by Arthur Train
“Very interesting, Mr. Tutt,” observed Tutt after a moment's silence. “You seem to have made something of a study of these things.”
“Only in a business way-only in a business way!” Mr. Tutt assured him. “Now, if you're feeling stale-and we all are apt to get that way this time of year-why don't you take a run down to Atlantic City?”
Now Tutt would have liked to go to Atlantic City could he have gone by himself, but the idea of taking Abigail along robbed the idea of its attraction. She had got more than ever on his nerves of late. But his reply, whatever it might have been, was interrupted by the announcement of Miss Wiggin, who entered at that moment, that a lady wished to see him.
“She asked for Mr. Tutt,” explained Minerva.
“But I think her case is more in your line,” and she nodded to Tutt.
“Good looking?” inquired Tutt roguishly.
“Very,” returned Miss Wiggin. “A blonde.”
“Thanks,” answered Tutt, smoothing his hair; “I'm on my way.”
Now this free, almost vulgar manner of speech was in reality foreign to both Tutt and Miss Wiggin and it was born of the instant, due doubtless to some peculiar juxtaposition of astral bodies in Cupid's horoscope unknown to them, but which none the less had its influence. Strange things happen on the eve of St. Agnes and on Midsummer Night-even in law offices.
Mrs. Allison was sitting by the window in Tutt's office when he came in, and for a full minute he paused upon the threshold while she pretended she did not know that he was there. The deluge of sunlight that fell upon her face betrayed no crack or wrinkle-no flaw of any kind-in the white marble of its perfection. It was indeed a lovely face, classic in the chiseling of its transparent alabaster; and when she turned, her eyes were like misty lakes of blue. Bar none, she was the most beautiful creature-and there had been many-that had ever wandered into the offices of Tutt &Tutt. He sought for a word. “Wonderful”; that was, it, she was “wonderful.” His stale spirit soared in ecstasy, and left him tongue-tied. In vulgar parlance he was rattled to death, this commonplace little lawyer who for a score of years had dealt cynically with the loves and lives of the flock of female butterflies who fluttered annually in and out of the office. Throughout that period he had sat unemotionally behind his desk and listened in an aloof, cold, professional manner to the stories of their wrongs as they sobbed or hissed them forth. Wise little lawyer that he was, he had regarded them all as just what they were and nothing else-specimens of the Cecropia. And he had not even patted them upon the shoulder or squeezed their hands when he had bade them good-by-maintaining always an impersonal and dignified demeanor.
Therefore he was surprised to hear himself say in soothing, almost cooing tones:
“Well, my dear, what can I do for you?”
Shades of Abigail! “Well, my dear!” Tutt-Tutt! Tutt!
“I am in great trouble,” faltered Mrs. Allison, gazing in misty helplessness out of her blue grottoes at him while her beautiful red lips trembled.
“I hope I can help you!” he breathed. “Tell me all about it! Take your time. May I relieve you of your wrap?”
She wriggled out of it gratefully and he saw for the first time the round, slender pillar of her neck. What a head she had-in its nimbus of hazy gold. What a figure! His forty-eight-year-old lawyer's heart trembled under its heavy layer of half-calf dust. He found difficulty in articulating. He stammered, staring at her most shamelessly both of which symptoms she did not notice. She was used to them in the other sex. Tutt did not know what was the matter with him. He had in fact entered upon that phase at which the wise man, be he old or young, turns and runs.
But Tutt did not run. In legal phrase he stopped, looked and listened, experiencing a curious feeling of expansion. This enchanting creature transmuted the dingy office lined with its rows of calfskin bindings into a golden grot in which he stood spellbound by the low murmur of her voice. A sense of infinite leisure emanated from her-a subtle denial of the ordinary responsibilities-very relaxing and delightful to Tutt. But what twitched his very heartstrings was the dimple that came and went with that pathetic little twisted smile of hers.
“I came to you,” said Mrs. Allison, “because I knew you were both kind and clever.”
