{"collection":"ritual-magic","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_77500/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_77500","id":"gutenberg_77500","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77500","summary":null,"tags":["Man-woman relationships -- Fiction","New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction","Occultism -- Fiction","Spouses -- Fiction"],"text":"THE TALKERS\n\n                           ROBERT W. CHAMBERS\n\n\n\n\n                               THE TALKERS\n                                   BY\n                           ROBERT W. CHAMBERS\n\n               AUTHOR OF \u201cTHE FLAMING JEWEL,\u201d \u201cTHE SLAYER\n                    OF SOULS,\u201d \u201cTHE COMMON LAW,\u201d \u201cIN\n                        SECRET,\u201d \u201cLORRAINE,\u201d ETC.\n\n                    [Illustration: Decorative Logo]\n\n                                NEW YORK\n\n                         GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY\n\n\n\n\n                            COPYRIGHT, 1923,\n                       BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY\n\n                    [Illustration: Decorative Logo]\n\n                            COPYRIGHT, 1921,\n                    BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY\n\n                             THE TALKERS. I\n                 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA\n\n\n\n\n                                   TO\n                                MY FRIEND\n                             ROBERT H. DAVIS\n\n\n\n\n                              THE TALKERS\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER I\n\n\nSadoul\u2019s only experiences in love had been gross. The cynic in him\nadmitted nothing better.\n\nSaturnine, without delusions, he went about his business in life, doing\nno particular good, and with a capacity for harm limited only by his\ntalents.\n\nHe had been a little of everything, and always clever--art student,\nmedical student, reporter, critic, writer--intelligent, adroit.\n\nHis was a mordant pen and brilliant; and it was for sale.\n\nThe query, \u201cHave you read Sadoul\u2019s article in the _Wasp_?\u201d or in the\n_View Point_, or in some one of many irregular publications, was not an\nuncommon question in the metropolis.\n\nSadoul on this or that had become fairly familiar to a talkative\npublic. He had something to say about everything and anything. His\npersonal convictions made no difference. And he always was interesting.\n\nThe second year after the war ended he went to France again. At the\nUniversity of Paris he took courses in psychology and philology: in the\nEcole de M\u00e9decine he attended lectures. Clinics where hypnosis induced\nsupplanted anesthesia in minor operations fascinated him.\n\nBut life, there, taught him nothing nobler to expect of a world already\nproven sordid by personal experience.\n\nHe entertained no delusions concerning mankind, its friendship, or\nits love; he neither expected nor desired anything of it except the\nsaturnine amusement which he extracted from it, and which was his\nprincipal form of pleasure.\n\nThen Chance tripped him up. Needing an English stenographer one day,\nthe American firm on the rue Colchas sent him a girl equipped to take\ndictation.\n\nIt appeared that she was equipped for more than that. Sadoul silently\nwent mad about her.\n\nA sort of still terror also took possession of the girl--the hopeless\nimmobility of a doomed thing, conscious of menace, apparently unable to\nescape.\n\nResistance seemed to hold only along certain lines.\n\nOtherwise there was no defence. She had stepped from reality into a\ndream.\n\nAt his inquiry she told him her story. She did not wish to do so.\n\nThere was a ball in the Latin Quarter given by Julian\u2019s that evening.\nSadoul took her. She wore pale, lunar green; which went with her red\nhair and deep green eyes.\n\nShe had little to say to Sadoul\u2019s friends. So reticent, so dazed she\nseemed that some, troubled and perplexed by her youth and beauty,\nsuspected her of an addiction to drugs.\n\nAs for Sadoul, he had gone completely mad over her. He became her\nshadow everywhere. And, save only for certain lines of resistance, he\nseemed to have utterly mastered her.\n\nBut those occult lines held. The conflict almost crazed him--so pliant,\nso yielding she seemed, so obedient had he made her in all excepting\ncertain lines. His dark face greyed at times under the strain. He\nabased himself and begged; he grinned and told her what to expect if\nshe ever tricked him. The lines held.\n\nHis impression upon her had already been made; he could stamp it no\ndeeper; the girl was not in love with him. She never would be. And he\nknew it.