Each morning early, Benedict was on hand to talk over with the detectives any progress that had been made or any clues that had been found. And each day he tried to think out new ways of discovering what had become of Gail Desmond. When Mrs. Battin came up to her winter home, he visited her there nearly every day or called on the telephone.
A week or two passed, and still there was no hint to tell what had become of Gail.
Dorothy Stanford was biding her time. She waited expectantly for the first great social event of the season, when she meant to get hold of Benedict and devote herself exclusively to him. To that end, she selected her most stunning gown of the color that he used to like and went to the party in her sunniest mood to set her project going. She arrived at the hour when she thought she could make the best impression, but when she looked about carefully, he was not there. She waited all the evening, watching every new arrival, but he did not come.
The next day she called him up at his apartment and rallied him on his nonappearance, asking him to dine with her that evening. He replied pleasantly, "Thank you, but it will not be possible."
"How long are you going to keep this up?" she demanded teasingly. "You are acting like a naughty little boy who won't play because you didn't get your turn to be 'it.' "
"Dorothy, you misunderstand me. I have been very busy with important matters. I had neither the time nor the inclination to come last evening, and I am very content with matters as they are between us."
"What is the reason you cannot take dinner with me this evening? I want to have a long talk with you, and we should be undisturbed tonight."
"I have another engagement."
"Break it!"
"I cannot."
"Not for me?"
"No."
Dorothy allowed a long, telling pause to ensue, and her breath came with a quick catch over the wire like a sob: "You are very cruel!"
"No, I am not cruel."
"You are unkind!" An actual sob.
"No. But I have changed in some ways."
"I should think you have!" with emphasis, and Dorothy hung up with a click.
The engagement that Benedict had for the evening was to meet Doctor Phelps and take him to his club for the night. They had a long heart-to-heart talk that evening to their mutual benefit. The things they said--and some they did not say but both understood--about the sweet girl who had gone from them eased the pain of both of them. Benedict forgot the momentary annoyance of Dorothy's persistence. To him, she seemed more like a beautiful little hummingbird who persisted in getting before his eyes. In his absorption he had for the moment lost sight of the real selfishness and treachery that lay concealed beneath her pretty exterior, which he had begun to suspect. She seemed so far removed from him now that he simply did not think of her unless she brought herself to his notice.
Miss Dorothy Stanford bided her time in sulky silence. She had been wont thus to punish Benedict when he overstepped any bounds she had set, and she thought now to use the same methods that had been so effective in the past. But the days went by, and still Benedict paid no heed, and Dorothy, sated with her betrothal teas and dinners and dances, and wearying of her betrothed, who in truth was a tiresome young man with altogether too much money for his good, determined upon some decisive action. She would find out once and for all whether this woman he professed to be in love with was a myth concocted to cover his pride or whether she were a real flesh-and-blood rival. She had no doubt whatever even now but that she could conquer her former beau and have him again at her feet if she once set herself to the task. She had determined now to stop at nothing. She could brook no longer this continued indifference. He should yield to her charms and be her slave again; yes, even if she had to marry him. He was almost as rich as Arthur Briggs anyway, and twice as charming.
Since she could not bring him to come to her again by any device, she determined to go to him.
She took great pains to find out from Benedict's man through her own maid at what hour Benedict would be alone in his apartment. The matter was transacted over the telephone, and the impression left that a friend, presumably a man, would call that evening. The maid discreetly hung up the receiver before Benedict's man had been able to discover her name.
Dorothy, alone and charmingly gowned, arrived at Benedict's apartment only to be told that he had been called to his office on important business and would not be back until late that night. The servant, of course, had no idea that the unknown lady had anything to do with the man who was expected.
The girl was somewhat taken aback at the idea of visiting a business office alone at night, but only for a moment. She reflected that her advantage would be all the better. He could not well get away from her, and they would be less likely to be interrupted.
Chapter 14
The elevator was not running at night, and she had to climb to the seventh floor, which almost dashed her enthusiasm. She was quite white and drooping from the unusual exertion and found it no task to produce the effect of fright and exhaustion when she paused at last and tapped timidly at the door that bore his name. He had taken her there once a year and a half ago to show her his quarters. She could remember his eager face and her own bored attitude. She had not been interested in offices.
When he opened his office door questioningly, she was all ready with her neat little explanation.
"Oh, Clinton, are you really here? I'm so frightened! And I was so afraid you would be gone."
She drooped and expected him to catch her, but he stepped back and flung his door wide open, making no attempt to assist her.
"Dorothy!" he said severely. "What in the world are you doing here at this time of night?"
Dorothy dropped into a chair and put her hand to her heart while her host remained standing in his open door regarding her. He was not going to be nice and help her. She must make the best of it.
"Oh, I am so frightened and out of breath. I had to climb those horrid stairs. I couldn't make the elevator man come."
"The elevators do not run in this building at night," he said coldly.