Tutt smiled sweetly.
“Kind, perhaps-not clever!” he beamed.
“Why, everyone says you are one of the cleverest lawyers in New York,” she protested. Then, raising her innocent China-blue eyes to his she murmured, “And I so need kindness!”
Tutt's breast swelled with an emotion which he was forced to admit was not altogether avuncular-that curious sentimental mixture that middle-aged men feel of paternal pity, Platonic tenderness and protectiveness, together with all those other euphemistic synonyms, that make them eager to assist the weak and fragile, to try to educate and elevate, and particularly to find out just how weak, fragile, uneducated and unelevated a helpless lady may be. But in spite of his half century of experience Tutt's knowledge of these things was purely vicarious. He could have told another man when to run, but he didn't know when to run himself. He could have saved another, himself he could not save-at any rate from Mrs. Allison.
He had never seen anyone like her. He pulled his chair a little nearer. She was so slender, so supple, so-what was it?-svelte! And she had an air of childish dignity that appealed to him tremendously. There was nothing, he assured himself, of the vamp about her at all.
“I only want to get my rights,” she said, tremulously. “I'm nearly out of my mind. I don't know what to do or where to turn!”
“Is there”-he forced himself to utter the word with difficulty-“a-a man involved?”
She flushed and bowed her head sadly, and instantly a poignant rage possessed him.
“A man I trusted absolutely,” she replied in a low voice.
“His name?”
“Winthrop Oaklander.”
Tutt gasped audibly, for the name was that of one of Manhattan's most distinguished families, the founder of which had swapped glass beads and red-flannel shirts with the aborigines for what was now the most precious water frontage in the world-and moreover, Mrs. Allison informed Tutt, he was a clergyman.
“I don't wonder you're surprised!” agreed Mrs. Allison.
“Why-I-I'm-not surprised at all!” prevaricated Tutt, at the same time groping for his silk handkerchief. “You don't mean to say you've got a case against this man Oaklander!”
“I have indeed!” she retorted with firmly compressed lips. “That is, if it is what you call a case for a man to promise to marry a woman and then in the end refuse to do so.”
“Of course it is!” answered Tutt. “But why on earth wouldn't he?”
“He found out I had been divorced,” she explained. “Up to that time everything had been lovely. You see he thought I was a widow.”
“Ah!”
Mr. Tutt experienced another pang of resentment against mankind in general.
“I had a leading part in one of the season's successes on Broadway,” she continued miserably. “But when Mr. Oaklander promised to marry me I left the stage; and now-I have nothing!”
“Poor child!” sighed Tutt.
He would have liked to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he always kept the door into the outer office open on principle.
“You know, Mr. Oaklander is the pastor of St. Lukes-Over-the-Way,” said Mrs. Allison. “I thought that maybe rather than have any publicity he might do a little something for me.”
“I suppose you've got something in the way of evidence, haven't you? Letters or photographs or something?” inquired Tutt, reverting absent-mindedly to his more professional manner.
“No,” she answered. “We never wrote to one another. And when we went out it was usually in the evening. I don't suppose half a dozen people have ever seen us together.”
“That's awkward!” meditated Tutt, “if he denies it.”
“Of course he will deny it!”
“You
can't tell. He may not.”
“Oh, yes, he will! Why, he even refuses to admit that he ever met me!” declared Mrs. Allison indignantly.
Now, to Tutt's credit be it said that neither at this point nor at any other did any suspicion of Mrs. Allison's sincerity enter his mind. For the first time in his professional existence he accepted what a lady client told him at its face value. Indeed he felt that no one, not even a clergyman, could help loving so miraculous a woman, or that loving her one could refrain from marrying her save for some religious or other permanent obstacle He was sublimely, ecstatically happy in the mere thought that he, Tutt, might be of help to such a celestial being, and he desired no reward other than the privilege of being her willing slave and of reading her gratitude in those melting, misty eyes.