\n\nShe seemed to be a passionless little thing, her beauty a golden\nchrysalis containing nothing--the Psyche within aborted.\n\nIn the Latin Quarter, lack of animation is unpopular. There was about\nher that innocent detachment one notices in the preoccupation of a nun.\nInvited, at first she went everywhere with Sadoul.\n\nAfter a while they were seldom invited where pleasure was noisy and\nuntrammelled.\n\nEarly in spring a cabled offer from New York brought Sadoul\u2019s affairs\nto a climax.\n\nFor three days Sadoul beat at her very soul to club it into submission.\nThen he crawled and wept. The lines held.\n\nAgain he battered her with his implacable will till her bruised,\nstupefied mind gave up. But the lines held.\n\nShe was in a daze when the civil ceremony was performed. He cabled to\nNew York, giving up his quarters at the Fireside Club, and requesting\nhis friend Pockman to secure for him a furnished housekeeping apartment\non Riverside Drive.\n\nHe was having his way with her--or tried to believe he was having it.\n\nAnd then Destiny pulled an ugly face at him. For the girl utterly\nrefused to submit to the religious ceremony. And the old lines still\nheld.\n\nEarly summer in Paris is paradise. But it had become a hell to Sadoul.\nHe walked the earth like a damned soul chained to its victim.\n\nIn July he secured passage for them both.\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER II\n\n\nGeorge Derring, Julian Fairless, and Harry Stayr organized the Fireside\nClub in New York to gratify the instincts of the slovenly well-to-do.\nLimited membership and a long waiting-list told its successful story.\n\nDerring also had financed the big new building on 57th Street, where\nthe Fireside occupied the entire second floor.\n\nThe remainder of the building harboured members in apartments of one to\nthree rooms. Some apartments had studios attached.\n\nThe Fireside Club was the common meeting-ground. Members could sprawl\nthere in evening dress or bath-robe and slippers, all day and all night\nif they liked.\n\nMen with an inclination to conversation and a disinclination for work\nseemed to compose the bulk of membership. Which gave to the Fireside\nthat intellectual allure so impressive among the mindless millions.\n\nThe glamour of genius played about the Fireside like St. Anthony\u2019s\nfire; its Thinkers and its Talkers found its exclusive luxury a\nparadise.\n\nBut a few common and irreverent folk characterised it as an\nintellectual doldrums where talent lay becalmed; or a maelstrom of talk\nwhere creative energy was sucked under and ultimately engulfed.\n\nIn midsummer a majority of the Fireside wandered far and wide in that\nrestless quest for satisfaction characteristic of those who talk much\nand do little.\n\nBut always a sprinkling remained to loaf about the club. From which\nretreat, having dined well, the dusky tropic brilliancy of Manhattan\u2019s\nstreets lured them into endless wanderings through a thousand and one\nMetropolitan Nights.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEarly in spring Sadoul had cabled from Paris that he was giving up his\napartment there on May first. So somebody else moved in on that date.\n\nDerring returned in June from a gastronomic tour of European Ritz\u2019s. He\nmentioned meeting Julian Fairless in Paris, but had not seen Sadoul.\n\nBefore Sadoul returned, Julian Fairless brought back a budget of\ngossip, including news of him. Only a small percentage of Talkers are\ndoers. Fairless was industriously both.\n\nTo a question from Stayr he replied that Paris, the Latin Quarter,\nand Julian\u2019s were about the same as ever. A similar and dingy crowd\ninfested the schools; similar masters gave similar instruction. All\nthe unkempt ruck and reek of the atelier was there; massiers, models,\nblague, noise--nothing had changed except the individuals composing the\nmess.\n\nFairless, an incessant Talker, gossiped on without encouragement. Which\nis the instinct of the true Talker.\n\nSo-and-so was dead--killed at Verdun; so-and-so goes on crutches; old\nClifford has a studio in the Court of the Dragon; Rowden died at Mons;\nCreed, now wealthy, lives in the Parc Mon\u00e7eau and paints no more; the\nBeaux Arts is below par this year, and \u201cour men\u201d appear to be the pick;\netc., etc. So Fairless chattered on and on, talking the talk of the\nTalkers.\n\nHe was still at breakfast, eating a soft-boiled egg out of its own\nshell, in the rather dirty English fashion.\n\n\u201cI sold several pictures to profiteers,\u201d he continued; \u201cParis is lousy\nwith nouveau riche. Derring bought two from me----\u201d\n\nStayr remonstrated: \u201cDerring isn\u2019t nouveau riche.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no, but he played about with them. He wanted to see Julian\u2019s. I\ntook him over. He was disgusted with the models. Besides, he kept his\nhat on and they bawled him out.