bring roses
if their name's Rose, or lilies and daisies the same way,
but you can't never be sure, and you have to fish.
Lockets is what I like, lockets and ballots."

At this moment Mr. Ringa entered.  He was a
bleached, tow-headed youth, long and lanky, with
mild gray eyes and a stubbly, straw-colored mustache.
Two front teeth were missing from his upper jaw.
His clothes seemed to have shrunk and tightened upon
his frame.  He bowed respectfully to Madam Spoll
and Professor Vixley, who represented to him the
top of the profession.

"Did you get that 'S.F.B.' letter, all right?" he
asked.

"Yes, what about it?"

"She's easy!"

Vixley grinned.  "If she's easy for you she must
be a cinch for us!"

Ringa persevered.  "Well, I got the dope, anyway.
She's a Mrs. Brindon and she's worried about her
husband—he's gone dotty on some fluzie up North.
I read her hand last week.  I told her they was
trouble coming to her along of a dark woman—she's
one of these beer-haired blondes—what I call a
Würzburger blonde—then I showed it to her in the
heart-streak.  'Go ahead and tell me how it will come out,'
she says.  I says: 'There's a peculiar condition in
your hand that I ain't quite on to,' I says.  She says:
'Why, can't you read it?'  Says I: 'Madam, if I could
read that well, I wouldn't be doing palms for no two
bits a shot; I'd be where Granthope is, with a fly-away
studio and crowding it at five plunks, per.'  Then I
says: 'Say, I hear Madam Spoll has great gifts in
predicting at all affairs of the heart.  I ain't never
been to any of her circles, but why don't you shoot
around next Thursday night and try her out?'  'What'll
I do?' she says.  Then I told her to write
on a paper, 'Does he care more for Mae Phillips than
he does for me, and how will it come out?'  She done
it and sealed it up into an envelope I give her."

.. _`"I told her they was trouble coming to her"`:

.. figure:: images/img-072.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "I told her they was trouble coming to her"

   "I told her they was trouble coming to her"

"Good work!" said Madam Spoll.  "I'll give you a
rake-off if I land her.  I've got her ballot right here.
I won't need to open it."

"Ain't that job worth a dollar to you as it stands?"
Ringa asked nervously.  "I'll call it square and take
my chances on the percentage."

"All right.  It's a good sporting chance!  Only I
wish it was a man.  Women are too close."  Madam
Spoll opened her purse and paid him.

As Ringa left, Vixley asked: "By the way, how
about this fellow Payson?  Do you think Lulu roped
him?"

"I guess so.  Lulu's done pretty well lately, and
she's brought me considerable business.  She ought
to be here by this time."

"I should think she'd be able to handle him alone."

"Don't you go and tell her so!  The thing for her
to do is to get a manager, but I don't intend to queer
my own game."

"What line is she workin' now?  She's failed at
about everything ever since she begun with cards."

"Oh, she's doing the 'Egyptian egg' reading.
Wouldn't that freeze you?  Lord, that was out of
date twenty years go; but everything goes in San
Francisco."

"Say, ain't this town the penultimate limit!" Vixley
ejaculated, grinning.  "Why, the dopes will stand in
line all night for a chance to be trimmed, and send
their money by express, prepaid, if you let 'em.
Gert, sometimes I'm ashamed of myself for keepin'
'em waitin' so long!  Talk about takin' a gumdrop
away from a sick baby; that's hard labor to what
we did for Bennett.  What I want to know is, how do
these damn fools ever get all the money we take away
from 'em?  It don't look like they had sense enough
to cash a check."

"If I had one or two more decoys as good as Ringa
and Lulu Ellis, I'd be fixed all right.  I could stake
out all the dopes in town.  Say, Granthope could cut
up a lot of easy cash if he'd agree to stand in.  I tried
to tap him about this here Payson, and he wouldn't
give me a tip."

"Perhaps he didn't know anything.  You can't
loosen up when you're wide open, can you?"

"He generally knows all there is to know.  The
trouble is he's getting too high-toned.  Since he fitted
up his new studio and butted into society you can't
get near him with nothing like a business proposition.
I believe he thinks he's too good for this place and
will go East.  He's a nice boy, though.  I ain't got
nothing against him, only I wish he'd help us out.
Hello, here's Lulu.  Good evening, Lulu, how's
Egyptian eggs to-day?"

Lulu Ellis was a dumpy, roly-poly, soft-eyed,
soft-haired, pink-cheeked young woman, as innocent
appearing a person as ever lived on her wits.  Not that
she had many of them, but a limited sagacity is
enough to dupe victims as willing to be cajoled as those
who appeal to the Egyptian egg for a sign of the
future.  Lulu's large, brown eyes were enough to
distract one's attention from her rule-of-thumb
methods.  Her fat little hand was soft and white, her
plump little body full of extravagant curves.

"Say, Mr. Payson has come!" she exclaimed
immediately, with considerable excitement.  "He's on
the third row at the far end."

Madam Spoll became alert.  "Did you see his test?"

"No, he was here when I come," Lulu replied.

"Go out and get Spoll."  Madam Spoll spoke
sharply.  "We've got to fix this thing up right now."

Lulu returned to say: "There's such a crowd coming
in he can't leave, but he says it was a gold watch with
a seal fob."

"All right, so far," said the Madam.  "Now, Lulu,
are you sure of what you told me?"

Lulu's reply was interrupted by the entrance of
Francis Granthope, in opera hat and Inverness cape,
making a vivid contrast to the disreputable aspect of
Professor Vixley.  He greeted the three conspirators
with his customary elegance.

"I'm sorry I had nothing about Payson when you
rang me up, Madam Spoll, but just afterward his
daughter came in for a reading.  Queer, wasn't it?"

"God, that's a stroke of luck!" said Vixley eagerly.
"I say, Frank, you can work her while we handle the
old man, and we'll clean up a fortune.  They say
he's a millionaire."  Vixley's little eyes gleamed.

"Let's hear what Lulu has to say, first," said Madam
Spoll.

"Why, I didn't get much," Lulu confessed.  "He
said he dropped in by accident as he was passing by,
to see what Egyptian egg astrology was.  I got his
name off of some letters he had in his overcoat pocket.
I made him hang it on the hall hat-rack.  I did all
I could for him——"

"Did he get gay with you?" Professor Vixley
interrupted.  He had been overtly enjoying Lulu's plump
charms with his rapacious eyes.

Granthope smiled; Lulu Ellis colored slightly.

"No, he didn't!  I don't do none of that kind of
work!"

"The more fool you!" Madam Spoll retorted.  "He's
an old man, ain't he?"

"Sixty," said Vixley, "I looked him up."

"Then he ought to be easy as chewing gum," said
Madam Spoll.

Granthope lighted a cigarette and listened with a
mildly cynical expression.

"He ain't that kind, though," Lulu insisted.  "I
ain't altogether a fool, after all.  Why, he don't even
go to church!"

Her three auditors laughed aloud, the Professor
raucously, Madam Spoll with a bubbling chuckle,
Granthope with scarcely more than an audible smile.

"That settles it, then.  You're coming on, Lulu!
What else do you know?" said Madam Spoll.

"Well, he has a daughter——"

"Yes, Granthope knows all about that," from the
Madam.

"Her name is Clytie," said Granthope.  "Twenty-seven."

"Is she a looker?" asked Vixley.

Granthope turned to him and gave him a patronizing
glance.  "*You* wouldn't think so, Professor.  She's
hardly your style.  But she's good enough for me!"  He
languidly flipped the ash from his cigarette and
took his pose again.

Lulu went on: "I think he had a love affair before
he was married, but I couldn't quite get it.  I didn't
dare to fish very much.  And that's about all I got."

"That's plenty, Lulu.  You can go now.  Here's a
dollar for you and much obliged for passing him up."

"Oh, thank you," said Lulu.  "I'm afraid it ain't
worth that much.  He gave me a dollar himself,
though I don't charge but four bits, usually."

"Lord, what a fool!" said Vixley, watching her
go out.  "That girl won't ever get nowhere, she's too
innocent.  She knows no more about real life than a
boiled egg."

"She's all right for me, though," Madam Spoll
replied.  "That's just the kind I need in my business.
She fools 'em every time.  They ain't nothing like a
good blusher for a stool-pigeon, you take my word
for it.  Lulu's all right in her place."  She turned to
wash her hands at a bowl in the corner.

"Well," said Vixley, crossing his legs, "are you
coming in with us, Frank?"

"It looks pretty good to me, so far.  But it depends.
What have you got about Payson, anyway?"  Granthope's
tone was languid.

Madam Spoll winked at Vixley, as she wiped her
hands behind the palmist's back.

"Why," Vixley replied, "Payson's in wool and is
director of a bank, besides.  He's a square-head with
a high forehead, and them are easy.  Gertie, here,
can get him into a private sittin', and when she does,
you leave him to her—she'll find a way all right.  She
don't do no lumpy work, Gertie don't, you know that,
all right!  When she passes him along to me, I'll
manage him like the way we worked Bennett with
the real estate.  I'd like another chance as good as him."

"You just wait," said Madam Spoll.  "I got a
hunch that this Payson is going to be pretty good pie;
and we got a good strong combination, Frank, if you
want to do your share."

"It's a pity Spoll ain't got some of Gertie's gumption,"
said Vixley, smiling with approval at his partner.

"Don't you make no mistake about Spoll—he's done
some good work on Payson already."  The Madam
was adjusting her waist before the glass and
coquetting with her hair.  "The trouble with you,
Vixley, is that you ain't got no executive ability—I'm
going to organize this game myself.  I can see a way
to use Spoll and Ringa, and Flora, too.  We want to
go into this thing big.  Payson's a keener bird than
Bennett was, but they's more in him."

"So Spoll has begun, has he?" Granthope asked.

"Yes.  He located the Paysons over on North Beach."

"I know that much already.  The mother's dead.
Mr. and Miss Payson have traveled abroad.  What
else do you know about her?"

"Why, it seems she's the sole heir.  Good news
for you, eh?  High society, too—Flower Mission,
Kitchen Garden, Friday Cotillions, Burlingame,
everything.  She could help you, Frank, if you got on the
right side of her."

Here Mr. Spoll tiptoed in, bowed to Granthope,
and said:

"Eight o'clock, Gertie."

Madam Spoll arose cumbrously, took a last peep in
the mirror of the folding bed and turned into the hall,
saying, "You take my advice, Frank.  We depend
upon you.  See what you can do with the girl."  She
paused to bend a keen glance upon him.  "What did
you do with her, anyway?"

"Why, I did happen on something," he answered.
"Do you remember Madam Grant, who used to live
down on Fifth Street, twenty-odd years ago?"

Madam Spoll came back into the room eagerly.

"The crazy woman who lived so queer and yet
had lots of money?  Yes!  She did clairvoyance,
didn't she?  I remember.  She had a kid with her,
too.  Let's see—he ran away with the money, didn't he?
And nobody ever knew what become of him.  What
about her?"

There was a duel of astute glances between them.
Granthope had his own reasons for not wanting to say
too much.  He guarded his secret carefully, as he
had guarded it from her for years.

"Miss Payson used to go down to see Madam Grant
with her mother, when she was a little girl."

"No! *did* she, though?  With her mother?  That's
queer!  Hold on, Vixley.  What did Lulu say about
a love affair before Payson was married?  Do you
get that?  Here's his wife visiting Madam Grant;
you remember her, don't you?  There's something in
that I believe we got a good starter already."

Spoll appeared again, anxiously beckoning, and she
went with him down the hall.

Vixley took up the scent.  "Say, Frank," he asked,
"how did you happen to get on to that, anyway?
That was slick work."

Granthope turned to him and replied patronizingly,
"Oh, I ought to know something about women by this
time.  I got her to talking."

Vixley frowned, intent in thought, stroking his
scant, pointed beard and biting his mustache; then
he slapped his knee with his claw-like hand.  "Say,
you got a grand chance there," he exclaimed.  "See
here, you can get in with the swells and be in a
position to help out lots.  It's the chance of a lifetime,
and we'll make it worth your while."

"How?" Granthope inquired contemptuously.

"By a fair exchange of information.  You put us
wise, and we'll put you wise.  I'll trust you to find
ways of using what help we give you."  He cackled.

"Yes—you can trust me.  I think I might have some
fun out of it.  I don't mind helping you out, but
all I need myself is a little imagination, some
common-sense and a frock coat."

Vixley looked at him admiringly.  "I wish't I had
your chance, Frank; that's what I do.  Say, you just
light 'em and throw 'em away, don't you!  I s'pose
if I had your looks I could do it myself."

Granthope looked him over calmly.  "There's no
knowing what a bath and a manicure and a suit of
clothes would do for you, Professor."

"You can't make brains out o' soap," retorted the
medium.

"And you can't make money out of dirt.

"We'll see who has the money six months from now."

"It's a fair enough bargain.  I take the girl, you
take the money.  I'm satisfied."  Granthope arose and
yawned.  "Oh," he added, "did you know Payson
had a partner named Riley?  He was drowned in
seventy-seven."

"That's funny.  Queer how things come our way!
Mrs. Riley is here in the front room with a test.  She
was tried for the murder of one of her husbands.
Gert's goin' to shoot her up with it to-night.  You
better go in and see the fun.  She'll give it to her
good."

"I think I will," said the palmist.

He left Vixley plunged in thought, and walked out.

Turning into the audience-room he sat down on a
chair in the rear.  The place was almost filled.  His
eyes scanned the assembly carefully, roving from one
spectator to another.  On a side seat near him, a party
of four, young girls and men, sat giggling and chewing
gum.  The rest of the company showed a placid
vacancy of expression or lukewarm expectancy.

Madam Spoll at the organ and her husband with
his violin, had, meanwhile, been playing a dreary
piece of music, "to induce the proper conditions," as
she had announced from the platform.  They stopped,
retarding a minor chord, and the medium went to the
table and began to handle the tests, rearranging them,
putting some aside, bringing others forward, in an
abstracted manner.  Then, looking up with a
self-satisfied smile, she spoke:

"I want to say something to the new-comers and
skeptics here to-night in explanation of these tests.
Them who have thoroughly investigated the subject
and are familiar with every phase of mediumship,
understand, of course, that these objects are placed
here merely to attract magnetism to the sitter and
induce the proper conditions, so that your spirit friends
will be able to communicate with you.  This phase of
mediumship is called psychometry, but if I'd stop to
explain just what that means, I wouldn't have time to
give any readings.  Now, it won't be possible to get
any messages unless you come here in the proper
mood to receive them.  You must send out your best
thought and do all you can to assist, or else my
guides won't be able to establish communication on the
spirit plane.  If you merely come here only to laugh
and to make a scoff of the proceedings, I'll have to
ask you to leave before I begin, for they's many here
to-night who are honestly in search of the truth,
seeking to communicate with the dear, loved ones
beyond on the other side."

She passed her hand across her eyes, sighed, and
fingered her chin nervously.  She poked the articles
on the table again.

"As I come on to this platform, I see an old man
over there, in that direction, what you might call a
middle-aged man, perhaps, of a medium height, and
whiskers, like.  I feel a condition of going on a
journey, you might say, somewhere east of here,
though maybe not very far, and I get the name John.
The light goes over in your direction, lady, that one
with the red hat.  Yes, you.  Would that be your
father, possibly?"

The lady, straightening herself upon being thus
addressed, said timidly, "I think perhaps you mean my
uncle.  His name was John."

"Maybe it is an uncle, though I get the influence
of a father very strong, too.  Has your father passed
out?"

The lady in the red hat nodded.

"Then it *is* your father, do you see?  Yes, I get an
uncle, too, who wishes to communicate, only his
influence ain't strong enough.  That shows it ain't mind
reading, as the newspaper folks say, don't it?"  She
smiled, as if she had made a point, and the audience
appeared to be impressed.

"About this journey, now: maybe you ain't had no
idea of traveling, but John says you will.  I don't
think it's liable to be very far, though.  It'll be before
the last of September or the first of October and John
says it'll be successful.  Do you understand what I
mean?"

The lady, frightened at the terrible import of this
question, did not speak.

"Did you send up an article?"

"It's that purse with the chain."

Madam Spoll fingered it and weighed it reflectively.

"I get a condition of what you might call inharmony.
Seems to me like in your home something is worrying
you and you ain't satisfied, you understand, with
the way things are going and sometimes you feel as if,
well, you just couldn't stand it!"  Her smile, now,
bathed her dupe with sympathy.

The lady nodded vigorously, with tightly shut lips.

"You kind of wonder if it does any good for you
to go to all the trouble you do to sacrifice yourself and
try to do your duty, when it ain't what you might call
appreciated.  And you're worried about money, too.
Ain't that so?"

She received a ready assent.  The woman's eyes
were fixed upon her.  Every one in the room watched
the stripping naked of a soul.

"Well, John says that your father and him are helping
you all they can on the spirit plane, and he thinks
conditions will be more favorable and will take a
turn for the better by the first of the year."

A question fluttered on the woman's lips, but before
it had time to escape, Madam Spoll suddenly turned
in the other direction.

"While I was talking to that lady," she said, "I felt
an influence leading me to that corner over there by
the clock, and I get the initials 'S.F.B.'  Is there
anybody of that name over there?"

A flashily dressed woman, with tinted yellow hair
and rhinestone ear-rings, raised her hand.

"Those are my initials," she announced.

Madam Spoll grew impressive.  "Your name is
Brindon, ain't it?"

The woman gasped out a "Yes."

"Did I ever see you before?"

"No," said the blonde, "not to my knowledge, you
didn't."

Madam Spoll made a comprehensive gesture with
both hands, calling attention to the miracle.  "You
sent up a sealed ballot, didn't you?"

The woman nodded.  She was obviously excited,
looking as if she feared her skeleton was to be
dragged forth from its closet; as indeed it was.

Madam Spoll took up the envelope with her delicate
thumb and forefinger and displayed it to the audience.

"You see, it's still sealed," she announced, then,
shutting her eyes, she continued: "My guides tell
me that he's what you might call infatuated, but he'll
come back to you and say he's sorry.  Do you
understand that?"

The woman was now painfully embarrassed and
shrank into her seat.  The medium, however, did not
spare her.  It was too good a chance for a dramatic
sensation.  She tore the envelope open and read its
contents boldly: "Does he care more for Mae Phillips
than he does for me?"  It was a psychological moment.
The old women stared at Mrs. Brindon with morbid
delight.  There was a little buzzing of whispers
through the room.  Then the audience prepared itself
for the next sensation.

The medium picked up another envelope.  "This is
marked '275,'" she said, then she clutched her throat.
"Oh," she cried, "I'm strangling!  They's somebody
here who passed out very sudden, like they was
poisoned.  It's terrible.  I can't answer the question
the party has written because there's an evil influence
here, a wicked woman.  She had three husbands and
two of 'em died suspicious.  Her name is Riley.
Would that be you?"  She pointed forcefully at a
dried-up, old woman in a shawl, with bleared eyes and
a veined nose.

There was no response.

"Was this question something about your daughter?"
Madam Spoll asked.

The woman coughed and bowed, shrinking into herself.

"I guess you better go somewhere else for your
readings," Madam Spoll declared cruelly.  "Your aura
don't seem to me to be very harmonious.  I don't
know what's the matter to-night," she went on, passing
her hand across her forehead in apparent distress.
"The conditions around me are something horrid."  Her
voice rose.  "There's somebody in this very room
here who has committed murder.  I can't do a thing
until I get that off my mind.  My guides tell me who
it is, and that they'll be satisfied if he'll acknowledge
it and say he's sorry.  Otherwise, this séance can't
go on."

She stopped and glared about the hall.  By this
time she had worked her audience up to an intense
excitement.  Every one looked at his neighbor,
wondering what was to come, but no one offered to
confess to a crime.  Madam Spoll raged up and down
the platform in a frenzy.  Then she stopped like an
elephant at bay.

"I know who this person is.  It's a man, and if he
don't rise and acknowledge it, I shall point him out!"

No one stirred.  On the fourth seat, a clean-shaven
man of thirty-five, with sharp, aquiline features and
wide-spread ears, sat, transfixed with horror, his
two hands clenched.  It was Mr. Perry, the cleverest
actor in the medium's support.

She advanced toward him as if drawn by a secret
power, stared into his eyes, and putting her hand upon
his shoulder, said:

"Thou art the man!"

Mr. Perry wriggled out of her grasp.  "See here,"
he cried, "you mind your own business, will you.
You're a fake!  You got no right to make a fool of
me."  His voice trembled, his face was a convincing
mask of guilt arraigned.

The medium shook a warning finger at him.  "You
either acknowledge what I say is true, or you leave
the hall!  I can't go on with you here."

Mr. Spoll came in to stand beside her valiantly;
spectators stood up to watch the drama.  Mr. Perry's
eyes were wild, his face distorted; suddenly he arose
and rushed out of the room.  Madam Spoll snapped
her fingers two or three times, shook herself and
went back to the platform.  The murmurs died down
and the séance was resumed.

Madam Spoll waited a while in silence, then she
picked up a gold watch with a seal fob from the table.
"I'm glad to feel a more peaceful influence," she said.
"I'm directed toward this watch.  I don't know who
brought it up, for I was out of the room at the time,
but I get the name 'Oliver.'"  She looked up
expectantly.

A gentleman arose from an end seat in the third
row.  He had a high domed head, partly bald, and a
gray chin-beard with a shaven upper lip; under shaggy
overhanging eyebrows, cold gray eyes looked through
a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.  His air was
benevolently judicial and bespoke culture and ease.  He
had, moreover, a well-marked presence, as of one
used to being considered influential and prominent.
A row of false teeth glittered when he opened his
mouth.

"That's my name," he acknowledged in a deep,
fluent voice that was heard all over the room, "and
that is my watch."

Madam Spoll fixed him in the eye.  "I'd like to
know if I can't get your other name.  My guides are
very strong to-night."  After a few moments of
self-absorption, she smiled sweetly upon him.  "I
think I can get it clairaudiently.  Would it be Pearson?"

"No, but that's pretty near it, though."

"It sounds like Pearson to me, Pearson.  Payson,
oh, yes, it's Payson, isn't it?"

"That's right," he said, and sat down.

"Did I ever see you before?"

"Not to my knowledge, Madam."

She looked triumphantly at her audience and smiled.

"If they's any skeptics here to-night, I hope they'll
go away satisfied."  A number of old ladies nodded
emphatically.  "Of course, newspaper men never come
on a night like this, when my guides are strong.
Funny what you see when you ain't got a gun, ain't
it?  The next time I'm half sick and tired out, they'll
be plenty of them here to say I'm a fake, like our
friend here who left so sudden, white as a sheet.
Now, when I was directed to that watch, I was
conscious of a spirit standing beside this gentleman," she
pointed at him benevolently, "influencing me to take
it up.  It's a woman, and she must have been about
thirty when she passed out, and remarkably handsome,
too.  She was sort of fair-complected, between dark
and light.  I get a feeling here in my throat and down
here," she touched her breast, lightly, curving her arm
gracefully inward, "as if she went out sudden, like,
with heart disease.  Do you know what I mean?"

Mr. Payson had bent forward now.  "Yes," he
said, "I think I do.  Has she any message for me?"

"Yes, she has; but—well, you see, it ain't one I'd
exactly care to give in public, and I don't think you'd
want me to, either.  If you come up after the
séance is over, I'll see if I can get it for you.  Or
you might do still better to have a private setting and
then I'll have time to tell you more.  She brings
me a condition of what you might call worry or
anxiety, as if you had something on your mind."

She turned to a bunch of flowers, and, taking them
up, smelled them thoughtfully, for a while.  Mr. Payson
settled back in his seat.

As the medium commenced again, Granthope arose
with his faint, cynical smile and walked quietly out.
He found Mr. Spoll at the table by the door.

"Well, I guess he's on the hook."  The palmist
buttoned his cape and lighted a cigarette.

"Trust Gertie for that," said Spoll; "she'll land him
all right, see if she don't.  Good night!"

Granthope turned up his collar and walked out into
the street.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PAYSONS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PAYSONS

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Oliver Payson lived on a half-deserted street
on the northerly slope of Russian Hill, in a quarter
of the town which, at one time, promised to become a
favored, if not an aristocratic residential district.
But the whim of fashion had fancied in succession
Stockton Street, Rincon Hill, Van Ness Avenue, Nob
Hill, and had now settled upon the Western Addition
and the Presidio Heights.  The old North Beach, with
its wonderful water and mountain view, nearer the
harbor and nearer the business part of the city, had
long been neglected.  The few old families, who in
early days settled on this site, still remained; and,
with the opening of new cable-car lines, found
themselves, not only within a short distance of down-town,
but at the same time almost as isolated as if they
had dwelt in the country, for this part of the city is
upon none of the main routes—few frequent the
locality except upon some special errand.

One side of the street was still unbuilt upon; on
the southern side stood three houses, each upon its
fifty-vara lot, comfortably filling the short block.  That
occupied by the Paysons was an old frame structure
of two stories, without attempt at ornamentation,
except for its quaint, Tudoresque pointed windows and
a machicolated wooden battlement round the flat roof.
It stood on a gentle slope, surrounded by an
old-fashioned garden, which was hedged in, on either side,
by rows of cypress and eucalyptus trees, protecting it
from the trade winds, which here blow unhampered
across the water.

In front, a scene ever-changing in color as the
atmospheric conditions changed, was ranged in a
semi-circular pageant, the wild panorama of San Francisco
Bay, from Point Bonita and Golden Gate in the west,
past the Marin County shore with Sausalito twinkling
under the long, beautiful profile of Mount Tamalpais,
past Belvedere with its white villas, Alcatraz and
Goat Island floating in the harbor, to the foot-hills
behind Oakland and Berkeley, where, in the east,
Mount Diablo's pointed peak shimmered in the blue
distance.

In the second story of this house Clytie had a
bookbinding room, where she spent most of her spare
time.  It was large, bare, sunny, impregnated with
the odor of leather skins, clean and orderly.  A
sewing frame and a heavy press stood behind her
bench and upon a table were neatly arranged the pages
of a book upon which she was working.  Carefully
placed in workmanlike precision were her knives,
shears, glue pot and gas heater and a case of stamping
irons in pigeonholes.

She was, this afternoon, in a brown gingham
pinafore, with her sleeves rolled up, seated before the
table, her sensitive hands moving deftly at the most
delicate operation connected with her craft.  Upon a
square of heavy plate glass, she laid a torn, ragged
page, and, from several old fly leaves, selected one that
matched it in color.  She cut a piece of paper slightly
larger than the missing portion, skived the edges, and
pasted it over the hole or along the frayed margin.
The work was absorbing and exacting to her eyes;
to rest them, she went, from time to time, to the
window and looked out upon the bay.

The water was gray-green streaked with a deeper
blue.  In the "north harbor" two barks lay at anchor
in the stream and ferry-boats plied the fairway.  In
and out of the Gate there passed, at intervals, tugs
with sailing ships bound out with lumber or in with
nitrates, steamers to coast ports, or liners from
overseas, rusty, weather-beaten tramps, strings of
heavy-going barges, lusty little tugs, lumber schooners
wallowing through the tide rip, Italian fishing smacks,
lateen-rigged with russet sails, saucy launches, and,
at last, the magnificent bulk of a white battleship
sliding imperiously into the roadstead along the waterfront.

At four o'clock Clytie's mind seemed to wander from
her occupation, and now, when she ceased and looked
out of the window, her abstracted gaze was evidently
not directed at what she saw.  Her mental vision,
rather, seemed alert.  Her slender golden eyebrows drew
closer together, her narrow, sharp nostrils dilated;
her lips, half open, inhaled deep, unconscious breaths.
The pupils of her eyes contracted like a cat's in the
light.  Then she shook herself, passed her hand over
her forehead, shrugged her shoulders and resumed
her work.

A little later this performance was repeated; this
time, after her momentary preoccupation, she rose
more briskly, put her tools away, laid her book
carefully aside and took off her pinafore.  After washing
her hands she went into her own room on the same
floor.  She went down-stairs ten minutes after, in a
fresh frock, her hair nicely arranged, radiating a faint
perfume of violet water.  She opened the front door
and walked slowly down the path to the gate where
the wall, though but waist-high on the garden side,
stood high above the sidewalk.  Here she waited,
touching the balustrade delicately with her
outstretched fingers, as if playing upon a piano.  The
breeze loosened the severity of her coiffure, which
relaxed into slight touches of curling frivolity about
her ears and neck.  Her pink frock billowed out into
flowing, statuesque folds as she stood, like a figurehead,
gazing off at the mountains.  Her mouth was set into
a shape not quite a smile, a queer, tremulously subtle
expression of suspense.  She kept her eyes in the
direction of Hyde Street.

It was not long before a man turned the corner
and walked briskly toward her.  He looked up at the
first house on the block, searching for the number;
then, as his eyes traveled along to the next gate, he
caught sight of her.  Instantly his soft felt hat swung
off with a quick flourish and he sent her a pleased
smile.

"Here I am, Mr. Granthope!" Clytie called down to
him, and on the instant her face was suffused with
pink.  She had evidently expected him, but now she
appeared as agitated as if his coming had surprised her.

He ran up the flight of wooden steps, his eyes
holding hers all the way.  His dark, handsome face
glowed; he abounded with life and spirit as he stood
before her, hand outstretched.  In the other, he held a
small leather-bound book.

"Good afternoon, Miss Payson!" he said heartily.
He shook hands eagerly, his touch, even in that
conventional greeting, consciously managed; the grasp
was sensitive and he delayed its withdrawal a suggestive
second, his dark eyes already at work upon hers.
"How lucky I was to catch you out here!" he added,
as he dropped her hand.

"Oh, I've been expecting you for some time," Clytie
replied, retreating imperceptibly, as from an emotional
attack, and turning away her eyes.

He noticed her susceptibility, and modified his
manner slightly.

"Why!  You couldn't possibly have known I was
coming?"

"But I did!  Does that surprise you?  I told you
I had intuitions, you know.  You came to bring my
ring, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course.  You really have second-sight,
then?"  He looked at her as one might look at a fairy,
in amusement mingled with admiration.

"Yes—haven't *you*?"  She put it to him soberly.

"Haven't I already proved it?"  His eyes, well-schooled,
kept to hers boldly, seeking for the first
sign of her incredulity.  Into his manner he had tried
to infuse a temperamental sympathy, establishing a
personal relation.

She did not answer for a moment, gazing at him
disconcertingly; then her eyes wandered, as she
remarked: "You certainly proved something, I don't
quite know what."

He laughed it off, saying: "Well, I've proved at
least that I wanted to see you again, and made the most
of this excuse."

"Yes, I'm glad I forgot the ring.  I'm really very
glad to see you, too—I half hoped I might.  Won't you
come up to my summer-house?  It's not so windy
there, and we can talk better."

He accepted, pleased at the invitation and the
implied promise it held, and followed her up the path
and off toward the line of trees.  The place was now
visited by belated sunshine which compensated for the
sharp afternoon breeze.  In the shelter of the cypress
hedge the air was warm and fragrant.  Here was an
arbor built of withe crockery crates overgrown with
climbing nasturtiums; it contained a seat looking
eastward, towards Telegraph Hill.  In front stood a
sun-dial mounted on a terra cotta column, beneath
a clump of small Lombardy poplars.

As she seated herself she pointed to it.  "Did you
know that this is a sort of cemetery?  That sun-dial
is really a gravestone.  When I was a little girl I
buried my doll underneath it.  She had broken open,
letting the sawdust all out, and I thought she must be
dead.  It may be there now, for all I know; I never
dug her up."

He looked over at the shaft, saying, "A very pretty
piece of symbolism.  I suppose I have buried illusions,
myself, somewhere."

She thought it over for a moment, and apparently
was pleased.  "I'd like to dig some of them up," she
said at last, turning to him, with the slow movement
of her head that was characteristic of her.

"Haven't you enough left?"

She started to reply, but evidently decided not to
say what she had intended, and let it drop there, her
thought passing in a puzzling smile as she looked away
again.

He had laid his book beside him upon the bench,
and, when her eyes came back, she took it up and
looked at it.  A glance inside showed it to be an old
edition of Montaigne.  She smiled, her eyes drifted
to him with a hint of approval for his taste, then she
turned her interest to the binding.  As she fingered
the leather, touching the tooled surfaces sensitively,
her curiosity did not escape his sharp eyes, watching
for anything that should be revelatory.

She explained: "I have a technical interest in bindings.
I do some of that work myself.  It's curious that
I happened to be at work to-day on an old copy of
Montaigne.  I'm rebinding it for my father's
birthday.  You'd never think my hands were of any
practical use, would you?"

He laughed.  "Inconsistencies like that are what
baffles one most, especially when one knows that most
characters are inconsistent.  But we professionals have
to go by general rules.  I should expect you to be an
exception to all of them, though."

He watched her surreptitiously, noting her diminishing
color, the evasion of her glance, and the air of
self-consciousness with which she spoke, as they talked
for a while of obvious things—the weather, the view,
and the picturesque, old-fashioned garden.  She had
taken the ring and had put it upon her finger, keeping
her eyes on its turquoises.  Her whole demeanor
ministered to his vanity, already pleased by her frank
welcome.  He was used enough to women's interest and
admiration for him to expect it and play upon it, but
this was of a shyer and more elusive sort; it seemed to
hold something more seriously considered, it baffled
him, even as he enjoyed its unction.  Besides all this,
too, there was a secret romantic charm in the fact that
they had shared together that vivid experience of the
past.  He came back for another draught of flattery.

"It was odd that you expected me, wasn't it?" he
said.  "I can't help wondering about it."

She had her eyes upon the Sausalito boat, which
was weaving a trailing web of foam past Alcatraz
Island.  At his words, she turned to him with the
same slow seriousness as before and replied:

"I shouldn't think it would seem so remarkable to
you, your own power is so much more wonderful."

"Perhaps so in that one case, but you know I don't,
ordinarily, claim clairvoyance.  It's only occasionally,
as the other day with you, that I attempt it."

Her eyes awakened; she said earnestly, "Was I
really able to bring that out in you?"

He caught at the hint.  "Why, what else could it
be but your magnetism?  It was the more strange
because I had never seen you before."

The glow faded, and she relaxed her nervous energy.
"Ah, hadn't you?  I wonder!"

"Why, had you ever seen me before that day?"

"I think so.  At least you seem, somehow, familiar."

"When was it, and where, then?"

She seemed too puzzled to answer, or fatigued with
following an intangible thread of thought.  As she
spoke, slowly, intensely, her hands made large, vague
gestures, often pausing in mid air, as her voice paused,
waiting for the proper word to come.  "I don't know.
It only seems as if I had been with you—or near
you, or something—I don't know what.  It's like a
dream—or a story I can't quite recall, only—" she
did not finish the sentence.

He wondered what her game could be.  Fundamentally
cynical, though he never permitted it to show
in his manner, he distrusted her claims to prevision.
There was, after all, nothing in Miss Payson's words
that might not be accounted for by what he knew of
the wiles of feminine psychology.  His training had
taught him how much a baseless hint, injected at the
proper moment, could accomplish in the masquerade
of emotions and the crafty warfare of the sexes.  That
he and she had been actors together in a past
uncomprehended scene, he regarded as a mere coincidence
of which he had already made good use; he refused
to connect it with her suggestive remark, for he was
sure that she must have been unaware of his presence
in Madam Grant's room that day, so long ago.  It
seemed to him more likely that, woman-fashion, she
had shot into the air and had brought down an
unsuspected quarry.  And yet, even as a coincidence, he
could not quite dismiss the strangeness of it from his
mind.

He was preparing to turn it to a sentimental advantage,
when Clytie, who had relapsed into silence, suddenly
aroused herself with one of those impulsive
outbursts which were characteristic of her.

"There is something about it all that is stranger
still, I think!"

Her golden brows had drawn together, separated
by two vertical lines, as she gazed at him.  Then with
a little jet of fervor, she added:

"I'm afraid I know too much about you, Mr. Granthope!
It's somewhat embarrassing, really.  It doesn't
seem quite fair, you know."

"I'm not quite sure that I understand."

"Oh, you know!  You must know!"

He laughed.  "Really, Miss Payson, it's very
flattering, of course—"

"Oh, no, it's not in the least flattering."

"I wish you'd explain, then."  He leaned back,
folded his arms and waited indulgently.  So long as
he could keep the conversation personal, he was sure
of being able to manage her, and further his own
ends.  It amused him.

She busied herself with a lace handkerchief as she
continued, in a low voice, as if she were ridding
herself of a disagreeable task, and always with the slow,
monotonous turning of her questing eyes toward him,
and away.  "Of course I've heard many things about
you—you're a good deal talked about, you know;
but it's not that at all—it's an instinctive knowledge
I have about you.  I can't explain it.  It's a queer
special feeling—almost as if, in some way, I had the
right to know.  That's why I wanted to see you
again—I hoped you'd come.  I wanted to tell you."

"But all that certainly is flattering," he said.  "I
wouldn't be human if I weren't pleased to hear that
you're interested, even if—"

She could not help breaking into smiles again, as
she interrupted him.

"Oh, but I haven't told you yet."

"Please do, then!"

"It sounds so foolish when I say it—so priggish!
But it's this: I don't at all approve of you.  Why in
the world should I care?  I don't know.  It isn't my
business to reform you, if you need it."  Now she had
brought it out, she could not look at him.

Curiously enough, though he had been amused at
her assumption of a circumstantial knowledge of him,
this hinted comprehension of his character, of the
duplicity of his life, if it were that, impressed him
with the existence in her mind of some quality as
rare and mysterious as electricity, a real psychic gift,
perhaps.  It gave him an instant's pause.  Instinctively
he feared a more definite arraignment.  He began a
little more seriously, now, to match his cleverness
against her intuition; and, for the first defense, he
employed a move of masculine coquetry.

"You have been thinking of me, then?"

"Yes," she replied simply, "I have thought about
you a good deal since I was in your studio.  But I
suppose you're used to hearing things like that from
women."  She was apologetic, rather than sarcastic.

He shrugged his shoulders.  He seemed to be able
to make no way against her directness.  "I've thought
not a little of you, too, Miss Payson.  You are
wonderfully psychic and sensitive.  I think you should
develop your power—you might be able to do
extraordinary things with it.  I wish you'd let me help you.
That is," he added humorously, "if I'm not too far
gone in your disapproval."

"Oh, the disapproval—I call it that for want of a
better word—isn't so important as the fact that I should
feel it at all, don't you see?  You remember that you
told me I was the kind of a woman who, if she liked
a man, would tell him so, freely.  That is true.  I
would scorn to stoop to the immemorial feminine
tricks.  I do like you, and in spite of what I can't quite
explain, too.  I don't know why, either.  It seems
as if it's a part of that other feeling I've mentioned—that
I've been with you, or near you, before."

He leaned forward to extort more of this delicious
confession from her.  "Do you mean spiritually, or
merely physically near?"

"Oh, I don't mean an 'elective affinity' or anything so
occult as that," she laughed.  "Indeed, I don't quite
know what I do mean—it's all so vague.  I can't
formulate it.  It escapes me when I try.  But I did know,
for instance, quite definitely, that I'd see you again.  I
tell you about it only because I think that you,
with your power in that way, may be able to
understand it and explain it to me."

He thought he saw his chance, now, and instinctively
he began to pose, letting his eyes deepen and burn on
her.  He nodded his head and said impressively:

"Yes.  I have felt it, too, Miss Payson.  It's
wonderful to think that you should have recognized me and
understood me so well.  No one ever has before.  We
are related by some tie—I'm sure we've met before,
somewhere, somehow—"

She jumped up and stood before him, her hands
tightly held, her lips pressed together.  For a moment,
so, she looked hard at him; then what there had
been of anger in her gaze softened to something like
sadness or pity.

"*That's* what I meant!"

He misunderstood her remark and her attitude and
went still farther astray from her meaning.

"You are not like any other woman I have ever
known," he said, in the same soulful way.

"Why can't you be honest with me!" she broke out.
She was astonishingly alive now; there was no trace
of her former languor.  He winced at realizing,
suddenly, and too late, that he had made a false step.

"Why do you make me regret having been frank?"
she went on, with a despairing throb in her voice.
"You have almost succeeded in making me ashamed of
myself, already.  *That* is just what I disapprove of in
you.  Don't imagine that you can ever deceive me
with such sentimentality.  I shall always know when
you're straightforward and simple.  That's what I've
been trying to make you understand—that I *do* know!"

She turned slowly away from him, almost hopelessly.
For a moment she remained immobile, then
before he had recovered his wits, she had modified the
situation for him.  Her eyes drifted back to his as
she remarked thoughtfully:

"I am sure, too, that you could help me, if you
would."

"How?"  He tried to pull himself together.

"Merely by being honest with me."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, I know that's a good deal to ask," she laughed.

"Of me?"

"Of any one."

"I'll try, Miss Payson," he said, not too seriously.
"But you've frightened me.  I don't dare think too
hard about anything, you're such a witch."

She released him graciously and keyed down to
an easier tone.

"You must forgive me if I've been too frank,
Mr. Granthope, but this interview is almost like a first
meeting, and you know how much one is apt to say
in such a situation.  Let's not continue the discussion—I'm
embarrassed enough already.  I know I shall regret
what I've said.  We'll talk of something pleasanter.
Tell me about that pretty girl in your office."

"Oh!" he exclaimed, and his tone was as if he had
said, "Aha!"  He wondered if it were possible that,
after all, it was only this which had moved her to
speak.

Clytie frowned, but if she read his thought, she
let it go unchallenged.

"She's an original little thing; I like her," she added.

"You do?" he said mischievously exaggerating his
surprise.

"Yes, I do.  Don't think I'm trying to patronize her,
but she's a dear—and she's very pretty."

"Do you think so?  I shall have to tell her that.
She's pretty enough, at least, to have been on the stage.
She was in vaudeville for a couple of years.  I first
got acquainted with her at the Orpheum.  I've known
her a long time.  She's a great help and a great
comfort to me, and a very clever girl."

"How long has she been your assistant?"

"Two years."

"And you haven't fallen in love with her yet?"

Granthope was relieved.  He was sure now that she
was, if not jealous, suspicious of his relations with
Fancy.  It was not the first time he had encountered
such insinuations.

"Oh, not in the least," he said.  "I can give you
my word as to that.  I don't think it ever occurred to
me—though I'd do anything in the world for her."

"And I suppose you're as sure of her immunity?"

"Why, of course," said Granthope, and in his tone
there was the ring of masculine assurance.

Clytie smiled and shook her head.  "There are some
things men never can know, no matter how clairvoyant
they are," she said, looking away.

He did not follow this up, but arose to leave.  "I'm
afraid you have a very poor opinion of me, Miss
Payson," he said, "but I do feel complimented by your
frankness.  Perhaps I shall merit it—who knows?"  It
was his turn to address the distance, and, in spite of
his consciousness of an histrionic effect, his own words
sounded curiously in his ears; they seemed premonitory.
He shook himself free from her influence again.
She had controlled the situation from the first word;
he had only made a series of mistakes.  It all confirmed
his first estimate of her: that she was very well worth
his while, but that her capture would be difficult.

Clytie, too, had arisen.  Her mood had lightened,
and her sense of humor had returned.  "I hope I
haven't been either tragic or absurd," she said,
smiling.  "I'm not always so serious, Mr. Granthope.  The
next time I meet you I'll probably be more conventional."

"Then I may see you again?"

"I doubt if you can help it."

"I shall certainly not try to!"  Then he paused.
"You mean—?"

"Yes!"

There was something delightful to him in this rapid
transfer of wordless thought.  It again established
an intimacy between them.  That she acknowledged
such a relation by anticipating another meeting, an
inevitable one, charmed him the more.  He might win,
after all, with such assistance from her.  Her power
of intuition aroused his curiosity—he longed to
experiment with it.  She was a new plaything which he had
yet to learn to handle.  Before, he had dominated her
easily enough; he might do so again.

"Miss Payson," he said, "won't you come down to
my studio again sometime?  I'd like to make a more
careful examination of your hand, and perhaps I can
help you in developing your psychic sense."

"Oh, no, thank you.  Really, I can't come again—I
shall be pretty busy for a while—I have to go to the
Mercantile Library every afternoon, looking up
material for my father's book—and, after all, I got what
I wanted."

"What did you want?"

"Partly to see you."

He bowed.  "Curiosity?"

"Let's call it interest."

"You had no faith, then, in my palmistry?"

"Very little."

"Yet you acknowledge that I told you some things
that were true?"

"Haven't I told you several things about yourself, too?"

"I'd like to hear more."

"Oh, I've said too much, already."

"Let's see.  That I am more or less of a villain—"

"But a most interesting one!"

"That I have met you before—"

"Not perhaps 'met'—"

"That Fancy Gray is in love with me—"

"Oh, I didn't say that!"

"But you suspect it?"

"If I did, it was impertinent of me.  It's none of my
business."

"Well, you won't come again—you've quite
satisfied your curiosity by seeing me?"

"Quite.  I've confirmed all my suspicions."

"What were they?"

Clytie laughed.  "Really, you're pushing me a little
too hard, Mr. Granthope.  I'd be glad to have you call
here, sometime, if you care to.  But my psychic powers
are quite keen enough already.  They rather frighten
me.  I want them only explained.  As I say, it's
embarrassing, sometimes.  I hate to speak of what
I feel—it's all so groundless and it sounds silly."

"You know more, then, than you mention?"

"Oh, much!"

"About me, for instance?"

"Yes.  But it's vague and indefinite.  It needn't
worry you."

"Even though you disapprove?"

She laughed again.  "You may take that as a
compliment, if you like."

He nodded.  "It is something that you care."

"I'm mainly curious to see what you'll do—"

"Oh, you're expecting something, then?"

"I'm watching to see.  I confess I shall watch you.
I said that you interested me—that's what I mean.
You're going to—well, change."

As she stood between him and the light her soft
hair showed as fine and crisp as spun glass.  Her
lips were sensitively curved with a flitting smile, her
eyes were dreamy again.  Everything about her
bespoke a high spiritual caste, but, to Granthope, this
only accented the desirability of her bodily self—it
would make her the greater prize, unlike anything
he had, so far, been able to win.  He had an epicure's
delight in feminine beauty, and he knew how its flavor
should be finely tinctured by mind and soul; even
beauty was not exciting without that, and of mere
beauty he had his fill.  Besides, she had unexpected
reserves of emotion that he was continually tempted
to arouse.  But so far he had hopelessly misplayed
his part, and he longed to prove his customary
skill with women.

"Well," he said finally, offering his hand, "I hope
I'll be able to satisfy you, sooner or later.  I'll come,
soon, for a report!"

"Oh, my mood may have changed, by that time."

He gave her the farewell amenities and went down
the path to the gate.  There he turned and saw her
still watching him.  He waved his hat and went down
the steps, his mind restless with thoughts of her.

Clytie remained a while in the arbor.  The fog had
begun to come in now with a vanguard of light fleecy
clouds riding high in the air, closing the bay in from
all sides.  The massive bank behind followed slowly,
tinted with opal and rose from the setting sun.  It
settled down, shutting out her sight of the water, and
its cohorts were soon scurrying past her on their
charge overland from ocean to harbor.  The siren at
Point Bonita sighed dismally across the channel.  It
soon grew too cold to remain longer in the garden,
and she went into the house shivering, lighted an
open fire in the library and sat down.

For half an hour she sat there in silence, inert,
listless, lost in thought, her eyes on the blurred landscape
mystic with driving fog.  The room grew darker,
illuminated only by the fitful flashes of the fire.  Her
still, relaxed figure, fragile and delicate as an ivory
carving, was alternately captured and hidden by the
shadow and rescued and restored by the sudden gleam
from the hearth.  She had not moved when her
father's step was heard in the hall.  He came in,
benignly sedate.  His deep voice vibrated through the
room.

"Well, Cly, dreaming again?"

She started at the sound and came out of her reverie
to rise and greet him affectionately.  He put down
some books and a package of papers and lighted the
chandelier, exchanging commonplaces with her—of her
bookbinding work, which she confessed to have
shirked; of the weather, with a little of old age's
querulous complaint of rheumatic touches; of the black
cat, which was their domestic fetish and (an
immortally interesting topic to him) of the vileness and
poisonous quality of San Francisco illuminating gas.
His voice flowed on mellifluously with unctuous authority,
as he seated himself in his arm-chair beneath the
lamp, shook out his evening paper and rattled its
flapping sheets.

Clytie evinced a mild interest in his remarks, smiled
gently at his familiar vagaries, answering when replies
should be forthcoming, in her low, even, monotonously
pitched tones.  She questioned him perfunctorily about
the book he was writing, an absorbing avocation with
him, warding off his usual disappointment at her
lack of sympathy by involving herself in a
conversational web of explanation regarding Foreign Trade
Expansion, Reciprocal Profits and The Open Door in
the Orient.

"There's not much use working on it at the office,"
he concluded.  "I'm too liable to interruptions."

"Who interrupted you to-day?" she asked.

"Oh, there was a queer chap in this afternoon, an
insurance solicitor; Wooley, his name was.  I told
him I didn't want an accident policy, but I happened
to tell him about that time on the Oakland Mole, when
I got caught between two trains in the Fourth of July
crush—you remember? and he told me about all the
narrow escapes he ever heard of, trying to get me to
go into his company.  Funny dog he was.  He kept
me laughing and talking with him for an hour.  Then
Blanchard came in.  He says he's coming around
to-night."  He hesitated and scanned her intently
through his gold-bowed glasses, under his bushy
brows.  "I hope you will treat him well, Cly."

Her face grew serious and her sensitive lips
quivered, as she said:

"Why do you like Mr. Cayley so much, father?"

"Why, he's a very intelligent fellow, Cly; I don't
know of another young man of his age who is really
worth talking to.  He knows things.  He has a broad
outlook and a serious mind.  He's the kind of young
man we need to take hold of political and commercial
reform.  I tell you, the country is going to the dogs
for lack of men who are interested in anything
outside of their own petty concerns.  Why, he's the only
one I know who really seems interested in oriental
trade and all its development means to the Pacific slope.
That's remarkable, considering he isn't himself
connected with any commercial enterprise.  I don't know
what I'd do if I didn't have him to discuss my subject
with.  He seems to be genuinely interested in it.  I
wish you were as much so, Cly!"

Clytie turned away, smiling somewhat ironically, an
uncommon expression for her engaging features.

"You know," she said slowly, "that I don't quite
trust him."

"Why, you two have been friends long enough, you
should know him better by this time.  You're intimate
enough with him."

"Oh, it's only a feeling I have.  You know I have
my intuitions—but what friendship there is has been
of his seeking."

"He's all right, Cly," her father said dictatorially.
"I haven't lived in the West for fifty years without
knowing something of men.  I do want you to learn
to appreciate him.  He's got a future before him and he
is certainly fond of you.  You know, if anything did
come of it, I would—"

Clytie arose abruptly.  "I think dinner's almost
ready, father, and I'm hungry.  Are you ready?"

She was imperious, holding her tawny head erect,
her chin high, her hands clasped behind her back,
the willowy suppleness of her body now grown rigid.
Mr. Payson sighed resignedly, and allowed a moment's
silence to speak for him; then, finding that his daughter's
attitude continued to dominate the situation, he,
too, arose, patted her cheek and shook his head.  This
pantomime coaxed forth a gracious smile from her.
He took his manuscripts and left to go up to his room.
Clytie remained at the window till he returned.

They had nearly finished their dinner, when, after
a casual dialogue, she remarked, without looking at
him:

"Father, do you remember anything about an old
crazy woman who lived down south of Market Street
somewhere, years ago—in a cheap hotel, I think it
was?"

He started at her question and his voice, ordinarily
so calm and so mellow, quavered slightly.

"What do you mean?  Who was she?" he asked
earnestly.

"That's what I want to know," Clytie said, stirring
her coffee.

"What do you know about her?"

"Why—I went to see her once."

"*You* went to see her?  When?"

"Then you *did* know her!"

Mr. Payson spoke cautiously, watching his daughter.
"I have heard about her, yes, but I never knew you had
been there.  How in the world did that happen?  It
must have been a long time ago."  He stared as if
he could scarcely believe her assertion.

"Mother took me there once or twice.  It's almost
the first thing I remember."

"She did?  She never told me!  It's strange you
have never mentioned it before."

"Perhaps I oughtn't to mention it now.  I thought,
somehow, that she wouldn't want me to tell you about it."

His tone now was disturbed, anxious, pitched in a
higher key.

"Why shouldn't you speak of it?  What difference
could it possibly make?  I remember that woman, yes.
She was not old, though.  Do you recall her well?
You were very young then."

"I can almost see her now.  She had white hair
and black eyebrows, with a vertical line between them;
she was pale, but with bright red lips.  She wore a
strange red gown.  I think she must have been very
beautiful at one time.  Who was she, father?"  Clytie
sent a calm, level glance at him.

"Oh, she was a friend of your mother's.  Your
mother and I used to keep track of her and help her,
that's all."

"Was she poor, then?"

"No, she wasn't.  That was the queer part of it.
She had considerable ability and actually carried
on a real estate business, though she was pretty mad.
She had lucid intervals, though, when she was as
reasonable as any one."

"What became of her?"

"She died, I think, of heart disease.  It must have
been the same year your mother died, if I remember
rightly."

"What was her name?"

Mr. Payson grew more nervous at this questioning,
but he replied, "They called her Madam Grant, I
believe.  How did you happen to bring up the subject
after all these years, Cly?"

It was her turn to be embarrassed.  "Well—I've
recalled that scene occasionally, and wondered about
it—it has always been a mystery I couldn't explain,
and I never dared talk about it.  Of course, it's only
one of those vivid early pictures of childhood, but it
has always seemed very romantic."

"It was a strange situation," Mr. Payson replied.
"She was a very unfortunate woman and I was sorry
for her.  I never would have permitted you to go, if
I had known, of course, but perhaps your mother knew
best."  He dropped his chin upon his hand.  "Yes,
I'm glad you went, now.  What impression did she
make on you?"

"I only remember thinking how beautiful she must
have been."

"Yes," Mr. Payson's voice was almost inaudible.
He pushed his chair back, rose and went into the
library.  Clytie followed him.

"Are you going out to-night, father?"

"Yes, I've got some business to attend to."

"In the evening?" she raised her brows.

"Oh, I'm only looking up something—for my book."  He
turned away to avoid her gaze.

"Oh!"  She sat down and took up a book without
questioning him further.  Soon after, the front
doorbell rang and Mr. Cayley was shown in by the Chinese
servant.

Blanchard Cayley was well known about town,
for he had a place in many different coteries.  By his
birth he inherited a position in a select Southern set
that had long monopolized social standing and
looked scornfully down upon the upstart railroad
aristocracy and that *nouveau riche* element which was
prominent chiefly through the notoriety conferred by
the newspapers.  Blanchard Cayley's parts gained him
the entrée, besides, to less conventional circles, where
his wit and affability made him a favorite.  He belonged
to two of the best clubs, but his inclinations led him
to dine usually at French or Italian restaurants, where
good-fellowship and ability distinguished the
company.  He wrote a little and knew the best
newspaper men and all the minor poets in town.  He drew
a little, and was familiar with all the artists.  He
accounted himself a musical critic and cultivated
composers.  He knew San Francisco like a rat, knew it
as he knew the intricacies of French forms of verse,
as well as he knew the architecture of music and the
history of painting.  He had long ceased his nocturnal
meanderings "down the line" from the Hoffman Bar
to Dunn's saloon, but he occasionally took a
post-graduate course, of sorts, to see whether, for the
nonce, the city was wide open or shut.  He had
discovered the Latin Quarter, now well established as a
show-place for jaded pleasure-seekers, and had played
*bocce* with the Italians in the cellars of saloons, before
the game was heard of by Americans.  He had found
the marionette theater in its first week, traced every
one of Stevenson's haunts before the Tusitala had died
in Samoa, knew the writings of "Phoenix" almost
by heart, and had devoured half the Mercantile
Library.  Tar Flat and the Barbary Coast he knew as well
as the Mission and North Beach, and as for Chinatown,
he had ransacked it for queer jars, jade and hand-made
jewelry, exhausting its possibilities long before San
Franciscans had realized the presence, in that quarter,
of anything but an ill-smelling purlieu of tourists'
bazaars.

He had "discovered" women as well—women, for
the most part, whose attractions few other persons
seemed to appreciate.  His last find was Clytie
Payson—a much more valuable tribute to his taste than
any heretofore.  He had devoted himself assiduously
to her, and it was his boast that he could remember
the hat she wore when he first saw her, ten years
before.  His pursuit of her had been eccentric.  Cayley
was mathematical and his methods were built upon a
system.  During the first years of their acquaintance
he alternated months of neglect with picturesque
arrivals on nights so tempestuous and foul that his presence
would be sure to be counted as a flattering tribute,
and would outweigh, with his obvious devotion, the
previous languor of his pursuit.  This was a fair
sample of the subtlety of his psychological amours, for
Blanchard Cayley was not of the temperament to run
across the room and kiss a girl with verve and ardor.
He led, however, an intense mental life; there he
was a creature of enthusiasms and contempts, capable
of no intermediate emotion.

What else was true of his character it would be
necessary to determine from the several ladies of his
choice whom he kept carefully apart, recipients of his
subdivided confidence.  Blanchard Cayley did not
introduce female contemporaries.

He wore a carefully trimmed, reddish, Vandyke
beard, with a drooping mustache; his hair curled a
bit effeminately.  Large blue eyes, the well-developed
nose of the hobbyist, hands of a sixteenth-century
gentleman, aristocratic, well-kept, soft.  To-night he
was in half-dress—dinner jacket and gold studs, an
inch wide stripe upon his trousers—this under a yellow
mackintosh and cricket cap, in strict accordance with
his own ideas of form.

Mr. Payson was in the library still busy with his
manuscript when he entered.  The two shook hands.
Blanchard's manner had in it something of a survival
of the old school.  He was never awkward, yet never
bombastic.  Suave, rather, with a semi-humorous touch
that relieved his courtesy of anything solemn.  He
smiled, showing his teeth, saying, with an appearance
of great interest,

"Well, Mr. Payson, I see you're still at it.  How's
*The Open Door in the Orient*?"

"Oh, getting on," said Mr. Payson.  "I want to
read you my last chapter when I get a chance.  I
think you'll like it."

Cayley had been successful in appearing to listen,
and at the same time pay his respects to Clytie, whose
hand he did not let go without a personal pressure
in addition to the visible greeting.  He kept it an
unpleasant half-second longer than had Granthope.
She freed herself with a slight gesture of discomfort.
"Perhaps I'd better go up-stairs and leave you men
alone to talk it over," she suggested.

"Certainly not," said her father.  "I'll wait until
some other time, only I thought Blanchard would
be interested."

"Indeed, I am," Cayley protested.  "I'm very
anxious to hear your opinion about gold, too.  I have
something to suggest, myself.  Oh!"  He delved into
his breast pocket.  "Here are some notes on the
history of the trade dollar, Mr. Payson.  You know I
was speaking of it.  I've been looking up the subject
at the mint and at the library for you; I think it
might give you some ideas."

Mr. Payson took the paper eagerly and pushed up
his spectacles to examine it.  "Thank you; thank you
very much.  I'll be glad to look it over.  It's a
pleasure to find any one nowadays who's so interested
in what is going to be a very vital question.  You'll
find my cigars here, somewhere.  Cly, you go and find
the box, won't you?"

As Clytie disappeared in the direction of the
dining-room, he added, "You must humor her, Blanchard,
she's a bit skittish.  Don't force her hand and I think
you'll bring her around."

"Thanks for the tip, but I have my idea," was the
reply.  "It's only a question of time when I shall
be able to produce the psychological condition I want."

Mr. Payson shook his head dubiously.  "I don't
know.  That isn't the way we went about it when I
was young.  We didn't bother much with psychology
then.  We had emotions to attend to."

"Oh, love-making is just as much a science as
anything else, and there is no reason why it shouldn't
progress.  There are modern methods, you know;
it's only a form of hypnotism."  He smiled blandly.

When he and Clytie were alone—a situation she
seemed to delay as much as possible—Cayley sat down
opposite her with an ingratiating, disarming smile.
He was neither eager nor impressive.  He was sure
of himself.  It did not, as he had said, seem to matter
a great deal about her emotions; he scarcely considered
her otherwise than as a mind whose defenses he
was to overthrow in an intellectual contest.  He began
with elaborate circumlocution.

"Well, I've discovered something."

Her delicate eyebrows rose.

"It is a curious botanical fact that there are four
thousand lamp-posts in the city of San Francisco."

"Why botanical?"

"That is just what I expected you to ask."

"Then I'll not ask it."  She was already on the
defense.

"But you did!"

"Well?"  She appeared to resent his tone.

"Now, see here!"  He laid his right forefinger to
his left palm.  "Suppose a Martian were visiting the
earth.  He wouldn't at first be able to distinguish the
properties of things.  So, seeing these four thousand
lamp-posts, he might consider them as a part of the
Terrene flora—queer trees."

It was like a game of chess, and it was evident that
she could not foresee his next move.  The detour was
too complicated.  She seemed, by her attitude, to be
on her guard, but allowed him, with a nod of assent,
to proceed.

"Now, suppose you have the Martian, or let us call
it the uncorrelative point of view.  Suppose you use
brain-cells that have hitherto been quiescent or
undeveloped."

"I don't exactly follow."  Her attention wandered.

He probed it.  "Suppose I should get up and kiss you."

She awoke suddenly.

"You see what I mean now?" he continued.  "You
exploded a new cell then.  You gained a new point
of view with regard to me.  Don't be afraid.  I'm not
going to kiss you."

"Indeed, you're not!"  Her alarm subsided; her
resentment, rising to an equal level, was drawn off in a
smile at the absurdity of the discussion.

He went on: "But you must acknowledge that I
have, at least, produced a psychological condition.  I'm
going to use that new cell again."  He waited for her
answer.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed at last.  "We're getting
very far away from the lamp-posts.  I'm quite in
the dark."

He proceeded: "My character is lighted by four
thousand lamp-posts also."

"Ah, I see!  You want me to regard them as botanical
facts.  I, as a supposititious Martian, with this
wonderful new cell, am to perceive in you something that
is not true?"

"No, for in Mars, the lamp-posts, we will suppose,
*are* vegetables—not mechanical objects."

"A little more light from the lamp-posts, please."

"They are emotions, alive and growing.  They have
heat as well as light, in spite of their subtleties.  I want
you to perceive the fact that my methodical nature
shows that I have a determined, potent stimulus—that
I have energy—that I am in earnest."

She seemed to sniff the danger now and stood at
gaze.  He went on:

"I shall keep at the attempt until you do look at me
in this way—till I've educated these dormant cells."

"If you are leading up to another proposal," Clytie
said, "I must say I admire your devotion to method,
but it is time thrown away."

He took this calmly enough.  He took everything
calmly; but he did not abate his persistence.  "I'm
not leading up to a proposal so much as I am to an
acceptance."

Clytie shrugged her shoulders.  "You'll be telling
me you're in love with me next."

"Do you doubt it?"

"A half-dozen proposals have not convinced me."

"Seven," he corrected.  "This is the eighth."

"How long do you intend to keep it up?"

"Until I produce in your mind a psychological
condition which will convince you that I'm in earnest,
that I am sincere, that I am the man for you.  Then
I shall produce an emotional reflex—it's sure to follow.
It may come to-night and it may come next year.
Sooner or later circumstances will bring about this
crystallization.  Some shock may help; it may be a
simple growth.  I am sure to win you in the long run.
I'm bound to have you, and I will, if I have to make
a hundred attempts.  You can't dismiss me, for I'm
an old friend and you need me.  I have educated you,
I have broadened your horizon.  You see, I am
playing with my cards on the table."

"But without trumps."  Clytie stifled a yawn.

"Meaning, I suppose, that I have no heart?  Clubs
may do.  I rely upon your atavism."

"I suppose you have as much heart as can be made
out of brain."

"What if I say that I'm jealous?  Will that prove
that I have a heart?"

"Oh, you're too conceited ever to be jealous."

"But I am!  I'll prove it.  I happen to know that
that palmist person, Granthope, was here this
afternoon and you spent half an hour with him.  How's
that?"

"How do you know?"  She awoke to a greater interest.

"You don't seem to realize that I make it my
business to know all about you.  This came by accident,
though.  I was on the Hyde Street car and I saw
him get off and come in here.  I waited at the end of
the road till he went back.  Now, what if I should
tell your father that you have been entertaining a
faking palmist here, on the sly?"  He leaned back and
folded his hands.

Clytie rose swiftly and walked to the door without
a look at him.

"Father," she called, "Mr. Cayley has something
to say to you."

"Never mind," Cayley protested.  "That was merely
an experiment."

Mr. Payson, in overcoat and silk hat, thrust a mildly
expectant head in the room.

"It was only about the trade dollar business," said
Cayley.  "I'll tell you some other time."

Mr. Payson withdrew, scenting no mischief, and
Clytie sat down without a word.

"Thought you'd call my bluff, did you?" said
Cayley, unruffled.  "I like spirit!"

"If you don't look out you'll succeed in boring
me."  Clytie's manner had shown an amused scorn
rather than resentment.  She was evidently not afraid
of him.

"You're fighting too hard to be bored," he remarked
coolly.  He added, "Then you are interested in him,
are you?"

"I am."  Clytie looked him frankly in the face.

"Why?" he asked.

"I've heard a lot about him and he appeals to my
imagination.  I scarcely think I need to apologize for
it.  Have you any objection to my knowing him?"

"I'd rather you wouldn't get mixed up with him;
since he's been taken up the women are simply crazy
about him, as they always are about any charlatan.
They're all running after him and calling on him and
ringing him up at all hours.  Why, Cly, they actually
lie in wait for him at his place; trying to get a
chance to talk to him alone.  I don't exactly see you in
that class, that's all.  You can scarcely blame me."

"Oh, I haven't rung him up yet," said Clytie, "but
there's no knowing what I may do, of course, with all
my unexploded brain-cells."

"How did he happen to come here, then?"

"He came to see me, I suppose."

Cayley accepted the rebuff gracefully.  "Well, in
another month, when some one else comes along,
people will drop him with a thud.  He's a nine days'
wonder now, but he's too spectacular to last.  This is
a great old town!  We need another new fakir now
that the old gentleman in the Miller house has stopped
his Occult Brotherhood in the drawing-room and his
antique furniture repository in the cellar.  I haven't
heard of anything so picturesque since that Orpheum
chap caught the turnips on a fork in his teeth, that
were tossed from the roof of the Palace Hotel.  I
suppose I'll have a good scandal about Granthope, pretty
soon, to add to my collection."

Clytie accepted the diversion, evidently only too glad
to change the subject.  "What collection?" she asked.

"My San Francisco Improbabilities.  I've got a
note-book full of them—things no sane Easterner
would believe possible, and no novelist dare to use
in fiction."

"Oh, yes, I remember your telling me.  What are
they?  One was that house made entirely of doors,
wasn't it?"

"Yes, the 'house of one hundred and eighty doors'
at the foot of Ninth Street.  Then, there is the hulk
of the *Orizaba* over by the Union Iron Works, where
'Frank the Frenchman' lives like a hermit, eats swill
and bathes in the sewage of the harbor.  Then there's
'Munson's Mystery' on the North beach—nobody has
ever found out who Munson is.  And Dailey, the star
eater of the Palace Hotel—he used to have four
canvas-back ducks cooked, selected one and used only the
juice from the others; he ordered soup at a dollar a
plate; and he had a happy way of buying a case of
champagne with each meal, drinking only the top glass
from each bottle."

Clytie laughed now, for Cayley was in one of his
most amusing and enthusiastic moods.  "Do you
remember that tramp who lived all summer in the
Hensler vault in Calvary Cemetery?"

"Yes, but that isn't so impossible as Kruger's castle
out in the sand-hills by Tenth Avenue.  It's a perfect
jumble of job-lot buildings from the Mid-winter Fair,
like a nightmare palace.  I went out there once and
saw old Mother Kruger, so tortured with rheumatism
that she had to crawl round on her hands and knees.
She had only one tooth left.  The old man is one of
the last of the wood-engravers and calls himself the
Emperor of the Nations.  He has resurrected Hannibal
and an army of two hundred thousand men; also he
revived Pompeii for three days.  He wanted to bring
Mayor Sutro back to life for me, but I wouldn't
stand for it."

Cayley swept on with his anecdotes.  "Who would
believe the story of 'Big Bertha,' who buncoed all the
swellest Hebrews in town, and ended by playing
Mazeppa in tights at the Bella Union Theater?  Who
has written the true story of Dennis Kearney, the
hack-driver, who had his speeches written for him by
reporters, and went East with a big head, unconsciously
to plagiarize Wendell Phillips in Fanueil Hall?
Or of 'Mammy' Pleasant, the old negress who had
such mysterious influence over so many millionaires—who
couldn't be bribed—who died at last, with all her
secrets untold?  There's Romance in purple letters!

"What do you think of a first folio Shakespeare,
the rent-roll of Stratford parish, and a collection of
Incunabula worth thirty thousand dollars, kept in the
deserted library on Montgomery Street in a case, by
Jove, without a lock!  What's the matter with Little
Pete, the Chinaman, jobbing all the race-tracks in
California?  Who'd believe that there are streets here,
within a mile of Lotta's fountain, so steep that they
pasture cows on the grass?"

"Then there's Emperor Norton, and the Vigilance
Committee, and all the secrets of the Chinatown slave
trade," Clytie contributed, with aroused interest.

"Oh, I'm not speaking of that sort of thing.  That's
been done, and the East and England think that
Romance departed from here with the red-shirted
miner.  Everybody knows about the Bret Harte type of
adventure.  It's the things that are going on now
or have happened within a few years—like finding
that Chinese woman's skeleton upside down, built into
the wall of the house on the corner of Powell and
Sutter; like Bill Dockery, the food inspector, who
terrorized the San Bruno road, like a new Claude
Duval, holding up the milkmen with a revolver and
a lactometer, and went here, there and everywhere,
into restaurants and hotels all over the peninsula,
dumping watered milk into the streets till San
Francisco ran white with it."

"Then there's Carminetti's," Clytie recalled, now.
"That's modern enough, and typical of San Francisco,
isn't it?  I mean not so much what's done there, as
the way they do it.  I've always wanted to go down
there some Saturday night and see just what it's like."

"I wouldn't want you to be seen there, Cly, it
wouldn't do."  Cayley shook his head decidedly.

"Why wouldn't it do?"

"It's a little too lively a crowd.  You'd be disgusted,
if they happened to hit things up a bit, as they
often do."

"I don't see why I shouldn't be privileged to see
what is going on.  It's a part of my education, isn't
it?  It's all innocent enough, from what you say; it's
at worst nothing but vulgar.  I think I am proof
against that."

"People would get an altogether wrong opinion of
you.  They'd think you were fast."

"I fast?" Clytie smiled.  "I think I can risk that.
I shouldn't probably want to go more than once, it's
true.  You don't know me, that's all.  You don't
believe that I can go from one world of convention
to another and accept the new rules of life when it's
necessary.  It's just for that reason that I *do* wish
to go—as, when I went to London, I wanted to see if
I could accept all their slow, poky methods of business
and transportation and everything and find out the
reason of it all for myself, before I thought of criticizing
it.  I want to understand Carminetti's, if I can,
and if you won't take me, I'll find some one who will."

"Granthope, perhaps?" Cayley suggested with irony.

"I have no doubt he'd understand my motives better
than you do!"

"Well, it might be an interesting experiment.  Miss
Payson at Carminetti's—there's a San Francisco
contrast for you!"

"You may add it to your list of Improbabilities.
Study me, if you like, and put me in your list.  You
may find that I have a surprise or two left for you."  She
smiled to herself and threw back her head proudly.

"You do tempt me to try it," he said, coolly watching
her.  "You'd look as inconsistent there as those old
French family portraits in that saloon out on the
Beach—Lords of Les Baux, they were, I believe, administrators
of the high justice, the middle and the low!

"And, oh!" he added, "that reminds me of another
thing I found to-day while I was looking over a file
of the *Chronicle*, digging up this trade dollar
business.  It was way back in 1877; a queer story, but I
suppose it's true."

"What was it?" Clytie asked.  The rays of the
lamp shot her hair with gold sparks as she sat in a
low chair, listening.

"Why, there was an old woman who was half
crazy; she lived down south of Market Street
somewhere in the most fearful squalor."

Clytie suddenly moved back into the shadow.

"Yes, yes,—what else?"  She followed his words
with absorbed attention.

"There was no furniture except a lot of boxes and
a bookcase.  And here's the remarkable thing: there
was about two inches of rubbish and dirt matted down
all over the floor, where she used to hide money and
food and any old thing, wrapped in little packages.
When she died, her stuff was auctioned off, and they
found a trunk with a whole new wedding outfit in it.
How's that?"

"What was her name?" Clytie asked breathlessly.

"I don't remember it.  She was a sort of clairvoyant,
I believe.  There was a little boy lived with her, too.
It seems he disappeared after she died.  Ran away."

Clytie leaned forward again, her eyes wide open and
staring.  Her hands were tightly clasped together.

"A little boy?" she repeated.

"Why, that's what it said in the paper.  Great story,
isn't it?"

Clytie's breath came and went rapidly, as if she were
trying to breathe in a storm, amidst the dashing of
waves.  The color went from her cheeks, her thin
nostrils dilated.  Then, retreating into the shade again,
she managed to say:

"It certainly is romantic."

"No one would believe a thing like that could be
true," he followed.

"No, I can scarcely believe it's possible, myself," she
replied, controlling her agitation.

Blanchard Cayley ran on and on with his talk.
Clytie gave him scant attention, answering in
monosyllables.





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.. _`THE RISE AND FALL OF GAY P. SUMMER`:

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   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE RISE AND FALL OF GAY P. SUMMER

.. vspace:: 2

Two hours after leaving Granthope's studio,
Mr. Gay P. Summer had "dated" Fancy Gray.  Mr. Summer
was a "Native Son of the Golden West"; he had,
indeed, risen to the honorable station of Vice
President of the Fort Point Parlor of that ecstatic
organization.  He was, in his modest way, a leader of men,
and aspired to a corresponding mastery over women.
In all matters pertaining to the pursuit and conquest of
the fair sex, Mr. Summer was prompt, ingenious and
determined.  Before two weeks were over he was
able to boast, to his room-mate, of Fancy's subjection.
Fancy herself might equally well have boasted of his.
At the end of this time he was, at least, in possession
of her photograph, six notes written in a backward,
slanting penmanship, twelve words to the damask
page, with the date spelled out, a lock of hair (though
this was arrant rape), and one gray suede, left-hand
glove.  These he displayed, as trophies of the chase,
upon the bureau of his bedroom and defended them,
forbye, from the asteistic comments of his room-mate,
an unwilling and unconfessed admirer of Gay P. Summer's
power to charm and subdue.

In those two weeks much had been done that it is
not possible to do elsewhere than in the favored city
by the Golden Gate.  A Sunday excursion to the beach
was the fruit of his first telephonic conversation.
There are beaches in other places, indeed, but there
is no other Carville-by-the-Sea.  This capricious
suburb, founded upon the shifting sands of "The Great
Highway," as San Francisco's ocean boulevard is
named, is a little, freakish hamlet, whose dwellings—one
could not seriously call them houses—are built, for
the most part, of old street-cars.  The architecture is
of a new order, frivolously inconsequent.  According
to the owner's fancy, the cars are placed side by side
or one atop the other, arranged every way, in fact,
except actually standing on end.  From single cars,
more or less adapted for temporary occupancy, to
whimsical residences, in which the car appears only in
rudimentary fragments, a suppressed motif suggested
by rows of windows or by sliding doors, the owners'
taste and originality have had wanton range.  Balconies
jut from roofs, piazzas inclose sides and fronts,
cars are welded together, dovetailed, mortised, added
as ells at right angles or used terminally as kitchens
to otherwise normal habitations.

Gay P. Summer was, with his room-mate, the
proprietor of a car of the more modest breed.  It was a
weather-worn, blistered, orange-colored affair that had
once done service on Mission Street.  The cash-box
was still affixed to the interior, the platform, shaky
as it was, still held; the gong above, though cracked,
still rang.  There was a partition dividing what they
called their living-room, where the seats did service
for bunks, from the kitchen, where they were bridged
for a table and perforated for cupboards.  There was
a shaky canvas arrangement over a plank platform;
and beneath, in the sand, was buried a treasure of
beer bottles, iron knives, forks and spoons and
wooden plates.

Here, unchaperoned and unmolested, save by the
wind and sun, Gay P. Summer and Fancy Gray proceeded
to get acquainted.  They made short work of it.

Fancy's velvet cheeks were painted with a fine rose
color that day.  Her hair looked well in disorder; how
much better it would have looked, had it kept its
natural tone, she did not realize.  Her firm, white line
of zigzag teeth made her smile irresistible, even
though she chewed gum.  Her eyes were lambent, flickering
from brown to green; her lower lids, shaded with
violet, made them seem just wearied enough to give
them softness.  None of this was lost on Gay.

He, too, was well-developed, masculine, agile, with
a juvenile glow and freshness of complexion that
rivaled hers.  His dress was jimp and artful, with tie
and socks of the latest and most vivid mode.  Upon
his short, pearl, covert coat, he wore a mourning band,
probably for decoration rather than as a badge of
affliction.  His eyes were still bright and clear without
symptoms of dissipation.  His laughter was good to
hear, but, as to his talk, little would bear
repetition—slangy badinage, the braggadocio of youth, a gay
running fire of obvious retort and innuendo, frolic and
flirtations.  That Fancy appeared to enjoy it should go
without saying.  She was not for criticism of her host
and entertainer that fine day.  She let herself go in
the way of gaiety he led and slanged him jest for jest,
for Fancy herself had a pert and lively tongue.

Upon one point only did she fail to meet him.  Not
a word in regard to her employer could he get from
her.  Again and again, Gay came back to the subject
of the palmist and his business secrets; Fancy parried
his queries every time.  He tried her with flattery—she
laughed in his face.  He attempted to lead her on by
disclosing vivacious secrets of his own life; his
ammunition was only wasted upon her.  He coaxed; he
threatened jocosely (she defended herself ably from
his punitive kiss), but her discretion was impregnable.
She made merry at his expense when he sulked.  She
tantalized him when he pleaded.  Her wit was too
nimble for him and he gave up the attempt.

The stimulation of this first meeting went to Fancy's
head.  She laughed like a child.  She sang snatches
from her vaudeville days and mimicked celebrities.
Gay dropped his pose of worldly wisdom and made
shrieking puns.  They played like Babes in the Wood.

At seven o'clock, hungry and sun-burned, they
walked along the beach to the Cliff House and dined
upon the glazed veranda, watching the surf break on
Seal Rocks.  As they sat there in the dusk, haunted
by an elusive waiter, Gay waxed eloquent about himself,
told of his high office in the Native Sons, revealed
the amount of his salary at the bank, touched lightly
upon his previous amours, bragged loftily of his
indiscretions at exuberant inebriated festivals, puffing
magnificently the while at a "two-bit" cigar.

Fancy paid for her meal by listening to him
conscientiously, ejaculating "No!" and "Yes?" or "Say,
Gay, that's a josh, isn't it?"  If her mind wandered
(Fancy was nobody's fool), he did not perceive it.

To their cocktails and California claret they now
added a Benedictine, and Gay grew still more confidential.
The night fell, and the crowd began to leave.
They walked entirely round the hotel corridor, bought
an abalone shell split into layers of opalescent hues,
then with a last look at the sea-lions, barking in the
surge, they walked for the train, found a place in
an open car and sat down, wedged into a hilarious
crowd, reveling in song and peanuts.

Disregarded was the superb view they passed.  The
train, skirting the precipitous cliffs along the Golden
Gate, commanded a splendor of darkling water and
tumultuous mountain distances, theatrical in beauty.
The sea splashed at the foot of the precipice
beneath them.  The hills rose above their heads, the
intermittent twinkle of lighthouses punctuated the
purple gloom.  It was all lost upon them.  Fancy's head
drooped to Gay's shoulder.  He put his arm about
her, cocking his hat to one side that it might not
strike hers as he leaned nearer.  No one observed
them, no one cared, for every Jack had his Jill, and
a simple, primitive comradeship had settled upon the
wearied throng.  A baby whined occasionally as the
train lurched round the sharp curves of the track.  A
riotous yell or two came from the misogynists of the
smoking compartment.  Fancy did not talk.  Gay's
loquacity oozed away.  He was content to feel her
breathing against his side.

.. vspace:: 2

There were telephone conversations often after that,
then occasional lunches down-town, when Fancy,
always modishly dressed, drew many an eye to her
well-rounded, well-filled Eton jacket, her smart red hat,
her fresh white gloves and her high-heeled shoes.  Gay
was proud of her, and he showed her off to his friends
without caution.  Fancy was nothing loath.  Occasionally
they went to the theater, dining previously
in style at some popular restaurant, where Gay hoped
that he might be seen with her.  To such as discovered
them, he would bow with proud proprietorship; or
perhaps saunter over, on some flimsy pretext, to hear
his friends say, with winks and smiles:

"By Jove, that girl's all right, old man!  She's a
stunner.  Say, introduce me, will you?"

To which Gay would answer:

"Not on your folding bed!  This is a close corporation,
old man.  I've got that claim staked out, see?
So long!" and walk away pleased.

At the theater, he always made a point of going
out between the acts, in order that his reëntry might
point more conspicuously at his conquest.  Afterward,
at Zinkand's, having engaged a table beside which all
the world must pass, he would pose, apparently oblivious
to the crowd, talking to her with absorbed interest.

Fancy suffered the exhibition without displeasure.
She had no objection to being looked at.  To make
a picture of herself, to play the arch and coquettish
before a room of well-dressed folk was one of the
things she did best.

She was recognized occasionally and pointed out by
one or another of Granthope's patrons.  "There she is;
over behind you, in the white lace hat, with a
chatelaine watch—don't look just yet, though," was the
almost audible formula which Gay P. Summer learned
to wait for.  At such times his chest swelled with
pride.  To walk into a restaurant with her late at night
and leave a wake of excited whispers behind him, was
all he knew of fame.

It did not escape Gay's notice, however, that
Fancy's eyes were not always for him.  In the middle of
his longest and most elaborate story, she would often
throw a surreptitious glance about the room, letting
it rest for an instant—a butterfly's caress—upon some
admiring stalwart stranger.  Once or twice he detected
the flicker of Fancy's smile, a smile not meant for him.
He found that, although his attention was all for
Fancy, Fancy's errant glances allowed nothing and nobody
to escape her observation.  If he mentioned any one
whom he had seen in the room, Fancy had seen him,
or more often her, first.  Fancy always knew what
she wore, what it cost, what she was doing, how much
she liked him and what her little game was.

This sort of thing would have been an education
for Gay, had he been amenable to such teaching; but
what women see and know without a tutor he would
and could never know.  Wherefore, such dialogues as
this were common:

Fancy: "The brute!  He's actually made her cry,
now.  She's a little fool, though; it's good enough
for her!"

From Gay: "Where?—who do you mean?"

"Over there in the corner—don't stare so, *please*!—See
those two fellows and two girls?  The girl in the
white waist is tied up in a heart-to-heart talk with that
bald-headed chap, but she's dead in love with the other
fellow, see?  Yes, that fellow with the mustache.
My! but she's jealous of the other girl."

"How can you tell?  Oh, that's all a pipe-dream, Fancy!"

"Why, any fool would know it—any woman would,
I mean.  She had a few words with him—the fellow
she's stuck on, just now!  He must have said
something pretty raw.  Look at her eyes!  You can tell
from here there are tears in them.  Look!  See?  I
thought so.  She's going to try and make him
jealous!  What do you think of that?"

"Why, she's changed places with him; what's that
for?"  To Gay, the drama was as mysterious as a
Chinese play.

"Just to get him crazy, of course!  That other
fellow thinks she's really after him, too.  The other
girl sees through the whole game, of course.  My, but
men are easy!  Those two fellows are certainly being
worked good and plenty.  Just look at the way she's
freezing up to that bald-headed chap now.  Well, I
never!  If that other girl isn't trying to get you on
the string.  Smile at her, Gay, and see what she'll do."

"Never mind about her!" said Gay, secretly pleased
at the tribute.  "You girls can always see a whole
lot more than what really happens.  She's just changed
places on account of the draught, probably.  She is
lamping me, though, isn't she?  Say, she's a peach,
all right!"

"Yes, she's sure pretty.  Say, Gay—"

"What?"  His eye returned fondly to her.

"Do you think I'm as pretty as she is?"

"Oh, you make me tired, Fancy.  Gee!  You've got
her sewed up in a sack for looks!"

So Fancy played her game cleverly, keeping Gay,
but keeping him off at arm's length.  But as time went
on, his ardor grew and she was often at her wits' end
to handle him.  Though free from any conventional
restraints, she did not yet consider her lips Mr. Summer's
property, though she permitted him a cool and
lifeless hand upon occasion.  In time, the excitable
youth began to understand her reserve; but instead
of dampening his enthusiasm, it aroused his zest for the
chase.  She was not so easy game as he had thought.
He waxed sentimental, therefore, and plied her with
equivocal monologues, hinting, in the attempt to make
sure of his way.  At this, her sense of humor broke
forth, effervescing in lively ridicule.  This brought
Mr. Summer, at last, to the point of an out-and-out
proposal.  Fancy, experienced in such situations, warned
in time by his preludes, did not take it too seriously.