Mrs. Allison went away just before lunch time, leaving her telephone number, her handkerchief, a pungent odor of violet talc, and a disconsolate but highly excited Tutt. Never, at any rate within twenty years, had he felt so young. Life seemed tinged with every color of the spectrum. The radiant fact was that he would-he simply had to-see her again. What he might do for her professionally-all that aspect of the affair was shoved far into the background of his mind. His only thought was how to get her back into his office at the earliest possible moment.
“Shall I enter the lady's name in the address book?” inquired Miss Wiggin coldly as he went out to get a bite of lunch.
Tutt hesitated.
“Mrs. Georgie Allison is her name,” he said in a detached sort of way.
“Address?”
Tutt felt in his waistcoat pocket.
“By George!” he muttered, “I didn't take it. But her telephone number is Lincoln Square 9187.”
To chronicle the details of Tutt's second blooming would be needlessly to derogate from the dignity of the history of Tutt &Tutt. There is a silly season in the life of everyone-even of every lawyer-who can call himself a man, and out of such silliness comes the gravity of knowledge. Tutt found it necessary for his new client to come to the office almost every day, and as she usually arrived about the noon hour what was more natural than that he should invite her out to lunch? Twice he walked home with her. The telephone was busy constantly. And the only thorn in the rose of Tutt's delirious happiness was the fear lest Abigail might discover something. The thought gave him many an anxious hour, cost him several sleepless nights. At times this nervousness about his wife almost exceeded the delight of having Mrs. Allison for a friend. Yet each day he became on more and more cordial terms with her, and the lunches became longer and more intimate.
The Reverend Winthrop Oaklander gave no sign of life, however. The customary barrage of legal letters had been laid down, but without eliciting any response. The Reverend Winthrop must be a wise one, opined Tutt, and he began to have a hearty contempt as well as hatred for his quarry. The first letter had been the usual vague hint that the clergyman might and probably would find it to his advantage to call at the offices of Tutt &Tutt, and so on. The Reverend Winthrop, however did not seem to care to secure said advantage whatever it might be. The second epistle gave the name of the client and proposed a friendly discussion of her affairs. No reply. The third hinted at legal proceedings. Total silence. The fourth demanded ten thousand dollars damages and threatened immediate suit.
In answer to this last appeared the Reverend Winthrop himself. He was a fine-looking young chap with a clear eye-almost as blue as Georgie's-and a skin even pinker than hers, and he stood six feet five in his Oxfords and his fist looked to Tutt as big as a coconut.
“Are you the blackmailer who's been writing me those letters?” he demanded, springing into Tutt's office. “If you are, let me tell you something. You've got hold of the wrong monkey. I've been dealing with fellows of your variety ever since I got out of the seminary. I don't know the lady you pretend to represent, and I never heard of her. If I get any more letters from you I'll go down and lay the case before the district attorney; and if he doesn't put you in jail I'll come up here and knock your head off. Understand? Good day!”
At any other period in his existence Tutt could not have failed to be impressed with the honesty of this husky exponent of the church militant, but he was drugged as by the drowsy mandragora. The blatant defiance of this muscular preacher outraged him. This canting hypocrite, this wolf in priest's clothing must be brought to book. But how? Mrs. Allison had admitted the literal truth when she had told him that there were no letters, no photographs. There was no use commencing an action for breach of promise if there was no evidence to support it. And once the papers were filed their bolt would have been shot. Some way must be devised whereby the Reverend Winthrop Oaklander could be made to perceive that Tutt &Tutt meant business, and-equally imperative -whereby Georgie would be impressed with the fact that not for nothing had she come to them-that is, to him-for help.