\u201d\n\nFairless wallowed in a finger-bowl, dried his celebrated scarab ring:\n\n\u201cI saw quite a lot of Casimir Sadoul. He was doing philology at the\nUniversity, but he associated mostly with Julian men.... He had a girl;\nwent about everywhere with her. That\u2019s a new idea for him, eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose Sadoul did not wish to be conspicuous in the Quarter,\u201d\nsuggested Mortimer Lyken.\n\n\u201cThis affair was conspicuous. Fancy the contrast!--that big, blackish,\nbeetle-browed ruffian hooked up to a red-headed slip of a thing, so\nbashful that you got no more out of her than yes and no.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid she really belong to Sadoul?\u201d asked Stayr.\n\n\u201cApparently. He behaved savagely if you looked at her. Somebody told me\nhe got her by hypnotising her.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe knows how,\u201d remarked Pockman. \u201cHe\u2019s done it for me.\u201d\n\n\u201cBunk,\u201d murmured Stayr, \u201c--wasn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d returned Pockman with his pallid smirk and hunching up his\nwide, bony shoulders, \u201cI\u2019ve performed minor operations on patients with\nSadoul\u2019s aid, inducing hypnosis instead of anesthesia.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe devil!\u201d exclaimed Lyken. \u201cThat was Charcot\u2019s graft.\u201d\n\nFairless chattered on: \u201cAll the fellows concluded that Sadoul had some\nsort of hold on her. She seemed too pretty and refined to fall for a\nbig, swarthy brute like Sadoul. She really was an exquisite little\nthing, Harry--such features, such skin, such hands and hair--and the\nfellows all wild to paint her--and old Sadoul foxy and sardonic....\nThey say the souls of the damned cast no shadows. I fancy Sadoul\u2019s girl\nstill has a chance: he certainly was her shadow--always at her heels,\nalways on the job.... Somebody said he had threatened to kill her if\nshe ever fooled him. But I think Sadoul\u2019s more likely to beat up the\nman in the case.\u201d\n\nFairless got up from the table.\n\n\u201cNow, if you fellows care to see what I brought back----\u201d\n\nA few of the other men rose and followed Fairless upstairs to his\nstudio where Angelo, his factotum, had already placed the first picture\nupon an easel.\n\nAs usual, all the elements of popularity were apparent in the\npicture--a typical Julian Fairless canvas, full of that obvious charm\nso attractive to an obvious public, so acceptable to the professional\ncritic.\n\nFairless lit a cigarette and sat down to chat with Sidney Pockman, who\ndidn\u2019t care for pictures.\n\n\u201cWhere did Sadoul get that girl you mentioned?\u201d he inquired, the smirk\nstill stamped on his flat, colourless face.\n\n\u201cIn Paris.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did she happen to be there?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, a story of sorts. She and mama were living in London when the Huns\ndropped bombs. Mama was blown into unpleasant gobs all over the house.\nThen it was canteen work in Paris. Then no job. Then Sadoul ran into\nher. That\u2019s the story.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s English?\u201d\n\n\u201cAmerican, I believe. I couldn\u2019t tell by her speech. She\u2019s a dumb\nyoungster.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s he going to do with her? Marry her?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I don\u2019t know, Pockman. I fancy it\u2019s high time--if he means to do\nit at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, that sort?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe doesn\u2019t look it. She\u2019s so dumb she seems almost drugged. Maybe\nit\u2019s true he\u2019s obtained some sort of hold on her. I don\u2019t know.\u201d\n\n\u201cI had a letter from Sadoul last week,\u201d said Pockman. \u201cHe must be on\nhis way back here by this time.\u201d\n\nFairless nodded inattentively, motioning Angelo to take away the\npicture and replace it by another.\n\nPockman seemed to grin at the new picture--or perhaps his pallid smirk\nwas habitual.\n\n\u201cWhat do you get for that kind of painting?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cFive thousand.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid it take you very long?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo mornings.\u201d\n\nPockman laughed: \u201cYours is a soft graft, Julian.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo is yours, you pill-rolling fakir!\u201d\n\n\u201cNot very soft, so far. But it ought to be when I succeed in grafting\nthe nymphalic gland to a corpse and break fifty-fifty with the New\nTestament.