"I am sorry to say you draw a blank, Gay," she
informed him lightly.  "I'm not in the market yet.
Many a man has expected me to become domesticated
at sight, and settle down in content over the
cookstove.  But I haven't even a past yet—nothing but a
rather tame present and hope for a future.  I don't
seem to see you in it, Gay.  In fact, there's nobody
visible to the naked eye at present."

"Well," he said, "I'll cut it out for now, as long
as I can't make good, but sometime you'll come to me
and beg me to marry you, see if you don't.  Whenever
you get ready, I'll be right there with the goods."

Fancy laughed and the episode was closed.

.. vspace:: 2

"Say, Fancy, there's a gang of artist chaps and
literary guys I'd like to put you up against," Gay said
one afternoon.  "I think you'd make a hit with the
bunch, if you can stand a little jollying."

"You watch me!"  Fancy became enthusiastically
interested.  "Where do they hang out?"

"They eat at a joint down on Montgomery Street.
They're heavy joshers, though.  They're too clever
for me, mostly.  It's the real-thing Bohemia down
there, though."

"Why didn't you tell me about it before?" she
pouted.  "I'm game!  Let's float in there to-night and
see the animals feed."

So they went down to the Latin Quarter together.

Bohemia has been variously described.  Since Henri
Murger's time, the definition has changed retrogressively,
until now, what is commonly called Bohemia
is a place where one is told, "This is Liberty Hall!"—and
one is forced to drink beer whether one likes it
or not, where not to like spaghetti is a crime.  Not
such was the little coterie of artists, writers and
amateurs, who dined together every night at Fulda's
restaurant.

In San Francisco is recruited a perennial crop of
such petty soldiers of fortune.  Here art receives
scant recompense, and as soon as one gets one's head
above water and begins to be recognized, existence is
unendurable in a place where genius has no field for
action.  The artist, the writer or the musician must fly
East to the great market-place, New York, or to the
great forcing-bed, Paris, to bloom or fade, to live
or die in competition with others in his field.

So the little artistic colonies shrink with defections
or increase with the accession of hitherto unknown
aspirants.  Many go and never return.  A few come
back to breathe again the stimulating air of California,
to see with new eyes its fresh, vivid color, its poetry,
its romance.  To have gone East and to have returned
without abject failure is here, in the eyes of the
vulgar, Art's patent of nobility.  Of those who have
been content to linger peaceably in the land of the
lotus, some are earls without coronets, but one and
all share a fierce, hot, passionate love of the soil.
San Francisco has become a fetish, a cult.  Under
its blue skies and driving fogs is bred the most
ardent loyalty in these United States.  San Francisco
is most magnificently herself of any American city,
and San Franciscans, in consequence, are themselves
with an abounding perfervid sincerity.  Faults they
have, lurid, pungent, staccato, but hypocrisy is not
of them.  That vice is never necessary.

The party that gathered nightly at Fulda's was as
remote from the world as if it had been ensconced on a
desert island.  It was unconscious, unaffected,
sufficient to itself.  Men and girls had come and gone
since it had formed, but the nucleal circle was always
complete.  Death and desertions were unacknowledged—else
the gloom would have shut down and the
wine, the red wine of the country, would have
tasted salt with tears.  There had been tragedies and
comedies played out in that group, there were names
spoken in whispers sometimes, there were silent toasts
drunk; but if sentiment was there, it was disguised
as folly.  Life still thrilled in song.  Youth was not
yet dead.  Art was long and exigent.

It was their custom, after dinner, to adjourn to
Champoreau's for *café noir*, served in the French
style.  In this large, bare saloon, with sanded floor,
with its bar and billiard table, foreign as France,
almost always deserted at this hour save by their
company, the genial *patron* smiled at their gaiety, as he
prepared the long glasses of coffee.  To-night, there
were six at the round table.

Maxim, an artist unhailed as yet from the East, was,
of all, the most obviously picturesque, with a fierce
mustached face and a shock of black hair springing
in a wild mass from his head to draggle in stringy
locks below his eyes, or, with a sudden leonine shake,
to be thrown back when he bellowed forth in song.
He had been in Paris and knew the airs and argot of
the most desperate studies.  His laughter was like the
roar of a convivial lion.

Dougal, with a dog-like face and tow hair, so
ugly as to be refreshing, full of common sense and
kindness, with a huge mouth full of little cramped
teeth and a smile that drew and compelled and
captured like a charm—he sat next.  Good nature and
loyalty dwelt in his narrow blue eyes.  His slow,
labored speech was seldom smothered, even in the wit
that enveloped it.

Most masculine and imperative of all, was Benton,
with his blur of blue-black hair, fine tangled threads,
his melting, deep blue eyes, shadowy with fatigue,
lighted with vagrant dreams or shot with brisk fires
of passion.  His hands were strong and he had an air
of suppressed power.

The fourth man was Philip Starr, a poet not long
for San Francisco, seeing that the Athanæum had
already placed the laurels upon his brow—he was as far
from the conventional type of poet as is possible.
He had a lean, eager, sharply cut face, shrewd, quick
eye and sinewy, long fingers.  His hair was close
cropped, his mouth was tight and narrow.  Electricity
seemed to dart from him as from a dynamo.  Just now
he was teaching the company a new song—an old
one, rather, for it was an ancient Anglo-Saxon
drinking-song, whose uproarious refrain was well fitted
to the temper of the assembly.

At one end of the table sat a young woman, *petite*,
elf-like as a little girl, a brown, cunning, soft-haired
creature, smiling, smiling, smiling, with eyes half
closed, wrinkled in quiet mirth.  This was Elsie
Dougal.

Opposite her was a girl of twenty-seven, with
a handsome, clear-cut, classic face, lighted with gray
eyes, limpid and straightforward, making her seem
the most ingenuous of all.  Mabel's hair curled
unmanageably, springy and dark.  Her face was serious and
intent till her smile broke and a little self-conscious
laugh escaped.

Starr pounded with one fist upon the table, his
thumb held stiffly upright:

   |  "Dance, Thumbakin, dance!"

he sang, and the chorus was repeated.  Then with the
heel of his palm and his fingers outstretched, pounding
merrily in time:

   |  "Oh, dance ye merrymen, every one,"

then with his fist as before:

   |  "For Thumbakin, he can dance alone!"

and, raising his fists high over his head, coming down
with a bang:

   |          "*For*
   |  "Thumbakin he can dance alone!"

.. vspace:: 2

They went through the song together, dancing
Foreman, Middleman, and Littleman, ending in a
pianissimo.  Then over and over they sang that queer,
ancient tune, till all knew it by heart.

Benton pulled his manuscript from his pocket and
read it confidentially to Elsie, who smiled and smiled.
Starr recited his last poem while Dougal made
humorous comments.  Maxim broke out into a French
student's *chanson*, so wildly improper that it took two
men to suppress him.  Mabel giggled hysterically and
began a long, dull story which, despite interruptions,
ended so brilliantly and so unexpectedly, that every
one wished he had listened.

Then Dougal called out:

"The cavalry charge!  Ready!  One finger!"

They tapped in unison, not too fast, each with a
forefinger, upon the table.

"Two fingers!"

The sound increased in volume.

"Three fingers, four fingers, five!"

The crescendo rose.

"Two hands!  One foot!  BOTH FEET!"

There was a hurricane of galloping fists and soles.
Then, in diminuendo:

"One foot!  One hand!  Four fingers, three, two,
one!  Halt!"

The clatter grew softer and softer till at last all
was still.

.. vspace:: 2

As Gay opened the door, Fancy heard a roar that
increased steadily until it became a wild hullabaloo.
Looking in, she saw the six seated about the table,
the coffee glasses jumping madly with the percussion.
The noise was like the multitudinous charge of
troopers.  Then the tumult died slowly away, the patter
grew softer and softer, ending in a sudden hush as
seven faces looked up at her.  Gay P. Summer's
advent was greeted with frowns, but Fancy gathered
an instant acclaim from twelve critical eyes.

She stepped boldly into the room and shed the
radiance of her smile upon the company.

"I guess this is where I live, all right!" she
announced.  "I've been gone a long time, haven't I?
Never mind the introductions.  I'm Fancy Gray,
drifter; welcome to our fair city!"

They let loose a cry of welcome, and Dougal, rising,
opened a place for her between his chair and Maxim's.

"I'm *for* her!" He hailed her with a good-natured
grin.  "She's the right shape.  Come and have coffee!"

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

Gay's reception was by no means as cordial as hers,
which had been immediate and spontaneous at the
sound of her caressing, jovial voice and the sight of
her genial smile, which seemed to embrace each
separate member of the party.  They made grudging
room for him beside Elsie, who gave him a cold little
hand.  Mabel bowed politely.

"Where'd you get her, Gay?" said Starr.  "You're
improving.  She looks like a pretty good imitation of
the real thing."

"Oh, I'll wash, all right," said Fancy.

Gay P. proudly introduced her to the company.
He played her as he might play a trump to win the
seventh trick.  Indeed, without Fancy's aid, he would
have received scant welcome at that exclusive board.
Many and loud were the jests at Summer's expense
while he was away.  Many and soft were the jests
he had not wit enough to understand when he was
present.  Philip Starr had, at first sight of him, dubbed
him "The Scroyle," and this sobriquet stuck.  Gay
P. Summer was ill versed in Elizabethan lore, but, had his
wit been greater, his conceit would still have protected
him.

He had already unloaded Fancy, though he was as
yet unaware of it.  She was taken up with enthusiasm
by the men, whom she drew like a magnet.  Mabel
and Elsie watched her with the keenness of women
who are jealous of any new element in their group.  It
was, perhaps, not so much rivalry they feared, for
their place was too well established, as the admittance
into that circle of one who would betray a tendency
toward those petty feline amenities that only women
can perceive and resent.

But Fancy Gray showed no such symptoms.  She
did not bid for the men's attention.  She made a
point of talking to Elsie, and she managed cleverly
to include Mabel in the attention she received.
Fancy, in her turn, scrutinized the two girls artfully
and made her own instantaneous deductions.  All of
this by-play was, of course, quite lost upon the men.

The talk sprang into new life and Fancy's eye ran
from one to another member of the group, dwelling
longest upon Dougal.  His ugliness seemed to
fascinate her; and, as is often the case with ugly men,
he inspired her instant confidence.  She made up to
him without embarrassment or concealment, taking his
hairy hand and caressing it openly.  At this, Elsie's
eyelids half closed, but there was no sign of jealousy.
Mabel noticed the act, too, and her manner suddenly
became warmer toward the girl.  By these two
feminine reactions, Fancy saw that she had done well.

They sang, they pounded the table; and, as an
initiation, every man saluted Fancy's cheek.  She
took it like an empress.  Then, suddenly, Dougal held
up two fingers.  Every one's eyes were turned upon
him.

"*Piedra, Pinta?*" he cried, with a side glance at
Fancy.

Every one voted.  Mabel held up both her hands
gleefully.

So was Fancy Gray, though she was not aware of
the honor till afterward, admitted to the full comradeship
of the Pintos.  It was a victory.  Many had, with
the same ignorance as to what was happening,
suffered an ignominious defeat.  Fancy's election was
unanimous.

And for this once, in gratitude for his discovery,
Mr. Gay P. Summer, The Scroyle, was suffered to
inflict himself upon the coterie of the Pintos.

There were other honors in store for Fancy Gray.

.. vspace:: 2

Piedra Pinta is two hours' journey from San
Francisco to the north, in Marin County—a land of
mountains, virgin redwood forests and trout-filled
streams.  One takes the ferry to Sausalito, crossing
the northern bay, and rides for an hour or so up a
little narrow-gage squirming railroad into the canyon
of Paper Mill Creek; and, if one has discovered and
appropriated the place, it is a mile walk up the track
and a drop from the embankment down a gravelly,
overgrown slope, into the camp-ground.  Here a great
crag rears its vertically split face, hidden in beeches
and bay trees.  At its foot a flattened fragment has
fallen forward to do service as a fireplace.  Beyond,
there are more boulders in the stream, which here
widens and deepens, overhung by clustering trees.
Save when an occasional train rushes past overhead,
or a fisherman comes by, wading up-stream, the place
is secret and silent.  Opposite, across the brook, an
oat-field slopes upward to the country road and the
smooth drumlins beyond.  A not too noisy crowd can
here lie hugger-mugger, hidden from the world.

To Piedra Pinta that next Saturday they came,
bringing Fancy Gray, a smiling captive, with them.
The men bore blankets and books; the women food
and dishes enough for a picnic meal.  They came
singing, romping up the track, big Benton first with
the heaviest load.  In corduroys and jeans, in boots and
flannel shirts they came.  Little Elsie, like a girl
scout, wore a rakish slouch hat trimmed with live
carnations, a short skirt, leggings, a sheath knife
swinging from her belt.  Mabel had her own
pearl-handled revolver.  The rest looked like gipsies.

They slid down the bank and debouched with a shout
into the little glade.  Fancy entered with vim into
the celebration.  Not that she did any useful work,
that was not her field; she was there chiefly as a
decoration and an inspiration.  She had dressed herself in
khaki.  Her boots were laced high, her sombrero
permitted a shower of tinted tendrils to escape and
wanton about her forehead.  She found fragrant
sprays of yerba buena and wreathed them about her neck.

It was all new and strange to her, all delightful.
She had seen the artificial side of the town and knew
the best and worst of its gaiety; but here, in the
open for almost the first time, she breathed deeply of
the primal joys of nature and was refreshed.  Her
curiosity was unlimited; she played with earth and
water, fire and air.  She unbuttoned the collar of her
shirt-waist and turned it in, disclosing a delicious pink
hollow at her throat.  She rolled up her sleeves,
displaying the dimples in her elbows.  At the preparations
for the dinner she was an eager spectator, and
when the meal was served, smoked and sandy, and the
bottles were opened, all traces of the fairy in her
disappeared; she was simple girl.  She ate like a cannibal
and ate with glee.

The shadows fell.  The nook became dusky, odorous,
moist; the rivulet rippled pleasantly, the ferns moved
lazily in the night airs.  The moon arose and gave
a mysterious argent illumination.  The going and
coming ceased, the shouting and lusty singing grew
still.  The blankets were opened and spread at the
foot of the rock.  Dougal and Elsie took their places
in the center and, the men on one side and the girls
on the other, they lay upon the ground and wrapped
themselves against the cooling air.  The fire was
replenished and its glare lighted up the trees in planes
of foliage, like painted sheets of scenery.

They lay down, but not to sleep.  Dougal's coffee,
black and strong, stimulated their brains.  The talk
ran on with an accompaniment of song and jest.  One
after another sprang up to sing some old-time tune
or to recite a familiar, well-beloved poem; the
dialogue jumped from one to the other.  Some dozed
and woke again at a chorus of laughter; some sat
wide-eyed, staring into the fire, into the darkness, or
into one another's eyes.

Maxim was prodigious.  He blared forth rollicking
airs, he did scenes from *La Bohème*, posturing
picturesquely against the flame, his long black locks
sweeping his face.  Starr improvised while they
listened, rapt.  Benton climbed high into a beech tree
and there, invisible, he recited *Cynara* and quoted
*The Song of the Sword*, while Dougal jeered and
fed the blaze.  Mabel listened entranced and
appreciative, and ventured occasionally on one more long,
dull story—her tale always growing melodramatically
exciting, as the attention of her listeners wandered.
Elsie sat and smiled and smiled, wide awake till three.

Forgotten tales, snatches of song, jokes and verses
surged into Fancy's head and one after another she
shot them into the night.  She, too, arose and sang,
dancing.  Not since her vaudeville days had she
attempted it, but mounting to the spirit of the occasion,
she thrilled and fascinated them with her drollery.

She and Dougal were the last ones awake.  They
spoke now in undertones.  Maxim was snoring
hideously, so was Benton.  Starr lay with his mouth
open, Mabel was curled into a cocoon of blankets,
flushed Elsie was still smiling in her sleep.

At four the dawn appeared.  They watched it
spellbound, and as it turned from a glowing rose to
straw color, the birds began to twitter in the boughs.
Fancy shook off her lassitude.

"I'm going in swimming," she exclaimed, starting
up.  "Stay here, Dougal—I trust to your honor!"

"I'll not promise," he replied.  "One doesn't often
have a chance to see a nymph bathing in a fountain
nowadays, but I have the artist's eye; it will only be
for beauty's sake—go ahead!"  He kept his place,
nevertheless; the pool was invisible from the level of
the camp-ground.

Fancy darted down the path to the wash of pebbles
below.  Dougal shook Elsie into a dazed wakefulness.

Mabel's eyes opened sleepily.

"Fancy's gone in swimming," he whispered.  "Don't
wake up the boys."

Like shadows the two girls slid after her.  Dougal
lay down to sleep.

In half an hour he was awakened by their return,
fresh, rosy, dewy and jubilant.  Elsie crawled to his
side under the blankets; Fancy and Mabel scrambled
up the bank to greet the sun, chattering like sparrows.
Maxim rolled over in his sleep.  Benton and Starr,
back to back, dreamed on.  The sun rose higher and
smote the languid group with a shaft of light.  The
men rose at last, and, dismissing Elsie from the camp,
took their turns in the pool.  At seven Dougal
announced breakfast.

At high noon, after a climb up the hill and an hour
of poetry, Fancy was crowned queen of Piedra Pinta,
with pomp and circumstance.  She was invested with
a crown of bay leaves and, for a scepter, the camp
poker was placed in her hand.  Dougal, as her prime
minister, waxed merry, while her loyal lieges passed
before her to do her homage.  She greeted them one by
one: The Duke of Russian Hill, with his tribute of
three square meals per week; Lord of the Barbary
Coast; Elsie, Lady of Lime Point, Mistress of the
Robes; Sir Maxim the Monster, Court Painter; Sir
Starr of Tar Flat, Laureate; and Mabel the Fair,
Marchioness of Mount Tamalpais, First Lady of the
Bedchamber, to keep her warm.

.. vspace:: 2

She issued many titles after that, as her domain
increased, and as "Fancy I," she always styled herself
in signing her letters.  Her royal edicts were not often
slighted.

For she was gay and young, and she was bold and
free.  Life had scarcely touched her yet with care.
This was her apotheosis.  The scene went down in the
annals of the Pintos and the tradition spread.  Her
reign was famous.  Her accolade was a smile.  Her
homage was paid in kisses—and in tears.

.. vspace:: 2

Yet Fancy Gray was not a girl to commit herself
to any one particular set.  Her tastes were eclectic.
She was essentially adventurous.  It was her boast
that she never made a promise and never broke
one—that she never explained—that she liked everybody,
and nobody.  She guarded her independence jealously,
restless at every restraint.  With the friend of the
moment she was everything.  When he passed out of
sight, she devoted an equal attention to the next comer,
and she was faithful to both.

She was often seen with Granthope dining or at
the theater.  Mabel and Elsie whispered together,
adding glances to smiles, and frowns to blushes,
summing them up according to the feminine rules of
psychological arithmetic.  The men did not even
wonder—it was none of their business, and was she not
Fancy Gray?  When they were seen together, they
were conspicuously picturesque.  Granthope had an
air, Fancy had a manner, the two harmonized
perfectly.

Mr. Gay P. Summer, meanwhile, had by no means
given up the chase.  He was not one to be easily
snubbed, and the only effect of the slight put upon
him by the Pintos was to make him seek after Fancy
still more energetically, and while he paid court to her,
to keep her away from the attractions of that engaging
set.  Fancy accepted his attentions with condescension.
After all, a dinner was a dinner—her own way of
putting it was that she always hated to refuse "free
eggs."

He still tried his best to draw her out, but when
he asked her about Granthope, she gave a passionate,
indignant refutation of his innuendoes.

"I owe that man everything, everything!" she
exclaimed.  "He took me when I was walking the
streets, hungry, without a cent, and he has been good
to me ever since!  He's all right!  And any one who
says anything against him is crossed off my list!"

This was at Zinkand's.  The slur had been occasioned
by the sight of Granthope at table with a lady
whom Gay knew rather too much about.  It happened
that there was another group in the room that drew
Fancy's roving eye and nimble comment.  She asked
about the man with the pointed beard.

"Oh, that's Blanchard Cayley—everybody knows
him," Gay explained.  "He's a rounder.  I see him
everywhere.  No, I don't know him to speak to, but
they say he's a clever chap.  I wonder who that is with
him, though?  I've seen her before, somewhere."

"I know," said Fancy; "that's Mrs. Page."

"H'm!  Funny, every time I see her she's with a
different man.  She's pretty gay, that woman."

"Is she?  You're a cad to tell of it."

"Why?  Do you know her?"

She scorned to answer.

On a Sunday night soon after, Gay invited her to
dinner at Carminetti's.  She accepted, never having
gone to the place, which was then in the height of
its prestige, a resort for the most uproarious spirits
of the town.

It was down near the harbor front, a region of
warehouses, factories, freight tracks and desecrated,
melancholy buildings, disheveled and squalid, that
Mr. Summer took her.  He pushed open the door to
let upon her a wave of light frivolity and the mingled
odor of Italian oil and wine permeated by an under-current
of fried food.  The tables were all filled, some
with six or eight diners at one board, and by the
counter or bar, which ran all along one side of the room,
there were at least a dozen persons waiting for seats.
Gay walked up to bald-headed "Dave," the patron,
who in his shirt-sleeves was superintending the
confusion, keeping an eye ready for rising disorder.
After a quick colloquy, he beckoned to Fancy, who
followed him down between the gay groups to a
table in a corner.  It was just being deserted by a
short young hoodlum, with a pink and green striped
sweater, accompanied by a girl several inches too tall
for him, dressed in a soiled buff raglan and a triumphal
hat.

"Here we are," said Gay; "we're in luck to get a
table at all, to-night.  But I gave Dave a four-bit piece
and that fixed it."

Fancy sat down and looked about.  "It is pretty
gay, isn't it?  It looks as if it were going to be fun."

"Oh, you wait till nine o'clock," Gay boasted wisely.
"They're not warmed up to it yet.  The 'Dago Red'
hasn't got in its work.  There'll be something doing,
after a while."

The walls were decorated with beer- and wine-signs
in frames, and on either side of the huge mirror hung
lithographic portraits of Humberto and the Queen of
Italy.  Opposite, a row of windows looking on the
street was hung with half-curtains of a harsh,
disagreeable blue; over them peeped, now and again,
wayfarers or others who had dined too well, rapping
on the glass and gesticulating to those inside.  All
about the sides of the room and upon every column,
hats, coats and cloaks were hung, making the place
seem like an old-clothes shop.  The floor was covered
with sawdust and the tables were huddled closely
together.

For the most part the diners were all
young—mechanics, clerks, factory girls and the like
though here and there, watching the sport, were
up-town parties, reveling in an unconventional
air.  The groups, now well on in their dinner, had
begun to fraternize.  Here a young man raised his
wine-glass to a pretty girl across the room and the
two drank together, smiling, or calling out some easy
witticism.  In one corner, a party of eight was singing
jovially something about: "One day to him a letter
there did come," and anon, encouraged by the applause
and the freedom, a lad of nineteen, devoid of collar,
closed his eyes, leaned back and sang a long song
through in a vibrant, harsh voice.  He was greeted
with applause, hands clapped, feet pounded and
knives clattered on bottles till the *patron* hurried from
table to table quelling the pandemonium.  Waiters
came and went in bustling fervor, dodging between one
table and another, jostling and spilling soup; at
intervals a great clanging bell rang and the apparition of a
soiled white cook appeared at the kitchen door ordering
the waiters to: "Take it away!"  The kitchen was an
arcade into which from time to time guests wandered,
to joke with the cook and beat upon the huge
immaculate copper kettles on the wall.

The conversation at times became almost general,
the party of songsters in the corner leading in the
exchange of persiflage.  Two girls dining alone, with
hard, tired-looking eyes and cheap jewelry, began a
duet; instantly, from a company of young men, two
detached themselves, plates and glasses in hand, and
went over to join them.  A roar went up; glasses
rang again and Dave fluttered about in protest at the
noise.

Fancy talked little.  The crowd, the lights, the
*camaraderie* hypnotized her.  She watched first one
and then another group, picking out, for Gay's edification,
the prettiest girl and the handsomest man in the
room.  She waved her hand slyly at the collarless
soloist and applauded two darkies who came in from
outside to make a hideous clamor with banjos.  As
she waited to be served, she nibbled at the dry French
bread and drank of the sour claret, watching over
the top of her glass, losing nothing.

In the middle of the room, Blanchard Cayley sat
with three ladies.  One of them Fancy recognized as
Miss Payson.  Fancy's eyebrows rose slightly at
seeing her, and a smile and a nod were cordially
exchanged.  The others Fancy did not know.  They
were both pretty women, well-dressed, with evident
signs of breeding, and, as the urn waxed freer,
apparently not a little embarrassed at being seen in
such a place.  Miss Payson showed no such feeling in
her demeanor, however much she may have been
amused or surprised at the spirit of the place.
Blanchard Cayley divided his attentions equitably amongst
them, till, looking across the room, he caught Fancy's
errant glance.  He smiled at her openly as if challenging
her roguery.

She boldly returned the greeting.  Gay caught the
glance that was exchanged.

"See here, Fancy," he protested, "none of that now!
He's got all he can do to attend to his own table.
I'll attend to this one, myself."

Now, this was scarcely the way to treat a girl like
Fancy Gray.  At her first opportunity, she sent
another smile in Cayley's direction.  It was divided, this
time, by members of his own party and the women
began to buzz together.  Gay was annoyed.

"There's something I like about that man," Fancy
remarked presently.  "What'd you say his name was?
That's the one we saw at Zinkand's, wasn't it?"

"There's something I don't like about him.  He'd
better mind his own business," Gay growled, now
thoroughly provoked.

"You can't blame any one for noticing *me*, can
you, Gay?"  Her tone was honey-sweet.

"I can blame you for flirting across the room when
you're here with me!" he replied fiercely.

Fancy opened her eyes very wide.  "Indeed?" she
said with a sarcastic emphasis.

"That's right," he affirmed.

In answer, she cast another languishing glance
toward Cayley.  Cayley, despite Clytie's entreating hand
upon his arm, sent back an unequivocal reply.

"Well," said Gay, rising sullenly, "I guess it's up
to me to leave!"  He reached for his hat.

"Oh, Gay!" she protested in alarm, "you're not
going to throw me down before this whole crowd, are
you?"  Already their colloquy had attracted the
attention of the near-by tables.

He hesitated a moment.  "Unless you behave yourself,"
he said finally.  His tone of ownership decided her.

"Run along, then!"  She gave him a smile of limpid
simplicity, but her jaws were set determinedly.  "I
expect I can get some one to take care of me.  Don't
mind me!"

Their discussion had not been unnoticed at Mr. Cayley's
table.  Clytie was watching the pair interestedly,
as if reading the motions of their lips.  Fancy
caught her eye and flushed a little.

Gay's brows gathered together in a sullen look as
he crowded his hat upon his head savagely.  He
turned with a last retort:

"You'll be sorry you threw me down, Fancy Gray!
You want too many men on the string at once!"

He turned and left her, passing sulkily along the
passages between the tables with his hat on his head,
till he came to the cashier, where he paid the bill for
two dinners with lordly chivalry.  Then, without
looking back, he opened the door of the restaurant and
went out.

An instant after, Fancy was on her feet.  Gay's
going had already made her conspicuous and her flush
grew deeper.  Cayley watched her without smiling,
now, waiting to see what she would do.  Beside him,
Clytie Payson sat watching, her lips slightly parted,
her nostrils dilated, absorbed, seeming to understand
the situation perfectly, her eyes gazing at Fancy as if
to convey her sympathy.  Fancy looked and saw her
there, and the sight steadied her.  With all her
customary nonchalance, with all that jovial, compelling
air of optimism which she usually radiated, as if she
were quite sure of her reception and came as an
expected guest, she sauntered carelessly over to the
central table.

Her smile was dazzling as it swept about the board,
meeting the eyes of each of the women in turn.  One
by one it subjugated them.  They even returned it
with trepidation, not too embarrassed to be keenly
expectant, waiting for the outcome.  But it was for Clytie
that Fancy Gray reserved her warmest, deepest look.
In that glance she threw herself upon Miss Payson's
mercy, and appealed to the innate chivalry of woman
to woman, to the bond of sex—a sentiment in finer
women more potent than jealousy.

Even before she spoke Clytie had arisen and
stretched out her hand.  In a flash she had accepted
what had run counter to all her experience, and played
up to Fancy's audacity with a spirit that ignored the
crowd, the eyes, the whispers.

Who, indeed, could resist Fancy Gray in such a
fantastic, tiptoe mood?  Her act, audacious, even
impertinent, was so delicately achieved, she was so sure
of herself and her own charm that it was dramatic,
poetic in its confidence, picturesque.  But no one could
have equalled Clytie as she arose to meet such bravado,
when she shook off her reserves and took her hand
at such a psychological game.  Not even Fancy Gray,
with all her superb poise.  On Fancy's cheek the color
deepened—it was she who blushed so furiously, now,
not Clytie.  In that flush she confessed herself beaten
at her own game.

"How do you do?" Clytie was saying.  "We've been
wishing all the evening that we could have you with
us.  Do sit down, here, beside me—we'll make room
for you.  I want you to meet Miss Gray, Mrs. Maxwell."

Something in the graciousness of her manner drew
the other women up to her chivalrous level.
Mrs. Maxwell bowed, smiled, too, with a word of welcome,
so did Miss Dean as she was introduced.  Fancy
beamed.  Meanwhile Cayley had arisen.  He was
the most perturbed of all.  He offered his chair.

"You see what you've done, Mr. Cayley," said
Fancy.  "I've just been jilted for the first time in my
life, and it was all your fault.  I'm afraid I shall have
to butt in and ask you to protect me!"

It was not Fancy but Clytie who had, apparently,
most surprised him.  He gave a questioning look at
her as he replied, not a little confused:

"Won't you sit down here in my place?  There's
plenty of room.  I'll get another chair—or," he stole
another glance at Clytie, "I'll let you have half of
mine!"

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

Clytie smiled encouragingly.  "I'll divide mine with
you, too, if you like."

"You're a gentleman!  I'd much rather sit with you,
Miss Payson; thank you!"  Then she looked at Clytie
fondly.  "I *thought* I was right about you!  You *are*
a thoroughbred, aren't you?"

"We're educating Mr. Cayley, my dear."  Clytie
gave him a bright smile.  "He has a few things yet
to learn about women."

"I plead guilty," said Cayley, watching the two
with curiosity.

"Miss Gray and I are disciples of the same school.
She gave me the password."  Clytie was fairly
superb—she even outshone Fancy—she was regal.

Fancy laughed.  "You're the only one who knows it,
that *I* ever met, though."

"Ah," said Clytie, "then that's the only way I can
beat you—I believe many women are initiated."

Fancy clapped her hands softly in pantomime.  Then
she turned to Mrs. Maxwell and the others.  "I hope
I'm not out of the frying-pan into the fire," she said.
"Please let me down easy, ladies.  If you don't make
me feel at home pretty quick, I'll be up against it I
You don't really have to *know* me, you know.  Only
it looked to me like when he had three such pretty
women to take care of one more ought to be easy
enough."

"We *were* three pretty women before, perhaps, my
dear, but now I'm afraid we're only one!" said Clytie.
She herself, kindled with the spirit of adventure, and
so adequately welcoming it, was irresistible.

Fancy blew a pretty kiss at her.  "No man would
know enough to say anything as nice as that, would
he?  But I'm afraid I can't trot in your class, Miss
Payson.  Why, every man in the room has been
watching you all the evening.  I really ought to sit
beside Mrs. Maxwell, though, to show her off.  It
takes these brunettes to make me look outclassed,
doesn't it?  I used to be a brunette myself, but I
reformed.  Mr. Cayley, you may hold me on, if you
like.  And remember, when I kick you under the table
it's a hint for you to say something about my
hands."  She laid them on the table-cloth ingenuously.

Clytie took one up and showed it to Mrs. Maxwell.
"Did you ever see a prettier wrist than that?" she
said.

"It's charming!  I'm afraid she'd never be able to
wear *my* gloves."

Fancy smiled good-temperedly.  "That second finger
is supposed to be perfect," she said, looking at it
reflectively.

"It's queer that the fourth one hasn't a diamond
on it," Mrs. Maxwell suggested amiably.

"It's only because I hate to fry my own eggs.  I
never could learn to play on the cook-stove."

"My dear, you'll never have to do that," said Clytie.
"No man would be brute enough to endanger such a
complexion as you have!"

Fancy rubbed her cheek.  "Good enough to raise a
blush on.  Has it worn off yet?  I wish you could
make me do it again; I'd rather wear a good No. 5
blush than a silk-lined skirt."

The third lady at the table was thin and dark, a
piquante, sharp-featured girl, with a dancing devil in
her eyes.  She had been watching Fancy with an
amused smile.  "I thought I'd seen you before," she
said.  "Now I remember.  You're the young lady at
Granthope's, aren't you?"

"Yes, that's my tag.  I suppose I am entered for a
regular blue-ribbon freak.  But I've seen you, too,
Miss Dean, once or twice, haven't I?"

Miss Dean hastened to say, "Mr. Granthope's a
wonderful palmist, isn't he?  He has told me some
extraordinary things about myself."  She held out her
hand.  "Do tell me what you think about my palm,
please!"

But Fancy refused.  "Oh, I don't want to make
enemies, just as we've begun to break the ice.  Every
one would be jealous of the other, if I told you what
I saw.  Besides, I ought to be drumming up more
trade for Mr. Granthope."

"How long have you been with him?" Cayley asked.

"Oh, about five years."

Clytie bit her lip.  Granthope himself had said two.

"He has been fortunate to have such an able
assistant as you," she said.

"Oh, Frank's been mighty good to me.  I owe him
everything."  Fancy said it almost aggressively.

Cayley caught Clytie's eye, and he smiled.

"Well, Blanchard," she said, disregarding his hint,
"am I in your list of Improbabilities now?"

"You're easily first!  You certainly have surprised me."

Heretofore Mrs. Maxwell, as chaperon of the party,
had been the star, but now Clytie, with her intuitive
grip on this human complication, established Fancy
as the guest of honor.  She drank Fancy's health, and
Fancy's smile became more opulent and irresistible.
She kept Fancy's quick retorts going like fire-crackers,
she manipulated the conversation so that it came back
to Fancy at each digression.  She put Fancy Gray in
the center of the stage and kept her there in the
calcium till her buoyant spirits soared.

"Drink with Fancy!" cried Fancy Gray, and the
company, Mrs. Maxwell included, did her honor.
"Drink with Fancy," she pleaded again, with a pretty,
infantile pout, and Clytie knocked glasses with her
every time.  "Drink with Fancy," she repeated, and
Cayley drew closer.  It did not, apparently, daunt
Clytie.  She had accepted Fancy Gray as Fancy Gray
had accepted her, and she did not withdraw an inch
from her position.  The talk ran on, with Fancy always
the center of interest.  Her sallies were original, brisk,
and often witty.  Fancy's brain grew more agile and
more bold.  Also, her glances played more softly
upon Blanchard Cayley.  He made the most of them,
with an eye on Clytie, awaiting her look of protest.
But it did not come.

About them the revelry still continued amidst the
clattering of knives and forks and dishes.  Course
after course had been brought on and removed by the
hurrying, overworked waiters.  Once, a madcap couple
arose to dance a cake-walk up and down between the
tables.  Of the group of eight singers in the corner,
three had fallen into a mild stupor, three were
affectionately maudlin; two, still mirthful, sang noisily,
pounding upon the table.

By twos and threes, now, parties began to leave.

There was a popular song swinging through the
room, accented by tinkling glasses, when Fancy
reached out her left hand, and took Clytie's.

"I must be going, now; good night."

Clytie held the hand.  "Oh, must you?  Wait and
let us put you on your car, anyway!"

"No, I'll drift along.  I can take care of myself, all
right."

She stopped, and, with her head slightly tilted to one
side, looked Clytie in the eyes.

"What did you go to Granthope's for?" she asked.

Clytie began to color, faintly.  She seemed, at first,
at a loss to know how to reply.

Fancy prompted her.  "For a reading, of course—but
what else?"

"I don't know," said Clytie seriously.  "Really I don't."

"That's what I thought!" said Fancy.  Then her
troubled brow cleared, and she turned to Cayley.

"I must say 'fare-thee-well, my Clementine,'" she
said.  "You certainly came to the scratch nobly.  I
hope it wasn't all Miss Payson's prompting, though!"

"Next time I hope I'll be able to bring you," he
answered.  "I'm sorry I can't take you home now."

"Who said I was going home?" she smiled.  Then
she looked at him, too, and spoke to him with a
variation of the quizzical tone she had used toward Clytie.
"I don't know what there is about you that makes
such a hit with me—what is it?"

"The dagoes say I have the evil eye," he replied.

She laughed.  "That's it!  I *thought* it was
something nice!"

Then she rose and bowed debonairly to Mrs. Maxwell
and Miss Dean.  "Good night, ladies, this is where
I disappear.  I'm afraid you've impregnated me with
social aspirations.  Watch for me at the Fortnightly!"

The collarless youth stretched a glass toward her
in salutation and sang: "Good-by, Dolly Gray!"  There
was a burst of laughter that drew all eyes to
Fancy Gray.

Cayley held her coat for her, and as she turned to
him with thanks, a sudden mad impulse stirred her;
she audaciously put up her lips to be kissed.  He did
not fail her.  The ladies at the table looked on,
catching breath, stopping their talk.  A waiter, passing,
stood transfixed.  Every one watched.  Then a cheer
broke out and a clapping of hands all over the restaurant.

Fancy Gray bowed to her audience with dignity, as
if she were on the stage.  Then, with a comprehensive
nod to her entertainers, she passed demurely down
the aisle between the tables.  Every eye followed her.

At the counter she turned her head to see Blanchard
Cayley still standing by his place.  She came
hurriedly back as if drawn by some magic spell, blushing
hotly, with a strange look in her eyes.  She looked
up at him as a little girl might look up at her father.
The room was hushed.  It was too much for that
audience to comprehend.  The act had almost lost its
effrontery; the audacity had become, somehow, pathos.

Fancy walked like a somnambulist, her eyes wide
open, staring at Blanchard.  He had turned paler,
but stood still, with his gaze fastened upon her,
reveling, characteristically, in a new sensation.  The ladies
in his party did not speak.  Nobody spoke.  The room
was like a well-governed school at study hour, every
eye fixed upon Fancy Gray.  Whatever secret emotion
it was that drew her back, it was for its moment
compelling, casting out every trace of self-consciousness.
She seemed to show her naked soul.  She
reached him, and again he put his arms about her
and kissed her full on the lips.  Again the tumult
broke forth.

In that din and confusion she slipped back to the
door.  There was another hush.  Then the crowd
gasped audibly and tongues were loosened in a babel
of exclamations.  With a cry, some one pointed to
the window.  There stood Fancy Gray, pressing
through the glass, histrionically, one last kiss to
Cayley—and disappeared into the night.  Half a
dozen men jumped up to follow her, and turned back
to account for a new silence that had abruptly fallen
on the room.

Blanchard Cayley was still standing.  He had
snatched a wine-glass from the table, and now, with
a silencing gesture, he held it above his head.  He was
perfectly calm, he had lost nothing of his usual
elegance of manner.

"I don't know who she is, but here's to her!" he
called out to the roomful of listeners.  "Bottoms-up,
everybody!"

He drank off his toast.  Glasses were raised all
over the room.  Men sprang upon their chairs, put
one foot on the table and drank Fancy Gray's health.
Then the crowd yelled again.

In the confusion Mrs. Maxwell leaned to Clytie.
"I don't know, my dear, whether I'll dare to chaperon
you *here* again!"  She herself was as excited as any
one there.

Frankie Dean's thin lips curled in a sneer.  "Oh,
they call this Bohemia, don't they!  Did you ever see
anything so cheap and vulgar in your life?  I feel
positively dirty!"

Cayley watched for Clytie's answer.  It came with
a jet of fervor.  "Why," she exclaimed, "don't you
see it's real?  It's *real*!  It isn't the way we care to do
things, but they're all alive and human—every one of
them!"

"Bah!  It's all a pose.  They're pretending they're
devilish."

"I don't care!"  Clytie's eyes fired.  "Even so, there's
a live person in each of them—they're just as real as
we are.  I never understood it before.  Look under
the surface of it—there's blood there!"

"It's San Francisco!" said Cayley, "that explains
everything.  Oh, this town!"  He sat down shaking
his head.

The old *patron* bustled excitedly through the room.

"Take-a de foot off de table!  Take-a de foot off
de table!" he protested.  "You spoil the table clot'—you
break-a de dishes!  I don't like dat!  Get down,
you!  Get down!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SIDE LIGHTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   SIDE LIGHTS

.. vspace:: 2

..

   "Mrs. Chenoweth Maxwell would be very glad to
   see Mr. Francis Granthope next Friday evening at
   nine o'clock for an informal Chinese costume
   supper.  Kindly arrive masked."

.. vspace:: 2

This invitation marked a climacteric in Granthope's
social career.  It was supplemented by an explanation
over the telephone that left no doubt in the mind of
the palmist as to the genuineness and friendliness of
its cordiality.  He had appeared already at several
assemblies of the smarter set and had, by this time, a
considerable acquaintance with the fashionable side
of town.  Of the information thus acquired he had
made good use in his business.  He had always gone,
however, in his professional capacity as a paid
entertainer; and no matter how considerately he had been
treated, the fact that he was not present as a guest had
always been obvious.  He was in a class with the operatic
star who consents to sing in private and maintains
her delicate position of unstable social equilibrium with
sensitive self-consciousness.  In his rise from obscurity,
at first, he had been pleased with such invitations, seeing
that they brought him money and an increasing fame.
He was now sought after as a picturesque and personable
character.  Women evinced a fearful delight in
his presence; they treated him sometimes as if he were
a handsome highwayman, tamed to drawing-room
amenities, sometimes as they treated those mysterious
Hindus in robes and turbans who occasionally appeared
to prate of esoteric faiths in the salons of the
Illuminati.

Granthope's sense of humor and his cynical view
of life, had, so far, been sufficient to preserve his
equanimity at the threshold of fashionable society.
His equivocal position was tolerable, for he knew well
enough what a sham the whole game was, and how
artificial was the social position which permitted a
woman to snub him or patronize him in public, and
did not prevent her following him up in private.
He had seen ladies raise their eyebrows at his
appearance in the Western Addition, who had visited him
for a chance to talk to him with astonishing egotism.

There was a strain in him, however, the heritage
of some unknown ancestry, that, since meeting Miss
Payson, began to give him more and more discomfort
in the presence of such company.  He had risen above
the level of the mere professional entertainer, and had
become fastidious.  Clytie had met him upon terms of
equality.  Her frankness had flattered him, and her
implied promise of friendship was like the opening of
a door which had, hitherto, always been shut to him.

Mrs. Maxwell's bid, therefore, was a distinct
advance, and he welcomed it, not so much because it
unlocked for him a new sort of recognition, as that it
furthered the game he had in hand.  He could scarce
have defined that game to himself.  He was playing
neither for position nor money nor power—his sport
was perhaps as purely intellectual as that of chess, a
delight in the pitting of his mind against others.

Mrs. Maxwell, with the tact of a woman of sensibility,
had made it plain to him that he was invited
for his own sake, upon terms of hospitality.  As a
lion, yes, she could not deny that.  She confessed that
she wished to tell people that he was coming—but
he would not be annoyed by requests for entertainment.
With another, he might have suspected that this was
only a subterfuge to avoid the necessity of paying him
his price, but Mrs. Maxwell's character was too well
known to him for that possibility to be entertained.

He set himself, therefore, to obtain a costume for
the affair at the "House of Increasing Prosperity,"
known to Americans as the shop of Chew Hing Lung
and Company.  With the assistance of the affable and
discerning Li Go Ball, the only Chinese in the quarter
who seemed to know what he required, Granthope
selected his outfit, a costume of the character worn by
the more prosperous merchant class of Celestials.

Granthope had fitted up the room next beyond his
studio for a bed-chamber and sitting-room, access to
it being had through the heavy velvet arras concealing
the door between the two apartments.  The place was
severely masculine in its appointments and order, but
bespoke the tasteful employment of considerable
money.  Here he had his library also, for since his
earliest youth he had been a great reader.  Prominent
on its shelves were many volumes of medical books,
and, to offset this sobriety, the lives and memoirs of
the famous adventurers of history—Casanova, Cagliostro,
Fenestre, Abbé Faublas, Benvenuto Cellini, Salvator
Rosa, Chevalier d'Eon.

A massive Jewish seven-branch candlestick illuminated
the place this evening, splashing with yellow
lights the carved gilded frame of a huge oval mirror,
glowing on the belly of a bronze vase, enriching the
depths of color in the dull green walls, smoldering in
the warm tones of the great Persian rug on the floor,
twinkling upon the polished surface of the heavy
mahogany table in the center of the room.  But it was
concentrated chiefly upon the gorgeous oriental hues
where his Chinese costume was flung, flaming upon
the couch.  There the colors were commingled as on
an artist's palette, cold steel blue, pale lemon yellow,
olive green that was nearly old gold, lavender that
was almost pink in the candle-light, a circle of red
inside the cap, and flashes of pale cream-colored
bamboo paper here and there.

He had already put on the silken undersuit, a
costume in itself, with its straight-falling lines and
complementary colors.  Fancy Gray was helping him with
the other garments, enjoying it as much as a little girl
dressing a doll, trying on each article herself first and
posing in it before the mirror.

First, she wrapped the bottom of his lavender
trousers about his ankles, over white cotton socks, tying
them close with the silk bands, carefully concealing the
knot and ends as Go Ball had instructed him.  She
held the black boat-shaped satin shoes for him to put
on.  Next she tied about his waist the pale yellow
sash so that both ends met at the side and hung
together in two striped party-colored ends.  Then the
short, padded jacket, and over all this the long,
steel-blue, brocaded silk robe, caught in at the waist with a
corded belt.  Lastly the olive-green coat patterned
with brocaded mons containing the swastika, and with
long sleeves almost hiding the tips of his fingers.
Upon its gold bullet-shaped buttons she hung the
tasseled spectacle-case and his ivory snuff-box.

"Oh, Frank, I forgot!" said Fancy, as she paused
with his wig of horse-hair eked out with braided silk
threads, in her hand.  "Lucie was here to-day."

Granthope was at the mirror, disguising himself
with a long, drooping mustache and thin goatee.  He
put down his bottle of liquid gum and turned to her.

"What did she say?"

"Why, she said she didn't have time to wait, and
didn't want to tell me anything."

"Why didn't she write?"

"Said she was afraid to.  You're to manage some
way to see her to-night, if you can, and she has a
tip for you."

"H'm!"  Granthope, with Fancy's assistance, drew
on the wig, and clapped over his black satin skullcap
with its red coral button atop.  Then he paused
again reflectively.

"It must be something important.  If I can only get
hold of some good scandal in this 'four hundred'
crowd I can have some fun with 'em."

"I should be afraid to trust these ladies' maids; they
might give you away any time, and then where'd you
be?  That would be a pretty good scandal,
itself."  Fancy shook her head.

"Aren't they all in love with me?" he said, smiling
grimly.

Fancy looked dubious.  "That's just the trouble.
'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'"

Granthope now laughed outright.  "Fancy, when
you get literary you're too funny for words."

She bridled, stuck out her little pointed tongue at
him, and walked into the front office, where she sat
down to attend to some details of her own work.  At
last she finished her writing and went to the closet to
put on her hat and jacket.

"Oh, Frank!" she called out.

"Yes, Fancy!"

"You don't think I'm jealous, do you?"

"Yes!" he laughed.

She appeared at the doorway and called again:

"Mr. Granthope!"  He was busy, and did not answer.

"Mr. Granthope!"

He looked up, now, to see her put her thumb to her
nose with a playfully derisive gesture, such as gamins
use.

He put his head back and laughed.

Then she looked at him seriously, saying, "When
I am, you'll never know it.  I'm not afraid of ladies'
maids.  When you really get into your own class it
will be time enough for me to worry.  But I wish you
wouldn't use those girls.  They're all cats, and they'll
scratch!"

She was standing before the mirror inside the
closet door, with her hat pin between her lips,
adjusting her toque to the masses of her russet hair, when
there came a knock at the hall door.  She looked round
and raised her eyebrows, then, after closing the door
to the anteroom of the studio, she called "Come in!"

Madam Spoll, in a black silk gown covered with a
raglan, entered.  She wore a man's small, low-crowned,
Derby hat trimmed with a yellow bird's wing.

"How d'you do?" said Fancy, not too cordially.

"Good evening," Madam Spoll panted; then, as
her breath was spent with climbing the stairs, she
dropped into a chair and gasped heavily.  Fancy went
on with her preparations without further attention to
her visitor.

"Frank in?" was Madam Spoll's query as soon as
she could breathe.

"Meaning Mr. Granthope?" said Fancy airily.

"You know who I mean well enough!" was her
pettish reply.

"Oh, *do* I?"—and Fancy, her costume now in readiness
for the street, walked jauntily into the anteroom
and knocked at the door.  "Madam Spoll is here to
see you," she called out.

"Just a moment," he answered.

Fancy, pulling her jacket behind, wriggling, and
smoothing down her skirt over her hips, walked to the
window and cast a glance out.  Then she slammed the
drawers of her desk, put a hair-pin between the leaves
of her novel, straightened her pen-holders on the stand,
stoppered a red-ink bottle, and marched out without
looking to the left or to the right.

Madam Spoll glared at her in silence till she had
gone; and then, with an agility extraordinary in so
stout a woman, she sprang to the closet, opened the
door and picked up an envelope lying on the floor.
It had been opened.  She took the letter out, gave it
a hurried glance and then returned to her seat, stuffing
the paper up under her basque.

The letter was short enough for her practised eye
to master the contents almost at a glance.  It ran:

.. vspace:: 2

My dear Mr. Granthope:—I hope you didn't take offense
at my frankness the other day—if I was too candid don't
misinterpret it and my interest in you.  Sometime I may
explain it more intelligently, but for the present believe me to
be, Your friend, CLYTIE PAYSON.

.. vspace:: 2

Granthope came out after she had concealed the
note.  He was fully dressed and almost unrecognizable
in his costume.  He walked gracefully, with the
light-footed stride of a mandarin, and saluted her with mock
gravity.  Madam Spoll stared at him with her mouth
open.  For a moment she did not appear to know him.
Then she chuckled.

"For the land's sakes, what are you up to now,
Frank?  Doing the Chinese doctor's stunt and selling
powdered sea-horses?"

He laughed at her surprise.  "No, I'm doing society,"
he explained.

"Do 'em good, then!  Lord, you are a-butting in
this time, ain't you!  I wouldn't know you from a Sam
Yup highbinder on a Chiny New Year in that rig!
What is it, a fancy-dress ball at the Mechanics'
Pavilion?"

"Worse than that," he laughed; "this is a private
supper-party in costume and I am a guest."

"Lord, you are getting on, for fair!  You ain't
been conning them swell girls for nothing, have you?
And, to be frank with you, I always thought you was
after something very different.  I was kind of afraid
they'd spoil you, too.  It's a good graft, Frank, and
if I can do anything to give you a lift, just say
the word."

"Thanks," he said dryly, taking a seat in front of
her and pulling his long sleeves up to his wrist.

She kept her eyes upon him, as if fascinated by the
gorgeousness of his costume, seemingly a little in fear
of his elegant manners as well.  Then she broke out,
pettishly:

"Say, Fancy's getting pretty fresh, seems to me.
She's a very different girl from what she was when she
used to play spook for us.  She was glad enough once
to be polite—butter wouldn't melt in her mouth them
days!"

"Oh, you mustn't mind Fancy; she's all right when
you get used to her."

"She's pretty, if she is sassy," the medium
acknowledged.  "I can hardly blame you, Frank.  I s'pose
you find a good use for her.  She seems to be pretty
fond of you."

Granthope scowled.  "Never mind about her.  She's
a great help to me here, and I like her—that's enough
for you.  You didn't come here to talk about Fancy
Gray."

"I should think your ladies would object, though,"
the medium pursued.  "It looks kind of funny, don't
it?  She stays here pretty late, it seems to me, if any
one was to notice it.  Some ladies don't like that sort
of thing; they get jealous.  Fancy's too pretty by
half!"

"That'll be about all about Fancy Gray.  Suppose
we change the subject."

"Very good then; we'll change it to another girl
that's as pretty.  How would Miss Payson do to talk
about?"

"What about her?"

"A whole lot about her.  How are you getting along
with her, for the first thing?"

Granthope smiled with an air of satisfaction, but
contented himself with remarking, "Oh, I'm getting
on all right.  I can attend to my own end of the game,
thank you.  I've handled women before."

"More ways than one, eh?"

"She's not that kind.  Don't you believe it!"

"Then what, for the Lord's sake, are you doing
with her!"  Madam Spoll gave her words a playful
accent that he resented.  Then she added, more
seriously: "Frank, d'you know, I believe you could marry
that girl.  If you have changed yourself enough to like
that kind, you might go farther and fare worse.
She'd give you a good stand-in with the Western
Addition, too.  And we might help you out a bit; who
knows!  I can see all sorts of things in it, just as it
stands."

"I haven't begun to think of anything like that," he
replied carelessly.

"Of course not.  I know well enough what you was
thinking of.  But you take my advice and don't spoil a
big thing for a little one.  Work her easy and you
can land her.  That's better a good sight than playing
with her in your usual way."

He rose and walked to the window and looked out,
vaguely annoyed.  He turned, in a moment, to ask,
"Has the old man made a will?"

"D'you mean to say you ain't found that out yet?
Lord, Frank, you *are* getting slow.  I don't know.  I
ain't come to that yet.  But if he ain't, I'll see that he
does make one, and that's where I can look out for
your interests."

There was a slight sneer on his face.  "Oh, don't
trouble yourself.  I've my own system, you know.  I
haven't made many breaks yet.  It's likely that I can
help you more than you can me.  That reminds me;
you might take these notes.  It's about all I have got
from the girl so far.  They may come in handy."

He went to his desk, took a couple of cards from a
tin box in the top drawer, and handed them to Madam
Spoll.  She looked them over interestedly.

"Much obliged.  H'm!  So she thinks she's a
psychic, does she?  They might be something in that.
Supposed to be engaged to B. Cayley.  Well, you'll
have to fix *him*, won't you!  Father writing a book—ah!
That's just what we want.  Say, that's great!
Me and Vixley will work that book, don't you worry!
Wears a ring with 'Clytie' inside.  Turquoises.  Mole
on left cheek.  Goes to Mercantile Library three to
five.  Sun-dial with doll buried under it.  That's
funny.  I wish it was papers, or something important—I
don't see what we could do with a doll, do you?
Still, you never can tell.  All's generally fish that
comes to my net.  I've known stranger things than
dolls.  Making a birthday present of a hand-bound
volume of what?  Montaigne?  What's that?  Say,
what's this about Madam Grant, anyway?"

He turned to her and held out his hand for the
card, now distinctly impatient.  "I don't know—that
is, I forgot I put that on.  There's nothing there that
will help you, I guess.  You'd better let me have it
back, after all.  It's chiefly about Miss Payson,
anyway, and that isn't your business."

Madam Spoll refused to return the card.  Instead,
she tucked it into the front of her dress, saying, "Oh,
I don't know.  You never know what may be useful.
It's well to be prepared."

"See here; you understand that you're to keep your
hands off Miss Payson," said Granthope with emphasis.
"She's my game.  Do what you like with the old
man, but leave me alone, that's all!"

"Don't you fret yourself about that.  Ain't we
worked together before, for gracious sakes?  I guess
I can mind my own business!"

The palmist walked over to the fireplace, stood
leaning against the mantel and kicked the fender
meditatively, somewhat disturbed by Madam Spoll's presence.
He had seen Miss Payson only twice, yet he had
already come to the point where he was annoyed to
hear her so cold-bloodedly discussed, and his own
heartless notes quoted.  Even less could he enjoy
thinking of so fine and delicate a creature in the toils of
Vixley and Spoll.  No, she was for his own plucking.
She was a quarry well worth his chase.  To share his
plans with such vulgar plotters seemed to cheapen
the prize, to rub off the bloom of her beauty and
charm.  He would play a more exquisite, a more
subtle game.  It would not do, however, to break
with the mediums.  They were still useful to him, in
spite of his assertion of independence.  They knew,
besides, altogether too much about him for him to dare
to kindle their resentment.

If Madam Spoll had noticed his detachment she did
not show it.  She herself had, evidently, been thinking
something over, and now she interrupted his meditation.

"Say, Frank, about that old Madam Grant, now—"

"She wasn't so old, was she?"

"How d'you know she wasn't?"

He covered his mistake as well as he could with:
"Oh, I've heard she was a young woman, not more
than thirty, when she died."

"Well, it's so far back, it seems as though she must
have been old.  You know I fished a little with what
you give me about her and Payson; putting that
together with what Lulu Ellis got, I believe I can work
him.  Funny you happened on that bit.  Did the
Payson girl tell you?"

"Oh, I got it—she let it out in a way.  You know."

Madam Spoll chuckled.  "Lord, they tell us more'n
we ever tell *them*, don't they!  But I was saying: I
wish I could find out more about that little boy Madam
Grant used to keep.  I wonder was he her son, now?"

"I suppose you might find out something if you
looked up the files of the *Chronicle*."

"That's a good idea.  I'll do it.  D'you know what
year it was?"

"1877."

"How d'you know?"

He walked away from her carelessly, replying:
"That's the idea I got of it.  About that time."

"Frank," she said, "ain't you ever got any clue to
who you are, yet?  Never got any hint at all?"

"Never."

"Why don't you go to some real sure-enough
psychic?  They might help.  I've known 'em to do
wonderful things."

Granthope gazed at her and laughed loud.  "*You?*"
was all he could say.

She drew herself up.  "Yes, *me*!  Sure.  Why, you
don't think I consider they ain't no genuine ones, even
if I do fake a little, do you?"

"You actually believe there's a medium alive that
can tell such things?"

"I'm positive of it.  Why, when I begun, I give
some remarkable tests myself.  I used to get names,
sometimes.  But there *are* straight ones.  Not here,
maybe, but in New York.  You could send a lock of
your hair."

He went up to her and clapped his hand on her
shoulder, still laughing.  "You're beautiful, my dear;
you're positively beautiful!"

She turned a surprised face to him.  "What in the
world d'you mean?"

He shook his head and walked away.  "Preserve
your illusions!  It's too wonderful.  I'll be believing
in palmistry, next I'll believe myself in love, after
that.  And then—I'll believe I'm honest, dignified,
honorable, modest!"  His tone grew, word by word,
more hard and cynical.  Then he turned to her with a
whimsical expression: "So you believe your doll's
alive!"

"I've no time to talk nonsense any longer!" she
exclaimed, rising ponderously.  "I can't make you out
at all, Frank.  Sometimes you're practical as insurance
and sometimes you're half bug-house.  Maybe it's them
clothes!"  She regarded him carefully.

He bowed to her with mock courtesy, spreading his fan.

"Lord, you *do* look like a fool in that Chink's rig.
Have a good time with 'em—but keep your eyes and
your ears open!"

She went out.

He was about to turn out the electric lights and
leave, when he heard a knock at the door.  He opened
it, and saw the little freckled-face girl who had come
to his office the day he had first met Clytie Payson.
He recognized her instantly, but she, seeing him so
extraordinarily disguised, drew back in surprise.

"Did you want Mr. Granthope?" he asked.

"Yes!"  She finally made him out, but still gazed
at him, somewhat frightened.  Her face was bloodless.

"Come in," he said kindly.  "I'm Granthope.  You'll
have to excuse this costume."  He set a chair for her,
but she stood, timidly regarding him.

"I'm awfully afraid I'm bothering you, Mr. Granthope,
coming so late—I know I ought to have come
in your office hours, but I couldn't possibly get
off—and I did want to see you awfully!  D'you suppose
you could help me a little, now?  I thought you might
be able to, you said such wonderful things when I
was here before, and I just can't stand it not to know,
and I don't know what to do."

"Do sit down.  Tell me what's the matter, my dear."

She crept into a chair, and sat with nervous hands,
staring at him.

"Why, don't you remember?"  She gazed at him in
alarm.  "Oh, I've depended so on what you said—it's
all that kept me going!"

"Just pardon me a moment, please."  He went to
his desk drawer and began to fumble over his card
catalogue.  "I have a memorandum to make.  Then
I'll talk to you."  He came to the card, and made a
penciled note and glanced it over.  Then he returned
to her and sat down.  "Now tell me all about it," he
said gravely.  "I remember perfectly, of course.  Bill
was in the Philippines, wasn't he?  You hadn't heard
from him for some time, and you were expecting him
home on the next transport?"

She sat, limply huddled in her chair, gazing at him
through her sad eyes.

"He did come back.  I couldn't meet the boat.  I
missed him.  And now he's gone!"

"He didn't let you know where he went?"

"Oh, Mr. Granthope, it's too awful!  I can't bear
it, but I could stand anything if I could only find him!
You *must* find him for me."

"I'll do what I can, my dear.  Your hand shows
that it will all come out for the best.  I wouldn't
worry."

"Oh, but you don't know!  You don't know how
bad it is!" she moaned.  "I thought you might know.
He was wounded in a battle."

"But he came back?"

"Yes."  Then she burst into a hurried torrent of
words.  "He didn't want me to know.  He was shot
in the face—his nose was shot off—it's awful—some
of the men told me about it.  Bill was ashamed to
have me see him—he tried to make me think he wasn't
in love with me any more, so I'd go away.  But I
knew better.  Bill's so proud, Mr. Granthope, you
don't know how proud he is!  He'd rather leave me
than make me suffer.  But what do I care for his nose
being gone?  Why, Bill's a hero!  He had more nerve
than Hobson, anyway!  Just because he was the only
man in his company that dared to go through a
swamp, under fire, to save his lieutenant—and he
brought him in on his back, Bill did!  Why, Bill's
father was killed at Antietam, but Bill's luck was a
heap worse than that!  He has to live without a face
and be despised and sneered at because he did his
duty!  Oh, if I can only find him, I'll give him
something that will make him forget.  Don't I love him all
the more for it?  He's tried to sacrifice his whole life
and happiness only for me—just to save me from
suffering when I look at him.  D'you know many men
who'd do that for a girl?  I don't!"

She broke down and sobbed convulsively.  The story
seemed to Granthope like a scene from a play, and
his inability to comfort her smote him while she
fought to restrain her tears.

"And you can't find out where he is?"

"No.  The company was mustered out, and Bill just
naturally disappeared.  Nobody knows where he is.
I've asked all his officers, and all the men I could find."

He took her hand and looked at it soberly for a
moment.

"It will all come out right, my dear.  You trust me.
There's your line of fate as clean as a string.  I see
trouble in it, but only for a little while.  You'll be
married, too.  You must have patience and wait, that's
all.  Suppose you come back and see me in a week or
so, and tell me if you've heard any news of him.
Meanwhile, I'll see what I can find out myself.  There's
a cross in your hand—that's a good sign.  Bill still
loves you, and he won't let you suffer long."

He felt the pitiful emptiness of his words, but he
had been too affected by her narrative to give her the
smooth banalities that were always ready to his
tongue.  She got up and looked at him through her
tears.

"You have helped me, Mr. Granthope.  Somehow
I knew you could.  I'll be in again sometime.  How
much is it, please?"

"My dear girl, when you come again, you can thank
the young lady whom you saw here before.  Don't
thank me."

She looked at him silently, then she took his hand
and shook it very hard.  "You mean that lady with
red hair who sits at the desk?"

"Yes."

"I liked her when I saw her.  She was nice to me.
Is—is she Mrs. Granthope?"

Granthope shook his head and smiled.

The girl blushed at her indiscretion.  "I kind of
thought—she seemed to be, well, fond of you.  I mean,
the way she looked at you, I didn't know but what
you were married.  I hope you'll excuse me."  She
was visibly confused, and evidently had said much
more than she had intended.

"My dear," Granthope replied, "she's far too good
for me!"

The girl shook her head slowly, as she rose to go.
A smile struggled to her face as if, for the first time,
she noted the incongruity of the palmist's costume,
then, with a grateful look she went out.

As soon as he had left, Granthope sat down at the
desk and wrote a note upon a memorandum pad.  It
read:

.. vspace:: 2

Fancy—

To-morrow morning please go down to the ticket office at
the Ferry, and see if you can find out where a soldier, with
his nose shot off, bought a ticket to, about ten days ago.

.. vspace:: 2

He rose, yawned, stared thoughtfully at the cast;
for a few moments, then snapped his fingers and
walked to the window.  His cab was waiting.  He went
down-stairs, got into the vehicle and drove off.

.. vspace:: 2

The Maxwells lived at Presidio Heights, in one of
the newer residences of the aristocratic Western
Addition, a handsome brick house decorated with
Romanesque fantasies in terra cotta, behind a bronze
rail guarded by heraldic griffins.  Granthope walked
up under the lantern-hung awning five minutes before
the hour and was shown to a room up-stairs.

Here there were several men waiting and adjusting
their garments.  All but one were in Chinese costume;
this was a fat, red-faced man, with a white mustache.
He was in evening dress, and kept exclaiming:

"I won't make a damned fool of myself for anybody.
It's all nonsense!"  He was obviously embarrassed at
being the only nonconformist.

"Sully" Maxwell, arrayed in a magnificently
embroidered Chinese officer's summer uniform—a long,
flounced robe, with the imperial dragons and their
balls of fire, the rainbow border and the all-over
cloud-pattern—was helping the men to dress, chaffing
each of them in turn.  He was middle-aged and
prosperous-looking, typically a "man's man" and
"hail-fellow-well-met," despite his immense fortune.  He
greeted Granthope cordially, without hint of patronage,
and introduced him to the others.

Of two, Keith and Fernigan, Granthope had heard
much.  They were the pets of a certain smartish social
circle, in virtue of their cleverness and wit.  They
were of the kind who habitually do "stunts" and were
always expected to make the company merry and
informal.  Keith was a tall, wiry, flap-eared, smiling
fellow, made up as a Chinese stage-comedian, with his
nose painted white.  Fernigan, short, stout to rotundity,
almost bald, with spectacles, and a round, Irish
face, was dressed in woman's costume, head-dress,
earrings, green coat and pink silk trousers.  He was
naturally droll, a wag at all times, and his whimsical
way constantly approached a shocking limit but never
quite reached it.  He was speaking a good parody
of the Cantonese dialect to his partner, and making
eccentric gestures.

Both he and Keith greeted Granthope with mock
gravity, addressing him in pidgin English.  Granthope
answered with what spirit he had, and, taking his
place at the mirror, placed upon his nose an enormous
pair of blue-glass spectacles, horn-rimmed.  They
disguised him effectually.

As he left the room, a man with a pointed, reddish
beard entered, dressed in long flowing robes of
plum-colored silk.

Granthope caught the greeting: "Hello, Blan!" and
turned with curiosity to see the Mr. Cayley of whom
he had heard so much.  He did not, however, wait
to be introduced, but passed on.

The great reception-room down-stairs presented one
of the most beautiful, as well as one of the most
original, of San Francisco interiors.  It was entirely
of redwood, panels six feet in width all round the
walls extending up to a narrow shelf supported by
carved brackets.  The low-studded ceiling was broken
by a row of finely adzed beams, carved tastefully at the
ends.  A feature of the reception-room was a wide
fireplace of terra cotta surmounted by a mantel,
consisting of at least a dozen combined moldings, each
member of which showed a striking individuality of
detail.  The place was illuminated by side brackets
in the form of copper sconces.  Granthope entered,
quite at his ease, with a long, swinging, heel-and-toe
stride that comported well with his costume.

There were already some half-dozen persons sitting
about the room, most of whom seemed afraid to talk
for fear of disclosing their identity, or perhaps, a little
too self-conscious in their garish raiment.  The silence,
if it had not been painful, would have been absurd.
Granthope looked in vain for any sign of his hostess'
presence, and then suspecting that she, too, was masked
to enjoy the piquancy of the situation, he saluted one of
the ladies, sat down beside her and began a conversation.
Knowing that few were acquainted with him he
had no need to disguise his voice.  He sat on a straight
chair stiffly, as he had seen Chinese actors pose at the
theater, his toes turned out in opposite directions so as
to insure the proper fall of the skirt of his robe, and
disclose, through a narrow gap, the splendor of his
lavender trousers.  His partner answered him in whispers.

As he sat talking nonsense gaily, a woman came
into the room with so perfect an imitation of the
"tottering lily" walk affected by high-caste Chinese
women, that he turned his eyes upon her in delight
at her acting.

She was of a good height; and her white embroidered
shoes, whose heels were placed in the center of
the sole, gave her nearly two inches more.  Her
costume was a rainbow of subdued contrasting colors.  It
was evident at a glance that every garment she wore
was old, valuable and consistent with her character of
bride.

The smoothly coiled rolls of her black wig were
decorated by numerous gold ornaments and artificial
flowers.  Across her forehead was a head-dress of gold
filigree-work and kingfisher feathers; its ribbon was
tied in the back of her head and fell in fanciful ends.
She wore two coats—the outer was of yellow brocaded
silk, a pastel shade, trimmed with a wide stripe of
close blue embroidery and rows of looking-glass
buttons—the inner one, shorter, was of blue and black
appliquéd work in bold, virile pattern.  Below this
showed her closely-pleated skirt of old rose with a panel
of gold embroidery in the center; this, as she walked,
revealed occasional glimpses of a pair of full straight
green trousers trimmed with horizontal stripes, and
a flash of white silk stockings.  Necklaces she had in
profusion, one of jade, one of purple mother-of-pearl,
one of white coral, one of sandalwood; and others in
graded sizes and colors.  In her right hand she carried
a narrow gold-paper fan; on her left wrist was a jade
bracelet, and, pulled through it, a green silk
handkerchief with a purple fringe.

Her entry made a sensation, as she courtesied gravely
to each one in turn.  So, playing her part cleverly,
she came to Granthope, who arose and greeted her with
a dignified salaam.  So far they were the only ones who
had at all entered into the spirit of the occasion, and
he did his best to meet her character and play up
to her elaborate salutation.  He offered his arm, then,
and escorted her, with considerable manner, to a long
settee.

In all this pantomime she had preserved a serious
expression, the repressed, almost inanely impassive,
set face of a Chinese lady of rank; but when at last
she was seated, she turned full upon him and smiled
under her mask.

The effect upon Granthope was a sudden thrill of
overpowering delight.  He was deliciously weakened
by the revelation.  His breath came suddenly, with a
swift intake—the blood rioted through his veins.

She wore a much wider mask than the others, so that
nothing but her mouth and chin was shown.  But that
mouth was so tempting, with its ravishing, floating
smile, and that smile so concentrated in its limitation
to a single feature, that it turned his head.  The lips
were narrow and bright; the blood seemed about to
ooze through the skin.  The upper one was curved in
a tantalizing bow between the drops of soft shadow
at the corners.  The cleft above seemed to draw her
lip a little upward to disclose a line of small, perfect,
regular teeth of a delicate, bluish white translucence,
which, parting, showed a narrow rosy tongue.  The
lower lip was that delicious fraction of an inch lesser
than the upper one which, in profile, gave her a touch
of youthful, almost boyish, wistfulness.  Her round,
firm chin showed, from the same point of view, a
classic right angle to her throat, where the line swept
down the proud column of her neck, there to swing
tenderly outward toward her breast.

He could not take his eyes from her, but he had not
the will to restrain his staring.  The spell was
irresistible; he drank her deep and could not get enough.
For these whirling moments he was at the mercy of
the attraction of sex, impersonal, yet distilled to an
intoxicating essence.  Had it not been for her mask
hiding the upper part of her face, had her eyes
corrected this almost wanton loveliness with some reserve
or with the effect of a more intellectual character, had
his glance even been given a chance to wander over
equally enchanting components of that expression, he
undoubtedly would not have been so moved by the
sight of her laughing, tempting mouth.  But that,
faultlessly formed, exquisitely sexed, whimsically
provocative, had for him, with the rest of her face hidden,
an original and freshly flavored delight.  In the
spectrum of her beauty the violets and blues of her spirit,
the greens and orange of her mind were for the nonce
inhibited; only the vibrant red rays of her physical
personality smote him, burning him with their radiance.
But there was, he felt, no malice behind that smile,
though it was mischievous; there was nothing wanton
there, though in this guise her lips seemed abandoned
and inviting.  There was, in their flexed contour, in
the engaging mobility of their poise, no consciousness
of anything sensually appealing.  It was, rather, as if
he gained some secret aspect of the woman beneath
and behind all conventions of morality, of modesty,
and of discretion.  So far, indeed, she seemed, in a
way, without a personality.  She was Woman smiling
at him.  The vision was too much for him.

She bent toward him and her lips whispered:

"How do you do, Mr. Granthope?  Why are you
staring so?  I thought of course you knew me—but
I really believe you don't."

Even then he did not recognize her, and was
profoundly embarrassed.  That he should fail to
remember such a mouth as that!  He took her hand which
had been concealed in her long sleeve and looked at
it.  She had glued long false nails of celluloid to her
little fingers, completing the picture of a Chinese lady
of quality.  At the first sight of her palm, at the first
touch of it, even, he knew her, and, with a rush, a dozen
thoughts bewildered him.  This was she whom he had
been able so to influence, to cajole.  He had, in a way,
a claim to this comeliness.  She had favored him, had
confessed her interest in him.  They were, besides,
bound by a secret tie.  He might hope for more of her,
perhaps.  She was already somewhat in his power;
he had, at least, the capacity to sway her.  She,
alluring, delightful, might perhaps be gained, and in
some way, won.  She had known him at a glance—there
was her prescience again!  She had welcomed
him, in assurance of her favor.  What then was
possible?  What dared he not hope for?  A great wave of
desire overcame him.

Meanwhile he answered, distracted and unready:

"You knew me then?  I thought I was pretty well
disguised."

"Oh, you've forgotten how hard it is to deceive me.
I should never try it, if I were you.  Of course I knew
you!  I should know you if you had covered your
head in a sack."

He stammered, and he was not often confused
enough to stammer.  "I don't know how to tell you
how beautiful you are, Miss Payson."

She spoke low and slowly, with a wayward inflection,
"Oh, I'm so sorry."  Then she added, "I scarcely
dared speak to you, you are so magnificent."

"I would need to be, to be worthy of sitting beside
you," he replied, his wits floating, unmanageable.

"Did you get my note?"

"Yes, I want to thank you for it."

"I hope you've forgiven me."

"Of course, I was only flattered by your frankness."

"It's so easy to be frank with you," she said.  "You
see, I'm perfectly myself with you, even *en masque*.
I doubt if any of my friends would know me as I am
with you."

"But I've seen a new 'you' that I haven't known
before."

"Then she owes her existence to your presence.
But how am I different?  Tell me."

"You take my breath away.  You say such charming
things to me that it deprives me of the power of
answering you—anything I could say seems ineffective
and cheap.  You get ahead of me so.  Really,
you'll have to be positively rude to me before I can
summon presence of mind enough to say anything
gallant."

Again her lips curved daintily.  Her voice was
dulcet:

"Then I am afraid I shall never hear any nice
things from you."

He was reduced; baffled by her suavity.  He sought
in vain for a fitting return.  He had the impulse
to take advantage of her courtesy, however, and
gratify some portion of his desire to be nearer her.  She
wore, suspended from the gold top-button of her
"qua," a red silk tassel with a filigree network of
silver threads, containing a gold heart-shaped scent
bottle.  He reached to it and tried to remove it from
its place, covering this slight advance jocosely, with
the remark:

"Is that your heart you have there?  It seems to
be pure gold."

She did not resent what might possibly have been
considered a familiarity, but smiled when she saw that
he could not remove the bottle from the meshes.

"I'm afraid you won't be able to get at it, that
way."  There was a touch of playful emphasis in her voice.

Their hands met as she assisted him, showing him
how to pull up the sliding ring and open the net.
At that contact he became a little giddy.  The blood
surged to her cheeks.  She took out the bottle and
handed it to him.  That moment was tense with feeling.
Then she said, as he tried in vain to unstopper
the little jar:

"Can you open it, do you think?"

He attempted futilely to open the little heart.
"I'm afraid I can't," he said disconsolately.  "Won't
you help me?"

"No, you must do it yourself.  There is a way—see!"

She took it from him and, concealing it in her
hand, opened the top and reached it out for him to
smell.  He whiffed a penetrating perfume, disturbingly
pungent, then she withdrew it from him and
closed the heart.

"May I take it?" he asked.

She returned it now, saying, and her smile was
more serious than before, "Learn to open it.  There
is a way."

Granthope took the heart and tried to master its
secret.  The room had by this time filled up so that
a further tête-à-tête was impossible.  Miss Payson
was now besieged by maskers and held court where
she sat.  Fernigan, the stout young man with the
powdered face, dressed as a woman, was particularly
offensive to Granthope, and especially so because it
could not be denied that his antics and sallies were
witty.

Granthope arose therefore, and walked about the
room looking for some one whom he might recognize.
There was little likelihood of his succeeding had not
his professional capacity given him a clue to follow.
He passed from one group to another, bowing,
gesticulating and joking, as all had now begun to do,
keeping his eyes alertly on the hands of different
members of the assembly.  It was not long before he
suspected Mrs. Page, and, after reassuring himself
by closer inspection, he went up to her.

She was as expensively dressed as Clytie, but
without Clytie's taste.  Mrs. Page's magnificence was
barbaric, untamed to any harmony of color, though
effective in its very violence.  She had not left her
diamonds at home.  She blazed in them.  Tall, dark,
well-formed and deep-breasted, not even the loosely
hanging folds of a Chinese costume could hide the
luxuriance with which Nature had endowed her
figure.  She was laughing with abandon, reveling in the
freedom of the moment, when Granthope touched her
on the shoulder and whispered:

"Violet!"

She turned to him and stared, puzzled by his
well-disguised face.

"Who are you?"

"I know more about you than any one here!"

"Good heavens!" she laughed, "what do you know
about me?"

"Shall I tell you?"

"Not here, for mercy's sake!  Don't give me away
in respectable society, please.  Come out in the hall
where we won't be eavesdropped."

She took his arm energetically and romped him out
to the staircase.  The masks and costumes had let
loose all her folly.  She effervesced in giggles.

"Let's go up-stairs in the library," she proposed.
"We have the run of the house to-night, and nobody'll
be there.  I want to see if I can't guess who you are.
I haven't the least idea who you are, but I believe
you're going to be nice."

She tapped him on the cheek playfully with her
fan, then picked up her skirts and ran up-stairs,
giving him a glance of red silk hose, as she went.  He was
still quivering with the excitement of Clytie's smile,
still warm from her nearness, still full of her, though
he would not share her wholesale glances to her
throng of admirers.  He was still rapt with the
exhilaration her smile had kindled, he still held her little
perfumed heart.  As he followed Mrs. Page up-stairs
he smelt again of the gold bottle.  The fragrant odor
fired him anew.  He grew perfervid.

Mrs. Page, unmasked, was awaiting him in the
library.

.. vspace:: 2

When they came down ten minutes later, he made
way to where Clytie sat, talking to the gentleman
with the reddish pointed beard and plum-colored
garments.  Seeing Granthope approach, she turned to her
companion, saying:

"Would you mind getting me a glass of water,
Blanchard?  This mask is fearfully warm.  I hope
we won't have to keep them on much longer."

Cayley left to obey her and Granthope took his
place by her chair.  She looked up at him quickly, and
said, in a low voice:

"I think you had better give me back my scent-bottle,
please."

A pang smote him.  He felt the shock of reproach
in her voice, knowing what she meant immediately,
though he rallied to say, faint-heartedly:

"Why, I haven't learned how to open it yet."

"I'm afraid you'll never learn."  She did not look
at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, summoning all his
courage.  "I thought you had given it to me."

She kept her eyes away from him.  "If I did, I must
ask it back, now."

Perturbed as he was by this new proof of her
intuition, he refused to admit it.  After all, it might
have been merely her quick observation.  At any
rate, he would make another attempt to pit his
cleverness against her sapience.

"Oh, we only went up to see Mr. Maxwell's books.
He has a first edition of Montaigne there."  He was
for a moment sure that she was only jealous.

She bent her calm eyes upon him.  There was no
weakness in her mouth, though it seemed more lovely
in its tremulous distress.  The upper lip quivered
uncontrolled; the lower one fell grieving, as she said:

"I asked nothing.  I want only honesty in what you
do tell me."

This time he was fairly amazed.  The hit was deadly.
He dared not suspect that she had taken a chance
shot.  He was too humbled to attempt any denial,
knowing how useless it would be in the face of her
discernment.  Yet she had showed nothing more than
disapproval or distress.  Her reproof could scarcely
be called an accusation, and her chivalry touched him.

"I don't know what you will think of me," he said.

"Oh, I've heard so much worse of you than that,"
she said, "and it hasn't prevented my wanting to be
friends with you.  I hope only that you will never
misinterpret that friendliness.  You don't think me
bold, do you?"

"I wish you were bolder."

"Oh, you don't know my capacity yet.  But, really,
do you understand?  It's that feeling, you know, that
in some way we're connected, that's all.  It's
unexplainable, and I know it's silly of me.  I'm not trying
to impress you."

"But you are!"

In answer, she smiled again, and again that flood
of delight came over him rendering him unable, for
a moment, to do anything but gaze at her.  Luckily
just then Cayley returned with a glass of water; at
the same time, the order was given by Mrs. Maxwell
to unmask.

Clytie drew off her visor immediately.  As Granthope
watched her he felt the quality of his excitement
change, transmuted to a higher psychic level.
Somehow, with her whole face revealed, with her serene
eyes shining on him, he was less in the grip of that
craving which had held him prisoner.  It fled,
leaving him more calm, but with a deepened, more vital
desire.  The completed beauty of her face now thrilled
him with a demand for possession, but the single note
of passion was richened to a fuller chord of feeling.
The mole on her cheek made her human, and almost
attainable.

That feeling gave him a new and potent stimulus, as,
under his hostess' direction, he offered Clytie his arm
into the supper-room, and took a place beside her.
It buoyed him with pride when he looked about at the
gaily clad guests and noticed, with a quickened eye,
the distinction of her face and air, comparing her with
the others.  That dreamy, detached aspect in which
he had seen her before had given way now to a fine
glow of excitement which stirred her blood.  How far
she responded to his enthusiasm he could not tell; she
was, at least, inspired with the novelty of the scene—the
gaudy dresses, the warm red lights of monstrous
paper lanterns, the odors of burning joss-sticks, the
table, flower-bedecked and set out with strangely
decorated dishes, and the monotonous, hypnotic squeak
and clang and rattle of a Chinese orchestra half-way
up the stairs.

All trace of her annoyance had gone from her now,
and that unnamable, untamed spirit, usually dormant
in her, had retaken possession of her body.  She was
more jubilantly alive than he had thought it possible
for her to be.  He dared not attribute her animation
to his presence, however, gladly as he would have
welcomed that compliment.  It was the spell of
masquerade, no doubt, that had liberated an unusual
mood, emboldening her to show those nimble flashes
of gallantry.  At any rate, that revelation of her
under-soul was a piquant subject for his mind to think
on; there was an evidence of temperament there which
tinctured her fragile beauty with an intoxicating
suggestion.  It was a sign of unexpected depths in her,
a promise of entrancing surprises.

For the first time in his life he lacked the audacity
to woo a woman boldly.  There had never been enough
at stake before to make him count his chances.  There
had been everything to win, nothing to lose.  Women
had solicited his favor, but there was something
different in Clytie's approaches toward familiarity.  She
spoke as with a right-royal and secure from suspicion,
with a directness which of itself made it impossible
for him to take advantage of her complaisance.  He
was put, in spite of himself, upon his honor to prove
himself worthy of her confidence.  There was, besides,
a social handicap for him in her assured position—he
could see what a place she held by the treatment she
received from every one—while he was in his novitiate
at such a gathering, newly called there, his standing
still questionable.  But, most of all, to make their
powers unequal, was his increasing fear of her as an
antagonist with whom he could not cope intellectually.
He, with all his clever trickery and his practical
knowledge of psychology, was like a savage with bow and
arrow; she, with her marvelous intuition, like a goddess
with a bolt mysteriously and dangerously effective.

Already his instinct accepted this relation, but his
brain was still stubborn, seeking a refuge from the
truth.  He was to have, even as he sat there with
her, another manifestation.

Clytie sat at his left hand.  Mrs. Page, at his right,
had been assigned to the bald, red-faced gentleman
with white mustache, who had so profanely refused
to make a fool of himself by wearing a Chinese
costume.  His sprightly, flamboyant partner was
ill-pleased with her lot.  She proceeded to spread an
airy conversational net for Granthope, endeavoring
to trap him into her dialogue, with such patent art
that every woman at the table noticed her tactics.

Granthope, however, shook her off with a smile and
a joke, as if she were an annoying, buzzing fly.  Still
she hummed about him, leaving her partner to
himself and his food.  However clever and willing
Granthope might have been, ordinarily, at such an exchange
of persiflage, it was all he could do to parry her
thrusts and at the same time keep up with Clytie.
But she, noticing Mrs. Page's game, was mischievous
enough, or, perhaps, annoyed enough, to give the
woman her chance and submit to a trial of strength.  So,
as if to give Granthope the choice between them, she
turned to her left-hand neighbor, Fernigan, who, in his
female costume, had kept that end of the table, by his
wit, from interfering with her colloquy.

Granthope was in a quandary, fearing to be inextricably
annexed.  Mrs. Page at this moment increased
his dilemma by casting a languishing look at him and
pressing his foot with hers under the table.

