"I don't know who would be the most likely to--to know the way about,"

she returned. "I can't very well ask for bids." She smiled quickly.

"If I knew the best person to ask I would ask him."

"That you would," Mr. Gilfeather murmured admiringly. "You ain't afraid. Do you want me to suggest?" he asked.

"I hoped you would be willing to."

"Well, how would Everett Morton do? I guess he knows his way about. I always understood that he did." Mr. Gilfeather smiled furtively. The matter of the palms rankled.

Sally looked reflective. "If he is the best man to do it I'll ask him." She sighed. She felt a strange repugnance to asking him--for that service. She had finished her tea and Mr. Gilfeather had finished his. "Well," she said, rising slowly, "I thank you for your advice, Mr. Gilfeather,--and for your tea," she added, "which I have enjoyed."

"The honor is mine," returned Mr. Gilfeather gallantly.

Sally smiled and bowed and was on her way to the door. "Miss Ladue,"

called Mr. Gilfeather. She stopped and turned. "I wish you would be kind enough to favor me with a bit of advice, too."

"Gladly," said Sally. "What about?"

Mr. Gilfeather came close and spoke low. "It's these palms and ferns.

I got 'em this morning. Might I ask your opinion of 'em?"

"Surely, they're very nice and attractive," said Sally doubtfully.

He remarked the doubt. "You don't really think that. Now, do you?

Wouldn't real ones be more--more high-toned, as you might say? I was advised that--paper flowers, he called 'em--weren't in keeping. Would you advise me to take 'em out and put in real ones?"

"Oh," Sally answered quickly, "I can't advise you about that. Real ones would be more expensive to keep in order, but they would be better. Don't you think so yourself?"

Mr. Gilfeather sighed. "These'll have to come out," he said sadly.

"They'll have to come out, I guess. It's hard luck that I didn't think of asking before I got 'em. But I'm much obliged to you, Miss Ladue."

Sally nodded again and went out. The door had hardly shut behind her when the man who had been sipping his ale and reading his paper emerged from his corner hastily and put out after her. It was Eugene Spencer.

CHAPTER XXIII

It was almost time for the theatres to be out. Indeed, the first few men were coming out of one, hurriedly putting on their coats as they came. As the doors swung open the beginnings of the subdued roar of a slowly moving crowd came out. A man and a girl who were walking briskly past heard it.

"Hurry, Jane!" exclaimed the girl anxiously. "I didn't know it was so late."

Jane muttered something about crowds, but it was nothing very articulate. To tell the truth, Jane was nervous and he did not know just what he was saying. Neither did Sally. She did not listen, for that matter, for she was wholly occupied with her errand. They quickened their pace until they were almost running, and the noise was gradually left behind. Neither of them spoke; and when they had turned the first corner they both sighed and the pace slackened to that brisk walk again.

Sally had not had to overcome her repugnance to asking Everett, and Mr. Gilfeather's feeling of triumph was a little premature. When Jane had overtaken her, a few steps from Mr. Gilfeather's door and had asked whether he could not help her, she had yielded to her impulse and had answered that he probably could if he would. And Jane had confessed, getting a little red,--who would not have got a little red, having to make such a confession to the girl he was in love with, even yet?--he had confessed that he was qualified sufficiently for the expedition, for he had been in number seven on two occasions, on the first of which he had played. But, he added, he had not lost much--fortunately for him, perhaps, he had not won--and he had had no desire to play again, although he had felt some curiosity to see others do it. It was worth while, for once, to see that side of human nature. Sally began to tell him why she wanted to go, but he stopped her.

"I know, Sally," he said gently. "You don't have to tell me. I am glad to be of any a.s.sistance at all." And Sally had thanked him and had liked him better at that moment than she ever had before. It was a pity that Jane could not know that.

Two days later Harry Carling had telegraphed; and here they were, just turning the last corner and finding themselves in the Street. I don't give the name of the street for reasons which must be obvious enough, but, irrespective of the name, Sally's heart beat a little faster when they turned into it. Jane's heart would have beat faster if it had not already accelerated its beat quite as much as it could with safety. He was finding it in his mouth most of the time and had to swallow frequently and hard to keep it down where it belonged. As for speaking calmly and naturally, that was out of the question. That was enough to account for his prolonged silence. When he did make the attempt his voice was high and shrill and he hesitated and could not say what he wanted to.

It was a quiet street, entirely deserted at that end, and it was lined with dignified old houses which echoed the sound of their footfalls until their coming seemed the invasion of an army.

"Mercy!" Sally cried nervously, under her breath. "What a racket we're making!" And the sound of her voice reverberated from side to side.

The army had begun to talk. That would never do. "Silence in the ranks!" thought Sally; and was surprised that her thought was not echoed, too. Jane began to laugh excitedly, but stopped at once.