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t Voronoff grafting glands and things?\u201d\n\n\u201cSome glands; not the nymphalic. And that\u2019s the whole problem, because\nit governs----\u201d Pockman hesitated, shrugged: \u201c--Well, adios, Julian!\nMuch obliged for a view of your new pictures. Hope you sting the\nprofiteers.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou bet,\u201d nodded Fairless complacently.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut July is too late for an \u201cexhibition.\u201d Besides, the great American\nprofiteer had been rolling in art since the war ended, and, now\nsatiated after an orgy of antique-buying during the past winter and\nspring, had begun to build bungalows. October or the middle of November\nwould see the town crawling again with newly rich. There was plenty\nof time to prepare pasture for absent cattle--ample time for Julian\nFairless to plan his show. Besides, he desired a vacation at Greenwich,\nin the vicinity of Veronica Weld.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was there, early in August, that Fairless again ran across Pockman\nentering the railroad station.\n\nAmong other items of gossip he learned that Sadoul had returned to New\nYork, bringing with him his red-headed companion, and, furthermore,\nthat the red-headed one had suddenly disappeared within the first week.\n\n\u201cSadoul\u2019s a bad actor if you do things to him,\u201d added Pockman. \u201cHe\u2019s as\nvindictive as hell. I\u2019m wondering what will happen if he ever finds a\nman with her.... Or finds her again, even alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s Sadoul doing?\u201d inquired Fairless, pleasantly entertained with\nthe account of another man\u2019s misfortune.\n\n\u201cOh, he\u2019s writing his free-lance stuff, as usual, and hanging around my\nlaboratory.\u201d\n\n\u201cGrouching?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; he\u2019s rather quiet. I wouldn\u2019t care to be the Johnny in the\ncase.... Or the girl, either.\u201d\n\nFairless shrugged; then, inattentive: \u201cWhere are you bound for? Town?\u201d\n\n\u201cI came up here to get a gland.\u201d\n\n\u201cA what?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat young fellow who was killed here yesterday in the motor\naccident.... You heard? Well, he proved a healthy subject, and his\nnymphalic gland was of no further use to him. So I came up to get it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat good is a dead man\u2019s gland?\u201d demanded Fairless.\n\n\u201cThe gland isn\u2019t dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all. I\u2019ve got it in this grip packed in ice. I can keep it\nalive for weeks in a refrigerator.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat for?\u201d\n\n\u201cGraft it on some senile subject and add twenty years to his life.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s rather a loathsome business, yours,\u201d said Fairless frankly.\n\n\u201cNot at all. You\u2019ll need a new gland yourself some day. When you do,\ngive me a ring.\u201d\n\nPockman smirked at the disgusted painter, picked up his satchel, and\nstalked off at a stiff, crazy gait characteristic of him. Stayr always\nsaid it reminded him of Holbein\u2019s Dance of Death.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Pockman reached New York he telephoned Sadoul from his laboratory:\n\n\u201cCome on over; I\u2019ve got a lively nymphalic on ice. Some gland, believe\nme, Sadoul.\u201d\n\nBut Sadoul seemed incurious and morose, and Pockman could not persuade\nhim.\n\nSo the latter continued to examine and caress his rather ghastly\nacquisition, and Sadoul\u2019s powerful, bony fingers drove his pen through\na mordant article destined to stimulate a moribund periodical in the\nsenile stage, kept alive only by Derring\u2019s money.\n\nSadoul\u2019s and Pockman\u2019s remedies for inanition were, after all, similar:\ngall and gland to stimulate the decrepit and delay ultimate dissolution.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDerring, financing _The Revolt_ to please a rather handsome woman with\nbobbed hair, had found himself let in for a deal of trouble.\n\nShe of the bobbed hair suggested that Sadoul \u201cput a kick into the damn\nthing.\u201d Derring, at Newport, wired assent.\n\nSadoul, in seething silence, gave himself to the job with a fierce\npersistence which made _The Revolt_ smoke enough to attract attention.\n\nBut it was all smoke: the fire itself smouldered in Sadoul, not in the\nmagazine. All that long summer and autumn Sadoul watched and waited and\nburned. His olive skin and black eyes grew more shadowy; one noticed\nhis teeth under the crisp beard when he smiled.