The fact of the matter was that the whole thing had become rather hysterical. Tutt, though having nothing seriously to reproach himself with, was constantly haunted by a sense of being rather ridiculous and doing something behind his wife's back. He told himself that his Platonic regard for Georgie was a noble thing and did him honor, but it was an honor which he preferred to wear as an entirely private decoration. He was conscious of being laughed at by Willie and Scraggs and disapproved of by Miss Wiggin, who was very snippy to him. And in addition there was the omnipresent horror of having Abigail unearth his philandering. He now not only thought of Mrs. Allison as Georgie but addressed her thus, and there was quite a tidy little bill at the florist's for flowers that he had sent her. In one respect only did he exhibit even the most elementary caution-he wrote and signed all his letters to her himself upon the typewriter, and filed copies in the safe.
“So there we are!” he sighed as he gave to Mrs. Allison a somewhat expurgated, or rather emasculated version of the Reverend Winthrop's visit. “We have got to hand him something hot or make up our minds to surrender. In a word we have got to scare him-Georgie.”
And then it was that, like the apocryphal mosquito, the Fat and Skinny Club justified its attempted existence. For the indefatigable Sorg made an unheralded reappearance in the outer office and insisted upon seeing Tutt, loudly asserting that he had reason to believe that if a new application were now made to another judge-whom he knew-it would be more favorably received. Tutt went to the doorway and stood there barring the entrance and expostulating with him.
“All right!” shouted Sorg. “All right! I hear you! But don't tell me that a man named Solomon Swackhamer can change his name to Phillips Brooks Vanderbilt and in the same breath a reputable body of citizens be denied the right to call themselves what they please!”
“He don't understand!” explained Tutt to Georgie, who had listened with wide, dreamy eyes. “He don't appreciate the difference between doing a thing as an individual and as a group.”
“What thing?”
“Why, taking a name.”
“I don't get you,” said Georgie.
“Sorg wanted to call his crowd the Fat and Skinny Club, and the court wouldn't let him-thought it was silly.”
“Well?”
“But he could have called himself Mr. Fat or Mr. Skinny or Mr. Anything Else without having to ask anybody-Oh, I say!”
Tutt had stiffened into sculpture.
“What is it?” demanded Georgie fascinated.
“I've got an idea,” he cried. “You can call yourself anything you like. Why not call yourself Mrs. Winthrop Oaklander?”
“But what good would that do?” she asked vaguely.
“Look here!” directed Tutt. “This is the surest thing you know! Just go up to the Biltmore and register as Mrs. Winthrop Oaklander. You have a perfect legal right to do it. You could call yourself Mrs. Julius Caesar if you wanted to. Take a room and stay there until our young Christian soldier offers you a suitable inducement to move along. Even if you're violating the law somehow his first attempt to make trouble for you will bring about the very publici
ty he is anxious to avoid. Why, it's marvelous-and absolutely safe? They can't touch you. He'll come across inside of two hours. If he doesn't a word to the reporters will start things in the right direction.”
For a moment Mrs. Allison looked puzzled. Then her beautiful face broke into an enthusiastic classic smile and she laid her little hand softly on his arm.
“What a clever boy you are-Sammy!”
A subdued snigger came from the direction of the desk usually occupied by William. Tutt flushed. It was one thing to call Mrs. Allison “Georgie” in private and another to have her “Sammy” him within hearing of the office force. And just then Miss Wiggin passed by with her nose slightly in the air.
“What a perfectly wonderful idea!” went on Mrs. Allison rapturously. “A perfectly wonderful idea!”
Then she smiled a strange, mysterious, significant smile that almost tore Tutt's heart out by the roots.
“Listen, Sammy,” she whispered, with a new light in those beautiful eyes. “I want five thousand dollars.”
“Five?” repeated Tutt simply. “I thought you wanted ten thousand!”
“Only five from you, Sammy!”
“Me!” he gagged.
“You-dearest!”
Tutt turned blazing hot; then cold, dizzy and sea-sick. His sight was slightly blurred. Slowly he groped for the door and closed it cautiously.
“What-are-you-talking about?” he choked, though he knew perfectly well.
Georgie had thrown herself back in the leather chair by his desk and had opened her gold mesh-bag.
“About five thousand dollars,” she replied with the careful enunciation of a New England school-mistress.