The street was very respectable, anybody would have said; eminently respectable. It even seemed dignified. There is no doubt that there had been a time when it had been both respectable and dignified and had not contented itself with seeming so. The houses had been built at that time and presented their rather severe brick fronts to the street, giving an effect that was almost austere. They were absolutely without ornament, excepting, perhaps, in their inconspicuous but generous entrances. Altogether, Sally thought the effect was distinctly pleasing. She would have been glad to live in one of these houses; for example, in that one with the wide recessed doorway with the fan over it. It was dark now; dark as a pocket. Not a light showed at any of the windows, although a dim one--a very dim one--burned over the door. The people must be all in bed at this seasonable hour, like good custom-abiding people. There might have been a special curfew at nine o'clock for this special street.

"That is the house," whispered Jane, pointing with a hand which was not very steady to the very house that Sally had been contemplating with admiration. It was not light enough for Sally to note the shaking of his hand.

The announcement was a shock to Sally. "What?" she asked incredulously. "You don't mean the house with the dim light over the door--the one with the fan!" Jane nodded a.s.sent. "Why," Sally continued, "there isn't a light in the house, so far as I can see."

Jane laughed. His laugh echoed strangely and he stopped suddenly.

"There are plenty of lights, just the same. What did you expect? A general illumination--with a band?"

"Something more than a dark house," she replied, smiling a little. "It looks as if they had all gone to bed."

He shook his head. "They haven't gone to bed." Their pace had slackened and had become no more than an aimless saunter. Now they stopped entirely, almost opposite the house.

"Well," said Sally inquiringly, "what now?"

Jane breathed a long sigh. "I--I suppose i--it's up to me," he replied hesitatingly, "to go in." He spoke with very evident regret; then he laughed shortly.

"Don't you want to?" asked Sally curiously.

"No, I don't, Sally," he rejoined decidedly. "I certainly don't. But I want to help you, and therefore I do. It would be hard to make you understand, perhaps, and--"

"I think I understand, Eugene," she interrupted gently, "and you needn't think that I'm not grateful."

"I don't feel as confident as I ought," he said apologetically, "that I shall be successful. What if Charlie won't come?"

"You can tell him," she replied firmly, "that I shall wait here until he does come. It isn't likely that I shall be put off the street."

Spencer did not feel so sure of that as he would have liked to feel, but he did not say so to Sally. "That brings up another question," he said. "Where shall you wait? And what will you do--in case I am longer than you expect? I confess that I am uneasy about you--waiting around the streets--alone."

"You needn't be," she returned. "Of course," she admitted, "it won't be pleasant. I don't expect it to be. But I shall be all right, I'm sure."

He sighed once more and looked at her. "I wish I felt as sure of it as you do. But I'll go in--or try to." He looked the street up and down.

"You'd better get in the shadow, somewhere; well in the shadow. Their doorman has sharp eyes. That's what he's there for," he added in response to her questioning look. "Perhaps you'd better not be within view when I go in. We'll walk back a bit and I'll leave you there."

She a.s.sented and they walked back until they were out of sight from the door with the dim light burning over it. Then Spencer left her and walked rapidly toward the house. He looked back two or three times.

She was standing just where he had left her: close beside a woebegone tree with an iron tree-guard around it. It was a forgotten relic of other days. Her motionless figure could hardly be distinguished from the tree as she leaned against the guard. He opened the outer door of the vestibule. A second dim light was burning here, just enabling him to see the push-b.u.t.ton. With a heart palpitating somewhat and with that horrible, gone feeling in the region of his diaphragm, he rang the bell. The outer door closed noiselessly behind him and two electric lights flashed out brilliantly before him. The inner door, which gave entrance to the house, was a ma.s.sive thing, studded with iron bolts, like the gate of a castle; and at the level of his face was a little grated window or door of solid wood within the larger, iron-studded door. In response to his ring the inner door did not open, but the little grated window did, framing, behind iron bars, the impa.s.sive face of a gigantic negro, who scrutinized Spencer with the eye of experience and, having completed his inspection, nodded solemnly. The little grated window closed and the electric lights went out suddenly; and the door opened before him and closed again behind him, leaving everything in readiness for the next comer; and leaving Sally standing alone beside that woebegone tree without.

There was nothing unusual about the appearance of the house if we except the iron-studded door and its guardian. The negro, who was very large and very black, had resumed his seat upon a stool by the door.

He glanced at Eugene without interest and immediately looked away again and seemed to resume his thoughts about nothing at all. Eugene glanced hastily about. The house might have served as a type of the modest dwellings of the older school. The doors from the lower hall were all shut and the rooms to which they led were empty, so far as he knew, or were used as storerooms, perhaps. Everything was very quiet and he and the gigantic negro might have been the only occupants of the house. Before him was the staircase and he roused himself and mounted to the floor above, walked a few steps along a hall exactly similar to the first, parted the heavy double hangings over a doorway, and entered.

He found himself in the front room of two which were connected by folding doors, which were now rolled back. The room in the rear was but dimly lighted, as no one seemed to be interested in the roulette table which stood there, although several men stood about the sideboard or were coming or going. The top of that sideboard held a large variety of bottles and anybody present was at liberty to help himself to whatever he preferred; but, although there was a good deal of drinking, there was no drunkenness. Drinking to excess was not conducive to success in play; and the men, most of them, seemed to be regular patrons of the place. Eugene's gaze wandered back toward the front of the house.