All that was flirtatiously adventurous in him boiled
up; for Mrs. Page was, in her own way, a beauty,
and, as he had reason to know, amiable.

He drew away his foot, however, and as he did so,
gave a quick inward glance at himself, wondering, and
not a little amused, at the change that had taken place
in him.  Novelty is, in such dalliance, a prime factor
of temptation—it was not a lack of novelty, however,
which made her touch unwelcome, for he was, in his
relations with the woman, at what would be usually
a parlous stage.  He had already been gently reproved
for his weakness—but it was not the smart of that
disapproval that withheld him.  He had begun to fear
Clytie's vision—yet he was not quite ready to admit
her infallible.  His self-denial, then, was indicative of
an emotional growth.  He smiled to himself, a little
proud of the accompaniment of its tiny sacrifice.

Clytie, turning to him, rewarded him with a smile,
and, leaning a little, said under her breath:

"I'm so glad that you find me more worth your while."

He could but stare at her.  Mrs. Page was quick
enough to see, if not hear, what had happened; she
turned vivaciously to the gentleman in evening dress.

Granthope exclaimed, "You knew that?"

"Ah, it is only with you that I can do it."  She
seemed to be more confused at the incident than he.
"I know so much more than I ever dare speak of,"
she added.

This did not weaken her spell.

She continued: "Do you remember what you said,
when you read my palm, about my being willing to
make an exaggerated confession of motives, rather
than seem to be hypocritical, or unable to see my own
faults?"

He did not remember, but he dared not say so.
He waited a fraction of a second too long before he
said:

"Certainly I remember."

She looked hard at him and mentally he cowered
under her clear gaze.  Then her brows drew slightly
together with a puzzled expression, as if she wondered
why he should take the trouble to lie about so small
a matter.  But this passed, and she did not arraign his
sincerity.

"Well, what I want you to know now is that I
don't consider myself any better—than she is.  Do you
know what I mean?  I don't condemn her.  Oh, dear,
I'm so inarticulate!  I hope you understand!"

"I think I do," he answered, but he could not help
speculating as to the definiteness of her perception.
She answered his question unasked.

"I get things only vaguely—that's one reason why
I could not judge a person upon the evidence of my
intuition—I couldn't tell you, for instance, exactly
what happened between you two just now.  I know
only that I was disturbed, and that you, somehow,
reassured me."

"But you were more precise about what happened
up-stairs."  He was still at a loss to fix her limitations.

"Oh, there I pieced it out a little.  Shall I confess?
I knew you well enough to fill in the picture.  I know
something of her, too."

"Witch!"

"You're a wizard to make me confess!" she replied,
brightly shining on him.  "I don't often speak.  It's
usually very disagreeable to know so much of
people—indeed, I often combat it and refuse to see.  But
with you it's different."

"It's not disagreeable?"

"No, it is disagreeable usually.  It makes me feel
priggish to mention it, too, but, with you, the impulse
to speak is as strong as the revelation itself; that's
the strangest part of it."

This confession gave him a new sense of power, for
he saw that, sensitive as was her intuition, he
controlled and appropriated it.  It had already occurred to
him what splendid use he might make of her, compelling
such assistance as she could render.  Vistas
of ambition had opened to his fancy.  For him, as a
mere adventurer, her clairvoyance might reinforce his
scheming most successfully.  With her he could play
his game as with a new queen on the chess-board.  But
he saw now how absurd was the possibility of
harnessing her to such projects.  He was, in fact, a little
dazzled by the prospect she suggested.  As he corrected
that mistake with a blush for his worldly innocence, he
saw what the game with her alone could be—his game
transferred from the plane of chicanery to the level
of an intimate friendship—or even love.  He saw how
she would play it, how she would hold his interest,
keeping him intellectually alive with the subtlety of
her character.

So far he had not taken her seriously; he had
reveled in the possibility of a love affair, but he had
not even contemplated the possibility of a permanent
alliance.  As Madam Spoll had said, he had had his
pick of women—and each had ended by boring him.
Granthope, besides, with all his delight in strategy,
was modest, and desire for social establishment had not
entered into his plans.  He had accepted Clytie as one
of a different world, desirable and even tempting, but
not at all as one who would change either his theory or
his mode of life.  But now, with a sudden turn, his
thoughts turned to marriage with her.  Madam Spoll's
words leaped to his memory—she had said that it was
possible.  This idea came as the final explosion of a
long, tumescent agitation.  He looked at Clytie with
new eyes.  His ambition soared.

The meal went on in a succession of bizarre courses—seaweed
soup, shark's fins, duck's eggs, fried goose
and roasted sucking pig, boiled bamboo sprouts to
bird's nests and mysterious dishes—with rice gin and
citron wine.  The company was rollicking now; even
the gentleman in black evening dress was laughing,
and, goaded on by the irrepressible Mrs. Page, had
taken a large crown of gold paper, cut into rich
patterns and decorated with colored trimmings, from its
place in the center of the table and had set it upon
his bald head.  The walls of the dining-room were
covered with a row of paper costumes, elaborate robes
used by the Chinese tongs in their triennial festival
of the dead.  They were of all colors, decorated with
cut paper or painted in dragon designs with rainbow
borders and gold mons.  Mrs. Page tore one from
the wainscot and wrapped it about her partner's
shoulders.  Fernigan gibbered a fantastic allegiance
before him; Keith, he of the white nose, called for
a speech.  Over all this mirth the clashing cymbals,
the rattling tom-toms and squeaking two-stringed
fiddles kept up an uncouth accompaniment.  Granthope,
so far, had been a quiet observer, but when at Clytie's
request he removed his wig and false mustache, he
was recognized by Frankie Dean, who sat further
up the table.

"Oh, Mr. Granthope," she cried out.  "Won't you
please read my hand?"

Every one turned to him.  Clytie watched him to
see what he would do.  Mrs. Maxwell, at the head of
the table, obviously annoyed at this indelicacy, sought
to rescue him.

"I promised Mr. Granthope that he wouldn't be
asked," she interposed, smiling with difficulty.

"Office hours from ten till four," Fernigan
announced.  The guests tittered.

Granthope arose calmly and walked up to the young
lady's side, taking her hand.  Then he turned to his
sarcastic tormentor.

"This is one of the rewards of my profession," he
said, smiling graciously.  "I assure you I don't often
get a chance to hold such a beautiful hand as this."

Clytie got a glance across to him, and in it he read
her approval.  He bent to the girl's palm gravely:

"I see by your clothes-line," he said, "that you have
much taste and dress well.  Your fish-line shows that
you have extraordinary luck in catching anything you
want.  There are many victories along your line of
march.  There is a pronounced line of beauty here;
in fact, all your lines are cast in pleasant places.  You
will have a very good hand at whatever game you
play, and whoever is fortunate enough to marry you
will surely take the palm."

He retired gracefully, followed by laughter and
applause, and was not troubled by more requests.
Clytie whispered to him:

"I think you saved yourself with honor.  It was
a test, but I was sure of you!"

Mrs. Maxwell, immensely relieved, almost immediately
gave the signal for the ladies to leave.  After
the men had reseated themselves, heavy Chinese pipes
with small bowls were passed about.  Most of the
guests tried a few puffs of the mild tobacco, and then
reached for cigarettes or cigars.  As the doors to
the drawing-room were shut they drew closer together
and began to talk more freely.

Blanchard Cayley came over and sat down beside
Granthope in Clytie's empty chair.  He, too, had taken
off his wig.  His smile was ingratiating, his voice
was suave, as he said:

"I don't want to make you talk shop if you don't
care to, Granthope, but I'd like to know if you ever
heard of reading the character by thumb-prints.  I
don't know exactly what you'd call it—papilamancy,
perhaps."

"I don't think it has ever been done, but I don't
see why it shouldn't be," said Granthope, amused.

"What is necessary to make it a science?"

Granthope, quicker with women than with men,
was at a loss to see what Cayley was driving at, but
he suspected a trap, and foresaw that his science was
to be impugned.  He countermined:

"Oh, first of all, a classification and a terminology,"
he suggested.  Cayley was caught neatly.  He was
more ignorant than he knew.

"Why don't you classify the markings then?  I
should think it might be considered a logical development
of chiromancy."

"One reason is, because they have already been
classified by Galton.  I've forgotten most of it, but I
remember some of the primary divisions.  Have you
a pencil?"

Cayley unbuttoned and threw open his plum-colored,
long-sleeved 'dun,' disclosing evening dress
underneath, and produced a pencil which he gave to the
palmist.  Granthope smoothed out his paper napkin,
and, as he talked, drew illustrative diagrams upon it.

"You see, the identification of thumb-prints is made
by means of the characteristic involution of the
nucleus and its envelope.  One needs only a few
square millimeters of area.  There are three primary
nuclei—arches, whorls and loops.  Each has variously
formed cores.  The arch, for instance, may be tented
or forked—so.  The whorls may be circular or spiral.
The loops may be nascent, invaded or crested, and
may contain either a single or several rods, as they are
called.  Let me see your thumb, please.  You have a
banded, duplex, spiral whorl.  It was there when you
were born, it will be the same in form when you die.
Mine is an invaded loop with three rods."

He saw by Cayley's face that he had scored.  Such
technical detail was, in point of fact, Cayley's penchant,
and he was interested.  Granthope proceeded:

"Almost every distinguishing characteristic of the
human body has been used at one time or another
for divination or interpretation, as I suppose you
know."

Cayley saw an opening.  "But what do you think
the reading of moles, for instance, amounts to, really?"

"The reading of them, very little, of course.  But
the location of them, a good deal."

"Ah," said Cayley, "I thought so.  Then you affirm
an esoteric basis with regard to such interpretations?
You think that a mass of absolute knowledge has been
conserved, coming down from no one knows where,
I suppose?"

"There are several ways of looking at it,"
Granthope answered him.  He threw himself back in his
chair and gathered the company in with his eyes.
"One theory, as you know, is that palmistry derives its
authority from the fact that the lines are produced by
the opening and closing of the hand—originally, at
least—the fundamental markings being inherited, as
are our fundamental mental characteristics—and that
such alteration of the tissue is directly affected by the
character.  One stamps his own particular way of
doing things upon his palm.  Using the right hand
most, more is shown there that is individually
characteristic.  Of course this theory will not apply to the
distribution of moles upon the body.  But it seems to me
that every part of an organic growth must be consistent
with the whole, and with what governs it.  Everything
about a person must necessarily be characteristic of the
individual.  There are really no such things as
accidents, if we except scars.  We recognize that in
studying physiognomy, and, to a certain extent, in
phrenology.  It is suggested less intelligibly in a
person's gait, gesture and pose.  Everything that is
distinctive must be significant, if only we have the
power of interpreting it.  Of course we have not that
power as yet.  Palmistry, being the most obvious and
striking method, has been more fully developed.  A
great amount of data has been collected upon the
subject, and every good palmist is continually adding
to that material.  But I believe that, to a possible
higher intelligence, any part of a man's body would
reveal his character—since every specialized partial
manifestation of himself must be correlated with every
other part and the whole.  How else could it be?
An infinite experience would draw a man's mental
and physical portrait, for instance, from a single toe,
as it is possible for a scientist to portray a whole
extinct animal from a single bone.  I think that there can
be, in short, no possible divergence from type without
a reason for it; and that reason is the same one that
molded his character."

"But that doesn't explain prognostication of the
future."  By this time the animus of Cayley's attack
had died out.  He was now impersonally interested.

"No scientific palmist attempts to give more
than possibilities.  He must combine with the
signs in the hands a certain amount of psychology—a
knowledge of the tendencies of human nature—in
order to predict.  But, after all, his diagnosis, when
it is logical, is as accurate as that of the ordinary
physician, and the risk is less serious.  How many doctors
look wise and take serious chances—or prescribe bread-pills?
There's guess-work enough in all professions."

By this time the two had been joined by several
others who hung over them in a group, listening.
Fernigan interjected:

"That's right!  Even Blanchard has to guess what
he's talking about most of the time!"

"And you have to guess whether you're sober or
not!" said slim Keith with the white nose.

"When you talk about the probable tendencies of
human nature, you don't know what you're up
against," said Cayley, retreating.  "San Francisco is
a town where people are likely to do anything.  There's
no limit, no predicting for them.  They were buying
air-ship stock on the street down at Lotta's fountain,
the last thing I heard."

The old gentleman in evening dress, still wearing
his Chinese paper crown, took him up enthusiastically.

"You can be more foolish here without getting into
the insane asylum than any place on earth, but you
have to be a thoroughbred spiritualist before you can
really call yourself bug-house.  Look at old man
Bennett!  You couldn't make anything up he wouldn't
believe!"

"What about him?" said Cayley.  "I would like to
have him for my collection of freaks.

"Oh, he was a furniture manufacturer here.  I
knew him well, but I forget the details.  It was
something fierce though, the way they worked him."

Granthope smiled.  "I can tell you something about
Bennett," he offered.  "I happened to hear the whole
story nearly at first hand."

"Let's have it," Cayley proposed.

Granthope leaned back in his chair and began, rather
pleased at having an audience.

"Why, he went to investigating spiritualism and fell
into the hands of a man named Harry Wing and a
gang of mediums here.  They won Bennett over to a
firm belief, step by step, till he was the dupe of every
ghost that appeared in the materializing circles, which
cost him twenty-five dollars an evening, by the way.
One man that helped Wing out, played spirit,
pretended to be his dead son, and used to ask him for
jewelry so that he could dematerialize it, and then
rematerialize it for identification.  If Bennett went
down to Los Angeles he'd take the same train and
turn up at a circle there, proving he was the same spirit
by the rings that had been given him up here.  Well,
Bennett got so strong for it that after a while they
didn't bother with cabinets and dark séances—the
players used to walk right in the door.  Then they'd
tell him that, as partly materialized spirits, they ought
to have dinner to increase their magnetism, and he'd
send out for chicken and wine.  Finally they got him
so they'd point out people on the street and assert that
they were spirits.  The prettiest test was when they
materialized Cleopatra.  I've never seen the Egyptian
queen, but she certainly wasn't a bit prettier than the
girl who played her part.  Bennett, as an extraordinary
test of her strength, was allowed to take her out to the
Cliff House in a hack.  The curtains of the carriage
had to be pulled down to keep the daylight from
burning her."

"Oh, Cliff House, what crimes have been committed
in thy name!" Fernigan murmured.

"Next, they made Bennett believe that his influence
was so valuable in accustoming spirits to earth-conditions,
that they were going to reveal a new bible to
him, with all the errors and omissions corrected, and
he would go down to posterity as its author.  In
return, he was to help civilize the planet Jupiter.  You
see, Jupiter being an exterior planet was behind the
earth in culture.  Bennett contributed all sorts of
agricultural implements and furniture to be dematerialized
and sent to Jupiter, there to be rematerialized and used
as patterns.  Wing even got him to contribute a five
hundred dollar carriage for the same purpose.  It
was sold by the gang for seventy-five dollars, and even
when it was shown to Bennett by his friends, who were
trying to save him, he wouldn't believe it was the same
one.  They milked him out of every cent at last, and
he died bankrupt."

Granthope had scarcely finished his story when the
drawing-room doors were half opened and Mrs. Page
appeared on the threshold pouting.

"Aren't you ever coming in here?" she exclaimed
petulantly.  "You might let us have Mr. Granthope,
at least."

The men rose and sauntered in, one by one.

Granthope had but a moment in which to reflect
upon what he had done, but in that moment he regretted
his indiscretion in telling the Bennett story.  He
had not been able to resist the opportunity to make
himself interesting and agreeable; now he wondered
what price he would have to pay for it.  The next
moment his speculations vanished at the sight of
Clytie.

He went directly to her and sat down.  Although
the party was dispersed in little groups, the
conversation had become more or less general, and he had no
chance to talk to her alone.  He received her smile,
however, and she favored him with as much of her
talk as was possible.

As she sat there, with relaxed grace that was almost
languor, she made the other women in the room look
either negligently lolling or awkwardly conscious.  He
noticed how some of them showed the fabled western
influence of environment by the frank abandon of their
pose, how others held themselves rigidly, as if aware
of their own lack, and sought, by stern attention, to
conceal it.  Clytie's head was poised proudly, her hands
fell from her slender wrists like drooping flowers.
Her whole body was faultlessly composed, unified
with harmonious lines, as if a masterly portrait were
gently roused into life.

Fernigan now began, upon request, a Chinese
parody, accompanied by absurd pantomime.  Granthope
could not bear it, and, seeing Clytie still busy with her
admirers, slipped out of the room and went up to the
library.

Mr. Maxwell's books were rare and carefully selected,
a treat for such an amateur as Granthope.  He
went from case to case fingering the volumes, opening
and glancing through one after another.  The pursuit
kept him longer than he had intended.

There was a smaller room off the library, used as
a study and shut off by a portière.  Granthope,
standing near the entrance, suddenly heard the sound of
swishing skirts and footsteps, then the subdued,
modulated voices of two women.  With no intention at first
of eavesdropping, he kept on with his perusal of the
book in his hand.  The first part of the conversation he
remembered rather than listened to, but it soon
attracted his alert attention.

"I think it's a rather extraordinary thing,
Mrs. Maxwell's asking him, though, don't you?" one of
the ladies said.

The reply was in a gentle and more sympathetic
voice: "Oh, she wanted an attraction, I suppose, and
he's really very good-looking, you know."

"He's handsome enough, but he's too much like a
matinee hero for me; my dear, he's absolutely
impossible, really!  He's not the sort of person one cares
to meet more than once.  He's beyond the pale.

"It's rather cruel to invite him just to show him
off, I think.  In a way, he had to accept."

"Oh, I expect he's only too glad to come."

"I wonder how he feels!  Do you suppose he has
any idea that he's out of his element?  It must be
strange to be willing to accept an invitation when you
know you are, after all, only a sort of freak."

"Don't worry.  A charlatan has to have a pretty
thick skin—no doubt he'll make use of all of us, and
brag about his acquaintance.  That's his business, you
know; he has to advertise himself."

"I know; but every man has his own sense of
dignity, and it must be somewhat mortifying—no
self-respecting coal-heaver would accept such an
invitation—his pride would keep him from it.

"I don't see how a man like that can have much
pride.  A coal-heaver has, after all, a dignified way of
earning his living.  This man hasn't.  His trade can't
permit him to be self-respecting.  It's more undignified
than any honest labor would be.  Why, he lives by
trickery and flattery, and now he's beginning to toady,
too.  Just look at the way he is after Clytie Payson,
already."

"Yes, I can't see why she permits it, but she seems
to be positively fascinated by him.  Isn't it strange
how a fine girl like that is usually the most easily
deceived?  Did you see the way she was looking at
him at supper?  That told the story.  Of course, you'd
expect it of Mrs. Page, but not of Cly."

"Don't you believe it!  Cly's no fool—she sees
through him.  He's interesting, you can't deny that;
and you know that a clever man can get about
anything he wants in this town.  There are too few of
them to go round, and so they're all spoiled.  But
Cly's only playing him."

"You don't think she's deliberately fooling him, do
you?"

"Nonsense!  I know Cly as well as you do.  She
would always play fair enough, of course, but that
doesn't prevent her wanting to study a new specimen,
especially one as attractive as Granthope.  But it won't
last long.  Cly's too honest.  It's likely that he'll go
too far and take advantage of her—then she'll call him
down and dismiss him."

"Do you think he imagines that he could really—"
began the other.

"Oh, *he's* no fool either!  He knows perfectly well
where he belongs, but he's working his chances while
they last."

Granthope had been deliberately listening and, as
the last words came to his ears, his emotion burst into
flame.  This, then, was how he was regarded by the
new circle into which he had been admitted.  He was a
curiosity, handsome, but beyond the pale—even Clytie,
it was probable, was willing to amuse herself with
him.  The illumination it gave him as to his status was
vivid, its radiance scorched him.

He had never caught this point of view before.  He
had been too interested in his emergence from obscurity,
he had even congratulated himself upon his increasing
success.  Now he saw that the further he went
on that road the further away from Clytie he would
be—he saw the chasm that separated them.  His
undignified profession appeared to him for the first time in
its true aspect.  The humiliation and mortification of
that revelation was sickening.  He had not believed
that it was possible for him to suffer over anything so
keenly.  The insults he had received, produced, after
a poignant moment of despair, an energetic reaction.
His fighting instinct was awakened.  He had achieved
a certain control of himself, he had a social poise and
assurance that kindled his mind at the prospect of
an encounter.

He drew aside the portière and walked boldly into
the little room.

Two ladies were sitting there, picturesque in their
costumes.  Their rainbow-hued garments showed a
bizarre blotch of color in the quiet monochrome of the
place.  Their faces were whitened with powder, their
eyebrows blackened to the willow-curve, their lips
lined with red—they looked, in the half-light, like
fantastic, exotic Pierrettes.  As they caught sight of
him they started up with surprise, almost with fear.
Granthope bowed with a quiet smile, perfectly master
of himself.

"I want to apologize for having overheard your
conversation," he said.  "I must confess that I was
eavesdropping.  My business is, you know, to read
character for others, and I don't often have a chance
to hear my own so well described.  I'm much obliged
to you, I'm sure."

He had the whip-hand now.  There was nothing for
them to say; they said nothing, staring at him, their
lips parted.

He walked through to the door of the hall and there
paused like an actor making his exit from the stage.
A cynical smile still floated on his lips.  He had never
looked more handsome, with his black hair, his
clean-cut head, and his fine, deep eyes that looked them
over calmly, without haste.  His costume became him
and he wore it well.  Now, as he raised his hand, the
long sleeve of his olive green coat fell a little away
from his fingers.  Below, his lavender trousers
gleamed softly.  It was a queer draping for his serious
pose.  It was a strangely figured pair that he addressed
as they sat, embarrassed, immovable in their splendid
silken garments.

He added more gently, with no trace of sarcasm
in his smooth voice: "I would like to tell you, if it is
any satisfaction for you to know, that your operation
has been successful.  It was rather painful, without
the anesthetic of kindness, but I shall recover.  I think
I may even be better for it, perhaps restored to
health—who knows!"  Then his smile became enigmatic;
he left them and went down the stairs.

He made his way to Clytie with a new assurance;
inexplicably to him, some innate power, long in
reserve, had risen to meet the emergency.  He was
exhilarated, as with a victory.  She looked up at him
puzzled.

"I wonder if you know what has happened this
time?" he said.

"Oh, if I only did!  Something has—you have
changed, somehow."

"Is it an improvement?"

"You know, it is my theory that you're going to—"  She
gave up her explanation—her lips quivered.  "Well,
yes!  You have been embarrassed?"

"I suppose it was good for my vanity."

"Then you have heard something unpleasant."

"The truth often is."

"Was it true?"

He laughed it off.  "It was nothing I mightn't have
known."

"Then it is for you to make it false, isn't it?"

"If I can."

"I think there is nothing you couldn't do if you
tried."

"There is nothing I couldn't do if I had your help,"
he answered.

For answer, she took the little gold heart-shaped
bottle from its mesh-work and handed it to him.

"You must learn—but perhaps this may help you.
Will you keep it?"

He took it and thanked her with his eyes.  Then,
their dialogue being interrupted, he moved off.  He
wandered about, speaking to one and another for a
few moments, gradually drifting toward the hall.

As he stood just outside the reception-room he
glanced up the broad stairs carelessly, thinking of the
two ladies to whom he had spoken.  He smiled to
himself, wondering if they had yet come down.  While he
was watching, he saw a woman at the top of the
stairs, looking over the rail.  A second glance showed
her to be a servant.  She descended slowly, and, in a
moment, beckoned stealthily.  He paid no attention.

She came nearer, and, finally, seeing no one with
him, called out to him in a whisper.  It was Lucie,
Mrs. Maxwell's maid.  The moment Granthope recognized
her, he walked into the parlors again, as if he
had not noticed her.

Soon after that he paid his farewell amenities to
his hostess and went up to where he had left his hat
and coat.  Lucie was in the upper hall waiting for
him.

"Mr. Granthope," she whispered, "may I speak to
you a moment?  I have something."

"Not now," he said, passing on.

She plucked at his sleeve.  "I've got a great story,"
she insisted.

He shook his head.

"Shall I come down to your office?"

"Be quiet!" he said under his breath, and went
in for his things.

She was waiting for him when he emerged.

"I'll come down as soon as I can get off," she
continued.

He shrugged his shoulders without looking at her,
and went down-stairs, and out.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WEAVING OF THE WEB`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WEAVING OF THE WEB

.. vspace:: 2

Madam Spoll was sitting in her study on Eddy
Street, awaiting her victim, when Francis Granthope,
immaculate as usual, appeared in her doorway, having
been admitted by Spoll.  She was in front of the
glass, pinning on a lace collar.

"Hello, Frank," she said cordially, looking over her
shoulder, "you're a sight for sore eyes!  We don't
see much of you, nowadays."

"I've been pretty busy, lately," he answered, sitting
down and looking about with an expression of
ill-concealed distaste.  The stuffy, crowded room seemed
more unpleasant than ever, after his evening at the
Maxwells'.  Madam Spoll seemed more gross.
Everything that had been familiar to him had somehow
changed.  He seemed to have a different angle of
vision.  It was close and warm, and the air smelled of
dust.

"You ain't a-going to forget your old friends, now
you've got in with the four hundred, are you, Frank?"
she said earnestly.

He pulled out a cigarette-case and lit a cigarette.
As he struck the match he answered:

"Not if they don't meddle in my affairs."  He gazed
at her coolly as he inhaled a puff of smoke and sent
a ring across the room.

Madam Spoll's face grew stern.  "That's no way to
talk, Frank.  I've been the same as a mother to
you, in times past, ever since you went into business,
in fact.  It looks like you was getting too good for us."

"Why, what's the matter now?"

"Oh, you're so stand-off, nowadays."

He laughed uneasily.  "You always said I was
spoiled."

"Well, who's spoiling you now?  Miss Payson?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, well enough!  Lord, why don't you
come out with it!  It's all in the family, ain't it?
You've got her on the string, all right, ain't you?"

"I have not."  The frown grew deeper in his forehead.

"H'm!"  She drew a long breath.  "Well, that
means we'll have to begin at the beginning, then, I
expect.  I had a sort of an idea that you *had* got her
going, and wouldn't mind saying so, but if you're
going to go to work and be mysterious, why, I'll have
to talk straight business."  She pointed at him with
her pudgy finger.  "Now, see here, she's been writing
to you, anyways.  You can't deny *that*."

"What makes you think so?"

"I don't think anything at all about it; I know.
What d'you take me for?  A Portugee cook?  It's my
business to know all about the Paysons, that's all.
Very good."

Granthope looked more concerned, and eyed her
suspiciously.

"There's only one way for you to have found that
out," he said.  "And that reminds me.  I want to
get those notes I gave you about her when you were
up at my place.  I didn't keep a copy, and I've
forgotten some of the details that I need."

Madam Spoll raised her eyebrows, also her shoulders,
and made an inarticulate noise in her throat.
"Funny you need them so bad all of a sudden.  Not
that they done us much good—we've found out a lot
for ourselves; about all we need for the present."

"Well, I haven't interfered with your game, and
I don't see why you should interfere with mine.  Only,
I'd like those memoranda back, please."  His tone was
almost peremptory.

"I'm sorry, but I ain't got 'em."

"Where are they?"

"Why, I give 'em to Vixley."

Granthope saw that it was no use to go further.
He had, in spite of his precautions, already aroused
her suspicions, and so he pretended to consider the
matter of no moment.  Madam Spoll, however, was
now thoroughly aroused.

"What I want to know, Frank, is whether you're
with us or not."

"I thought the understanding was that we were to
work separately."

"Separately *and* together.  Mutual exchange *and*
actual profit, for each and for all.  We got a mighty
good thing in Payson, me and Vixley have, and we
propose to work it for all it's worth.  It'll be for your
interest to come in and help us out.  True, you have
done something, but now you're lallagagging, so to
speak, when you might be making a big haul.  Payson's
easy, and we can steer the girl your way, through
him.  He'll believe anything.  All we got to do is
to say my guides want him to have you for a son-in-law,
and the trick is as good as turned.  I agree to
get him started this afternoon.  He's a ten-to-one shot.
I can see that with half an eye.  It'll only be up to
you to make good with the girl, and Lord knows that'll
be easy for you.  Now is that straight enough for you?"

Granthope rose and began to pace the floor nervously.
He paused to straighten some magazines upon
the table, he adjusted a photograph upon the wall, he
moved back a chair; then he turned to her and said:

"I don't see how there's anything in this for me.
I'm through with all that sort of thing, and I think,
on the whole, I'll stay out.  I'm going in for straight
palmistry—and—well, another kind of game altogether.
You wouldn't understand it even if I explained.  I've
got a good start, now, and I don't want to queer
myself."

Madam Spoll made a theatrical gesture of surprise.
"Lord, Frank, who would have thought of you doing
the Sunday-school superintendent act on me!  A body
would think you'd never faked in your life!  My Lord,
I'm trying to lead you astray, am I?"

"That's all right.  I don't pretend to be very virtuous,
but some of this is getting a little raw for me."

Madam Spoll opened her eyes and her mouth.
"What's got into you, anyway?"

"Something's got out, perhaps," he said, frowning.
"At any rate, I don't care to make use of Miss Payson
to help you rob her father."

"Rob her father!"  Outraged innocence throbbed in
Madam Spoll's voice.  "Lord, Frank, you're plumb
crazy!  Why, he won't spend no money he don't want
to, will he?  He can afford it well enough!  He'll
never miss what we get out of him.  You might think
I was going to pick his pockets, the way you
talk."  She took him by the arm.  "See here!  You ain't
really stuck on that Payson girl, are you?  Why, if
I didn't know you so well, I'd be almost ready to
suspect you of it!  But land, you've had women running
after you ever since you went into business!  But I
notice you don't often stay away from the office more'n
two days running."

"I don't know that my private affairs are any of
your business," he said curtly.  He was rather glad,
now, of the chance for an outright quarrel.

But she would not let it come to that, and continued
in a wheedling tone: "Well, this happens to be my
business, and I speak to you as a friend, Frank, for
your own good as well as mine.  You can take it or
leave it, of course; I ain't a-going to try and put
coercion on to you, and there's time enough to decide
when we get Payson wired up.  Then I'll talk to you
just once more.  You just think it over a while, and
don't do nothing rash."

Granthope arose to leave.  He was for a more
romantic game, himself.  The vulgarity here offended
him esthetically rather than ethically, and yet he
winced at the insinuations Madam Spoll had made.

"I think I can go it alone," he said; "as for
rashness, I won't promise."

He had gone but a few minutes when Professor
Vixley entered and shook a long lean claw with
Madam Spoll, took off his coat and sat down.  "Well,"
he said affably, "how're they coming, Gert?"

"Oh, so-so; Frank Granthope's just been here."

"Is that so!  Did you get anything out of him?"

"No.  And he wants his Payson notes back again.
What d'you think of that!"

Vixley crossed his legs, and whistled a low, astonished
note.  "We're goin' to have trouble with Frank,
I expect."

Madam Spoll's smooth forehead wrinkled.  "Frank's
a fool!  He's leary of us, and I believe he'll throw us
down if we don't look out."

"Most time to put the screws on, ain't it?"

"I don't know; we'll see.  We can go it alone for
a while.  Wait till we really need him and I'll
guarantee to make him mind.  He's got the society bug so
bad I couldn't do anything with him."

"The more he gets into society the more use he is
to us," said Vixley.  "He's a pretty smooth article."

"Do you know, I have an idea he's getting stuck on
that Payson girl."

Vixley cackled.

"You never can tell," said Madam Spoll.  "I believe
Frank's got good blood in him.  Sooner or later it's
bound to come out."

"Well, if he's after the girl, it'll be easier for us to
bring him around.  He won't care to be gave away."

"That's right, and we'll use it.  I can see that girl's
face when she hears about him crawling through the
panel at Harry Wing's to play spook for Bennett."

"Not to speak of Fancy," Vixley added, grinning.

To them, Ringa entered.  He slunk into a chair
beside Vixley, smoothed down his tow hair, stroked
his bristling mustache, and allowed his weak gray eyes
to drift about the room.

"Well?" Madam Spoll queried, giving him a glance
over her fat shoulder.

"I found him all right, and I've got something.  I
guess it's worth a dollar, Madam Spoll."

"Let's hear it, first," said Vixley.

"I done the insurance agent act, and I jollied him
good."  Ringa grinned, showing a hole in his mouth
where two front teeth should have been.

"You jollied him," Vixley showed his yellow teeth.
"Lord, you don't look it!"

"I did though," the pale youth protested.  "I conned
him for near an hour."

"You're sure he didn't get on to you?" Madam Spoll
asked, regarding her head sidewise in the glass and
patting the blue bow on her throat.

"Sure!  I was a dead ringer for the real-thing
agent, and I had the books to show for it.  I worked
him for an insurance policy."

"Well?  What did he say?"  Madam Spoll turned
on him like a mighty gun.

"He was caught between two trains once on the
Oakland Mole, and I guess he was squeezed pretty bad.
He said it was a close call."

"That's all right," said Vixley; "we can trim that
up in good shape, can't we, Gert?"

"It'll do for a starter.  Give him a dollar."

"Anything more to-day?" Ringa asked, rising slowly.

"No; I'll let you know if I want you," said the
Madam.

Ringa slouched out.

"I'd let that cool off a while till he's forgotten it,"
Vixley suggested.

"I'll make him forget it, all right," Madam Spoll
returned.  "That's my business.  You do your part as
well as I do mine and you'll be all right."

"It's only this first part that makes me nervous."

"Oh, he ain't going to catch *me* in a trap.  I got
sense enough to put a mouse in first to try it."

She stood in front of the mirror in the folding-bed,
arranging her hair, which had been wet and still
glistened with moisture, holding her comb, meanwhile,
in her mouth.  Professor Vixley tilted back in his
plush chair, his head resting against the grease-spot
on the wall-paper which indicated his habitual pose.

"Now don't you go too fast," he said, pulling out a
square of chewing-tobacco and biting off a corner.
"This here is a-goin' to be a delicate operation.
Payson ain't so easy as Bennett was.  Bennett would
believe that cows was cucumbers, if we told him so,
but this chap is too much on the skeptic.  We got to
go slow."

"You leave me alone for *that*," Madam Spoll replied
easily.  "I guess I know how to jolly a good thing
along.  Has he got the money?  That's all I want to
know about him."

"He's got money all right.  That's a cinch.  I'm
not in this thing for my health.  What's more, he's
got the writin' bug, and I can see a good graft in that."

"Well, I'll give it a try."

"No, you better keep your hands off that subject,
Gertie.  I can work that game better'n you.  I got it
all framed up how I can string him good.  I'm goin'
to make that a truly elegant work of art.  All you got
to do is to get him goin', and then steer him up against
me."

The door-bell rang noisily up-stairs and Mr. Spoll's
footsteps were heard going to answer the summons.

"I guess that's my cue," said Madam Spoll, smiling
affably.  "I wish I had more magnetism to-day."  She
shook her hands and snapped her fingers.  "I can't
stand so much of this as I used to.  I can remember
when I could get a name every time without fishing
for it.  But what I've lost in one way I have learned
in another.  I'm going to give him a run for his
money, and don't you forget it."

Vixley smiled and rubbed his hands.  "Go in and
win, Gert.  I guess I'll take a nap here on the lounge
while I'm waitin' for you, and see if the Doc doesn't
come in."

"All right," she replied; then marched up-stairs
and went into action.

The upper parlor, where she received her patrons
for private sittings, was a large room separated from
the back part of the house by black walnut double
doors.  Upon the high-studded walls were draperies
of striped oriental stuffs, caught up with tacks and
enlivened by colored casts of turbaned Turks' heads,
most of which were chipped on cheek and on chin,
showing irregular patches of white plaster.  Upon the
mantel chaos reigned, embodied in a mass of minor
decorations of all sorts, such as are affected by those
who deem that space is only something to be as closely
filled as possible.  The furniture was cheaply elaborate
and formally arranged, running chiefly to purple
stamped plush and heavy woolen fringe.  The silk
curtains in the windows were severely arranged in
multitudinous little pleats, fan shaped, drawn in with
a pink ribbon at the center.  There was scarcely a
thing in the room, from the fret-sawed walnut
whatnot in the corner to the painted tapestry Romeo upon
the double doors, that an artist would not writhe at
and turn backward.  A little ineffective bamboo table
in the center was made a feature of the place, but
supported its function with triviality.

Mr. Payson had just entered, cold and blue from
the harsh air outside.  He bowed to the seeress.

She began with the weather, referring to it in
obvious commonplaces, eliciting his condemnation of
the temperature.  She offered to light the gas-log and
succeeded, during the conversational skirmish, in
drawing from him the fact that he suffered from
rheumatism, especially when the wind was north.

Madam Spoll allowed the ghost of a smile to haunt
her face for a brief moment.  "Lucky you ain't got
my weight, it gets to you something terrible when
you're fat.  I ain't quite so slim as I used to be."  She
looked up from the grate coquettishly, marking the
effect of her words.

"Now let's set down and get ready," she said, going
over to the frail table and pressing her hands to her
forehead.  "I ain't in proper condition to-day; I've
been working hard and my magnetism's about wore
out.  But I'll see what I can do."

He took a seat opposite her and waited.  His attitude
was benignly judicial; his eyes were fixed upon
her, through his gold-bowed spectacles.

"Funny thing how different people are," she began.
"Now, I get your condition right off.  You ain't at
all like the rest of the folks that come here.  I get
a condition of study, like.  I see what you might call
books around you everywhere—not account-books,
but more on the literary.  Books and sheep, you
understand.  Not live ones!  I would say they was more
on the dead sheep.  Flat ones, too, with hair,
like—queer, ain't it?  Sounds like nonsense I suppose, but
that's just what I get.  They must be some mistake
somehow."  She drew her hand across her forehead
and snapped the electricity off her finger-tips.  Then
she rubbed her hands and twisted her mouth.  "Do
you know what I mean?"

"Why, it might be wool perhaps; I have something
to do with wool," he offered.

"Now ain't that strange?  It *is* wool, as sure's you're
born!  I can see what you might call skins and bales
of wool.  And I get a condition of business, too—but
not what you might call a retail business.  Seems like
it was more on the wholesale."

"Yes, that's right," he assented, nodding.

"What did I tell you!" she exclaimed.  "I do believe
I may get something after all, though very often the
first time ain't what you might call a success, and
sitters are liable to get discouraged.  I can tell you
only just what my guides give me, you know, and
sometimes Luella is pernickerty.  She's my chief
control.  You know how it is yourself, for you'll be a
man that knows women right down to the ground,
and you've always been a favorite with the ladies, too."

"Oh, I never knew many women," he said modestly.

"It ain't the number I'm speaking of.  It's the hold
you had over 'em, specially when you was a young
man.  They was women who would do anything you
asked them and be glad of the chance; now, wasn't
they?  Did you ever know of a party, what you might
call a young woman, though not so very young, with
the initial C?"  She mumbled the letter so that it was
not quite distinguishable.

"G?" he said.  "Why, yes!—was that the first name
or the last?"

"It seems like it was the first name, the way I get
it—would it be Grace?"

This was, of course, a random "fishing test," and
she got a bite.

"My wife's name was Grace."

She hooked the fact, noticing the tense, and let her
line play out to distract his attention temporarily.

"It don't seem quite like your wife.  Seems like it
was another woman who you was fond of.  Maybe it
was meant for the last name.  Sometimes my control
does get things awfully mixed.  Or, it might be a
middle initial.  You wait a minute and maybe I'll
get it stronger."

"Oh, if it was the last name, I think I recognize it."

She had another line out and another bite, now, and
played to land both, coaxing the truth gently from him.

"Yes, it's a last name, and she was terrible fond of
you.  She was in love with you for some time, you
understand?  And there was some trouble between you."

"There was, indeed!"  Mr. Payson shook his head
solemnly.

The hint now made sure of, she heightened it to
make him forget that he himself had given the clue.

"I get a feeling of worry, and what you might call a
misunderstanding.  You didn't quite get along with
each other and it made a good deal of trouble for you.
You was what I might call put out, you understand?
She's in the spirit now, ain't she?"

"Yes; she died a good many years ago."

Madam Spoll returned to her first fish and began to
reel in.  "Your wife's passed out, too, and Luella tells
me she's here now.  She says Grace was worried, too.
But she's happy now and wants you to be.  You was
a young man then, and yet you have never got over it.
You wasn't rightly understood, was you?"

Mr. Payson shook his head again.  He was listening
attentively.

"But it wan't your fault, do you understand?  It
was something that couldn't be helped.  And
sometimes when you think of this other lady you say to
yourself, 'If she only knew!  If she only knew!'"

"Yes, I wish she did.  It really wasn't my fault."

Madam Spoll cast more bait into the pool.

"Now, would her given name be Mary, or something
like that?"

"No—it was an uncommon name."

The medium persisted stubbornly.

"That's queer.  I get the name of Mary very plain."

"My mother's name was Mary; perhaps you mean her?"

"It might be your mother, and yet it seems like it
was a younger woman.  Now, this lady I spoke of had
dark hair, didn't she?  or you might call it
medium—sort of half-way between light and dark."

"No; she had white hair."

Another fish was on the hook.  Madam Spoll had got
what she wanted.  This admission of Mr. Payson's,
coupled with the fact Granthope had discovered, that
Clytie had visited the crazy woman, identified the old
man's first love, she thought, effectually.  She kept this
for subsequent use, however.  It would not do, as
Vixley had said, to go too fast.

"Then this Mary must be some one else," she said.
"You may not recognize her now, but you probably
will.  I can't do your thinking for you, you know.  It
may possibly be that you'll meet her some day; at
any rate, my guides tell me you must be careful and
don't sign no papers for Mary.  I don't know whether
she's in the spirit or not.  You may understand it and
you may not.  All I can do is to give you what I get."

Madam Spoll now became absorbed in a sort of
reverie.  When at last she emerged it was with this:

"I see your mother and your wife now, and I get
the words, 'It's a pity Oliver couldn't marry her.'  I
don't know what they mean at all."

"I understand.  I was intending to marry another
woman, the one you spoke of just now, but something
prevented."

"That must be it.  My guide tells me that something
dreadful happened, and it was what you might call
hushed up and you separated from her."

"It was not my fault."

"I get a little child, too"—Mr. Payson grew still
more absorbed.  The medium noticed his instant
reaction in eyes, mouth and hands.  On the strength
of that evidence, she took the risk of saying:

"The child was the lady's with the white hair."

"What about it?" demanded Mr. Payson.

"I see the child standing by a lady who grew gray
very young, you understand.  And now they're both
gone.  Was you ever interested in Sacramento or
somewhere east of here?"

"Stockton?" he asked.  "I lived there for a while."

"That's it.  I see a river, and steamboats coming in,
and there's the child again."

"A boy or a girl?"

She hesitated for a moment to dart a glance at him
as swift as an arrow.  Then she risked it.  "A girl."

He drew a long breath.  "I don't quite understand."

"It certainly is a little girl, and she's with the lady
with the gray hair.  But wait a minute.  Now I get a
little boy, and he's crying."

"Where is he?" came eagerly from Payson's lips.

"He's on this side.  He's alive.  I'll ask my guide."
She plunged into another stupor, then shook herself,
rubbed her forehead, wrung her hands.

"I can't get it quite strong enough to-day, but I'll
find out later.  He seems to be mixed up with you,
some way, not in what you might call business, but
more personally.  You're worried about him."

Mr. Payson, with a shrug of his shoulders, appeared
to disclaim this.

"Yes, you are!  You may not realize it, but you
are.  The time will come when you understand what
I mean.  Now you're too much interested in other
things.  Your mind is way off—toward New York,
like, or in that direction."

He looked puzzled.

"Maybe it ain't as far as New York, but it's
somewhere around there, and I see books and printing
presses.  Do you have anything to do with printing?"

This he also disclaimed.

"Funny!" she persisted.  "I get you by a printing-press
looking at a book and then I see you at a table
writing."

"I have done some writing, but it has never been
printed."

"Well, it will be!  My guide tells me that you have
a great talent for literary writing, and it could be
developed to a great success.

"Now," she added, "you let me hold your hands a
while till I get the magnetism stronger.  Just hold
them firm—that's right.  Lord, you needn't squeeze
them *quite* so hard!"  She beamed upon him with
obvious coquetry.  "Now I'm going into a trance.  I
don't know whether Luella will come, or maybe little
Eva.  Eva's the cunningest little tot and as bright as
a dollar.  She's awful cute.  You mustn't mind
anything she says or does, though.  Sometimes, I admit,
she mortifies me, when sitters tell me what she's been
up to.  I've known her to sit on men's laps and kiss
'em and hug 'em, like she was their own daughter,
but Lord, she don't know any better.  She's innocent
as a baby."

His face grew harder as she said this, but she
proceeded, nevertheless, with her experiment, closing
her eyes and sitting for a while in silence.  Then her
muscles twitched violently; she squirmed and
wriggled her shoulders.  Finally she spoke, in a high,
squeaky falsetto, a fair ventriloquistic imitation of a
child's voice.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Payson, I'm little Eva!  I
brought you some flowers, but you can't see 'em,
'cause they're spirit flowers.  You don't look very
well.  Ain't you feelin' well to-day?  I'm always well
here, and it's lovely on this side."

He made no response.  Madam Spoll's soft hand,
obviously controlled by her spirit guide, moved up
Mr. Payson's arm and patted his cheek.  He drew
back suddenly.

"My!" little Eva exclaimed.  "You frightened me!
What a funny man you are!  Won't you just let me
smoove your hair, once?  I'd love to.  Oh, I think
you're horrid!  I'm just doin' to slap your
face—there!"  Which she did quite briskly.

Mr. Payson loosened his hold with some annoyance.

"Well, I ain't doin' to stay if you don't love me,"
the shrill voice went on.  "I don't *like* men who don't
love me.  Good-by, old man, I'm doin'."

There was another wriggle on the part of the
medium, after which a lower-toned voice said:

"How do you do!  I'm Luella."

He watched the medium's blank, expressionless face
as she spoke.

"Say, you ain't well, I can see that.  Haven't you
got a pain in your leg?  Excuse me saying it, but I
can feel it right there."

She touched him gently on the thigh.

"Oh, that's only a touch of rheumatism," he replied.

"No, it ain't," she said, "it's more serious than that.
It's chronic, and it's growing worse.  Sometimes it's
so painful that you almost die of it, isn't it?  I know
where you got it; it come of an accident.  I can see
you in a big crowded house, like, and there's railroad
trains coming and going, and you're crowded and
jammed.  You got internal injuries and a complication.
You didn't realize it at the time, but it's growing
worse every day.  If you don't look out you'll
pass out through it, but if you went right to work, you
could be cured of it, before it gets too bad."

"What could I do about it?" he asked.  "The doctors
don't help me much."

"Of course they don't.  You haven't been to the
right ones.  I was an Indian doctor, and I can see
just what's the matter with you.  You need a certain
kind of herb I used to use when I was on the
flesh-plane in Idaho."

"Can't you help me, then?"

"Oh, I've got to go now, they're calling to me.  So
good-by."  Another wriggle and Madam Spoll was
herself again.

"Well, what did you get?" she asked when she
recovered.

"Why, don't you know?"

"No more'n a babe unborn," she said.  "I was in a
dead trance, and I never remember anything that
happens.  I hope little Eva didn't tease you any."

"Who is the other one—Luella?"

"Why, she's an Indian princess that passed out
about ten years back.  She's got a great gift of
diagnosing cases.  She's helped my sitters a good deal."

"She told me something about my trouble."

"You mean about the gray-haired lady or the child?"

"Oh, no, about my leg!"

"Did she, now?  Well, what did I tell you!  Seems
to me you *do* look peaked and pale, like you was
enjoying poor health.  I noticed it when you first
come in.  I don't believe your blood's good.  Luella
don't prescribe ordinarily, but she can diagnose cases
something wonderful.  If I should tell you how many
doctors in this town send their patients to me to be
diagnosed before they dare to treat them themselves,
you'd be surprised.  Why, only the other day a lady
come in here that was give up by four doctors for
cancer, and Luella found it was only a boil in her
kidney.  She went to a magnetic healer and was cured
in a week.  Now she's doing her own work and
taking care of her babies, keeping boarders and plans
to go camping this very month."

"Who was the doctor?" Mr. Payson asked, much
impressed.

"Doctor Masterson.  He's up on Market Street
somewhere.  Perhaps I've got a card of his around.
I'll see if I can find it."

She walked over to the mantel and fussed among
its dusty ornaments, saying, with apparent concern, as
she rummaged:

"I don't know as I ought to send you to Doctor
Masterson, after all.  You see, he ain't a man I like
very much, and few do, I find.  He don't stand very
well with the Spiritual Society, nor with anybody
else that I know of.  He ain't quite on the square,
do you understand what I mean?  To be perfectly
frank, I think he's a rascal.  He has a bad reputation
as a man, but all the same, he's a good medium,
nobody denies *that*, and he does accomplish some
marvelous cures!  If Luella said your complaint was
serious, she knows, and it looks to me like you must
go to Doctor Masterson or die of it, for if he can't
cure you, nobody can.  He's certainly a marvelous
healer."

She found the card at last, and brought it over to
Mr. Payson.

"Here it is, but you better not tell him I give it
to you, for we ain't on very good terms, and I wouldn't
want him to know that I was sending him business."

As Mr. Payson rose to go, the medium stopped him
with a gesture.

"Wait a minute," she said, passing her hand across
her forehead.  "Grace is here again and she says: Tell
him that we're doing all we can on the spirit plane
to help him and we want him to cheer up, for conditions
are going to be more favorable in a little while,
say, by the end of September.'"

She paused a moment and then added:

"Who's Clytie?  Would that be the gray-haired lady?"

"What about Clytie?"  He was instantly aroused.

"It don't seem to me like she's in the spirit, exactly.
She's on the material plane.  Let's see if I can get
it more definite.  Oh, Grace says she's your daughter."

"That's true."

"What do you think of that?  I get it very plain
now.  Grace says she's watching over Clytie and will
help her all she can."

"Can't she tell me anything more?"

The medium became normal.  "No, I guess that's
about all I can do for you to-day.  I think you got
some good tests, specially when you consider it was
the first time.  When you come again I expect we
can do better, and I'm sure we can find that little boy
you was interested in."

Mr. Payson rose and stood before her, sedate,
dignified, and said, in his impressive platform-manner:

"I don't mind saying that I consider this very
remarkable, Madam Spoll, very remarkable.  I shall
certainly call again sometime next week.  I am much
interested.  Now, what is the charge, please?"

"Oh, we'll only call this three dollars.  My price
is generally five, but I'm sort of interested in your
case and I want you to be perfectly satisfied.  You
can just ring me up any time and make an
appointment with me."

She bowed him out with a calm, pleasant smile.

Down-stairs, Professor Vixley was awaiting her.
With him was a shrewd-eyed, bald-headed, old man,
with iron spectacles, his forehead wrinkled in
horizontal lines, as if it had been scratched with a sharp
comb.  He had a three days' growth of red beard on
his chin and cheeks, and his teeth, showing in a rift
between narrow, bloodless lips, were almost black.  He
wore a greasy, plaid waistcoat, a celluloid collar much
in need of the laundry and a ready-made butterfly bow.

"Why, how d'you do, Doctor Masterson?" said
Madam Spoll.  "I was hoping you would get around
to-day, so's we could talk business.  I suppose you
put him wise about Payson, Vixley?"

"Certainly," said the Professor.  "We're goin' to
share and share alike, and work him together as long
as it lasts.  How did you get on with him to-day?"

"Oh, elegant," was the answer, as she took a seat
on the couch and put up her feet.  "I don't believe
we're going to be able to use Flora, though."

Professor Vixley's black eyes glistened and he
grinned sensuously.  "Why, couldn't you get a rise out
of him?"

Madam Spoll shook her huge head decidedly.  "No,
that sort of game won't work on him.  He ain't that
kind.  I went as far as I dared and give him a good
chance, but he wouldn't stand for it."

"That's all right, Gert," said Vixley, "I ain't sayin'
but what you're a fine figure of a woman, but he's
sixty and he might prefer somebody younger.  You
know how they go.  Now, Flora, she's a peach.  She'd
catch any man, sure!  She knows the ropes, too, and
she can deliver the goods all right.  Look at the way
she worked Bennett.  Why, he was dead stuck on her
the first time he seen her.  She put it all over Fancy
at the first rattle out of the box."

Again Madam Spoll's crisp, iron-gray curls shook a
denial.  "See here, Vixley!" she exclaimed, "I ain't
been in this business for eighteen years without
getting to know something about men.  Bennett was a
very different breed of dog.  I can see a hole in a
ladder, and I know what I'm talking about.  Payson
ain't up to any sort of fly game.  He's straight, and
he's after something different, you take my word for
that.  If there was anything in playing him that way,
I'd be the first one to steer him on to Flora Flint,
but he'd smell a mice if she got gay with him and
he'd be so leary that we couldn't do nothing more
with him."

"Well, what *did* you get, then?" Vixley asked.

"Did you wire it up for me?" Doctor Masterson
added.

"Oh, I fixed you all right, Doc.  He'll show up at
your place, sure enough.  That accident tip worked
all right and I got him going pretty good about his
leg.  He's got your card and I give you a recommendation,
I don't think!  You want to look out about
what you say about me.  We ain't on speaking terms,
you understand, and you're a fakir, for fair.  You can
get back at me all you want, only don't draw it hard
enough to scare him away."

Doctor Masterson grinned, showing his line of black
fangs, and stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets
placidly.  "Oh, I'm used to being knocked, don't mind
me.  I'll charge him for it.  If I'm going to be the
villain of this here drama, I'll do it up brown."

"Let's see now.  I s'pose you can probably hold
him about two months, can't you?" said Vixley,
stroking his pointed black beard and spitting into the
fireplace.

"Oh, not so long as that," said Madam Spoll.  "We
want to get to work on that book proposition.  A
month's plenty long enough.  They ain't much money
in it."

"I don't know."  Doctor Masterson shook his head.
"I've strung 'em for six months many's the time."

"Women, perhaps, but not men," said the Madam.

"Well, maybe.  Men are liable to be in more of
a hurry, of course."

"And women ain't so much, with you, are they?"

The two men laughed cynically.

"Oh, they's more ways to work women than men,
that's all," the doctor replied.  "They're more
interested in their symptoms, and they like to talk about
'em.  Then, again, they's a more variety of complaints
to choose from.  I don't say I ain't had some
pretty cases in my day."

"Say!" Madam Spoll interposed.  "Who's having
a circle to-night—Mayhew?"

"Let's see—it's Friday, ain't it?  Yes, Mayhew and
Sadie Crum," Vixley replied.

"Well, I s'pose we got to put 'em wise about
Payson," said the Madam.  "He's got the bug now and
he's pretty sure to make the rounds."

"Can't we keep him dark?" said Vixley.  "He's our
game and they might possibly ring him in."

"No, that won't do," she answered emphatically.
"We got to play fair.  They've always been square
with us, and they won't catch him, I'll see to that.
Mayhew's straight enough and if Sadie tries to get
gay with us, we can fix her and she knows it.  And the
more easy tests he gets, the better for us.  It'll keep
him going, and so long as they don't go too far, it'll
help us.  The sooner he gets so he don't want to
impose test conditions, the better, and they can help
convert him for us.  I'll ring up Mayhew now.  I've
got a good hunch that Payson will show up there
to-night."

She raised her bulk from the couch and went to the
telephone by the window, calling for Mayhew's
number.  When she had got it, she said:

"Is this number thirty-one? ... Yes, I'm number
fifteen....  Sure!  Oh, pretty good! ... I got
a tip for you.  I'm playing a six-year-old for the
handicap, named Oliver.  Carries sixty pounds, colors blue
and gray, ten hands, jockey is Payson.  He's a
ten-to-one shot.  My wife Grace lived in Stockton.  Do
what you can for me, but keep your hands off, do
you understand?  Numbers forty and thirteen are with
me in this deal and we'll fix it for you if you stand
in ... yes, all right!  If he shows up let me know
to-morrow morning, sure."

She turned to the two men.  "I guess that's all
right now."

"What's all that about Stockton?" Vixley asked.

"He lived there once and there's something more
about his wife or something.  Mayhew may fish it out
of him, and if he does I'll put you on."

"I ain't seen him yet," said the doctor, "but I
guess I'll recognize him.  Sixty years old, Oliver
Payson, one hundred and sixty pounds, blue eyes and gray
hair, six feet tall.  Are you sure he's a ten-to-one,
though?  That cuts more ice than anything."

"Oh, sure!" said Madam Spoll.  "Why, he swallowed
the whole dose.  He ain't doing no skeptic business.
He thinks he's an investigator.  Wait till you
hear him talk and you'll understand.  Not religious,
you know, but a good old sort.  He's caught all right,
and if we jolly him along, we can polish him off good."

"They ought to be some good materializin' graft in
that wife proposition.  Grace, was it?  We might turn
him over to Flora for that."  This from Vixley.

"I've been thinking of that," said Madam Spoll,
"but I don't know whether he'll stand for it or not.  It
won't be anywheres near the snap it was with Bennett,
in full daylight, and we'll have to have special players.
I believe I can put my hands on one or two that can
help us out, though.  Miss French for one; she's got
four good voices.  Then there's a young girl I got
my eye on that'll do anything I say.  She's slim and
she can work an eight-inch panel as slick as soap;
and she's got a memory for names and faces that beats
the directory.  Besides, I believe she's really psychic.
I've seen her do some wonderful things at mind-reading."

"No, can she really!" said Vixley.

"Oh, I used to be clairaudient myself when I begun,"
said Madam Spoll a little sadly.  "I could catch a
name right out of the air, half the time.  I've gave
some wonderful tests in my day, but you can't never
depend upon it, and when you work all the week,
sick or well, drunk or sober, you have to put water in
the milk and then it's bound to go from you.  You
have to string 'em sooner or later.  This girl's a dandy
at it, though, but that'll all wait.  There's enough to
do before we get to that part of the game.  I expect
I had better go out and see Sadie Crum myself.  I
don't trust her telephone.  She's got a ten-party line,
what do you think of that?"

"A ten-party line don't do for business," said Vixley,
"but it's pretty good for rubberin'.  I've got some
pretty good dope off my sister's wire.  She spends
pretty near all her time on it and it does come in
handy."

"Oh, pshaw!"  Madam Spoll looked disgusted.  "I
ain't got time to spend that way.  What's the use
anyway?  They ain't but one rule necessary to know in
this business, and that is: All men is conceited, and
all women is vain."

"That's right!" Vixley assented.  "Only I got
another that works just as good; all women want to
think they are misunderstood, and all men want to
think they understand.  Ain't that right, Doc?"

Masterson grinned.  "I guess likely you ought to
know, if anybody does.  But I got a little one of my
own framed up, too.  How's this?  All men want to
be heroes and all women want to be martyrs."

The three laughed cynically together.  They had
learned their practical psychology in a thorough school.
Madam Spoll chuckled for some time pleasantly.

"You're the one had ought to write a book, Masterson.
I'll bet it would beat out Payson's!"

"Lord!" said Vixley.  "If I was to write down the
things that have happened to me, just as they
occurred—"

"It wouldn't be fit to print," Madam Spoll added.
Vixley looked flattered.

"How about that pickle-girl?" he asked next.

"What's that?" said Doctor Masterson.

"Oh, a new graft of Gertie's.  Did she come, Gert?"

"I should say she did," Madam Spoll replied.  "And
I got her on the string staking out dopes, too.  Why,
she's mixed up with a fellow at the Risdon Iron Works,
and she don't dare to say her soul's her own since
she told me."

"Nothin' like a good scandal to hold on to people
by," Masterson remarked.  "Where'd you get her?"

"Oh, she floated in.  I give her a reading and found
out she worked in a pickle factory down on Sixth
Street where there are fifty or more girls.  Soon as
I found out the handle to work her by, I made her
a proposition to tip off what's doing in her shop.  She
makes her little report, steers the girls up here, and
then she comes round and tells me who they are and
all about 'em."

"That's what I call a good wholesale business," said
Vixley enviously.  "I wish I could work it as slick as
that.  She uses the peek-hole in the screen, I suppose?"

"Sometimes, and sometimes she sits behind the window
curtain up-stairs."

"You have to give yourself away, that's the only
trouble," said Doctor Masterson.

"Oh, no," Madam Spoll remarked easily, "I just tell
her that I can't always get everybody's magnetism,
though of course I can always get hers.  That gives
her an idea she's important, don't you see?  Then I
can always lay anything suspicious to the Diakkas.
Evil spirits are a great comfort."

"And anyways, if she should want to tell anything,"
Vixley suggested, "you can everlastingly blacklist her
at the factory with what you know."

"Yes," Madam Spoll assented; "she's got a record
herself, only she hasn't got sense enough to realize on
it the way I do on mine.  Is they any bigger fool than
a girl that's in love?"

"Only a man that is," Vixley offered sagely.

"Oh, *men*!" she exclaimed contemptuously.  "I
believe they ain't more'n but three real ones alive
to-day!"

The Professor's eyes snapped.  "Well, they's women
enough, thank the Lord!"

"Well," said Doctor Masterson, "I got to go to
work; I'm keeping office hours in the evening now
and I have to hump.  So long, Gertie, I'll be all ready
for Payson, but you and Vixley have got to keep
jollying him along.  You want me to hold him about
a month?  I'll see what I can do, and if I get a lead,
I'll let you know."  He shook hands and left them.

"I ain't so sure of the Doc as I'd like to be," said
Madam Spoll after he had gone.

"Nor me neither," Vixley replied.  "We've got to
watch him, I expect, but he'll do for a starter and we
can fix him if he gets funny.  There ain't nothin' like
coöperation, Gertie."

As Madam Spoll sat down again to open a bottle
of beer she had taken from beneath the wash-stand,
Professor Vixley began to twirl his fingers in his lap
and snicker to himself.

"What are you laughing at, Vixley?" she asked,
pouring out two frothing glasses.

"I was just a-thinkin' about Pierpont Thayer.  Don't
you remember that dope who went nuts on spiritualism
and committed suicide?"

"No, I don't just recall it; what about it?"

"Why, he got all wound up in the circles here—Sadie
Crum, she had him on the string for a year, till he
didn't know where he was at.  He took it so hard
that one day he up and shot hisself and left a note
pinned on to his bed that said: 'I go to test the
problem.'  Lord!  I'd 'a' sold every one of my tricks and
all hers to him for a five-dollar bill!  Why didn't
he come to *me* to test his problem?  He'd 'a' found
out quick enough."

"Yes, and after you'd told him all about how it was
done, I'll guarantee that I could have converted him
again in twenty minutes."

"I guess that's right," said Vixley.  "Them that
want to believe are goin' to, and you can't prevent
'em, no matter what you do.  They're like hop
fiends—they've got to have their dope whether or no, and
just so long as they can dream it out they're happy."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ILLUMINATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   ILLUMINATION

.. vspace:: 2

It is easy to imagine the virtuous pride with which
the civil engineer, Jasper O'Farrell, set about the
laying out of the town of San Francisco in 1846.  Here
was the ideal site for a city—a peninsula lying like
a great thumb on the hand of the mainland, between
the Pacific Ocean and a deep, land-locked bay, an area
romantically configured of hills and valleys, with
picturesque mountain and water views, the setting sun
in the west and Mount Diablo a sentinel in the east; to
the northward, the sea channel of the Golden Gate
overhung by the foot-hills of Tamalpais.

There was still chance to amend and improve the
old town site of Yerba Buena, the little Spanish
settlement by the cove in the harbor, whose straight,
narrow streets had been artlessly ruled by Francisco de
Haro, alcalde of the Mission Dolores.  He had marked
out upon the ground, northerly, La Calle de la
Fundacion and the adjacent squares necessary for the
little port of entry in 1835.  Four years later, when
Governor Alvarado directed a new survey of the place,
Jean Vioget extended the original lines with mathematical
precision to the hills surrounding the valley;
and it would have been possible to correct that artistic
blunder of the simple-minded alcalde.  But Jasper
O'Farrell had seen military service with General
Sutter; his ways were stern and severe, his esthetic
impulses, if he had any, were heroically subdued.
Market Street, indeed, he permitted to run obliquely,
though it went straight as a bullet towards the Twin
Peaks.  The rest of the city he made one great
checkerboard, in defiance of its natural topography.

As one might constrict the wayward fancies of a
gipsy maiden to the cold, tight-laced ethics of a
puritanical creed, so O'Farrell bound the city that was to
be for ever to a gridiron of right-angled streets and
blocks of parallelograms.  He knew no compromise.
His streets took their straight and narrow way, up
hill and down dale, without regard to grade or expense.
Unswerving was their rectitude.  Their angles were
exactly ninety degrees of his compass, north and south,
east and west.  Where might have been entrancingly
beautiful terraces, rising avenue above avenue to the
heights, preserving the master-view of the continent,
now the streets, committed to his plan, are hacked out
of the earth and rock, precipitous, inaccessible,
grotesque.  So sprawls the fey, leaden-colored town over
its dozen hills, its roads mounting to the sky or
diving to the sea.

So the stranger beholds San Francisco, the Improbable.
Its pageantry is unrolled for all to see at first
glance.  Never was a city so prodigal of its friendship
and its wealth.  She salutes one on every crossing,
welcoming the visitor openly and frankly with her western
heart.  In every little valley where the slack,
rattling cables of her car-lines slap and splutter over the
pulleys, some great area of the town exhibits a rising
colony of blocks stretching up and over a shoulder of
the hill to one side and to the other.  Atop every crest
one is confronted with farther districts lying not only
beneath but opposite, across lower levels and hollows,
flanking one's point of vantage with rival summits.
San Francisco is agile in displaying her charms.  As
you are whirled up and down on the cable-car, she
moves stealthily about you, now lagging behind in
steep declivities, now dodging to right or left in
stretches of plain or uplifted hillsides, now hurrying
ahead to surprise you with a terrifying ascent crowned
with palaces.  Now she is all water-front and sailors'
lodging-houses; in a trice she turns Chinatown, then
shocks you with a Spanish, Italian or negro quarter.
Past the next rise, you find her whimsical, fantastic
with garish flats and apartment houses.  She lurks
in and about thousands of little wooden houses, and
beyond, she drops a little park into your path, discloses
a stretch of shimmering bay or unveils magnificently
the green, gently-sloping expanse of the Presidio.

No other city has so many points of view, none
allures the stranger so with coquetry of originality and
fantasy.  Some cities have single dominant hills; but
she is all hills, they are a vital part of herself.  They
march down into the town and one can not escape
them, they stride north and west and must be climbed.
The important lines of traffic accept these conditions
and plunge boldly up and down upon their ways.  And
so, going or returning from his home, the city is always
with the citizen—from Nob Hill he sees ships in the
harbor and the lights of the Mission; from Kearney
Street he keeps his view of Telegraph Hill and Twin
Peaks—the San Franciscan is always in San Francisco,
the city of extremes.

Of all this topographical chaos, the most spectacular
spot is Telegraph Hill.  To the eastward on the harbor
side, it rises a sheer precipice over a hundred feet
high, where a concrete company has quarried stone for
three decades despite protest, appeal, injunction and
the force of arms.  To the north and west the hill falls
away into a jumble of streets, cliffed and hollowed like
the billows of the sea, crusted with queer little houses
of the Latin quarter.

.. vspace:: 2

Francis Granthope, after the Chinese supper, had
found himself swayed by an obsession.  The
thought of Clytie Payson was insistent in his mind.
She troubled him.  He recognized the symptom with
a grim sense of its ridiculousness.  It was, according
to his theory, the first sign of love; but the idea of
his being in love was absurd.  Certainly he desired her,
and that ardently.  She stimulated him, she stirred his
fancy.  But he was jealous of his freedom; he would
not be snared by a woman's eyes.  Marriage, indeed,
he had contemplated, but, to his mind, marriage was
but a part of the game, a condition which would insure
for him an attractive companion, a desirable standing;
in short, a point of vantage.  What had begun to chafe
him, now, was a sort of compulsion that Clytie had
put upon him.  Somehow he could not be himself with
her—he was self-conscious, timid—he was sensitive to
her vibrations, he was swayed by her fine moods and
impulses.  Though the strain was gentle, still she
coerced him.  He felt an impulse to shake himself free.

In this temper, he decided, while he was at dinner,
to see her, and, if he could, regain possession of the
situation, master her by the use of those arts by
which he had so often won before.  He would, at
least, if he could not cajole her, assert his independence.
No doubt he had been misled by her claims of intuitive
power.  He would put that to the test, as well.

It was already after sunset when he started across
Union Square.  Kearney Street was alight with
electric lamps and humming with life.  He walked north,
passing the gayer retail shopping district towards the
cheaper stores, pawnshops and quack doctors' offices
to where the old Plaza, rising in a green slope to
Chinatown, displayed the little Stevenson fountain
with its merry gilded ship.  Here the waifs and the
strays of the night were already wandering, and he
responded to frequent appeals for charity.

Beyond was the dance-hall district, where women of
the town were promenading, seeking their prey;
sailors and soldiers descended into subterranean halls of
light and music.  Then came the Italian quarter with
its restaurants and saloons.

He paused where Montgomery Avenue diverged,
leading to the North Beach, consulted his watch, and
found that it was too early to call.  He decided to
kill time by going up Telegraph Hill, and kept on up
Kearney Street.

Across Broadway, it mounted suddenly in an incline
so steep, that ladder-like frameworks flat upon the
ribbed concrete sidewalks were necessary for ascent.  Two
blocks the hill rose thus, encompassed by disconsolate
and wretched little houses, with alleys plunging down
from the street into the purlieus of the quarter; then
it ran nearly level to the foot of the hill.  The track
there was up steps and across hazardous platforms,
clambering up and up to a steep path gullied by the
winter rains, and at last, by a stiff climb, to the summit
of the hill.

From here one could see almost the whole peninsula,
the town falling away in waves of hill and valley
to the west.  The bay lay beneath him, the docks flat
and square, as if drawn on a map, red-funneled steamers
lying alongside.  In the fairway, vessels rode at
anchor, lighted by the moon.  The top of the hill was
commanded by a huge, castellated, barn-like white
structure which had once been used as a pleasure
pavilion, but was now deserted, save by a rascally herd of
tramps.  At a near view its ruined, deserted grandeur
showed unkempt and dingy.  By its side, a city park,
crowning the crest, scantily cultured and improved,
indicated the first rude beginning of formal arrangement.
Moldering, displaced concrete walls and seats
showed what had been done and neglected.

He skirted the eastern slope of the hill, went up
and down one-sided streets, streets that dipped and
slid longitudinally, streets tilted transversely, keeping
along a path at the top till he came to the cliff.

Here was the prime scandal of the town, naked in all
its horror.  The quarrymen had, with their blasting,
robbed the hill inch by inch, foot by foot and acre by
acre.  Already a whole city block had disappeared,
caving gradually away to tumble to the talus of gravel
at the foot of the steep slope.  For years, the
neighborhood had been terrorized by this irresistible,
ever-approaching fate.  The edge of the precipice drew
nearer and nearer the houses, bit off a corner of the
garden here, ate away a piece of fence there, till the
danger-line approached the habitations themselves.
Nor did it stop there; it crept below the floors, it
sapped the foundations till the house had to be
abandoned.  Then with a crash, some afternoon, the whole
structure would fall into the hollow.  House after
house had disappeared, family after family had been
ruined.  The crime was rank and outrageous, but it
had not been stopped.

As Granthope walked, he saw bits of such deserted
residences.  Here a flight of stone steps on the verge
of the height, there fences running giddily off into the
air or drain-pipes, broken, sticking over the edge.  The
hazardous margin was now fenced off—at any moment
a huge mass might slip away and slide thundering
below.  At the foot of the cliff stood the lead-colored
building housing the stone-crusher, whose insatiate
appetite had caused this sacrifice of property.  It was
ready to feed again on the morrow.

He walked to the edge and looked down a sharp
incline, a few rods away from the most dangerous
part of the cliff.  He was outside the fence, now, with
nothing between him and the slope.  As he stood there,
a dog barked suddenly behind him.  He turned—his
foot slipped upon a stone, twisted under him, and he
fell outward.  He clutched at the loose dirt, but could
not save himself and rolled over and over down the
slope.  Forty feet down his head struck a boulder and
he lost consciousness.

.. vspace:: 2

He came to himself with a blinding, splitting pain in
his head; his body was stiff and cold in the night
air.  He lay half-way down the slope, his hands and
face were scratched and bleeding, his clothes were torn.
He was motionless for some time, endeavoring to
collect his senses, wondering vaguely what to do.
Then he stirred feebly, tried his limbs to see what
damage had been done and found he had broken no
bones.  His ankle, however, was badly strained, and
it ached severely.  As he sank back again, far down
the hill towards the crusher building, a voice came up
to him:

"Francis!  Francis!"

It penetrated his consciousness slowly.  Still a little
dazed, he rolled over and looked down to the deserted
street below.  He tried to rise and his ankle crumpled
under him.  He answered as loud as he could cry, then
lay there watching.

Sansome Street lay bare in the moonlight.  On the
near side the hill sloped up to him from the rock
crusher.  On the other side was a row of gaunt
buildings—a pickle factory, a fruit-canning works, and so
on, to the dock.  An electric car flashed by and, as it
passed, he saw a woman moving to and fro at the foot
of the talus.

He sat up as well as he could on the slope and
again shouted down to her.  She stopped instantly.
Then, waving her hand, she started to scramble up the
slippery gravel of the hill.

As she ascended, she had to zigzag this way and
that to avoid sliding back.  Part of the time, she was
forced to go almost on hands and knees.  The moon
was behind her, throwing her face into shadow.  She
climbed steadily without calling to him again.  When
she was a few yards away, he cried to her:

"Miss Payson!  Is that you?"

"Yes!  Don't try to move, I'm coming."

She reached him at last and knelt before him
anxiously.  Her tawny, silken hair was loosened under
her hat and streamed down into her eyes.  She had
on a red cloth opera cloak with an ermine collar; this
was partly open, showing, underneath, a white silk
evening dress cut low in the neck.  Her hands were
covered with white suede gloves to the elbow—they
were grimy and torn into ribbons.  Her white skirt,
too, was ripped and soiled.  She put her hand to her
hair and tossed it back, then took his hands in hers.

"Are you hurt?" she asked anxiously.

"Not much.  I believe I was stunned.  I have no
idea how long I've been here.  What time is it?"

"It is almost eleven.  Oh, I'm so glad I found you!
I'm going to help you down."  She stooped lower to
assist him.

"But I don't understand," he said in astonishment.
"How in the world did you happen to come?  What
does it all mean?"  His bewilderment was comic
enough to draw forth her flashing smile.

"We'll talk about that afterwards.  We must get
down this hill first.  Oh, I hope there are no bones
broken."

"Oh, no, I'm all right," he insisted, "but it's like a
dream!  Let me think—I was up on Telegraph Hill,
and I slipped and fell over—then I must have been
unconscious until you came.—How did you happen to
come?  I don't understand.  It's so mysterious."

"You must get up now.  See if you can walk."  She
gently urged him.  "I'll explain it all when you're safe
down there where we can get help."

With her assistance he raised himself slowly, but the
pain in his ankle was too great for him to support
his own weight.  He dropped limply down again and
smiled up at her.

"I think I might make it if I had a crutch of some
kind—any stick would do."

"Wait, I'll see if I can find one."

She left him, to go down, slipping dangerously at
times, using her hands to save herself.  Part-way down
she found an old broom—the straw was worn to a mere
stub, and this she brought back.

With its aid and that of her steady arm, he hobbled
down foot by foot.  He slid and fell with a suppressed
groan more than once, but she was always ready to lift
him and support his weight in the steeper descents.
The lower part of the hill fanned out to a more
gradual slope, where it was easier going.  They reached
the sidewalk at last and he sat down upon a large rock
almost exhausted.

Just then an electric car came humming down Sansome
Street.  In an instant she was out on the track
signaling for it to stop.

"If you pass a cab or a policeman, please send them
down here!" she commanded.  "This gentleman has
met with an accident and we must have help to take
him home."

The conductor nodded, staring at her, as she stood
in her disheveled finery, splendidly bold in the
moonlight, like a dismounted Valkyr.  The car plowed on
and left them.  Calmly she stripped off her slashed
gloves and repaired the disorder of her hair.  A long
double necklace of pearls caught the moonlight, and in
the front breadth of her gown, a rent showed a pale
blue silken skirt beneath.  Granthope, bedraggled and
smeared with blood and dust, was as grotesque a figure.
The humor of the picture struck them at once, and
they burst into laughter.

Then, "How did you know?" he said.

She became serious immediately.  "It was very
strange.  I was at a reception with Mr. Cayley.  I
happened to be sitting on a couch by myself, when—I
don't know how to describe the sensation—but I saw
you, or felt you, lying somewhere, on your back.  I
was so frightened I didn't know what to do.  I knew
something had happened, yet I didn't know where to
find you.  I gave it up and tried to forget about it,
but I couldn't—it was like a steady pain—then I knew
I had to come.  It seemed so foolish and vague that I
didn't want to ask Mr. Cayley to go on such a
wild-goose chase with me.  Father understands me better
and if he'd been there I would have brought him along.
So I slipped out alone, put on my things and took a
car down-town.  I seemed to know by instinct where to
get off—you should have seen the way the conductors
stared at me!—and I turned right down this way,
trusting to my intuitions.  I seemed to be led directly
to the foot of the cliff here where I first called you."

"Yes, you called 'Francis,' didn't you?" he said,
looking up at her in wonder.

"Did I?  I don't know what I said—if I did it was
as instinctively done as all the rest.  We'll have to go
into business together."  Her laugh was nervous and
excited.

He frowned.  "Miss Payson, I don't know how to
thank you—it was a splendid thing to do."

"Oh, it has been a real adventure—almost my first.
But it's not over yet.  I must take you home now.
What a sight I am!  You, too!  Wait—let me clean
you off a little."

She stooped over him and, with a lace handkerchief,
lightly brushed his face free of the dust, wiped the
blood away, then, with gentle fingers, smoothed his
black hair.  Both trembled slightly at the contact.  She
stopped, embarrassed at her own boldness, then stood
more constrained and self-conscious, till the rattling
wheels of a carriage were heard.  A hack came clattering
up over the cobble-stones and drew up at the curb.
The driver jumped down from his seat.

There were a few words of explanation and direction,
then the man and Clytie, one on either side, helped
Granthope into the vehicle.  She followed and the
cab drove off up-town.  For a few moments the two
sat in silence, side by side.  An electric lamp illuminated
her face for an instant as the carriage whirled
past a corner.  Her eyes were shining, her lips half
open, as she looked at him.

The sight of her, and the excitement of her romantic
intervention, made him forget his pain.  He felt
her spell again, and now with this appearance how
much more strongly!  There was no denying her magic
after such a bewildering manifestation.  The event had,
also, brought her humanly more near to him—he had
felt the strong touch of her hand, her breath on his
face—the very disorder of her attire seemed to increase
their intimacy.  He leaned back to enjoy the full flavor
of her charm.  He was suddenly aroused by her
placid, even voice:

"Mr. Granthope, there's one thing you didn't tell me
the other day, when you described that scene at Madam
Grant's."

He caught the name with surprise, remembering that
he had never spoken it to her.  In her mention of it
he felt a vague alarm.

"What?"  He heard his voice betray him.

"That there was a little boy with her, that
day."  Clytie turned to him, and for the first time he felt
a sudden fear that she would find him out.

"Was there a little boy there?  How do you know?"

She kept looking at him, and away, as she spoke.  In
the drifting of her glances, however, her eyes seemed
to seek his continuously, rather than continually to
escape.  "Quite by accident—never mind now.  But
this is what is most strange of all—I didn't tell you,
before—while I was there, that time, so many years
ago—you know what strange fancies children have—you
know how, if one is at all sensitive to psychic
influence, how much stronger and how natural it seems
when one is young—well, all the while, I seemed to
feel there was some one else there—some one I couldn't
see!"

She was too much for him, with such intuition.  His
one hope was, now, that she would not plumb the
whole depth of his deceit.  He managed his expression,
drawing back into the shadow.

"Did you know who it was, there?"

"No—only that I was drawn secretly to some one
who was there, near me, out of sight.  Of course, I've
forgotten much of the impression, but now, as I remember
it, it almost seems to me as if this little boy—whoever
he was—must be related to me in some vague
way—as if we had something in common.  I wish I
could find out about it.  You know better the rationale
of these things—they come to me only in flashes of
intuition, suddenly, when I least expect them."

He sought desperately to divert her from the
subject, summoning to his aid the tricks experience had
taught him.  First to his hand came the ruse of
personality.

"You called me 'Francis' before—that was strange,
for few people call me that or Frank nowadays—only
one or two who have known me a long time."

"Ah, I didn't know what I was saying.  It was
strange, wasn't it?  But you won't accuse me of
coquetry at such a time, will you?  You were in
danger—I thought only of that."

"Oh, I don't mind," he said playfully.

"Nor do I."

"You'll call me Francis?"

She smiled.  "Every time I rescue you."

There was evidently no lead for him there.  He had
to laugh, and give it up.  Clytie's mood grew more
serious.

"Mr. Cayley was telling me how interesting you
were after the ladies had left; really, he was quite
complimentary.  He told me all about that absurd
Bennett affair you talked about."

"Yes, it was an extraordinary case."  He wondered
what was coming.

"I mean the story was absurd to hear, but I can't
help wondering what sort of people they were who
would deceive an old man like that.  It seems pitiful
to me that any one could have the heart to do it—and
for money, too."

Granthope cursed his indiscretion.  Must she find
this out, too?  Was no part of his life, past or present,
safe from her?  If so, he might as well give her up
now.  It seemed impossible to conceal anything from
her clear vision.  But he still strove to put her off.

"Oh, these people were weak and ignorant—we
haven't all the same advantages or the same sensitiveness
to honor and truth.  They were used to this sort
of thing, hardened to it, and perhaps unconscious of
their baseness by a constant association with such
deceptions."

"But didn't Mr. Bennett have any friends to warn
him—to show these people up in their true light?"

"Oh, that was no use.  It was tried, yes; that is,
he was shown his carriage, for instance, after it was
sold, but he refused to believe it was the same one.
He confessed that it was just like it, but he knew
that his was then on the planet Jupiter.  I don't think
the mediums themselves could have convinced him."

"Think of it!  It makes their swindling even worse.
If he had doubted, if he had tried to trap them, it
wouldn't be quite so bad, it would have been a battle
of brains—but to impose on such credulity, to make
a living by it—oh, it's unthinkable!"

"Well, after all, they made him happy.  In a way,
they were telling him only pleasant lies, as a parent
might tell a child about Santa Claus and the fairies."

He could not keep it up much longer.  It was too
perilous; and he played for her sympathy.  "After all,
I suppose my business is about as undignified."

"But it's really a science, isn't it?  Mr. Cayley gave
me to understand that you had a convincing theory to
explain all personal physical characteristics."

"There's a little more to palmistry than that, I
think—an instinctive feeling for character."

"Of course.  You must have felt my personality
intuitively, or you would never have been able to get
it so well.  But it was most extraordinary of all, I
think, the way you got my name.  How do you account
for that?"

He felt the net closing about him.

"Oh, I'm sometimes clairaudient."

She took it up with animation.  "Are you?  I must
try to send you a message!"

"Haven't you?" he said, still attempting to keep
the talk less serious.  "All day I have heard you
saying, 'You must learn.'  But learn what?"

"It seems so queer to me that you shouldn't know,
yourself."

"Then tell me.  Explain."

"No, you'll find out, I think."

He waited a while, for a twinge of pain gave him all
he could do to control himself.  Somehow it sobered
him.  "I wish I dared to be friends with you."

She gave him her hand simply and he returned its
cordial pressure.  He was sincere enough, now.  He
was not afraid of mere generalities.

"I'm not worthy of your friendship," he said.  "I'd
hate to have you know how little I am worth it.  If
you knew how I have lived—what few chances I have
had to know any one really worth while.  I've never
yet had a friend who was able to understand me."

"I have given you my hand," she replied, "and I
shall not withdraw it.  It is my intuition, you see, and
not my reason, that makes me trust you."

They relapsed for a while into silence.  Then, as the
cab turned up into Geary Street, past the electric
lights, she went on as if she had been thinking it out
to herself.

"You know what I said the other day about its
being easier to say real things at the first meeting.  I
am afraid I said too much then.  But I was impatient.
I felt that I might never see you again and I wanted
to give you the message.  Now, when I feel sure that
we're going to be friends, I am quite willing to wait
and let it all come about naturally.  The only thing
I demand is honesty."

"Is that all?" he asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

She laughed unaffectedly.  "Are you finding it so
hard?"

The cab drew up to the curb at the door of his
rooms.  Immediately she became solicitous, helping
him to alight.  He used the broom for a crutch, and,
scratched and torn, his clothes still stained with clay,
she in her harlequin of dirt and rags, they presented
an extraordinary spectacle under the electric light, to
a man on the sidewalk who was approaching leisurely,
swinging his stick.  As they reached the entrance he
drew nearer, making as if to speak to them; instead,
he lifted his hat, stared at them and passed on.  It
was Blanchard Cayley.

Clytie's face went red.  Cayley turned for an instant
to look at them again and then proceeded on his way.
Granthope did not notice him.

Clytie disregarded his protest, and, saying that she
would see him safely to his room, at least, accompanied
him up-stairs.

As he fumbled for his key in his pocket, the office
door was suddenly opened and Fancy Gray appeared
upon the threshold.