She was not getting on very well.
"You see, I started for Aunt Augusta's. Aunt Augusta has been taken quite ill and wanted me to spend the night with her, and Father and Mother are away. But when we got to Pennsylvania Avenue, I found I had left my bag at home, and so I sent Thomas back for it in the car. It is only a block or two, and I thought I would like the walk; it is such a lovely night. I never thought of being afraid until Thomas was gone and I started up the side street past this building, and then I suddenly realized that a man was following me. I was so frightened I started to run, and once I almost fell. I saw your light up here and thought if I could get up here you would take me to Aunt Augusta's. I never was down in this part of the city alone at night before. I didn't know how dreadful it was. I shouldn't think it would be safe for you to stay here at night alone. Someone might murder you."
"It is quite safe for a man, but it is no place for a woman alone at night," he said coldly. He was annoyed with her childish thoughtlessness, and he more than half suspected her of falsehood, for he was nearly certain she could not have recognized his window from the street. His mind was absorbed with other things and he did not want to be interrupted, for he had that evening received a telegram from the detective office in New York calling him there to follow a new clue.
"I was so upset," she murmured sweetly, ignoring his coldness, "and so glad to get this refuge. This dear old office!" she added fervently, looking around him with a languishing glance. "How well I remember the first time you brought me here. Do you remember, Clinton?"
There was that in her voice that used to stir him to the depths of tenderness. Now it wrought in him a fine impatience. It was so unforgivable in himself that he had ever thought he cared for this vapid little thing.
"Would you like me to telephone for a taxi?" he asked politely, moving toward the telephone.
"Oh, no--not yet," she cried with her hand
on her heart again. "I'm so upset I couldn't go down those horrid stairs, I'm afraid. I haven't been feeling at all well lately. The doctor says I'm all run down and need a rest. He says I've been overdoing."
She watched him furtively to see what effect this would have on the stern visage before her. He had been wont to be solicitous for her health and welfare.
"You will not need to walk down," he said politely. "I can find the janitor and get him to run the elevator down for you. I should think if you're not feeling well you ought to get to your home or your aunt's at once and lie down."
"Oh, Clinton," she said coaxingly as she saw him reach toward the phone again, "won't you take me to Aunt Augusta's? I couldn't stand it to be alone in the dark even in a cab just yet. I'm quite unnerved. I feel as if I were going to faint when I get frightened like that, and the doctor said it was really quite dangerous for me to get like that."
Benedict had already gone to the phone and taken down the receiver.
"Just a minute, please. I'll see if I can't fix things," he said pleasantly, though his brow was perplexed and anxious.
He called up a number and the girl watched him furtively, wondering what he was going to do.
"Is this the club? Is that you, Johnston? Well, just run into the dining room and see if Mr. Briggs is there yet. Yes, Briggs. If he's there, ask him to come to the phone. You say he's right there? Yes, I want to speak to him. Hello! Is that you, Arthur? Glad I caught you in time. Miss Stanford has been badly frightened and taken refuge in my office. Yes, Dorothy Stanford. Yes, she was on her way to her aunt's on Eighteenth Street, you know, and her maid went back for something and a man followed her. No, she wasn't hurt, just badly frightened; but of course she oughtn't to go on alone, and I unfortunately have only a few minutes before I must go to my New York train, which I can't possibly miss. I'm going in response to a telegram on very important business. Come over and help us out, won't you? I don't like to leave Miss Stanford alone here with the janitor. You can get over in five minutes, can't you? Yes, I thought so. Thank you. Sorry I have to be so abrupt. You understand a train won't wait, and I simply can't miss it."
He hung up the receiver and turned about to face the angry girl with a face as calm as the one he had worn on shipboard when he saw the last lifeboat drifting away from him.
"I'm sorry to seem discourteous, Dorothy," he said gently, "but I have but ten minutes to get some things in my desk and leave a note for my secretary. You will excuse me if I go on with what I was doing. Arthur was at the club when I left, and I knew he would likely be there yet. He will be down at once and take care of you. Won't you take the easy chair?"
Dorothy Stanford stood in the middle of the office, dumbfounded. For the first time since her babyhood days, she recognized that her power over mankind had been thoroughly set aside and her wishes overridden by a man. Her eyes were blazing, her cheeks were crimson, her lips had gone white with anger. Her little drooping mouth took on an ugly curl that reminded one of the snarling of a wildcat.
"Clinton Benedict!" she said in her low-pitched voice, which fairly chilled with its coldness and hauteur. "I don't wish to go with Arthur Briggs, and you know it. I wish to go with you. I have something to say to you, and I must say it. Take down the receiver and call up Arthur again and tell him you have found you can take me yourself. You know you just did it because you're miffed that I chose him instead of you. Tell him not to come. I simply won't have him. I'll run away and leave you to face him alone."
"Dorothy, what does this mean?"