\n\nHe was usually at the Fireside Club in the evenings, but he lived\nelsewhere--in a big, handsome housekeeping apartment, according to\nJulian Fairless, taken, probably, on account of the red-headed one, now\nvanished.\n\nTwice, already, since her disappearance, Sadoul mistook others with\nauburn tresses for the slender runaway for whom his smouldering gaze\nwas always searching amid the multitudes by night and day.\n\nThe third time there was no mistake. They met face to face on Fifth\nAvenue, the red-headed one and Casimir Sadoul.\n\n\u201cWhere have you been?\u201d said Sadoul, smiling and offering his hand. But\nhis dark skin had turned greyish.\n\nAfter the first startled glance, reassured by his smile and offered\nhand, the girl seemed inclined to meet the issue with laughing and\nyouthful defiance.\n\nShe told him frankly that she had been bored; that she desired to enjoy\nherself like a modern girl, and meant to do so.\n\n\u201cThe modern girl,\u201d said Sadoul, laughing, \u201cis one who is determined to\nhave a good time in the world, no matter at what cost.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I suppose so,\u201d she conceded. \u201cThe trouble is that I don\u2019t know\nhow to begin.\u201d\n\n\u201cHaven\u2019t you begun in all these months?\u201d he inquired, fixing his black\neyes on her.\n\nShe laughed, made a childish face at him, mocked him in friendly\nfashion.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not going to let you resume your way with me,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cWill you let me lunch with you, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, yes. It\u2019s nearly one, now. It\u2019s quite agreeable to see you again.\nI\u2019ve sometimes wondered how it would seem....\u201d\n\nThe Ritz was only a block away.\n\nShe was a piquant figure in her furs; and the touch of turquoise to her\nhat made her red hair redder and her white skin whiter as she faced the\nNovember east-wind beside Sadoul.\n\nThe raw air smelled of snow, but no flakes fell.\n\n\u201cSo--you\u2019re having a good time,\u201d said Sadoul, showing his teeth in a\nsudden smile.\n\n\u201cI told you I haven\u2019t learned how, yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you let me try again?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot--that way,\u201d she said, colouring.\n\n\u201cNo; that was a mistake, Gilda.\u201d\n\nShe laughed in surprise and relief: \u201cSo you admit it?\u201d she cried.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve got to, haven\u2019t I? You left me flat.\u201d\n\n\u201cI had to.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe was animated and friendly at luncheon--perfectly frank as\nalways heretofore, not untruthful, not evasive, but gaily declining\ninformation concerning her recent career and her present domicile.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s none of your business,\u201d she said decisively. \u201cI can always find\nyou if I care to.\u201d\n\nThis attitude seemed to amuse him. He appeared to her to be very much\nchanged, and decidedly for the better.\n\nHe said: \u201cGeorge Derring is giving a dance at his studio apartment\ntonight. If you care to come you\u2019ll have one of those \u2018good times\u2019\nyou\u2019re always wishing for.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is George Derring?\u201d\n\n\u201cAn intellectual panhandler.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n\n\u201cA beggar begs food from door to door; Derring, brainless and\nresourceless, begs his daily modicum of amusement from friend to\nfriend.... He\u2019s very rich. He has to be.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat sounds more like you,\u201d she said with an uneasy smile.\n\n\u201cOh, no; I\u2019m off that stuff. Gilda, you\u2019d better come to Derring\u2019s\ndance. It will be gay--a masked affair. All the men dress as kings; all\nthe women as queens. You have that wonderful green costume you wore at\nthe Julian ball, haven\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nShe nodded. Her eyes, which were emerald green, widened.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like to go,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cVery well. But where am I to call for you?\u201d\n\nAt that she laughed outright. \u201cI\u2019ll take a taxi and drive to your\napartment. But I shall not go in.\u201d\n\nHe made no attempt to persuade her. They fixed the hour amicably; she\ntold him in her frank way that if he followed her and attempted to spy\non her, she\u2019d move elsewhere.\n\nSo, when luncheon ended, he lifted his hat and turned away, leaving her\nto find her own taxi. Which she did, and drove to the matin\u00e9e for which\nshe had a ticket, but where, alas! nobody awaited her.