Her eyebrows went up and Granthope's went down.
Her eyes had flown past him to stare at Clytie.  The
two women confronted each other for a tense moment
without a word.

Fancy had taken off her jacket; her hair was braided
down her back.  She wore an embroidered linen blouse
turned away at the neck, and pinned over her heart
was a little silver chatelaine watch with a blue dial.
It rose and fell as she drew breath suddenly.

"Mr. Granthope has met with an accident," Clytie
announced, the first to recover from the shock of
surprise.

"I should say he had," was her comment, "and you,
too?"  Then she laughed nervously.  "It must have
been a draw."

Clytie did not catch the allusion.  "I happened to
find him and brought him back," she explained.  "He
had fallen down the cliff on Telegraph Hill."

As Granthope limped in, Fancy put a few more
wondering inquiries, which he answered in monosyllables.
Seeing Fancy so disconcerted, Clytie left Granthope in
a chair and turned directly to her with a conciliatory
gesture.

"We always seem to meet in queer circumstances,
Miss Gray, don't we?" she said kindly.  "It's really
most fortunate that you happened to be here at work.
I don't quite know what I should have done, all alone,
but I'm sure you will do all that's necessary for
Mr. Granthope, better than I.  I must hurry home; father
will be expecting me."

During this speech, Fancy's eyes had filled, and now
they shone soft with gratitude.

"Oh," she said, "I can fix him up all right.  It's only
a bad strain, I guess."

Granthope watched the two women in silence.

"Well, then, I'll go."  Clytie walked to the mirror,
smiled with Fancy at the image she saw there, touched
her hat and rubbed her face with her handkerchief.
Then she held out her hand with a charming simplicity.

"I do wish you'd come and see me sometime, Miss
Gray!" she said.

Fancy choked down something in her throat before
she replied.

"I will—sometime—sure.  If you *really* want to see me."

"Yes, I really do."  Clytie smiled again.  Then she
went up to Granthope.  "Good night, Mr. Granthope,
I'm sure I'm leaving you in kind hands.  I hope it
won't prove a serious injury.  And—remember!"  Then,
bowing to both, she left the room and went
down to her cab.

Two vertical lines were furrowed in Granthope's
brow.  He turned to Fancy with a look that barely
escaped being angry.

"God!  I'm sorry you were here!"

"Yes?  That's easily remedied; you only have to say
the word."

"Too late, now!"  His tone was sad rather than cruel.

"I hardly expected you to bring home company—"
she began.

"I'm sure it was as much a surprise to me—"

"I'm sorry, Frank, but I had to see you—Vixley was
here after you left."

He groaned with the pain his ankle gave him and
she flew to him and knelt before his chair.

"Oh, Frank, I'm so sorry.  What can I do for you?
First, let me take off your shoe and attend to your foot.
I can run out and get something to put on it.  It was
awkward, my being here—but I don't mind on my
own account, so much.  If it embarrassed you, forgive me."

"It's worse than that," he said.

"You mean—that you *care* for her?"

"I don't know what I do mean—but you'll have to go."

She looked up at him for a moment, searching his
drawn face.

"I will, just as soon as I've bound up your ankle and
got your couch ready.  It won't take long."

"No, I can attend to that myself.  I'll telephone for
a doctor and have him fix me up.  You must go now."

"All right.  Just wait till I put on my jacket and do
up my hair."

Walking off, proudly, she opened the door of the
closet and stood before the mirror there, while he, a
limp, relaxed figure in the arm-chair, watched her as
she unbraided her hair and combed it out in a magnificent
coppery cascade to her waist.  Tossing her head,
she said:

"Vixley's laying for you, Frank!  You'd better watch
out for him.  It's something shady about the old man's
past, I believe.  Anyway, I hope you'll fool 'em,
Frank!"

With this complication of his position, he bent his
head on his hand as if he were weary.  "I don't know
what I'm going to do," he said.  "It's too much for
me, I'm afraid."

"What's the matter?" said Fancy solicitously.
"Didn't I work it right?  Honest, Frank, I didn't give
you away a bit—I didn't tell him a word.  You know
my work isn't lumpy—I just pumped him.  I beat him
at his own game, and it didn't taste so good, either.
Oh, I'm so sorry if I did anything to hurt you.  I'd
die first!"

As he did not answer her she came over to him and
knelt on the floor, seizing his hand.  Her tears fell
upon it.

"You've been mighty good to me, Frank, you sure
have!  You took me off the streets when I was
starving.  I don't know whatever would have become of
me.  I suppose I'd gone right down the line, if it hadn't
been for you.  You're the only friend I've got, and I
only wish I could do something to prove how grateful
I am.  Honest, I thought I was helping you out when
I kept Vixley here.  You don't think—you don't
think I *like* him—do you?  Don't say *that*, Frank!"

She was speaking in gasps now; her tears were
unrestrained.  Her hand clutched his so fiercely that he
could scarcely bear the pain.  He did not dare to look
at her.

"I've always been square with you, Frank, haven't I?"

He patted her hand softly.

"We've kept to the compact, haven't we?  The
compact we made at Alma?  You trust me, don't you?"

"Of course!  You're all right—you're true blue.
I couldn't distrust you.  You'll always be the
Maid of Alma.  It was a game thing you did for me.
Nobody else would have done it.  You have helped me,
but I can't tell you what a corner I'm in."  He paused
and looked at her intensely.  "Fancy—you haven't
forgotten—have you?"

She forced a trembling smile, as she said bravely:

"'No fair falling in love'?"

"Yes."

She shook out a laugh and stroked his hand, looking
up at him through her tears.  "Oh, no danger of that,
Frank.  You don't know me.  I'm all right, sure!
Only—and I owe you so much!  You've taught me
everything.  If I could only do something to prove
that I'm worth it."

"You can—that's the trouble.  I believe I'm almost
cur enough to ask it of you."

"What is it?  Tell me, quick!  You know I'd black
your boots for you.  I'd do anything."

"Did you notice Miss Payson's face when she saw you?"

"Yes."  Fancy dropped her head.

"I'd hate to have her suspect—if she thought—"

"Oh!"  She sprang to her feet and stood as proud
as a lioness.  "Is that it?  You want me to go for
good?"  Even now there was no anger in her look or
tone.  The little silver watch heaved up and down
on her breast.

He sought for a kind phrase.  "I'm afraid it would
be better—it makes me feel like a beast—of course,
you understand—" his eyes went to her, pleading.

"Then it *is* Miss Payson?  Oh, Frank, why didn't
you tell me!  You might have trusted me!  You ought
to have known better!  Haven't I always said that
when the woman who could make you happy did come,
how glad I'd be for you?"

"You're really not hurt, then?  I was afraid—"

"Poor old Frank!  You goose!  Of course not—it
makes me sorry to think of leaving you, that's all.
Never mind—there's nothing in the race but the finish!
I'm all right."  She had become a little hysterical in
her actions, but he was too distracted to notice it.

"I'll let you have all the money you want—I'll get
you a good place——" he began.

She shook her head decidedly.  "Cut that out, please,
Frank; but thanks, all the same.  If I ever want any
money, I'll come to you.  Why shouldn't I?  But not
now.  Don't pay me to go away—that sounds rotten.
I'll get a position all right.  Didn't I turn down that
secretary's place only last week?  But I guess I'll travel
on my looks for a while.  I'm flush."

"I hope I can tell her all about this, sometime," he
said wearily.

"Bosh!  What's the use?  Thank God some women
know that some women are square without being told.
Men seem to think we're all cats.  Even women talk
of each other as if they were a different sort of human
animal.  But not Miss Payson—she's a thoroughbred.
I can see *that* all right.  You can't fool Fancy Gray
about petticoats.  I take off my hat to her.  She's got
every woman *you* ever had running after you beaten
a mile.  Don't you worry—she'll never be surprised
to find that a woman can be square.  Well, I'll fade
away then."

As she talked she buttoned up her jacket and stuck
the hat pin in her hair.  Now her eyes grew dreamier
and she went over and sat on the arm of his chair and
put her hand on his hair affectionately, saying:

"Say, Frank, I don't know—after all, perhaps
sometime you might just tell her this—sometime when the
thing's all going straight, when she's got over—well,
what I saw in her eyes to-night—when she finds out
what you're worth—when she really knows how good
you are—you just tell her this—say: 'There's one thing
about Fancy Gray, she always played fair!'  She'll
know then; but just now, you can be careful of
her—watch out what you do with her, she's going to suffer
a whole lot if you don't.  You know something about
women, but you'll find out that when you're sure
enough in love you'll need it all, and what you know
isn't a drop in the bucket to what you've got to learn.
I hope you'll get it good and hard.  It'll do you good.
You only know one side now.  You'll learn the rest
from her.  She's not the sort to do things half-way.
When she begins to go she'll go the limit."

She leaned over him.  "You might give me one kiss
just to brace me up, will you?  It may take the taste of
Vixley off my lips.  Well, so long.  Don't take any
Mexican money!  If there's anything I can do, let me
know."  She rose and tossed a smile at him with her
old jaunty grace.  Then she patted him on the cheek
and went swiftly out.





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.. _`COMING ON`:

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   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   COMING ON

.. vspace:: 2

By artful questions, and apparently innocent remarks
to lure his confidence, by a little guess-work, more
observation, and a profound knowledge of the
frailties of human nature, Madam Spoll had plied Oliver
Payson to good advantage.

She got a fact here, a suggestion there, and, one at
a time, she arranged these items in order, and with
them wove a psychological web strong enough to work
upon.  It was partly hypothetical, partly proved, but,
slender and shadowy as it was, upon it was portrayed
a faint image of her victim—a pattern sufficient for
her use.  Every new piece of information was deftly
used to strengthen the fabric, until at last it was
serviceable as a working theory of his life and could
be used to astonish and interest him.  Of this whole
process he was, of course, unaware, so cleverly
disguised was her method, so skilful was her tact.  She
never frightened her quarry, never permitted him to
suspect her.  Her errors she frankly acknowledged
and set down to the ignorance of her guides.  She
had, indeed, many holes by which she could escape—set
formulæ for covering her petty failures.

After two or three interviews, she had filled up
almost all the weak spots in her web, and was prepared
to encompass her victim by wiles with which to bleed
him.

Mr. Payson had gone away from his first interview
limping slightly more than usual, and had talked
considerably about his ailment to his daughter.  Clytie,
not knowing what had increased his hypochondria,
was inclined to laugh at his fears and complaints.  He
found a more sympathetic listener in Blanchard
Cayley, who took him quite seriously and discoursed for
an hour in Payson's office upon the possibilities of
internal disorders, such as the medium had mentioned.

The result was a visit to Doctor Masterson.

The healer's quarters were two flights up in one
of the many gloomy buildings on Market Street, half
lodging-rooms, half offices, inhabited by chiropodists,
cheap tailors, "painless" dentists and such riffraff.
The stair was steep and the halls were narrow.  The
doctor's place was filled with a sad half-light that
made the rows of bottles on the shelves, the skull in
the corner and the stuffed owl seem even more
mysterious.  The room was dusty and ill-kept; the floor
was covered with cold linoleum.

The magnetic healer's shrewd eyes glistened and
shifted behind his spectacles; the horizontal wrinkles
in his forehead, under his bald pate, drew gloomily
together as Mr. Payson poured out the story of his
trouble.  For a time the doctor said nothing.  Then he
took a vial full of yellow liquid from his table,
carried it to the window, held it to the light, examined
it solemnly and put it back.  He sat down again and
looked Mr. Payson over.  Then he tilted back in his
chair, stuck a pair of dirty thumbs in the armholes of
his plaid waistcoat, and said, "H'm!"  Finally, his
thin lips parted in a grisly smile showing his blackened
teeth.

His victim watched, anxiously waiting, with his two
hands on the head of his cane.  The gloom appeared
to affect his spirits; he seemed ready to expect the
worst.

Doctor Masterson took off his spectacles and wiped
them on a yellow silk handkerchief.  "It looks pretty
serious to me," he said, "but I calculate I can fix you
up.  It'll cost some money, though.  Ye see, it's this
way: I'm controlled by an Indian medicine-man named
Hasandoka and his band o' sperits.  Now, in order to
bring this here psychic force to bear on your case,
it's bound to take considerable o' my time and their
time, and I'll have to go to work and neglect my reg'lar
patients.  It takes it out o' me, and I can't do but
just so much or I peter out.  I'll go into a trance and
see what Hasandoka has to say, and then you'll be
in a condition to know what to decide.  O' course, you
understand, I ain't no doctor and don't claim to be,
but I got control of a powerful psychic force that
guides me in my treatment, and I never knew it to
fail yet.  If my band o' sperits can't help you, nobody
can, and you better go to work and make your will
right away.  See?"

Mr. Payson saw the argument and manifested a
desire to proceed with the investigation.

The doctor loosened his celluloid collar and closed
his eyes.  In a minute or two he appeared to fall
asleep, breathing heavily.

Then, through him, the great Hasandoka spoke, in
the guttural dialect such as is supposed to be affected
by the American Indian, using flowery metaphors
punctuated by grunts.

The tenor of his communication was that Mr. Payson
was undoubtedly afflicted with something which
was termed a "complication."  He went into fearsome
prophecies as to its probable progress downward to
the feet, upward to the brain and forward to the
kidney, with minor excursions to the liver and lights.
The patient's spine was preparing itself for paralysis;
it seemed that death was imminent at any moment.
Hasandoka expressed his willingness to accept the
case, however, and promised to effect a radical cure
in a month at most, if treatment were begun immediately,
before it was too late.  The cure would be
accomplished by massage, used in connection with a
potent herb, known only to the primitive Indian tribes.
After this message Hasandoka squirmed out of the
medium's body and the soul of Doctor Masterson
squirmed in again.  There were the customary
spasmodic gestures of awakening before he opened his
eyes.

"Well, what did he tell you?" he asked.

Mr. Payson repeated the communication in a
dispirited tone.

"Bad as that, is it?" said Masterson.  "One foot in
the grave, so to speak.  Well, I tell you what I'll do.
I'm interested in your case, for if I can go to work
and cure you it'll be more or less of a feather in my
cap.  See here; I won't charge you but fifty dollars a
week till you're cured, and if you ain't a well man in
thirty days, I'll hand your money back.  That's a
fair business proposition, ain't it?  I guarantee to put
all my time on your case."

Mr. Payson gratefully accepted the terms.  A meeting
for a treatment was appointed for the next day.

This time Doctor Masterson was prepared for his
victim.

.. _`Doctor Masterson was prepared for his victim`:

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   :alt: Doctor Masterson was prepared for his victim

   Doctor Masterson was prepared for his victim

"I've been in direct communication with Hasandoka,"
he said, "and I'm posted on your case now, and
have full directions what to do.  The first thing is a
good course of massage.  Now, which would you
prefer to have, a man or a woman?  I got a girl I
sometimes employ who's pretty slick at massage.  She's
good and strong and willing and as pretty as a peach,
if I do say it—she's got a figger like a waxwork—I
think p'raps Flora would help you more'n any one—"

Mr. Payson shook his head coldly, saying that he
preferred a man.

"Oh, o' course," Doctor Masterson said apologetically,
shrugging his shoulders, "if you don't want her
I guess I better go to work and do the rubbing myself,
if you'd be better satisfied."

The Indian herb prescribed by Hasandoka was, it
appeared, a rare, secret and expensive drug.  The
doctor's price was ten dollars a bottle, in addition to
his weekly charge for treatment.  He presented
Mr. Payson with a bottle of dark brown fluid of
abominable odor.

The treatment went on thrice a week, the massage
being alternated with trances in which the doctor,
under the cogent spell of the medicine man, uttered
many strange things.  The whole effect of this was to
reassure Mr. Payson upon the fact that powerful
influences were at work for his especial benefit.

Whether induced by Hasandoka's aid or by Doctor
Masterson's suggestion, an improvement in the patient's
mind, at least, did come.  He was met, the following
week, by the magnetic healer in his rooms with a
congratulatory smile.  Doctor Masterson inaugurated the
second stage of his campaign.

"Say, you certainly are looking better, ain't you?
How's the pain, disappearing, eh?  I thought we could
bring you around.  Yesterday I was in a trance four
hours on your case and it took the life out o' me
something terrible.  I knew then that I was drawing
the disease out o' you.  You just go to work and walk
acrost the room, and see if you ain't improved.  We
got you started now, and all we got to do is to keep
it up till you're absolutely well."

Blanchard Cayley also seemed interested when
Mr. Payson told him of the improvement.

"You certainly are growing younger every day,"
said Cayley.  "I don't know how you manage it at
your age, in this vile weather, too, but I notice you've
got more color and more spring in you.  You're a
wonder!"

One afternoon, during the third week of his treatment,
as Mr. Payson was seated in his own office, the
door opened and a chubby, roly-poly figure of a
woman, with soft brown eyes and hair, came in timidly
and looked about, seemingly perplexed and
embarrassed.  She walked up to his desk.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "but could you tell
me where Mr. Bigelow's office is, in this building?
I thought it was on this floor, but I can't find his
name on any door."

He replied, scarcely glancing at her: "Down at the
end of the corridor, on the left."

She stood watching him for a moment as he
continued his writing, and then ventured to say:

"I beg your pardon, sir, but ain't you the gentleman
that come to me some time ago to have your life read?"

He looked up now and recognized her as the one
who had initiated him into the occult world, through
the medium of the "Egyptian egg."

"Why, yes."  He smiled benevolently.  "You're
Miss Ellis, aren't you?"

She seemed pleased.  "Yes," she answered; "I hope
you don't mind my reminding you of it, but I took an
interest in your case more than usual, on account of
your reading being so different, and I was surprised to
see you here.  You're looking much better than you
did then.  When you come into my place, I said to
myself, 'There's a man that'll pass out pretty soon
if he don't take care of himself.'  You seemed so
miserable.  Why, I wouldn't know you now, you're
so much improved.  You must have gained flesh, too.
Well, I congratulate you.  If you ever want another
reading, come around—here's my card, but perhaps
you've tried Madam Spoll since.  She's the best in
the business.  I go to her myself sometimes."

He walked to the door with her and bowed her
out politely.

A week after he made another visit to Madam Spoll.
The medium was gracious and congratulatory.

"Why, you look like a new man, that's a fact!" she
said.  "Between you and me, I never really expected
that you could recover, but I knew if anybody could
help you it would be Masterson.  I suppose he come
pretty high, didn't he?  Two hundred!  For the land
sake!  I'm sorry you had to fall into the hands of that
shark, but, after all, it's cheaper than being dead,
ain't it?  A desperate disease requires a desperate
remedy, they say.  I wouldn't take you for more than
forty years old now, in spite of your gray hairs.

"Now," she continued, "you've had experience and
you're in a position to know whether there's any
truth in spiritualism or not.  No matter what anybody
tells you about fakes or tricks and all that nonsense—I
don't say some so-called mediums ain't collusions—you've
demonstrated the truth of it for yourself, and
you've found out that we can do what we say.  You
can afford to laugh at the skeptics and these
smart-Alecs who pretend to know it all.  What we claim can
be proved and you've proved it.  Lord, I'd like to know
where you'd be now if you hadn't.  I've always said:
'Investigate it for yourself, and if you don't get
satisfaction, leave it alone for them that do.  Go at it in a
frank and honest spirit and try to find out the truth,
and you'll generally come out convinced.'  I don't
believe in no underhanded ways of going to work at it
neither.  If you was going to study up Christian
Science, or Mo-homedism, we'll say, you wouldn't be
trying to deceive them and giving false names and all,
and why should you when you want to find out about
the spirit world?  What you want to do is to depend
upon the character of the information you get, to test
the truth of what we claim.  You treat us square and
we'll treat you square.  We ain't infalliable, but we
can help.  Whatever is to be had from the spirit plane
we can generally get it for you."

"I'm very much interested," Mr. Payson said.
"There does seem to be something in it, and I want
to get to the bottom of it.  There are several things
I'd like to get help on, too."

"Do you know, I knew they was something worrying
you," she replied, smiling placidly.  She laid her
fingers to her silken thorax.  "I felt your magnetism
right here when you came in, and I got a feeling of
unpleasantness or worry.  It ain't about a little thing
either; it's an important matter, now, ain't it?"

Mr. Payson, affected by her sympathy, admitted
that it was.  Under his shaggy eyebrows, his cold eyes
watched her anxiously, as if gazing at one who might
wrest secrets from him.  His belief in her had
increased with every sitting, so that now the old man,
gray and bald, in his judicial frock-coat, lost
something of his influential manner and became more like
a child before his teacher, swayed by every word that
fell from her lips.

Her manner was half patronizing, half domineering.
"What did I tell you?  You feel as if, well,
you don't quite know *what* to do, and you're saying to
yourself all the time, 'Now, what *shall* I do?'  That's
just the condition I get."

"Do you think you could help me?"

"I don't know; I'll try.  I ain't feeling very
receptive to spirit influence to-day; I guess I overeat
myself some; but then, again, I might be very successful;
there's no telling.  You just let me hold your hands
a few minutes and I can see right off whether
conditions are favorable or not."

He did so.  Suddenly she turned her head to one
side and spoke as if to an invisible person beside her.

"Oh, she's here, is she?  What is it?  She says she
can't find him?  Well, what about him?  What?
Shall I tell him that?"

She opened her eyes and drew a long breath.

"Luella is here and she says to tell you that Felicia
wants to give you a message.  Do you understand who
I mean?"

"Yes, I know.  She's the lady you spoke to me
about before, with the white hair."

"Would her name be Felicia Grant?"

He assented timidly, as if fearing to acknowledge it.

"Well, Felicia says she has found the child—child,
the one that was lost.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes.  Go on!"

"Really, I don't like to tell you this, Mr. Payson—"

"Tell anything."

Madam Spoll dropped her voice, as if fearful of
being overheard.  "You was in love with her.

"Yes."  He eyed her glassily.

"And you was the father of the child?"

He nodded, still staring.

Madam Spoll smiled complacently.  "Well, Felicia
says she has found the boy, and she's going to bring
him to you as soon as conditions are favorable.  She
can't do it yet; the time ain't come for it.  That's all
I can get from her.  But Luella says you're worried
about a book, and she wants to help you."

"How can she help?"

"Wait a minute."  Madam Spoll smoothed her forehead
with both hands for a while, then went on: "It
seems that she can't work through me so well, it being
what you might call a business affair, and she
recommends that you try some one else, while I'll try
to get the boy.  I think a physical medium could help
you more.  There's Professor Vixley; he's something
wonderful in a business way.  I confess I can't
comprehend it.  Are you selling books?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, whatever it is, Vixley's the one to go to.
He'll do well by you and you can trust him.  I'll just
write down his address; you go to see him and tell
him I sent you, and I guarantee he'll give satisfaction.
About the child, now, we'll have to wait.  I shouldn't
wonder if you could be developed so you could handle
the thing alone.  You've got strong mediumistic
powers, only they're what you might call asleep and
dormant.  If you could come to me oftener we might
be able to produce phenomena, for you're sensitive,
only you don't know how to put your powers to the
right use.  You could join a circle, I suppose, but
the quickest way is to have sittings with me, private."

The old man took off his spectacles and wiped off
a mist.  His hand was trembling.  "I might want to
try it later," he said at last, "but I'm not quite ready
to, yet—I want to think it over.  If you really think
that this Vixley can help about the book, I'll look him
up first.  I want it to be a success, and I am a bit
worried about it."

.. vspace:: 2

When he reached home he went into the living-room,
to find Blanchard Cayley sitting there at ease,
bland, suave and nonchalant.  Clytie had not yet
returned for dinner.  Mr. Payson shook his hand
cordially.

"I'm glad to see you, Blanchard.  Been looking over
that last chapter of mine?  What do you think of it?"

"I haven't had time to read it yet.  I've been
expecting Cly home any minute."

"How are you getting on with her?  Is she still
skittish?"

"Oh, it'll come out all right, I expect," the young
man said carelessly.

"I hope so!  She's a good girl.  I know she'll see
it my way in the end—you just hold on and be nice
to her.  You know I'm on your side.  I'd give a good
deal to see Cly married to a good man like you.
Strange, she doesn't seem to take any interest in my
work at all.  If I didn't have you to talk to, I don't
know what I'd do.  Suppose I read you that last
chapter while we're waiting for her.  I'd like to get your
criticism of it.  That trade dollar material has
helped me immensely."

For half an hour, while Mr. Payson read the driest
of dry manuscripts, Blanchard Cayley yawned behind
his hand or nodded wisely, with an approving word
or two.  The old man had pushed up his spectacles
over his forehead and held the sheets close to his eyes.
He read in a mellow, deep voice, but it was the voice
of a pedant.

"There," he said at last, stacking up the scattered
papers.  "I guess that will open their eyes, won't it?"

"It's great; that book will make a sensation."

"Well, it isn't finished yet, and what's to come will
be better than what I've done.  I'm on the track of
something that may help it a good deal."

"What's that?" said Cayley perfunctorily.

"See here," Mr. Payson drew his chair nearer and
shook his pencil at the young man.  "I've had some
wonderful experiences lately.  You may not believe it,
but I tell you there's something in this spiritualistic
business.  I've been investigating it for a month now
all alone, and I'm thoroughly convinced that these
mediums do have some sort of power that we don't
understand."

"Really?" Cayley was beginning to be interested.
"I knew you had always been an agnostic, but I had
no idea that you had gone into this sort of thing.
Have you struck anything interesting?"

"I certainly have.  I went into it in a scientific spirit,
as a skeptic, pure and simple, but I've received some
wonderful tests.  Why, they told me my name the
very first thing and a lot about my life that they had
no possible way of finding out.  The trouble is, they
know too much."

Cayley laughed.  "Found out about your wild oats,
I suppose?"

Mr. Payson frowned at this frivolity.  "There are
things they've told me that no one living could
possibly know.  Whether it's done through spirits or not,
it's mysterious business.  You ought to go to a séance
and see what they can do."

"I'd hate to have them tell my past," Cayley said
jocosely, "but I don't take much stock in them.
They're a gang of fakirs."

"They're pretty sharp, if they are.  I haven't lived
fifty years in the West to be taken in as easily as that.
I ought to know something about men by this time.
Why, see here!  You know what trouble I had with
my leg?  It was something pretty serious.  Well, look
at me now.  You've noticed the change yourself.  I
went to a medium and now I'm completely cured.
That's enough to give any one confidence, isn't it?
It's genuine evidence."

Cayley agreed with a solemn nod.  "But what about
the book?"

"Why, if they can influence the right forces so that
it'll be a success, why shouldn't I give them a trial?
Look at hypnotism!  Look at wireless telegraphy!
For that matter, look at the telephone!  Fifty years
ago no one would believe that such things were
possible.  It may be the same with this power, whatever
it is, spirits or not.  I'm an old man, but I keep up with
the times.  I'm not going to set myself up for an
authority and say, because a thing hasn't seemed
probable to me, that I know all about the mysterious
forces of nature.  I've come to believe that there are
powers inherent in us that may be developed successfully."

The incipient smile, the attitude of bantering
protest had faded from Cayley's face, as the old man
spoke.  He listened sedately.  Oliver Payson was a
rich man.  He had an attractive, marriageable
daughter.  Blanchard Cayley was poor, single and without
prospects.

"Of course, there's much we don't yet understand,"
he said gravely.  "One hears all sorts of tales—there
must be some foundation to them."

"That's so—why, just look at Cly!  She's had
queer things happen to her ever since she was a child."

"Yes, I suppose that's why she's so interested in
this palmist person; though I confess I don't take
much stock in him."

"What do you mean?" Mr. Payson demanded.

"Why, I thought of course you knew.  Granthope,
the palmist—you know, the fellow everybody's taking
up now—he has been here, hasn't he?  I had an idea
that Cly had taken rather a fancy to him."

"He was here?"  Mr. Payson seemed much surprised.

"Why, I wouldn't have spoken of it for the world
if I had known you didn't know—but I've seen her
with him several times, and I thought, of course—"
Cayley threw it out apologetically in apparent
confusion at his indiscretion.

Mr. Payson stared.  "Granthope, did you say?  I
believe I have heard of him.  Cly and a common
palmist?  I can't believe it.  What can she want of a
charlatan like that?"

"I was sorry to see it myself," Cayley admitted,
"but I suppose she knows what she's doing.  The
man's notorious enough.  Only, she ought to be careful."

"I won't have it!" Mr. Payson began to storm.
"Reading palms for a lot of silly women is a very
different thing from spiritualism.  I don't mind her
going to see him once for the curiosity of the thing,
but I won't have him in the house.  I'll put a stop to
that in a hurry.  You say you've seen them together?
Where?"

"Oh, I think it was probably an accidental meeting,"
he said.  "I wish you wouldn't say anything about it,
Mr. Payson.  Very likely it doesn't mean anything
at all.  Tell me about this fellow you spoke of going
to.  Do you think he's all right?"

"I'll soon find out if he isn't—trust me!"  Mr. Payson
wagged his head wisely.  "His name is Professor
Vixley, and I've heard he's a very remarkable man.
I'm going to see him next week and see what he can
do for me.  I'm not one to be fooled by any claptrap;
I intend to sift this thing to the bottom."

"How do you intend to go about it?" Cayley asked.
"I'll tell you what I'd do.  I'd ask him to answer a
few definite questions.  If he can do that, it'll be a
pretty good test, even if it is only thought-reading."

"If there's anything in thought transference there
may be something in spiritualism, too.  One's as
unexplainable as the other.  See here!  Suppose I ask
him something that I don't know the answer to
myself—wouldn't that prove it is not telepathy?"

"I should say so; but what could you ask?"

Mr. Payson had arisen, and was walking up and
down the room with his hands behind his back.  He
stopped to deliberate beside the bookcase, then he
took down a volume at random.  "Suppose I ask him
what the first word is on page one hundred of this
book."

He looked over at Cayley, then down at the title of
the book.

"*The Astrology of the Old Testament*—queer I
should put my hand on that!  I'll try it.  I won't
look at the page at all."  He put the book back on the
shelf.  "Can't you suggest something?  Suppose you
give me a question that you know the answer of and
I don't."

Blanchard Cayley sought for an idea, his eyes fixed
on the ceiling.  Then he said slowly: "I used to know
a girl once in Sacramento who lived next door to me.
Try Vixley on her name, why don't you?"

"Good!  I'll do it.  Now one more."

"You might ask him the number of your watch."

"That's a good idea; then I can corroborate that
on the spot."

"You'd better let me see if there's one there,
though," Cayley suggested.  "I believe sometimes they
are not numbered.  Just let me look."

Mr. Payson took out his watch and handed it to the
young man, who opened the back cover and inspected
the works.  He noted the number, took a second
glance at it and then snapped the cover shut.  "All
right, if he can tell that number, he's clever."  He
handed it back to Mr. Payson.  "When did you say
you were going to see him?" he asked.

"Next Tuesday or Wednesday, I expect," was the
reply.  "I've got to go up to Stockton to-morrow,
and I may be gone two or three days attending to
some business.  By the by, Cayley, I heard rather a
queer story last week when I was up there.  You're
interested in these romantic yarns of California;
perhaps you'd like to hear this."

"Certainly, I should.  It may do for my collection
of Improbabilities."

"Well, I met the cashier of the Savings Bank up
there—he's been with the bank nearly thirty years and
he told me the story.  It seems one noon, about twenty
years ago, while he was alone in the bank, a little boy
of seven or eight years of age came in, and said he
wanted to deposit some money.  The cashier asked
him how much he had, thinking, of course, that he'd
hand out a dollar or two.  The boy put a packet
wrapped in newspaper on the counter, and by Jove! if
there wasn't something over five thousand dollars,
in hundred-dollar greenbacks!  What do you think
of that?  The cashier asked the boy where he got so
much money, suspecting that it must have been stolen.
The boy wouldn't tell him.  The cashier started round
the counter to hold the boy till he could investigate,
and, if necessary, hand him over to the police.  The
little fellow saw him coming, got frightened, and ran
out the door, leaving the money on the counter.  He
has never been heard from since."

"Well, what became of the money, then?"

"Why, it had to be entered as deposited, of course.
The boy had written a name—the cashier doesn't
know whether it was the boy's own name or not—on
the margin of the newspaper, and the account stands
in that name, awaiting a claimant."

"What was the name?"

"The cashier wouldn't tell me, naturally.  It has
been kept a secret.  With the compound interest, the
money now amounts to something like double the
original deposit."

"It's a pity I don't know the name; I might prove
an alibi."

"Oh, I forgot—and it really is the point of the
whole story.  The package was wrapped in a copy of
*Harper's Weekly*, and the boy, whose hands were
probably dirty, had happened to press a perfect
thumb-print on the smooth paper.  Of course, that would
identify him, and if any one could prove he was in
Stockton at that time, give the name and show that
his thumb was marked like that impression, the bank
would have to permit him to draw that account."

"That lets me out," said Cayley, "unless that
particular thumb-print happens to show a banded, duplex,
spiral whorl."

"What in the world do you mean?" Payson asked.

"Why, you know thumb-prints have all been classified
by Gallon, and every possible variation in the form
of the nucleal involution and its envelope has been
named and arranged."

"I didn't know that," said Payson.  "But I did know
there were no two thumbs alike.  That's the way they
identified my partner when he was drowned.  He was
interested in the subject, having read of the Chinese
method, and he happened to have a collection of
thumb-prints, including his own, of course, done in
India ink.  His body was so disfigured and eaten by
fishes that he couldn't be recognized until, suspecting
it might be he, we proved it by his own marks."

"I didn't know you ever had a partner."

"Oh, that was years ago, soon after Cly was born.
His name was Ichabod Riley.  That was a queer story,
too.  His wife was a regular Jezebel, Madge Riley
was, and there's no doubt she poisoned her first two
husbands.  She was arrested and tried for the murder
of the second, but the jury was hung, and she wasn't.
Ichabod was supposed to have been accidentally
drowned off Black Point, but I have good reason to
believe that he committed suicide on account of her.
He was afraid of being poisoned as well.  She is
supposed to have killed her own baby, too.

"Well," Mr. Payson added, rising, "I've got to go
up-stairs and get ready for dinner.  You'll stay, won't
you?"

"I'll wait till Cly gets home, at any rate, but I'll not
promise to dine."

The old man went up-stairs, leaving Cayley alone
beside the bookcase.

When he returned he found Cayley, cool and suave
as ever.  Clytie was with him, standing proudly erect
on the other side of the room, a red, angry spot on
either cheek.  She held no dreamy, listless pose now;
something had evidently fully awakened her, stinging
her into an unaccustomed fervor.  Her slender white
hands were clasped in front of her, her bosom rose
and fell.  Her lips were tightly closed.

Mr. Payson, near-sighted and egoistic, was oblivious
of these stormy signs, and remarked genially: "You're
going to stay to dinner, aren't you, Blanchard?"

Blanchard Cayley drawled, "I think not, Mr. Payson;
I'll be going on, if you'll excuse me," smiling,
"and if Cly will."

"Don't let us keep you if you have another
appointment," she said, without looking at him.

He left after a few more words with the old man,
who began at last to smell something wrong.

"What's the matter, Cly?" he asked.

She had sat down and was pretending to read.  Now
she looked up casually:

"Oh, nothing much, father, except that he was
impertinent enough to question me about something that
didn't concern him."

"H'm!"  Mr. Payson took a seat with a grunt and
unfolded his newspaper.  "I'm sorry you two don't
get on any better."

"We'd get on well enough if he'd only believe that
when I say 'no' I mean it."

He stared at her, suddenly possessed by a new
thought.  "Is there anybody else in the field, Cly?"

"There are many other men that I prefer to
Blanchard Cayley."

"What is this about your being with this palmist
chap?"

"Did Blanchard tell you that?" she asked with
exquisite scorn.

"Have you seen much of this Granthope?"

"I've seen him four times."

"And you have invited him to my house?"

"He has been here."

Mr. Payson rose and shook his eye-glasses at her.
"I must positively forbid that!" he exclaimed.  "I
won't have you receiving that fellow here.  From what
I hear of him he's a fakir, and I won't encourage him
in his attempts to get into society at my expense."

"Do you mean to say that you forbid him the house,
father?  Isn't that a bit melodramatic?  I wouldn't
make a scene about it.  I am twenty-seven and I'm
not absolutely a fool.  I think you can trust me."

"Then what have you been doing with him?  What
does it all mean, anyway?"

"As soon as I know what it means, I'll tell you.
At present, I think we had better not discuss
Mr. Granthope."

He blustered for a while longer, iterating his
reproaches, then simmered down into a morose
condition, which lasted through dinner.  Clytie knew
better than to discuss the subject with him.  Her
calmness had returned, though she kept her color and
did not talk.  The two went into the library and read.

Shortly after eight o'clock the door-bell rang.  As
it was not answered promptly, Mr. Payson, still
nervous, irascible and impatient, went out into the hall,
growling at the servant's delay.

He opened the door, to see Francis Granthope,
rather white-faced under his black hair, supporting
himself on crutches.

"Is Miss Payson at home?" he asked, taking off
his hat.

"Yes, she is.  Won't you step in?  What name shall
I give her, please?" Mr. Payson spoke hospitably.

"Thank you.  Mr. Granthope," was the answer.

The old man turned suddenly and returned his
visitor's hat.

"I beg your pardon," he said sternly, "but Miss
Payson is not at home—for you—and I don't intend that
she ever shall be.  I have heard enough about you,
Mr. Granthope, and I desire to say that I can not
consent to your being received in my house.  You're
a charlatan and a fakir, sir, and I do not consider you
either my daughter's social equal nor one with a
character respectable enough to associate with her.  I
must ask you to leave this house, sir, and not to come
again."

Granthope's eyes glowed, and his jaws came
together with determination.  But he said only:

"Very well, Mr. Payson, I'm sure that I do not
care to call if I'm not welcome.  This is, of course,
no place to discuss the subject, but I shall not come
here again without your consent.  As to my meeting
her again, that lies wholly with her.  You may be sure
that I shall not annoy her with my attentions if she
doesn't care to see me.  But I ask you, as a matter of
courtesy, to let Miss Payson know that I have called."

"See that you keep your word, sir—that's all I have
to say," was Mr. Payson's reply, and he stood in the
doorway to watch his visitor down the garden walk.
He remained there until Granthope had descended
the steps, then walked down after him and watched
him to the corner.

Mr. Payson returned to the library sullenly.

"That palmist of yours had the impertinence to
come here and ask for you," he informed Clytie, "but
I sent him about his business, and I expect he won't
be back in a hurry."

Clytie looked up with a white face.  "Mr. Granthope,
father?"  She rose proudly and faced him.  "Do
you mean to say that you were rude enough to turn
him away?  It's impossible!"

Mr. Payson walked up and down the room in a
dudgeon.

"I certainly did send him away, and what's more, I
told him not to come back."

Clytie, without another word, ran out into the hall.
The front door was flung open and her footsteps could
be heard on the gravel walk.  Mr. Payson seated
himself sulkily.

In five minutes more she had returned, slowly, her
hair blown into a fine disorder, the color flaming in
her cheeks, her eyes quickened.

"What in the world have you been doing?" her
father demanded.

"I wanted to apologize for your rudeness," she
answered, "but I was too late."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A LOOK INTO THE MIRROR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   A LOOK INTO THE MIRROR

.. vspace:: 2

..

   "He gives exact and truthful revelations of all
   love affairs, settles lovers' quarrels, enables you to
   win the affection and esteem of any one you desire,
   causes speedy and happy marriages—"

.. vspace:: 2

Granthope put down the paper with a look of
disgust.  It was his own advertisement, and it had
appeared daily for months.  He took up his desk
telephone with a jerk, and called up the *Chronicle*
business office.

"This is Granthope, the palmist.  Please take out
my displayed ad., and insert only this: 'Francis
Granthope, Palmist.  141 Geary St., Readings, Ten Dollars.
Only by Appointment.  Ten till Four.'"

There was now a red-headed office boy in the
corner where Fancy Gray used to sit.  Granthope missed
her jaunty spirit and unfailing comradeship.  Not
even his endeavor to give his profession a scientific
aspect amused him any longer.  He had lost interest
in his work.  He was uneasy, dissatisfied, blue.  He
went into his studio listlessly, with a frown printed
on his brow.  Until his first client appeared he lay
upon the big couch, his eyes fixed upon the light.

He had been there a few moments when his office
boy knocked, and opening the door, injected his red
head.

"Say, dere's a lady in here to see you, Mr. Granthope!"

"Who is she?"

The boy grinned.  "By de name of Lucie.  Says
you know her."

"Tell her I can't see her."

Granthope turned away, and the boy left.

The room was as quiet as a padded cell, full of a
soft, velvety blackness, except where the single
drop-lamp lighted up the couch.  Ordinarily the place was,
in its strange dark emptiness, a restful, comforting
retreat.  Now it imprisoned him.  Above his head
the great ring of embroidered zodiacal signs shone
with a golden luster.  They were the symbols of the
mysterious dignity of the past, of the dark ages of
thought, of priestcraft and secret wisdom of the blind
centuries that had gone.  But, a modern, incongruously
set about with such medieval relics, he felt for
the first time, undignified.  In their time these
emblems had represented all that existed of knowledge.
Now, to him they stood for all that was left of
ignorance and superstition; and it was upon such
instruments he played.

He read palms perfunctorily that Saturday.  He
seemed to hear his own voice all the while, and some
dissociated function of his mind scoffed continually at
his chicanery.  It was the same old formula: "You are
not understood by those about you.  You crave
sympathy, and it is refused.  You are extraordinarily
sensitive, but when you are most hurt you often say
nothing.  You have an intuitive knowledge of people.
You have a wonderful power of appreciation and
criticism.  People confide in you.  You are impulsive,
but your instinct is usually sure"—the same professional,
easy rigamarole, colored with what hints his
quick eyes gave him or his flagging imagination suggested.

Women listened avidly, drinking in every word.
How could he help telling them what they loved so to
hear?  They asked questions so suggestive that a child
might have answered.  They prolonged the discussion
of themselves, obviously enjoying his apparent interest.
He caught himself again and again playing with their
credulity, their susceptibility, and hated himself for it.
They lingered, smiling self-consciously, and he delayed
them with a look.  In very perversity, he began
deliberately to flatter their vanity in order to see to what
inordinate pitch of conceit their minds would rise.
He affected indifference, and even scorn—they
followed after him still more eagerly.  He grew, at last,
almost savagely critical, an instinct of cruelty aroused
by such complacent, egregious egoism.  They fawned
on him, like spaniels under the lash.

After a solitary dinner he returned to his rooms.
For an hour or two he tried to lose himself in the
study of a medical book.  Medicine had long been his
passion and his library was well equipped.  Had he
been reading to prepare himself for practice he could
not have been more thorough.  To-night, however,
he found it hard to fix his attention, and in despair he
took up a volume of Casanova's *Memoirs*.  There was
an indefatigable charlatan!  The fascinating Chevalier
had never wearied in ill-doing; he kept his zest
to the last.  He skipped to another volume to follow
the pursuit of Henriette, of "C.V.," of Thérèse.
The perusal amused him, and he got back something
of his cynical indifference.

It was after eleven o'clock when he laid down the
book and rose to look, abstractedly, out of the office
window.  He longed for an adventure that should
reinstate him as his old careless self.

He left his rooms, went up to Powell Street and
finally wandered into the noisy gaiety of the Techau
Tavern.  The place was running full with after-theater
gatherings, and he had hard work to find a table.  All
about him was a confusion of excited talk, the clatter
of dishes, the riotous music of an insistent orchestra.
Parties were entering all the while, beckoned to places
by the head waiter.  The place was garish with lights
and mirrors.

Granthope had sat there ten minutes or so, sipping
his glass, noticing, here and there, clients whom he
had served, when, between the heads of two women,
far across the room, he recognized Mrs. Page.  It was
not long before she saw him, caught his eye, and
signaled with vivacity.  The diversion was agreeable;
he rose and went over.  A glance at her table showed
him a company most of whose members he had met
before, but with whom, only a few months since, he
would have counted it a social success to be considered
intimate.  While not being quite of the elect, they held
the key of admission to many high places in virtue of
their wit and ingenious powers to please.  They were
such as insured amusement.  Granthope himself was
this evening desirous of being amused.

With Mrs. Page was Frankie Dean, the irrepressible,
voluble, sarcastic, a devil in her black, snapping eyes,
as cold-blooded as a snake.  It was she who had so
nearly embarrassed him at the Chinese supper at the
Maxwells'.  She eyed him now, dark, feline,
whimsically watching her chance to make sport of him.
With them was a young girl from Santa Rosa, newly
come to San Francisco, an alien in such a company.
She was slight and dewy, vivid with sudden color,
with soft, fervent eyes that had not yet learned to
face such audacity as her companions practised.  Keith
and Fernigan were there, also, like a vaudeville team,
rollicking with fun, playing into each other's hands,
charging the company with abandon.  Lastly, "Sully"
Maxwell sat, silent, happy, indulgent, with his pockets
filled with twenty dollar gold-pieces, which he got rid
of at every opportunity.  He spoke about once every
fifteen minutes, and then usually to the waiter.  "A
good spender" was Sully—that quality and his
unfailing good-nature carried him into the gayest circles
and kept him there unnoticed, until the bills were to
be paid.

To Granthope, tired with his day's work, in conflict
with himself, morbidly self-conscious, the scene was
stimulating.  There was an atmosphere of inconsequent
mirth in the group, which dissolved his mood
immediately.  The women, smartly dressed, bubbling
with spirit, quick with repartee—Keith and Fernigan,
their sparkling dialogue interrupted, waiting for
another auditor—even Sully, prosperous, good-natured,
hospitably making him welcome—the group attracted
him, rejuvenated him, enveloped him with their
frivolity.  The party was in the first effervescence of its
enthusiasm.  Mrs. Page was at her sprightly best,
impellent, a gorgeous animal.  Even Frankie Dean,
whom he did not like, was temptingly piquant and
brisk.  The little girl had a novelty and virginal charm.
He had been out of his element all day.  Here, he
could be himself.  He could take things easily and
jocosely, and have no thought of consequences.  His
mood disappeared like a shattered soap-bubble, and he
was caught into their jubilant atmosphere.

He was introduced to the girl from Santa Rosa,
who looked up at him timidly but with evident
curiosity, as at a celebrity, and sat down between her and
Mrs. Page.  Sully Maxwell took advantage of the
new arrival to order another round of drinks—club
sandwiches, golden bucks—till he was stopped by
Frankie Dean.  Keith and Fernigan recommenced
their wit.  Mrs. Page looked at him with all kinds of
messages in her eyes, as if she were quite sure that
he could interpret them.  The girl from Santa Rosa
said nothing, but, from time to time, gave him a shy,
curious glance from her big brown eyes.  Granthope's
spirits rose steadily, but his excitement had in it
something hectic.  In a sudden pause he seemed to
remember that he had been speaking rather too loudly.

After the party had refused, unanimously, further
refreshment, Sully proposed that they should all drive
out to the Cliff House, and they left the restaurant
forthwith to set out on this absurd expedition.  It was
already long past midnight; the adventure was a
characteristic San Francisco pastime for the giddier spirits
of the town.

Sully was for hiring two hacks; Mrs. Page,
giggling, vetoed the proposition, and Frankie Dean
supported her.  Decidedly that would be commonplace;
why break up the party?  The girl from Santa Rosa
looked alarmed at the prospect.  Granthope smiled
at her ingenuousness, and liked her for it.  The result
of the sidewalk discussion was that Sully obligingly
mounted beside the driver, and the six others squeezed
into the carriage, the door banged, and they proceeded
on their hilarious way toward the "Panhandle" of the
Park.  On the rear seat Granthope sat with
Mrs. Page and Frankie Dean on either hand, protesting
that they were perfectly comfortable.  Opposite him
the girl from Santa Rosa leaned forward on the edge
of the cushion, shrinking away from the two men
beside her.

Mrs. Page made an ineffectual search in the dark
for Granthope's hand.  Not finding it, she began to
sing, under her breath:

   |  "It was not like this in the olden time,
   |  It was not like this, at all!"

and Frankie Dean, quick-witted enough to understand
the situation, remarked, "Oh, Mr. Granthope doesn't
read palms free, Violet; you ought to know that!"  She
darted a look at him.

So it went on frothily, with chattering, laughter,
snatches of song, jests and stories, punctuated
occasionally by the rapping of Sully's cane on the window
of the carriage, as he leaned over in a jovial attempt
to participate in the fun.  Granthope, for a while,
led the spirit of gaiety that prevailed, told a story
or two, "jollied" Mrs. Page, laughed at Keith's
inconsequence, accepted Frankie Dean's challenges.
But the frank, bewildered eyes of the little girl from
Santa Rosa, fixed upon him, disconcerted him more
than once.

The carriage soon entered Golden Gate Park.  The
night was warm and still, the dusk pervaded with
perfumes.  Under the slope of Strawberry Hill
Maxwell stopped the carriage and ordered them all out to
invade the shadowy stillness with revelry.  The night
air was that of belated summer, full of a languor that
comes seldom to San Francisco which has neither real
summer nor real winter, and the wildness of the place,
remote, unvisited, was exhilarating.  A mock minuet
was started, races run, even trees climbed by Frankie
Dean the audacious, with shrieks and laughter, all
childishly with the sheer joy of living.  Granthope and
the girl from Santa Rosa, after watching the sport
with amusement for a while, left the rest and walked on
past a turn of the road, to stand there, discussing the
stars, while the cries of the two women came softened
along the sluggish breeze.  The girl took off her hat
and breathed deeply of the night air.  They walked on
farther through the gloom, till only an occasional
faint shout reached them from the party.  Granthope
put the girl at her ease, pointed out the planets and the
constellations and explained the principles of ancient
astrology.  They had begun to forget the rest when
they were overtaken and captured again and the
crowded carriage took its way towards the sea.

Upon a high ledge of rock jutting out into the
Pacific, at the very entrance to the Bay of San
Francisco, stands the Cliff House, a white, wooden,
many-windowed monstrosity with glazed verandas,
cupolas, frivolous dormers, cheap, garish, bulky, gay,
seemingly almost toppling into the water.  Here come
not only such innocently holidaying folk as Fancy
Gray and Gay P. Summer, not only jaded tourists and
the Sunday-outing citizens who lie upon the warm
beach below and doze away a morning in the sun and
wind.  It was patronized of old by the buggy-riding
fraternity, the smokers, the spenders, with their
lights-o'-love, as the most popular of road-houses.  The
cable-cars and the two "dummy" railroad lines have changed
its character somewhat, but it is still a show-place of
the town.  There is good eating, a gorgeous view of
the Pacific, and the sea-lions on the rocks below.

Here Mrs. Page's party alighted, near three o'clock
in the morning.  The bar only was open, its
white-frocked attendant sleeping behind the counter.  This
they entered, yawning from their ride.  The barkeeper
was awakened, peremptorily, and was ordered to
prepare what he had for refreshment.  With hot beans
from the heater, tamales, potato salad, cold cuts,
crackers and cheese, he laid a table in a small
dining-room.  Sully Maxwell undertook all the arrangements,
fraternized with the barkeeper, selected beverages,
not forgetting ginger ale for the girl from Santa Rosa.
Mrs. Page and Frankie Dean, somewhat disheveled,
retired, to appear trig and trim and glossy in the
gaslight, ready for more gaiety.  Granthope, meanwhile,
had wandered out upon the veranda to watch the surf
dashing on the rocks, to note the yellow gleam from
the Point Bonita light, and smell the salt air; to get
his courage up, in short, for another round of animation.
The instant he returned Mrs. Page went at him.

"Now, Frank," she said, "it won't do to sulk or to
flirt with Santa Rosa.  What's got into you, anyway?
You must positively do something to amuse us."

"Office hours from ten till four," Keith murmured
audibly.

Frankie Dean turned on him: "They never let you
out of your cage at all!"

Fernigan, thereat, began an absurd pantomime that
half terrified the girl from Santa Rosa.  He pretended
to be a monkey behind the bars of a cage, eating
peanuts—and worse.  It was shockingly funny.  The
company roared, all but Granthope.  He was at the
point of impatience, but replied with what sounded
like ennui:

"I'm a bit stale, Violet; you'll have to excuse me if
I'm stupid to-night.  I came to be entertained."

Frankie Dean looked at him mischievously.  "Never
mind, Mr. Granthope, she'll come back."

It was obviously no more than a cant phrase,
intended for a witticism.  Mrs. Page, however, took it
up with mock seriousness.

"Who's '*she*', now?  *I'm* back in the chorus again!
There *was* a time, Frank—"  Her voice was sentimental;
she tilted her head and looked at him, under
half-closed eyelids, across the table.

"I say, Granthope, you ought to publish an
illustrated catalogue of 'em.  There's nothing doing for
amateurs, nowadays.  When women pay five dollars to
have their hands held what chance is there for
us?"  This from Keith, with burlesque emphasis.

Mrs. Page would not be diverted.  "No, but really,
Frank; who *is* she?  I've quite lost track of your
conquests."

"Oh, you know I'm wedded to my art," he said
lightly.

"Yes, and it's the art of making love, isn't it?"

"'No further seek his merits to disclose,'" said
Keith, and Fernigan added, "'Nor draw his frailties
from their dread abode.'"

The girl from Santa Rosa looked suddenly bursting
with intelligence, recognizing the quotation.  She
started to finish it, then stopped; her lips moved
silently.  Granthope smiled.

Frankie Dean had been watching her chance for
another at his expense.  Now she asked, with apparent
frankness: "Mr. Granthope, can you tell character by
the lines on the soles of the feet?"

"Science of Solistry," murmured Keith to the Santa
Rosa girl.

"Let's try it!" Mrs. Page exclaimed.  "I will, for
one!  Do you know my second toe's longer than my
great toe?  I'm awfully proud of it.  I can prove it,
too!"

"Go on!" Frankie Dean dared her.

The girl from Santa Rosa stared, her lips apart.
"Why, every one's is, aren't they?"

"No such thing!"  Mrs. Page stopped and almost
blushed.  A chorus of laughter.

"Oh, there are a good many better ways of telling
character than that," said Granthope.

"Yes," Keith put in.  "Indiscreet remarks, for instance."

Mrs. Page bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, if I were going in for indiscreet remarks I might
make a few about *you*!"

Here Sully interposed.  "Isn't this conversation
getting rather personal?  I move we discard all these
low cards.  This is no woman's club.  The quiet life
for mine."

The hint was taken by Keith, who began an English
music-hall song, to the effect that "John was a nice
good 'usband, 'e never cared to roam, 'e only wanted
a quiet life, 'e only wanted a quiet wife; there 'e would
sit by the fireside, such a chilly man was John—"
where he was joined in the chorus by Fernigan—"Oh,
I 'opes and trusts there's a nice 'ot fire, where my old
man's gone!"  Maxwell pounded in time upon the
table.  The girl from Santa Rosa hazarded a laugh.

Granthope looked on listlessly, ever more detached
and introspective.  This was what he had been used to,
since he could remember, but now, in the stuffy little
room, with its ghastly yellow gas-light, the smell of
eatables and wine, the pallor of the women's faces, the
flush of Maxwell's, the desperate frivolity, the
artificiality of it all bored him.  He wondered, whimsically,
why he had ever looked forward to being the companion
of such a society as this.  It was all harmless
enough, unconventional as it was, but he tasted the
ashes in his mouth.  Perhaps, after all, he was only
not in the mood for it.  He tried to smile again.

Fernigan seized a small Turkish rug from the floor
and hung it in front of him, like a chasuble.  Standing
before the company he intoned a sacrilegious parody,
like everything he did, funny, like everything he did,
atrocious:

"*O, sanctissimus nabisco in colorado maduro domino
te deum, e pluribus unum vice versa et circus
hippocriticam, mephisto apollinaris nux vomica dolores
intimidad mores; O rara avis per diem cum magnum
vino et sappho modus vivendi felicitas,*" to the droned
"*A—men*."

Keith then enlivened the company with what quaint
parlor tricks he knew, or dared, from making of a
napkin a ballet dancer pirouetting upon one toe, to
limericks that were suppressed by Sully Maxwell,
Mrs. Page laughed prodigiously, showing all her
teeth, staring with her great eyes, vivid in her every
expression, flamboyant, sleek and glossy, abounding
in temperament.  Frankie Dean smiled maliciously
and plied the performers with her acrid wit.  The
girl from Santa Rosa listened, her cheeks burning.

At six they went outside for fresh air and promenaded
the glazed veranda until the sun rose.  In front
of them was the broad Pacific, stretching out to the
Farralones, even to Japan.  To the north, across the
bar, yellowed with alluvium from the San Joaquin and
Sacramento Rivers, a mountainous coast stretched to
far, misty Bolinas.  Southward ran the broad, wide
beach exposed by the ebb tide.  It was damp and cool;
the last spasm of summer had given way to the brisk,
stimulating weather that was San Francisco's usual
habit.  Granthope buttoned his light overcoat tightly
over his rumpled evening dress and walked with the
girl from Santa Rosa, enjoying the scene quietly,
speaking in monosyllables.  The others had a new
burst of effervescence, still more desperate than ever;
their hilarity was indefatigable.  Keith walked along
the tops of the tables, leading Mrs. Page.  Frankie
Dean and Fernigan two-stepped the length and
breadth of the wide platform, joking incessantly.

A walk up the beach was then suggested, and, after
a preliminary furbishing of faces and hair, they went
down the steep rocky road to the wide strand, and
proceeded along the shore.

Granthope, falling behind, saw that the girl from
Santa Rosa alone had waited for him.  She gazed at
him steadily with grave eyes.

"Well," he said kindly, "what d'you think of San
Francisco?"

She looked down at the sand and drew a circle
with her toe before she answered.

"It's pretty gay here, isn't it?"

"Oh, well, if you call this sort of thing gay!"

The girl looked immensely relieved, gave him a
quick, searching glance, and said shyly: "Do you know,
Mr. Granthope, I have an idea that you didn't enjoy
it any more than I did!"

He smiled at her, then silently grasped her hand.
She blushed and turned away.

"I thought it was going to be great fun," she said,
as they walked on.  "I never was up all night before.
It's awfully exciting.  But people do look awful in the
morning, don't they?"

She herself was like a blossom wet with dew, but
Granthope knew what she meant, well enough.  He
had watched the lines come into Mrs. Page's face and
her mouth droop at the corners; he had noticed the
glitter fade from Frankie Dean's black eyes, and her
lids grow heavy.

"You ought never to have come," he said.  "I think
you'd better go home and get to bed.  Suppose we
leave them and walk across to the almshouse and take
the Haight Street cars?"

"Oh, d'you think they'd mind, if we did?"

"They'd never notice that we were gone, I'm sure."

"I'm afraid you'll find me awfully stupid.  Miss
Dean is very witty, isn't she?"

"I'd rather be stupid."

"You're sure I won't bore you?"

"I don't feel much like talking, myself.  I have
plenty to think about.  Suppose we don't say anything,
unless we have something to say."

"Oh, I didn't know you could do that—in San Francisco!"

He laughed sincerely for the first time that night.

As they came to the place where the beach road
turned off for Ingleside, the rest of the party was some
distance ahead.  They were sitting upon some rocks,
and, as Granthope looked, he saw Mrs. Page rise, lift
her skirts and walk barefooted across the sands, down
to the water's edge.  She turned and waved her hand
to him.  He took off his hat to her and pointed inland
in reply.  Then he climbed the low sand-hills with his
companion and struck off southward, along the road.
The girl had colored again.

Her confidence in him was soothing.  She was so
serious and innocent, so quick with a country girl's
delicate observation of nature, that he fell into a more
placid state of mind.  She became more friendly all
the while, till, despite her confession of shyness, she
fairly prattled.  He let her run on, scarcely listening,
busy with his own thoughts.  And so, up the long
road to the almshouse, resting in the pale sunshine
occasionally, through the Park to the end of the Haight
Street cable-line they walked, and talked ingenuously.

She lived in "The Mission," and there, having
nothing better to do, he escorted her, and at last, in
that jumble of wooden buildings so multitudinously
prosaic, between the Twin Peaks and the Old Mission,
he left her.  She bade him good-by apparently with
regret.  Widely different as they were in mind and
temperament, they had, for their hour, come closely
together.  Now they were to recede, never again,
perhaps, to meet.

He walked in town along Valencia Street, through
that curious "hot belt" which defies the town's normal
state of weather, turned up Van Ness Avenue, still
too busy with his reflections to shut himself up in his
studio.  It was Sunday morning—he had almost
forgotten the day—and he turned up his collar, to
conceal what he could of his evening attire and its wilted,
rumpled linen, somewhat uncomfortable in the presence
of the church-going throngs which pervaded the
avenue.

He had reached the top of the long slope leading
to the Black Point military reservation, and was
pausing upon the corner of Lombard Street, when, looking
up the hill, he saw Clytie Payson coming down the
steep, irregular pathway that did service for a
sidewalk.  He stepped behind a lamp-post and watched
her, uncertain whether or not to let her see him.

She came tripping down, picking her way along
the cleated double plank, too intent upon her footsteps
to look far ahead.  The sight of her made him a little
trepid with excitement; it focused his dissatisfaction
with himself.  He knew, now, what had disturbed him.
It was the thought of her.  She had forced him to
look at himself from a new point of view, with a
new, critical vision.  He longed for her approval.  Her
gentle coercion was drawing him into new channels
of life, and he felt a sudden need for her help.  He
was losing his whilom comrades, his old familiar
associations repelled him.  He had nothing to sustain him
now, but the thought of her friendship.

But, in his present state, he had not the courage to
address her.  As a child plays with circumstances and
makes his own omens, he left the decision to chance.
If she turned and saw him, he would greet her and
throw himself on her grace.  If not, he would pass on
without speaking, much as he longed to speak.

She came down to the corner diagonally opposite
and paused for a moment, looking off at the mountains
and the waters of the Golden Gate.  He saw her make
a sudden movement, as if waking from her abstraction,
then she walked over in his direction.  He came out
from his cover and went to meet her.

"Good morning, Mr. Granthope!"  She was smiling,
holding out her hand.  "I thought I recognized you!
Something told me to stop a moment, and wait.  Then
suddenly I saw you.  You see, you can't escape me!"

He was visibly embarrassed, conscious of his significantly
unkempt appearance.  She, however, did not
show that she noticed it.

"How is your ankle?" was her first inquiry.  He
assured her that it had given him no trouble for a
week, and he expressed his thanks to her for her help.

"I've been hoping I might see you," she said, "to
apologize for the reception you received the last time
you called.  I can't tell you how unhappy it made me,
nor how I regret it."

"Mayn't I see you a while now?"  He felt at
such a disadvantage in his present condition that
it was embarrassing to be with her, and yet he longed
for another hour of companionship.

"Let's walk down to the Point," she said.  "I can
get in the reservation, and it will be beautiful."

As they walked down across the empty space at
the foot of the avenue and along the board-walk over
the sand, she talked inconsequently of the day and the
scene, evidently attempting to put him at his ease.
The little girl from Santa Rosa had given him a
passive comfort.  Clytie's companionship was an
active and inspiring joy.  His depression ceased; a sane,
wholesome content filled him.  He watched her graceful,
leopard-like swing and the evidences of vitality
that impelled her movements.

They passed the sentry who nodded to her at the
gate, went past the officers' quarters, down a little
path lined with piled cannon-balls, out to a small
promontory that overlooked the harbor.  Here there
was an old Spanish brass cannon in its wooden
mortar-carriage, and a seat on the very edge of the bluff.
The harbor extended wide to the southeast.  Inshore
was a covey of white-sailed yachts in regatta, just
tacking, to beat across to Lime Point, opposite.

As they sat down, Clytie said, "Now do tell me
about Miss Gray.  How is she?"

"She's not with me any more."

She lifted her brows.  "Where is she?"

"I don't know, quite."

"You haven't seen her since she left?"

"No, not for two weeks."

Clytie frowned and bit her lip, then shook her head
silently.  Then she remarked, as if to herself, "I like
her.  I'm sure she's fine."

"She likes you, too."

"I wish I might see her," she went on, her eyes
fixed on the mountains.  "I'd like to do something
for her.  I might get her a position in my father's
office, I'm sure, if she'd take it.  I have a curious
feeling, though, that it is she who will be more likely
to do something for me."

"If she ever can, you may be sure she will.  Fancy
is true blue."

"You didn't—have any misunderstanding with her,
did you?"

"Oh, no."

She seemed to notice his reluctance to explain, and
did not pursue the subject.

She turned and her eyes fell upon his hand, which
lay carelessly upon his knee.  "Let me see your palm,"
she said impulsively.  "I've never looked at it
carefully.  I suppose you've told your own fortune often
enough."

He gave his left hand to her.  She barely touched
it, holding it lightly, but he felt the magnetism of the
contact almost as a caress.  "You'll find my line of
fate shows that I'm to change my career," he
remarked.  "It's broken at the head line, you see, and
begins over again."

"Now, let me look at your right hand."

She looked at it, and her expression changed subtly.
It was as if she had found some secret satisfaction
in his palm, some answer to her desires.

"What d'you see?"

"The heart line."

In his left hand it began near the root of the second
finger, at the mount of Saturn, not, as he would have
preferred, farther toward the index finger, at the
mount of Jupiter.  He wondered if that meant to her
what it did, in his professional capacity, to him—an
indication of more sensual tastes.  Half its length
was cobwebbed with tiny branches, and punctuated
with islands; then it ran, deep and clear to the edge
of the palm, almost straight.  In his right palm the
line was cleaner, simpler, undivided.

She had begun to color, faintly; she had turned her
eyes from him.  Into her loveliness had come a new
element of charm.  There was something special in it,
something for him alone; it was as if she had been
signaling to him, and he had not, till now, understood.
Instantly every line in her body seemed to be imbued
with a new grace, a new meaning, translating her
spirit.  He was too full of the inspiration to speak;
he could only look at her, irradiated, as if he had
never seen her before.  To his admiration for her
beauty, his respect for her character, his interest in her
mind, there was added something more; the total was
not to be accounted for by the sum of these.  And
the wonderful whole satisfied the divine fastidiousness
of his nature.  She was for him the supreme choice.
Her mind worked like his.  Her very size pleased him.
He seemed to know her for the first time.  He had
desired her, before, for her beauty and her
intelligence; he had thought calmly of love and marriage.
But now he felt the supreme demand for possession,
because——only because he *must* have her—because
nothing else in his life mattered.

A secret ray of thought seemed to carry the message
back to her, for, apparently embarrassed by the
intensity of his silence, she rose and walked a few paces,
with her hands behind her back, gazing off at the
harbor.  It was not thought that he sent, however,
for he could not think; it was a new function of his
soul aroused, excited, thrilling him with the power
of its vibration.

When that wave broke, he was at a loss for words.
How could he say how much he wanted her?  How
could he ask if she, too, felt that same thrill, while
he winced under this new, mortifying sense of the
cheapness and falsity of his life?  He could not yet
bring himself to confess the miserable truths; it was
not the larger, more obvious things he was afraid of,
for she knew well enough of these—but one or two
shameful details came into his mind and made him
shrink from himself.

She turned to him again, composed, though still she
showed elation.

"I'm sorry Fancy had to go," she said earnestly.
Her eyes were steady, though her lips were still
quivering.

"It was too bad.  But it was necessary."

She gave him a swift, searching look.

"Oh!  Then you are—finding out?"

"I'm being pushed on, somehow.  It's really queer,
as if the force came from outside of myself—"

"Oh, no!  I'm sure not!"

"Something is working out in me—"

Clytie smiled rarely, her face illuminated.  "Oh, fate
deals the cards, but we have to play them ourselves.
And—I think—you've taken several tricks already."

"You mean—about Fancy Gray?"

"No—that I can't judge—I never have judged.
Your advertisement in the papers."

He was immensely surprised, pleased.  "You have
noticed that already?  Why, this is only the very first
day—"

"I have watched for it every day."

There was another pause.  Her remark was revealing—yet
he dared not hope too far.  He felt so near
to her, so intimate in that revelation that he feared
to deceive himself.  Oh, he was for her, now!  His
heart clamored for possession, yet he could not declare
himself.  They were upon different spiritual altitudes.
Women, before, had come at his whistle.  Now he
was awkward, timid, excited with expectancy, his
heart going hard.

"There is a reason why I was glad to see that
change, Mr. Granthope," she continued.  He waited
for her words eagerly.  She looked away, her eyes
following the sails in mid-channel.  "I'm thinking of
leaving town."

The announcement fell upon him like a blow.  "You
are going away!" he exclaimed, his voice betraying
him.

"Not for a week or two, perhaps."

"A week!"  The words stung him.  "Don't go—yet!"
he exclaimed faintly.

"I don't want to go—yet.  My aunt in the East
has invited me to visit her for six months."  She
spoke calmly, but did not look at him.

"I'll have to hurry, won't I?" he said with a
desperate, whimsical inflection.

"Yes.  You'll have to hurry."

For a while he was too agitated to speak.  If there
had needed anything more to convince him of his state
of mind, this sufficed.  He was aware, by the sense
of shock, how much he cared.

"Before I go, I'd like to ask a favor of you,
Mr. Granthope."

It almost comforted him.  "What is it—of course,
I'll do anything."

"Will you see if you can find out something about
that little boy who lived with Madam Grant?"

There it was again!  This blow turned his mind
black.  She was gazing at him earnestly—he could
hardly bear her look, so placid, so sincere.  "You
mean—clairvoyantly?" he stammered.

"Yes.  I think we might do it, together."

He rose to walk up and down the top of the bank
for a few minutes.  Once he stopped and gazed at
her fiercely, under tensely set brows.  Finally he
returned hopelessly.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

"Why not?"

He hesitated.  "I know I couldn't get anything."

"But you did before?"

He longed desperately to confess everything, but
he could not speak.  He felt her recede from him;
their delightful intimacy was broken.  She did
not insist further, and self-contempt kept him silent,
till he broke out, "Oh, it's you who must help *me*!"

"I've done all I can for you.  You must find out
the rest for yourself."

"I don't dare to think how much you have to find
out about me."

"Tell me!"

"I haven't the courage."

She let her hand fall lightly upon his for an instant.
"Well, that only proves, doesn't it, that, so long as
there's anything insurmountable in the way of directness
and simplicity, you haven't gone all the way.
I'll wait."

"I'm so afraid of losing your sympathy and your
respect."

"But you can't stop still!"

"I'm afraid of losing *you*!"

He saw the tears come into her eyes.  "Ah, there's
only one way you can lose me," she said deliberately.

"How?"  He was eager.

She did not answer, but arose slowly.  "I think I
must be going."

He followed her, thoroughly dissatisfied with
himself at having let his moment pass.  He understood
her well enough.  It was only by stopping still, as she
had said, that he could lose her.  She had started a
change in him, and it must go on.  Something which
tied his hands, his mind, must be cut; he must be
free of that before he could speak.

They retraced their steps, she talking, as when they
had come, inconsequently; he, moody, troubled
inwardly, self-conscious.  She was to give him one more
hope, however.  As she left him, on the avenue, she
offered her hand, and smiled.

"Don't give it up," she said, and turned away, leaving
him standing alone, still fighting his battle with
himself.

He had enough to think of, as he strode home,
ill-satisfied with himself and in a turmoil of thought
in regard to her.  There was no question of mastery,
now; she had beaten him at his own game.  It was
only a question of surrender.

He went up into his office and stood, looking about.
The row of plaster casts confronted him.  He took
one from the row and examined it.  There, too, was
a heart line split up with divergent branches,
punctuated with little islands, beginning at the Mount of
Saturn, herring-boned to the end, at the double crease
which signified two marriages.  The fingers were short
and fat, the thumb being far too small.  Small joints,
broad lines, deep cushions at the Mounts of Venus and
Mercury, deep bracelets at the wrist—Granthope's
eyes read the signs as if the hand were a face, or a
whole body.

As he turned the cast over thoughtfully, to look
at the back, it dropped from his grasp and fell to the
floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.  Bits of wire
projected humorously from the stump.  He smiled.

"Kismet!" he said to himself.  "Adieu, Violet!"

He was stooping to clear away the fragments when
he heard a knock upon the door.  Going to answer it,
he found Professor Vixley waiting.

"Hello, Frank," said the slate-writer.  "Can I see
you for a few minutes?"

"Come in."  Granthope drew up a chair, but stood
himself with his hands in his pockets while his visitor
made himself comfortable.

Vixley's shrewd eyes roved about the room and
rested upon the broken cast.  "Hello," he said, "cat
got into the statuary?"

"Accident," said the palmist.

"Plenty more where they come from, I s'pose.  Say,
Frank, let's see the Payson girl's hand, will you?"

"I haven't it."

"You mean a cast, of course, eh?  I expect you've
pretty near got the original, ain't you?"

"Not yet."  Granthope frowned.

"But soon—"

Granthope shrugged his shoulders.

"It was about Payson I wanted to see you," the
Professor went on.  "Seems to me you ain't standin'
in like you agreed to.  Gert claims you got cold feet
on the proposition.  I thought I'd drop in and chew
it over."

Granthope did not answer, and the frown on his
forehead persisted.  Vixley took out a cigar and lighted
it, threw his match on to the desk, looked about again,
and grinned.  "Then you *have* got cold feet, eh?" he
remarked, crossing his legs.

Granthope looked the Professor squarely in the eye
for a moment.  Then he said deliberately: "Vixley,
what will you take to leave town?"

Vixley showed his astonishment in the stare with
which he replied.  His lip drew away from his yellow
fangs, and a keen light came into his black eyes.
"Oho!  That's the game, is it?  Somethin' doin',
after all, eh?  Well, well!"  He mouthed his cigar
meditatively and twirled his thumbs in his lap.

"Come, name your price," said Granthope sharply.

"I'd like a few details first."

"What's the figure?"

Vixley was in no hurry, and enjoyed his advantage.
"I thought you was up to something, Frank.  Gert's
pretty sharp, but Lord, she's only a woman.  You
fooled *her* a bunch.  She really thought you'd got a
change of heart.  So you want to cut up the money
all by your lonely, eh?  Well, now, what'll you give
to have me pull out of it?"

"I'll give you five hundred dollars," said Granthope.

"Nothin' doin'," said Vixley decidedly.  "Why, it's
worth more than that to me just as it stands, and I
ain't but just begun.  If you can't do better than that,
why, it's no use talkin'."

"I asked you what you wanted.  Let's have it, and
I'll talk business."

"Payson's pretty well fixed," said Vixley.  "I
s'pose if you marry the girl you'll get a good wad of
his money."

"Never mind the girl.  I want to buy you out."

"Well, I'd have to think it over.  You know we got
a great scheme, and if it works it'll mean a steady
income.  But I don't mind turnin' over money quick.
You make it a thousand dollars and I'll agree to leave
you alone, and pull off Gert into the bargain.  You'll
have to fix Masterson yourself.  I don't trust him."

Granthope began to walk the room again, thinking.
He returned finally, to say: "It won't do merely for
you to agree to keep out of it.  I know you too well.
This is a business agreement.  If I give you a
thousand, will you leave town?  That's my offer."

Vixley reflected.  "That ain't so much.  I dunno as
I could afford to spoil my whole business for that."

"Pshaw.  You don't make that in a year!"

"Not last year, perhaps, but I expect to this."

"Then you refuse?"

"Wait a minute.  Have you got the money on hand?"

"No, I haven't."  Granthope's face clouded.  "But
I have an idea I might raise it.  I could pay you in
instalments.  But you'd have to be outside of
California to get it.  That's understood."

Vixley rose.  "Well, when you've got the money
you can begin to talk.  If you can raise it, as you
say, I may agree.  After all, I could use a thou' just at
present, and I s'pose I could operate in Chicago till
you let me come back.  Say I accept."

"All right.  As soon as I can raise five hundred,
I'll see you, and buy your ticket.  Until then, I expect
you to leave Payson alone."

"Will *you* leave him alone?  That's the question!
I don't propose to have no interference until you make
good with the money."

"I'll make good, all right," said Granthope.

"Very well, then."  Vixley rose and buttoned what
buttons were left on his coat.  "When you're ready to
do business, I'm ready.  But you see here!"  He
shook a long, bony finger at the palmist.  "If you go
to work and try any gum-games with the old man
before then, Frank, I'll break you—like that there
hand."  He pointed down to the cast on the floor.  Then he
added easily: "Not that it would do you any good if
you did, though.  I'll attend to *that*.  I got to protect
myself.  It'll be easy enough to fix it so the old man
won't take much stock in what you tell him."

"I expect that's so," Granthope shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't mind saying that if I thought I could
do anything that way, I would."

"So long, then.  The sooner you make your bid,
the cheaper it'll be."  He turned from the door and
looked the palmist over.  "You're a good one, Frank.
I don't deny you got brains.  I wouldn't mind knowin'
just what you was up to.  It must be something
elegant."  He came up to Granthope and gestured with
both hands.  "Say—why don't you let me in?  We
could work it together, and I'll lose Gertie.  I ain't
no fool, myself, when it comes right down to business."

Granthope laughed sarcastically.  "I hardly think
you can help much in this.  It's a rather delicate
proposition, and I'll have to go it alone.  Just as soon as I
get the cash I'll let you know."

For an hour after that Granthope sat in his office
thinking it over.  His offer to Vixley had come on the
spur of the moment, and, although he did not regret
it, he was at a loss to know how he could make it good.
He went over his accounts carefully, inspected his
bank-book, made a valuation of his property.  He
could see no way, at present, to raise sufficient money
to buy Vixley off, and yet to sit still and let him go on
with Clytie's father was intolerable.  He had seen men
ruined by such wiles, and his own conscience was not
clean in this matter.  There seemed no way of escape.

.. vspace:: 2

Late that afternoon he decided to call on Fancy
Gray.  He had hardly seen her since the night she
left, and he was troubled in her regard, also.  He.
dreaded to know just what she was doing, and how
she stood it.  He had long attempted to deny to
himself that she cared too much for him, and always
their fiction had been maintained—that fiction which,
during their pretty idyl at Alma, so long ago, had
crystallized itself into their whimsical motto: "No
fair falling in love!"  He had kept their pact well
enough.  He dared not answer for her.

Fancy lived in a three-story house on O'Farrell,
Street, near Jones Street, a place back from the
sidewalk, with a garden in front and on one side.  Fancy
had a room on the attic floor, with two dormer
windows giving upon the front yard.  As Granthope
turned in the gate and looked up at her windows, he
was surprised to see one of them raised.  Fancy's arm
appeared, a straw hat in her hand.  The next instant
the hat sailed gracefully out into the air, curving like
an aeroplane.  It dropped nearly at his feet.  He
picked it up, thinking that she would look out after it,
but instead, the sash was lowered.

A minute afterward a young man, bareheaded, and
apparently violently enraged, appeared at the front
door.  Granthope walked up and presented the hat to
Mr. Gay P. Summer, who took it, staring, without a
word of thanks, and stalked sulkily away.

The door being left open, Granthope walked up
three flights of stairs and knocked at Fancy's room.
There was no reply.  He called to her.  The door was
instantly flung open.

"Why, hello, Frank!  Excuse me.  I thought it
was my meal-ticket coming back to bore me to death
again."  Fancy began to laugh.  "You ought to have
seen him.  He simply wouldn't go, after I'd given
him twenty-three gilt-edged tips, and so I had to
throw his hat out of the window to get rid of him."

"I saw him.  I think he won't come back.  He
looked rather uncomfortable."

Fancy sat down on the bed unconcernedly, clasping
her hands on her crossed knees, while Granthope
took a seat upon a trunk.

"Say, Frank, these people who expect to annex all
your time and pay for it in fifty cent *table d'hotes* are
beginning to make me tired.  There's nothing so
expensive as free dinners, I've found!  The minute you
let a man buy you a couple of eggs, he thinks he's in
a position to dictate to you for the rest of eternity.
Why, one dinner means he's hired you till eleven
o'clock, and I run out of excuses long before that.
No, you don't get anything free in this world, and
many a girl's found *that* out!"

Granthope smiled.  Fancy was at her prettiest, with
a whimsical animation that he knew of old.  Nothing
delighted him so much as Fancy in her semi-philosophic
vein.

She ran on: "Gay has just proposed to me again—I've
lost tally, now.  The one good thing about him
is that he's always ready to make good with the ring
whenever I say the word.  He takes me seriously just
because I never explain.  But all the encouragement
I've ever given him is to accept.  Gay's the kind that
always calls you 'Little girl,' no matter how high you
are, and tells you you're 'brave'!  There's no one
quite like you, Frank—"

As she spoke, her gaiety slowly oozed away, till she
sat almost plaintively watching him.  Then she smiled
and shook her head slowly.  "Don't get frightened,
I won't do anything foolish."  She sprang up and
tossed her head.  Then, turning to him, she said: "Say,
Frank, do you know Blanchard Cayley?"

"Why, I've just heard of him, that's all.  He's a
friend of Miss Payson's."

"She isn't—fond of him, is she?" Fancy demanded.

"Oh, I hope not!  Why?"

"Nothing.  Only, I met him, one night, at
Carminetti's.  Gay had just thrown me down hard.  He
came round, afterward, and apologized."  Fancy
looked across the room abstractedly as she talked.
Upon the wall were strung a collection of empty chianti
bottles in their basket-work shells, a caricature by
Maxim, a circus poster and other evidence of her
recent conversion to the artistic life.  She spoke with
a queer introspective manner.  "I had a queer feeling
about Mr. Cayley.  You know, for all I'm such a
scatterbrain, I do like a man with a mind.  I like to
look up to a man.  He's awfully well-read.  Of
course, he isn't as clever as you, but he sort of
fascinates me—I don't know why.  He interests me,
although I can't understand half he says.  I suppose
he makes me forget.  There's nothing like knowing
how to forget.  But you're sure Miss Payson isn't too
fond of him?"

"I'd like to be surer," said Granthope.  He, too,
was looking fixedly across the room—at the mottoes
and texts upon the wall, on the mantel, and over her
bed—"Do it Now!" "Nothing Succeeds like
Success"—and such platitudes as, printed in red and
black, are sold at bookshops for the moral education of
those unable to think for themselves.

Fancy slid gently off the bed, and dropped to the
floor in front of him.  Her hand stole fondly for his,
and clasped it, petting it.

"How is she, Frank?"

He put his hand on her hair and smoothed it
affectionately.  "Fine, Fancy, fine."

"Oh—I hope it's all right, Frank."

"I don't know, Fancy.  You'd hardly recognize me,
these days.  I'm losing my sense of humor.  I'm
becoming a prig, I think."

Fancy laughed.  "Well, there's plenty of room in
that direction.  But I don't think she'd mind your
being a devil occasionally.  Women don't have to be
saints to be thoroughbreds.  And there's many a saint
that would like to take a day off, once in a while!"

"Have you seen Vixley, lately?"

Fancy grew serious.  "No.  Is he still working the
old man?"

"Yes, I suppose so.  I saw him to-day.  I offered
him a thousand dollars to leave town, Fancy."

Fancy looked up at him with wonder in her eyes.
"Why, Frank!  What do you mean?  A thousand
dollars?  Why, you haven't got that much, have you?"

"No.  Not yet.  But I'll get it, somehow."

"You mean—that you're trying—to save Payson—on
her account, Frank?"

He avoided her glance.  "On her account—and perhaps
my own."

Fancy rose impulsively and put her arms about him.
"Do let me hug you, Frank, just once!"

He saw her eyes grow soft.  She released herself
quickly, as if the embrace, simple as it was, hurt her.
She stood in front of him and watched him soberly.

"Frank, *I* never could make you—"  She stopped,
the tears welling in her eyes.  Then she turned and
ran out of the room.

He rose, too, and paced up and down, wondering at
her mood.  His track was short, for the roof sloped on
one side, and the place was encumbered with Fancy's
paraphernalia and furniture.  His eyes fell, after a
while, upon a cigar box on her bureau.  It stood
upright, under the mirror, and had little doors, glued
on with paper hinges, so that the two opened, like the
front of a Japanese shrine of Buddha.  He went to
it and looked at it.  Thoughtlessly, with no idea of
committing an indiscretion, little suspecting that it
could hold anything private or sacred, he swung the
little doors open.  Then he shut them hastily and
walked to the window with a clutch at his heart.
Inside he had seen his own photograph.  Before it was
a little glass jar with a few violets.  They were fresh,
fragrant.  Lettered upon a strip of paper pasted on
the inside was the inscription:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   No Fair Falling In Love.

.. vspace:: 2

He walked away hurriedly to stare hard out of
the window.

She came into the room again as he composed himself,
and her face, newly washed, was radiant.  She
reseated herself upon the bed, and, taking up a pair of
stockings, proceeded to darn a small hole in the heel.

"Have you got a position, Fancy?"

She laughed.  "Vixley wrote me a note and told
me he had a job for me if I wanted it, but I turned
him down.  You couldn't guess what I *am* doing, Frank."

"What?"

"Detective."  She looked up innocently.

"You don't mean—"

"No!  Just little jobs for the chief of police, that's
all.  I'm investigating doctors who practise without
a license, that's all.  I say, Masterson had better look
out or he'll get pulled."

"I'm sorry you haven't anything better, Fancy.
Miss Payson said she'd get you a place in her father's
office if you'd go.  Would you?"

"No."  Fancy's eyes were upon her needle.

"Why not?"

"Frank," she said, "do you remember asking me
to inquire about that soldier the little girl with freckles
wanted to find?"

"Yes.  I thought you said that the ticket agent at
the ferry had left, and so you couldn't get anything."

"He was only off on a vacation.  He's come back,
and I saw him yesterday.  He remembered that soldier
perfectly—I don't see how anybody could fail to—he
must look awful.  He said he bought a ticket for
Santa Barbara."