He was standing gravely surveying her, his face stern, his voice solemn. She thought he was searching her face to see if there was hope left that she did care for him. She decided to venture a little further.
"Call up Arthur and stop his coming, and I will tell you," she said, melting into dulcet tones and looking unutterable things from her inscrutable eyes.
"I cannot, Dorothy. He has already started. He will be here in a minute or two."
The girl turned a frightened glance toward the door then took a step nearer to her companion and spoke in a low tone: "Oh, Clinton, don't you know what I mean? Don't you see that I love you? It is you I love, not Arthur. If you will take me away before he comes, I will break my engagement with him and will marry you."
"Stand back, Dorothy!" he ordered in tones of righteous severity, and he stepped away himself. "Sit down. You do not know what you are saying. You are indeed unnerved, Dorothy. I want no wife who comes to me in any such way. I could not trust you even if I loved you, and I have told you before that I do not love you. I belong to someone else, and while the world lasts you could never be anything more to me. Sit down over there, please. I hear Arthur coming. Excuse me. I will go and call the janitor to start the elevator."
He went out and left the trembling, angry, baffled girl alone. His crisp footfalls echoed down the marble hall and rang in the arched marble silence of other floors, and each sound was like a knife going through her heart. For the first time in her life, she was experiencing some of what she had given to men since she was a child, because for the first time she had seen what a real, true man could be. She had tested him and found him strong. There was such a thing as real love and integrity and purity in a man. She knew it now, and knew that she had lost forever the one man of her acquaintance who she was sure possessed them all.
Chapter 15
When Gail awoke, the sky was gray, and there was a drizzle of rain.
"So much for my prospects of a bright morning after a dark night," she said grimly to herself. "But never mind, I'm going to make it bright. I'll get a job today. I must. I'll take anything."
On other mornings, Gail had knelt a minute in prayer for a Guiding Hand to lead her. This morning she was so full of haste and determination to succeed that she hurriedly swallowed her sandwich as she dressed and started out. The girl at the desk in the employment office shook her head as she passed through and looked inquiringly. No, nothing had come in yet. She thought there might be something by and by.
Gail closed the door carefully and went out. She had a feeling that she would never likely come back there again. She carried with her the little bundle of things she had brought from the seashore. The day before, she had washed out a few things and dried them as best she could over the radiator, pulling them smooth in place of ironing. She was prepared to go forth to whatever was in store for her.
She started down a street she had never gone before, with little idea of where she was going. Now and then she turned a corner, looking at the windows, always searching for a sign of help needed. She came on several signs hung out saying BOY WANTED, and twice she went in to see if a girl wouldn't do as well, but was answered in the negative. Once she saw a sign announcing,GIRL WANTED, EXPERIENCED. She went in, but they would not let her try. She set her white lips firmly, almost bitterly, and went on. She turned several corners and found herself quite bewildered about the streets. She had almost made up her mind to question a policeman when a sign in a small dirty window caught her eye. SECRETARY WANTED. A sign on the door read:RAY-SEE FILM CO. STUDIO.
For a second she paused as the thought came to her: What would her father have said about his daughter working in a place like this? But she shook it from her mind impatiently, for must she not have something? And she would be only a clerk anyway. As she laid her hand on the knob to go in, she had a feeling that she was about to do something momentous. She turned to look back at the street and the rows of dirty brick buildings that represented to her the cruel, unfeeling world that had repulsed her so often during the last weeks. As she looked, two blocks away she saw a tall young man swing from a crosstown car and walk toward the place where she was. Her heart gave a leap, for the figure reminded her of the tall young man she had nursed down by the sea. For an instant she thought perhaps he had followed her to New York. But immediately she put the thought out of her head and laughed bitterly at herself for being so foolish. Of course Clinton Benedict could not trace her in this great cit
y, and probably he did not care to if he could. She flung a last defiant glance at the forbidding brick wall and went into the studio, and a moment later Clinton Benedict with drooping, discouraged mien hurried past the building.
The place was small and dirty and bare. Two desks occupied a corner that was fenced off for an office, and a girl with a scant black satin sleeveless dress was pounding a typewriter. Her hair was cut short and oiled, a sleek ring plastered out on each cheek. She stared woodenly at Gail when she entered, and instead of answering her question, called in a nasal twang, "Mistah Fahley! Mistah Fahley! Here's somebody wants you."
Two men stood within a doorway just beyond. They turned at the call and looked sharply at Gail. Then they both came, their bold dark eyes upon her appraisingly, noting her classic features with approval. They were both rather sporty-looking men, dressed loudly with flashy neckties and elaborate scarfpins. One was in his shirtsleeves; the other wore a derby on the back of his partially bald head. Gail did not like their appearance, but she was in no position to be a respecter of persons. She saw they were interested in her, and if there was a position of any kind that she could fill, she meant to do it.
"You want a secretary?" she asked, a trifle of dignity perhaps in her voice on account of the bold familiarity with which they looked her over.
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