\n\nFor, even after all these months alone, and free to seek pleasure where\nshe wished, the acme, so far, of the \u201cgood time\u201d so ardently desired by\nher was a matin\u00e9e; and the most delirious dissipation a drive on Fifth\nAvenue all alone in a small limousine car hired and steered entirely by\nherself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSadoul\u2019s face was ghastly when he entered Pockman\u2019s laboratory, and the\nlatter noticed it and commented.\n\n\u201cGilda Greenway is coming to Derring\u2019s party with me,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cOh, is she back?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. I met her on the street.\u201d\n\nPockman cast a stealthy glance at Sadoul, then continued to filter the\ncontents of one test-tube into another.\n\n\u201cYou were--er--glad to see her?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Pockman, \u201cyou have a funny way of showing it. I\u2019d run if I\nmet you in a dark alley.... Hand me that smeared slide, will you--and\nthat bowl of Reakirt\u2019s solution----\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER III\n\n\nA masked figure followed them noiselessly upstairs and slipped behind\nthe porti\u00e8res to observe them.\n\nSutton, face to face with his first real adventure, was fascinated by\nthe little Queen in Green--not prepared, perhaps, to encounter such\nyouthful shyness at Derring\u2019s. And now he attempted to discover her\nidentity, rather roughly, but she evaded his curiosity and ardent\nadvances, and coaxed him to show her Derring\u2019s quarters.\n\nThe masked man watched them out of narrow eye-slits. They visited the\nfurther rooms; then, having satisfied her curiosity, the Queen in Green\nturned on her dainty heel.\n\nAs the two retraced their steps, she prettily avoided Sutton\u2019s\nlove-making. It was only after he unmasked, and they had stopped by\nthe porti\u00e8res--so close that the man behind them could have stabbed\nthem--that the girl turned impulsively to Sutton, put her arms around\nhis neck, and took his kiss as passionately as he gave it.\n\nIt lasted but a second. She stepped back against the porti\u00e8res. Both\nseemed hotly embarrassed.\n\nA second later the Queen in Green was readjusting her gilt crown and\nlaughing at some light jest he had made--he could not recall what it\nwas afterward.\n\nBelow, the orchestra had begun again. He looked at her; she nodded.\nThey waited to catch the beat of the music. She was still laughing when\nshe placed her smooth little hand in his. But as he encircled her waist\nshe drew a swift, agonised breath and lurched forward against him.\n\nHe reeled under the sudden impact; her silk-clad body sagged, her\nmasked head fell backward, and then, as he caught her, the Queen in\nGreen collapsed in his arms.\n\nHe half dragged her to an armchair. One of her slippers dropped off.\n\nFor a moment he stood helpless, looking down at her; then, anxious, and\nhaving had no experience with people who faint, he hurried downstairs,\nperplexed, to find Sadoul, who had brought the girl to the party.\n\nAfter-supper-dancing was beginning again in the studio, and the music\nseemed unusually noisy. He tried to discover Sadoul, shouted his name,\nbut everybody was still masked and Sutton hunted for him in vain.\n\nFinally he continued on through the studio into the supper room to get\na glass of ice-water, and saw Harry Stayr still browsing there.\n\nAs Sutton left the table, carrying the water, he said to Stayr in a\nworried voice:\n\n\u201cThat Queen in Green--the one Sadoul brought--has fainted in Derring\u2019s\nquarters.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs she soused?\u201d inquired Stayr, busy with food.\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is she?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. She wears a green mask. Casimir Sadoul brought her. If\nyou see him tell him she\u2019s ill upstairs.\u201d\n\n\u201cPut some ice down her back,\u201d advised Stayr, reaching for the salad.\n\nSutton hastened on upstairs, hoping to find the lady better.\n\nThe Queen in Green lay face upward on the floor--a crumpled heap of\npale green silks. Her ruddy hair was dishevelled; her gilt crown had\nrolled across the rug.\n\nThere was a day-bed beside the rose-shaded lamp. Sutton carried her to\nit, laid her there and smoothed her clothing.\n\nUnder the mask her lips and skin were livid, but through the eye-slits\nshe seemed to be watching him.\n\nHe flushed, spoke to her, waited, then stripped off the green silk\nmask. It shocked him to discover that her eyes were open.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a funny way to faint,\u201d he thought. And he lifted the glass and\ntipped it, spilling ice-water over the upturned face.