"That's good.  I hope she'll come in again," said
Granthope.  "She was a nice little thing."

"She was real, Frank, and that's what few people
are, nowadays."

He looked at her for a minute.  "There's no doubt
that you are, Fancy."

"I wish I were.  I'm only a drifter, Frank."  She
kept on with her darning, not looking up.

"Fancy, I want to do something for you.  Won't
you let me help you?"

"I'm all right, Frank.  I told you I wanted to have
some fun before I settled down again.  But if I ever
do need anything, I'll let you know."

"Promise me that—that whenever you want me,
you'll send for me, or come to me, Fancy!"

She looked up into his eyes frankly.  "I promise,
Frank.  When I need you, I'll come."

She was a blither spirit after that, till he took his
leave.  It had been an eventful day for Francis
Granthope.  He had swung round almost the whole circle of
emotions.  But not quite.





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.. _`THE FIRST TURNING TO THE LEFT`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   THE FIRST TURNING TO THE LEFT

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At five o'clock the next afternoon Blanchard Cayley
sitting at a window of his club, opening the letters
which he had just taken from his box in the office.
He had his hat on, a trait which always aroused the
ire of the older members.  Beside him, upon a small
table, was a glass of "orange squeeze," which he
sipped at intervals.

At this hour there were some twenty members in the
large room reading, talking or playing dominoes.
Others came in and went out occasionally, and of these
more than half approached Cayley to say effusively:
"Hello, old man, how goes it?" or some such similarly
luminous remark.  This was as offensive to Cayley
as the wearing of his hat in the club was to the old
men.  Nothing annoyed him so much as to be interrupted
while reading his letters.  Yet he always
looked up with a smile, and replied:

"Oh, so-so—what's the news?"

To be sure, Cayley's mail to-day was not so
important that these hindrances much mattered.  The
study of Esperanto was his latest fad.  With several
Misses, Frauleins and Mademoiselles on the official list
of the "Esperantistoj," and whom he suspected of
being young and beautiful, he had begun a systematic
correspondence.  The greater part of the answers he
received were dull and innocuous, written on
picture post-cards.  From Odessa, from Siberia, Rio de
Janeiro, Cambodia, Moldavia and New Zealand such
missives came.  Those which were merely perfunctory,
or showed but a desire to obtain a San Francisco
post-card for a growing collection, he threw into the
waste-basket.  Others, whose originality promised a
flirtation more affording, he answered ingeniously.

A man suddenly slapped him on the shoulder.

"Hello, Blanchard, have a game of dominoes?"

"No, thanks."

"Come and have a drink, then."

"No, thanks, I'm on the wagon now."

"Go to the devil."

"Same to you."

The man grinned and dropped into a big chair
opposite Cayley and lighted a cigar.  Then his glance
wandered out of the window.  Cayley put the bunch of
letters in his pocket and yawned.

"By Jove, there's a peach over there," said the man.
Cayley turned and looked.

"In front of the shoe store.  See?"

She was standing, looking idly into the show
window—a figure in gray and red.  Scarlet cuffs, scarlet
collar, scarlet silk gloves.  Her form was trim and
her carriage jaunty.

It was Fancy Gray—drifting.  She stood, hesitating,
and shot a glance up to the second story of
the club house where the men sat.  She caught
Cayley's eye and smiled, showing her white teeth.  Her
eyebrows went up.  Then she turned down the street
and walked slowly away.

"Say," said the man, "was that for you or for me, Blan?"

"I expect it must have been for me.  Good day."

"Something doing?  Well, good luck!"

Cayley walked briskly out of the room, got his hat,
and ran down the front steps.  Fancy was already
half a block ahead of him, nearing Kearney Street.
He caught up with her before she turned the corner.

"I've been looking for you for three weeks," he
began.

She paused and gave him a saucy smile.  "You
ought to be treated for it," was her somewhat
elliptical reply.

"I'm afraid I am pretty slow, but I've got you now.
It seems to me you're looking pretty nimble."

"Really?  I hope I'll do."

"Fancy Gray, you'll indubitably do.  Won't you
come to dinner with me somewhere, where we can talk?"

"I accept," said Fancy Gray.

"Are you still with Granthope?"

She hesitated for a second before replying.  "No,
I left last week."

"What's the row?"

"Oh, nothing, I got tired of it."

"That's not true," he said, looking into her eyes,
which had dimmed.

"Cut it out then, I don't care to talk about it."

"I bet he didn't treat you square.  He's too much
of a bounder."

At this her face flamed and she stopped suddenly on
the sidewalk, drawing herself away from him.
"Don't," she pleaded, "don't, please, or I can't go
with you—"

He saw now what was in her eyes and put his hand
into her arm again.  "Come along, little girl, I won't
worry you," he said gently.  And they walked on.

She recovered her spirits in a few moments, but the
sparkling of her talk was like the waves on the
surface of an invisible current sweeping her toward him.
It was too evident for him, used as he was to women,
not to notice it.  She was a little embarrassed, and such
self-consciousness sat strangely on her face.  Behind
that flashing smile and the quick glances of her eye
something slumbered, an emotion alien to such
debonair moods as was her wont to express, and as foreign
to the deeper secret feelings she concealed.  Her
eyes had darkened to a deeper brown, the iris almost
as dark as the pupils.  Cayley did, as she had said,
fascinate her.  Whether the charm was most physical
or mental it would be hard to say, but her demeanor
showed that it partook of both elements.  She gave
herself up to it.

He began to play upon her.  He took her arm
affectionately, and the tips of his fingers rested upon the
little, cool circle of her wrist above her gloves.  She
did not remove his hand.  His eyes sought hers again
and again, vanquishing them with his meaning glances.
Her pulse beat faster.  She talked excitedly.  A soft
wave of color swept up from her neck.

"Suppose we dine at the 'Poodle Dog'?" he suggested.

"I'm game," she replied; "I like a quiet place where
there's no music."

"We can get a room up-stairs where we won't be
interrupted."

"Anywhere for mine.  I've got a blue bean and I'd
like to be cheered up."

She was cheered up to an unwonted pitch by the
time the dinner was over.  As she sat, flushed, mettlesome
with wine, thrilling to his advances, he plied her
artfully, and she responded with less and less
discretion.  She could not conceal her impulse towards
him.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, her eyes
burning.

"Indeed you are—you're beautiful!" he said, his
hand resting on hers.

"But I don't want to be beautiful—that's what you
are when you're queer and woozly—like the girls
Maxim paints," she pouted.  "They're awful frights—they're
never pretty.  I want to be just pretty, not
handsome or good-looking or anything apologetic
like that—that's what men call a girl when she can't
make good with her profile.  You've got to tell me I'm
pretty, Blan, or I won't be satisfied."

"You certainly are pretty," he laughed, as he filled
her glass.

"That makes me almost happy again," she mused.
"Let's forget everything and everybody else in the
world.  It's funny how I've been thinking about you
and wondering if I'd ever see you again.  I had a good
mind to put a personal in the *Chronicle*.  It seemed
to me as if I simply had to see you, all this week.
Wasn't it funny at Carminetti's?  I guess I was
struck by lightning that time.  You certainly did
wireless me.  It's fierce to own up to it, Blan, but I
like you.  I've stood men off ever since I was old
enough to know what they wanted, but you've got me
hypnotized.  How did you do it?"  She laughed
restlessly.

"Why, if I hadn't thought you were a little too thick
with Granthope, I would have looked you up before."

"I haven't been there for a week.  The wide, wide
world for mine, now."

"That's pretty tough, to fire you after you'd been
with him for two years, isn't it?"

"I don't want to talk about that, really, Blan; it's
all right."

He poured out another glass of champagne for her
and she drank it excitedly.  Cayley still caressed her
free hand, but his eyes were not upon her; he was
thinking intently.  She took his head in her two hands
and turned it gently in her direction.

"There!  *That's* where you want to look.  Here is
Fancy, Blan, right here."

"I see you.  I was only thinking—do you know, you
look like the pictures of Cleopatra?" he suggested.
"Did you ever hear of Cleopatra, Fancy?"

She laughed.  "I guess I ought to—I played
Cleopatra once."

"Did you really—where?—comic opera or vaudeville?"

"Oh, never mind where—I made a hit all right."  She
leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands behind
her head, smiling to herself.  A tress of hair had
fallen across her ear; it did not mar her beauty.

"I'll bet you got every hand in the house, too."

Fancy became suddenly convulsed with giggles.  She
sipped her glass and choked as she tried to swallow
the wine.

Cayley passed this mysterious mirth without comment.
"Granthope looks as if he had been an actor, too."

"Oh, yes, we played together—but only as
amateurs."  She smiled mischievously.

Cayley followed her up.  "He has a fine presence; I
should think he'd be good at it.  He has lots of women
running after him, hasn't he?"

"Oh, he did have—women to throw at the birds—women
to warm up for supper—women to burn, and
he burned 'em, too.  But he won't stand for them
now," said Fancy.

"What's the matter?  Is he stung?"  He filled her
glass again.

"Yep.  He's cut 'em all out—even me.  That's why
I'm here."

"But he works them, though?"

"Oh, no, Blan, Frank's straight, sure he is.  He
doesn't graft any more.  He hasn't for—some time."

"I don't believe that," said Cayley.

"Oh, of course, he investigates cases sometimes, but
he don't work with cappers the way he did.  He's
going in for high society now, and he doesn't need to
do anything but wear a swallow-tail and get up on
his hind legs and drink tea."

Blanchard took a chance shot.  "I hear he's trying
to marry a rich girl."

Fancy, for the first time, seemed to come to herself.
She looked hard at Cayley.' "What are you driving
at, Blan?  What do you want to talk about that for?
It's all off between me and Frank, but I'm not going
to knock him.  He's all right, Frank is.  I'd rather
talk about Me, please!  Talk about Fancy, Blan, won't
you?  Fancy's so tired of talking shop."

Her elbow was upon the table and her little round
chin in her palm, as she looked at him under drooping,
languorous lids.  "How pretty am I, Blan?  Tell me!
There's nothing quite so satisfactory, after a good
dinner, as to hear how pretty you are."

He looked quizzically at her, and quoted: "'*Tout
repas est exquis qui a un baiser pour dessert*.'"

"What does that mean, Blan?  I don't understand
Dago talk."

"It means that you're pretty enough to eat, and
I'm going to eat you," he replied, making a motion
toward her.

She put him off gaily, but only as if to delay the
situation.  "Oh, pshaw! haven't you had enough to
eat yet?  That won't go with me, Blan; I've got to
have real eighteen carat flattery put on with a knife.
I can stand any amount of it.  I love it!  Whether you
mean it or not—I don't care, so long as it sounds
nice, I'll believe it.  I'll believe anything to-night.
Now, how do you like my eyes, Blan?"

He took a long, close look at them, then with an
amused smile he said: "Mountain lakes at sunset shot
with refracted fires.  Or, electric light on
champagne—will that do?"

Fancy pouted.  "I knew a fellow once who told me
they were just like the color of stones in the bed of the
brook ... When I was up at Piedra Pinta, I looked
in a shallow part of the creek—where I could see my
reflection and the bottom at the same time..."  Her
voice died off in a dreamy monotone; then she
looked up at him again sleepily.

"How about my nose?"

"*Thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon which looketh
toward Damascus*," he quoted.

"Whatever does that mean?"  She opened her eyes
as wide as she could.  "Is my poor old nose as big as
that?"  She felt of it solemnly.

"It is straight and strong and full of character.
And *Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, ... thy
teeth are like a flock of sheep ... which come up
from the washing; whereof every one bear twins*."

"That's *very* swell, indeed," said Fancy, "is it
original?"

He laughed.  "No.  It's from one of the oldest
poems in the world."

"I'd like to read that book."  Fancy was getting
drowsy.  "Tell me some more."

"*Thine head upon thee is like Carmel...*"

"I'm glad we're getting into California at last."

"*And the hair of thine head like purple;—*"

She shook her head, "Oh, no, don't call it purple,
please.  Frank says it's Romanesque."

"*Thy neck is as a tower of ivory.*"

"That's the *second* tower," said Fancy, closing her
eyes, "I guess that'll be about all for the towers.  I
think I'd rather have you make it up as you go along.
It's more complimentary."  She laid her head upon
her arms on the table.  "My ears are really something
fierce, aren't they?"

Cayley touched them in investigation.  "They're a
bit too small, of course, and they're very pink, but
they're like rosy sea-shells touched by the dawn."

Fancy murmured softly: "'She sells sea-shells.  She
shells sea-shells—She shells she shells'—say, I'm
getting woozly."

She roused herself to laugh softly; her head drooped
again.

"Then I'll let you kiss them—once!" she whispered.

"I'm afraid I talked too much last night," she said
to him the next evening.  "I hope I didn't say
anything, did if I didn't quite know what I was doing.
Funny how the red stuff throws you down!"

"Oh, no, you didn't give anything away.  You're
pretty safe, for a woman."

"Coffee's what makes *me* talk," she said, "if you
ever want to make me loosen up, try about four small
blacks and I'll use up the dictionary."

He saw her nearly every day after that, but, even
with the aid of coffee, he was unsuccessful in his
attempts to make her more communicative.  At the
mention of Granthope's name she froze into silence
or changed the subject.

A few days after the dinner he invited her across
the bay to Tiburon where Sully Maxwell had given
him the use of one of the dozen or more house-boats
anchored in the little harbor.  Fancy was delighted at
the prospect of a day with him, and early on Sunday
morning she was ready at the ferry.  As she waited
with her basket of provisions, saucily and picturesquely
dressed in a cheap outing costume of linen, Dougal
and Elsie came up to her.

"Hello, Queen," Dougal cried, and he shook both
her hands heartily, his round gargoyle face illuminated
with cordiality.  "Where have you been all this time?
We'll have to try you for desertion.  You haven't
abdicated, have you?  We've been wanting to find you
and have you go up to Piedra Pinta with us.  The
bunch is all up there now; Elsie and I were only just
able to get off.  Can't you come along with us?"

"Oh, do!" Elsie pleaded, putting her arm about
Fancy's slender waist.

"No, I'm sorry, but I can't, really; I'm going to
Tiburon with Blanchard Cayley."

Dougal's face clouded.  "Say, what do you want to
run with that lobster for?  You're altogether too
good for him."

"I guess I'm in love with him," said Fancy, still
holding Dougal's hand and looking up into his face
with a quaint expression.

"You *aren't*!" they chorused.

"Oh, I am, I am; I'm sure I am!" she repeated
insistently.  "I've liked him ever since the first time
I saw him.  What's the use of pretending?  Don't say
anything against him, please.  I'm so happy—I'm
*perfectly* happy, Dougal."  The tears came to her eyes.

"I know what'll happen," Dougal said, his pale
eyebrows drawn together.  "He'll play with you for a
while, and then he'll throw you down hard as soon as
he's through with you, or another girl comes along."

"Then I hope she won't show up for a good while,"
said Fancy cavalierly.

"And when it's over?" said Elsie.

Fancy dropped her eyes.  "When it's over—I don't
know."  She looked up.  "When it's over I suppose
I'll sell apples on Market Street.  What else will there
be for me to do?"

"Oh, don't; you frighten me," Elsie cried; "we're
all so fond of you, Fancy.  Remember, we're your
friends, and we'd do anything to help you."

Fancy stooped down and kissed her.  "Don't worry.
Elsie, I'm pretty lively yet.  Only you know I don't
do things by halves.  I suppose I take it rather
seriously."

Elsie stared at her.  "You're so different."

"Oh, Fancy'll get over this.  She got over
Granthope all right, and she got over Gay Summer."

The tears surged into Fancy's eyes again.  "Don't
say that, Dougal.  I'm no quitter.  I don't get over
things.  I may bury them and cake-walk over their
graves, but I don't forget my friends."

He grinned jovially and wrung her hand till she
winced, then he slapped her on the back.  "Well, you
know where we are when you want us.  We're with
you for keeps; you can't lose us, Fancy, remember
that."

Fancy squeezed his big hairy hand.

Elsie added, "But you'll be awfully talked about.
Fancy, do be careful."

"Will I?" said Fancy.  "I don't care.  If I like Blan
and he likes me, I don't care who knows it."

"Are you going to marry him?" Elsie ventured.

"He hasn't said anything about it—yet—but I'm
not thinking of that.  All I want is for somebody
to love me.  I'll be satisfied with that."

"You're all right, Fancy; only I hope you're not in
for a broken heart," said Dougal.

"Just imagine Fancy with a broken heart!" Elsie
laughed.

"Oh, you don't believe me, but you will sometime."

Fancy's eyes were not for them all this while.  She
was watching the passengers approaching the ferry,
her glance darting from one to the other, scanning the
cable-cars which drew up at the terminus, questing up
toward Market Street, and along the sidewalks and
crossings.

"Have you left Granthope?" Dougal inquired.

"Yep."  Fancy, as usual, did not explain.

"Why didn't you let us know where you were,
then?" he complained.  "I was up to the place the
other day looking for you, and no one seemed to know
where you were."

Fancy, still watching for Cayley, did not answer.

"Have you got any money, Fancy?"

"Sure!" she answered eagerly.  "I have two
dollars here—do you want it?"

"Oh, no!" he laughed.  "I was going to offer you
some.  If you're out of a job you must need it.  I can
let you have twenty or so easy."  He put his hand into
his pocket.

She hesitated for a moment, then she said:

"I don't know but I could use it, Dougal, if you can
spare it as well as not."

"I'm flush this week."  He handed her a gold double
eagle.

"Granthope will lend me all I want, or I could get
it from Blanchard, but somehow I hate to take it from
them.  Of course, it's all right, and they have plenty,
but I'd feel better borrowing of you, you know."

"That's the best thing you've said yet," he said,
beaming on her.

"Oh, Dougal, tell her about the séance," said Elsie,
as Fancy put the money in her purse.

"Oh, yes!  I wanted to see you about a materializing
séance, Fancy.  Do you know of a good one?  We
want to go some night and see the spooks.  The bunch
is going to have some fun with them."

"You want to look out for yourself, then.  They
always have two or three bouncers, and they'll throw
you out if there's any row, you know."

Dougal grinned happily.  "That's just what we
want.  I haven't had a good scrap for months.  Maxim
can handle three or four of them alone, while Benton,
Starr and I raise a rough house.  We're going to go
early and get front seats."

It was Fancy's turn to laugh.  "You can't do it,
Dougal.  You don't know the first rules of the game.
They always have their own crowd on the first two
rows, and they won't let you get near the spirits.  They
only want believers, anyway.  If you aren't careful,
they won't let you in at all; they'll say all the seats are
taken.  You'd better go separately and sit in different
parts of the room, and spot the bouncers if you can."

"Oh, we'll handle them all right.  Where's a good one?"

Fancy reflected a minute.  "I think, perhaps, Flora
Flint is the best.  She's a clever actress, and she always
has a crowd.  It's fifty cents.  Her place is on Van
Ness Avenue—I think her séances are on Wednesday
evenings—you'll find the notice in the papers.  But
they're pretty smooth; they've had people try to break
up the show before.  If you try to turn on the light or
grab any ghost, look out you don't get beaten up."

"Oh, you can trust us; we've got a new game," he
answered.

Then, as the Sausalito boat was about to leave, they
bade Fancy a hurried farewell and ran for the
entrance to the slip.  A few minutes after this
Blanchard Cayley appeared, put his arm through hers, and
they went on board the ferry.


The harbor of Tiburon, in the northern part of San
Francisco Bay, is sheltered on the west by the
promontory of Belvedere, where pretty cottages climb the
wooded slopes, and on the south by Angel Island, with
its army barracks, hospital and prison.  Here was huddled
a little fleet of house-boats or "arks," the farthest
outshore of which belonged to Sully Maxwell.

It was a queer collection of architectural amphibia,
these nautical houses floating in the bay.  They were
of all sizes, some seemingly too small to stretch one's
legs in without kicking down a wall, others more
ambitious in size, with double decks and roof-gardens.
There were all grades and quality as well; some even
had electric lights and telephone wires laid to the shore.
Here, free from rent, taxes or insurance, the little
summer colony dwelt, and the rowboats of butcher,
baker and grocer plied from one to another.  It was late
in the season now, however, and only a few were
occupied.  A little later, when the rains had set in, they
would all be towed into their winter quarters to
hibernate till spring.

Cayley conducted Fancy Gray down to the end of
a wharf where the skiff was moored, in the care of a
boatman, and after loading the provisions and supplies
he had purchased at the little French restaurant by the
station, he rowed her out to the *Edyth*.

The bay was cloudless and without fog.  The
September sun poured over the water and sparkled from
every tiny wave-top, the breeze was a gentle, easterly
zephyr.  Cayley seemed younger in the open air, and
all that was best in him came to the surface.  He was
almost enthusiastic.  Fancy was in high feather.  As
she sat in the stern of the skiff and trailed her hand
in the salt water, he watched her with almost as much
pride as had Gay P. Summer.

She climbed rapturously aboard, unlocked the front
room and filled it with her gleeful exclamations of
delight.  Then she popped into the tiny kitchen and
gazed curiously at the neat, shining collection of
cooking-utensils and the gasoline stove.  She danced out
again, to circle round the narrow railed deck.  Finally
she pulled a steamer chair to the front porch and
flopped into it.

"I'm never going to leave this place," she cried.  "It's
just like having a deserted island all to yourself.  I
feel like a new-laid bride.  Let's hoist a white flag."

Cayley, meanwhile, put the provisions on the kitchen
table and came out to be deliciously idle with her—but
she could not rest.  She was up and about like a
bee, humming a gay tune.  She went into the square,
white sitting-room to inspect everything that was there,
commenting on each object.  She sat in every chair and
upon the table as well.  She tried a little wheezy
melodeon with a snatch of rag-time.  She criticized every
picture, she cleaned the mirror with her handkerchief,
then went out to wash it in salt water and hang it on a
line to dry.  She read aloud the titles of all the
books, she opened and shut drawers, and peeped into a
little state-room with bunks and was lost there for five
minutes.  When she came out again, her copper hair
was braided down her back and she had on a white
ruffled apron.

"I'm going to cook dinner," she announced.

Cayley smiled at her enthusiasm.  "I don't believe
you can do it."

She insisted, and he followed her into the kitchen to
watch her struggles.  She succeeded in setting the
table without breaking more than one plate, and then
she filled the tea-kettle with fresh water from the
demi-john.  After that she looked helplessly at Cayley.

"How do you shell these tins?"

"With a can-opener."

She tried for a few moments, biting her lip and
pinching her finger in the attempt.  Then she turned
to him coaxingly.

"You do it, Blan, please."

He had it open in a minute.  She unwrapped the
steak, put it into a frying-pan, unbuttered, and began
to struggle with the stove.  After she had lighted a
match timidly, she said:

"I'm awfully afraid it'll explode."

He took her in his arms and lifted her to the table,
where she sat swinging her legs, her hands in her
apron pockets.

"Confess you don't know a blessed thing about
housework or cooking!"

"Of course I don't.  What do you take me for?  I've
lived in restaurants and boarding-houses all my
life—how should I know?  But I thought it was easier than
it seems to be.  I suppose you have to have a knack
for it."

"I'll show you."  He took the apron from her,
tying it about his own waist.  With the grace of a
chef he set about the preparations for dinner.  He
lighted the stove, he put potatoes in the oven to roast,
he heated a tin of soup, washed the lettuce, broiled the
steak, cut the cranberry pie and made a pot full of
coffee.

They sat down at the table with gusto and made
short work of the refreshments.  Fancy was a little
disappointed that they couldn't drop a line over the
side of the boat and fry fish while they were fresh and
wriggling, but she ate her share, nevertheless.  She
drank cup after cup of coffee and took a cigarette or
two, sitting in blissful content, listening to the
*cluck-cluck* of water plashing lazily against the sides of the
boat.  While they were there still lingering at the table,
the ferry-boat passed them.  The ark careened on the
swell of the wake, rising and falling, till the water
was spilled from the glasses, and the dishes lurched
this way and that.  Fancy screamed with delight at the
motion.  For some minutes the hanging lamp above
their heads swung slowly to and fro.

All that sunny, breezy afternoon she sat happily,
chattering on the front platform, watching the yachts
that passed out into the lower bay, the heavily laden
ferry-boat that rocked them deliciously in its heaving
wake, and the rowboats full of Sunday excursionists,
who hailed them with slangy banter.  She watched
the little red-tiled cottages at Belvedere.  She watched
the holiday couples walk the Tiburon beach, past the
wreck of the *Tropic Bird*, now transformed into a
summer home.  She watched the mauve shadow
deepen over Mount Tamalpais and the gray city of San
Francisco looming to the south in a pearly haze.  She
was drenched by the salt air and burned by the
sunshine; a permanent glow came to her cheeks, her
brown eyes grew wistful.  She talked incessantly.

Cayley amused her all day with his jests and stories.
That he was too subtle for her did not matter.  She
listened as attentively to his explanations of the set
forms of Japanese verse as she did to his mechanical
love-making.  Cayley was not of the impetuous,
hot-blooded type—he preferred the snare to the arrow—his
was the wile of the serpent that charms the bird and
makes it approach, falteringly, step by step, to fall into
his power; but his system, if mathematically accurate,
was also artistic.  Fancy's devotion to him was
undisguised—he did not need his art.  It was she who
was spontaneous, frank and affectionate.  He only
added a few flourishes.

"Do you love me, Blan?" she asked, warming to him
as the sun went down.

"Why, of course I do; haven't I been apodictically
adoring you?"

She looked at him, bewildered.  "I thought there
was something queer about it; perhaps that's it.  But
you haven't called me 'dear' once."

"But I've called you 'Nepenthe' and 'Chloe'."  He
looked down at her patronizingly.

"'Darling' is good enough for me—I guess I like
the old-fashioned words best, dear," she whispered
shyly.

He quoted:

   |  "Some to the fascination of a name
   |  Surrender judgment hoodwinked,"

and laughed to himself at the appositeness of
Cowper's lines.

"Oh, yes, you know some lovely poetry, Blan, but
I'm afraid I'm not poetical.  I like the things they say
in songs,—things I can understand.  I'd rather hear
slang—"

"'The illegitimate sister of poetry—'"

She looked up at him blankly.  Then she sighed and
turned her eyes off to the darkling water.

"No one ever made love to suit me, somehow—men
are queer—they're so blind—they seem to know so
little about the things that mean a lot to a woman."  She
shivered.  "It's getting chilly, isn't it.  I'm cold."

"Shall I get you a wrap?"

She took his arm and placed it about her shoulder.
"That'll do," she said.

"Fancy, you are adorable—you're absolutely
complete.  You're unique—you're a nonpareille!"

"I'd rather be a peach," she confessed, snuggling
closer.

"You are, Fancy—a clingstone!  I'd like to kiss you
to death."

"Now, *that's* the stuff!"

"I'm sorry you don't appreciate my compliments,"
he remarked, after this little episode.

"I'm afraid I don't.  I'm sorry I'm not intellectual,
Blan, but I'd rather have you call me a 'damn fool'
if you said it lovingly, than have you say pretty things
I can't understand."

"All right, then, you're a damn fool!"

She laughed happily.  "Thank you, Blan, dear, that
was nice!  I believe you're improving."

"Oh, if you prefer Anglo-Saxon, I'll call you a piece,
a jade, baggage, harridan, hussy, minx—"

"Yes, but you must put 'dear' at the end, you know,
to show that you're not in earnest."

"I'll try to remember."

Fancy went on:

"It's wonderful to be out here, all alone with you on
the water, cut off from everything.  It satisfies me
gorgeously—it's like the taste of ice-cream to a hungry
little kid.  I remember how I used to long for it.  I
was awfully poor and lonely once.  I believe I'm happy
now.  What do you think it is, Blan, you or the
coffee?  Don't you want to hold my hand?  Let's just
sit here and forget things—but I haven't very much
to forget, have I?  I'd like to read books and know
some of the things you do—but it's too late now—I
guess I'll always be ign'ant."

"Oh, I'll teach you all the things you want to know,"
he said condescendingly.  "You're good material and
you'd learn quickly.  I could make a wonder out of you
with a little training.  I'll give you lessons if you
like."

"I accept," said Fancy Gray.

Then she added:

"I don't expect you'll love me very long, Blan, but
you must make up for it by loving me as much as you
can.  That's where I can teach you.  Men aren't
faithful like women are—I'm glad I'm a woman, Blan."

"I'm glad you are," he echoed.

The night fell, and they began reluctantly to make
preparations for their departure.  While Cayley was
busy in the kitchen, packing up a basket to be
returned, Fancy went into the little white state-room to
do her hair and put on her wrap.

As she came out she noticed a little card-tray in
the corner of the living-room, and idly turned the
names over, one by one.  Of a sudden her hand fell,
and her eyes were fixed intently upon a card that had
just come into sight.  It bore the legend:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   MR. FRANCIS GRANTHOPE

.. vspace:: 2

She threw herself upon the couch by the window and
broke into sobs.

"Say, Fancy!  It's after seven o'clock," Cayley
called to her from the kitchen.

She stumbled to her feet and went out on deck,
dipped her handkerchief in the salt water and bathed
her eyes.  Cayley came out just as she finished.  It
was too dark, now, to notice her expression.

They took the rowboat which had been nuzzling
alongside the flank of the ark all day, made for the
shore and went aboard the steamer.

It was crowded with Sunday picnickers, who came
trooping on in groups, singing, the girls flushed and
sunburned with hair distraught and dusty shoes; the
men in jovial, uncouth disarray in canvas and in
corduroy, like tramps and vagabonds, laden with ferns
and flowers.  Hunters, with guns and dogs, tramped
aboard; fishermen, with rods and baskets; tired
families, lagging, whining, came in weary procession.
Both decks of the boat were crowded.  A brass band
struck up a popular air.  The restaurant, the bar and
the bootblack stand all did a great business.

Cayley and Fancy Gray went to the upper deck for a
last draft of the summer breeze.  As they sat there,
talking little, watching the throng of uneasy passengers,
Fancy called his attention to a couple sitting opposite.

It was a strangely assorted pair, the girl and the
man.  She was about twenty years of age, with a
pretty, earnest, freckled face and a modest air.  She
was talking happily, with undisguised fondness, to the
young man beside her.  His face was hideous, without
a nose.  In its place was a livid scar and a depression
perforated by nostrils that made his appearance
malign.  He wore nothing to conceal the mutilation,
shocking as it was.  His manner toward the girl was
that of a lover, devoted and tender.

"Did you ever see anything so awful?" said Fancy.
"And isn't she terribly in love with him though!  I
know who she is; her name is Fleurette Heller.  She
came into Granthope's studio once and I took a
great liking to her.  Frank told her that her love affair
would come out all right, and she'd be happier than she
ever was in her life before."

"I don't see how she can endure that object," said
Cayley.

"Don't you?" said Fancy, "that's because you don't
know women.  She's in love with him.  I understand
it perfectly.  I wouldn't care a bit how he looked."

She nodded, as she spoke, to a man who passed
just then.  He was dark-skinned, with a pointed beard.
He gave her a quick jerk of the head and grinned,
showing a line of yellow teeth, and his glance jumped
with the rapidity of machinery from her face to
Cayley's, and away again.  He walked on, his hands
behind his back against a coat so faded and shiny as to
glow purple as a plum.

Fancy's eyes followed him.  "That's Vixley," she said.

Cayley's look turned from a pretty blonde across the
way and he became immediately attentive.  "Who's
Vixley?"

"Why, Professor Vixley, the slate-writer, you know."

"Oh, yes—he's a medium, is he?  What sort is he?"

She shook her head.  "Wolf!  He makes me sick.
I'm afraid of him, too.  He's out after Granthope with
a knife, and I'm afraid he'll do for him some day.
Frank ought never to have stood in with him, but you
know he used to live with a friend of this man's when
he was little, and they've got a hold on him he can't
break very well."

"They know things about him?"

"Yes, in a way.  Before he braced up.  He's square
now, and he's trying to shake that bunch.  Poor old
Frank!"

Cayley pulled at his mustache.  "I wish I had
noticed Vixley."

"Why?"

"Oh, I'd like to see him, that's all.  He must be a
pretty clever fakir.  Of course he isn't straight?"

"As a bow-knot," said Fancy, "but if he amuses
you, I'll introduce you to him.  I've got a pretty good
stand-in with him, yet."  She smiled sadly.

"Suppose you do.  I'd like to hear him talk."

"All right," said Fancy.  They rose and walked in
the medium's direction, encountering him on the
foreward deck.  He was holding his hat against the fresh
breeze and gazing at the approaching lights of the
city.  The meeting was somewhat constrained at first.
Vixley seemed to be embarrassed at Cayley's
aristocratic appearance, and evidently wondered what his
motive was in being introduced.  Cayley, however, was
sufficiently a man of the world to be able to put the
medium at his ease.  He told stories, he made jokes,
and gradually drew Vixley out.  The wolf talked
gingerly, making sure of his ground, his little black eyes
shifting from one to the other, whether he spoke or
listened.  Cayley held him cleverly until the crowd
began to descend, making ready for the disembarkation.
They went down to the lower deck.  Here the
crowd had begun to pack together into a close mass,
jostling, joking, singing—all sorts and conditions of
men in a common holiday mood.

Cayley managed so that Fancy went ahead, and,
with some dexterous manoeuvering, allowed two or
three persons to pass between himself and her.
Vixley was just behind him, when Cayley turned and said
quickly:

"Can you meet me at the Hospital Saloon at ten
o'clock to-night?"

"What for?" the Professor demanded.

"Important—something about Payson.  It is
decidedly to your advantage to see me."

"I'll be there!"  A light gleamed behind Vixley's
shrewd black eyes.

The two squirmed their way to where Fancy was
standing, and accompanied her off the boat.  At the
entrance to the ferry building the medium took his leave.
Cayley and Fancy had dinner together, after which,
urging an engagement, he put her aboard her car
and walked down Market Street to the "Hospital."

Vixley was there, waiting for him, sitting at a side
table, regarding an enormous painting of a nude over
the bar.  His quick eye caught Cayley as he entered
and drew him on.  For the rest of the interview they
did not leave the young man's face.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FIRST TURNING TO THE RIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FIRST TURNING TO THE RIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

"All I got to say is this," said Madam Spoll, "if you
know what's best for yourself, you won't make no
enemies."

"I scarcely think you can hurt me much," said Granthope,
losing interest in the discussion, as he saw he
could make no way with her.

"We can't, can't we?  We know a whole lot more
about you than you'd care to have told, Frank Granthope.
Since I seen you last, things have developed with
Payson, and now we're in a position to say to you,
look out for yourself.  Payson's stock has went up
some.  We've got inside information that's valuable."

"Then you don't need me, surely."

"We need you to keep your mouth shut, if nothing
else."

"You mean not to tell Mr. Payson anything?  I
would if I thought I could make him listen."

"Tell *him*?  Lord, you can tell him till you're black
in the face, and he wouldn't believe it—not till you tell
him where we got our information.  Why, if he
caught me at the keyhole of his room, he wouldn't
suspect anything.  We've got the goods to deliver this
time, don't you fool yourself.  Payson's a ten-to-one
shot all right.  All we want to be sure of now is the
girl you're trying to marry."

"I'm not trying to marry her," said Granthope bitterly.

"That's lucky for you!"

"Why?" he demanded suspiciously.

Madam Spoll spoke very slowly and deliberately
without asperity, "Because if you *should* be fool
enough to try it on your own hook without helping
us out in our game, why, we'd have to show you up
to her.  I know a little too much about you, Frank
Granthope, for you to throw me down as easy as that.
You can't exactly set yourself up for a saint, you
know; there's the Bennett affair and one or two more
like it.  Then, again, there's Fancy Gray and several
others like *that*.  It'll add up to a pretty tidy scandal,
if the Payson girl should happen to hear about it all;
and if not her, there's others that it won't do you any
good to have know."

Granthope shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly,
looking calmly at the medium.  Her face was as placid
and unwrinkled as his.  She showed not the slightest
trace of vindictiveness, talking as though discussing
some impersonal business arrangement.

"Then I am to understand that you threaten me
with blackmail?"

"Black, white or yellow, any color you like."  She
made a deprecatory gesture, "But I don't
put it that way myself; all I do say is, that it's
for your interest to leave us alone.  You know as well
as I do that we can put the kibosh on your business,
if we want to.  We've got a pretty good gang to work
with, and when we pass the word round and hand you
the double-cross, you won't read many more palms at
five per, not in this town you won't."

He smiled.  "That's all a bluff.  You can't expose
me without giving yourself away as well."

"What have we got to lose?  We could get the old
man back any time we gave him a jolly.  You can't
bust up our business—too many suckers in town for
that.  Lord, I've been exposed till I grew fat on it.
But we can break *you*, Frank Granthope; we can bust
your business and queer you with this swell push,
easy, not to speak of Clytie Payson."

"Well, then," said Granthope, rising and taking his
hat, "go ahead and do it!  We might just as well
settle this thing now.  Smash my business—I don't
care; I wish you would!  Ruin any social ambition
I may be fool enough to have—it'll serve me right for
caring for such nonsense.  Tell Miss Payson all you
know—it'll save me the shame of telling her myself.
God knows I wish she did know it!  I'm getting sick
of the whole dirty game."

Madam Spoll, completely taken aback by his unexpected
change of base, stood with a sneer on her face,
watching him.  "You ought to go on the stage, Frank
Granthope—you almost fooled me for a minute," she
said with an ironic smile.  "I fully expected you to say
you had joined the Salvation Army next, and had come
around here to save me from hell.  So you've got
religion, have you?  You'd look well in a white
necktie, you would!  And your inside pocket full of mash
notes!"

"Well," he said, walking to the door, "you've had
your say and I've had mine.  You can believe what you
please, but when you do think it over, you may
recall the fact that I usually mean what I say."

This was the end of the interview.  Madam Spoll,
at Vixley's instigation, had sent for Granthope and
had "put on the screws."  Granthope walked back to
his rooms in a brown study.  He was at bay now, and
there seemed to be no escape for him.

The red-headed office boy was whistling and whittling
a pencil lazily at Fancy's desk as the palmist
entered.  There was no one else in the room.

"Has anybody been here, Jim?" Granthope asked.

Jim looked up carelessly and replied, "Dere was a
lady what blew in about a half an hour ago and she
told me she might float back."

"Who was she?"

"She wouldn't leave no name, but she was a kissamaroot
from Peachville Center all right.  She looked
like she was just graduated from a French laundry.
She left dese gloves here."

He handed over a pair of long, immaculately white
gloves, which were lying on a chair.  Granthope
looked at them carefully, blew one out till it took the
form of a hand and then inspected the wrinkles.

"Oh," he said.  "Tell Miss Payson to come into my
studio when she comes back."

"Say, Mr. Granthope, who's Miss Gray?  De lady
wanted to know where was Miss Gray, and I told
her she could search me, for I wasn't on.  She looked
like she took me for a shine to be holdin' down de desk
here; dat's right."

Granthope walked quickly into his studio without
answering.

He seated himself thoughtfully and looked about
him, still holding the white glove caressingly in his
hand.  His eye traveled from the electric-lighted table,
round the black velvet arras, to the panel where the
signs of the zodiac were embroidered in gold: then
his eyes closed.  He sat silent for ten minutes or so,
then he drew his hand through his heavy black hair
and across his brow.  His eyes opened; he arose; a
faint whimsical smile shone on his face.

Then, still smiling, he strode deliberately across the
room, grasped the black velvet hanging and gave it a
violent tug, wrenching it from the cornice.  It fell
in a soft, dark mass upon the floor.  He seized the next
breadth of drapery, and the next, tearing them from
the wall.  So he went calmly round the room in his
work of destruction, disclosing a widening space of
horribly-patterned wall-paper—pink and yellow roses
writhing up a violently blue background.  On the
last side of the room two windows appeared, the glass
almost opaque with dust.

He threw up a sash; a shaft of sunshine shot in,
and, falling upon the velvet waves upon the floor,
changed them to dull purple.  In that ray a universe of
tiny motes danced radiantly.  A current of air set
them in motion and swept them from the room through
the window into the world outside.

And, as he stood there, his face like that of a child
who had released a toy balloon, watching that beam of
yellow light, Clytie Payson opened the door of the
studio and looked in at him.  She appeared suddenly,
like a picture thrown vividly upon a screen.  She saw
Granthope before he saw her, and, for a moment, she
stood gazing.  His pose was eloquent; he was, in his
setting, almost symbolistic—she needed no explanation
of what had happened.  Then, it was as if some
tense cord snapped in her mind, and she threw herself
forward, no longer the dreamer, but the actor, giving
free rein to her emotion.

.. _`His pose was eloquent`:

.. figure:: images/img-360.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: His pose was eloquent

   His pose was eloquent

He turned and caught sight of her.  Her hands were
outstretched, her eyes were burning with a new fire,
as if her smoldering had burst into flame.

"Oh!  You have done it!  I knew you would!"

He gave her his two hands in hers, nodding his
head slowly; his smile was that of one who viewed
himself impersonally, looking on at his own actions.
He did not speak.  A quaint humor struggled in his
mind with the intensity of the situation.  Something
in him, also, had snapped, and he was self-conscious in
his new rôle.

She clutched his hands excitedly, and lifted her eyes
up to his, with a new, unabashed fondness burning in
them.  She had thrown away all her reserves.

"It's magnificent!" she said.  "Oh, how I have
longed for this!  How I have waited for it!  And
now, how I admire—and love you for it!"

Her face was so near his that, like an electric spark,
the flash of eagerness darted from one to the other.
He felt the shock of emotion tingling his blood.  It
swept his mind from control and flooded his will with
an irresistible desire for her.  He saw that she was
ready for him, willing to be won.  He took her in his
arms and kissed her softly, but gripping her almost
savagely in his embrace.

"Do you mean it?" he cried.  "Do you love me,
really?  I can't believe it!  It's too much for me.
Tell me!"

She released herself gently, still looking up at him
and smiling frankly.  "Didn't you know?  You, who
know so much of women?  I thought you understood
me as I have understood you."

He still held her, as if he feared he could never get
her again so close, and she went on:

"Oh, I would never have told you, if you had gone
on as you were going, though I should always have
loved you—I could never have helped that.  But now,
after this crisis, this victory—I know what it all
means—I *must* tell you!  Why shouldn't I?  It is true, and
I am not ashamed to be the first to speak.  Yes, I love
you!"

The reaction came, his sight grew dark at the
thought of his unworthiness, and he freed her, putting
her away slowly.  Then, as if to resist any temptation,
he clasped his hands behind his back.

"I can't stand it!" he exclaimed.  "It isn't fair for
me to let you say that.  Don't say it yet.  Wait till
I have told you what I am.  Then you will despise
me, and hate me."

"Never!" she said firmly.  "Do you think I don't
know you?  I am sure.  It is impossible for you to
surprise me.  Whatever you have been or done, it will
make no difference—for better or for worse.  Of
course, I can't know all the circumstances of your life,
but I feel that I am sure of your motives—I may know
an ideal 'you,' but, if that is not what you are now, it is
what you are to be.  It is that 'you' that I love—all
the rest is dead, I hope."  She swept her eyes about
the barren room, and her hand went out in comprehensive
gesture.  "Surely all this can't mean anything less
than that?  You are not one for compromise or
half-measures.  You have burned your bridges, haven't
you?"

"Oh, yes," he said.  "I don't intend to do things
half-way.  But it's not a pretty story I have to tell.  It's
selfish, sordid, vulgar."

"Oh, I know something of it, already.  Mr. Cayley
has told me about that Bennett affair, for he
suspected, somehow, that you were implicated in it.  And
I have guessed more.  You needn't be afraid.  But
you had better tell me as much as you can—not for
my sake, but for your own.  Then it will all be over,
and we can begin fresh."

She dropped to a seat on the couch and leaned
languidly against the cushions, clasping her hands in her
lap.  He scarcely dared look at her, and walked
nervously up and down the room, dreading the inevitable
ordeal.  For a while he did not speak, then he turned
swiftly to say:

"Positively, I don't know where to begin!"

"You would better begin at the beginning, then—with
Madam Grant."

"You suspected that, then?"

"It was that suspicion that has drawn me to you.  I
should never have begun to love you without that,
perhaps.  It seemed to justify my growing feeling for
you.  Haven't I hinted at that often enough?  I mean
that in some way we had been connected before.  You
*were* the little boy who disappeared when she died,
weren't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"But I can't make it out!  There was never any
child there when I went, though I was conscious of
some secret presence—some one invisible."

"I was locked in the closet—I watched you through
a crack in the door."

"Oh!"  Her eyes widened with a full direct stare;
her breath came quickly at the revelation.  He watched
her, as her expression was transmuted from bewilderment
to the beginning of an agonized disillusion.  He
could not bear it, as he saw that her mind was
hastening to the explanation, and he forestalled her next
question by his ruthless confession.

"Of course, that's the way I was able to give you that
very wonderful clairvoyant reading—the picture of you
in Madam Grant's room."

She took the blow bravely, but it was evident that
she had not been quite ready for it.  "Then you are
really not clairvoyant at all?  You were simply
imposing on my credulity?  I want to know the exact
truth, so that we can straighten matters out."  She
spoke slowly, hesitatingly.

"I told you it was a ghastly story—this is the least
of it," he said, wincing.

The smile fluttered back to her quivering lips, and
with a quick impulse she rose, went to him again and
clasped his hand.

"Oh, I'm not making it easy for you!" she cried.
"Forgive me, please.  I can bear anything you
say—be sure of that, won't you?  Come here!"

She drew him down to the couch beside her, still
keeping his hand in hers.  "This is better," she said
softly.  "Don't think of me as an inquisitor, but as a
friend.  What you have been can not matter any
longer.  But let us have no more deceit or reserve
between us.  You see, I don't quite understand yet
about that day.  How did you know who I was?
How did you get my name?"

He summoned his courage as for an operation
desperately necessary, and looked her straight in the eye.

"That was a trick.  I read 'Clytie' inside your ring."

She took it without flinching.  "But my last
name—that wasn't there!"

"Oh, that was inspiration; I can't explain it.  You
see, I had happened to hear the name 'Payson' that
morning, and it recalled the fact that I had seen it
before upon a picture in Madam Grant's bedroom.  Your
father's name, 'Oliver Payson,' it was."

"In Madam Grant's room?  How strange!  I don't
understand that."

"Nor I, either.  Yet you say he knew her?" queried
Granthope.

"Only slightly, so he gave me to understand, at
least—still, that may not be true.  He may have his
reasons for not telling more."  She turned to him
with a strange, deliberate, questing expression, and
said, "Who *are* you, anyway?"  Then, "Was Madam
Grant your mother?"

"I don't know.  I've often suspected that it might
be so, but somehow I don't quite believe it.  I don't,
at least, *feel* it."

"Why did you run away?"

"Just before she died she asked me to take some
money she had and to keep it safe.  I hid it and ran
away because I was afraid that they'd find it and take
it away from me.  I went to Stockton and carried
the package to a bank, but they frightened me with
their questions and I ran away without any explanations.
Of course it's lost, and it was, as I remember it,
a big sum, some thousands.  I could never prove that
I left it there, for my name wasn't on the package of
bills.  I had written some false name—I forget what.
I never let any one know that I had lived with
Madam Grant, after that, for fear that I should be
accused of having stolen the money.  My story would
never have been believed, of course."

"I see."  Clytie's eyes half closed in thought.  "I'm
sure it was meant for you, Francis."

The sound of his name stirred him and his hand
tightened on hers.

"Perhaps so.  But I've always thought that she
intended it for some of her kin.  It has been
impossible for me to trace any of her family, though.
All I know about her is that she was at Vassar
College, but I can't possibly identify her, because Grant
was undoubtedly a name she assumed here."

"We must try to see what we can do, you and I.
Perhaps I may be able to help you, somehow.  What
happened after that?"

"I worked at odd jobs in the country for a number
of years, then came back to San Francisco.  There I
did anything I could get to do till I met Madam Spoll.
She was a medium, and is yet.  I lived with her
several years."

As he had torn down the draperies of that dark,
mysterious room, he went on, now, to tear down the
curtain of shams and hypocrisies that had hidden his
true self from her and from her kind.

"That was the beginning of a long education in
trickery.  I was surrounded by charlatans and impostors,
I was taught that the public was gullible and that
it liked to be fooled—that it would be fooled, whether
we did it or not; and that we might benefit by its
credulity as well as any one else.  There was sophistry
enough, God knows, in their miserable philosophy, but
I was young and was for a while taken in by it.  I
had no other teachers; I had only the example of the
colony of fakirs about me.  I saw our victims comforted
and encouraged by the mental bread-pills we fed
them.  So we played on their weakness and vanity
without scruple.  I learned rapidly.  I was cleverer
than my teachers; I went far ahead of them.  I
invented new tricks and methods.  But it was too easy.
There was scarcely any need of subtlety or finesse.
The most primitive methods sufficed.  You have no
idea how easily seemingly intelligent persons can be
led once they are past the first turning.  That was
finally why I got out of it and went into palmistry.
That had, at least, a basis of science, and a dignified
history."

He arose again and walked to the open window.
His self-consciousness was a little relieved by his
interest in the analysis.  He looked out, and turned back
to her with a grim smile.

"It's in the air, here—the gambling instinct is
paramount!" he said.  "Almost everybody gambles in
San Francisco.  You know that well enough.  You
can almost hear the rattle of the slot-machines on the
cigar-stand at the corner, down there.  It's that way
all over town.  The gold-fever has never died out.
Every one speculates or plays the races or bets on ball
games or on the prize-fights, or plays faro or poker or
bridge—or, at least, makes love.  They're all
superstitious, all credulous, all willing to take risks and
chances, and so the mediums thrive.  Tips are sought
for and paid for.  Every one wants to get rich quickly
and not always scrupulously.  It's not a city of healthy
growth; it's a town of surprises, of magic and
madness and rank enthusiasms.  We pretended to show
them the short cuts to success, that's all.  You know,
perhaps, how the money-getting ability can eclipse
all other faculties, and you won't be surprised when I
tell you that we made large sums from men of wealth
and prominence—they were the easiest of the lot,
usually."

She brought him back to his story.  "Of course I
understood from what I heard, that you had been an
accomplice of these mediums.  I don't think you need
to go into that."

"Oh, you don't know all!  It will sicken you to have
me go into the actual details, but I want you to know
the worst.  I think I must tell you, lest others may.
One picture will be enough to make you see how vulgar
and despicable I had become in that epoch.  You'd
never get to the sordidness of it unless I told you in
so many words.  Do you think you can stand it?  You
may not want ever to know me again.  God!  I don't
know whether I *can* tell you or not!  It's terrible to
have to sully you with the description of it!"

For a moment she faltered, gazing at him, trembling.
Her eyes sought his and left them, often, as she spoke.
"You don't mean—I've heard that some of these
mediums—the vilest of them—don't hesitate to—take
advantage of the sensual weakness of their patrons—that
they—Oh, don't tell me that you ever had any
part in *that*!"  She covered her face.

He walked over to her and pulled her hands away,
looking down into her eyes.  "Do you think I would
ever have kissed you if I had?" he said.  "No, there
were depths I didn't fall to, after all.  Oh, I've had my
way with women often enough; but not that way."

She threw off her fears with a gesture of relief,
and her mood changed.  "I believe you.  But don't
tell me any more, please.  I think I know, in a way,
just about what you were capable of, and some things
I couldn't bear to think about.  But my reason has
always fought against my intuition whenever I suspected
you of any real dishonor.  Thank Heaven I shall never
have to do so again!  I think I was wise enough to
see how, in all this, you had the inclinations without
the opportunities for better things.  You were a
victim of your environment.  Spare me any more.  I
can't bear to see you abase yourself so.  I am so sure
you have outlived all this.  It's all over.  I have told
you that I love you.  I shall always love you!"

He yearned for her—for the peace and support that
she could give him at this crisis, but his pride was too
hot, yet, for him to accept it; he had not finished his
confession.  She was still on a pedestal—he admired
and respected her, but she was above his reach.  He
could not quite believe that hint in her eyes, for her
halo blinded him.  She was still princess, seeress,
goddess—not yet a woman he could take fearlessly to his
arms.  His hesitation at her advances, therefore, was
reluctant, almost coy.  He did not wish to take her
from her niche; he must first receive absolution.
After that—he dared not think.  She had allured him in
the first stages of his acquaintance, she still allured
him; but her spiritual attributes dominated him.  "I
think I am another man, now," he said, "but my
repentance is scarcely an hour old.  It is too young; it
has not yet proved itself.  It's not fair for me to
accept all you can give for the little I can return.  I
must meet you as an equal."

She looked at him calmly.  "It is more than a few
hours old," she said.  "Do you think I don't know?
What I first saw in you I have watched grow ever
since.  I told you all I could; it was not for me to help
you more.  It was for you to help yourself—to
develop from within.  I think you were all ready for
me, and I came at the psychological moment."  She
looked around the room from which the sunlight had
now retreated, leaving it shadowy and dim.  The hangings
of black velvet were scattered about the floor, the
little table and its two chairs were like a group of
skeletons, empty, satiric, suggestive of past vanities.
"'What is to come is real; it was a dream that
passed,'" she quoted.

He found a new courage and a new hope.  It shone
in his eyes, it tingled in his body; something of his
old audacity returned.  He stood dark and strong
before her.

"Oh, you have helped, indeed!" he said.  "I think
this would never have come alone, for I was sunk in
an apathy—and yet, I'm not sure.  The old life was
no longer possible.  I confess that I was in a trap,
threatened with exposure—I feared your discovery of
what I had been—I smarted under the shame of your
disapproval—but it was not that that influenced me.
It was like a chemical reaction, as all human
intercourse is; you precipitated all this deceit and
hypocrisy at one stroke and left my mind clear."

"I'm so glad you feel it that way," Clytie said.  "It
brings us together, doesn't it?  It lessens the debt you
would owe me."  Her eyelids crinkled in a delicious
expression of humor, as she added, "And it makes this
place seem a little less like a Sunday-school room!"

"Oh, I suppose many a man has refused to reform
for fear of being considered a prig!" he laughed.  "But
I haven't swept out all the corners yet.  I must finish
cleaning house before I invite you in."

"Why should we talk about it any more?"

"But it isn't all over!" he exclaimed.  "I haven't
told everything.  It's all over, so far as I am
concerned—I shall not go back—but now you are involved
in it.  Could anything drag me lower than that?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Only that, because of my fault in not warning
you before, your father has already become the latest
dupe for this gang of fakirs.  I'm afraid he's in their
power.  Hasn't he told you anything about it?"

"A little.  What is there to fear from them?"

"Of course, it's only his money they're after.  They
have got hold of considerable information about
him—I don't know just how or what—and they have
succeeded in hoodwinking him into a belief that they
have supernatural powers.  I'm afraid it's no use for
me to attempt to expose them.  He'd never believe
anything I could say."

"No, that's useless.  He has taken a violent
prejudice against you, for some reason."

"Oh, the reason is easy to find.  I've made enemies
of Madam Spoll and Vixley, and they have probably
done their best to hurt my reputation.  They made
me a proposition to join them; in fact, their scheme
was for me to work you for information—make love
to you, in order to help them rob your father."

Clytie looked at him trustfully.  "You can never
convince me that that was the reason why you were
attracted to me, for I shall not believe you!"  She
patted his hand affectionately, as he sat at her feet.

He shook his head.  "I don't know—I wouldn't be
sure it wasn't."

"Ah, I know you better!"  She grew blithe, and a
mischievous smile appeared on her lips.  Her eyes
twinkled as she said archly: "Perhaps I may say
that I know myself better, too.  I'm vainer than you
seem to think, and you're not at all complimentary.
Don't you think—don't you think that—perhaps—I
myself had something to do with your attentions to
me?"  She put her head on one side and looked at him
with mock coquetry.

His eyes feasted upon her beauty.  "I won't be
banal enough to say that you are different from every
woman I have ever known, or that you're the only
woman I ever loved, though both of those things
are true enough.  If I had ever loved any other
woman, probably I should feel just the same about
you as I do now.  But no woman has ever stirred me
mentally before.  You have given me myself—nobody
else could ever have done that.  I have nothing to
give you in return—nothing but twenty-odd mistaken,
misspent years."

"And how many more to be wonderfully filled, I
wonder?  You're only a child, and I must teach
you.  Can you trust me?  Remember that I knew you
when you were a little boy."

"I wonder what will become of me?  I suppose I
shall get on somehow.  It doesn't interest me much
yet, but I suppose it will have to be considered.  I'll
fight it out alone."  He looked up suddenly.  "When
do you go East?"

She smiled.  "I came down here to tell you that I
should leave on Saturday."

He jumped up with a bitter look and walked to
the window.

She looked over to him with her eyes half shut and
a delectable expression upon her lips.  "But I've
decided not to go—at all!"

She almost drawled it.

In an instant he was back at her side, borne on
a flood of happiness.  For a moment he looked at her
hard.  His eyes went from feature to feature, to her
hands, her hair in silent approval.  Then he exclaimed
decidedly:

"Oh, you can't link yourself with me in any way.
I'm a social outcast—why, now, I haven't even the
advantage of being a picturesque adventurer!  You will
compromise yourself fearfully—you'll be ostracized—oh,
it's impossible—I can't permit it!"

"You need not fear for yourself—or for me," she
said, clasping his hand.  "If I love you, what do I
care—what should you care?  I have come to you like
Porphyria—but I am no Porphyria—you'll have no
need to strangle me in my hair—my 'darling one wish'
will be easier found than that!"

There was something in the unrestrained fondness
of her look, now, that made him jump to a place
beside her.  What might have followed was interrupted
by the sound of a familiar voice in the anteroom,
demanding Mr. Granthope.  Clytie sprang up, her cheeks
burning.  Granthope turned coolly to the door, with
his eyebrows lifted.  Mr. Payson appeared at the
entrance.  He was scowling under his bushy eyebrows,
the muscles of his face were twitching.  A cane was
firmly clenched in his right hand.  He bent a harsh
look at his daughter.

"What does this mean, Clytie?" he demanded.

She had recovered on the instant and faced him
splendidly, in neither defiance nor supplication.  "It
means," she said in her low, steady voice, "that as you
won't permit me to receive Mr. Granthope in your
house, I must see him in his."

"Leave this room instantly!" he thundered bombastically.

"Please don't make a scene, father.  I'm quite old
enough to take care of myself, and to judge for
myself.  You needn't humiliate me."

"Humiliate you!  If you're not humiliated at being
found here with a cheap impostor, I don't think I can
shame you!  This man is a rank scoundrel and a
cheat—I won't have you compromise yourself with
such a mountebank!"

Granthope stood watching her unruffled, fearless
pose, confident in her power to control the situation.

"Mr. Granthope is my friend, father.  Don't say
anything that you may regret.  I don't intend to leave
you alone with him till you are master of yourself, and
can say what you have come to say without anger.  He
has respected your request not to call on me at the
house, and I came here of my own accord, without
his invitation.  And he has always treated me as a
gentleman should."

"A gentleman!" Mr. Payson sneered.  "I know what
he is—he's a damned trickster.  I've always suspected
it, but since I kicked him out of my house I've had
proof of it.  I know his record"—he turned to
Granthope—"from persons who know you well, sir!"

"I suppose you mean Vixley or Madam Spoll."

"You can't deny that they know you pretty well?"

"Your daughter knows more, I think.  I have just
taken the liberty of informing her as to just how much
of a scoundrel I am."

"And you have the impertinence to consider
yourself her social equal!"

"I think Miss Payson's position is sufficiently assured
for her to be in no danger."

"Well, yours certainly is not.  I've heard of your
lady-killing.  I suppose you want to add my daughter's
scalp to your belt.  Haven't you women enough
running after you yet?  So you wheedled her with a
mock-confession—tried the cry-baby on her.  Well, it
won't work with me.  I'll tell her all about you, don't
be afraid!"

Clytie went to him and laid a hand gently upon
his arm.  "Father, we'll go, now, please.  I can't
bear this.  You need only to look about you to
see that, whatever Mr. Granthope has been, he is no
longer a palmist.  You see this room is already
dismantled—if you'll only listen, I'll explain everything."

"It does look rather theatrical here."  Mr. Payson
looked at the piles of velvet on the floor, then
turned again to the young man.  "It seems that you
have the audacity to want to marry my daughter.  No
doubt this little scene is a part of the game.  It's very
pretty, very effective.  But let me tell you that this
sensational tomfoolery won't be of any use.  You are a
charlatan, sir!  You've always been one, and you
always will be."

"Mr. Payson," Granthope said, with no trace of
anger, "I can't deny that something of what you say is
true, but your daughter knows that much already, and
she has it from a better authority than yours.  I can't
blame you for your feeling in this matter; it's quite
natural, for you don't know me.  But I hope in time
to induce you to believe in me.  I wish you would let
me begin by doing what should have done when I
first met your daughter—warn you that you are in
the hands of a dangerous set of swindlers who are
deceiving you systematically.  I can tell you a good deal
that it will be greatly to your advantage to know about
them."

The old man broke into ironic laughter.  "That's
just what they told me you'd say," he sneered.  "They
warned me that you'd try to libel them and accuse
them of all sorts of impossible tricks.  Set a thief to
catch a thief, eh?  No, that won't work, Mr. Granthope.
I happen to know too much for that!"

"Won't you listen to what he has to say, father?  It
can do no harm.  What do you know about those
persons, after all?  They are undoubtedly trying to
deceive you," Clytie said earnestly.

Granthope added: "I can tell you of tricks they
habitually practise."

"What's that to me?  Haven't I got eyes?  Haven't
I common sense?  Can you tell me how they
find out things about my own life that no one living
knows but me?"

"I can tell you how it was done in other cases—"

"Aha, I thought so—you can tell me, for instance,
how to crawl through a trap in the mopboard, can't
you?  I'd rather hear how you impose on silly women,
if you're going in for your confessions.  What do you
expect me to believe?  I am quite satisfied with my
own ability to investigate.  I haven't lived for fifty
years in the West to be imposed upon by flimflam.
I'm not suffering from senile decay quite yet!"

He took Clytie to the door; there he paused
dramatically, to deliver his parting shot.

"I notice you've hidden away that young woman
you're living with.  You might as well send for
her—my daughter is not likely to be back again in a
hurry."

As they left, Clytie gave him a look which denied
her father's words.

Granthope waited till the hall door had slammed,
then went into the office, where the red-haired boy was
lolling out of the window.

"Jim," he said, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder,
"I shall not need you any more.  Here's your pay
for the week.  You needn't come back."

Jim shuffled into his coat, whistling, pulled on his
cap, and left without a trace of regret.  Granthope
pulled a chair up to the grate.  The dusk fell, and he
still remained, watching the fire.

.. vspace:: 2

It was after six o'clock when a knock awoke him
from his reverie.  He called out a moody, annoyed,
"Come in!" without rising.

Mrs. Page rustled in, bringing an odor of sandalwood.
She was dressed in a squirrel-coat and a
Cossack cap, from which a long veil floated.  Her
cheeks were rosy with the wind, her glossy hair
coquetted over her forehead in dark, springy curls.  She
stopped, her head on one side, her arms saucily akimbo,
as Granthope sprang up and snapped on the electric
light.

"Oh, I'm *so* glad I found you!" she bubbled.
"You're run after so much now that I knew it was only
a chance, my finding you in.  I hope I didn't disturb
you at silent prayer, or anything, did I?  You looked
terribly serious.  Were you thinking of home and
mother?  If you don't look out, some day you'll be
framed and labeled *Pictures in the Fire*.  Now, you're
angry with me!  What's the matter?  Don't frown,
please; it isn't at all becoming!"

She walked up to him, her hand outstretched.
Lightly he evaded her and forced a smile.

"What an iceberg you are, nowadays, Frank!" she
laughed.  "Don't be afraid; I'm not going to kiss you!
It's only little Violet, the Pride of the Presidio.  Please
laugh!  You used to think that was funny."

"Do have a seat, won't you?" he said, in a
half-hearted attempt to conceal his distaste.

"Thanks, awfully, but really I can't wait.  I just
simply tore to get here, and I must go right off.  You
must come along with me; so get on your hat and
coat."  She looked about the room for them.

"What is it?" he asked without curiosity.

"Why, a dinner, of course!  What else could it be at
this time of day?  It's Mr. Summer's affair, and I
promised to get you."

"Mr. Summer is the latest, I suppose?"

She came back to him and took his coat by the two
lapels, smiling up at him.

"That's mean, Frank!  You know I never went back
on you.  But you as much as gave me notice, as if I
was a servant-girl.  Gay's a nice boy, and I like
him—that's all.  I'm educating him.  Of course, he doesn't
know what's what, yet, but he's rather fun.  Do
come—we're going to have dinner at the Poodle Dog, and
the Orpheum afterward perhaps—Heaven knows
where it'll end.  There's an awfully swell New York
girl coming, a Miss Cavendish, and she's simply *dying*
to meet you.  You'll like her.  She's a sport—you can't
feaze her—and she's pretty enough to suit even you.
You can have her all to yourself.  Come on!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't go to-night," he said wearily.

"Oh, Frank, please!  Not if I beg you?"  She
looked at him languishingly, and tried for his hand.

"Really, no!  I'm sorry, but I'm too busy."

Mrs. Page pouted and turned slowly toward the door.

"I suppose you're afraid Gay'll bore you.  I'll
manage him.  I've got him trained.  Or, if you say
so—we'll go alone?  Just you and me.  I can get rid of
them, some way."

He shook his head decidedly.

"Did you have such a dull time the last time over
at the Hermitage?" she tempted.  "We might go there.
I don't know *when* I'll have another chance.  Edgar
will be back soon."  She raised her brows meaningly.

"It's awfully good of you—but I can't, possibly."

"You might say you'd *like* to!"

"I don't really care to, if you must have it!"

She bridled and tossed her head.  "*Oh*, very well!"
she sniffed, and was off in a huff.

Granthope went to the desk, and, taking a bunch of
keys from his pocket, unlocked the two lower drawers.
The first contained a collection of photographs of
women.  He drew them out in handfuls, stopping at
one occasionally, or turning it over to see what was
written upon it.  The most were inscribed, on the back,
or scrawled across the face, "To Mr. Granthope"—several
"To Francis"—one or two "To Frank, with
love."  All types of beauty were represented, all sorts
of costumes, all ages, all phases of pretty women's
vanity.  He looked at some with a puzzled expression,
searching his memory for a clue to their identity.
At a few he smiled sarcastically, at some he frowned.
Once or twice his face softened to tenderness or pity.
There was one of Fancy amongst them, showing her
in costume.  It had been taken years ago, while she
was acting.  He looked at it with a sort of wonder,
she seemed so young, so girlish.  On the back was
written, "N.F.F.I.L."  He put it back into the
drawer and gathered up the others.

He made a heap of them and threw them upon the
fire, then dropped into the arm-chair to watch them
burn.  The flames passed from face to face, licking
up the features.  It was like a mimic death.

The other drawer was filled with letters, tied into
bunches.  They were all addressed in feminine
handwriting, mostly of the fashionable, angular sort.  The
envelopes were postmarked chiefly from San Francisco,
but there were not a few from Eastern cities and
abroad.  One out of five bore special delivery stamps.
A scent of mingled perfumes came from them.  He
cut the packages open and threw them into the
wastebasket without stopping to read a word.

He poked up the fire, and, carrying the basket over,
fed in the letters, a handful at a time.  The flames
roared up the chimney, sending out a fierce heat.  It
took an hour to destroy the whole collection.  A mass
of distorted, blackened, filmy sheets remained.

As he looked, a sudden draft made one leaf of
charcoal glow to a red heat, and the writing showed
plain—black on a cherry-colored ground.  He stooped
curiously to read it, and saw that it was the remains of a
card, filled with Fancy Gray's handwriting.  He
remembered abstracting her notes upon Clytie, made
after that first day's reading.  He had placed it in the
letter-drawer for safe keeping, and had forgotten to
remove it.

Only the lower part was legible:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: white-space-pre-line

   "... intuitive powers (?!) Play her Mysticism.
   ..... Easy.  Sympathetic fool ...."

.. vspace:: 2

The glow suddenly faded, the charred paper writhed
again, black and impotent.  He gave it a vicious jab
with the poker, and scattered it to ashes.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BLOODSUCKER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BLOODSUCKER

.. vspace:: 2

Professor Vixley's place was on Turk Street, the
lower flat of three, whose separate doors made a triplet
at the top of a tri-divided flight of wooden steps up
from the sidewalk.  The door had a plate-glass
window, behind which was a cheap lace curtain.  At the
side, nailed over the letter slip, was a card bearing the
written inscription,

.. vspace:: 1

::

       +--------------------------+
       |                          |
       |     PROF. P. VIXLEY.     |
       |                          |
       +--------------------------+

.. vspace:: 2

Inside, a narrow hall ran down into the house, doors
leading at intervals on the right hand, to small
box-like rooms.  The first one was the Professor's sitting-
and reception-room, the shearing place for his lambs.
The small type-writer on a stand and his roll-top desk
attempted to give the room a businesslike aspect, while
the homelier needs of comfort were satisfied by the
machine-carved Morris chair, a padded, quilted couch
with "hand-painted" sofa cushions and a macramé
fringe along the mantel.  Art was represented by the
lincrusta-walton dado below the blank white plastered
walls, partly covered with "spirit photographs," and a
small parlor organ in the corner.  A canary in a gilded
cage gave a touch of gaiety to the apartment.

Here Professor Vixley sat smoking a terrible cigar.
Beside him, upon a small draped table, was a pile of
small school slates, a tumbler of water and a sad towel.

Opposite him, in a patent rocking-chair, was a young
woman of some twenty-four or five years.  She was
a blonde, with pompadoured citron-yellow hair.  Her
eyes were deep violet, her nose slightly retroussé,
giving her a whimsical, almost petulantly juvenile look
that was decidedly engaging.  She was dressed in
black, so fittingly that no man would remember what
she wore five minutes after he left her.  This attractive
creature, for she was indubitably winsome, was Flora
Flint, by profession a materializing medium.  Her
past was prolific in adventure; by her alluring person
and the dashing spirit shown in her eyes, her future
promised as much as her past.

"Are you busy to-day, Vixley?" she said.

"That's what," said Vixley.  "I've got a good graft
doped out, and it's liable to be a big thing.  First time
to-day.  One of Gertie Spoll's strikes, and we're
working him together.  Old man Payson it is."

"Oh, that's the one Doc Masterson expected me to
help him with, isn't it?" Flora asked.  "I wish you'd
let me in on that."

"He ain't in your line, Flo, I expect.  Ain't you
doin' anything now?"

"Only the regular set, the same old stand-bys, and
there's nothing in it at four bits apiece.  I've got so
many people to pay that even if I get forty or fifty in
a circle my expenses eat it all up.  Then I have to
keep thinking up new stunts and buy props."

"You don't have to spend much on gas," Vixley
laughed, as he began washing off his slates.

Flora smiled.  "No, but it comes to about the same
thing in luminous paint."

"Why don't you make it yourself?  It ain't nothin'
but ground oyster-shells and sulphur."

"Oh, it ain't only that.  I only use the best silk
gauze that'll fold up small—that's expensive; then
there's a lot of work on the forms."

"Don't you get your forms from Chicago now?"
Vixley asked.

"No, they're no good.  I can make better ones
myself.  Oh, occasionally I send for a rubber face or
two or some cabinet attachments and extensions.  I
wish I was clever enough to do the slates."  She
watched the Professor sharply.

"Oh, they ain't nothin' in slates nowadays—it don't
seem to take, somehow.  They mostly prefer the
psychics.  I s'pose slate-writin' has been wrote up too
much—I know a dozen books describin' the tricks, and
here's this Drexel chap teachin' 'em at a dollar
apiece, even.  He's a queer guy.  When he can get a
bookin' he travels as a magician; durin' his off-times
he sells his tricks to amachures, and then when he's
down on his uppers he does the medium.  I'm sorry
I went into physical mediumship; the graft's about
played out—people is gettin' too intelligent.  I've
a good mind to try the developin' stunt again."

"Say, do you think Madam Spoll has any real
power?" Flora asked.

Vixley stopped in his work to become epigrammatic.
"Some mediums are 'on' and some are honest—them
that's honest are fools and them that's 'on' are foolin'.
Gertie's 'on' all right, and she does considerable fishin'.
I don't say that when she started she didn't have some
faculty—she used to scare me good, sometimes, and
she could catch a name occasional.  But Lord, it's so
much easier to fake it; you can generally depend on
human nature, and you can't on psychometry."

"I can tell things sometimes," Flora ventured.

"Can you?" said Vixley.  "Say, I wish you'd give
me a readin'; they's somethin' I want to know about
pretty bad; p'raps you could get it for me."

"Oh, I know you too well.  I can't do it much,
except the first time I see a party; but sometimes, when
I'm materializing, I can go right down and say 'I'm
Henry,' or whatever the name is."

"I guess they're more likely to say, 'Are you Henry?'  They're
so crazy to be fooled that it's a crime to take
their money."

"Women are.  They're easy.  They simply won't go
away without a wonderful story to tell to their friends,
but men are more skeptical, as a rule."

"That's right.  But, Lord, when they do
swallow it, they take the hook, bait and sinker.
Why, look here, I had a party what used to come
regular about a girl he was stuck on, a Swede he was.
Well, one day he went up to this Drexel and he showed
him one or two easy ways o' workin' the slates, provin'
it was all tricks.  The Swede comes back to me and
says, 'Oh,' says he, 'I know it's all a fake now; you
can't fool *me* no more.'  I looked him straight in the
eye and I says: 'Don't you know that fellow is really
one of the best mediums in the business, and he's
controlled by Martin Luther?  He was just tryin' to test
your belief by denyin' the truth o' spiritualism, and
seein' if you'd have the courage to stand up for what
you believed.  If your faith ain't no stronger than that,
after the tests I gave you, you'd better go into
Mormonism and be done with it.'"

"Did that hold him?"

"I've got that fellow yet; twice a month, regular, I
get his little old two dollars; Lord, he swears by me
now.  No, them that want to believe *will* believe, and
you can't pry 'em off with a crowbar.  Ain't that
right?"

"I guess yes!" said Flora.  "But what gets my
game is the widow that used to quarrel like cats and
dogs when her husband was alive and leaks on his
shoulder when he comes to her in the spirit!  They're
the limit!  When a woman once gets it into her head
that the dear departed can take possession of a living
body, there ain't anything she won't stand for.  My
brother had a lovely case once.  It was a woman whose
husband hadn't passed out more than two months and
she was all broke up.  Well, Harry got her to believe
that her husband could get control of his body and
talk to her.  At first the woman wasn't quite sure, so
Harry, talking to her as her husband, claimed that he
himself was in a dead trance.  'Why,' he said, 'if you
should stick a pin into this medium's leg here, he
wouldn't feel it at all!'  That was where he was
foolish, for the woman said, 'Is that so?  I guess I'll
just try it and see.'  So Harry had to stand for it while
she jabbed a hat pin into him, but he was game and
didn't whimper.  Of course that convinced the woman
that she was really communicating with her lawful
husband, and she begun to kiss and hug Harry to beat
the cars, she was so glad to get hubby back."

"Well, it's all in a day's work!"  Vixley showed
his sharp yellow fangs in a grin.

"Oh, you have to make it pleasant for sitters,
sometimes," Flora yawned.

"I guess it's no trouble for you," Vixley said,
looking at her with admiration.

Flora yawned.  "Well, I guess we earn our money,
what with skeptics and all.  Now, if you have any of
these reporters come in you can get rid of them
easy—but we can't.  We've got to make good for the sake
of the rest of the crowd, unless they get so gay with
us that we can fire 'em out."

"That's right.  I never bother with skeptics; what's
the use?  I don't want their money enough to risk
their jumpin' up and gettin' on to the game.  No, sir!
When any of these slick chaps that look like newspaper
men or sports, come in, I just do a few lines and then
tell 'em conditions ain't satisfactory and let 'em go.
It ain't no use takin' chances."

"You're in luck, Vixley, I tell you!  I've had no
end of trouble.  Why, last week a couple o' fresh guys
come in and scattered a package of tacks all over the
floor.  When I come out in my stocking feet I thought
I'd die, it hurt so.  But I had to just grin and bear
it!  My feet are so sore yet I can hardly walk.  I have
to sweep the carpet now, just as soon as it's dark,
every time, unless Lulu's there to watch out!"

Vixley laughed for almost five minutes.  He had to
dry his eyes with a silk handkerchief.

"Oh, Professor," said Flora, "I almost forgot what
I came for.  You know Harry's doing the Middle
West now with Mademoiselle Laflamme, the
Inspirational Contralto, and he wanted me to ask you if
you had anything on Missouri and Iowa.  Would
you mind lending him your test-book?  You was out
there a few years ago, wasn't you?"

"Sure.  I'll look and see if I can find it," and Vixley
arose and left the room.  He was gone a few minutes,
and returned with a small, blue-covered note-book.

"Here's my test-book," he said, handing it over.
"It's rather behind the times.  It was five years ago
that I was out there, but maybe Harry can get
something out of it."

"How did you get the dope, swapping?"

"Oh, no, I done it all myself, and it's O.K.  I
went through the country first as a book-agent, and
I kep' my eyes and ears open.  I took a look or two
through the cemeteries, when I had time, and I read
up the local papers pretty good.  Of course I wouldn't
go back till a year after I got a town planted, but
then it was easy graft."

"I suppose these abbreviations are all plain?"

"Yes, Harry will read that all right, he knows the
regular cipher.  The name after the first one is the
party's control.  I've writ in a few messages that'll
work, and all the tests I know."

She opened the book and ran through the pages
which ran something like this:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: white-space-pre-line

   \ \ \ \ Jefferson City, Mo.
   Mrs. Henry Field "Mayflower" hb John died
   pneumonia 1870 good wishes from little
   Emily broken leg.

.. class:: white-space-pre-line

   \ \ \ \ Cameron, Mo.
   Mrs. Osborne "Pauline" hub James calls him Jimmie
   da disappeared July 1897 found drowned in Red
   River August Aunt Molly is happy Love to Belle
   and Joe.

.. vspace:: 2

Flora put the book in her bag, and then reached
over and took up one of the slates.  The one on top was
marked diagonally with two chalk-lines, and over this
was written in slate-pencil the following inscription:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: white-space-pre-line

   801,101
   Chapter
   Marigold.

Beside this, was a thin sheet of slate.  She placed it
over the marked surface.  It fitted the frame exactly
and looked, at a cursory glance, precisely like the other
slates, its dark surface being clean.

She took up another slate.  On this was written:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: white-space-pre-line

   Unforeseen difficulties will prevent your
   book being successful, if you do not take
   care.  Felicia.

.. vspace:: 2

The Professor grinned.  "That's the dope for old
Payson," he explained.  "He ought to be here any time,
now."  He went to the window and looked out.

"What game are you going to work with him?"
Flora asked.

"Oh, only a few of the old stunts.  He's so easy
that it won't be nothin' but child's play.  I got a lot
of the old-fashioned slab-slates for a starter, and I can
change 'em on him whenever I want.  He won't insist
on test conditions.  Anyways, if he does, I got
my little spirit friend here handy."

He reached up his sleeve, and pulled down a thimble
attached to an elastic cord.  To the end of the thimble
a small piece of slate-pencil was affixed.

"The only hard part about it is learnin' to write
backwards and upside down," he commented, as he let
the instrument snap back out of sight.  "Say, I wish't
I had a double-jointed leg like Slade!  I tell you I'd
give some sittin's in this town that would paralyze
the Psychical Research!"

"But what's this stuff on the slates mean?"

"Oh, them is the answers I've prepared.  You see,
I happened to get hold of some questions he's goin'
to ask, from a young fellow who goes to his house; and
so havin' inside information, it saves considerable
trouble.  Funny thing—this chap wants to marry the
daughter, who'll have money, I suppose, and he's
standin' in with me on account o' what I can do for
him through the old man."

"Why, I heard that Granthope was setting his traps
for her!"

Vixley scowled.  "That's right, too.  Frank's got
something up his sleeve that I can't fathom.  He's
been trying to buy me off, in fact, but he'll never do it.
This fellow Cayley naturally has got it in for him,
Frank bein' pretty thick with the girl.  So I got to
play both ends and work the old man for Cayley and
against Frank.  But I can do it all right.  The old
man's a cinch!"

Flora walked up to him.  "You're in luck," she
said.  She permitted him to put his arm about her
small trim waist and looked at him good-naturedly.
"Say, Vixley, if he's as easy as that, why can't you fix
it for some good materializing?  We could do all sorts
of things for him."

"I'd thought of that.  It might be a good idea later,
and we may talk business with you."

"Well, when you're ready, I'll do anything you say.
You know me."

At that moment the front door-bell rang.

"Here he is now!" Vixley exclaimed.  "Say, Flora,
you go out the back door through the kitchen, will
you?  It won't do for him to see you here."

"Sure!  I'll spare him.  The Doc says he's scared to
death of a pretty woman," and she disappeared down
the hall.

Professor Vixley went to the front door, welcomed
Mr. Payson with an oily smile, took his hat and coat
and then let him into a small chamber next to the
front room.  There were two straight chairs here on
either side of a table which was draped with an
embroidered cloth.  Behind was a high bookcase.

"Well, I'm all ready for you, Mr. Payson," said the
medium.  "We'll see what we can do.  If we don't get
anything I won't charge you a cent.  Have you ever
seen any slate-writin' done before?"

"No, I haven't," said Mr. Payson, "but I've heard
a good deal about it."

"It's a very interestin' phenomena.  Now, before we
begin, p'raps you'd like to examine this table; it's been
examined so often, that it's pretty well used to it by
this time, but I want to have you satisfied that there's
no possibility of trickery or deceit."

As he spoke, he took off the cover, and turned the
table upside down.  Mr. Payson looked it over gravely
and knocked on the top to see if it were hollow.  The
investigation finished, Professor Vixley said:

"May I ask who recommended you to me?"

"Madam Spoll—I suppose you know her."

"Oh, yes, and I admire her, too.  Madam Spoll is a
wonderful woman.  I don't know how this community
could get on without her.  She's brought more satisfaction
to them desirin' communication with their dear
departed than all the rest of us mediums put together.
She's doin' a great work, Mr. Payson.  But she has
more success with what you might call affairs of the
heart, while I find my control prefers generally to
help out in the way of business.  We're all specialists,
nowadays, you know."

"I should think that the spirits could help in one way
as well as another."

"Now would you?" said Vixley, fixing the old man
with his glittering eyes.  "Spirits ain't so much
different from people on this side.  Some o' them is
interested in one thing, and some in another, same as
we are.  Some is nearer what I might call the material
plane and some has progressed so they don't take
much interest in earthly affairs."

"It seems to me that I'd always have an interest in
my friends," said Mr. Payson.

"Does it?" Vixley replied.  "Where was you raised?"

"In Vermont.  I lived there till I was ten years
old."

"Well, are you much interested in the kids you knew
when you went to school there?"

"Perhaps not."

"Well, then, that's the way it is with spirits who
have got progression.  Their life on earth seems like
childhood's days to them.  Lord, they have their own
business to attend to.  I expect it keeps 'em pretty
busy."

"Well, I don't know."  Mr. Payson shook his head
and seated himself.  "It's all very strange and mysterious.
But I'm only an investigator, and what I want
is the truth, no matter what it may be."

"That's the right frame o' mind to come in," said
Vixley; "you treat me right and I'll treat you right.
Have a cigar?"  He took one from his pocket and
put it unlighted into his mouth, offering another to
Mr. Payson.

"No, thanks, I don't smoke."

"Well, if you don't mind, I will.  It's a bad habit,
I'm told, but it sorts o' helps me when I'm nervous."

Mr. Payson placed the tips of his fingers together,
palm to palm, and gestured with them.  "Now,
Professor Vixley, seeing that I know nothing about you,
would you mind letting me see what you can do first
in the way of a test, before we go to the main object
of my visit?"

"Why, certainly, though I can't promise to do anything
conclusive the first time.  I want you to feel at
liberty to try me in any way you wish."

"Well, I've got three questions I'd like to have you
answer.  I happen to know that you couldn't possibly
know what they are.  If you can answer them, I'll be
satisfied that you can help me."

"I'll try," said Vixley modestly.  "It all depends
upon my guides, and we can't tell till we begin."  He
arose, walked to the mantel and brought back a small
pad of paper.

"Here's what I generally use.  This paper is magnetized
in order to make it easier.  Examine it all you
please—you won't find no carbon transfer paper nor
nothin' like that."

"Why can't I use my own paper?"

"I ain't got no more idea than you have," the
medium confessed candidly.  "Why can't a
photographer take a picture on common glass?  I don't
know.  I ain't a photographer.  All I do know is, that
we can get results from this paper that my control
has magnetized, when we can't from yours.  The spirits
may be able to explain it—I can't.  Now you write
down the name of your control and your three questions,
one on each piece and fold it over twice.  Then
I'll pull down the shades and see what I can do."

Mr. Payson brought his hand down on the table
querulously.  "That's another thing I don't like," he
said.  "Why can't spirits work in the light as well as in
the dark, I'd like to know?  It looks suspicious to me."

Vixley took the cigar from his teeth and sat down
patiently before his dupe.  He rapped with his
forefinger upon the table.  "See here, it's this way,
Mr. Payson; every science has its own condition
that has got to be fulfilled before any experiment can
be a success, hasn't it?  You can't go against nature.
If you want an electric light or telephone, you have to
run wires, don't you?  Why?  I don't know—I'm not
an electrician.  If you want to develop a photograph,
you have to do it in the dark.  Why?  I don't know—go
ask a photographer.  If you want to make a seed
grow, you put it down into the dirt and water it.
Why?  I don't know.  Nobody knows.  It's one o' the
mysteries o' life.  In the same way, if you want to get
results in spiritualism, you have to submit to the
conditions that are imposed by my guide.  Why?  I
don't know.  And what's more, I don't care.  If I can
get the results, it makes no difference to me how they
come.  All I do know is that fifty years' experience
has shown us mediums the proper conditions necessary
for the physical manifestation of phenomena.  Full
daylight is all right for psychic influences, but it don't
do for slate-writin'.  The question is whether you
want to accept the conditions I give you, or do you
expect the spirits to work in a way that's impossible?"

Mr. Payson, overcome with this profound logic,
submitted without further protest to having the shades
drawn down.  The Professor reseated himself and
waited till the three slips were written and folded
according to direction.  In his own lap were three blank
slips folded in exactly the same manner.

Vixley now pressed his brow and smoothed it with
both hands.  "Some fakirs will palm a blank slip and
exchange it for your written one, but you see I ain't
got nothin' in my hands," he said, showing them empty.
Even as he spoke he dropped his hands into his lap,
and secreted one of his folded slips in his palm.  Then
he reached for one of Payson's written questions and
seemed to place it on the old man's forehead, but
quick as was the motion, he had made the substitution.

"You hold this paper there while I go and get the
slates.  And keep your mind on the question as hard
as you can."

He returned in a moment, having glanced meanwhile
at Mr. Payson's first question, while he was
outside, bringing back a dozen or more slates which
he put on the book-shelf.  He took off the top one
and handed it to Mr. Payson.

"Just look at it, examine it all you want to, and
then take this wet towel, wash it off clean and dry it
with the other end, please."

As the old man did so, the Professor went to the
pile and took down the next slate.  This was the first
one which Flora had read, the writing being now
concealed by the thin slab which fitted neatly into the
frame.  As Mr. Payson handed back the first slate,
Professor Vixley, looking him intently in the eye, said:

"Now, can you tell me about how many years ago
it was that your control passed out?  Was it five
years, twenty, or how long?"

The question was accurately timed so as to be put
just as Mr. Payson extended his hand.  Vixley's eyes
held the old man's in a direct gaze.  During this
psychological moment while his victim was intently
trying to answer the question, the Professor, with a
facile movement, put the two slates together and
handed back the same one that had been washed.

"I should say it would be nearly thirty
years—twenty-seven."

"All right," said Vixley.  "Now, take this slate
and wash it off like you did the other."  The old man
did so without noticing that it was the same one he had
had before.

Vixley took back the slate when he had finished, and,
with a piece of chalk, drew diagonal lines from corner
to corner upon each of the faces of both slates.

"That will show you that the writin' hasn't been
prepared beforehand, for you'll see that the pencil will
write through the chalk, showin' it's been done after I
made these lines."

As he held the two slates together in his hand, the
false sheet from the upper one fell into the frame of
the lower.  He laid the two upon the table and took
off the top one.  The lower surface upon which the
writing was now exposed he took care to hold so that
it could not be seen.  Next, he took the slip of paper
which Mr. Payson had been holding, substituted for it
with a deft motion the written question which he had
previously palmed, and, throwing the blank into his
lap, dropped the real one, with a small fragment of
slate-pencil, upon the slate.  He put the written slate
on top of the other, writing down, then asked the old
man to hold it in position, laying his own fingers upon
it as well.  A faint scratching was heard.  It was too
dark for the old man to notice the slight motions of
Vixley's finger-nail upon the surface.  After a moment
he removed the top slate and showed the writing, then,
unfolded the slip.

Mr. Payson looked at the inscription with curiosity
and surprise.  "Marvelous!" he exclaimed.  "Why,
it's incredible.  I didn't know it could be done as
simply as that.  Why, all three of my questions are
answered and they haven't left my possession."

"You seem to have a very strong control.  Are the
answers correct?"

"I'll soon find out," said Mr. Payson, "if you'll
raise the shades while I look at this book."  He cut
the strings of a package he had brought into the room,
showed his copy of the *Astrology of the New
Testament* and turned to page one hundred.

"Here it is, 'Chapter IX.'  It's most extraordinary,
indeed!  Now for the number of my watch.  Do you
know, I didn't even know these answers myself.  That
would tend to prove it's not mere telepathy, wouldn't
it?"

He took out his watch and opened the back covers.
Upon the frame were engraved the figures "801,101."

"That's correct, too.  Now for the last one—have
you a telephone?"

"Right down at the end of the hall."

"If you'll excuse me a moment I'll ring up a friend
of mine who will know whether this is the right name
or not."

In five minutes he returned with an expression of
wonder upon his face.  "I wanted to make sure that
this couldn't be got from my mind, so I asked a friend
of mine to select a name for me.  It seems that
Marigold was the name.  This is a most wonderful and
convincing test, Mr. Vixley; I must say that I'm
amazed."

The Professor took his praise modestly.  "Oh, I
hope to do much better for you than this after a while,
Mr. Payson.  The main point is, that now we can get
to work in such a way as to help you practically,
without wastin' your time on mere experiments.  These
test conditions is very apt to deteriorate mediumship
and I don't like to do no more of it than is absolutely
necessary to convince you of the genuineness of my
manifestations.

"Now," he added, "before we draw down the shades
again, you write down some important question you
want answered and we'll get down to business."

When Mr. Payson had finished writing, the medium,
taking a slip of paper from his vest pocket unobserved,
held it under the table, saying:

"Now you fold it twice, each time in half."  As
Payson did so, Vixley folded his own slip in a similar
manner and held it palmed in his left hand.  After
drawing the shades, he said: "Now, then, will you
please hold that paper to your forehead?  Not like
that—here, let me show you."

He took the slip from Mr. Payson and dexterously
substituting for it his own duplicate, held it to his own
forehead.  "This way, so that it will be in plain sight
all the time."  He gave the blank slip to his sitter, who
obeyed the directions.

"I think we'll do better if there's less light," Vixley
said, as he arose to draw the shades.  "You keep hold
of that paper.  I don't want it to go out of your
possession for a moment.  You see I couldn't read it
even if I had it, it's so dark.  But if you'll excuse me,
I'll light this cigar; I haven't had a smoke all day."

As he spoke, he went to the bookcase, and standing,
facing Mr. Payson, he took a match from a box on the
top and lighted the cigar which was between his teeth.
His left hand, which had already secretly unfolded the
ballot, covered the paper.  He put it up with a natural
gesture to keep the match from being blown out as he
lighted his cigar.  The operation took only a few
seconds, but in that time, illuminated by the match, he
was able to read the words: "Will my book be a
success?"  He dropped his hand, refolded the ballot with
his fingers and held it hidden.  Then he took two slates
from the pile.

There are many well-known ways of slate-writing,
and the sleight-of-hand necessary in obtaining the
ballots and writing the answers is simple compared with
the sort of psychological juggling in which the
medium must be an adept.  Professor Vixley, however,
had no need of any special craft with the old man.
Mr. Payson was by no means a skilled observer, and,
credulous and desirous of a marvel, was easily
hoodwinked by Vixley's talk.  The simplest methods
sufficed, and he worked with increasing confidence,
preparing his sitter's mind, till it would be possible for the
medium merely to sit at the table and write openly
under the supposititious influence of his control.

The second experiment terminated with the appearance
of the message that Flora Flint had read in the
front room, the message signed "Felicia."

Mr. Payson read the communication with a frown.
"That's bad," he said, "I'm very sorry to find that this
answer isn't favorable."

"What's the matter?" the Professor asked sympathetically.

"Well, you see, I may as well tell you that I'm
writing a book, Professor," said Mr. Payson, wiping
his spectacles, "and, of course, I am anxious that it
should be a success.  It seems from this that there is
likely to be some trouble about it—I don't quite
understand how."

Vixley tipped back in his chair with his hands in his
pockets.  "I thought you looked like an intellectual-minded
man.  O' course, it wan't my place to ask
no questions, but when you come in I sized you up
as a party who wan't entirely devoted to a pure
business life.  So you've written a book, eh?  Well,
I'm sure my control could help you.  I'll ask him, and
see what's to be done.  But for that, I think we'll
be more liable to be successful at automatic writin'
than by independent slate-writin'.  It's more quicker
and satisfactory all round."

"How do you suppose the spirits can help?" said Mr. Payson.

"Why," said Vixley, "all sorts o' ways.  It's like this:
I don't know nothing about your book, but I do know
what's happened before.  Take Gibbon's *Decline and
Fall of the Roman Empire*, for instance.  He predicted
that there wouldn't never be no more wars—he
claimed we'd outlived the possibility of it, and
everything would be settled peaceably.  What
happened?  Why, Napoleon arose inside o' fifty years
and they was wars like never had been seen on earth.
Now, if Gibbon had only been able to put himself
in communication with the spirit intelligence, he
wouldn't have made that mistake—the spirits would
have told him what was goin' to happen.  Look at
Voltaire!  He went on record by sayin' that in fifty
years they wouldn't be no more churches.  Now he's
a ridicule and a by-word amongst Christian people.
If he'd only consulted the spirit-plane he wouldn't have
made a fool of hisself.  But, o' course, spiritualism
wan't heard of then no more than Voltaire's heard
of now.  Now let's say, for example, you was writin'
a book on evolution ten years ago, thoroughly believin'
in Darwin's theory o' the origin of species.  Up to that
time nobody believed that a new specie had been
evolved since man.  But look at this here Burbank up
to Santa Rosa—he has gone to work and produced
some absolutely new species, and what's more, I
predicted his success in this very room ten years ago.
If you'd written on evolution then, you might have
taken advantage o' what I could have gave you.
Now, for all I know, some man may come along and
breed two different animals together, p'raps through
vivisection or what not, and develop a bran' new kind
of specie in the animal world.  Heart disease and
cancer and consumption are supposed by modern
science to be incurable, but I wouldn't venture to
write that down in a book till I had taken the means
at my disposal o' findin' out whether they was or
wasn't."

He arose and let up the window-shades; the level
rays of the sunshine illuminated his figure and
burnished his purpling coat.  He shook his finger at
Mr. Payson, who was listening open-mouthed, impressed
with the glib argument.

"Now, my control is Theodore Parker.  You've
heard of him—p'raps you knew him.  You wouldn't
hesitate to ask his advice if he was still on the flesh
plane, for he was a brainy man; how much more,
now he's passed out and gone beyond, into a fuller
development and comprehension of the universe!  I
don't know what your subject is, but whatever it is,
he can help and he will help.  I'm sure o' that.  It's
for you to say whether you'll avail yourself of his
guidance or not.  I can give you all the tests you
want, but I tell you, you're only wastin' your time,
while you might be in daily communication with one
of the grandest minds this country and this century
has produced.  I can get into communication with him
and give you his messages by means of automatic
writin', or I can develop you so's you can do it
yourself."

Professor Vixley's victim had ceased to struggle,
and, caught inextricably in the web so artfully woven,
gazed, fascinated, into the eyes of the spider who
was preparing to suck his golden blood.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FORE-HONEYMOON`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FORE-HONEYMOON

.. vspace:: 2

Outward, across the narrow, mile-long mole, the
Oakland Local, a train of twelve coaches, swept on
from block to block, beckoned by semaphores, till
it threw itself with a roar into the great train-shed
upon the Oakland pier.  The locomotive stopped,
throbbing and panting rhythmically, spouting a cloud
of steam that eddied among the iron trusses of the
roof.  The air-brakes settled back with a long, relieved
hiss.  The cars emptied streams of passengers; the
ferry-station became as populous and busy as a disturbed
ant-hill.  Up the broad stairs and into the huge
waiting-room the commuters poured, there to await
the boat.

It was half-past nine in the morning.  The earlier
trains, laden with clerks and stenographers and the
masses of early workers, had already relieved the
traffic across the bay.  The present contingent
consisted chiefly of the more well-to-do business men,
ladies bent on shopping in the city, and a scattering of
sorts.  Some clustered in a dense group by the door
of the gangway, the better to rush on board and
capture the favorite seats; the rest took to the settees
and unfolded their morning papers, conversed, or
watched the gathering throng.

The Overland from Chicago was already in, two
hours late, and it had contributed to the assembly its
delegation of dusty, tired tourists, laden with baggage,
commercial travelers, curious and bold, with a few
emigrants in outlandish costumes, prolific in children
and impedimenta.  Another roar, and the Alameda
Local thundered into the shed and emptied its lesser
load.  The Berkeley train had arrived also, and the
waiting-room was now well filled.

Through the glazed front of the hall the steamer
*Piedmont* came into view, entering the slip.  It slid
in quietly and was deftly tied up.  The gang-plank
was lowered and its passengers disembarked, filing
through a passageway separated from the waiting
throng by a fence.  Then the heavy door slipped
upward, the crowd made for the entrance and passed
on board the boat.  As each party stepped off the
gang-plank some one would say, "Do you want to sit
outside or inside?"  The continual repetition of this
question kept the after part of the deck echoing with
the murmur.

Clytie Payson, finding all the best outside seats
occupied, went into the great open cabin and sat
down.  The saloon soon filled.  In a moment there
was the creaking of the gang-plank drawbridge, a
deep, hoarse whistle overhead, the jangle of a bell in
the engine room, and the boat started, gathered way,
and shot out into the bay.  An Italian band started
playing.

It was not long before her eyes, roving from one
to another passenger, rested upon a couple across the
way.  Both looked jaded and distrait.  They talked
but little.  The lady was crisp and fresh and glossy,
in her blue serge suit and smart hat; her form was
molded almost sumptuously—but there were soft,
violet circles beneath her roaming eyes.  She leaned
back in her seat; her attitude had lost, in its
California tendency to abandon, an imperceptible
something of that erect, well-held poise that such
corset-modeled, white-gloved creatures of fashion usually
maintain.  Clytie recognized her; it was Mrs. Page.

The young man Clytie did not know.  He was a
dapper, immaculate, pink-cheeked person, who leaned
slightly nearer his companion than custom sanctions
when he spoke an occasional playful word to her.  In
his gestures he often touched her arm, where, for a
second his gloved hand seemed to linger affectionately.
Mrs. Page gave him in return a flashing, ardent smile,
then her eyes wandered listlessly.

Before Mrs. Page had a chance to notice her, Clytie
arose and walked forward.  Just outside the door she
stopped upon the wind-swept deck for a moment to
look about her.  Above Goat Island, melting into the
perfect bow of its profile, lay the crest of Tamalpais.
The mountains surrounding the bay of San Francisco
were wild and terrible, with naked brown slopes void
of trees or grass.  To the northwest they came down
to the very edge of the water, tumbling precipitately,
seamed with gulleys, forming the wall of the Golden
Gate.  Southward was smoke and haze; forward the
peninsula loomed through murk.  The whole aspect
of the harbor was barren, chill, desolate.  One felt
that one was thousands of miles from civilization—in
a land unique, grim, isolate, sufficient unto itself,
shut off by sea and mountain from the great world.
Yet it had its own strange beauty, and that charm
which, once felt, endures for ever, the immortal lure
of bigness, wideness, freedom of air and sky and
water.

Clytie stood, holding her hat against the nimble
breeze for a while, gazing at a flock of gulls that
sailed alongside the boat, circling and screaming, then
she turned and moved to the right and walked aft.

There was a young woman sitting in an angle of
the seats, by the paddle-box.  Her arm was resting on
the rail and she was gazing down at the swirling rush
of water.  From her chic shepherd's plaid frock, so
cunningly trimmed with red, so perfectly moulding
her svelte form, it should have been Fancy Gray,
Queen of Piedra Pinta.  But it was a poor, tired
Majesty, whose face was filled with infinite longing,
whose traitor mouth was lax, whose head, bent sidewise,
seemed too heavy to be held in its whilom spirited
pose.  She was off her guard; she had dropped the
mask she was learning so painfully to bear.

.. _`It was a poor tired Majesty`:

.. figure:: images/img-400.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: It was a poor tired Majesty

   It was a poor tired Majesty

Clytie stepped in front of her.  Fancy suddenly
looked up.  There was a moment when her face was
like that of a child awakened from sleep, then, in a
flash Fancy was alive again.  First, confusion, then
a look of pain, lastly an expectant, almost a suspicious
expression passed over her face.

"Why, Miss Payson!"  Fancy sat erect, and, by her
tone, was immediately upon the defensive, waiting to
find out what her welcome might be.  "Won't you
sit down?"

"Good morning, Miss Gray!"  Clytie's voice was
low and sympathetic.

Fancy took the proffered hand, grasped it for a
brief moment and let it drop.  Then she waited for
Clytie to give her her cue.  The eyes of the two
women, having met, lingered without conflict.  The
serenity in Clytie's face melted Fancy's into a smile.
A faint glow of pink began to creep up Clytie's neck
and mantle her cheek.  She took a seat.

"I'm so glad I found you," she began.  "I had a
queer feeling that I should meet some one pleasant,
though I didn't know who it would be."

What was it that reassured Fancy?  No man could
have told.  But that whatever fears she had entertained
were dispelled was evident by the way her face
softened, by the way her dimples came, by the way a
saucy, amiable sprite looked from her eyes.

"I'm sorry I'm just out of blushes," she said, rallying
swiftly, "but I'm as delighted as if I had as pretty
a one as yours.  Did you really want to see me?"

"I've been wanting to see you for some time."

"Why?"

"I've been thinking about you."

"Think of your wasting your time on me!  Why,
any one with your brains could think me to a finish in
five minutes."

"I wanted to tell you something."

"I *hope* it's something sacred," said Fancy with a
twinkle in her eyes.  "I love to have people tell me
their most sacred thoughts."  She smiled like a
spoiled child.

This was too much for Clytie, who laughed aloud.
But she persisted.  "I hope you won't think I'm
trying to patronize you—"

"You look awfully pretty when you're patronizing;
I don't mind it a bit."

"I'm afraid it's no use, you're incorrigible."

"That's a dandy word.  I never thought of that.
May I use it?"

"*Will* you be serious?"

"You mustn't mind me," Fancy said.  "I never could
do that running throb in my voice.  I've lost lots of
things by not being able to cry to order.  But I'll
listen.  What is it?"

"I know you've left Mr. Granthope's office."

"Oh, yes.  I got tired of the routine there.  It's
awful to sit and watch women who come to hear
themselves talked about.  It got on my nerves.  So I
told Frank I'd have to quit or tell them the straight
truth about themselves."

Clytie looked at her curiously for a moment.  Fancy
turned away from her glance.  Clytie went on: "I
wanted to see if I couldn't get you a position—perhaps
with my father."

"Thank you, but I guess not."  Fancy cast her eyes
down.  "I don't care to go to work just yet—I'm
going to drift a while—it's awfully kind of you,
though."

"Can't you come and stay with me a while?  I
thought I might teach you bookbinding and we could
work together."  Clytie herself was getting somewhat
embarrassed.

Fancy shook her head.  "Sometime I'll come and
see you—but not now."

"Well, since Mr. Granthope has given up his business—"

Fancy changed in an instant; her frivolous manner
fell off.  She stared at Clytie in surprise.

"Oh!  I didn't know that.  *Has* he?"

"Yes, he stopped last week."

Fancy's gaze drifted off to seaward.  She was
fighting something mentally.  She turned her head
away also.  Finally she said, "I think I understand."

"I think not, quite," Clytie answered softly.

Fancy's eyes flashed back at her, brimming.  "He
gave it up on account of *you*, Miss Payson, I'm sure."

"He did, in a way, but it was not altogether my
doing."

"I know!"  Fancy leaned her head on her hand
wearily.  "You did for him what I never could do."

"I'm glad you wanted it."  Clytie touched Fancy's
hand, as it lay limp in her lap.

Instead of taking it, Fancy moved hers gently away.
Then she roused herself.  "Oh, I *am* glad!  I'm *so*
glad, Miss Payson.  He was too good for that—I
always told him so.  But you are the only woman who
could have done that for him!"

"Indeed, you mustn't think that I did it.  He did
it for himself."

Fancy smiled wistfully.  "I know Frank Granthope.
And I know the sort of women he knew.  I
was one of them.  And I could do nothing—nothing
to help him!"

"Ah, I don't believe it!  You *have* helped him, I'm
sure.  I know by the way you speak now."

"Oh, I know what you think!" Fancy retorted
impetuously.  "You think that I am—that I was—in
love with him.  That's not true, Miss Payson, really
it isn't.  I never was.  We were good friends, that's
all.  I'm not suffering from a broken heart or pining
away, or anything like that.  No secret sorrow for
mine!  But what's the use of trying to explain!  It
never does any good.  I'm glad he's found a woman
who's square and who's a thoroughbred like you!
Why, Miss Payson, you can *make* him!  I saw that
long ago!"

She spoke in a hurried frenzy of denial.  She
seemed to feel the inadequacy of it in Clytie's eyes,
however, and nerved herself again.

"You don't believe it, Miss Payson, but it's true!
I give you my word that he's perfectly free.  Of
course, there was a sort of flirtation at first, there
always is, you know, but I wasn't in earnest at all!
I'm too afraid of Frank—I'm not in his class.  And
I know he's in love with you—I saw it from the first."

"How *could* he ever help loving such a frank,
courageous, irresistible girl as you!" Clytie wondered.

"Miss Payson," Fancy said, avoiding her eyes,
"there's a man I'm simply crazy about—I wish I
could tell you more, but I can't explain.  I never
explain.  But you can be sure that there's nothing doing
with Frank, at any rate.  I didn't intend to breathe
it to a soul, but I know I can trust you—I'm really—"
she drew a quick breath and her eyelids
fluttered—"I'm—engaged, Miss Payson!"

Clytie was wearing, that day, a little gold chain
from which hung a tiny swastika.  As she listened,
she unfastened it and took it off and threw it about
Fancy's neck.  Fancy stopped in surprise.

"Won't you let me give you this?" Clytie said
eagerly.  "Don't ask me why—I want you to have it
and keep it for my sake.  You know I have more
jewelry than I can wear, but I have always been very
fond of this little chain.  It belonged to my mother."

Fancy's eyes filled suddenly and her lips parted.
Her hand flew up to caress the chain affectionately.
Then she cast down her eyes and a timid smile
trembled on her lips.

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

As she looked off at the water she lifted the
chain softly to her lips and kissed it.  Then, loosening
the collar of her waist, she allowed the chain to drop
inside to hang touching her warm pink breast.

Then slowly she turned her head and showed Clytie
a new expression, childlike, demure, embarrassed.
Her eyes, fluttering, went from Clytie's eyes to Clytie's
hair, to her slender, gracile hands.  Then, with a
wistful emphasis, she said:

"Miss Payson, do you think I'm pretty?"

There was no need, this time, for her to define
the adjective.

"Do you want me to tell you exactly?" Clytie
answered.  "I never saw a woman yet to whom I
couldn't tell her best points better than she could
herself."

Fancy nestled a little nearer, warming herself at
Clytie's smile.  "I guess I can stand it.  I'll try to be
brave," she said.

Clytie looked her over critically.

"First, I'd say that your ears are the most
deliciously shaped, cream-white, and the lobes are pure
pink with a dab of carmine laid on as if with a brush.
The hair behind them has curls like little claws
clutching at your neck—and I don't blame them!  Your
cheeks look as if a rose-leaf had just been pressed
against them."

"I believe I'm going to get the truth at last," Fancy
murmured.  "Oh, it takes a woman, don't it!"  In
spite of this jaunty speech the pink had grown to
scarlet in her cheeks, and she turned her eyes away in
a delighted, flattered embarrassment.

"Then, your mouth has a charming little dent at each
corner, and your lips curve in a perfect bow, and
the nick above is just deep and strong enough for a
baby to want to put his little finger into.  Your nose
is fine and straight and delicate—I can see the light
through the bridge of it, the skin is so transparent—like
mother-o'-pearl.  Your eyes are clear and child-like
and the rarest, deepest, pellucid brown.  There's
a moist purple shadow above them, and a warmer
brown tone below.  Your lids crinkle and narrow your
eyes like a kitten's.  Your hands are as dewy-delicate
as flowers—white above, faint rose in the palm,
deepening almost to strawberry in the finger-tips."

Fancy had laid her head on her arm, upon the railing.
When she at last lifted her eyes the tears trickled
comically down her cheeks.  "That's the first time a
woman ever feazed me!" she said, snuffing, and feeling
for her handkerchief.  "I'll have to appoint you
Court Flatterer!"  She explained the sovereignty that
she enjoyed amongst the Pintos.  Clytie, amused,
accepted the distinction conferred upon her.

Their talk ran on till the boat passed under the lee
of Goat Island.  It rose, a bare, bleak slope of
hillside on the starboard side.  Fancy watched the waters
curdling below.

"Ugh!" she exclaimed.  "It looks cold, don't it!
I'd hate to be down there; it's so wet.  Isn't it funny
that suicides always jump overboard right opposite
Goat Island?  There seems to be some fascination
about this place.  And the bodies are never found.
I suppose they drift out through the Gate.  The tide
runs awfully strong here, they say."

She removed her gaze with an effort, adding, "I
hate to think of it!  Let's come forward."

They rose and went to the space of deck below
the pilot-house and stood by the rail.  Already the
tourists and emigrants were there, eager for a first
glimpse of the city.  San Francisco stretched before
them, a long, pearl-gray peninsula, its profile
undulating in a continuous series of hills.  Along the water
front was a mêlée of shipping; behind, the houses
rose to the heaving, irregular sky-line where the blue
was deep and cloudless.  The streets showed as
gashes, blocking the town off into parallel divisions.
A few tall towers broke the monotony of the huddled,
colorless buildings.  They passed a ferry-boat bound
for Oakland, and a foreign man-of-war lying at
anchor, nosed by busy launches.  The *Piedmont* rang
down to half-speed, then the vibrations of the paddle
wheels stopped as she shot into the slip.  There was a
surge of back-water, a rattling of chains and ratchets,
the cables were fastened and the apron lowered.
The crowd surged forward and poured off the boat.
At the front of the Ferry Building Fancy stopped,
offering her hand.

"Good-by," she said genially.  "You've done me
more good than a Picon punch.  I'm going home to
wear my looking-glass out."

"You'll never see half I do," Clytie replied, shaking
her head.

"That's because I haven't got such fine eyes,"
countered Fancy.

"I think mine are never so pretty as when they
have a little image of you in them."

Fancy gave up the duel.  "Well, I guess I'd better
go quick before you raise that!  You play nothing but
blue chips, and I can't keep up!"

Clytie walked up Market Street alone.  She turned
into Geary Street at the group of tall newspaper
buildings by Lotta's fountain, and in ten minutes was
knocking at Granthope's office door.  There being no
response she descended the stairs, crossed the street
and went into the square to wait for him upon a bench
beside the soldiers' monument.

There were two young women at the other end
of the seat.  One, scarcely more than a girl, was
pretty, in a demure, timid way; she was freckled and
tanned, her clothes were simple and neat.  The other
was of a coarser grain, full-lipped, large-handed,
painted and powdered, with hard eyes and large
features.  She wore several cheap rings, and her finery
made her soiled and wrinkled garments look still more
vulgar.  Clytie gave the two a glance and took no
further interest in them until she caught the mention
of Granthope's name.

She turned, astonished, to see the younger woman
looking seriously at the other.  There was a charming
earnestness in her face, and, though her lower lip
drooped tremulously, it was not weak; nor was her
chin, nor her nose, nor the gracefully reliant poise
of her head.

"You ought to go see him, Kate!" she was saying.
"I tell you he's a wonder!  Why, if I hadn't gone
there I don't know where I'd be now.  I know one
thing, I wouldn't be married.  Why, when Bill was out
in the Philippines and didn't write, I thought I'd lay
down and die!  I waited about two months, and then
I took five dollars I saved up for one of them
automobile coats they was all wearing, and I went to see
Granthope.  What d'you think?—he wouldn't take a
cent off me!  That's the kind of a man Granthope is!
He said it would be all right and Bill would come
back and marry me.  But I tell you, I had to do most
of the courting!"

"You did, did you?  Do you mean to say you
run after a man like that—without any nose?  I never
see such a face in my life!  If he'd only wear a
patch or something it wouldn't be so bad," commented
her companion.

"Bill wouldn't do it; he's too proud.  Nobody's
ashamed of having only one leg or one arm, why
should they be of having a nose gone?"

"What did you think when you first see him,
though?  Wan't it disgusting, kind of?" her
companion asked, making a sour face.

"Why, I was so proud of him that I didn't see
anything but a man who loved me and who had
fought for his country!  But it was some time before
I *did* see him, though.  He did his best not to let me."

"How did you ever find him?"

"Why, finally Mr. Granthope located Bill down at
Santa Barbara.  He was working as a gardener on a
place a little ways out of town.  Bill's captain give me
the money to get down there.  I guess I cried pretty
near all the way, thinking of Bill hiding out like a
yellow dog without any friends.  Finally I found the
place.  Bill was living up in a room over the stable."

She paused.  "Go on!" said her companion.  The
woman's voice had changed somewhat.  There was
something more than curiosity in its tone.  Fleurette
was looking down, now, fingering her jacket.
Suddenly she began to breathe heavily.

"Bill had a little dog named Dot.  A fox terrier, it
was.  Bill says he thought it was the only living
thing that didn't despise him on account of his looks.
He was awful fond of Dot.  So was I, you bet.
Dot's dead, now."  She put a handkerchief to her eyes.

"Well, I was dead tired.  I'd walked all the way
from the station.  I was pretty hungry, too.  I couldn't
afford to get dinner on the train, and I couldn't wait
to stop to eat in Santa Barbara.  And I was good and
trembly—because—well, I hadn't seen Bill for over
a year.  I stumbled up the stairs and knocked on the
door, and when Bill heard my voice he wouldn't let
me in.  I heard him groan—O, God! it almost broke
my heart!  He called through the door for me to go
away.  He said he didn't love me any more.  Of
course I knew he was lying.  I didn't know what to
do.  Bill's got an awful strong will.  I didn't know
how to make him believe I didn't care how he looked.
I just sat down on the stairs and begun to cry.
Then Dot begun to whine and scratch on the door.
Bill couldn't stand *that*.  He swore at him and kicked
him.  It was the only time he ever struck him, but Dot
*wouldn't* budge and kept scratching on the door.  It
was terrible.  So Bill wrapped a towel round his
face and opened the door.  I just fell in his arms.
But he put me away from him and said he wouldn't
curse my life, and that I must go away."

The other girl was staring at her, awed.  "What
did you do?" she whispered.

"Oh, I ran up to him again, and pulled off the
towel and I kissed him."  She spoke almost impersonally.

Kate kindled, now.  "Oh, Fleurette, did you?  Gee,
you were game!"  She giggled somewhat hysterically.
"Lucky his mouth wasn't shot off, wasn't it?"

Fleurette gazed off across the green and spoke as
to one who knew not of life's realities, saying, simply:

"Oh, I didn't kiss him on the mouth, Kate—there
was plenty of time for that!  I kissed him right
where that Moro bullet had wounded him!"

Kate shook her head slowly.  "I guess you done
right!" she said.  Then, "Say, I'd like to see Bill
again, Fleurette."

Clytie arose, gave the girl one swift glance as
she left, and walked away.  She had met two
heroines that day, and her nerves were vibrating like
tense strings.  She walked up and down the square,
keeping her eyes on Granthope's doorway.

In half an hour she saw him striding up Geary
Street.  She followed him rapidly, ran up the stairs
and knocked again at his door.  He opened it and
took her instantly into his arms.  She lay there
without speaking, and there was a blessed interval of
silence after his kiss.

The stimulating newness of possession thrilled him.
She was still strange, mysterious, of a different caste,
and there was something deliriously fearful in this
familiarity as she lay captive, unresisting, trembling
in his embrace.  He had set his trap for a sparrow
and caught a bird of paradise.  He knew his power
over her, now, though he dared not test it.  He
dreaded to break the spell of her wonderful
condescension, her royal grace and favor.  He was in no
hurry to remove her crown and scepter; the piquancy
of his romance fascinated him.

She broke away from him with a gentle insistence,
and looked at him, rosy and smiling.  "I'm afraid
I'm just like all other women, after all—and I'm glad
of it!" she confessed, as she readjusted her hat and
sank into the arm-chair to look up at him fondly.

"I don't suppose you realize how strange it seems
for me to act this way?" she said.  "No man has ever
held me in his arms before.  I have never thought
of the possibility of it—even with you.  All that
sort of demonstration has been inhibited—I have
always wondered if I had any passion in me.  Of
course, when I kissed you the other time it was
different—it was the seal of a compact.  But this
time it seemed so natural that I didn't think.  This
is the end of my virginal serenity for ever.  I think
you have awakened me at last!"

She broke into happy laughter.  "Did I do it well,
dear?  I'm ashamed to think how inexperienced I
am—and you have known so many cleverer women.
If you call me amateurish, I'll slay you!  But I think
I shall be an apt pupil, though.  Francis, stop
laughing at me, or I'll go home!"

Her naïveté was breaking up that glorified seraphic
vision he had held of her and put her more nearly
on his level, or, perhaps, raised him to her.  He let
his wonder fade slowly.  However, with all his
customary audacity he could not yet match her mood.
She saw his reserve and took a woman's delight
in wooing him.

"Must I convince you that I am flesh and blood?"
she exclaimed with spirit.  "And you—the lady-killer—the
hero of a hundred victories—you don't seem
to know that you have me at your feet!  Nor how
proud I am of it!"

Then she jumped up and took his hands in hers
softly.  "You must be very good to me, Francis, dear,
for I'm simple and ignorant compared to the women
you've known, I suppose.  But I'm a woman, after
all.  I don't want to be worshiped.  I want the
tenderness of an honest man's love, such as other women
have.  I want my divine birthright.  I've been aloof
from men all my life.  That doesn't make me
any less desirable, does it?  I've never met a man
who answered my demands.  You do, or you will
before I'm through with you.  Don't think I'm going
to be all moonshine and vapors.  I'm going to love
you till stars dance in the heavens!  That's what you
get for wakening me, my friend!  I've been asleep,
floating in dreams.  I want a man's strength and
chivalry and audacity and vigor and romance, instead
of the painted shadows I've known.  Aren't you
afraid of me?"  She dropped her head to his shoulder.

He needed no further hint.  He put away her halo
and her crown, he drew the ermine from her, and
the vision in her eyes was made manifest.  But it
was still too new for her to more than sip at the
cup of delight; she would take her happiness by
epicurean inches.  So she slid away and evaded him,
putting the chair half-mockingly between them.

"My father has forbidden me to come down here
to see you," she said.  "It's really quite romantic.
But of course I told him I should come, nevertheless,
so we can't quite call it clandestine.  He'll never
dare ask me if I've been here.  He's quite afraid
of me, when I insist upon having my own way."

"Have you said anything about Madam Spoll and
Vixley to him?"

"Yes, but that's no use.  They certainly seem to
have given him some wonderful tests—I don't see
how they could have done so well—and he's absolutely
convinced.  I don't see what we can do, unless
we wait for them to go too far and arouse his
suspicions.  I can't think he's feeble-minded.  They're
making him pay, though that's the least of the matter."

"I have had an idea that I might get hold of one
of the gang—a Doctor Masterson—and induce him
to sell them out.  He's a turncoat, and if he only
knows enough about their game he could be bribed."

"I must leave it to you, Francis.  I don't like
that method, exactly, but we must do what we can.
Perhaps it will settle itself.  We can do nothing yet,
at any rate.  To-day I've come down to ask you to
invite me to lunch, please!"

"With pleasure—only, if I must confess—I don't
know that I can offer you a very good one.  Wait
I'll see how much money I have left."  He felt doubtfully
in his pocket, and added, "Oh, that's all right,
we can go to the Palace."

Clytie was instantly suspicious.  "How much have you?"

"Quite enough."

"Answer me, sir!"

"About twelve dollars."

She gasped.  "Do you mean to say that's *all* you
have left?"

"Everything.  But my rent is paid for a month in
advance."

"Have you any debts?"

"Naturally.  Two hundred dollars or so, that's all."

She came up to him and worked her finger into his
buttonhole.  "Francis Granthope," she said solemnly,
"are you really—ruined?"  Her eyes danced.

"Oh, I've got enough junk in my chamber to pay
that off, I expect, but it won't leave me exactly
affluent."

She burst into a delicious chime of laughter.  "Why,
it's positively melodramatic, isn't it?  I never
happened to know any one who was actually bankrupt
before.  Of course it must happen, sometimes, but
somehow I thought people could always raise some
money, even if they had to scrimp.  How exciting
it is—aren't you nervous about it?  Why, I'd be
frightened to death!  And yet it seems terribly amusing!"

He laughed with her.  "I can't seem to take it
very seriously, while you're with me, at any rate.
To tell the truth, I haven't begun to think about
it yet.  Of course my fees have always been in cash,
and consequently there's nothing coming in.  And
I've always spent every cent I made, and a little more.
But I've been broke before, and it doesn't alarm me,
except that, of course, I can't depend upon living
by my wits in quite the same way as I would have,
if I hadn't chucked that sort of thing.  If I didn't
care how I did it, I suppose I could make a hundred
or so a week easily enough."

She listened and grew more serious.  "Of course
that's all over.  But you've got to have money!
Let's see what I have with me."  She took her purse
from her bag and emptied it upon the desk.  Several
ten- and twenty-dollar gold pieces rolled out.

Granthope shook his head sharply.  "No, don't do
that, please!  I can't take anything, even as a
loan, you know.  I can't spend a cent I haven't
honestly earned—I never shall again, if I have to
starve, which I don't intend to do, either.  You must
know that."

"But from me—isn't that different?"

"Not even from you!"

"Of course you mustn't.  I see.  It's better
not to, yet somehow I could have forgiven you
if you had let me help a little at first.  I don't
exactly see how you're going to live.  Why, it's
awful, when you come to think of it, isn't it?  It really
is serious.  What a goose I've been!  I'm afraid I
shall worry about you now.  Well, you'll have to have
lunch with *me* to-day, anyway.  That's only fair, if
I invite you."

"On the contrary, I'm going to invite you to share
my humble meal."

"All right; let's be reckless then, if you *must* be
proud and show off.  It will be fun.  I never
economized in my life, but now I'm going to show you
how.  Hand over all your wealth, please."

She counted it out upon the desk, a five dollar
piece, six silver dollars and two halves and a few
nickels.  "Now," she said, "how long can we make
this last—a week?"

"I've lived for three weeks on that much, often,
and paid for my room."

"Something's bound to happen within ten days, I'm
sure.  If you see nothing ahead at the end of a week,
I'll put you on half-rations, and till then I'll allow
you a dollar a day.  Shall I keep it for you?"

He was delighted to have a treasurer.

"Now we'll take fifty cents and go to some nice
dairy place and sit on a stool."

But, as he insisted upon a place where they could
talk in quiet, they went, instead, to a shady little
restaurant around the corner, and there they seriously
discussed his prospects.

He did so whimsically.  It was really absurd that
he, in full health, six feet high and a hundred and
seventy pounds in weight, at twenty-eight, could do
nothing, so far as he knew, to support himself honestly.
He had been a parasite upon the vanity of fools.
After much casting about for ideas, she sent for an
*Examiner* and began to search through the "Help
Wanted; Male" column.

The Barber's College she rejected first, although
he pointed out the advantageous fact that it offered
"wages while learning."  Canvassing for books or
watches they both agreed was not interesting enough.
Boot-black—he raised his eyebrows in consideration,
she shook her head energetically; it was too
conspicuous, with these open-air sidewalk stands.  She
turned up her nose, also, at the idea of his distributing
circulars.  The Marine Corps tempted him next—but
no, she couldn't think of sparing him for three
years, not to speak of a girl in every port.  She
asked him what a job-press feeder was; he didn't
know, but he was sure he couldn't do it—it would be
all he could do to feed himself.  Profiler—if he could
make as good a profile as Clytie's now, he might
get that job.  But it appeared to be something
connected with a machine-shop.  He looked at his white
hands and smiled.  Weavers, warpers and winders—equally
mysterious and impossible.  The rest of the
wants were for mechanics and tradesmen.  Clytie
dropped the paper, disappointed.

He declined to let the matter disturb him, as yet.
He had no fear of the future, and the present was too
charming not to be enjoyed to the full.

"What I've always wanted to do," he said, "is
to study medicine.  If I could get money enough
ahead to put myself through a medical school, I
wouldn't mind beginning even at my age.  I think
I'm fitted for that, for I've cultivated my powers
of observation and I know a good deal about human
nature, and I've read everything I could lay my
hands on.  Some day I shall try that."

"Very well, Doctor Granthope, I shall make up
my mind to being a doctor's wife, and being rung up
at all hours, and being alone half the time."

"I wasn't aware that I had proposed yet," he
answered jocosely.

"Why, people don't propose, now, do they?  Not
real people.  What a Bromide you are!" she laughed
joyously.

"I'll have to disprove that.  Let's spend the rest
of the afternoon out of doors and get acquainted!
Then when I have a good chance I'll ask if you'll
be my wife.  Do you realize how little we know of
one another?  It's ridiculous.  Why, you may have
a middle name for all I know!  You may eat sugar
on canteloupe or vinegar on your oysters; you may
be an extraordinary mimic; you may have escaped
sudden death; you may have been engaged when you
were seventeen; you may sulk; you may mispronounce
my favorite words!  How do I know but you like
magenta and Germans and canary birds, and wear
Jaegers; and object to profanity and nicknames, and
say 'well-read' and read the *Philistine*!"

"Good Lord, deliver us!  That's a devil's
liturgy!"  In denial of his categories she held him
out her palm.  "Oh, you should know me by that
right hand!  You're supposed to be a trained observer
of symptoms and stigmata.  *You're* the one who needs
investigation!  Do you realize what a risk I am
running?  Why, I haven't yet heard you speak to a
dog, or answer a beggar, or seen you eat a banana,
or watch a vaudeville show—and all four are
necessary before I really know you."

She bent her head in mock humility and looked up
at him from beneath her golden lashes.  "You needn't
be afraid, Francis; if you tell me what your rules
are, I'll obey them.  If you *really* want me to wear
magenta, I shall be terribly fond of it, and I shall
only think I've been stupid all my life to loathe it,
and be so glad to learn.  But I hope you don't!"

"If you'll allow me five cents for dessert," he said
as seriously, "I'll order bananas, at the risk of losing
you for ever."

They had begun now to revel in the piquancy of
the situation.  Their meetings had, up to this time,
seemed fatal in their dramatic sequence, fraught with
meaning, working steadily up to the climax in the
studio.  There had been few scenes between them,
but those scenes had been cumulative in feeling.
They had played their parts like actors in a play of
destiny, a play whose plot had been closely knit and
esthetically economical in incident and dialogue, each
act developing logically the previous situation.  Now
that the tension was released, and the reaction had
come after an histrionic catastrophe, each looked at
the other with new eyes, seeking the living person
under the tragic mask.

In this delightful pursuit they came upon such
fantastic surprises, such rare coincidences, such lovely
similarities of whim and taste and prejudice, and,
above all, such a rare harmony in their points of view
on life, that their talk was as exciting as if they
had just met for the first time.  The talk ran on,
back and forth, lively with continual revelation.  It
came out, not in dominating trends of thought, or
principled opinions, but in many charming lesser
exemplifications of their mutual fastidiousness.  She
reached for a plate, and his hand was outstretched to
give it to her at precisely the same instant—their
fingers touched, and their eyes spoke in delighted
surprise.  He discovered that she, like himself, took no
sugar in her coffee, and on that consanguinity of
taste an imaginative structure arose, to be destroyed
with equal delight when he found that she was resisting
a temptation to use cream.  She quoted spontaneously
a line from Stevenson that, for no reason whatever,
he had always loved: "For to my mind one thing
is as good as another in this world, and a shoe
of a horse will do."  She knew his language, he
fulfilled her test.  Such were their tiny psychological
romances at table.

They had reversed the usual order of progression in
their friendship, or rather Fate had reversed it for
them.  Had they become betrothed in the ancient
manner without previous knowledge of one another, their
position could have been no more alluring and
delicate, for, strangers physically and, to an extent,
mentally, their intimacy of spirit was as certain and
irrevocable as a blood relationship.  They played with a
series of little embarrassments.

To-day they had changed their characteristic parts;
he was timid, as he had never been timid with women.
She was bold, as she had never been bold with men.
The primitive woman had come to life in her.  They
were, however, both of that caste which can notice,
analyze and discuss the subtleties of such a condition
while still enjoying it to the full.  It delighted
them to glean the nuances and overtones of that
harmony.  It was a new experience to Granthope to be
with one who understood and was sensitive to the
secondary and tertiary thrills of delight without
having become hyper-refined out of vibration with the
primal note of passion.  That sharing of the wonderful
first fruits with her, mentally as well as physically and
spiritually, kept his appetite for her whetted to a
keen edge.  He could not get enough of her from sight
or hearing, and each touch of her hand became a
perilously exciting event, a little voyage of poetic
adventure.

They were both learning swiftly the art of loving,
but, though one goes far in the first sensational
lessons, one can not go all the way, no matter how
reckless is the attempt.  Passion has to be adjusted to
tenderness, and affection to experience, or there is
discord.  For her, perhaps, that love held more of
faery, more freshness and delicious abandon, more
mystery, for her nerves had never been dulled by
contact; but for him there were newer and truer
wonders as well.  He had taken another degree in
sentiment, and the initiation was as marvelous for
him, an apprentice, as for her, a neophyte.  And, in
that sacred, secret lodge, when the time came, she
would jump in a single intuitive moment to his level
and surpass him.

Already she was tuned to the emotional pitch; she
would notice every false move, every mistake in his
devotion, as well as if she had been with him
past-master in the rites of love.  She could already teach
him, and already she began to hold him back sensitively,
to linger over every transient mood of feeling,
every minor phase which women, in that stage between
wooing and winning, so care to taste to the last sweet
drop.  Every reflex, every echo, she would bid him
answer to, indefinitely prolonging, now that she was
sure of him, the fineness of the reward of her moment,
delaying the definite end.  He had taught her the
rapture of a caress—she would teach him the
excitement of a smile, a tone, a gesture.

They lingered long at the table and then went
forth into the sun.  The cable-car carried them, still
bantering, to the gate of the Presidio, and they set
out rollicking across the golf-links.  The open downs
stretched in front of them in long, sweeping lines,
like the ground swells of the sea, skirted to the north
by groves of cypress and eucalyptus trees.  Beyond,
to the west, the ground grew sandy as it approached
the ocean, and from that direction a sea-breeze sailed,
salt and strong.  Behind them was Lone Mountain,
with its huge cross on top, and from there in a
scattering quadrant a multitude of little houses, the
outskirts of the city, skirmished towards the park.  The
turf was hard and smooth as a carpet, burned, here
and there, in patches of black, but elsewhere of a
pastel green, colored by the hardier weeds that had
sustained the drought and fought their way through
the matted, sunburned stalks of dry grass.

Dipping down through a wide, sandy hollow,
tangled with fuzzy undergrowth, they climbed up again,
making for a shoulder of the hill where the road
curved sharply round the summit.  They were alone
in the world, now; no one was in sight, at least, and
the glory of this free space of earth and air brought
them as near to one another as if they had regained
childhood.  Clytie's hat was off, and her hair
wantoned over her forehead and neck.  She gave him
her joyous laughter unrestrained, and he listened as
to a song, and attempted by every wile he knew to
provoke it again and again.  If she had been
high-priestess before, now she was pixie, and he was, at
first, almost as afraid of her in this new guise.  He
explored a new world with her, as Adam did with Eve.
As Adam did with Eve, he marveled at her.

It came to him, as they walked, that what had kept
them apart, mentally, was an odd lack of humor.
He saw how his whole life had been a pose towards
himself as well as towards the world, repressing what
now, the costume and custom gone, would come forth
bubbling without care.  He had kept a straight face
so long!  What mirth he had felt, in presence of his
dupes, had been strained fine, escaping in the corner
of a smile, while he fashioned his glib phrases.  It
had been a preacher's sobriety, the sedateness of
priest-craft, aging him prematurely.  She held him her hands
now down the years, back to decent, cleanly fun.  To
his surprise he found that he could give full vent to
it.  He could laugh aloud, and need not study effects
and poses; he need not impress her.  His wit was
clumsy; it even approached silliness, in its first
runaway impulse, but he at least lost his self-consciousness.
He followed her merriment, and they discovered
nonsense together.

So, jollying, they tramped up to the road and came
suddenly upon the sea, flaming, peacock blue, at the
foot of the cliff which fell almost vertically at their
feet.  Across the dancing waves, from a coast like
Norway's, Point Bonita arose, guarding the Golden
Gate.  At the end of a semicircular cove to their
left a ragged cliff jutted into the channel; behind its
promontory the hills rolled back.

She gave a cry of joy and happiness and sat down
on the verge of the bluff to feast upon the view.  He
dropped beside her and took her hand.  An automobile
whirred past them and she did not flinch.  There
he underwent a revulsion of feeling.

.. _`He dropped beside her and took her hand`:

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   :alt: He dropped beside her and took her hand

   He dropped beside her and took her hand

"How can you love me?" he said bitterly.  "What
good am I?  I have no capacity, no prospects, no
purpose, even!  I am a mere negative, and if I
loved you I should free you from the incubus."

"Do you recall reading the palm of a girl whose
lover in the Philippines refused to write to her?" she
asked.  "It happened about the time I first knew you,
I think."

He nodded, watching a tug towing a bark out
through the Gate, and she told him what she had
heard of Fleurette's story that morning.  It was no
slight relief to him to think that he had helped some
one, though his assistance had been based upon deceit.

"Don't you see?" she said.  "Don't you understand
how women love?  It makes no difference how poor
or how dishonored a man may be, if she loves him her
happiness must be with him."

"Oh, a physical deformity is easy enough to forget.
But how about a moral one?  You'll be the wife of an
outcast."

"If you refused to accept my love, if you left me,
now, you would be inflicting a far greater pain than
any gossip could ever give me."

"The mere problem of living appals me," he
went on gloomily.  "I would never think twice of it,
if I were alone.  But you know what a coward
marriage makes of one."

She laughed in his face.  "I'll be your first patient,
Doctor Granthope, and I'll pay you well!"

"If there was some way of getting that money of
Madam Grant's.  I've never even thought of trying
to claim it, but perhaps I might go up to Stockton and
inquire about it.  Of course, there's no fear of being
accused of stealing it, now.  But even if I had it, I
don't know whether or not it would be right to use it
myself."

"You might at least borrow it for a while, but for
my own part I'm convinced that it's yours.  There's
no reason why the bank should have the use of it for
nothing.  I wish we could clear up that matter of
Madam Grant."

They set out again, she with a buoyant tread, willowy
and strong.  It was not till her muscles relaxed
that her characteristic, dreamy languor was apparent,
and this trait was slowly disappearing under the
influence of the new interest in her life.  It was as if
she had found, now, what she, in her former quiescent
moods, had been watching and waiting for, and
Granthope's presence stimulated her with energy.  She
was almost coquettish with him at times, now, the
mood alternating with a noble frankness, the
boldness of a gambler who has cast all hardily upon a
single stroke.  She was not afraid of being seen with
him.  She gave him herself in every word and glance.
A casual observer could have read her fondness for him.

They went along the road, skirting the water, past
the battery emplacements and disappearing guns, over
a low hill toward the Fort.  From this side the Bay
opened to them, and beyond lay line on line of
mountains, growing hazier in the distance, to the north
and east.  They had regained their spirits with this
exercise, and talked again freely as boy and girl.  He
noticed with amusement and delight how she edged,
unconsciously, nearer and nearer him.  If he crossed
the road, she came to him, without perceiving the
regularity of it, as the armature comes to the
magnet.  She nearly forced him into the wall, or off the
walk, in her unthinking pursuit of him, so strongly
he attracted her.  She blushed furiously when he spoke
of it—it was so droll that he could not help mentioning
it—but that comment did not cure her.  She was
over by his side, rubbing elbows as unaffectedly the
next instant.  How could she help it, when he kept
his eyes on her as he did? she said.  So, along the
shore by the Life Saving Station, up to the parade
ground and the barracks, then by a climb up the steep,
narrow, tree-grown path to the corner gate of the
reservation they sported.

That was the first of a series of outings they had
together that week.  The Golden Gate Park, Sutro's
forest and the beach were each explored in turn,
and while still within the limits of the city they tasted
of country, mountain and shore, and let the days fly
by.  Clytie brought the luncheon, and they ate it, picnic
fashion, under the blue sky.  She kept strict account
of his finances, and as his small capital dwindled they
came back to his plans for the future.  He met her,
one day, with news.

"I think I shall have to go to work, after all," he
said.  "I've got a position."

She congratulated him, not without a shade of
sorrow that their holidays were to end.

"It's too much like my old work to be very proud
of, but it's a step up.  It's founded on vanity, but this
time I shall exploit my own instead of others'.  I'm
going on the stage.  I've found my name is worth
something."

She was a little disappointed and he was not
surprised.  "Oh, I'll soon become unbearable, I suppose.
Most of the time I don't spend in front of the make-up
glass looking at myself, I'll spend being looked at,
trying to propitiate an audience.  It's a school of
egoism.  But at least my pose will be honest.  I saw the
stage manager of the *Alcazar*, and I'm going to begin
to rehearse next Monday."

He spoke banteringly, but she felt the truth of his
jests.  Still, it would provide for the present.  It
would make him more than ever notorious—but it was
better than idleness.

The next day at ten o'clock she appeared at the
studio to spend the day with him.  It was Wednesday,
and they were anxious to make the most of what
time remained.

Except for his bed, table and bureau, his chamber
was empty now, all his effects having been sold at
auction.  The sum received barely sufficed to pay off
his debts.  The studio, too, was bare, and placards
hung outside both doors indicating that the premises
were to let.  The little office, however, was left as
usual, except for the casts of hands, put away in the
closet, and in this room they stayed by the open fire.

He was looking over his card catalogue as she
entered.  He had conceived the plan of writing a book
on palmistry along new lines, in which he might
embody his observations and theories.  His aim was
to attempt to correlate chirography, chiromancy,
phrenology, physiognomy and all those sciences and
pseudo-sciences which seek to interpret character through
specialized individual characteristics, and to trace the
evidences from one to another, showing how each
element or indication would recur in every manifestation
of a person's individuality, and how one symptom
might be inferred and corroborated by another.  It
would take time and trouble, but he could spend
his leisure upon it.  The plan was tentative and
hypothetical, but so suggestive that he was becoming
interested in proving its verification.  Clytie was
enthusiastic about the book and desirous of helping him.
He was becoming less afraid of her, and more sure
of himself, after their days together, and he greeted
her boldly enough, now.  Yet there was still a
fascinating novelty in his possession of her that made his
familiarity seem like recklessness.  Not for her,
however.  Once having given him her lips she could never
refuse them again, nor could she longer think the
action strange.

She took off her coat and hat, tucked in an errant
curl or two over her ears and seated herself
luxuriously in the arm-chair.  As she had played with him,
so now she worked with him, arranging his notes,
dictating for him to write, or stopping to discuss the
subject.  She was too adorable in all this assumption
of importance and seriousness for him not to
interrupt her occupation more than once, for which
diversion of her attention he was sent back promptly to his
desk.  The business kept them so employed for two
hours, when she opened her package, brought forth
their luncheon and brewed a pot of tea on the hearth.

"Francis," she said, after that was over, "do you
know we are actually becoming acquainted?  Isn't
it too bad!"

"Don't you enjoy the process?"

"Decidedly I do.  That's why I regret that it must
soon be over."

"I doubt if we'll ever finish—if we do, it will be
still more delightful to know you.  And this process
brings us toward that beautiful consummation."

"Yes, but this part is so pleasant.  I hate to see
it go.  I want to roll it over on my tongue.  Now,
every word you say is a revelation and a surprise—a
surprise that I have been anticipating all my life,
if you'll pardon the bull.  It's like unwrapping a
mummy—I get excitedly nearer and nearer my ideal
of you."

"But there's no satisfaction in opening doors if
one can't go in."

"Ah, there's the immortal difference between a man
and a woman!  Most men want a marvel, patent and
notorious.  They want to come to the end of the
rainbow and find the pot of gold; that's all, whether that
means a kiss or a marriage.  Women enjoy every step
of the journey.  Men think of nothing but fulfilment,
women of achievement.  Men care only for the black
art of the Indian fakir who makes a grain of wheat
grow to full maturity in a few minutes.  Women
appreciate the wonder of the natural development of
that same little seed in the warm bosom of the earth,
with its slow evolution of sprout and stalk and leaf
and blossom—the glory of every step on the way!"

"But, can't you see that progress in affection needn't
be a limited journey to a finite end, even the end of the
flower, but, no matter how fast one travels, if one
is really in love, the goal is always infinitely distant?
There are enough things to be understood and enjoyed."

"Oh, I'm sure enough that I'll never get enough of
you, and never know enough about you!"

"That's almost too true to be funny.  You'll never
know even who I am, I'm afraid.  Think what a risk
you run, my dear!"

"Oh, I know who you are well enough.  You're the
son of Casanova and Little Dorrit."

He grew reflective.  "Isn't it strange," he said,
"that you, with all your wonderful intuitions, shouldn't
be able, somehow, to solve that riddle?  Do you think
I am Madam Grant's son?  Sometimes that seems to
be the inevitable conclusion."

"I can't quite think you are, Francis.  Everything
you have told me about her has brought her very
near to me, somehow, and I feel as if I knew her, but
you don't affect me in the same way.  I think you're
a changeling, myself!  It is strange that I can't quite
'get' you now, though, not nearly as well as I used to.
My power seems to have waned ever since—"

"Since what?"

"Since that first kiss!  You see, I've exchanged that
elusive power for something tangible."  She put him
away with a gesture.  "No, not now!  I want to
be serious!  And oh, here's what I found in my father's
scrap-book.  It seemed to have been cut from a very
old paper.  Somehow it seems to point to her.  I want
to know what you think about it."

She had copied it out and read it to him:

.. vspace:: 2

"Miss Felicia Gerard, who spoke immediately after
Mrs. Woodhull's address, is one of that lady's most devoted
adherents and helpers, having been connected with the cause
for nearly a year.  Although only twenty years of age,
Miss Gerard has brought into action talents of no mean
order.  She was graduated at Vassar College, and is
endowed both physically and mentally with the rarest and
most lovable qualities.  She was first presented to
Mrs. Woodhull in Toledo, where the remarkable clairvoyant
powers shared by the two women drew them naturally
together.  Miss Gerard is a regular contributor to *Woodhull
and Claflin's Weekly* where her spirited articles have
attracted wide notice and flattering praise."

.. vspace:: 2

"That must be Mamsy," he said.

"I'm sure of it.  I shall ask my father as soon as
I get the opportunity."

For the rest of the afternoon they talked as if they
were never to meet again.  Once or twice there came
a knock, and the door was tried, but Granthope did
not answer, and they were left alone in peace.  She
rose to go at six, and, as she was to be busy all the
next day, the parting was long delayed.  They were,
indeed, getting rapidly acquainted.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RE-ENTRANT ANGLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE REËNTRANT ANGLE

.. vspace:: 2

Blanchard Cayley strolled into the Mercantile
Library, one afternoon, and, nodding to the clerk at the
desk, walked to an alcove in the corner of the main
hall.  He stopped at a shelf and sat down on a stool.
He had done this several afternoons a week for years,
going through the library as a business man takes
account of stock, examining every book in order.  Of
some he read only the titles, glancing perhaps also
at the date of the edition; of some he looked over the
table of contents.  Others he read, nibbling here and
there.  A few he took home.  He had, by this time,
almost exhausted the list.  He read, not like a
bookworm, with relish and zest, nor like a student desirous
of a mastery of his subject; he read, as he did everything,
even to his love-making, deliberately, accurately,
with an elaborate scientific method that was, in its
intricacy, something of a game, whose rules he alone
knew.  He had, indeed, specialized, taking up such
subjects as jade, Japanese poetry, Esperanto, higher
space, Bahiism, and devil-worship, and in such
subjects he had what is termed "lore," but his main object
was the conquest of the whole library in itself.

This afternoon he did not read long.  Looking
over the top of his book, as was his custom from time
to time, to discover what women were present, he
caught sight of Clytie Payson in the alcove containing
the government reports.  He replaced his volume and
went over to her.

She was in high spirits, and welcomed him cordially,
as if she had but just come from something interesting
and stimulating; another man's smile seemed still to
linger with her.

"Why, how d'you do, Blanchard?" she said.  "I
haven't seen you here for a long time.  What has
happened?  Have you finished the library yet?"

"Oh, no, not quite.  I've still a few more shelves
to do, but I've been studying psychology on the side."

She looked at him with an indulgence that was new
to him.  "In petticoats, I presume, then?"

He shrugged his shoulders.  "No, I've been studying
a man," he said.  "What are you doing?"

She overlooked the purport of his question and
answered lightly, "Oh, only looking up some statistics
for father.  I've been coming here quite often, lately,
but I'm almost finished, now.  Is there anything in the
world duller than a statistic?  I always think of the
man who went for information to a statistician at
Washington and was asked, 'What d'you want to prove?'"

"How is your father getting on with the book?"

Clytie grew a little more serious.  "Why, father's
queer lately.  I can't understand him at all.  He's
taken up with some spiritualists, and I'm rather
worried about it."

"He's talked to me about them.  But I should hardly
think you'd be surprised at it.  You're as much interested
in palmistry as he is in the spooks, aren't you?"

Clytie flashed a glance at him.  "Didn't you know
that Mr. Granthope had given up palmistry?"

Cayley smiled and smoothed his pointed beard.
"Oh, yes.  I've heard considerable about it.  Nobody
seems to understand it but me.  Very clever of him,
I think."

"What d'you mean?"  Clytie was instantly upon the
defense.

"I like his system.  It's subtle."

"His system?"

"Yes.  You don't mean to say you still think he's
sincere, do you?"

"I don't think it's necessary to discuss Mr. Granthope,"
said Clytie carelessly.  "Of course I do believe
he's sincere, or I wouldn't call myself a friend of his.
He has given up a good paying business because he
was sick of that way of earning a living."

"And also in order to make more money by quitting."

"How?"

"By marrying you."

She winced.  "Blanchard," she said, "if you weren't
an old friend, I couldn't forgive you that.  But because
you are, I can't permit you to think it."

"It was because we are old friends that I permitted
myself to speak so plainly.  You'll count it, I suppose,
merely as jealousy.  But I hate to see you taken in so
easily."

Clytie looked up at him calmly, folding her hands
in her lap.  "Now, Blanchard, please tell me exactly
what you mean, without any more insinuations."

"Why, Granthope has been for two months
trying to marry you.  He's after your money."

"Thank you for the implied compliment," she retorted dryly.

"Oh, well, you know perfectly well what *I* think
of you, Cly.  I was thinking of what I know of him,
not what I know of you.  He's made a deliberate
attempt to get you, and this reform business is only
a part of the game."

She smiled and turned away, as if she were so sure
of Granthope that it was hardly worth her while even
to defend him.

"It's not pleasant to say it," he went on; "but you
spoke of being distrustful of these mediums your father
knows, and my point is that Granthope's tarred with
the same brush.  He has worked with them and
plotted with them."

She was as yet unruffled; the spell of her happiness
was still upon her, and she answered mildly.  "I can
hardly blame you for thinking that, perhaps.  I
suppose I might myself, if I didn't know him so well.
But I do happen to know something about his life, and
I'm sure you're mistaken.  He's told me a good deal,
and I have my own intuitions besides."

Cayley was as serene.  "Do your intuitions tell you,
for instance, that he has a definite understanding with
these mediums—in regard to you?"

"No, they do not!" she answered calmly, looking
him fair in the face.

"It's true, nevertheless."  Cayley, with sharp eyes,
noted her flush.  Her eyes were well schooled, but her
quivering mouth betrayed her trouble.

She took up her book as if to dismiss the subject.

Cayley watched her with impassive eyes.  "You may
be his friend, as you say, but there are a lot of things
about Granthope that you don't know yet."

"No doubt," she replied without looking up.

"And there are things which you ought to know."

She looked at him now, to say: "Do you fancy
that you are helping your own chances any by
attacking him?"

"Will it help his chances any if you find that he
has given away particular facts that he's discovered
about you and your father?"

She had begun to be aroused, now, and she showed
fight.  "I don't believe it!"

Still unperturbed, he went on in his mechanically
precise way.  "I've made it my business to find out
about Granthope, Cly.  It shouldn't surprise you—you
know I'm in earnest about wanting you.  I'm as
earnest, too, in wanting to protect you.  I don't
propose to hold my tongue when I find that you're
trusting in a man that's knifing you behind your back."

Her voice rang with pride and scorn as she rose,
saying, "I don't care to discuss the matter further,
Blanchard."

"Not when I say that I have seen notes in Granthope's
own handwriting that were given to a medium
as a part of a deliberate scheme?  These notes were on
definite things he had learned, I'm sure, from his
conversations with you.  Some of them are personal
matters that I'm sure you wouldn't at all care to have
made public.  You could easily prove it if you saw them."

She had lost courage again, and hesitated, staring
at him.

Then she said, freezing, "Let me see them, then.  If
you're determined to have a scene, you may as well
follow the rules of melodrama."

"I can't show them, because this medium wouldn't
let them out of his possession.  But I can get him to
let you see them, if you like."

"You say they are about things we—that I talked
about?"

"Yes."

"Things—about—*me*?"

"Yes.  I forget all of them.  I had only a moment's
glance."

For some moments she stood silent.  Then she
spoke swiftly.  "I don't believe it.  He couldn't do
such a thing!"

"My dear Cly, you must remember that one's whole
mental evolution is merely the history of the conflict
between reason and instinct, and reason is bound to
win in the end.  That's the way we develop.  The
fact is, he *could* do it and *did* do it.  He's a charlatan
and he has used a charlatan's methods.  I said he was
clever.  This giving up his studio was merely a kind
of gambit.  But he made a mistake when he tried to
use a lot of cheap fakirs to help him out with you."

"Oh!"  She clenched her fists.  "Don't!  I won't
stand it!"  Her head dropped as if she were weary.
Her eyes burned.

"Oh, there's good in everybody, the copy-books say,"
he returned.  "But the fact is, Cly, he isn't in your
class, and never was.  You should have seen that!"

She looked at him without seeing him, her eyes
caught meaninglessly by the garnet in his tie, clinging
to it, as if it were the only real thing in the world.
Her lips parted, the color was leaving her cheeks,
she looked as frail as a ghost.  Suddenly she threw
off her reverie, and placing her hand on his arm, said,
"Let me see them—the notes—Blanchard.  There
must be some horrid mistake.  I want to clear it up
immediately."

"Very well, I'll take you now, if you like.  It isn't far."

She followed him out of the library as if hypnotized.
They spoke little on the way.  Cayley tried his best to
arouse her, but finally gave it up as impossible.  He
watched her, preserving his usual phlegmatic calm.
She walked with head erect, her chin forward, with her
long, graceful gait, beside him, but never seemed two
human beings further apart in spirit.

Flora Flint opened the door to Vixley's flat.  She
acted quite as if she belonged there and invited them
in cordially, with an up-and-down scrutiny of Clytie
as they passed in.  Then she disappeared down the
long, tunnel-like hall.  Cayley took Clytie into the
office where, refusing a chair, she stood like a statue,
her eyes fixed on the door.

Vixley entered, currying his beard with his long
fingers.  "Well, Mr. Cayley," he said, "what can we
do for you?  Like a sitting?"

"Professor, you recall telling me something about
some memoranda Granthope gave you, don't you?"

"I been thinkin' about that, Mr. Cayley, and I don't
know as I ought to have said anything.  I'm rather
inclined to regret it."

"You *have* said something, and I've brought this
lady down to show the memoranda to her," said Cayley.

"H'm!"  Vixley looked her over.  "It ain't exactly
customary to show things like that, you know."

"We've had all that out before.  I'm here to see
those cards."

Vixley drew up a rocking-chair for Clytie, and
seated himself on the edge of the revolving chair in
front of his desk, putting the tips of his long fingers
together.  "Francis Granthope is a bright young man,"
he said, "a very bright young man.  Very painstaking,
and very thorough.  I won't say he ain't a *leetle*
bit unscrupulous, however.  A man who ain't got no
psychic influence behind him has got to do some pretty
good guessin'.  Now you go to work and take me, with
my control, Theodore Parker, and his band o' spirits,
I don't need to bother much.  I can get all I want out
of the other plane.  I ain't sayin' nothin' against
Granthope, except maybe that he uses methods, sometimes,
that ain't *exactly* legitimate, such as what I was
tellin' you about."

"How did he happen to give you these notes?" Clytie asked.

"Why, I s'pose he expected me to give him an
equivalent in return.  I will say I have helped him out,
at times, feelin' rather predisposed toward him, and
him bein' a likely chap.  But Lord, *I* don't need his
help!  And so I told him.  In this case I didn't feel
called upon to give away none of my client's affairs.
Naturally he got a little huffy about it, and he's acted
so that I'm inclined to resent it.  I can't bear anything
like ingratitude."

He opened his desk and took from a pigeonhole two
cards.  He handed them to Clytie.

"I was tellin' Mr. Cayley, here, I knew about
Granthope and his methods.  It'll show you what a poor
business this palm-readin' reely is.  Lord, they ain't
nothin' in it at all!  If anybody wants to know anything
about the future the only way to do is to establish
communications with the spirit-plane through the
well-known and well-tried methods of spiritualism."

Clytie was not listening.  Her eyes were upon the
cards.  She looked and looked, reading and re-reading,
her face set in tense lines, the notes in Granthope's
fine, closely written hand.  There it was, as he had set
it down:

.. vspace:: 2

Oliver Payson, b. Oct. 2nd, 1842.  b. d. present from dau.,
bound copy of 'Montaigne' 1900.  Tattoo mark anchor on
right arm, near shoulder.  Writing a book.  Economics (?)
Knew Mad. Grant (?) Wife visited Mad.  G. x. v. p.

Clytie Payson.  Engaged to Blanchard Cayley (?) Mole,
left cheek.  Ring with "Clytie" inside.  Turquoises.  Claims
psychic power.  Clairv.  Goes to Merc. Lib. afternoons at 3.
Buried doll under sun-dial in garden.

.. vspace:: 2

As she came to the last line she dropped the card
from her fingers.  She had become a woman of ice.

Vixley picked up the card and smiled, showing
his yellow teeth.  "Kind of a give-away, ain't it?  *I*
call his work lumpy."

"I hope you're convinced now," Cayley added.

She turned her head slowly, deliberately, to the
Professor.  "When did Mr. Granthope give you this
card?"

"Oh, I dunno, exactly, he's gave me so much, one
time or another.  About two weeks ago, I should
judge.  Why?"

"I'm very much obliged to you."  Her voice came
as if from an immense distance.  Then she nodded
to Cayley, who rose.

"Nothin' more I could do, is they?  Wouldn't you
like to try a sittin', Miss?" Vixley asked with urbanity.

"Thank you, no."  Clytie walked out slowly,
without another look at him, like a somnambulist.
Vixley hastened to escort her to the front door,
and opened it.

Cayley gave him a look.  It was returned.  Vixley
bowed.  Clytie went out.

"Are you going over to North Beach?" Cayley
inquired.  "I'll walk up to the car with you."

"I'll go alone, I think."

"Oh, very well—but—"

"Good afternoon.  You'll have to excuse me, Blanchard."

"All right.  Good day."

She strode off, leaving him there.

She walked all the way home, and walked fast, her
head held high, looking straight ahead of her.  She
took the steep hills with hardly a slackening of her
speed, breasting the upward inclines energetically,
leaning forward with grace.  Up Nob Hill and
down she went, along the saddle, up Russian Hill and
over, without her customary pause to enjoy the glorious
outlooks.  Under her arm she still carried the book
from the library which she had forgotten to put down
when first Blanchard Cayley spoke to her.  She held
it automatically, apparently not knowing that it was
there.  With it she gripped her glove; her right hand
was still bare, clenching her skirt.

She turned into her street at last, and climbed the
wooden steps, into the garden.  As she went up the
path, her eyes lighted upon the sun-dial.  She stopped
and looked at it for a moment fixedly.  Then into the
house, up-stairs to her room, to throw herself upon
the bed...

.. vspace:: 2

The wind had risen and blew gustily about the
house.  Her shutter banged at intervals.  The noise
kept up till she rose, opened the window and
fastened back the blind, and went back to her bed.  There
she lay, staring, with her eyes wide open...

.. vspace:: 2

Her father did not come home that evening.  At
half-past seven she got up again, washed her face,
arranged her hair, and went down-stairs to eat dinner
alone.  Afterward she stepped out into the garden.
The wind billowed her skirts, fretted her hair into a
swirl of tawny brown, cooled her cheeks.  For an
hour she walked up and down in the dark.  The
harbor was thick with mist.  The siren on Lime Point
sobbed across the Gate intermittently ...

.. vspace:: 2

Later, she went into the library and sat down with
a book beside the fire.  For a half-hour she did not
turn a page, but remained quiescent, gazing at the
flames...

.. vspace:: 2

At ten she went up to her workroom, lighted the
gas, and took out her tools.  For two hours she
sewed leaves on her frame, working as if automatically.
Her gaze was intent; one would have said that
she was completely absorbed in her task.  Slowly the
sheets piled, one on another, each stitched to the back
with deft strokes.  Finally the whole volume was
completed.  She bound up the loose threads and put the
book away.  Then she heated her irons, got out her
gold-leaf and spent an hour tooling a calf cover, pressing
in roses and circles and stipples while her lips were
sternly set.  She arose, then, and looked out into
the night...

.. vspace:: 2

She undressed at last and went to bed.  Long after
midnight there was a sound below of her father
coming in.  His footsteps went to and fro for a
time, then they came up-stairs.  His door was closed
softly.  There was no sound, now, but the ticking of
her little clock, and, occasionally, the far-away echo of
a steamer's whistle, and the dreary note of the siren.
She tossed uneasily.  The clock struck one, two, three,
four.  Then the wind began to sing round the corner
of the house as the gale rose.  The noise was
soothingly monotonous, hypnotic, anesthetic...

.. vspace:: 2

At breakfast she was cool, serene, quiet, showing no
traces of her emotion.  She talked with her father,
laughed with him, as usual, flying from one topic to
another, never serious.  As he got up to go, she
remarked:

"Father, I think I'll go up to Sacramento to visit
Mrs. Maxwell at Lonely a few days.  I've put it off
so long, and she's been after me again to come.  She's
up there all alone."

"All right, Cly.  I saw her down-town, day before
yesterday, and she told me she was going to ask you."

Clytie frowned.  "You did?  Why didn't you tell
me?"  She looked at him for a moment curiously.  He
seemed to wish to evade her question.  Then she asked,
with emphasis, "Did you ask her to invite me?"

Mr. Payson hesitated.  "Why, I told her that you
would probably accept—"

She bit her lip, still frowning.  "I understand.  On
account of Mr. Granthope, I presume?"

"Well, I thought it would be just as well for you
to take a little vacation."

Clytie said nothing.  Mr. Payson lingered, ill at ease
in the face of her implications.  At last he looked at
her over his spectacles and said petulantly: "I've
been surprised at you, Cly, really.  I have been
considerably worried, as well.  I'm afraid you've
compromised yourself seriously by having been seen
so much with Granthope.  I haven't spoken of it,
before, because I had already said all I could to you.
You knew very well what my wishes were in the
matter and it seems you've seen fit to disregard them."

Clytie still kept silent, listening to him calmly.  He
had worked himself up by his own words to an irascible
pitch, but her non-resistance balked his temper,
and it oozed away, as he continued.

"I hope this trip will give you a chance to think
it well over, Cly, and I have no doubt that you'll come
to see it as I do."

"Oh, I'll think it over," she replied listlessly.

Mr. Payson, having won his point in getting her out
of town, shook his head without replying, and
prepared to leave the room.

But Clytie continued.  "At least, I am sure he was
sincere in warning you against those mediums you
are going to, father."

He turned to her, his irritability rekindled by her
remark.  "That's exactly what I most dislike about
the man," he exclaimed.  "If he hadn't attempted to
prejudice me against them I might believe in his own
change of heart, or whatever it was.  But he went
back on the very people with whom he's been
associated for years.  Isn't that suspicious?"

"Didn't he do that to save you from their tricks?"  Her
voice was low and evidently troubled; she seemed
to be attempting to convince herself, rather than her
father.

"I notice he didn't explain how they managed to
give me my tests," Mr. Payson retorted, shaking his
head emphatically.  "He seemed to consider me the
most simple and credulous person in the world.  His
statements, at least those he dared to make, were all
general ones, and they implied that I was not old
enough, or else, perhaps, too old to sift the evidence
for myself.  They were positively insulting.  These
mediums have given me proof enough to convince
any one.  They've told me things that couldn't
possibly have been found out by any tricks.  Take that
about your giving me a copy of *Montaigne* for my
birthday, for instance.  How could they have found
that out?  You hadn't told any one about it, had you?"

"No," said Clytie faintly.

"There you are, then!"  Mr. Payson wagged his
head solemnly.  "What did I tell you?"

"What else did they say?" Clytie asked anxiously.

"Plenty of things.  Things I myself didn't know the
truth about till I investigated.  Things about my
personal affairs, about my past life—oh, so much that
I can't help feeling that there's something in this
business that we don't understand.  Oh!"—he paused
for a moment, looking at her—"there was one thing
I wanted to ask you about—I forgot to speak of it.
It sounded like nonsense, at the time—you know that
even spirits are sometimes frivolous and inconsequent—and
there were so many other more important
communications at the time that it slipped my mind.
Vixley's control said something once about a doll that was
buried underneath—"

"Oh, I forgot to ring up Mrs. Maxwell," Clytie
interrupted, springing up.  "I *must* tell her I'm
coming.  If I don't do it right away now I may not catch
her—it takes so long to get a long distance connection."

She went up to him and putting her arms round
his neck, kissed him.  "Don't wait, father, if you're
in a hurry.  Good-by!"

She walked to the door.

"Well, then, I'll go along down-town," he said.  "Be
sure and write when you get up there."

She left him hurriedly and ran up-stairs.

.. vspace:: 2

At ten she was at the ferry, waiting for the boat
which connected with the Sacramento train.  There
was a crowd going, coming and waiting in the long
arcade outside.  As she approached the ticket office a man
was at the window.  He was tall, dark-haired,
distinguished.  At sight of him, Clytie withdrew out of
sight, and let him finish his business and leave.  Then
she approached, bought her ticket, and, watching
sharply, dodging behind groups here and there, she
succeeded in passing the ticket collector and losing
herself in the assembly in the waiting-room without
being observed.  She wormed her way forward near
the gate, and with the first rush of passengers, after
the gate was raised, hurried on to the boat and went,
immediately into the ladies' room.

On the other side she acted as cautiously.  She
remained till almost the last passenger had left the
boat, then walked swiftly through the train-shed to
her car.  For an hour, as the train sped on, she
scarcely looked to the right or the left.

The train slowed up at Stockton, and stopped.  Clytie
looked carelessly out of the window.  Just as the
train started again, Granthope appeared on the
platform.  He went up to a cab-driver and began talking.
Clytie, flushing deeply, watched him so intensely that
at last, as if attracted by some mental telepathy, he
looked round and caught sight of her.  His hat came
off to her immediately.  He gave a quick glance at the
now rapidly moving train, as if intending to board it,
then he gave it up as impossible.  Clytie's eyes lost
him, and she was carried on.  It was a long time
before the color faded from her cheeks.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TIT FOR TAT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   TIT FOR TAT

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Professor Vixley had prepared his campaign with
Mr. Payson with the scientific delight of an engineer.
His cunning was not too low to prevent his love of
the sport for the sport's sake, and his elaborations
and by-plays were undertaken with relish and enthusiasm.
The pleasure was vastly heightened for him by
the character of his dupe.  Mr. Payson was a figure
in the community, a man of weight and influence.  He
had an established position and an assured wealth.
Heavy and slow, mentally, he had the dignified
respectability that is usually associated with business success.

In the mental manipulation of such a personage
Vixley felt a sense of power as enjoyable as the
pecuniary reward.  The dwarf, socially, led the giant.

He had his charge, by this time, well in hand.  The
old gentleman's ponderous mentality had been
managed like an ocean steamship lying at the dock.  One
by one the lines of doubt and distrust and prejudice
had been released.  It was now time to fire his
intellectual boilers.  By means of their tricks,
eavesdropping methods and clever guess-work, and with
Cayley's help, they had fed him fuel for the imagination
until now he was roused to a dynamic, enthusiastic
belief in spiritualism, or that version of it which best
suited their ends.  Captain and pilot were aboard and
in command.  It remained but to ring up the engines,
turn over the wheel and get under way for the voyage.
Many another such argosy had been fitted out and had
sailed forth from their brains, to return laden with
treasure.  There was hazard of collision or shipwreck,
but the only obstacle now in view was Granthope,
and Vixley felt sure that he could be blown out of
the way with the explosion of a few scandals.

Mr. Payson's mind had an inertia which, once
successfully overcome, was transformed to momentum.
He was as credulous, as responsive, as influenced by
the specious logic of the medium as if he had never
been a skeptic.  Vixley's next move was to realize
financially on Payson's vanity and literary aspirations.

The ensuing series of communications from "Felicia,"
automatically transcribed by Vixley, developed
the fact Mr. Payson's book would meet with
disastrous competition from an unknown author who was
working upon the same subject in Chicago.  Such a
publication would, in the eyes of any publisher,
materially affect the value of a San Francisco book.
Something must be done to prevent the rival work from
being printed.  The first step necessary, Vixley
asserted, was to send a man to Chicago and investigate
the case and report upon it.  This preliminary
reconnaissance cost a considerable sum.  Payson did not see
the emissary, for Vixley had warned him of the possibility
of blackmail.  "Felicia" now informed the sitter
that the aid of the spirit world could be invoked to
forestall the competing writer's efforts.

There was a band of spirits on the "third sphere,"
it seemed, who, though usually maleficent, could be
placated.  These "Diakkas" could, and possibly would,
exert certain magnetic or psychic powers so as to
prevent competition.  It was difficult, however, to win
over spirits so fantastic as these, even when one had
established communication with them—itself an
intricate and dangerous process.  The only safe way,
Mr. Payson was assured, was to create an atmosphere
pleasing to them, one which absorbed antagonistic
vibrations, and facilitated communication by intensifying
the sitter's aura and rendering their acceptance
of earthly conditions easy.  And so forth, through an
elaborate exposition.

The thing was accomplished by means of charging
the room with the perfume of ambergris.  Ambergris,
however, was expensive.  Mr. Payson had to pay fifty
dollars an ounce for his; moreover, a fresh supply was
necessary for each séance as the material quickly
absorbed the deleterious psycho-physical elements of
the atmosphere, and became inert to vibration.
Professor Vixley divided this revenue with Madam Spoll,
but he could not divide his pleasure in his artful
fiction.  Madam Spoll was only a woman; the artistic
niceties of the harlequinade were lost on her.

This could not, however, go on for ever, nor were
the two conspirators content to do business in so small
a way.  Both were convinced that the only chance for
a large and permanent income lay in the production
of Payson's and Felicia's child, and they set about the
plan by which this should become remunerative.

Ringa was settled upon for the impersonation.  He
was simple, easily taught and led; he was willing.
He would be as easily managed when the time came
for a division of the profits of the enterprise.  And
so, one day, Madam Spoll waddled out to Turk Street
to complete the negotiations.

Professor Vixley was bending over a small machine
with horizontal arms in the form of a cross, decorated
with mirrors, when she rang; before opening the door
he covered the instrument with a black cloth and put
it on his roll-top desk by the type-writer.

Madam Spoll came in smiling, unruffled as if her
face had been freshly ironed out.

"I been walking lately, to reduce my flesh, but, Lord,
I get such an appetite I eat more'n enough to balance,"
she panted, as she lowered herself carefully upon the
quilted couch and crushed back into a sofa pillow,
whereon was painted a fencing girl with a heart on
her plastron.  She loosened her beaded cape, and
breathed heavily in relief.

"Well, I managed to get here, after all!  What
d'you think?  Mrs. Riley has been to me for a private
setting.  Do you recall her, Vixley?  She's that
woman who was tried for murdering her husband some
years back and was acquitted; or rather the jury was
hung.  Anyways, *she* wasn't.  But I believe she done
it.  She's as nervous as a cat, and can't look you in
the face to save her soul.  It seems that she knew
Madam Grant in the old days, and used to get readings
off her.  I don't know but we could use her, someway."

"Has she got any money?" said the slate-writer.

"She keeps a boarding-house, I believe.  It wouldn't
be much, but 'every little helps,' as the old lady said
when she spit into the harbor.  I might work her for
five a week, I s'pose, but now I think of it,
Masterson's doctoring her."

"Then they won't be much meat left on her bones!"
Vixley grinned.  "But I ain't botherin' with landladies
till we finish with Payson.  Did you see him yesterday?"

"I did, and he said he'd give a thousand dollars if
we'd find the boy.  I shouldn't wonder if he'd pay
more if we work it right, not to speak of what we get
from Ringa when he's fixed."

"Lord!  A thousand dollars for Ringa!  Wouldn't
that make you seasick?"  Vixley cackled, slapping his
claw-like hand on his knee.  "I say, Gertie, we ought
to get a couple of good crockery teeth put in his
jaw first, or the old man will want to return him for
shop-worn.  Ringa as Mr. Max Payson, Esquire!  Gee
whizz!  I want to be there when the old gent falls on
his neck and kills the fatted calf!"