\n\nThe water washed off some cosmetic but produced no other effect.\n\nScared, Sutton tried to find her pulse, and failed; tried to locate her\nheart and couldn\u2019t. There was nothing to loosen. He opened a window\nand came back to her. Then he went out to the gallery and shouted down\nthrough the clatter and music:\n\n\u201cSadoul! Sadoul! Come up here!\u201d\n\nA masked figure in crown and crimson robes detached itself and came\nforward under the gallery, looking up.\n\n\u201cIs that you, Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. What\u2019s the trouble?\u201d\n\n\u201cYour girl--the girl you brought with you--has fainted. She\u2019s up here.\nBring Pockman, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, my girl?\u201d inquired Sadoul.\n\n\u201cThe Queen in Green. You brought her, didn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! _That_ girl? What\u2019s the matter with her?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. You\u2019d better find Pockman and come up. _I_ don\u2019t know\nwhat ails her.\u201d\n\nSutton went back to the day-bed and gazed nervously at the Queen in\nGreen. Robes, stockings, slippers, jewels, all were green. Even her\nstrangely open eyes seemed golden green as a cat\u2019s.\n\nSadoul and Pockman, in gorgeous costumes but unmasked, entered together\nin a few moments.\n\n\u201cShe doesn\u2019t seem to be breathing, and I can\u2019t find any pulse,\u201d\nexplained Sutton. \u201cWhat on earth is the matter with her?\u201d\n\nPockman bent over; Sadoul and Sutton watched him. She wore no\nstays--there was not much to her bodice, anyway--only a trifle more of\nher body visible when Pockman stripped off her waist than the waist\nhad already revealed.\n\nThe two men watched him; the leisurely certainty of everything he was\ndoing preoccupied Sutton.\n\n\u201cWhy, she\u2019s dead,\u201d said Pockman coolly.\n\nSutton stared aghast.\n\nSadoul said: \u201cWell, of all rotten luck!--What the devil was the matter\nwith her?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not sure.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean--mean to say that this girl is dead!\u201d faltered Sutton.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s been dead for more than twenty minutes.... _I_ don\u2019t know what\nkilled her----\u201d\n\nSadoul glanced up at Pockman, who was staring intently at him.\n\nSutton said miserably: \u201cIs there anything possible to do--any other and\nsurer test to be made?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis girl is _dead_,\u201d repeated Pockman, still looking significantly at\nSadoul. Then he shrugged his bony shoulders, went over to the telephone\nand called his laboratory. While waiting, he said to Sadoul: \u201cHere\u2019s my\nchance, by God! It will take about three hours,\u201d he added, \u201c--and half\nan hour more----\u201d His connection interrupted; he asked for somebody\nnamed Stent, got him immediately, talked to him unhurriedly.\n\nWhen he came back he asked Sutton to go into Derring\u2019s bedroom and get\na sheet from the bed.\n\nSutton brought it; Pockman covered the recumbent figure decently,\nconcealing the face also.\n\nHe said to Sutton: \u201cSadoul and I realise that this is a good\nopportunity for me to try something I am interested in.... It can\u2019t\nharm her, anyway----\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean that there is any chance of reviving her?\u201d asked Sutton,\nhis voice still hoarse from shock.\n\n\u201cWell--she\u2019s dead.... Figure it out for yourself, Sutton.\u201d And to\nSadoul: \u201cThis is a damned unpleasant episode for old Derring and his\nparty----\u201d\n\n... \u201cWho was that girl?\u201d interrupted Sutton, harshly.\n\n\u201cHer name was Gilda Greenway,\u201d replied Sadoul, with composure; but his\nlong fingers were working at the gilt fringe on his robe.\n\n\u201cHas she any family?\u201d inquired Pockman.\n\n\u201cNo, I believe not----\u201d\n\n\u201cWell--what the devil!--She had a home somewhere, I suppose!\u201d\n\nSadoul shook his head: \u201cPossibly. I don\u2019t know where she lived.\u201d\n\nSutton opened the telephone directory. There were only two Greenways in\nthe book. He called them up. Neither knew anything of Gilda Greenway.\n\nPockman turned to Sutton: \u201cWhat were _you_ doing with her up here?\u201d he\nenquired with one of his pallid smirks.\n\n\u201cWe were dancing--or going to. She wanted to look down at the floor\nfrom the gallery when they began throwing confetti.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sure,\u201d said Pockman, but his pasty, flat features bore no trace of\nthe sneer in his voice.\n\n\u201cWe came up to the gallery,\u201d continued Sutton, \u201cand watched the battle\nof confetti and flowers. Then she peeped into Derring\u2019s quarters and\ndesired to inspect them.