"I've known a heap of worse boys than Max Ringa
to have for a son," Madam Spoll said, a little irritated.
"You go to work and wash him and dress him up in
a Prince Albert and I don't know why he won't do as
well as anybody."

"Oh, he'll do—he'll do elegant!  He'll do Payson,
anyways, and that's all we want."

"Oh, I'm going to teach him to jump through the
hoop all right.  He'll be doing the papa's darling act
so natural you'll think he'd always slep' in a bed!"  She
chuckled now till she shook like a jelly-fish.
"He's just crazy about it.  Says he'll come down and
take me to ride in his automobile car.  Why, Payson
will be good for all sorts of money if Ringa works him
right.  He ought to get an allowance of two or three
hundred a month if the old man's got any proper
feelings as a father."

"It's more'n likely he'll pay Ringa to stay away,"
Vixley remarked cynically.  "I've seen these here fond
parents before.  I don't seem to see Ringa doin'
society somehow.  He'd be tryin' to blow the foam off
his champagne and chewin' tobacco in the ball-room
the first thing.  But he'll do for a starter.  If worse
comes to worst we can hold the old man up to keep the
story dark—and then there's the weeklies, they
wouldn't mind gettin' hold of it."

"Say!" Madam Spoll suddenly exclaimed, "what's
become of Fancy Gray, now that Frank has thrown
her down?"

"Why, ain't you heard?  She's took up with this
fellow Cayley."

"No!"  Madam Spoll's eyes were opened wide at
the bit of gossip.  "What's he up to with her,
anyway?"

"Why, I expect he's trying to use her someway, so's
to queer Frank's game with Miss Payson.  Fancy
knows all about Frank, if she can be induced to tell.
If Cayley can show Frank up, he stands a better show
to catch Miss Payson himself.  At least, that's the
way I figure it.  I ain't got no idea that Cayley cares
a rap for Fancy, but he's smooth, and as long as he can
use her he'll keep her jollied along."

The Madam had been thinking hard.  "Fancy ought
to be pretty sore on Frank," she offered.

"I don't blame her.  He's treated her bad."

"And there's no doubt about her being stuck on Cayley?"

"It certainly looks like it; she's with him all the time."

"Well, then, what's the matter with getting Cayley
to work her so she can help us out with Payson?  I
believe we could use her good.  She's a saucy chit, and
she makes me tired with her fly-up-the-creek
impudence; but all the same, she's clever, and if Cayley
could only induce her to go into it, I can see lots
of ways she could help."

Vixley thought over the matter for a few minutes in
silence.  "All right, Gertie, I'll speak to him about it.
I guess he'll do it; he'll be afraid not to.  We got
him pretty well tied up, now."

"You can promise him that Felicia will recommend
that he marries the girl.  That'll be an inducement."

"I'm afraid the Payson girl has got something to
say about that herself, from all I hear."

"Well, at any rate, we've queered Frank Granthope,
and that's what Cayley wanted most."

"I guess so; at least, that's what I make out from
what he says.  He's pretty close-mouthed."

"Well, if he ain't close-mouthed about Payson, he
can tend to his own affairs alone, for all I care.  Has
he gave you any more dope?"

"Has he!  Why, he's been a-ringin' of me up every
day, tippin' me off to everything the old man's up to!"

"You ain't let on anything about this child business
to Cayley, have you?"

"D'you think I want to queer the whole game?
Of course not.  Why, Cayley would be scared that
the daughter wouldn't get any of the money if he
knew they was another heir.  All the same, we got to
be careful of Cayley, for he certainly has helped
considerable.  The old man wouldn't be where we got
him now if Cayley hadn't shown up.  What d'you
think he told me this mornin'?  Payson's been round
to a lot of printers, gettin' estimates on the book, so's
he can publish it hisself!  Ain't that a gall?  He
never asked my advice about it!  I'm going to give
him a dig about that."

"Oh, well, let's get down to business, I ain't got
any too much time," Madam Spoll interrupted.
"About the materializing, now.  We got to have a
private séance, of course?"

Vixley rose, clasped his hands behind his back, and
lifted himself up and down on his toes as he gazed
at her.  "I been a-thinkin' it over, Gert, and I come
to the conclusion that it ain't best.  Payson ain't
prepared for it yet, and we got to go easy.  He ain't
actually convinced of physical mediumship yet, as it is.
I think we better spring it on him at a public.  Flora
can pack the room with believers and cappers, and
then, after Payson's seen a lot of other folks recognizin'
spirits and gettin' messages, why, he'll be more
inclined to swallow his test.  I've made a study of
him, and that's my opinion."

"Has Flora got plenty of help?"

"She wants one more girl to play spirit, for she's
just lost a dandy she had—she was arrested for shopliftin',
I believe.  We can fix her up, though.  There's
your Miss French, for one."

"I don't trust her much, but she'll do on a pinch.
But Perry we must have.  It's better to use our own
people.  Who's Flora's cabinet control?"

"Little Starlight.  Flora does her with a telescope
rod.  Oh, Flora's slick!  She's a cracker jack of a
ventriloquist—she's got at least six good voices!"

"How does she work, now?  From the front seats?"

"No, mostly through the foldin' doors.  As soon
as the room is dark and the singin' has commenced
she has the door rolled back the wrong way about a
foot, and her players come in that way.  They don't
show against the black cloth, and they's no danger at
all, for if anybody wants to examine the cabinet they
ain't no panels nor nothing to be exposed.  Flora's
just got up a grand disappearance act, she tells me.
She wears a white petticoat and her overskirt is lined
with white.  When she comes out of the cabinet her
skirt is lifted up and wrapped round her head inside-out,
as natural as life.  Then she gradually lowers it
and the whole form slowly disappears down to the
ground like a snow-man meltin' in the sun.  No, sir,
you can't beat that girl, not in this town!"

"Vixley, I don't see no end to this graft.  Why,
after we've materialized we can etherealize, can't we?"

"Yes, and then we'll develop him till he don't know
where he's at."

"And spirit-pictures, too.  Felicia'll take a grand
photograph!"

"You bet.  I'm going to try them big cloth ones
that you spray with prussiate o' potash.  You can get
blue, yeller, and brown fine.  I been workin' on it
already."

A ring at the front door-bell interrupted her
colloquy.  Vixley tiptoed to the window and peeped
out; then he turned with a scowl.

"It's Doc Masterson.  What the devil does *he*
want, anyway?"

"No good, I'll bet," she replied.

"I got to let him in, I s'pose.  It won't do to send
him away, the old snake-in-the-grass.  He's too
smooth!"

"Oh, I ain't afraid of him.  I wan't born yesterday,"
was her contemptuous reply.

"All the same, you be careful what you say to him,
Gert," Vixley cautioned, as he went out into the hall.

He reappeared with the doctor.  Madam Spoll
smiled sweetly.

Doctor Masterson greeted her with a sour
expression, and shook hands limply.  He sat down
deliberately, and, pulling out a soiled silk handkerchief,
wiped his creased forehead and his bald pate.  Then
he cleaned his iron-bowed spectacles, blinking his
red eyes as he breathed on the lenses.

Vixley, from the organ bench, watched him
shrewdly, and offered him a cigar.

"No, thanks, I don't smoke," said the doctor
peevishly.

"Since when?" Vixley asked in surprise.

"Since you give me that last 'Flor de Chinatown,'
or whatever it was.  When I want to smoke rag
carpets again I'll try another."  He showed his black
teeth in a vicious grin.

Vixley tittered.  "What's wrong, Doc?  Looks like
you had a grouch.  Been takin' too much of Hasandoka's
medicine lately?  You didn't come round here
to look a gift-horse in the mouth, did you?"

The doctor cleared his throat and pulled down his
plaid waistcoat.  "No, I didn't.  But I didn't come
round for to give you any hot air, neither!  I'm glad
I struck Madam Spoll here, for what I got to say may
interest her, too."

"Spit it out and get rid of it, then," said Vixley;
"don't mind us."

"The fact is," said Masterson, "you ain't neither of
you treated me square.  I fully expected to be in on
this Payson game, from what you led me to believe,
and you not only let me out with only a month's work,
but you've shut me off from the main graft."

Madam Spoll fired up.  "We never told you we was
going to whack up with you, at all!  Seems to me
you got considerable nerve to try and butt in!  Who's
running this thing, anyway?  You got all that's
coming to you.  We ain't never took him into partnership,
Vixley, have we?"

"I ain't seen no contrack to that effect.  You
ain't got no call to complain, Doc; they ain't enough
in it for three.  Payson ain't loosened up enough for
us to retire on it, yet."

Masterson's thin lips drew back like a hound's, to
show his fangs.  His Adam's apple rose and fell above
his celluloid collar, as he swallowed his irritation.
"*Oh*, very well," he said quickly.  "Of course, if you
want to freeze me out, you can.  But I don't call it a
square deal.  I was the one what got him going,
wan't I?  Didn't I do my part all right?  I
understand you're going to materialize him and develop
him, and the Lord knows what-all.  I don't see why
you can't find room for me, somewhere."

"You ought to be thankful for what you got out
of it!" Madam Spoll exclaimed.  "Lord, we didn't
have to take you on at all!  They's plenty of others
we could have used.  You're three hundred ahead of the
game as it stands, and that's more than you've ever
made in six months, before.  Don't be a hog!"

"That's a nice thing for *you* to say," he sneered.
"When I get up to two hundred pounds I'll begin to
worry about *that*."

Vixley interfered craftily.  "We'll think it over and
let you know, Doc; we may be able to use you, perhaps,
but we can't tell yet a while—not till we see
how this thing turns out."

Madam Spoll broke in again, shaking her fat finger
at him.  "Don't you believe it, Masterson!  Me and
Vixley can work this thing alone, and you better keep
your nose out of our business!  If you come here
looking for trouble, you can find it, fast enough!"

Vixley winked at her, but she was too angry to
notice it.  Masterson rose stiffly and faced her, his
thumbs caught in the armholes of his plaid waistcoat.
"All right," he said.  "I ain't going to get down
on to my knees to *you*.  But the next time I'm asked
for a good clairvoyant, it won't be you.  I only ask
what's fair, and I didn't come here for to be insulted."

"Oh, get on to yourself!" Vixley said, taking him
by the arm.  "Nobody ain't insulted you.  You can't
blame us if we want to do this our own way, can you?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and took a few
steps toward the door.  "You may think better of it
when you talk it over," he hinted darkly.  "You may
see my side of it.  Good afternoon, Madam Spoll, I
won't take no more of your valuable time."  He
walked out.

"You was a fool, Gert," said Vixley, after the
door slammed.  "It won't do to let him get down on
us.  He knows too much."

"Pooh!" she flouted, bridling.  "I ain't afraid of
Masterson, nor anybody like him.  He ain't got
enough blood in his neck to do anything.  He just
came round here like a pan-handler to see if we
wouldn't give him a poke-out.  I'll see him further!"

"I ain't so sure," Vixley replied, rubbing his beard
thoughtfully.  "My rule is, don't make no enemies if
you can help it.  But of course we got to cut him out."

Madam Spoll subsided and changed the subject.
"Have you got that developing machine yet?" she
asked, her eyes, roving about the room.

He walked to the desk and carried the machine to
the small table in front of her.  Taking off the cloth
he disclosed the revolving mirrors actuated by clockwork.
It was much like the instrument first used by
Braid in his experiments with mesmerism.  He wound
the spring and set the mirrors in motion.  They
whirled madly in their circle, casting flashes of light.

"That's the way it works—you just stare at it
hard.  I guess that will hold Payson a while.  He's
got the scientific bug enough to like this sort of
thing."

Madam Spoll put her elbow on the table and rested
her head on her hand, gazing, fascinated, at the flash
of the revolving mirrors.  As the machine began to
whir, the canary in the cage by the window began
warbling in an ecstasy of song.  Vixley swore at the
bird, and then, as it refused to stop, took down the
cage and walked to the door with it.

"I guess that'll bring Felicia, all right, won't it?"
he said as he went out of the room, leaving Madam
Spoll transfixed, lulled and charmed by the flying
mirrors.

He was gone longer than he intended; it was seven
or eight minutes before he returned, whistling through
his teeth.  He turned into the front room and stopped
in astonishment.

Madam Spoll was standing beside the machine,
which had now run down.  Her eyes stared blankly
at the desk, one hand clutched her breast, the other
was raised, as if to put something away from her.
Her little low-crowned Derby hat had fallen partly
off and hung on one side of her head.  She stared,
without speaking, her face set with an expression of
terror.

"For Heaven's sake, Gert, what's the matter?" he
cried.

She turned her eyes slowly toward him, shuddered,
sighed, and her hands fell together.  Then her face
lighted up in a frenzy.  "My God, Vixley, I got it!
I got it!  After all these years!"

"Got what, you crazy fool?  The jimjams?"

"I got materializing—I got a spirit!  She was
right over there by the desk—a woman with white
hair, it was, and she give me a message!"

"Rats!"  Vixley was contemptuous.  He took her
hand and gave her a little shake.  "Is *that* all?  I
guess you was hypnotized, Gert, that's all.  That's
what I got this jigger for, only I never thought *you'd*
be one to go off half-cock like that!"

"Vixley," she said emphatically, "don't you be a
fool!  I see a spirit for the first time in my life, and
you can't make me believe I didn't.  And I know who
it was, now.  It was Felicia Grant, as I'm a sinner,
and she came to warn me about Payson.  Oh, you
can laugh; I s'pose I would if I was you, but this
was the real thing, sure!"

She reseated herself on the sofa and put her hands
to her eyes.  Vixley sat on the arm of the Morris
chair and laughed loudly.  "Well, well!" he
exclaimed, "if that ain't a good one!  Spirit, was it?
Well, I guess if it'll work on Gertie Spoll it'll work on
Payson, all right.  Oh, Lord!"

She shook both hands wildly, almost hysterical with
excitement, the tears flowing.  "My God!  We can't
go on with Payson now.  I don't dare to.  I'm frightened."

"Oh, you just got an attack of nerves, that's all.
You'll get over it and laugh at it.  You keep still and
cool off."

She wagged her head solemnly, unconscious of her
hanging hat.  "See here, Vixley, you know me!
I'm too old a bird to be fooled with fakes—I've done
too much of that myself.  I've always claimed that I
had clairvoyance, but I lied.  I never got that nor
clairaudience, no matter how I tried for it, and I've
had to fake.  I've had a gift o' guessing, perhaps,
but that's all.  But I swear to God, I got materializing
just now.  I've scoffed at it all my life, but I believe it
now.  I see her just as soon as you left, standing
right over there by the desk, she was, and she turned
to me and she says, 'If you persist you will come to
harm.  Take my advice and don't you do it!' and then
she faded away.  What d'you s'pose it means?"

"It means you need a drink," he said, and, walking
to the desk, he took out a whisky bottle and poured
out a stiff dose.  "Them's the spirits that'll help you
most.  You put this down and see how you feel!"

She put it away with an impatient gesture.  "Oh,
you don't believe it," she cried, "but I see her just as
plain as I see you this minute, and I heard her, too.
What'll I do, Vixley?  I can't give up my business,
can I?  I got to live."

"What's the matter with you?  I don't see as they's
anything to worry about, granted it was a spirit, which
it wasn't one, o' course."

"She said, 'If you persist you will come to harm!'
What else could that mean but Payson?  Let's call
it all off, before anything happens."

"Bosh!  It ain't likely it meant Payson any more
than it did anything else.  Why, the thing is as
simple as a rattle.  Spirits be damned!  You leave that to
the suckers—with money."

Although his incredulity and sneers prevented her
from actually withdrawing from the projected séance,
she was by no means restored to calmness.  She gave
but a reluctant, distracted attention to his plans, and
talked little herself.  She went home oppressed by
the sinister suggestions of her vision, muttering her
dread for the future.





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.. _`THE MATERIALIZING SEANCE`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


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   THE MATERIALIZING SÉANCE

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..

   FLORA FLINT'S Marvelous Spirit Messages
   and Grand Materializing Test Séance To-night.
   50c.  5203 Van Ness Ave.  Come, Skeptics.

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Dougal pointed to this notice in the *Call* one night
at Fulda's.  There were six at table; he and Mabel
and Elsie, Maxim, Starr and Benton.

Benton took up the paper, with a gleam in his eyes,
as one who smelled the battle from afar.  Starr was
for going, most enthusiastically for it; he wanted
another chance of seeing Benton in action.  Maxim
was always to be depended upon; he never refused
to go with the others.  Elsie smiled and did not
commit herself to an opinion.  She was a fatalist.  If
things went well, she smiled.  If they went wrong,
she was equally, perhaps even a little more, amused,
and smiled as enigmatically.  Mabel giggled
hysterically; her eyes shone; she held up two fingers,
the sign of acquiescence.  No project was too mad for
her to accept and welcome; the madder it was, the
more enthusiastic she grew.  In her the spirit of
adventure still breathed.  She was one to whom
things always happened, for she never refused Fate's
invitations.  Fate, having invited her, usually saw
her through the affair with gallantry.  She always
escaped unscathed, preserving all the freshness of her
enthusiasm and ingenuousness.  No one credited her
with a history.

Their plan had been talked over and perfected for
some time.  Mindful of Fancy's warning, it had been
decided to enter the place in two groups and find
seats near together, being careful to hold no
communication with each other.

Dougal was captain of the proposed exposure.  He
carried an electric torch and was to choose the
proper moment for attack.  When he flashed the light
upon the spirit form and rushed forward to seize the
actor, Maxim was to follow at his heels and help,
while Starr and Benton "interfered" for him as in a
foot-ball game.  The girls were to take care of
themselves and watch everything that went on so as to
report the affair.

There was no adjournment to Champoreau's that
night, for it was necessary to be at Flora Flint's early
and attempt to get front seats.  Half-past seven found
them at the house on Van Ness Avenue, where they
divided, Mabel going in with Dougal and Maxim,
Elsie with Starr and Benton.

They went up a narrow staircase covered with
yellow oil-cloth and encountered, at the top, a long,
pale, tow-headed youth with two front teeth missing.
He was slouching in the hall, by a little table, as if
attempting to hide the tallness and awkwardness of
his figure.  Collecting the entrance fees without a
word, he pointed to a door and the seats inside.

The room was square, and had two windows upon
the street; it was lighted dimly from a chandelier in
the center, and was crowded with chairs arranged
on each side of a central aisle.  There were already a
score of visitors, and prominent in the second
row was Mr. Payson, solemnly calm, impassive, his
hands upon the top of his cane.  Vixley sat in front
and was conversing over the back of his chair with
Lulu Ellis.  Dougal and his companions found seats
on the end of the fourth row; the others had to go
farther back.

Hung about were the usual mottoes, worked in
colored yarn on perforated cardboard, and, in addition,
a notice warning visitors against disorder.  It
was evident that the materializing business was not
unattended with risks.  The air was stuffy and smelt
of kerosene oil.  A curtain of black cambric was
stretched across one corner of the room, between
the folding doors and the mantelpiece, opposite the
windows.  The hangings parted in the center, and
were now draped up to each side, revealing the
interior of the "cabinet."

Professor Vixley rose to announce that any one
wishing to examine the cabinet might do so, but
nobody seemed to think the investigation worth while.
He then went on with an audible conversation with
the plump Miss Ellis.  He described, first, the
wonderful willingness of Little Starlight, who was
frequently sent by Flora with astral messages to her
mother in Alaska.  Lulu played up to him.  She saw
spirits in the room already—an old man was standing
by the door, looking for some one.  Another spirit
was sitting down beside that young lady in green.
Vixley regretted that he couldn't "get" materializing
himself, though he had tried all his life.  He had
occasionally "got" clairvoyance, but it couldn't be
depended upon.  Clairaudience, of course, was easier.
It could be developed in any one who had patience.
With his revolving mirrors he could guarantee it in
a month.  He handed one of his business cards to a
woman in black who seemed interested.

Flora Flint, pretty, dressed all in black, came in
and joined the conversation.  She complained of being
tired and headachey, she had worked so hard that
day.  She stroked her forehead and rubbed her hands,
but her eyes were busy with her audience.

She hoped that Stella wouldn't come to-night;
Stella always "took it out of her."  That was always
the way with spirits who had lately "passed out,"
and who were not yet reconciled to their condition.
Stella insisted upon coming back all the time to
communicate with her mother—she was not only hindering
her own "progression" but worrying her mother by
so doing.  Stella, moreover, had not yet learned the
Laws of Being on the spirit-plane, and had not
accustomed herself to the principles of control.  Why, it
was sometimes positive agony to be taken possession
of by Stella.  She came in with a bounce like, and it
racked the medium all over; and she didn't know how
to withdraw her force gradually and easily the way
older spirits did.  If Wampum, Flora's Indian control,
weren't always ready to assist her it would be
something terrible.  Indians had special power over
physical conditions.  They were Children of Nature,
nearer to earth conditions than others.  They had more
magnetism, and knew the secrets of natural medicine.
Being simple creatures, they were more easily
summoned from the spirit sphere—they hadn't
"progressed" so far, and they were apt to be still actuated
by the motives and desires of the flesh-plane.  Oh, yes,
they were often coarse and vulgar, but they meant
well, indeed they did.  Wampum was a great help.

As Flora Flint talked, her eyes ran over the room,
looking carefully at her audience.  Some she bowed
to smilingly; on others her glance rested with more
deliberation.  She came back again and again to
Dougal and Maxim, and to Starr and Benton, in the
rear of the room.  She whispered to Vixley, after
this scrutiny, and he went out to hold a colloquy with
Ringa in the hall.  Soon after, Mr. Spoll came in and
took a seat between the two groups of Pintos.  He
sat rigidly erect, his thin, bony face impassive, with
only his wild eyes moving.

The Pintos listened with delight to Flora's jargon.
Starr, placing his note-book under his hat, on his
knees, made copious notes.  Maxim was most
impressed, almost persuaded by the seriousness of the
dialogue.  Mabel was all ready to believe at the
first promise of a marvel.  Elsie smiled, Benton
yawned, Dougal hugged his electric torch fondly
inside his coat.

Madam Spoll soon came in and seated herself
between the two windows, under a box containing a
lighted kerosene lamp.  Her face, usually so
complacent, was showing signs of perturbation.  She
was nervous, looking round every little while
suddenly, running her fingers through her short cropped
curly hair, throwing her head back as if she found it
hard to breathe.  She was without a hat, and wore,
instead of her professional costume of silk and beads,
a black cotton crape gown.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Flora took a chair in
front of the cabinet.  Vixley rose, fastened black
shutters in front of the windows, closed the door, put
out the gas and turned down the lamp in the box,
shading it with a cloth curtain.  The room was now
so dark that one could scarcely distinguish anything,
until, when eyes became somewhat accustomed to it,
figures indistinct and shadowy could be vaguely
recognized.  Flora Flint spoke:

"I must ask you all to keep perfect silence, please.
The spirits won't manifest themselves unless the
conditions are favorable and the circle is in a receptive
state.  We can't do anything unless there's harmony,
and if there's any antagonistic vibrations present
there's no use attempting anything in the way of
demonstration."

After this prologue, she began, accompanied by the
faithful, the dreariest tune in the world:


   |  "We are *waiting*, we are *waiting*, we are *waiting*, just now,
   |  Just now we are *waiting*, we are *waiting* just now;

   |  To *receive* you, to *receive* you, to *receive* you just now,
   |  Just now to *receive* you, to *receive* you just now.

   |  Show your *faces*, show your *faces*, show your *faces*, just now,
   |  Just now show your *faces*, show your *faces* just now!

   |  Come and *bless* us, come and *bless* us, come——"


The fourth stanza was here interrupted by three
sharp knocks.

"Is that you, Starlight?" the medium asked.  Two
raps signified assent.  "Are you happy,
to-night?"  Two more knocks.

"Starlight's always happy!" Vixley remarked aloud.

"Yes, she *is* a bright little thing," the medium
assented.  "She passed out when she was only twelve;
they say she's very pretty.  Are there any spirits with
you, Starlight?"

Two more raps.

"Who's there—Wampum?"

Two raps were given with terrific force.  Everybody
laughed.

"Wampum's feeling pretty good, to-night," said Vixley.

"Anybody else?" Flora asked.

Yes, some one else.

"Who?  Is it Mr. Torkins?"

Yes.

The voice of a little old dried-up lady on the front
row was heard, saying, "Oh, that's Willie!  I'm *so*
glad he's come.  Are you happy, Willie?"

Yes, Willie was happy.  Had he seen Nelly?  Yes,
he had seen Nelly, and Nelly was also happy.  And so,
for a time, it went on, like an Ollendorf lesson.

Starlight was then asked if she could not control
the medium, orally.  She consented, and soon, in a
chirping voice the medium twittered forth:

"Hello!  Good evenin', folkses!  Oh, I'se so glad
to see you all, I is!  Hello, Mis' Brickett, you's got a
new bonnet, isn't you?  It's awfully nice!  Oh, I'se
so happy.  I got some candy, too.  It's *spirit* candy;
it's lots better'n yours."  Here she laughed shrilly
and the company snickered.

Mabel could scarcely hold herself in check and
had to be pinched.  Starlight resumed her artless
prattle, with Vixley as interlocutor.  The two
exchanged homely badinage and pretended to flirt
desperately.  But she refused this time to sit upon
his knee.  Finally an old man asked if Walter were
there.

"Well, I just *guess*!" said Starlight.  "He's my
beau, he is!  He giv'd me this candy.  Want some?"  A
chocolate drop flew into the middle of the room.

"That's real materialized candy!" Vixley explained.
"We're liable to have a good séance, to-night!"

Starlight, after giving a few messages, announced
that the spirits had consented to materialize, and
requested the company to sing.  Flora went into the
cabinet, Madam Spoll turned the light still lower, and
Vixley, stating that the medium would now go into
a dead trance, took the chair in front of the cabinet.
A doleful air was started by the believers on the
front seats:

   |  "I have a father in the spirit land,
   |  I have a father in the spirit land,
   |  My father calls me, I must go
   |  To meet him in the spirit land!"

then,

   |  "I have a mother in the spirit land,"

and so on, through the whole family, brother, sister
and friend.

The darkness was now thick and velvety.  The
sitters could not see what they touched, and, gazing
intently into the void, their eyes filled it with shifting
colors and spots of light conjured up by the reflex
action of the retina, as if their eyes were shut.  As
the song ended, there came an awed silence to add to
the stifling darkness as they waited for the first
manifestation from the cabinet.

Then the hush was broken by excited whispers, and
a tall form, dimly luminous, was seen in the opening
of the curtains.

"Why, here's the Professor!" said Vixley, shattering
the solemnity, and making of this advent a friendly
visitation.  "Good evening, Professor, we're glad to
see you.  It's good to have you here again!"

A deep, slow voice replied, articulating its words
painfully, "Good eve-ning, friends, I'm ver-y glad to
be here to-night!"  Every word was chopped into
distinct syllables.  The figure moved forward a little.
It was a typical ghost, a vague, unearthly, draped
figure, wavering, indistinct.  The face melted into
amorphous shadows.  It glided here and there
noiselessly.

The Professor was an affable celebrity, but
somewhat verbose.  He spoke to several of the company
by name, and interspersed his greetings with jocular
remarks to Little Starlight who was supposed to be
flitting invisibly about the room.  "She's a lit-tul
darlink, ev-ery-bod-y loves lit-tul Star-light," he said, in
answer to Vixley's comment.

He retreated silently to the cabinet, and the
curtains closed upon him.  Some one asked if they
couldn't see the "Egyptian Hand" and Starlight's
voice from the cabinet gave assent.  Forthwith it
appeared and made a hurried circle of the front part
of the room, shedding a ghostly, phosphorescent glow,
and, on its way, patting the heads of the faithful.

"Oh, I feel something so nice and soft!" cried
Mrs. Brickett.  "It's perfectly 'eavenly—right on top of my
head—what is it?"

"That's *hair*!" Starlight called out.

The Professor bellowed from the cabinet, "Oh, ho,
ho, ho!  You must-unt mind lit-tul Star-light!  She's
so love-ly we don't mind her, do we?"

Vixley gave the cue for another song to cover the
next entrance.  This time it was *My Bonnie Lies
Over The Ocean*, its special appositeness seeming
to lie in the line, "Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me!"

Another shorter form appeared and stood wavering
in front of the curtains, then, without a word, withdrew.

"That's Stella," said Vixley.  "She's only come to
get progression.  She ain't very strong yet, so she
can't stay but a minute, but we're always glad to see
her and help her along all we can with our thought."

A woman, with a sob, rose to go forward.

"No, not to-night, Mrs. Seeley; the medium ain't
strong enough!" said Vixley.

How he recognized these spectral visitors nobody
asked.  They looked just alike, except, perhaps, for
height; all were wavering, white and mysterious,
without distinguishable faces.  At the entrance of another,
like all the rest, Professor Vixley startled the
company by saying, suavely and patronizingly:

"This is Mr. McKinley, friends.  It's good to see
you, Mr. McKinley.  I'm glad you come.  We're
*always* glad to see you.  Come again, come any time
you feel like it."  He explained, after the spirit
vanished, that Mr. McKinley had had great difficulty in
finding any medium sympathetic enough for him to
control, and he wandered from circle to circle, hoping
to establish communication with the earth-plane.

The next visitor was no less than Queen Victoria.
"That's good!" said Vixley, "we're awful glad to
see you, sure!"  It now transpired that the spirits
whispered their names to him in entering.  His
conversation became a bit dreary and monotonous and he
failed to rise to his obvious opportunities.

A few forms, after this, came farther from the
cabinet, and their friends were permitted to embrace
them.  These favored few sat on the front seats.
Whispered dialogues took place—innocuous talk of
troubles and happiness, perturbed commonplaces that,
had they not been sometimes accompanied with
genuine tears, would have been nothing but ridiculous.
The spirits were all optimistic and willing to help.
Their advice, usually, consisted of the statement that
"conditions would soon be more favorable."  At
intervals the singers broke out into new songs, There's a
Land that is Fairer than Day—*Nearer, My God, to
Thee!*—and so on.  The air became oppressively close.
The audience began to whisper, cough and shuffle.
Mabel, desirous of excitement, had nudged Dougal
again and again, but he had muttered "Not yet!" at
each hint.

The song *Over There* had just ended, and the hush
of expectancy had fallen over the company when
another form appeared and took a step towards Vixley.

"She says her name is Felicia," he announced.
"Does anybody recognize her?"

"I do!" an unctuously mellow voice replied.

"She says she has a message for you," said Vixley,
"but she don't want to give it out loud before all these
people.  Will you come up here?"

Mr. Payson made his way with difficulty, in the
dark, past those on his row and came forward.

"You can touch her, if you want to; she's completely
materialized.  Very strong indeed for one
outside Flora's band.  She ain't got much vitality,
though, and you mustn't tax her too much."

The old man reached forward and touched a cold hand.

"Is it you, Felicia?" he asked tremulously.

"Yes, dear!" was the answer, in a thick, hoarse
whisper.  "I'm glad to see you here.  You must come
often.  I've tried so hard to get you.  I want to help
you."

"You have a message for me?"

She whispered, "Yes; it's about the child."

"What is it?"  His voice was eager.

"I've found him."

"Oh, I'm so glad!  I've longed so to find him and
do what was right by him.  You know, don't you?"  All
this was spoken so low that but few could make
out the words.

"Yes, I know.  I know you love him."

"Where is he, Felicia?"

"He's in this city.  I shall bring him to you.  Then
we'll be so happy, all three of us—you and I and our
dear son!"

Payson's voice rang out sharply in an angry exclamation:

"It's all a damned fraud!" he cried.  "This is not
a spirit at all!"  He took a step forward.

On the instant, before even Vixley could move,
Dougal had jumped up and run forward.  As he
dashed up the aisle he pressed the key of his electric
torch and cast a bright light upon the group by the
cabinet.  The draped form had started back, Payson
faced her, Vixley had risen from his chair fiercely,
Flora Flint's startled face peered through the curtains.

"Come on, Max!" Dougal shouted, and threw himself
bodily upon the person wrapped in the sheet.
Maxim grappled at almost the same time, but before
him Vixley sprang in and rained blow after blow
upon Dougal, who fell, dropping his torch.  Vixley
then locked with Maxim.  Starr and Benton had run
up, hurtling past Spoll, who had risen to block the
way.  They were just too late to save Dougal, who
had fallen, still holding his captive fast.  It was too
dark to see what was happening, but Vixley's oaths
led them on, crashing over chairs, creeping and
fighting through the now terrified crowd.  A match was
struck somewhere behind them, and, before it flared
out, Starr and Benton fell on Vixley together and
bore him to the floor.

The room was now horrid with confusion.  A
racket of moving chairs told that every one had arisen
in panic.  Women screamed, and there was a rush
for the door.  It seemed hours before there was a
light, then Madam Spoll reached up and turned up
the light.  At that moment Ringa flew past her—she
was thrown down and the lamp fell crashing upon
the seat of a chair beside her.  There was an explosion
on the instant.  She was drenched with blazing oil,
and the flames enveloped her.

Her screams rose over the tumult so piercingly
that every one turned, saw her, and fell back in fear
and terror.  She clambered to her feet clumsily,
shrieking in agony, ran for the door, tore it open and
fled down-stairs, to fall heavily at the bottom, writhing.

Benton was that moment free, and the only man
to keep his senses.  He burst right through the room,
throwing men and women to right and left and broke
out the door after her, and down the stairs, tearing a
table-cloth from a table as he ran through the hall.
He wrapped it about her, the flames scorching his
face and hands as he did so.  The woman was
struggling so in her blind terror and torture that it
was for a moment impossible to help her.  Then, in a
few heroic moments he conquered the fire.  At last he
called to the crowd above for help, and they carried
her up into a small side room and laid her upon a bed.

Starr, meanwhile, still clung to Vixley while Maxim
had held Ringa off.  Spoll was busy extinguishing
the fire on the carpet.  Then some one at last lighted
the chandelier, showing a score of white, frenzied
faces, men and women in wild disarray, chairs broken
and strewn upon the floor, a smoking, blackened place
on the carpet where the remains of the lamp had
fallen.  The room smelled horribly.

Vixley lay in a welter of ornaments that had been
swept from the mantel in his struggle.  He was still
cursing.

Dougal had held his captive fast through all that
turmoil, yelling continuously for a light.  Now
Mabel and Elsie, who had flattened themselves against
the wall, joining their screams to the din, crept
trembling up to him to see what he had caught.  He
turned the limp figure in his arms and sought amongst
the folds of the sheet, and turned them away at the
face.  Elsie gave a little cry.

.. _`He sought amongst the folds of the sheet`:

.. figure:: images/img-480.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: He sought amongst the folds of the sheet

   He sought amongst the folds of the sheet

It was Fancy Gray.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A RETURN TO INSTINCT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A RETURN TO INSTINCT

.. vspace:: 2

Clytie Payson had come home after a two weeks'
stay at Lonely with Mrs. Maxwell, poised, resolute,
calm.  She seemed sustained by some inward faith
manifesting itself only in a higher degree of
self-consciousness, as of one inspired by a purpose.

At breakfast, on the morning after the materializing
séance, Mr. Payson read the morning journal
interestedly, so intensely absorbed in its columns that he
scarcely spoke to his daughter.  But he did not
mention the evening's event, and was moody and morose.
The affair had received an extensive notice.  Madam
Spoll, it seemed, still lingered at the point of death.
Although Mr. Payson's name was not mentioned,
he was much disturbed and apprehensive of publicity.
Clytie, noticing his abstraction, did not disturb him
with questions.

After her father had left the house she went up to
her workroom, put on her pink pinafore and
commenced her bookbinding.  She worked at the bench
near the window where she could occasionally look
out upon the shadows that swept over Mount Tamalpais.
The day was alternately bright and lowering;
it promised rain before night.

At ten, as she was pausing from her work, with a
lingering look out into her garden, she saw a young
woman coming up the path.  It was Fancy Gray,
looking about her as if uncertain whether or not she
had found the right place.  Fancy wore a black-and-white
shepherd's plaid suit, bright and tightly-fitted,
which picked her out, in an errant glance of sunshine,
against the dull green shrubbery.  She stopped for a
moment to look at the sun-dial, raising her white-gloved
hand to her red and white hat, then passed on
toward the house, out of sight.

Clytie went down-stairs herself to answer the bell,
and opened the door with a look of pleasure on her face.

Fancy hesitated.  "Are you busy, Miss Payson?"

"Of course not!"  Clytie held out both her hands.
"If I were, I'd be so glad to have you interrupt me,
Miss Gray.  Do come in!  How charming you look!
I'm so glad to see you."

Fancy accepted the welcome, looking long into
Clytie's eyes, as if she expected to find in them
something of special significance.  Her own were steady,
and had in them an evidence of resolve.

"I've been hoping you'd come to see me, Miss
Gray," Clytie began.

Fancy stopped on the threshold.

"Fancy Gray, please!" she corrected, with an
elusive smile.

"Fancy Gray—I'm glad to be permitted to use
such a lovely name."

"Make it Fancy, straight.  Then I'll be more
natural.  I'm always stiff and stupid when people call
me Miss Gray.  I always feel as if they were talking
about me behind my back."  Fancy's smile broke out
now, as if in spite of herself.

"I'd love to call you Fancy!  It's good of you to let
me!" Clytie answered.

Her smile was as delicious, in this gallant
interchange.  Fancy's smile seemed as much a part of
her natural expression as the brightness of her open
eyes; it was embracing, like a baby's.  Clytie's had the
effect of a particularly gracious favor, almost a
condescension, a special gift of the moment.

Fancy stopped again at the entrance to the library.

"Say, this is awfully orderly," she said, "haven't
you got some place that isn't so tidy and clean?  I'm
afraid I wouldn't be comfortable here, and I want to
talk to you."

Clytie looked at her amusedly.  "So you're one of
those persons who think dust is artistic?  Come up
into my workroom, then.  You'll find that untidy
enough."

Up-stairs they went, to the workroom.

"My!" said Fancy.  "If you call this place untidy,
you ought to see my room!  Why, it's as neat as a
pin!"  She entered, nevertheless, and looked about
her with curiosity at everything.

"Haven't you a looking-glass here?" she asked in
astonishment.

"No, but I'll get you one."

Fancy laughed.  "I couldn't live an hour without a
mirror," she confessed.  "You're really queer, aren't
you!  And you don't even wear jewelry!  I'm afraid
modesty isn't my favorite stunt.  It's very becoming
to you, though.  I suppose it doesn't go with painted
hair."  She sighed.

"I don't believe that even you could improve on
nature, Fancy!"

"I'm sure nature intended me for a blonde, and got
careless.  Did you ever know a brunette who didn't
want to be a blonde?"  She looked at Clytie's tawny
hair with evident admiration.

Clytie shook her head, smiling.  "I'd give you my
hair for your complexion."

"Done!"  Fancy rubbed her handkerchief across her
pink cheeks, and handed the bit of cambric to Clytie.
After this comedy pantomime, she took the little silver
watch from her chatelaine pin, opened the back door,
where, inside, was a bright and shiny surface, and
regarded her face, pouting.  Then she looked across
at Clytie.

"You're so pretty, Miss Payson!  You're four
times and a half as pretty as I am!"

Clytie ventured to touch her little finger to the dent
in Fancy's upper lip.  Fancy retreated a step.  "My
dear," Clytie asserted, "if I had *that*, I'd be sure that
men would be crazy for me till I was seventy years old!"

Fancy shook her head.  "I guess I can't beat that.
That's what Gay calls 'the pink penultimate.'  And
the worst of it is, I suppose it's true!  But I'll never
be seventy if I can help it."  She turned away,
suddenly grown serious.  The room grew dark.  It was
as if Fancy's mood had turned off the sunshine.

"What are you doing, now?" Clytie asked.

"Oh, just drifting."  Fancy's voice was not hopeful.

Clytie took her hand.  "Why don't you come here
and stay with me for a while?  I'd love to have you."

Fancy gently released her fingers in Clytie's and did
not look at her.

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't be quite so kind to me,
Miss Payson; I can't stand it!"  Her mouth trembled;
her gaze was serious.

"But it would be so kind of you to come!" Clytie
urged.

Fancy smiled wanly.  "I can't do it, Miss Payson,
I won't explain.  I never explain.  It bores me.  But
I simply can't."

"Well, you know, if you ever do want to come—"

"I'll come, sure!"  Fancy looked at her now, with
fire in her eyes, not flaming, but burning deep.
"Whenever I forget what a thoroughbred is like, I'll
come!  Whenever I need a teaspoonful of flattery to
last me over night, I'll come!  Whenever I want to
know how much finer and kinder women are than
men, I'll come!  Whenever—"

She would have gone on, but Clytie interrupted her.
"Whenever you want to make me very happy, whenever
you want to do me the greatest favor in your
power, you'll come!"

Fancy's eyes narrowed and twinkled.  "I'm all out
of breath trying to keep up with you!  I give it up.
Take the pot!"  She turned to the bench and
examined the tools in a box.

"Ugh!" she commented.  "They look like dentists'
instruments!"

"I don't believe *you* ever had to suffer from them!
It doesn't seem possible!" said Clytie.

In response, Fancy engagingly showed her double
row of small, white, zigzag teeth.  Then, with a
sudden access of frivolity, she favored Clytie with an
exhibition of her little, pointed tongue, which she
erected and waved sidewise.  This done, she dropped
into a chair again.  The sun had returned and visited
the room, making a brilliant object of her jaunty
figure as she sat under the window.  She wore the
fine gold chain with the swastika that Clytie had
given her.  She fingered it as she spoke.

"Miss Payson," she said, "I'm going to ask you
something that perhaps is none of my business."

"Ask what you please," said Clytie, but she looked
at Fancy with something like alarm.

"Have you seen Mr. Granthope lately?"

Clytie shook her head.  "No."

"Could you tell me why not?"

"I'm afraid I can't, Fancy."

"I'm terribly worried about it.  I'm sure there's
some trouble.  Oh, Miss Payson, I know he's awfully
unhappy.  And I can't bear that!"

Clytie walked to the window and looked out,
standing there with her hands behind her back.  There
was a faint line come into her forehead.  "I'd rather
not talk about it," she said quietly.

"But I'm sure that if there is any misunderstanding,
I might help you.  Oh, Miss Payson, I don't want to
be impertinent, but I can't bear it to think that he
isn't happy.  Can't you tell me about it?"

Clytie turned slowly, a look of pain deepening on
her face.  "I can only tell you this, that I was
mistaken in him."

"Mistaken?  How?"

"Not in quality, so much as in quantity, if you
know what I mean.  I know what he's capable of,
what he has done, and what he can do.  I don't feel
any anger or resentment, for what I know, now, that
he has done.  I feel only pity and sorrow for him."

"But what *has* he done?  That's just what I want
to know.  You mean that it was something definite?"

"Yes."

"And—you believed it of him?"  Fancy could not
restrain her surprise.

"I had to believe it.  Oh, Fancy, don't you understand?
It was the sort of thing that no woman could
forget.  It was of no importance except as showing
that he wasn't so far along as I had thought.  It
merely means that I'll have to wait for him.  And I
shall wait for him.  I'm so sure of him that I can
wait, though it hurt so at first that I couldn't possibly
see him.  That's all."

Fancy bit her lip.  There was a little, determined
shake of her head that Clytie did not see.  "Miss
Payson," she said, "you must tell me what it was.
I've heard Professor Vixley say a thing or two that
aroused my suspicions."  She went on slowly, with an
effort.  "I know that Frank adores you—that he has,
ever since that night you came with him to his office,
after his accident."

"Oh, but this was after that," Clytie said wearily.
"It was something he told Vixley."

"After that!  Why, Frank hasn't had anything to
do with Vixley or Madam Spoll since then, except to
try to get them to leave your father alone."

"I saw his own handwriting, Fancy; the very
notes of what I had talked about to him—even the
little intimate things—they nearly killed me.  And
Professor Vixley told me himself that Frank had been
giving him information right along, up to only a few
weeks ago—while we had been so happy together—oh,
to think of it!"

Fancy's face had varied in phase, like the opening
and shutting of the clouds.  Now it was eager, rapt
"Oh, I understand, now!" she cried, jumping up.

"Why, Miss Payson, Vixley can no more be trusted
than a gambler!  Don't you know that he's wild with
Frank?  Vixley's got it in for him; he is trying to
ruin him!  Don't you know that Frank has been
trying to buy him off, just to save your father from
being cheated by them?  Why, Frank offered Vixley
a thousand dollars to leave town, only last week.
Vixley told me so himself!"

"A thousand dollars?  That's impossible."  Clytie's
voice was still hopeless.

"I can't imagine where he got the money, but he
had it with him, in cash.  Vixley said so."

"How long ago was that?"

"Two weeks ago, about."

Clytie reflected.  "I saw Frank on the platform
at Stockton, two weeks ago.  I wonder—"

"Yes, it was the day after he got back, I remember now."

"Oh!"  Clytie's face lightened as if another person
had come into the room.  She looked away, as if to
greet an unseen visitor.  Her hand was raised delicately.
"I see."  Her voice came suddenly, definitely.
Then she stared hard at Fancy.  "Oh, Fancy, I'm
almost frightened at it!  I don't dare to believe it.
Oh, if I've made a mistake in suspecting him.  If I've
accused him to myself unjustly, how can I ever bear
it!  But I saw those notes—"

"And you didn't ask him to explain them?"  Fancy
spoke very slowly.  She did not accuse, she only
wondered.

"No."  Clytie's tone had dropped low, and she went
on, fluttering hurriedly.  "I simply went away.  Oh,
think of it—it was as melodramatic as a play—that's
the way women do on the stage, isn't it?  But you
see, I *did* know awful things about him.  Fancy—he
had told me, and I suspected more.  There was
something in the notes about my present to father, and
his birthday had only just passed.  That proved to
me that Frank's notes had been made recently, I
thought."

Fancy looked at her with a quizzical expression.
"I knew a fellow once who used to call me a marmoset.
I guess that's what you are, you poor dear!  Why,
Frank told me about your binding a book for your
father the day he first came here.  You must have
spoken of it then."

"I did!"  Clytie fairly threw out.  "I remember it
now!  And that was *before*—before he really knew
me, wasn't it!  Oh, what shall I do, Fancy?"  Her
look was, for the moment, as helpless as a child's.

"Do?" Fancy repeated, shrugging her shoulders.
"Why, the telephone wires are still working, aren't
they?"  She spoke a bit dryly.  She had done her
work, now, and relapsed into a sort of apathy.

"And I prided myself on my intuition, and on my
fairness!" Clytie went on, unheeding her.  "I knew
that I saw in him what no one else saw—not even you,
who knew him so well, and who wouldn't suspect him
of anything so base as that!  To think of my being
the victim of such a claptrap trick!"

Fancy raised her eyebrows and watched her quietly.
"What I can't understand now, is why you're wasting
your time talking about it."

Clytie stared at her, her face still shadowed by her
emotion.  Then her smile came rapturously.  She
turned and ran down-stairs to the telephone.

Fancy walked to the window forlornly.  There she
leaned her head on her arm against the pane and shut
her eyes, as if she were fatigued.  It was black in
the west, and the Marin shore was shrouded in the
murk.  The harbor was covered with dancing
whitecaps.  The storm was imminent.  She stayed there,
motionless, until Clytie's step was heard coming up,
then started into life again and gave herself a shake.

"He's coming right up!" Clytie announced.

Fancy immediately looked at the blue enameled dial
of her little silver watch.  "Well, I must be going."

"Oh, please stay!" Clytie exclaimed, holding her
tightly.  "I really want you to, so!  It's you who have
done it all."

Fancy smiled at last, and released herself.  "Yes,
I've spent my life in straightening out other people's
snarls," she said.  "Sometime I hope some one will be
able to straighten mine.  But I've got a date, really."

"Oh, do tell me that you're as happy as I am," Clytie
exclaimed.  "I've been so selfish, I'm afraid!  I
don't know who he is, but I'm sure he must be fine,
if you care for him.  How I wish I could help you,
dear!"

"The only way you could, I'm afraid, is by lending
me some of your brains—and I'm afraid they wouldn't
fit my noddle.  He's awfully clever, and I feel like a
fool when I'm with him."

"But you do really love him, don't you?" Clytie
asked anxiously.

Fancy nodded gravely.  "I guess yes.  As much
as I can love anybody.  I'm afraid of him.  That's
one sign, isn't it?"

"And you can't tell me who he is?"

"Not yet."

"Fancy, when you're married, I'll give you a wedding."

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

She turned to go, but hesitated a moment, as if she
could hardly make up her mind to ask the question,
yet couldn't go without asking it.  "Miss Payson," she
said finally, "did you tell Frank that I had been here?"

"Of course I did!"

"What did he say?"

"He said that it was like you.  That you always
played fair."

"Good-by!" Fancy said, and suddenly breaking
through the reserve that had so far constrained her,
she laid her cheek for a moment to Clytie's.

Clytie kissed her.  The two walked down-stairs
arm in arm.  At the front door Fancy paused and said:

"Take my advice, Miss Payson, and don't explain.
Never explain.  If you once get into that habit you're
lost.  It only wastes time.  Get right down to business
and stay there.  Your head belongs on his shoulder,
remember that.  All Frank will want to know is what
you're going to do next.  Keep him guessing, my dear,
but never explain!  Now, I'm going to try and get
home before it rains."

She turned up her collar, gave a quick toss to her
head, and walked rapidly down the garden path.  At
the gate she turned, gaily gave a mock-military salute,
a relic of her old vaudeville manner, then ran down the
steps.

Clytie watched her till she had disappeared.  Then
she went up-stairs and changed her frock.

Fancy's sage advice was wasted.  There were
explanations, a torrent of them, when Francis Granthope
came, explanations voluble, apologetic, impetuous,
half-tragic, semi-humorous.  The equilibrium of
Clytie's mind was completely overturned and its
readjustment came only after a prolonged talk.  Every
trace of the priestess, the princess, the divinity was
gone forever, now.  She was more like a mother
rejoicing at the restoration of a lost child, for whose
absence she blamed her own neglect and carelessness.
It was all too delightful for Granthope to wish to cut
it short.  He was hungry for her.

He, too, had his explanations and his news.  For
two weeks his hands had been tied.  Clytie had
disappeared from his ken, and he had had no way of
tracing her, for it was useless to telephone to the
house or to ask of her father.  There had been
nothing for it but to wait in the hope that whatever had
caused the interruption would come right of itself.
He had never really felt sure of Clytie—her
acceptance of him had seemed too wonderful to be true, a
fortune to which he was not really entitled, and
which he might lose any instant.  Whether or not
Vixley or Madam Spoll had effected the separation,
he had no way of determining.

He told then of his trip to Stockton where, by
establishing his identity by means of the finger-prints,
he had succeeded in obtaining possession of the money
he had deposited there so many years ago.  This
had amounted, with interest, to several thousand
dollars.  He had gone immediately to Vixley to seal the
bargain they had made, but the Professor had
absolutely refused to accept any payment for leaving town.
Indeed, he had hinted that he had schemes on foot
which would bring him an income that Granthope
could not hope to rival.  How matters stood between
Mr. Payson and the mediums, neither Granthope nor
Clytie knew.  They had not yet heard of the materializing
séance, and the situation was, so far as they
knew, the same as before.  It was agreed that there
must be another attempt to rescue Mr. Payson, and
this time through Doctor Masterson, who was probably venal.

Granthope, meanwhile, however, had perfected his
plans.  He had sufficient money, now, to warrant his
devoting himself to the study of medicine, a project
he had so long contemplated that, with the start he
had already made, would make it possible for him
to practise in two or three years.  He had, therefore,
abandoned all idea of going upon the stage.  Clytie
approved of this with considerable relief.  The
prospect of reviving gossip by Granthope's appearance
as an actor had caused her much dread.  They had
already been much talked about.  Society had
discussed them until it had grown tired.  Nothing was
sensational enough to last long as an object of
curiosity in San Francisco, and a half-dozen other affairs
had caused them to be almost forgotten.

After this first flurry of talk, in which she had
come down from that lofty spiritual altitude where
she had dwelt for the last two weeks, she was sheer
woman, thrilling to his words and to the sense of his
nearness.  As they had progressed in intimacy her
maternal instinct had asserted itself more and more
frankly towards him.  She had treated him at times
almost as if he were a boy whose education she was
fondly directing.  She had lost some of that feeling,
now, in virtue of her mistake; she was curiously
humble.

He, too, had somewhat changed.  Before Clytie's
direct gaze he had lost something of his
power; he had been afraid of her.  In this readjustment
the normal phase of courtship was restored, and,
feeling his way with her, delicately perceptive as he
always was with women, he began to notice that she
would willingly resign the scepter—she would gladly
be mastered if he would but put forth his power.  She
was learning to be a woman; she would be conquered anew.

He was to learn all this slowly, however; so slowly
that, at every manifestation of her inclination he had
a moment's pause for the wonder of it, tasting the
flavor of her condescension, marveling at his own
conquest.  To him, as to all lovers, his sweetheart
had been a woman different from all her sex.  He was
now to find that she was not one woman but two—that
in her the subtly refined spirit of his vision shared her
throne with that immemorial wild creature of primal
impulse who is the essence of sex itself; who,
subdued or paramount, dwells in all women, saints and
sinners alike.  He had, in virtue of his victory, merged
those two warring elements in her soul into one.
She had come into her birthright, not lost it.  She
seemed a little frightened by the metamorphosis, but
there was a triumph of discovery, too; he reveled in
its manifestation, but he was still timorous before the
new, splendid, potent being he had invoked.  There
was an intoxicating excitement, now, as he saw in
her traces of every woman he had known.  It was as
if, after exploring a strange land and meeting its
people, he had at last come upon the queen who
combined all the national characteristics and fused them
with the unique distinction of royalty.

They had, also, as yet, a whole lovers' language
to manufacture, metaphors to weave into their talk,
words to suggest phrases, phrases to stand for moods
and emotions.  But such idioms are untranslatable—they
will never bear analysis.  For love is a subjective
state, whose objective manifestations are ridiculous.
No one can see a kiss—it is a state of being.

But into this relation they entered, as children go to
play, making their own rules of the game, establishing
their own sentimental traditions as lovers use.
With such vivid imagination as both possessed the
pastime became deliciously intricate; it had pathos
and comedy, wind and dew and fire.  They spoke
in enigmas, one's quick intuition answering the
other—there were flashes so quick with humor that
a smile was inadequate in satisfying its esoteric
message.  An observer would have seen Clytie, her eyes
alight, her pose informed with gracile eagerness,
waking from her gentle languor to inspired
gesture—Granthope pacing the room, erect, virile, dark,
sensitive in every fiber to her presence, flinging a
whimsical word at her, or with a burst of abandon pouring
himself out to her to her delight.  There was an
intellectual stimulation as well as an emotional pressure
in their intercourse that forbade any monotony of
mood.  There was a tensity of feeling that broke, at
times, into waves of laughter; but there were moments,
too, when the sudden realization of their relation, with
all its doubts, its unknown paths, and secret, fatal
web of circumstance, impelled them to make sure, at
least, of the moment, and to defy the future with an
expression of their present happiness.  So they came
down, and so they went up.  From height to depth,
from shadow to light he pursued her.  He chased, but
she was ready enough to be caught!  She held a hand
to him and helped him up; they met in delightful
solitudes of thought; they walked together through the
obvious.  That he should so follow her, that she could
understand, there was wonder enough, even without
that other diviner communion.  It was a lovers'
play-day, now; there was time enough for the lovers'
ritual and the worship at the shrine.  For this day was
the untellable, impossible delights of wonder.  They
took repossession of their kingdom, no longer
jeoparded by doubt.

It was Clytie, who, at last, grew more bold, more
definite.  She rose and put her two hands on Granthope's
shoulders, smiling at him with pride in her
possession.

"I can't wait any longer," she exclaimed.  "I've
suffered enough.  Before anything else comes between
us, let's settle it so that nothing can separate us.  You
see, my instinct has triumphed after all.  I'm sure of
you—indeed, I always have been.  I must speak to
father to-morrow, and, if you like—"  She hesitated,
in a sudden, maidenly access of timidity.

"We'll be married—instantly?  Dare you?"  He
crushed her impetuously in his arms, not even this
time without a wonder that she should permit him,
not quite daring even yet to believe that she was more
than willing.

She freed herself with an expression that should
have reassured him.  "There's nothing, now, to be
gained by waiting, is there?"

"Nothing, if you can live on what I can provide."

She laughed at the very absurdity of it.  "It may
be hard, but I think I can manage father," she went
on.  "He's too fond of me really to oppose what I'm
set on."

"I only wish I could do something to assure him,
to propitiate him," said Granthope.  "My position
has been so undignified that I've had no chance.  I
have been meeting you surreptitiously, and I suppose
he suspects me of being after your money."

"While the truth is, I'm after yours!"

"I wonder if, after all, it *is* mine?" he said thoughtfully.
"I have never been able to find any heirs of
Madam Grant—and her last message to me seemed
to be that I should have what she left."

"Oh, it's yours, I'm sure!" she said.

"I long so to know about her!  If I could once
convince your father of my sincerity there's much I'd
like to ask him."

"Father is a strange man.  He is often unreasonable
and prejudiced in his judgment and treatment of
people, but there's a warm vein of affection underneath
it all.  There's something hidden, something
almost furtive, even in his attitude toward me,
sometimes, that I can't understand.  I happened on a queer
evidence of his emotional side only a little while ago.
There is a big trunk up-stairs in our garret where
my mother's things are stored.  It's always kept
locked; I've never seen the inside of it.  Well, I started
to go up into the attic for something, and as I was
half-way up the steps where I could just see into the
loft, I heard a noise up there.  Father was on his
knees, in front of that trunk.  He was examining
something in his hand.  There was a tenderness and
a pathos in his posture—I got only one glimpse of him
before I went down again.  You know my mother
died when I was about five years old—soon after that
day at Madam Grant's.  He never seems to want me
to talk about my mother at all; he evades the subject
whenever I mention her.  I think that he must have
been very fond of her, and it's still painful to discuss
her."

"Have you ever asked him about that clipping about
Felicia Gerard?"

"Why, he's as reserved about her, too.  Isn't it.
strange?  But I'm sure that she was Madam Grant—there's
a mystery about her I can't fathom.  Do tell
me more about her.  You don't know how queer it
seems that I have actually seen her."

He gave her all he knew of the strange, mad
woman's life—it was not much, as he had been so young
then—his straying into her rooms, her adoption of
him, his education, his loneliness, his love.  She
warmed to him anew as he told the story.

"Ah, that's the part of you I know and love the
best!" she exclaimed.  "How good you were to her!
If anything could make me love you more, it would be
your devotion to that poor, lonely, ravaged soul.  It
seems as if you have served me in serving her, and
I would like to think that I could pay you back, by
my love, for all you gave her.  It stirs me so to think
of her pain and her despair!"

"Let's make a pilgrimage!" he said impulsively.  "I
haven't been inside the Siskiyou Hotel since I was a
child, though I've passed there often enough.  It's
a pretty disreputable place now, I'm afraid."

"Oh, yes!"  Clytie caught up with his eagerness.
"Think of seeing that place again, where we first met!
It will be a celebration, won't it!  How long is it?
I don't quite dare think."

"Twenty-three years!"

"And all that time we've been coming together—"

"It was a wide curve my orbit traced, my dear!"

"It's one of the mysteries of life that while we seem
to be going away from each other, we're as really
coming together.  But we'll travel the rest of the
course together, I'm sure!"

They set out, forthwith, on their quest for what
had been.  It had begun to rain, but their spirits were
unquenchable by the storm.  The excursion was,
indeed, an adventure.  Granthope himself felt his
fancy aroused at the thought of the revisitation of the
old home.  It had a double charm for him now, as
the spot where the two women who had most affected
his life had been.

He left her under the shelter of an awning while
he went into the saloon to interview the bartender who
rented the rooms in the building.  The man had heard
of Madam Grant, though it was so long since she
had lived there.  There were still stories told of her
wealth and her eccentricities, as well as of her occult
powers.  The rooms had even, at one time, been
reported to be haunted, but they had always been let
easily enough.  At present they were occupied by some
Russians.  Yes, Granthope might go up; perhaps they
would let him in.

They ascended the narrow, dingy stairs together.
The wall was grimy where many dirty elbows had
rubbed the plastering; the rail was rickety and many
balusters were missing.  Granthope rapped at the door
in the hall with a queer, sick feeling of familiarity,
though it was as if he had read of the place in some
story rather than a place he had used to inhabit.

A Jewess opened the door, her sleeves rolled to the
elbows, her face plump and good-natured.  She smiled
pleasantly.

"Would you mind our coming in to look at your
rooms?" he asked.

"What for?" she said.

"Why, I used to live here when I was a child, and
I'd like to show this lady the place."

"If you want to, you can, I suppose.  It ain't much
to look at now, though.  We have to take what we
can get, down here."

Her curiosity was appeased by the coin which Granthope
slipped into her hand, and she sat down to her
sewing phlegmatically, looking up occasionally with
little interest.

The place was, of course, much changed.  The
windows were washed, the floor scrubbed and
partly covered with rag rugs.  It was well
furnished and well aired.  Granthope pointed but the
little chamber where Madam Grant had slept, where
his own bed had been, and, finally, the closet from
which he had first spied upon her.  Clytie looked
about silently, much moved, and trying to bring back
her own recollections of the place.

"If I close my eyes, I can almost see it as it was,"
she said.  "I can almost get that strange feeling I had
when I came here.  If I could be here for a while alone
I think I could see things.  I'd like to go into the
closet again.  Let's see if the crack is still in the
door."

It was still there.  She asked permission to go
inside, and the Jewess rather uncomfortably agreed.
The place was filled with clothing; it was close and
odorous; the shelves were filled with boxes, rags
and household belongings.  Clytie went in rather
timidly.

"Go over where I sat in the front room, that day,"
she said.  "I want to look through the crack, as you
did.  I'd like to be locked in, too, but the key is gone."

She closed the door on herself while Granthope
walked to the bay-window and looked idly out.  It
was such a strange sensation, being in the old place
again, that for some moments he lost himself in a
reverie; then, turning and not seeing Clytie, he walked
rapidly to the door and opened it.

She stood there, leaning back against the wall of
clothing with a wondering, far-away expression, her
eyes staring, her face white, her breath coming fast
through her parted lips.  He took her hand, thinking
that she was fainting, and led her out.  She recovered
herself quickly and drew him into the front room.

"I saw my father while I was in there," she
whispered.  "He was looking about the room furtively,
as if searching for something.  What can it mean?
I'm afraid something has happened to him—I'm
alarmed about it.  I must go right home and see if
anything's the matter.  I had a strange feeling, like a
pain, at first, in the dark, and I was frightened.  Then
I saw him.  Come, let's go away!"

She went up to the Jewish woman and shook hands
with her, thanking her for the courtesy.  The old
lady patted Clytie's hand approvingly.

"That's funny, what everybody wants to see my
room for," she said, "but I don't care when I get a
dollar every time, do I?  Last week they was an old
gentleman here, like you was, to see it!"

"What was he like?" Granthope inquired.

"Oh, he was bald-head, with a spectacles and some
beard."

Granthope and Clytie exchanged glances.

"He must have been down here for something,"
she said.  "I can't make it out.  I'm afraid that there's
some trouble.  It worries me."





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.. _`FANCY GRAY ACCEPTS`:

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   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   FANCY GRAY ACCEPTS

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The rain had come in a vigorous downpour,
washing away the mantle of dust that had so long lain
over the city.  The storm finally settled down to a
steady pelting of heavy drops, lightened occasionally
to mild, drizzling showers, only to be resumed with
greater violence toward night.  Every one was glad for
the flushing the town received.  There was a novelty
and excitement about the rain, a relief after the
parched, monotonous months of cloudless skies.  Men
and women walked the streets smiling, the women
especially; for that free, fearless gaiety, the almost
abandoned good nature of San Francisco girls, was not
to be quenched.

On Thursday evening, Fancy Gray, to all appearance
her old, gay self, smiling as if she had never a
care in the world, went down to Fulda's to dine with
Blanchard Cayley.

In a city of restaurants, Fulda's restaurant was
unique.  The Pintos had discovered the place, and by
their own efforts had made it.  Maxim and the artists
of the quarter had gained Fulda's consent to a new
scheme of decoration, a plan so mad and impudent
that the room was now a show-place for visitors.  The
walls were covered with cartoons and sketches as
incongruously placed, perhaps, as the embossed
pictures on a bean-pot, but what was lacking in art was
made up for by a bizarre, esoteric humor that was the
perpetual despair of the uninitiated.

Maxim's chief contribution, a huge cartoon with
caricatured portraits of his friends, had the place
of honor; it was a superb piece of low comedy in
crayons.  Beyond this the sketches became more
grotesque, the inscriptions more cryptic.  Quotations from
Rabelais, from Brantome, from Chesterton, Whistler
and Wilde were scattered here and there, mingling
with fiery burlesques of Bohemians, Philistines, lobsters
and artists.  No one, not even the authors, knew the
point of most of these jokes well enough to explain
them intelligibly, and it was this baffling suggestiveness
which drew patrons to the restaurant and kept its
charm piquant.  One saw at each table new-comers
with questioning faces pointing to legends in Greek
and Esperanto and Yiddish, and wondering at the
inscrutable accompaniment of illustration.  It was a
sort of mental and artistic hash spread upon the walls.
The humor grew fiercer as one's eyes rose to the
ceiling.  There, a trail of monstrous footprints,
preposterous, impossible, led, with divagations, to a point
above the central table which was always reserved for
the Pintos.  To crown this elaborate nonsense, they
had drawn a frieze below the cornice with panels
containing the names of the frequenters of the
place, alternated with such minor celebrities as Plato,
Browning and Nietzsche.

In a larger city, such a place would have had a
temporary vogue, and then, after having been "discovered"
by reporters and artists, have sunk into the
desuetude of impecunious rural diners-out, one of the
places of which one says: "Oh, you should have seen
it two years ago."  But San Francisco is of that
fascinating size, half-way between town and city, and
of that interesting age where the old is not quite
forgotten and the new not quite permanently instated,—it
is, above all, so delightfully isolated that it need
not ape the East.  Though it has outgrown some of its
Western crudities, it is significant that such a
restaurant as Fulda's could become and remain a resort for
the gathering of the cleverest spirits in town.  It had
already achieved that reputation; it was patronized
by the arts.  The visitors, for the most part, either did
things or wanted to.  One was apt to know almost
everybody there.  If one didn't know Mr. Smith, one's
friend did; or one knew Mr. Smith's friend.

To this place entered Fancy Gray, drifter, the day
after the materializing séance, in a new, blue
mackintosh and a pert but appropriate hat.  She nodded,
to Felix, at the counter, and, following underneath the
trail of footprints on the ceiling, came, jovially as
ever, to the central table.  Dougal, Elsie and Benton
were sitting at the far end of it.  Dougal sprang up
with a grin.

"Come and sit down quickly and tell us all about
it!" he exclaimed.  "What happened after we left?"

She sat on the side of a chair without removing her
coat, and gave them her ever-ready smile.  "Say, you
didn't raise a rough house or anything, did you?  I
thought it would be a case for the coroner before you
got through.  If I'd known you were going to be
there I wouldn't have been in the cast.  Wasn't it
awful?  Madam Spoll was pretty badly burned, I
hear."

"I hope I'll never have to see anything as horrible
as that again," said Benton.  "But I did what I
could.  I hope she'll recover."

"We waited till the police and the ambulance came
and then we got out," Dougal added.  "There was
nothing more to do but testify.  Did you see the
account of it in the paper?  I believe they're going
to have more about it, and play it up for all it's worth.
What became of you, Fancy?  Last I saw of you you
had skipped into that back room."

"Oh, as soon as I had put on my shoes, I got out
as quick as I could by the back way.  I didn't know
whether the house was going to be pulled or not.  I'd
had trouble enough for one evening.  I'm all black
and blue now, from Dougal's holding me."

"How did Vixley feel, I wonder?  He must have
been pretty sore."

"Sore!  I guess he was, in more ways than one.
But Flora Flint was the funniest!  They found her
in the cabinet, half dressed, after all the crowd was
cleared out—she had been afraid to move."

"How did you happen to be there, anyway, Fancy?"
Elsie asked.  "I thought you hadn't done anything
with that medium crowd for years."

It was not often that Fancy was embarrassed, but
she seemed so, now.

"I haven't.  I don't know why I did—except—they
asked me, and I wanted to oblige somebody—and I
needed the money.  I had forgotten I had told you to
go to Flora's."

"Aren't you going to eat?" Dougal asked.  Fancy
usually dined at the central table several times a week.
Cayley's attentions were already on the wane.

"No, I've got free eggs to-night," was the reply.

Her eyes had been on the door of the restaurant,
and, at this moment, they were rewarded by the sight
of Blanchard Cayley, who entered and looked about
the room for her.  "Well, I'm going to meet my royal
meal-ticket," she said, rising and waving a hand at
him.  He nodded, and came down to her, bowing to
several friends on the way, and the two took a table
beyond the Pintos.  She faced Dougal who made
disapproving faces at Cayley's back.

The room filled up.  One long table was decorated,
with flowers, and a party of ladies and gentlemen
from up-town soon came in and took seats there.
They began immediately to chatter and look about the
walls, commenting upon the decorations.  At other
tables Fancy saw artists, newspaper men and men
about town, who had been pointed out to her before.
To some of them she nodded.  Cayley knew many
more.  It was like a great family dining-room.

"Well?" said Cayley, in his peculiar tone that made
of one word a whole sentence.

"I evidently made a hit.  I hope you're satisfied,
now."

"You certainly brought down the house."  There
was a sarcastic, almost a surly note in his voice.

"I'm awfully sorry things went wrong, Blan," she
said.  "I wouldn't have done it if I'd known the
crowd was going to be there.  I'm sorry now I
consented to take part.  I hope I'll never see Vixley
again.  He was horrid to me."

"I've seen Vixley.  He says Madam Spoll isn't
expected to live."

"Isn't it awful?  I didn't want to do it, Blan, you
know I didn't; I wouldn't have done it for anybody
but you.  I don't see how you can bear to have
anything to do with Vixley.  Ugh!  What *did* you want
me to do it for, anyway?"

"Oh, only to find out some things, that's all.  Of
course I couldn't do it myself, could I?"

It was evident, now, that he had been drinking.
He had not shown it in his walk or in his voice, but
there was a slight glaze to his eyes that told the
story.  He had been abstinent for so long that Fancy
wondered at it.  He ordered a flask of chianti and
poured two glasses.

"You oughtn't to begin again, Blan—don't!" she
said anxiously.  "Water's good enough for me."

"Pshaw!  Don't worry, I'm all right.  You don't
think I'm drunk, do you?"  He laughed harshly.

"N—no, but I don't like it."

"Forget it, Fan; nobody ever saw me drunk.  I only
get confidential, that's all.  *In vino veritas*.  There's
a double meaning there.  Exoteric and esoteric."

At this moment the waiter appeared with a stone
bottle and two Chinese cups.  "Mr. Dougal sent this
over with his compliments.  It's *saké*," he explained.
Fancy kissed her hand to Dougal, and poured for
herself and Cayley.

"Ugh!  It's horrible!" she said.  "Isn't it?"

"No, it's the real thing; I like it."  Cayley drank it
all and helped himself to more.

"Did you find out what you wanted to know?" said
Fancy, proceeding with her dinner daintily.

"No, the row came just in time to queer the whole
thing."

"Of course you know that if Dougal had had any
idea it was me—"

"Oh, it wasn't Dougal, it was old man Payson—he
caught on—"

Fancy laid down her fork, and narrowed her eyes.
"*Payson?*" she repeated.

"Yes, of course; the old chap you were talking to,
weren't you?"

She looked at him with a strange expression.  "Payson?
I didn't think—I was too excited to realize—I
mean—who is he, Blan?"  Her hands fell into her
lap and clasped one another tightly.

"Oh, an old boy I know, a good sort, but a fool.
No fool like an old fool, is there?"  He poured another
glass of chianti, without noticing how intense she had
grown.  His eyes were dallying with two good-looking
girls across the room.

"Is Miss Payson—the one who was with you at
Carminetti's—his daughter?"

He looked up at her sharply, now, but her frown
meant nothing to him.  He returned to his tagliarini.
"Yes—why?" he said.

"Tell me about her, Blan, please," Fancy begged,
with an unusual air of anxiety.

"Nothing to tell, except she's a disdainful beauty,
and a little too haughty for me.  Fastidious,
pre-Raphaelite, and super-civilized and all that.  You
wouldn't care for her, any more than you would for
a Utamaro."  He smiled to himself at what Fancy
had once said of Japanese prints.

"H'm!"  Fancy put her chin in her hands, and kept
her eyes on Cayley.  "So that old gentleman was her
father," she said in a low unimpassioned voice.  "It
was Miss Payson's father I was hired to fool!"  Suddenly
she spoke up more sharply, but with a tremor
in her voice.  "What did you want me to play spirit
for, Blan?  Out with it!"

He saw now that something was wrong.  It made
him peevish.

"What do you know about Miss Payson, anyway?"
he demanded.

"I've—seen her."

"Well, what did you think of her?"

"I thought she was a thoroughbred."

"Indeed?" Cayley thought it over, looking somewhat
abstractedly at a picture on the wall, entitled:
"*Je congnois la faulte des Boesmes.*"  Then he turned
with an open countenance to her and said, with an
air of candor:

"You see, Fancy, I happened to know Payson was
in the clutches of Vixley and this Spoll woman—they
were sucking his blood.  I thought I could rescue
him if you would play spirit, and then tell Payson
afterwards what a fraud it all was.  Understand
now?"  He smiled blandly.

"I see," she said, and went on with her dinner.

"Then again," Cayley remarked, "I thought you
wouldn't mind getting even with Granthope."

This brought her up again with an angry flush.
"What has he got to do with it?"

"Well, he played it rather low down on you, didn't he?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Oh, he fired you."

"He didn't!  I left of my own accord."  Fancy's
lie came impetuously.

"Did you know that he's after Miss Payson, now?"

"So I've heard."

"You're remarkably amiable about it, my dear.  You
didn't really care for him, then?"  His smile was
unendurable.

"I never explain.  If people can't understand
without explanations, they never can with them."

"Then you don't mind it at all?" he insisted.

"No—I don't mind it.  I'm glad."  The words came
from her slowly, this time.

"What d'you mean?"

Fancy was silent.

"Well, don't you think he ought to be—shown up
a little?"  He was on his third cup of *saké*, but his
hand was as steady as ever.

Her lips parted, and her breath came suddenly for
an exclamation, but the protest got no further than
her eyes.  She dropped them to the table-cloth, where
she marked crosses with her little finger-nail.
Dougal was making overt attempts to attract her
attention and the diversion was maddening.

"What d'you mean?" she asked.

"If you were really a good enough friend of mine
to help me out—"

"Oh, I'll help you out, Blan; what d'you want me to
do?" she said quite eagerly, now.  He did not notice
her suppressed excitement.

"Well—I suppose you know a good deal about him?"

She nodded wisely.

"And some things, I suppose, might make considerable
difference if they came out?  You know what
I mean."

"Do you want me to tell them?" she flung fiercely
at him.

He took alarm, and, reaching across the table,
attempted to touch her hand.  She evaded him.  "Of
course I don't want you to do anything dishonorable—but—you
said yourself she was a thoroughbred—do
you think it's quite the square thing to stand by and
let a man like him marry a nice girl like Miss Payson?"

"I thought you said she was supercilious!"

"No, super-civilized, that's all.  Call it statuesque.
But all the same I hate to see her get stung—don't
you, now?  Come!"  He leaned back and folded his arms.

"She's too haughty for you, I thought!"

"Did I say that?  Well, I'm a friend of the family,
you know—I want to do what I can for them."

She reached nervously for her wine-glass, and her
hand, trembling, struck the chianti flask and tipped
it over.  Before she could set it straight it had spilled
into a plate, drenching a napkin which lay partly
folded there.  The linen was turned blood red.  Cayley
laughed at her carelessness loudly.  Dougal looked
across again, but Fancy avoided his eye.

"Blan," she said, leaning slightly towards him and
speaking low, "do you love me?  Or are you just
playing with me?"

He seemed to consider it.  Then he said, very earnestly,
and evidently with a subtle psychological intent,
"I'm only playing with you, Fancy!"  And he smiled.

Her fingers drummed on the table.

"But I'll never treat you the way Granthope did,"
he added.

Her hands came together again in her lap.  "That'll
be all about Granthope," she said through her teeth.

"See here," he insisted, "you know what a cad he's
been as well as I do!  He's trying to marry Miss
Payson, damn him!  I've seen her with him often.
If you'll just go up to her and tell her a few
things—you needn't violate any confidences—just enough
to put her on her guard—we can head him off and
spoil that game!"

"Oh!"  Fancy's breast heaved violently.  "I *see*!"
she exclaimed slowly.  Her eyes blazed at him.  "So
*that's* what you've been after all this time, is it?  I
think I know you now, Blanchard Cayley!"

Her eyes did not leave him as her right hand stole
over the cloth, reaching for the wine-soaked napkin,
and grasped its dry end.  Slowly she rose from her
seat, stood up, and leaned far over the table towards
him.

Then, raising her hand suddenly, she struck him as
with a flail, once, twice across the cheek, across the
eyes, leaving a purple stain whose drops trickled down
into his beard.  The sound was heard all over the
room, and drew all eyes.  For a moment she watched
him put up his arm to ward off the blows; then, with
a gasping sob, she turned and ran swiftly down to the
door and out into the street.

Cayley, his face now reddened not only by the wine,
but from the furious flush which burned in his cheeks,
sat for a moment as if paralyzed.  Then he wiped
the mark with his napkin, automatically.  His face
worked like a maniac's.  He rose deliberately, reached
for his hat and strode down the aisle after her.

Dougal saw the pursuit just in time.  Quickly his
foot shot out into the passage, and Cayley, passing,
tripped over it, and fell headlong upon the floor.
Dougal, cigarette in mouth, leaped out of his chair
and held him lightly.  Benton jumped up and stood
by him, ready.  Cayley was mumbling curses.  They
helped him up politely, and Dougal muttered:

"Go back to your table, Mr. Cayley, and sit down
there for five minutes.  If you don't, by God, I'll kill
you!"

The room buzzed with exclamations; every one stared.

Cayley stared sullenly, his mouth open, then turned
back and sat down and put his hands to his forehead,
leaning on the table.

Dougal conferred with Benton.  "You wait here,
Benton, and wherever Cayley goes, you follow him.
I'm going out after Fancy.  There'll be the hell to pay
to-night if we don't find her.  I've never seen her that
way before, and it looks like trouble to me!"

With that, he hurried out of the restaurant.

.. vspace:: 2

She had run out into the rain without either coat
or umbrella.  Turning down Commercial Street in
the direction of the ferry, she walked hurriedly, as if
bent on some special errand; but, at the foot of
Market Street, she hesitated, then crossed, walked along
East Street past the water-front, saloons and sailors'
boarding-houses, stumbling and slipping on the
uneven, reeking, board sidewalks.  Then she went up
Howard Street, dark and gloomy, all the way to
Fourth Street.  Here she made back for the lights
of Market Street, crossed, looked idly in at a drug
store window for fully five minutes.  A man came up
and accosted her jocosely.  She turned and stared at
him without replying a word, and he walked away.

Then, almost running, now, she flew straight for
Granthope's office.  Looking up from the street, she
saw a light in his window.  She ran up the stairs and
paused for a moment to get her breath outside his
office door.  Just at that moment a voice came to her
from inside, and then a man's answered, followed by
a chorus of soft laughter.  She stood transfixed, biting
her lip nervously, listening.  The woman's voice went
on, evenly.

Fancy staggered slowly down the stairs and went
out again into the storm.  Down Geary to Market
Street, down Market Street, hopelessly, aimlessly.
Here the rain beat upon her mercilessly in great
sheets.  Again she stopped, looking up and down
wildly.  Finally she turned the corner and went into
the ladies' entrance of the "Hospital."  A waiter led
her to a booth where she could be alone.

The "Hospital" was, perhaps, the most respectable
saloon in the city where women were permitted.  The
whole rear of the establishment was given over to a
magnificently fitted-up department devoted to such
women as were willing to be seen there.  One might
go and still retain a certain relic of good-repute, if
one went with a man—there were married women
enough who did, and reckless girls, too, who took the
risk; but it was on the frontier of vice, where
amateur and professional met.

From a wide, carpeted passage booths opened to
right and left; little square rooms, with partitions
running up part way, screened off with heavy red plush
portières hanging from brass rods.  Each of these
compartments was finished in a different kind of rare
wood, handsomely designed.  Arching from a heavy,
molded cornice, where owls sat at stately intervals, an
elaborately coffered ceiling rose, and in the center was
suspended a globe of cathedral glass, electric lighted,
glowing like a full moon.

Fancy hung up her jacket to dry and ordered a
hot lemonade.  Then she went down to the telephone
and called up Gay P. Summer's house number.  She
got him, at last, and asked him, tremulously, to come
down to the "Hospital" and see her.  She would
wait for him.  He seemed surprised, but she would
not explain, and, after a short discussion, he
consented.  She went back to the "Toa" room and waited,
sipping her drink.

All about her was a persistent babble of voices, the
women's raucous, hard and cold, mingled occasionally
with the guffaws of men.  Across the way, through
an opening of the portières, she could see an over-dressed
girl tilted back in her chair puffing a cigarette.
White-aproned waiters passed and repassed, looking
neither to the right nor left.

She was staring fixedly at the wall, her elbows on
the table, her chin on the backs of her hands, when
Gay entered a little crossly.  She looked up with a
smile—almost her old winning smile—though it
drooped in a moment and was set again with an effort.

"Hello, Gay, here I am again!" she said.  She gave
him her cold little hand.

He drew off his rain coat and sat down, as fresh
and pink as ever, the drops still glistening on his
cheeks.  "What's up?" he said, touching the electric
button and pulling out his cigarette case.

"I'm through with Blanchard Cayley," she said,
watching him.

"It's about time," he remarked.

"Aren't you glad to see me, Gay?"

"Sure!" he answered, without looking at her.  He
scratched a match, and, after he had lighted his
cigarette, looked up at the waiter who appeared in the
doorway.  "Two Picon punches," he said.  Then he
turned to her and folded his arms.

"What can I do for you, Fancy?"

He seemed, somehow, to have grown ten years older
since the time they had frolicked together at the
beach.  His cheek was as blooming, his figure as
boyish, but his eyes were a little harder.  His voice
showed a little more confidence, and his pose was quite
that of the man of the world.  Much of his charm had
gone.

"Gay," she said, "we were pretty good friends, once."

"That's what we were, Fancy.  How much do you need?"

She recoiled as if he had struck her and buried
her face in her arms on the table.  Her shoulders
shook convulsively.  "Oh, I didn't want to graft, Gay,
don't think that!  That's not what I called you up for,
really it isn't!"

"What was it, then?" he asked, growing a little
more genial.

The waiter appeared with two glasses on a tray
and set them down on the table.  Fancy looked up and
wiped her eyes.  When they were alone again he said,
"Fire away, now.  I've got a date at ten.  I'm sorry
I said that, but I didn't know but you were hard up,
that's all."

"Gay," she said, "do you remember what you said
that day we went down to Champoreau's the first
time?"

"I believe I said all that crowd had the big head,
didn't I?"

"That isn't it, Gay.  I wonder if you've forgotten
already?"

"I guess I have.  Lots of things have happened
since that."  He blew a lung-full of smoke into the
air over her head.

"You've said it several times since then.  Do you
happen to remember asking me to marry you?"

"I believe I did make a break like that, now you
speak of it.  And you threw me down good and hard,
too."

She got his eyes, and smiled.  "You said that—whenever
I changed my mind and gave the word—you'd marry me."

"Did I?"  Gay moved uncomfortably in his chair.

"You did, Gay, and when you said it, I thought you
meant it.  I believe you did mean it then.  Oh, Gay,
dear, I want to quit drifting!  I want to settle down
and be a good wife to some man who'll take care of
me, some one I can love and help and be faithful to!
Oh, you don't know how faithful I'd be, Gay!  I'd
do anything.  I'm so tired of drifting—I'm so afraid
I'll go on like this!  I'm not a grafter, Gay, you
know I'm not!  But I want to get married and be
happy!"

"You ought to have said that two months ago," he
said, knocking the ash from his cigarette with
exquisite attention.

"Don't you want me now?" she said, shaking her
head pathetically.  She reached for his hand.  "I like
you, Gay, I've always liked you and I think I could
learn to love you sometime.  But I'd be true to you,
anyway.  Take me, please, Gay!  I can't stand it any
longer."

"For Heaven's sake, don't talk so loud, Fancy;
somebody'll hear you!  Say, this isn't fair!  I gave
you a good chance, and you threw me down.  Why
didn't you take me then?  I was crazy about you, but
no, you wouldn't have it!"

"Then you've got all over it?  You don't want me now?"

He had a sudden access of pity, and stroked her
hand.  "Why, I couldn't make you happy, Fancy?
You know that.  You wouldn't have me marry you if
I wasn't in love with you, would you?  I suppose I
have got over it; I was fascinated, and I thought it
was the real thing.  We all make mistakes.  I've been
about a good bit since then, and I know more of the
world.  I'm sorry, but it's too late."

She looked away, and for a moment her eyes closed.

"I guess nobody wants me, then.  Men get tired
of me, don't they?  I'm good enough to play with
for a little while, but—I can't make good as a wife.
Never mind.  I thought perhaps you were in earnest,
that's all.  I'm sorry I bothered you.  You can go,
now!"

He went up to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
She shook it off, shuddering.  "Go *away*!" she
cried.

He took his hat and left her.

For a quarter of an hour she sat there, and then,
looking up haggardly, stared about the room.  She
consulted the little chatelaine watch that dangled on
her breast.  Going up to a mirror, she attempted to
straighten her hair, but her hands shook so that it
was of little use.  She was, even in that warm room,
shivering.  Then she rose and went down the carpeted
passage, past luxurious paintings, past the compartments
filled with giggling women and tipsy men, out
into the night again.

The rain had stopped at last, but it was cold and
gusty.  Great detached masses of cloud pied the
heavens, and in the clear spaces of sky the stars shone,
twinkling brilliantly.  She turned down Market Street.

Half-way to the ferry she met Dougal, almost
falling into his arms before she recognized him.

"Well, I've found you at last!" he exclaimed.  "Lord,
how wet you are!  Come right along home with me,
and Elsie will give you some dry clothes."

"Oh, no, thank you, Dougal, but I can't, really!
I've got to go to Oakland to-night."

"Nonsense!  Wait, I'll get a cab."

"I can't go, honest I can't.  Please don't tease me!"

"Well, I won't leave you, at any rate!"  He put
his arm through hers.

"You can come down to the ferry, if you want.
I'm going to Oakland."

"All right, I'll go, too.  But you're cold!  You
oughtn't cross the bay to-night.  You ought to go right
to bed."

"Oh, I'll be warm enough soon!"

They walked along for a while in silence, till she
stopped him to ask, "Have you got a pistol with you,
Dougal?"

"Yes, why?"

"Lend it to me, will you?"

"Not on your life!  What do you want it for?"

"Never mind, I want it.  Please, Dougal!"

"Not after that scrap I saw to-night.  I don't want
you in the papers to-morrow morning.  You've had
trouble enough without a shooting scrape.  If
anybody's going to shoot Cayley, let me do it!"

She sighed, and gave it up.

"Do you want to tell me what's the matter, Fancy?"

"No, Dougal, I'd rather not.  It doesn't matter."

"You'll get over it all right, I expect."

"Oh, yes, I'll get over it."

"Anyway, you just want to remember you can call
on me any time for anything you want, Fancy, barring
guns.  Don't get blue when you have good friends to
fall back on.  We're with you to a finish, old girl!"

"You're a dear!"  She flashed a smile at him.

He grinned, and gripped her arm tighter.  Then he
began to dance her down the sidewalk.  Fancy grew
hilarious and laughed aloud, excitedly.  They began
to sing, as they marched, a song they had learned by
rote, from Maxim.  Neither of them well understood
the words:

   |  "Josephine est mor-te,
   |      Morte en faisant sa——
   |  En faisant sa priè-re
   |      A bon Saint Nicolas,
   |      Tu-ra-la!
   |    Ca n'va gu-ère—
   |      Tu-ra-la!
   |    Ca n'va pas!"

.. vspace:: 2

They kept it up in this vein till the Ferry Building
was reached.  There he bought her ticket and took her
to the gate.  She still smiled, still flung him her odd
jests, still clung affectionately to his arm.

"Well, good night, Fancy Gray!" he said at last.
"Don't do anything foolish till I see you again!"  His
grin was like a blessing.

She seemed loath to leave him, and drew back from
the gate.  She unpinned the little silver watch from
her coat and handed it to him.

"Say, Dougal, would you mind taking this to a
jeweler and having it adjusted for me?" she said
suddenly.  "It doesn't go very well, and I won't have
time to attend to it.  Don't forget it.  I'll tell
you—perhaps you'd better give it to Elsie—and let her take
charge of it."

He took it and put it in his vest pocket.  "All right,"
he said, "I'll give it to her."

"Tell her to be careful of it, I'm awfully fond of
that watch!" she added.  Then her fingers went to the
little gold chain with the swastika at her neck and
she started to unclasp that, too.

"And, Dougal—"

"What?"

She left the chain where it was.

"Never mind, it's nothing.  Good-by, Dougal, you
may kiss me if you want to!"

"Do I want to!"  He gave her a bear's hug, and
a brother's kiss.

She was still unready to go and stood looking at him
whimsically.  Then, impulsively, she seized his arm
and drew him back under an arc light, and held up her
face.

"Dougal," she said, "will you answer me something
absolutely honestly?"

"Sure!"

"Do you think I'm pretty?"

He studied her a moment, and his lips worked
silently.  Then he said deliberately:

"Well,—I don't know as I'd call you exactly a
*pretty* woman, but you're something more than that—"

"Cut it out!" she exclaimed dryly; "I know all the
rest!  I've heard it before.  Stop before you tell me
I have 'fine eyes' and am good-natured.  I know!
'The bride was a distinguished-looking brunette of
great grace and dignity, and wore her clothes
well!'  Never mind, Dougal, you're honest, anyway," she
added.

He opened his mouth to protest, repentance in his
eyes, but she blew a kiss at him and darted through
the gate.  He watched her till she passed through the
inner door, where she waved a last time.

.. vspace:: 2

She walked rapidly on board, went up the stairway,
and hesitated by the door of the cabin.  A girl passed
her, looked back and then returned timidly.

"Excuse me, but ain't you the young lady that
works in Mr. Granthope's office?" she said.

"I did, but I'm not there any more.  He's gone out
of business," Fancy managed to reply.  Her quick eye
had recognized the girl as Fleurette.

"I'm sorry for that.  He's nice, isn't he?  He was
awfully kind to me, and he said it was on account of
you.  Did you know he wouldn't even take any money
from me?"

"Wouldn't he?" said Fancy.  "That's like him."

"And he gave me such a lovely reading, too.  It
just saved my life, I think, and everything came out
just as he said it would, too.  Don't you think he's
awfully good-looking?"

"Yes, very."  Fancy was breathing hard.

"And he's so good.  Why, I 'most fell in love with
him, that day.  I guess I would have, if I hadn't been
in love already.  I was awfully unhappy then.  I'm
the happiest girl in the world, now!  Say, weren't you
awfully fond of him?"

"Yes."

"I guess he was of you, too.  He said some awful
nice things about you!"

"Did he?"  Fancy's eyes wandered.

The girl saw, now, that something was wrong, and
evidently wanted to make up for it.  She spoke shyly:
"Say—there's something else I always wanted to tell
you.  I wonder if it would make you mad?"

"Go ahead," said Fancy.

"You won't think I'm fooling?"

"No."

"Well," Fleurette almost whispered, "I think you're
*awful* pretty!"

With that, she turned suddenly and went into the
cabin.

.. vspace:: 2

Fancy went down-stairs slowly, biting her
handkerchief.  The lower deck was deserted; she looked
carefully about, to make sure of it.  She glanced down
at the water which boiled up from the paddle-wheels
and shuddered.

Overhead the stars now shone free of cloud, in the
darkness of space.  San Francisco was like a
pincushion, stuck with sparks of light.  She crossed to
the port side of the boat, and saw Goat Island, a
blotch of shadow, with its lighthouse, off the bow.
It grew rapidly nearer and nearer.  It fascinated her.
When it was directly opposite, a few hundred yards
away, she clenched her teeth and muttered to herself:

"Well, there's nothing in the race but the finish!
This is where *I* get off!"

Clambering to the top of the rail, she took a long,
deep breath, then flung herself headlong into the
bay, and the waters closed over her.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MASTERSON'S MANOEUVERS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   MASTERSON'S MANOEUVRES

.. vspace:: 2

Francis Granthope ran up the two flights of stairs
like a boy, and pounded at Masterson's door.  The
doctor appeared, with his celluloid collar in one hand
and a half-eaten orange in the other.  He was
coatless and unshorn, although his office hours, "from
nine till four" had already begun.  He looked at
Granthope, took another bite of his orange, and then,
his mouth being too full for clear articulation, pointed
inside to a chair by the fireplace under the shelves
full of bottles.

Granthope dumped a pile of newspapers from the
chair and sat down.  The sun never came into the
room, and the place was, as usual, chill, dim and
dusty.  A handful of fire fought for life upon the
hearth.  Behind a fringed portière, which was
stretched across the back of the room, the doctor's cot
was seen, dirty and unkempt.

Masterson finished the last of his orange with a
gulp, went to a bowl in the corner where a skull
was perched on a shelf, and washed his hands.  After
he had wiped them and rubbed a blotch of juice from
the front of his plaid flannel waistcoat, he put on his
coat and sat down by the fire.

"Well, I must say you're quite a stranger.  How's
things, Frank?" he said casually.

"So-so," was the reply.  "I've given up my business."

"So I hear.  What's the matter?  Sold out?" asked
Masterson.

"Oh, no, I just threw it all up and left."

"That's funny.  I should have thought you could
have got something for the good-will.  What you
going to do now?"

"Nothing.  I didn't come here to talk about
myself, Masterson, I came to talk about you."

"Well, well, that's kind of you," said the healer,
buttoning on his collar.  "That's what you might call
friendly.  You didn't use to be so much interested
when you was wearing your Prince Albert.  What
makes you so anxious, all of a sudden?"

Granthope smiled good-naturedly, and poked at the
fire till it blazed up.  "See here," he said.  "I can
show you how to make some money easily."

"That sounds interesting.  I certainly ain't in
business for my health.  Fire it off.  I'm listening."

"There's no use beating about the bush with you.
And I'm a man of my word.  Isn't that so?"

"I never heard it gainsaid," said Masterson.  "I'll
trust you, and you can trust me as equally."

"Well, I'll tell you how I'm fixed.  You know that
Madam Spoll and Vixley have got it in for me—they've
tried to run me out of this town, in fact."

"Oh, *that's* why you quit?  Lord, I wouldn't lay
down so easy as that!"

"Well, I'm out of it, at any rate.  I won't say why,
but they tried to hurt me, fast enough.  Now I want
to give them as good as they sent."

Doctor Masterson grinned and clasped his hands
over his knees.  "That suits me all right, I ain't
any too friendly myself, just at present."

"Then perhaps we can come to terms.  What I
propose to do, is to checkmate them with Payson."

Masterson rubbed his red, scrawny beard.  "That
ain't easy," he said reflectively.

"Easy enough, if you'll help me."

"How?"

"Simply by giving the whole business away to
Mr. Payson.  He'll believe you when he won't me."

"Well, what is there in it?"

"You know what my word is worth.  If you help
me, and we succeed in getting Mr. Payson out of the
net, I promise you a thousand dollars."

"H'm!"  Masterson deliberated.

"Of course, they know I'll spoil their game if I can,
so I take no chances in telling you.  So it's up to you
to decide whether you'll stand in with them, or with
me.  I can do it alone, in time, but if you help, so
much the better.  You stand to win, anyway.  It
isn't worth that much to work with them, as things
are, and you know it."

"I don't know about that," said Masterson craftily,
watching his man; "a thousand ain't much for giving
away pals."

"They're not your pals.  They've tried to freeze
you out—Fancy Gray has told me that from the
inside.  They're going to get rid of you in short
order.  Besides, you'll have the credit of rescuing a
credulous old man from the clutches of swindlers."

"That's true," said the doctor.  "They're a-bleeding
him something awful.  It *had* ought to be stopped, as
you say.  I don't believe in grafting.  I'm a straight
practitioner, and if any of my patients want fake work
they can go somewheres else."

"Well, what d'you say, then?"

Masterson thought it over as he warmed his hands.
His reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door,
and he rose to open it.  An old, shabby woman stood
in the hall.

She was wrinkled and veined, with yellowish white
hair, vacuous, watery gray eyes, a red, bulbous nose,
and a miserable chin.  She had nothing of the
dignity of age, and her thin, cruel lips were her only
signs of character.  All other traits were submerged
by drink and poverty.  Her skirt was ridiculously
short and her black shawl ragged and full of holes.
She breathed of beer.

"How d'you do, Mrs. Riley?" said Masterson.  "I'm
sorry to say I'm engaged at present and you'll have
to wait.  Can't you sit down on the stairs for a while?"

"Oh, dear, but that fire looks good!" she whined.
"Can't I just come in and have a seat to rest my
bones on?  I'm feeling that miserable this day that I
can't stand."

"Let her come in," said Granthope, rising.  "I've
said all that's necessary at present, and if you decide
to do what I want, we can talk it over later."

The doctor grudgingly admitted her.  She tottered
in and took the chair by the fire gratefully.  She had
looked at Granthope when he first spoke, and now she
kept her eyes fixed on him as he stood by the window.

Masterson went over to him and spoke in a lower
tone.  "I got to have time to think this thing over,"
he said.  "Then, if I accept your offer, we got to
discuss ways and means, and so forth and so on.  I
won't say yes, and I won't say no, just at present.
I'll think it over and let you know, Frank."

The woman started at the name.  Her lower lip
fell pendulous.  Her eyes were still on Granthope.

"When will you let me know?" he asked.

"I tell you what I'll do; I'm busy to-day, and I
got an engagement to-night.  Suppose I come down
to your office after theater time?  Say ten-thirty.
Will that do?"

"I'll be there," Granthope replied.  "I'll wait till
you come.  The outside door is locked at eleven
o'clock.  Be there before that."

He took his hat and walked to the door, giving a
look at Mrs. Riley as he passed.  Her face was now
almost animated, as her lips mumbled something to
herself.  Granthope ran briskly down-stairs, and
Masterson closed the door.

"Who's that?" Mrs. Riley piped querulously.

"That?  Why, Granthope, the palmist," said the
doctor, busying himself with some bottles on his table.
He took one up and shook it.

"Granthope?  No, sir!  Don't tell me!  I know
better."

Masterson was upon her in a flash.  "What d'you
mean?" he demanded, taking her by the arm.

"I know, I know!  You can't fool Margaret Riley!"
she croaked.

He shook her roughly.  "You're drunk!" he exclaimed
in disgust.

"No, I ain't!" she retorted.  "I'm sober enough to
know that fellow; I've seen him before, I tell you."

"Who is he, then?"

"Oh, d'you want to know?" she said craftily.  "What
would you give to know, Doctor?"

"I'll give you Hail Columbia if you *don't* tell me!"
he cried.  "I'll give you a bloody good reputation,
that's what I'll give!  I'll give you the name of being
a poisoner, old woman, and I'll take care that your
neighbors know all about your three husbands, if you
don't look out!"

"Oh, my God!  Don't speak so loud, Doctor, please!
I'll tell you if you'll promise to leave me alone.  I
didn't mean nothing by it."

"Let's have it then."  The doctor's eyes gleamed.

"Did you ever hear tell of Madam Grant?" she
asked.  "I reckon it was before your day."

"Yes, I did.  What about her?"

"Why, this young fellow you call Granthope, he
used to live with her."

"He did!"  The healer came up to her and looked
her hard in the eye.  "How the devil do you know
that?"

"Why, I've seen him there, many's the time.  I used
to know the Madam well.  Me and her was great
friends.  Why, I was there the day she died!"

"Were you?  I never knew that."

"We used to call him Frankie, then.  He didn't call
himself Granthope at all.  I expect he made that up."

"Is—that—*so*!"  Masterson grinned joyously.

"Let's see—there was some money missing when the
boy left, seems to me."

"Lord, yes, and a sight of money, too.  Madam
Grant was a grand miser.  They say she had a
fortune stowed away in the dirt on the floor.  She run
a real estate business, you know, and she done well
by it.  I expect that's where Frankie got his start.
Strange I never seen him afore."

"You're positively sure it's the same one?"

"Didn't I stare hard enough at him?  Why, just as
soon as I come in the door I says to myself, 'I've
seen you before, young man!'  Then when you called
him Frank, it all come back to me.  I'll take my oath
to it."

"Lord, I could kick myself!" said Masterson.  "To
think of all these years I've known him and ain't
suspected who he was!"

"You won't give me away, then, will you, Doctor?"
the old lady added tearfully.

"I'll see, I'll see."  He returned to his medicine,
thinking hard.

He proceeded with his treatment of Mrs. Riley, plying
her all the while with questions relative to Francis
Granthope and Madam Grant.  Mrs. Riley knew little,
but she embroidered upon what she had seen and
heard till, at the end, she had fabricated a considerable
history.  Her fancy, under fear of the healer's threats,
was given free rein; and Masterson listened so
hungrily, that, had there been no other inducement, her
pleasure in that alone would have made her garrulous.
She went away feeling important.

That afternoon, Doctor Masterson, loaded and
primed with his secret, took his rusty silk hat and a
Chinese carved bamboo cane and walked proudly up
Turk Street to hold Professor Vixley up for what
was possible.

The Professor welcomed him with a show of politeness.

"How's Madam Spoll?" was Masterson's first question,
after he had spread his legs in the front room.

"Gertie's pretty bad," said Vixley.  "The doctors
don't hold out much hope, but you know the way they
linger with a burn.  I wonder could you do anything
for her?"

"I ain't any too willing, after the way she treated
me last time I was here," said the healer coldly.  "I
ain't never been talked to so in my life!"

"Oh, you don't want to mind a little thing like that,
Doc, it was only her way.  Business is business, you
know.  Besides, if Gertie *should* be took from us it
may make a good deal of difference, after all.  I don't
just know what I'll do."

"I tell you what you'll do," said Masterson, gazing
through his spectacles aggressively, "you'll take me
into partnership, that's what you'll do!"

"Oh, I will, will I?  I ain't so sure about that, Doc.
Don't go too fast; Gertie ain't dead yet."

"I rather think I can make it an object to you,
Vixley.  I may go so far as to say I *know* I
can."  Masterson leaned back and noted the effect of his
words.

Vixley looked at him curiously and raised his
eyebrows.  "Is that so?  I didn't know as you was in a
position to dictate to me, Doc, but maybe you
are—you never can tell!"

"I can just everlastingly saw you off with Payson if
I want to; that's what I can do!" Masterson rubbed in.

"How?"

"Through something I found out to-day, that's how."

"I guess I could call that bluff on you, Masterson,
if I wanted to.  We got him sewed up in a sack.  You
can't touch us there."

"Lord, I can blow you sky-high!"  He arose and
made as if to walk to the door.  "And, by the Lord
Harry, I'll do it, too!  I've given you a fair chance,
you remember that!"

Vixley took water hastily.  "Oh, see here, Doc, don't
go to work and be hasty!  You know it was only
Gertie who wanted to freeze you out.  I don't say it's
impossible to make a deal, only I don't want to buy
a pig in a poke, do I?  I can't talk business till I know
what you have to offer."

"Oh, you'll find I can make good all right," said
Masterson, returning to his seat with his hat on the
back of his head.  "See here; as I understand it, you're
working Payson on the strength of something about
this Felicia Grant, he was supposed to be sweet on.
Is that right?"

"Well, suppose we are, just for the sake of the
argument.  What then?"

"Now, they was a little boy living with her, and he
disappeared.  Am I right?"

"You got it about right; yes."  Vixley's eyes sparkled.

"Well, then; what if I know who that boy was, and
where he is now?  How would that strike you?"

"Jimminy!  Do you?" Vixley cried, now fairly
aroused.  "I don't deny that might make considerable
difference."

"I should say it would!  I should imagine yes!
Why, you simply can't do nothing at all till you know
who he is, and what he knows!  And I got him!  Yes,
sir, I got him!"

"Who is he?" Vixley asked, with a fine assumption
of innocence.

Masterson laughed aloud.  "Don't you wish't you
knew?" he taunted.  "I'll let you know as soon as we
come to an agreement.  What d'you think about that
partnership proposition now?"

"Good Lord, ain't I told you all along I was willin'?
It was only Gertie prevented me takin' you in before!
Sure!  I'm for it.  Gertie's in a bad way, and I doubt
if she'll be able to do anything for a long time, even
if she should recover.  Meanwhile, of course, I got
to live.  It won't do to let Payson slip through our
fingers.  Let's shake on it, Doc; I'm with you.  You
help me out, and we'll share and share alike."

"Done!" said Masterson.  "I kind of thought I
could make you listen to reason.  Now you can tell
me just how the land lays with Payson."

"Wait a minute!  You ain't told me who the kid
is, yet."

Masterson hesitated a moment, unwilling to give up
his secret till he had bound the bargain, but it was,
of course, obviously necessary.  He leaned toward his
new partner and touched Vixley on the knee.  "It's
Frank Granthope!"

Vixley jumped to his feet and raised his two fists
wildly above his head, then dropped them limply to his
side.  "*Granthope!*" he cried.  "My God!  Are you sure?"

"Positive.  Mrs. Riley recognized him to-day at my
office.  She used to know Madam Grant, and see him
down there when he was a kid.  Why?  What's wrong
about that?"

"Hell!" Vixley cried in a fury.  "It's all up with
us, then!"

"Why, what can Granthope do?"

"Do?  He can cook our goose in half a minute.
And if Payson finds this out, it's all up in a hurry."

"I don't see it yet," Masterson complained.

"Why, here it is in a nutshell.  Payson has an
illegitimate son by Madam Grant—he's all but confessed
it, and we're sure of it.  We had it all fixed up to
palm off Ringa on him for the missing heir—see?
They was big money in it, if it worked.  But let
Granthope get wind of the game, and he'll walk in himself
as the prodigal son, and we're up a tree.  He's thick
with the Payson girl already, and unless we fix him,
he'll make trouble.  If we could only keep Payson
from findin' out who Granthope is, and if we could
keep Granthope from findin' out that Payson had a
son, we might make it yet, but it's a slim chance now."

"It is a mess, ain't it?" said Masterson, scratching
his head, and studying the pattern on the carpet.  "Of
course this son business puts a different face on it
for me.  But perhaps we can pull it off yet.  Have
you seen Payson to-day?"

"No—and there's another snag.  Did you see the
paper this mornin'?  The reporters have been around
to-day, and I'm afraid they's going to be trouble about
that materializin' séance.  If they print any more, I'll
have to pack up and get out of town till it blows
over.  What in the world made Payson suspect
anything, I don't know!  Fancy done her part all right.
But I ain't afraid of that.  We can get him back on
the hook again all right.  All we got to do is to lay
the fakin' on to Flora, and she'll stand for it.  What
I want to do next is to develop him."

"Yes, I see you got one of them mirrors over there,"
said Masterson, going up to it inquisitively.  "It's slick,
ain't it?  Let's have a look at it!"

Vixley sprang in front of him and held his arm.
"For God's sake, don't touch it!  Don't touch it!" he
cried fearfully.  "Leave it alone.  I don't want it
started.  I can't stand the damned thing!  I'm going
to use crystal balls instead.  That thing gets on my
nerves too bad."

Masterson, surprised, turned away.  "What did
you get it for, anyway?  I should think you'd got 'em
again, by the way you talk."

"There's bad luck in it.  I'm going to send it away.
I'm afraid of it, somehow."

Masterson laughed, and resumed his seat, to discuss
with the Professor the details of the plot.  He
did not seem much interested in the plans for the
future, however, and seemed anxious to get away,
yawning occasionally.  He was now smug and
confident, while Vixley seemed to have lost his nerve.
The threatened newspaper revelations had cowed him.
Madam Spoll was left out of the discussion; it was
evident that her part of the affair was finished.
Masterson left, promising his assistance if matters quieted
down, and Payson could be brought under their
influence again.

By dinner-time he had thought the matter over to
his satisfaction, and he therefore enjoyed himself with
beer and cheap vaudeville till half-past ten.  Then he
strolled down Geary Street and marched up to
Granthope's office.

It had taken all Granthope's resolution to treat with
Masterson, but it had seemed the only way, at present,
to deal with the situation.  Mr. Payson's part in
the materializing séance had not yet transpired.

Masterson took a chair, crossed his legs and began:

"Well, Frank, I've been thinking over your proposition
to-day, and I've decided that I've got to raise
the ante."

"I thought that would be about your style," Granthope
returned, "but I think I've offered you about all
it's worth."

"Oh, it ain't only my help that's worth it, it's you
that's worth it, so to speak.  I'm getting on to your
game, now, and I happen to know that you can afford
to pay well; you see, I didn't happen to know so much
about this Payson girl, as I do now.  If you're tapping
a millionaire's family, why, I want my share of it."

"I guess there's no use discussing the matter, then,
if that's your theory.  I can't possibly pay more than
what I've offered."

"I'd advise you to hear me out, Frank," Masterson
went on.  "I said you could pay more, but I didn't
say what I had to offer wasn't worth more, did I?"

"Why is it worth more now than it was this forenoon?"
Granthope asked impatiently.

"It's worth more, because I've seen Vixley, and I've
found out things that it's for your interest to know.
I'm on the inside, now, and I'm prepared to make a
better bargain."

"I see; you've sold me out, and now you want to
turn over and sell Vixley out for a raise?  I might
have guessed that!"  He turned to his desk in disgust.

"I don't care what you think.  I ain't discussing
high moral principles.  I'm here to make a living in
the quickest and most practical way.  If you don't care
to hear what I've got to say, I'll leave."

"How do I know you've got anything of value to
me?  Why should I trust you?"

"You can't expect me to tell you, and then leave
it to you to make a satisfactory price, can you?"

"Oh, I don't care what you've learned.  We'll call
it all off."  Granthope rose, as if to end the interview.

Masterson seeing his caution had gone too far
became more eager.  "Let's talk this thing out, Frank,
man to man.  Suppose I tell you half of it, and let
you see whether it's as important as I say.  Then we'll
have a basis to figure on."

"All right, but make it brief.  I'm getting sick of the
business."  He sat down, tilted back in his chair and
waited, gazing at the ceiling.

Masterson spoke crisply, now.  "Suppose I tell you
that Payson has confessed that he has a son?"  He
shifted his cigar in his mouth and watched the bolt
fall.

As the words came out, Granthope's face, which
had shown only a contemptuous, bored expression,
changed instantaneously.  It was, for a moment, as
if a sponge had been passed over it, obliterating all
signs of intelligence, leaving it to blank, hopeless
bewilderment.  Then his mind leaped to its inevitable
conclusion, the whole thing came to him in a sudden
revelation; a dozen unnoticed details jumped together
to form the pattern, and there it was, a problem solved:
horror and despair.  He was Clytie's half-brother!
He sat enthralled by it for a moment—he forgot the
leering scoundrel in front of him—he saw only
Clytie—inaccessible for ever.

Then, still without a word, he rose like one in a
dream, sought for his hat, went out the door, and
ran down-stairs.  As in a dream, too, Masterson's
astonished, entreating, indignant exclamations followed
him, echoing down the hall.  Granthope paid no
attention, he had no thought but for Clytie—to see her
immediately, at any cost.

.. vspace:: 2

He swung aboard an O'Farrell Street car, found a
seat in the corner of the open "dummy" portion, and
strove with the tumult in his soul.  The torturing
thought of Clytie for ever lost to him coiled and
uncoiled like a serpent.  He did not doubt Masterson's
revelation, nor could he doubt its obvious
interpretation in the light of the many revelations that
had been cast upon Mr. Payson's past.  Yet it must
be corroborated before he could wholly abandon
himself to renunciation.  He tried to keep from hoping.

He was Clytie's half-brother!  His mind wrestled
with it.

The car filled at the Orpheum Theater, taking on a
load of merry passengers, who crowded the seats inside
and out till the aisles and footboards were packed.
The bell clanged as they drove through the Tenderloin,
rolled round the curve into Jones Street and took
the steep hill, climbing without slackening speed.  It
rounded two more corners, wheels creaking; and as it
passed, the broad area of the Mission and South San
Francisco was for a moment revealed in the gap of
Hyde Street, a valley of darkness, far below,
gorgeously set out with lights, like strings and patterns
of jewels.  At California Street a crowd of passengers,
mostly Jews, overdressed, prosperous, exuberant,
transferred for the Western Addition.  The car
went up and up, reached the summit and coasted down
the dip to Pacific Street.  Another rise to Union Street,
where another line transferred more passengers
towards the Presidio.  Then, with only one or two
inside, and the conductor lazily picking his teeth on
the back platform, they climbed again up to the reservoir.
Here a long incline fell giddily to the water and
the North Beach.  The car rolled to the crest, ducked
fearfully, and boldly descended the slope.

He was Clytie's half-brother!  The thought of it
was darker than the night about him.

Ahead, the black stretch of water, the flash of the
light on Alcatraz, and a misty constellation in the
direction of Sausalito.  To the left, a huge shoulder
of Russian Hill swept back from the northern harbor
in a wave toward the south.  It was sprinkled with
artificial stars—the gas-lamps, electric lights, and
illuminated windows of the town.  One street, directly
opposite, was a line of topaz brilliants, loosely strung,
scattering over the hill.  Fort Point light, two miles
away, flared alternately a dash of pale yellow—and
short pin-pricks of red.  Farther away, Point Bonita
was flaming, regular as a clock, a periodic spasm of
diamond radiance.  Electric cars, like lighted lanterns,
were painfully climbing the Fillmore Street hill.  All
about was a sparse settlement of wooden houses,
thickening as it rose to the palaces of Pacific Avenue
crowning the summit.  A dark space of grass and
trees lay ahead—the Black Point Military Reservation—the
bugles were calling through the night.

It was past eleven o'clock when Granthope ran up
the steps into the Paysons' front garden, walked
rapidly up the path and stood for a moment outside the
door.  There was a light in Clytie's workroom; he
threw a handful of gravel against the pane, and waited.

The curtain was drawn aside, the window raised,
and Clytie looked out boldly.  She saw him, waved
her hand, and disappeared.  A few moments later she
opened the front door quietly.  She wore a soft,
clinging, blue silk peignoir; her arms were half bare, and
her tawny hair was braided for the night.  She came
out with a look of alarm.

"Oh, Francis, what is it?"

"Did I frighten you, dear?"

"Oh, I knew it was you, immediately.  But what
has happened to bring you here?"

"Is your father at home?"

"No—he may be back at any moment, though.  But
come in!"

He removed his hand from hers resolutely, though
her touch thrilled him with delight.  "Wait!" he
commanded.  "First, can you get the keys to that trunk?"

"Trunk?" she questioned, puzzled.

"Yes, the trunk you told me about—with the
wedding-clothes in it—I must see it!"

"Now?" she asked wonderingly.

"Yes, immediately.  Please do as I say, and don't
ask why, yet.  Everything depends upon it.  Hurry,
before your father comes!"

The unusual air of command brought her to her
senses.  She went into the house.  "Wait here in the
hall; I'll get a light."

She was gone but a moment, and returned with a
candle in a brass candlestick.  Then, without a word,
she led the way up the stairs.  They passed silently
through an upper hall where an open door revealed
a glimpse of her bed-chamber, all in white, as
exquisitely kept as a hospital ward.  Here she left him to
get her father's keys.  They came to a flight of steps,
leading upward.  She waited for him to go first and
lift the trap-door at the top.  When he had disappeared
into the gloom above, she followed him, handed
up the candlestick and took his hand to a place beside him.

The garret stretched the full length of this wing of
the house.  At the far end a dim light came through
a gable window, in front of which the bough of a tree
waved.  The candle cast wavering, widening shadows
of the rafters against the sloping roof, and picked
out with its light the rows of trunks, boxes and pieces
of furniture on either side of the floor.  It was damp
and cold; there was a musty odor of old books.

She led the way to the end, where, under the
window a large, black trunk stood upon the floor.
Granthope's heart leaped with hope.  But, in another
moment it stood still as death.  She had handed him
the key, and he had thrown open the lid.  There,
inside, was a smaller trunk, covered with cow-hide,
with a rounded top and a lip of pinked leather, studded
with brass nails.  There were the letters, "F.G."

He needed but one look to recognize it as Madam
Grant's.  But still, it was a common pattern of the
old-fashioned "hair trunk" and he must be sure.  The
lock had been broken, and no key was needed to open
it.  He threw open this lid, also.  Clytie bent over
him holding the candle, so near that she touched his
shoulder.  Neither had spoken.

There was the same collection of papers, letters
and account-books, the same little mahogany box.
How well he recalled his first sight of it all!  How
heavy that tray had seemed to him, as a child!  Now
he raised it with ease.  Below, the same revelation of
yellowing satin and old lace—even the same tissue
paper, shredded to tatters, wrapped about the packages.
The boxes of silk stockings and handkerchiefs were
there as well.  He thought of the package of bills that
had lain in one corner—he knew the place as well as if
he still saw the money.  Lastly, he groped for the
white vellum prayer-book.  He found it, and drew it
out.  Opening the cover, he looked once at the fly-leaf,
then handed it silently to Clytie.  Written there was
the name "Felicia Gerard."  He turned his face
away from her.

She looked at the book and then at him, still bewildered.

"What does it mean, Francis?  Tell me; I can't
stand it a moment longer!  This is Madam Grant's
trunk, of course—I see that.  But how came it here?
Why should my father—"

She set the candle upon a box and put her arms
tenderly about his neck, her face close to his, to soothe
his agitation.  Her smooth cheek against his was
rapture.  He could feel her body, warm and soft,
through her thin peignoir, and the contact inflamed
him.  He unclasped her arms with a sudden violent
gesture and sprang up in an agony of despair.

"Don't touch me!" he cried.  "Never again!"

She looked at him, terrified at his tone.  His panic
passed in a wave from him to her, and was the more
unbearable because she did not yet understand the
cause of it.

"What is it?  Tell me!"  She faced him, and
extended her hand.

He retreated from her.

"It's Mamsy's trunk," he said, trying to control his
voice.  "Oh, don't you see?"

"I'm too frightened to think!" she cried, clasping
her hands.  "I can't think.  Tell me quickly, or I shall
faint!"

"Doesn't your intuition tell you?" he asked bitterly.
"Why should it fail you now, when it should be
stronger than ever before?"

"It tells me nothing, except that you are killing
me with suspense.  Oh, but I know you are suffering,
too!  Let me share it.  Francis, you don't doubt my
love for you, whatever happens, do you?"

He caught her hand again and dashed it away.

"Oh, you should see!" he cried.  "It's so plain,
now!  I am Madam Grant's son—and my father—is
your father!  I am your half-brother!  It's all ended
between us, now!"

"How do you know?"  She was trembling.  "How
does this prove it?  It is Felicia Grant's trunk, of
course—but we knew already that my father had an
interest in her—he must have bought this trunk at the
auction when she died—but why does it prove you are
his son?  Why should you think that there was ever
such a relation between them?  It's horrible!"

"I found out to-night, an hour ago, that your father
had a child by her—he has confessed it to Vixley and
Madam Spoll.  They got it out of him, somehow.
That's how they have got a hold on him—and who
else should this child be but I, who lived with her?  It
accounts for his tenderness for these things, for his
scrap-book, his going down to the Siskiyou
Hotel—everything!  Oh, it's certain!  It is hopeless!"

She stood gazing at him, bewildered.

"If he had an illegitimate child it must be you, of
course.  But it is strange I never heard of that!"

"It was all so long ago—before you were born—that
it happened.  Madam Grant had no friends—except,
perhaps, your mother—and it could have been kept
a secret easily enough."

She gave a low moan and sank down upon a box
limply.  Her eyes were fixed on the candle flame; she
seemed to be studying some possible way of escape.
She looked up at him once, and then down again,
for his eyes were desperate.  He stood watching her,
and for some time neither spoke.  He put his hand
to his head, stroking his hair over his ear mechanically,
while his mind whirled.  Below a door slammed.
She rose, shaking back her hair, her eyes half-closed,
her hands on her breast.

"I understand, now," she said slowly.  "It must
have been that which drew me to you at first.  But if
you are my brother, surely I have the more right to
love you!  Oh, Francis, I do love you!  What does
it matter how, so long as you are dear to me?"  She
rose, and put out her hand again, but, at the touch
he shrank away from her.

"Oh, no, I can't stand that!  It's all over, that
tenderness.  I can't trust myself with you.  It's not a
brother's love I feel for you.  It's so much more that
you will always be a fearful temptation to me."

"Can't you overcome that?"  As she held the candle
before her, her face had never appeared more noble;
for a moment she seemed as far away from him as
she had been at first, alone on spiritual heights to
him inaccessible.

"Can you?" he asked.

She dropped her eyes.  "If we had found this out
before, it would have been easier."

"Ah, if we only had!  Then you would have come
into my life as a sister.  How proud I would have
been of you!  How grateful for all you have done for
me!  But it is too late, now, to accept you on such
terms.  I have kissed you—not as a brother kisses
his sister.  I can never get that desire out of my
blood!"

She shuddered and turned away from him.  "Yes,
you are right, I know.  I am a woman, now; you
have awakened me.  There is nothing for us to do
but part.  It is hideous to be the playthings of fate."

"Well," he said grimly, "if I have made you a
woman, you have made me a man!  I can at least live
cleanly and self-respectingly.  Of course I can't see
you again—not, at least, for a long time—not till we
get over this—"

She looked up with the veriest shadow of a smile.
"Oh, I shall not get over it!  There is no chance of
that!  Right or wrong, I shall always feel the same
toward you, always long for you.  Isn't that a fearful
confession?  Yet, how can I help it?"

"Then it is for me to protect you all the more.  I
can live so that you need not be ashamed of me.  But
not near you."

She sat down again.  Her head drooped like a heavy
flower, her hands fell listlessly into her lap.  A
sudden draft distracted the candle and sent her shadow,
distorted, to and fro upon the roof.  Then footsteps
were heard on the floor below, and a door slammed
again.  She looked up to say:

"Father has come home.  Shall we tell him, now?"

.. _`Her head drooped like a heavy flower`:

.. figure:: images/img-544.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Her head drooped like a heavy flower

   Her head drooped like a heavy flower

"Must we?"

"I would rather wait.  I can't stand anything more,
yet.  I want to think it out.  I am too puzzled and I
am fighting against this too hard, now.  Let me get
hold of myself first.  Perhaps we can get down without
his hearing us, if we wait a little while.  He has
gone to his room."

"That's the best way, if we can.  There'll be a
scene—and I am not ready for that, either.  I will
tell him later—or you may."

"No, it should be you.  How can I talk to him?"

"I can't tell how he'll take it.  I'm sure, now,
that he has been looking for me—for Madam Grant's
child—for some time, and Vixley was undoubtedly
leading him on, promising to find his son.  But now,
when he knows it is I, after the way he has treated
me, how will he feel?"

"Oh, be sure he will be kind!"

"It doesn't matter much.  I shall not trouble him.
I shall go away, of course."

"Oh, I can't bear it!  I *can't* give you up!  Oh, I'm
sure it isn't right.  I can't believe it, even yet!"

"Let's go down!" he said sharply.  "I can't stand
it any longer.  My blood cries out for you!  When I
think that I have held you in my arms—"

"Yes, come!  Don't speak like that or I shall
forget everything else."

He took the candle and lighted her down the steps,
then followed her quietly.  Together they crept along
the hall and down the stairway to the lower hall.  As
they got there, the cuckoo-clock hiccoughed, five
minutes before the hour.

She stood for a moment looking at him, her eyes
burning.  Her peignoir fell in long, graceful lines,
suggesting her gracile figure.  One braid had fallen
over her shoulder across her breast to below her
waist.  Her beauty smote his senses.

"To-morrow is Saturday," he said.  "I shall come
up to see your father in the afternoon.  You had
better be away, if you can."

"I shall be away," she said dully.

"I'll have it out with him—settle it beyond all
doubt, and then—"

"And then?"

"I shall try to show you what you have made of me.
I shall not see you till we have conquered this thing!"

"Oh, Francis, if I could only feel that it is wrong—but
I *can't*.  It seems so right, so natural.  I shall
not change.  I have given myself to you, and I can
not take myself back.  If there is fighting against
it to be done, you must do it for both of us.  You
must decide."

"I shall take care of you, Clytie.  That will be my
brother's duty."

"Yes," she said, drooping, "you must help me,
I can't help you any more.  I have done what I can,
but you have passed me now, and you are the master."

"I must begin now, then, and go.  Good-by!"

She gave him her hands, and he took them for a
moment, then flung himself away before their
delicacy could work on him.  With a sudden smile, he
turned to the door and was gone.

She stood, limp and weak, watching him till the
door closed.  Then the cuckoo-clock broke the silence
with its interminable midnight clatter, persistent,
maddening.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SUNRISE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SUNRISE

.. vspace:: 2

Clytie met her father, next morning, showing no
trace of what she had suffered during the night.  He
himself had enough to think about without noticing
her demeanor.

On Saturday the papers had, after considerable
investigation of the matter, called public attention to
the doings of spiritualistic mediums in San Francisco,
and were full of exposures.  Vixley's record was
given, and it was sensational enough to make it
advisable for the Professor to leave town till the scandal
blew over.  Flora Flint was reported to have fled at
the same time, and, it was presumed, in the same
direction.  Other mediums not concerned in this affair
were interviewed, and pseudo-confessions extorted
from their dupes.  The Spiritualistic Society protested
in vain that none of the mediums exposed had ever
been in good standing with that body of true
believers—the wave of gossip drowned its voice.  San
Francisco was the largest spiritualistic community in
the United States, probably in the world, but, for a
while at least, it would be less easy for clairvoyants
and psychometrists to earn a living.  This outburst
was one of the periodic upheavals of reform, but the
talk would soon die down and business would be
resumed in perfect safety by the charlatans.  There
would be a new crop of dupes to cajole.

Clytie and her father both avoided the subject.
Breakfast passed silently, and at nine o'clock
Mr. Payson left the house.  Clytie went about her work
automatically; answered a few letters, listlessly
rearranged her jewelry in its casket, sorted the leaves
of a book she had taken apart to rebind, cut the pages
of a magazine, set her tools in order on the bench.
From time to time she went to the front window to
look out, returning to stand for minutes at a time in
the center of the room, as if she had forgotten what
she had intended to do.  At ten o'clock she lay down
upon the couch in the library and fell into a deep
sleep of exhaustion, the first rest she had obtained
since midnight.

She was awakened by the door-bell, and had barely
time to hurry into her chamber before the door was
answered.  There, word was brought to her that
Mr. Cayley wished to see her.  She bathed her eyes,
smoothed her hair, put on her Chinese *sa'am*, and a
jade necklace over her house-frock and went down to
him.  Her face was resolutely set, her eyes had a
cold luster.

"How d'you do, Blan?" she said, holding out her
hand to him.  "I'm so glad to see you!"

It was a warmer greeting than he had received for
some time, but he did not appear surprised.  He
drew off his gloves, looking admiringly at her.

"I didn't feel like work, to-day, so I thought I
would run out and see you."

"You certainly are devoted!  I shall have to reward
you by being very nice."

He smiled.  "I'm glad you're beginning to appreciate me."

"Meaning that in the dictionary sense of the word,
or the common interpretation?" she said, seating herself.

"Both.  They're the same, in my case.  If I had
suspected that you were going to be so amiable—"

"I'm always ready to be that—if you'll let me."

This was enough unlike her ordinary manner
toward him to make him give her a look-over for an
explanation.  "All right, I'll take you up," he said.
"Just how amiable are you prepared to be?"  He sat
down opposite her.

"That's for you to find out!"

"Well.  I'll try to discover the line of least resistance."

"Oh, you needn't be so elaborate, Blanchard.  You
never really need more than half the subtlety you
waste on me.  I'm quite a simple person!"

"Still waters—" he began.

She lifted her shoulders and her brows.

"Run cold!" he finished, and caught a smile.

"I wonder if I *am* cold!" she said.

"Granthope didn't succeed in firing you?"

She showed no evidence of pain except that the
two lines appeared in her forehead suddenly.  Then
she shook her head as if to cast off some annoyance.

"Oh, you're quite off the track, there.  Don't make
it harder for yourself than necessary.  What did you
come to-day for?  Tell me!"

He laughed comfortably and said, "Reconnaissance."

"I thought there was a reason.  Well, reconnoiter
away!  Your precautions are infinite!"  Her chin
went up.

"That's one of the qualities of genius, I believe.
I think in the end I shall justify my system."

"You haven't produced any psychological condition
yet, then?"  She looked at him with her eyebrows
raised.  No smile.

"Not quite."

"Hasn't it ever occurred to you that"—her eyes
sought his with a quick glance, and drifted
away—"that such a condition—might come without your
having produced it yourself?  Accidentally, so to
speak?"

"I confess I haven't been modest enough to
anticipate that."

"I thought you were a diagnostician, as well as a
physician!"  She threw another quick look at him,
withdrawing her eyes immediately.

"Prognosis is my specialty."

"Oh, I shall take care of myself."

"There's no defense like a vigorous attack."

"I'm not going after you," she protested.

"But *is* there a psychological condition, Cly?"

"That's not fair.  You ought to be able to tell,
yourself—it's your own theory.  The trouble is that
you're too theoretical.  You've left me quite out of
the question and tried to do it all yourself."

She put her head on one side with unaccustomed
coquetry.  There was a new glitter in her eyes which
seemed to baffle him.  For the first time she had the
upper hand of him at his own game.  He was like a
man who had started to lift a heavy weight and had
suddenly found it unexpectedly light.  The reaction
threw him over.

"Are you willing to help?" he asked.

"Ah, if you had only begun that way!"

"Clytie—do you mean—"

"Oh, I don't mean anything."  She got up and
took a turn about the room restlessly as she spoke.
"It's my turn to be theoretical, that's all."

He leaned toward her very seriously.  "Clytie, I'm
terribly in earnest."

"I'd like more proof of it."

"Would you?  What proof can I give?"

"There you are on the other side, now, making me
do more than my share.  I don't intend to teach you,
you know!"  She walked away, her hands behind her
back.

"Could you, if you wanted to?"

"Oh, I think I might show you a few things.  I
have my ideas—most women have, you know.  Perhaps
I'm not quite so cold as you think."  She shut
her eyes a moment and trembled.  "But there's
plenty of time."

He let that go, gazing with curiosity at the spots of
red on her cheeks.  It was not a blush; the color
was sustained.  She never looked at him steadily,
giving him only a flashing glance, now and again.
Her nostrils were expanded, her head was held
majestically erect.  There was, indeed, plenty of time
for him, and he took it coolly.  He betrayed still a
puzzled interest—that of a hunter whose quarry was
fluttering so that he could not get in his shot.

"You're looking very beautiful, to-day, Cly."

"To-day?"  She emphasized the word.

He laughed.  "That's the time I put the mucilage
brush in the ink-bottle!  Queer how hard it is to
give a girl a compliment that she'll accept."

"I beg pardon—it was ungracious of me.  Try me
again."

"No, I was clumsy.  But compliments aren't my
business.  I'm not a palmist, you see."

Again she drew back her head with a shake.  "I
think I told you that Mr. Granthope is my friend?"  Her
voice trembled a little.

She walked to the fireplace and stood there, leaning
her back against the mantel, tapping her heel against
the fender.

"I told you he wouldn't last long," Cayley went on.
"He's come down like the stick of a rocket.  I
suspected he'd be leaving town before the month was out."

"Leaving town—what d'you mean?"  She was keen, now.

"I had to go up into the Geary Building this
morning, and I saw his boxes outside the door as I
passed.  I took it that he's leaving.  You ought to
know, I should think—if he's your friend!"

She walked up to the window and back before
answering.  Then she came up to him with:

"You needn't be afraid, Blanchard; I'm not going
to elope with him."

"That's good.  It gives you a chance to elope with me!"

"Oh, it's all planned, then?  How exciting!"

"I was invited up to the tavern on Tamalpais and
bring a girl for over Sunday.  Mrs. Page is the
chaperon—she calls it a 'sunrise party.'  Will you
come?"

She lifted her eyebrows.  "Mrs. Page?  Chaperon?"

He smiled.  "Oh, you needn't worry; she's all right.
Not exactly your class, but you needn't mind
that—you'll make it proper by going yourself!"

"You really want me to go—with Mrs. Page?"

"Why not?"

"It sounds a bit gay—you know I'm not exactly
accustomed to that sort of thing—"

"You mustn't believe the stories you hear of her."

"I'll go—and find out!" she exclaimed suddenly.
"Yes, I'll go; what time does the boat go?"  Her
mood had grown almost eager.

"We can just catch the one forty-five.  I'll ring
them up and let them know we're coming."

"No—I want to see her face when she first sees me.
Mrs. Page!" she laughed to herself grimly.

"Cly, what's the matter with you to-day?" he
demanded, turning upon her suspiciously.

She opened her eyes very wide.  "Why?"

"Oh, you're different."

"So are you!"  Another quick glance at him.

"How?"

"Nicer."  How she drew the word out!

"Really?"

"Why, you're actually letting me go with Mrs. Page.
You never would, before."  She laughed in his
face, but the ring sounded metallic.

"Oh, well—I didn't think you wanted to.  I didn't
think you and she would—get on."

"Oh, you'll see how we'll get on!  Blanchard, you
never suspected I had any spirit, I suppose?"

"Where did you get it?"

"Guess!"

He dared not; but appeared to take the credit to
himself.  He began actually to take fire.  Clytie was a
revelation in this tantalizing mood.  Where had her
classic reserves gone?  What had inspired her?  Now
she was like other girls—most alluringly like those he
had "educated."  Perhaps, after all, women were all
alike, as he had long maintained, in theory.  All this
was evident in his pursuit of her—but even now it
was a cautious chase.  He made sure of every foot
of the way.

"I wish we weren't old friends," he said.  "It is
a handicap, isn't it?  If I didn't know you so well—"

"Oh, I'll show you things you never knew!" she
interrupted, playing up harder and harder.  "Don't
be afraid of my resources.  I have a trick or two up
my sleeve.  We'll forget we were friends and get
acquainted all over.  Come, be a Martian—burst a new
brain cell, as I have!"  She gave another dry laugh.

"It will be dangerous," he warned.

"Pooh!"  She snapped her fingers at him.

He seized her hand and tried to hold it.

"Not yet!" she said, and shook her finger fantastically.

So, like a wounded bird, she lured him away from
her nest.  The luncheon-bell rescued her.  She could
not have lasted much longer.  During the luncheon,
she kept him skilfully at arm's length, and before they
had finished, Mr. Payson came in and surprised
them—and himself.

When Clytie went up-stairs to prepare for the trip
he put his hand cordially on Cayley's shoulder.

"Well, I'm glad to see you and Clytie on such good
terms.  It looks like old times."

"I think perhaps the modern method is going to
succeed," Cayley said with a satisfied smile.  "Cly's
been nicer than she has been for weeks.  I hear
Granthope's disposed of."

"Oh, I guess I finished him.  I gave him a piece of
my mind, and her, too.  Cly's got too much sense not
to see through him.  I hope you'll win her, Blanchard.
I'm getting to be an old man, and I want to see her
happily settled.  This exposure has hit me pretty
hard, and if Clytie had taken up with that palmist on
top of that, I don't know what I'd do.  Go in and
get her, Blanchard—I'm glad she's consented to go
off on this trip.  It'll do her good.  It ought to give
you a good chance."

"You can trust me for that!  I think the time has
about come to force the game.  I may have something
to say to you by the time we come back."

"I hope so, indeed!" said the old man.

Clytie came down with her bag and kissed her
father affectionately.  "Are you going to be at home
this afternoon?" she asked him.

"Why, yes, I thought of it.  Is there anything I can
do for you?"

She hesitated.  "N-no, only if any one should
call—never mind—only there's no knowing when we may be
back," she added, looking at Cayley.  "Blanchard has
threatened to elope with me, you know!  I'm terribly
afraid he won't keep his promise, though."  She took
his arm and ran him down the steps madly, tossing
her father a kiss from the path.

Mr. Payson watched them complacently, as Clytie
hurried her escort through the gate.  They had plenty
of time to catch the boat, and her haste was unusual.
She had hinted that the clock was slow, but his watch
assured him that that was not so.  He shook his head.

They had not been gone fifteen minutes when word
was brought up-stairs to Mr. Payson that a
gentleman was waiting to see him.  The visitor would not
give his name.  The old man went down.

At sight of the caller, his face set hard and grim.
His shaggy brows drew over his spectacles.  He
stopped suddenly, but, before he could speak,
Granthope had come forward.

"I must beg your pardon, Mr. Payson, for not
sending up my name, for coming here at all, in fact;
but it is absolutely necessary for me to see you this
afternoon.  My business is important enough to be
its own apology."

"Sit down, sir!" said the old man, taking a chair
himself, and speaking with deliberation.  "I will listen
to what you have to say, but let it be brief.  After our
last interview it must be important, indeed, to bring
you to my house after my expressed request that you
should stay away."

Granthope remained standing.  "It is an extraordinary
thing that has brought me; but if it were not
as important to you as it is to me, you may be sure I
wouldn't have consented to come."

"Let me say right here, young man, that I suspect
your business is nothing more or less than blackmail,
in some form.  It is what I expected.  But I tell you
in advance that it will be no use, and, at the first hint
of extortion, I shall notify the police!"

Granthope smiled.  "I could hardly call it blackmail,"
he said.  "I've never included that in my list
of tricks."

"What the devil is it, then?  Out with it!  If it's
bad news, let me have it point-blank, without beating
about the bush.  I have seen enough of your sort to
know that you wouldn't come here except for money,
whatever you say.  But I'm a little wiser than I was
three months ago, I can tell you!  I've had my lesson,
and you'll get nothing out of me."  He grew more and
more excited over his grievance.

"You remember that I warned you against that
gang?" Granthope interposed.

"Yes, and they warned me against you, too!  Birds
of a feather!  Only I suspect you of being a little
shrewder."

"Mr. Payson," Granthope said earnestly, "I can't
bear these insinuations!  Give me a chance, at least,
before you condemn me.  I'll tell you in four words
what I came for, before you say anything more that
you will have to regret.  I have good reason to believe
that I am your son!"

The old man rose from his chair and shook his
finger in Granthope's face.  "That's all I want to
hear!" he thundered.  "Leave my house immediately,
sir!  My son, are you?  I thought so!  Good God,
wasn't it enough for Vixley and the Spoll woman to
try and work that game on me, that you have to come
and begin where they left off?  After I had found
them out, too!  Do you take me for a damned fool?
Why, you people don't even know when you're shown
up!  You get out of my house before I kick you
out!"  He strode to the door, lowering, and held it
suggestively open.

Granthope stared at him in astonishment, with no
thought of moving.  This was the last thing he had
expected.  At first his surprise was too great for his
hopes to rise.  He thought of nothing but the angry
man in front of him, wondering why he should deny
the truth so vindictively.

"Do you mean to say that I am *not* your son?" he
said, with a queer perplexed hesitation.

"I ask you to leave my house, sir!  Do you think
I'll permit myself to discuss such a subject with
you?"  Mr. Payson's scorn was towering.

Granthope still stared.  What did it mean?  He
spoke again, earnestly, trying his best to keep calm.
"Do you deny that you have a son, sir?  I beg you
to answer me."

"What the devil should I deny it for?  What
business is it of yours?" the old man roared.  "Why
should you come here asking me such outrageous
questions?"

"Mr. Payson," Granthope tried again, "I told you
that I had reason to believe that I am your son.
You must admit that that gives me an interest in the
matter.  I have never known who my parents were.
You needn't be afraid of my forcing myself upon you
against your will, or attempting to get money from
you—that is not my motive.  But I have a right,
for my own sake, to know the truth, and I demand
that you answer!"

The old man quailed before his look and his
seriousness, and began to be impressed with his sincerity.
"Very well, then, I will answer you.  No, sir, you
are not my son, because I never had one, to my
knowledge, at least.  Does that satisfy you?  Vixley and
the Spoll woman tried that game on me and failed.
Now, I'll ask you to leave me alone in peace.  I
have had trouble enough!"  His first burst of anger
having burned itself out, he weakened under the
strain.

Granthope was for a moment at a loss for words.
He was not prepared for this denial—he must begin
all over again.  He stood with his hands folded for a
while, and then said:

"Very well, Mr. Payson.  I will tell you now what I
know, and you may judge of yourself whether or not
I was justified in coming."

The old man's countenance was irresolute; his
mouth had relaxed.  He faced Granthope silently.

"Did you ever know Felicia Grant?" said Granthope next.

Mr. Payson exploded again.  "Oh, you've got hold
of that, have you?  I thought as much.  So you've
been in league with that gang all along!  I see; all
this pretended enmity was only a part of the game!
Very, clever, sir, very clever!"  He began to walk
up and down, bobbing his head.

"I lived with Madam Grant when I was a child,"
Granthope persisted calmly.

"What's that?"  Mr. Payson went up to him, now,
and took him by the arm.  "For God's sake, man,
don't lie to me!"

"I lived with her for three years.  I was with her
when she died—"

"You!" the old man exclaimed.  He stared into
Granthope's face as if he could surprise the truth
from him.  "If I could be sure of that!" he cried in
distress.  "For God's sake, don't play with me!" he
implored.  "I have no faith in any one any more.
How can I believe you?"

Granthope dropped his voice to a soothing pitch
and took the old man's hand in his with a firm clasp
of assurance.  "My dear Mr. Payson," he said, "I
can give you plenty of proof of it, if you will only
listen to me.  I came to her, where from I never
knew, as a child of five.  She took me in, and I lived
with her till she died.  She was like a mother to
me—I would be glad to hear that she was really my mother,
for I loved her.  I have come to you because I thought
that she must have been that, and you my father.
But I would be the happiest man alive if you could
assure me that there is no relationship between you
and me.  What I know of you, I found out through
Masterson—and he may have lied, but it seemed
probable that it was true.  I beg you to tell me the
truth, for if you are my father it means more to
me than anything else in the world."

"I think I can believe you now," said Mr. Payson,
still with his eyes fastened on Granthope.  "You seem
to be honest, though I have about lost my faith in
human nature.  So I will be honest with you.  But
I can only repeat what I told you before.  You are
not my son.  I never had a son."

A wild hope sprang up in Granthope's heart; though
as yet it seemed impossible.  "But you knew Felicia
Grant?"

"Yes, indeed; I knew her well."

"Your picture was in her room—an old newspaper
cut—"

The old man grasped his hand again with both his
own.  "Ah, I know you are the boy, now!" he
exclaimed.  "I have looked everywhere for you!  Thank
God, I have found you before it was too late!  Do you
know how I have longed for you for twenty years?—for
the boy who stood by Felicia through that long,
terrible time, when I could do nothing—nothing?
Granthope, I don't care *what* you have
been—charlatan or fakir or criminal, there's a debt I owe
you, and I shall pay it!  Oh, you don't know!  You
don't know!"  He stopped and held out his hands
pathetically.  "Why, it was to find you that I first
went to Madam Spoll!  I don't know how I can
apologize or make up for the way I've treated
you—you, of all men in the world!"

"But I can't understand yet," said Granthope,
touched at the old man's atonement.  "I heard—from
Vixley, it came—that you had acknowledged—you
must forgive me—to an illegitimate son.  Can you
blame me for thinking that it must be I?"

The old man dropped his head on his hand.  "I
see, now," he said drearily.  "Oh, it must all come
out, I suppose.  I owe it to you to tell you, at least."

"You need tell me nothing more than you have
told," Granthope said eagerly.  "I didn't come here
to pry into your secrets, Mr. Payson, or to make use
of them."

"Oh, I know, now!  But it is hard to speak.  And
I don't know even whether I have the right to tell
or not.  It's not my secret alone.  But tell me first
what else you know."  He took a chair again and
motioned for Granthope to sit down.

"I know that Madam Grant had a wedding trousseau
that she kept in a trunk, and that the same trunk
with the same contents, is now up-stairs in your garret."

"How can you know that?"

"I saw it last night.  Your daughter showed it to me."

"Clytie—she showed it to you?  You were here?
How could that be?"

"It means, Mr. Payson, that I love your daughter—that
we love each other.  There is no time to explain
how that came about, now, but I hope to prove to
you that I am worthy of her.  We have met often
since you forbade me to come here.  We were tacitly
engaged, when I got this information—that you had
a child—and that Felicia Grant was the mother.
There was only one solution of the mystery—that I
was that child, and that Clytie and I were half-brother
and sister.  We had to be sure before we broke off
our affair, and I came up here to identify the trunk
she had seen.  I had to tell her what I thought was
the truth, and last night we parted—for ever.  You
may imagine now how I long to believe what you
say, yet how impossible it seems!"

"Clytie knows—that I had a child, by Felicia?"

"I had to tell her—I could not let things go on—"

"Ah, now I see how Madam Spoll went astray—I
confessed to a child—I wanted to find the boy—she
thought the two were the same—she jumped to the
conclusion that I had had a son."

"And you had no son?" Granthope said, still mystified.

"No, I had a daughter.  Do you see, now?  I hoped
to hide it from Clytie for ever.  I thought I had
hidden it successfully, and it was better for her, so.
But now, if she knows so much, she must, of course,
be told all.  It is right that she should know.  Poor
child!  But you knew Felicia—you know that she was
no common woman—that ours could have been no
common affair!"

"I know that well.  And you needn't fear for Clytie,
Mr. Payson.  I don't think it will be even a shock
for her.  It isn't as if she had known Mrs. Payson
well."

The old man leaned back in his chair and closed his
eyes.  "Ah, they were two wonderful women, Granthope!
I could scarcely know which was the more so—which
was the more magnanimous and true!"  He
was quiet a while, then he added: "Do you remember
Felicia well?"

"No, not well.  I was young then, and the memory
has faded.  But she seemed to be very beautiful to
me, though her face would often grow suddenly
strange.  She was kind to me.  She seemed to be
extraordinarily well educated, too—different from
any one else I have ever known."

Mr. Payson rose and saying, "Wait a moment,
please!" left the room.  He returned after a few
minutes with a small photograph, faded with age, but
still clear enough to portray the features of a beautiful
woman, apparently of some twenty years or so.  The
face was frank and open, the eyes wide apart under
level brows, looking directly out of the picture.  The
mouth was large, but well-formed.  The face had
a look of candor and serene earnestness that was
engaging.

"That was taken in 1869, when I first knew her.
You can see, perhaps, how I must have felt towards
her.  There is enough of Clytie in that face for that,
I suppose.  But I doubt if you are capable of the
passion I had for that woman!"

As Granthope held the portrait in his hand, watching
the face that grew every moment more familiar,
the old man went on:

"I can tell you only the outline of the story now.
Felicia Gerard, when I first knew her, was working
with Mrs. Victoria Woodhull—a wonderful woman—have
you ever heard of her?"

Granthope told him of the newspaper clipping Clytie
had found, and how they had, in the library, looked
up the history of Mrs. Woodhull, who had been a
prominent figure in the East thirty years ago.  It was
more unusual, then, for women to compete with men
in business affairs, but she, with her sister, had
carried on a successful banking firm on Wall Street.
What had interested Clytie most, however, were the
stories of Mrs. Woodhull's early experience as a
medium, and the fact that she had been calumniated,
persecuted and ostracized on account of the false
interpretation of her views upon social questions.

"You may imagine the effect that such a person
would have upon such a spirited girl as Felicia," said
Mr. Payson.  "She was carried away with her enthusiasm
and energy, and the conflict inspired her.  I
followed them from city to city, urging Felicia to
marry me, but, having adopted the radical social
theories of that cult, she was firm in her refusal not to
bind herself or me to an indissoluble union.  Well, I
could get her in no other way than by accepting her as
a partner who should be free to leave me the moment
she ceased to love me; you may be sure that her
action was inspired only by the highest ideality.  We
settled finally in New Orleans where, for some time,
we were absolutely happy.  But New Orleans was,
and is, I believe, a more conservative sort of
community than most American cities.  People shunned us,
and talked.  At last, isolated and away from radical
centers, she consented to a marriage ceremony, and
went to work to prepare her trousseau.  We were to
be married in San Francisco."

The old man's face had grown wistful and tender as
he spoke.  He pulled off his spectacles to wipe them,
and looked up at Granthope with a sort of pride in the
story, in the beauty and pathos of it evoked by his
memories.  Then he rose, and walked up and down the
floor, his hands behind his back, and his mellow,
unctuous voice ran on.  To Granthope, who had known
the woman, and loved her, the story thrilled with
romance.

"It was curious that she insisted upon a formal
wedding.  It was a reaction, I suppose; she had
returned to the normal instincts of womanhood.  I was
only too willing.  Well, it was in New Orleans that
the crisis came.  We were living in an old Creole
house on Royal Street—it had been Paul Morphy's,
the chess-player—Felicia saw his spirit in the end
room, where he died, one night.  There was an old
gallery around the courtyard and garden, with
magnolia trees, where we used to sit in the evenings.
Heavens! what nights we have spent there!

"She had told me that her grandmother had been
insane.  It was Felicia's horror, her dread.  The
spirits had told her that she would go mad, too.  That
was, I suppose, the real reason why she had refused
so long to marry me.  But she had almost forgotten
about it by this time.  We were happy enough to
forget everything!

"Are you interested, Granthope, or does this bore
you?" he added suddenly, turning.  "I'm an old man,
after all, and I have an old man's ways.  The past
is very real to me."

"Go on, please!" said Granthope huskily.

"It happened just before Mardi Gras.  We had
decided to stay over, and see the fun.  That Monday,
when I came home, Felicia was gone.  She had left
a note, saying that she would never see me again—I'll
show you that—and a lot of other things; they
will help you to understand Clytie.  It seems that
day she had gone suddenly out of her head and had
wandered across the street to another house, where
they kept a leper girl shut up in a room on the gallery.
They carried her home, raving rather wildly, and she
came to her senses in an hour or so, but she was
terrified by the attack.  She saw that she would probably be
subject to such attacks in the future; that they might
become worse; that it was not fair to me to marry.
I don't need to tell you, I hope, that it would have
made no difference to me—I would have been glad to
give my life to attending to her through thick and
thin.  But she didn't wait to put it to me.  She left,
with all her clothes, even the trousseau.  She left no
address, nothing by which I could trace her.  That
was her way, the only fair way, she thought.  It must
have taken some courage.  It was, I think, the bravest
thing I ever saw done.

"Let me see that photograph a minute, Granthope.
What a lot of hair she had!  I've seen it to her feet.
Cly has fine hair, but not like her mother's.  The
same eyes, you see—full of dreams, but they wake up,
sometimes, I tell you!  You may find out, sometime.
Level brows and a fullish lower lip.  Do you know
what that means?  I do.

"I didn't see her again for over a year.  I hunted
everywhere she had ever been; Boston, Toledo, New
York, everywhere!  Finally I gave it up in despair,
and went abroad, trying to forget part of it.  There I
met my wife.  I married her in sheer despair; but I
found out how fine she was when I told her the story.
I didn't think that there were two such women in the
world!  I have a beautiful painting of her, done
while we were in Florence, but I never dared to put it
up, on account of Clytie.  It didn't seem right.  But
you'll see it in the dining-room to-morrow, I think.

"Where was I?  Oh, yes.  We came to San Francisco
for business reasons.  Before I had been here a
week I happened upon Felicia down-town—she had
followed Mrs. Woodhull's example and had gone into
business herself—real estate.  She did well at it, too.
But at sight of me she flew off the handle.  Every
time I saw her it affected her in the same way.  Good
God!  Can you imagine what it must be to know that
the only way you can help a woman you love and
pity is to stay away from her?  I couldn't do anything,
but my wife went to see her and seemed to be able to
pacify her.  She found out that Felicia had a child—then
a few months old.  The first I knew of it, the
baby was here in the house, and my wife told me that
we would adopt her.  No one ever knew that Clytie
wasn't our own child.  No one knows but you and
I, to this day, I think.

"It was a fearful injustice to her, I suppose.  Do
you think she can forgive me?"  The old man was
pathetically humble and looked to the young man as
to a guardian.

"Mr. Payson," said Granthope, "have you lived all
this while with her and not known that?  I have
known her only two months, and I am sure of it!"

"So you think you love her, do you?"  Mr. Payson
looked at him curiously.

"I do, sir.  And I think that she loves me."

"Felicia's adopted boy!" the old man said to himself,
"and Clytie!  And to think that I had wanted her
to marry Cayley!"

He broke off to stand, staring at Granthope,
without a word.  Then he exclaimed: "By Jove!  I had
forgotten.  Cayley was here to-day—Cly's gone off
with him, up to Mount Tamalpais, to join a party
there.  Now I recall it—there seemed to be something
between them.  You are sure she cares for you?" he
demanded.

"Last night she did—and we parted, thinking never
to be able to see one another again."

"And I did my best to make that match—I encouraged
Blanchard all I could.  I threw her at his
head!  I found them here at luncheon.  He's been
trying for years to get her to marry him.  You don't
think it's possible that she would do anything rash,
do you?"

Granthope's heart sickened.  "In what way?  How?"

"She said—what was it—the last thing.  She said
that he had threatened to elope with her, and perhaps
they mightn't come back for some time.  I thought it
was a joke, but now I think of it—"

Granthope sprang up.  "What time did they go?"
he asked.

"Just before you came—they took the one forty-five."

"We can't reach her by telephone—they're not there
yet.  What time does the next train go?"

Mr. Payson turned to an *Argonaut* and looked
at the time-table on the last page.  "Saturdays—four
thirty-five," he said.

"I must go after her!" Granthope cried, almost
desperate.  "Don't you see—don't you know women well
enough to understand what a state of mind she must
be in, now?  After our scene last night, the despair
of it would drive her to almost anything reckless,
anything to make her forget!  It seemed wicked,
monstrous, for us to meet again—it seemed irrevocable,
final.  If Cayley has been pursuing her, as you
say, she may accept him in sheer desperation!"

"Go up there," said the old man.  "Go up, and tell
her everything.  It is better for you to tell her.
Cayley will resent your appearance, but don't mind
that—get rid of him at any cost.  You will have to manage
him.  If Clytie is in love with you, I'll stand by her in
whatever she says.  Don't think I'm a doting fool,
Granthope, that I veer with the wind, this way.  I
wanted her to marry Cayley, because I thought she'd
never know this, and he was a man of honor and
intelligence.  But I didn't know that Felicia's boy was
alive."

.. vspace:: 2

Granthope left in a tumult of doubt.  He knew
little of Cayley, save that he was subtle and
indefatigable with women—and that he was unscrupulous
enough to have betrayed his friend to Vixley.  But
how far Clytie's revulsion of feeling would have
carried her by this time, he dared not think.  She was in
a parlous state, and ripe for any extreme impulse.

The trip to Sausalito was almost intolerable.  On
the train to Mill Valley, his anxiety smoldered till
his spirit was ashes.  His mind fought all the way up
the mountain track, faring to and fro, sinuously, as
the line wound, in tortuous loops, gaining altitude in
tempered grades.  As they rose, the bay unfolded,
shimmering below, curving about the peninsula of
San Francisco, where, amidst the pearl-gray, the
windows of the city caught, here and there, the level
rays from the vivid west.  The air was cool and salt.
As they rounded a spur, the Pacific burst upon them,
miles and miles of twinkling sparks on the dullness
of the sea floor.  A bank of fog hovered upon the
horizon.  Just above it the sun poised, then sank,
bloody red, tingeing the cloud with color and sending
streamers to the zenith.  Still his mind urged the
train to its climb.  It was as if he put his shoulder to
the car to impel it upward in his haste, so intense was
his expectancy.  So, at last, the train rolled up to the
station by the Tavern.

There was a crowd waiting upon the platform, and
his eyes sought here and there for Clytie.  There
she was, incongruous with the party—Cayley, easy,
jocose, elegant—Mrs. Page, full-blown, sumptuous
and glossy, abandoned to frivolity, her black hair
blowing in the wind—and Gay P. Summer, jaunty,
pink-and-white, immaculate in outing attire.  There
was another lady whom Granthope did not know.  He
walked rapidly up to them, calm, now, and confident,
equal to the situation, whatever it might be.

Mrs. Page pounced upon him with a little scream
of delight, and towed him up to the group.  Clytie's
narrow eyes widened in surprise, and she turned paler
as she looked at him in vain for an answer to her
signal of distress.

"Why, Mr. Granthope!" Mrs. Page shouted.  "Did
you *ever* in your life!  What fun!  Aren't you a duck
to come—you're *just* the man we want!  If I had
*imagined* that you could be induced to come up here,
I would have let you know!  But then, probably, you
wouldn't have come!  We needed another man so
badly!  I'm *so* glad!  I think you know all of us
here, except Miss Cavendish, don't you?  Miss
Cavendish, let me present Mr. Granthope.  You know I've
told you about him."

Miss Cavendish smiled, looked him over with
undisguised amusement, and with a gesture passed him
over to Clytie.  Clytie gave him a cold hand, looked
him steadfastly in the eyes, then dropped hers and
waited for her cue.

"It's very good of you to take me in, Mrs. Page.
I hope you don't mind my inviting myself.  I only just
ran up for the night, and I don't want to interfere
with your plans at all."

"Oh, don't say a word!  We were *dying* for
another man.  We're all delighted.  Now we're six, you
see—just right.  You can flirt with the chaperon."

"Come and have a drink, first thing," said Gay
P. Summer, taking upon himself seriously the conventional
obligations of host.  "You must be cold, Granthope,
without an overcoat.  We'll be back in a minute,
Violet.  Come on, Cayley!"

He led the way into the bar.  Granthope followed
with Cayley, watching for a word in private.  "I
want to speak to you alone," he tossed over his
shoulder.  Cayley nodded.

After the formalities were over, Granthope
remarked: "Well, I think I'll go in and get a room,
Summer.  You go out and get the ladies while Cayley
and I go up-stairs a minute."

Gay P., suspecting nothing, left the two men alone.
Cayley took a seat on a small table and waited.
Granthope lost no time in preliminaries.

"Mr. Cayley," he said, pulling out his watch, "what
time does the next train go down the mountain?"

"There's one soon after nine, I believe—why?"
Cayley answered.

Granthope looked at him without visible emotion
and said nonchalantly, "I think you'd better take it."

A hot flush burned in Cayley's cheeks, and he
drew back as if ready either to give or to receive a
blow.  "Did you come up here to tell me that?" he
said harshly.

"I did—that amongst other things."

"Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me?  If you
are, I think I can accommodate you.  Come outside."

"No, I came up here to avoid one.  If I had met
you anywhere else, I suppose you'd be knocked down,
by this time."  Granthope's tone was unimpassioned,
matter-of-fact.

"This is getting interesting," said Cayley, now as
suave as his opponent.  "May I ask you to explain?"

"I had a talk with Doctor Masterson this morning.
You may not be acquainted with him—he's a friend
of Professor Vixley's, whom I believe, you *do* know."

Cayley's color went back, and his attitude relaxed
from defiance to something less assertive.

"He told me a few things about you, Mr. Cayley,"
Granthope went on firmly.  "I don't intend to repeat
them.  But what I do intend is that you shall make
whatever excuses you see fit to Mrs. Page and the
others, and leave here on the next train.  Do you
understand perfectly, or shall I go into details?"

"Oh, I won't trouble you, Granthope," Cayley
drawled.  "I don't think the crowd would be very
amusing with you here, anyway.  I'm much obliged
to you for giving me the opportunity to leave, I'm
sure."

He smiled, Granthope smiled, and the two separated.
Cayley walked up to speak to the clerk in the office,
and then sauntered toward the ladies on the porch.
Granthope was given a room, and went up-stairs.

When he returned the party was talking on the
veranda, and there was no chance to speak to Clytie
alone.  What he could do to reassure her by his
glance, he did, but she was evidently so much at a
loss to account for his appearance that she had placed
some alarming interpretation upon it.  She did not
speak, but her silence was unnoticed in Mrs. Page's
volubility.  As they stood there, a bell-boy came out
and notified Cayley that there was a telephone call
for him.  Cayley apologized and left to go inside.
Granthope watched him with satisfaction.

Clytie moved off down the veranda a little way,
and Granthope, seeing his opportunity, followed her.

He had time but to say, "It's all right, Clytie—it's
all right!"

She looked up at him in wonder, and at his words
life and hope came back to her and shone in her eyes.
She did not understand yet, but the message was an
elixir of joy to her.  On the instant Gay and Miss
Cavendish joined them, chattering.

"Oh, Mr. Granthope," she said, "Mr. Summer and
I have been wrangling all this afternoon over a
discussion, and we want your decision.  You ought to
know, if anybody does.  Which knows most about
women—the man who knows all about some woman,
or the man who knows some about all women?"

Granthope laughed.  "I think they'd be equally
foolish.  No man *knows* anything about any woman."

"Of course that's the proper answer," said Miss
Cavendish.  "We're all mysteries, aren't we?"

"Even to ourselves," Clytie offered.

"Oh, yes, women understand other women, but they
never understand themselves."

Gay P. Summer put in, "I don't think any man ever
understands women who hasn't had sisters.  I never
had one."

"That's true," said Granthope.  He saw his chance,
and turned to Clytie.  "I never had a sister, either,"
he said deliberately, catching her eye.

Clytie's eyebrows went up.  He nodded.  It was
question and answer.  She moved toward him a little,
unnoticed, and his hand touched hers.

Mr. Summer added: "I don't care, though, I prefer
to have women mysteries.  It's more interesting."

Mrs. Page came up in time to hear the last words.
"Oscar Wilde says that women are sphinxes without
secrets," she contributed.

"I wonder if any woman is happy enough not to
have a secret," Clytie said.

"I hope that yours will never make you unhappy,"
Granthope replied; and added: "I don't think it
will."  He pressed her hand again, unobserved.

At this moment, Cayley returned.

"Something doing, Mr. Cayley?" said Miss Cavendish
mischievously.

"Yes, unfortunately.  It's a matter of business and
important.  I've got to see a man to-morrow morning
in the city.  It's too bad, but I'll have to go down
to-night, after all."

"Why, the *idea*!" Mrs. Page cried indignantly.
"You'll do no such a thing!  It's outrageous!  We
can't *possibly* spare you, Blan; you'll spoil the party!"

"It's my loss.  I've got to go, really!" said Cayley.
He turned to Clytie.  "I'll have to turn you over to
Mr. Granthope, I'm afraid.  I don't want you to miss
the time, of course."

Clytie looked at Granthope, puzzled.

"*You* shan't go, anyway, Miss Payson!" Mrs. Page
insisted.  "Why, we're going to get up and see the
sunrise to-morrow morning!  That's what we came
for.  *Please* don't break up the party," she begged.

Clytie smiled subtly, and hazarded another glance
at Granthope.

"I really came up to bring Miss Payson home," he
said, "but of course I'll leave it to her.  The fact is,
I've brought her a message from her father."

"Oh!" Mrs. Page exclaimed, "I do hope it isn't bad news."

"On the contrary, it's good, I think.  Nevertheless,
I'll have to break it to her gently.  And with your
permission, I will, now."

A look at Clytie, and she walked off with him up
toward the summit of the mountain.

"What can it be, Francis?" she exclaimed.  "I'm
all at sea.  But of course I understood from what you
said that it was, somehow, all right."

"Clytie," he said, "it *is* all right—we've passed the
last obstacle, I think.  But it's hard to know how to
tell you.  If you'll let me tell it my way, I'll say that,
of all the women I have ever known in my life, the
two whom I have loved best were—"

"Me—and—?"  She held his hand tightly.

"You and your mother."

She seemed to be in no way surprised, new as the
thought was to her.  It only struck her dumb for a
while.  Then she said:

"I must telephone to father at once.  Oh, I must
reassure him!"

"Shall we go back?" he asked.

She stood for a moment deliberating.  Then she put
her arm in his.  "I've seen the stars and moon," she
said, "I've seen the lightning, I've seen the false dawn.
Let's stay, now, and see the sunrise!"

They walked, arm in arm, to the summit of the
mountain, and sat down upon a rock to gaze at the
city, far away.

.. vspace:: 2

There it lay, a constellation of lights, a golden
radiance, dimmed by the distance.  San Francisco the
Impossible, the City of Miracles!  Of it and its
people many stories have been told, and many shall
be; but a thousand tales shall not exhaust its treasury
of Romance.  Earthquake and fire shall not change
it, terror and suffering shall not break its glad, mad
spirit.  Time alone can tame the town, restrain its
wanton manners, refine its terrible beauty, rob it of its
nameless charm, subdue it to the Commonplace.  May
Time be merciful—may it delay its fatal duty till we
have learned that to love, to forgive, to enjoy, is but
to understand!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`EPILOGUE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   EPILOGUE

.. vspace:: 2

It was quiet at Fulda's.  The evening crowd had
not yet begun to come.  The Pintos, however, had
arrived early, and were at their central table talking
in low, repressed voices.  Felix, at the front counter,
looked over at them occasionally under his eyebrows,
as if there were something unusual in their demeanor.

Mabel sat erect, her hands in her lap, looking
straight before her, speaking only in monosyllables.
Elsie's smile had diminished to a set, cryptic
expression.  She looked tired.  Maxim leaned his heavy,
leonine head upon his hand, and drew invisible
sketches with his fork upon the table-cloth.  Starr
and Benton talked in an undertone.

"I didn't go over," said Starr, "I simply couldn't."

"Well, somebody had to see, so I went."

"Was it—bad?"

Benton shook his head.  "No, lovely.  Wonderful.
One wouldn't think—"

Mabel looked across at them.  Starr lowered his
voice.

"Just ten days, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How did you happen to hear?"

"Why, I was at the *Bulletin* office when word was
telephoned in.  There was something about the
description that struck me—I began to worry—then I
went over with a reporter."

The door on Montgomery Street opened, and
Dougal came in.  He moved like a machine.  His face
was hard, his eyes glassy, as if he had not slept for
many nights.  He sat down like an automaton, pulled
off his hat and let it drop carelessly to the floor.

"Where have you been?" Elsie asked him.

"I don't know.  Just walking.  Anywhere."

"Did you—?"

"Yes.  I *had* to.  I couldn't stand it not to."

Benton, the most composed of them all, pulled himself
up in his chair.  "Let's have something to drink,"
he suggested.  He called the waiter and gave his
order.  A bottle was brought and the glasses filled.
They seemed to awake, around the table, and each
one took a glass.  Benton raised his.  They all drank
in silence.  Mabel, her eyes dimmed, held up two
fingers.  Elsie smiled.

"That's right!" she said, and held up hers.  Mabel
gulped down something in her throat.

"Well," said Benton, throwing off the mood, "we
might as well have dinner."  He took up the menu
and looked it over.

They all ordered languidly.  The talk began in a
desultory fashion, and the group became almost
normal—all except Dougal, who stared steadily across
the room to where, under a drawing was a scroll
bearing the words from *Salome*: "Something terrible
is going to happen,"—and Mabel, who did not
speak and watched her plate.  The restaurant, meanwhile,
had begun to fill up.  Dishes rattled, voices
chattered, new arrivals appeared every few minutes.

Dougal looked up from his plate listlessly.  "I saw
Granthope and his wife on the Oakland boat yesterday,"
he said.  "I guess he's going East; they had a
lot of luggage."

"Did you speak to him?" Benton asked.

"No.  I started to, then decided not to break up a
honeymoon party.  But I heard her say something
queer.  I've been wondering about it."  He stopped,
as if he had forgotten all about them there at the
table.  Then he continued in a slow labored voice:
"It was the queer way she said it—the way she looked,
somehow."

"What was it?" Starr asked.

"We were just opposite Goat Island."  He paused
and took a breath.  "She said—"

They all waited, watching him.  He tried it again.
"She said—'Doesn't the water look cold!'—then she
kind of shivered and said—'Let's come inside'—we
were just opposite Goat Island."

Maxim repeated the words: "'The water looks
cold'—Oh, God!" he exclaimed softly.

There was a silence for a moment, then Starr said:

"D'you suppose she knew?"

"How could she?" Benton asked.  "Nobody knew
till this noon, did they?"

Elsie spoke: "Of course she knew."

Mabel nodded her head slowly; her breast was
heaving.

There was a pause for a moment.  It was broken by
Benton, who sat facing the door.

"There's The Scroyle!" he exclaimed.  "Who's that
with him?"

"Oh, that's Mrs. Page," said Elsie, narrowing her eyes.

Gay P. Summer, jimp and immaculate, with
trousers creased and shiny shoes, with the latest style in
mouse-colored hats, entered with his lady, and looked
jauntily about for a good table.  He found one near
the Pintos.  Having seated his partner, he leaned over
toward her and whispered for a few minutes.  By her
immediate look in their direction, there was no doubt
that he was informing her of the fame of the coterie
at the central table, and boasting of his acquaintance
with it.  Then he arose.

"By Jove!" said Benton.  "He's coming over here!
What d'you think of that!"

Gay approached dapperly, bowed to all, and laid
his hand on the back of Dougal's chair.  Dougal
leaned forward and avoided him.

"Good evening, everybody," said Gay affably.  "The
gang is still alive, I see!"  He smiled inclusively.
Nobody answered.

"I should think you'd want to find another restaurant,
now," he continued.  "This place is getting
altogether too dead.  It's only a show place now.  All
the life seems to have gone out of it."

"That's right," Maxim murmured.

"Funny how places run down,"—Gay was forcing
it hard—"why, I know several people who won't come
here any more.  It isn't like it used to be, anyway,
nowadays."  He grew a little nervous at his apathetic
reception, but went on.  "Say, I've got a lady over
there I'd like to introduce to you people.  She's a
corker.  Suppose I bring her over.  You need another
girl."

Benton shook his head.  "Not to-night, Gay.  Sorry.
Executive session."

Gay looked round the table, noted the two empty
places and started: "But couldn't—"

"No," said Benton, "we *couldn't*.  Some other time."

Gay, about to move away, looked at Dougal.  "Say,"
he said, "what's become of Fancy Gray?  Are you
expecting her to-night?"

At the sound of the name Mabel dropped her
head on her arms and began to cry aloud.  Her
shoulders worked convulsively.

Elsie put her hand round her neck.  "Oh, stop,
May!" she whispered.  "Don't cry—please!"

Dougal looked at Mabel.  His small eyes gleamed
as bright and dry as crystal.

"Don't stop her, Elsie!  If anybody *can* cry, for
God's sake, let them cry!"

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::