\n\n\u201cIt was harmless curiosity--no matter what you\u2019re thinking, Pockman.\nShe looked the place over; we were standing over there by the\nporti\u00e8res. She was laughing; and then the music began downstairs--and\nwe were starting to dance up here.... And then--good God!----\u201d\n\n\u201cJust like that,\u201d nodded Pockman, softly.\n\nThere was something subtly horrible about the vernacular as he used\nit in the dim room where death was. But death had become an old story\nto Pockman, and there were for him neither thrills nor shocks in the\nspectacle of human dissolution--nothing to awe or subdue or arouse\nemotion--only a fact of routine interest to a student preoccupied by\noriginal research.\n\nHe had a pale, flat, fat face, smoothly shaven; washed-out eyes; a\ntall, ill-made figure with very wide, square shoulders, and scanty,\nuntidy hair of a faded hue.\n\nHe looked almost stealthily at Sutton, now, who, quite overcome by the\ntragedy, sat staring at the sheeted figure of the girl he had been\nlaughing with half an hour ago.\n\n\u201cIf you don\u2019t feel like dancing,\u201d said Pockman pleasantly, \u201cstay here\nuntil my man Stent arrives. Sadoul and I are going down.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t mean you are going to dance?\u201d\n\n\u201cSure,\u201d replied Pockman, adjusting his mask. \u201cWhy not?\u201d\n\nSadoul said nothing. After a moment he slowly put on his mask.\n\n\u201cAren\u2019t you going to tell Derring?\u201d demanded Sutton.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no crape-hanger,\u201d replied Pockman. \u201cWhy spoil Derring\u2019s party? If\nyou insist on staying here until Stent comes, you\u2019d better lock the\ndoor or some of those fair young things downstairs will get the shock\nof their variegated lives.\u201d\n\nHe started downstairs in his crown and fluttering yellow robes. Sadoul,\nin flamboyant crimson, followed him. After a moment Sutton got up\nand locked the door behind them, stood by it, looking back over his\nshoulder at the form on the day-bed, then he slowly returned to his\nchair.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe decency that kept him beside a dead stranger was purely emotional.\n\nHe gazed miserably at the shrouded figure. After a long while he rose,\npicked up her gilded crown and the little green slipper. The silken\ncrescent which had masked her still lay beside her bed. This also he\nrecovered, and then reseated himself, holding her toys in his lap, his\nboyish eyes full of tears.\n\nIt was all very well for a graduate physician like Pockman to exhibit\ncallousness--and for the saturnine Sadoul--he of the long, horse face\nand black eyes and Vandyke--he of the murderous, mocking pen--the\nliterary vivisectionist and jester at all lovable human frailties--it\nwas well enough for him to remain obtuse.\n\nBut a plain young man, like Sutton, continues to be emotional, whatever\ngarments of experience still clothe him.\n\nHe was horribly, profoundly upset.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSeveral times an unseen clock in a farther room struck a treble note in\nthe stillness.\n\nFaintly, too, came music and tumult from the gaiety below. Even the\nodour of roses penetrated the locked room.\n\nSutton, staring at the covered form, was thinking it rotten hard luck\nto be dead so young. He wondered who she could have been; who were her\npeople, her friends; what hearts were going to break for such an ending\nas this.\n\nHe wondered whether she had been respectable--was fiercely inclined to\nbelieve so--wondered why she had consented to come to Derring\u2019s party\nwith Sadoul.\n\nWhen again the silvery treble of the unseen clock sounded twice, Sutton\nglanced at his own timepiece. It lacked a few minutes of two o\u2019clock.\nGilda Greenway had been dead three hours and a half.\n\nHe rose and lifted a corner of the sheet. Her lower jaw had dropped.\nHorrified, he covered the dead face and went back to his chair,\ntrembling.\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER IV\n\n\nSomebody knocked at the door; Sutton rose nervously, unlocked and\nopened it, dazzled by the outer lights.\n\nFigures in brilliant silks entered--Pockman, Sadoul, a man and a young\nwoman in street clothes, carrying valises, and George Derring wearing\nviolet royal robes and tinsel crown, his vizard pushed up over his bald\nforehead, a monocle shining in his pallid face.\n\n\u201cWhat the devil is all this?\u201d he demanded. \u201cIf the girl is actually\ndead she can\u2019t remain in my place. The thing to do is to call up the\nproper authorities----\u201d\n\n\u201cKeep your shirt on,\u201d interrupted Pockman calmly. \u201cCome on in, Miss\nCross. You can change your dress in the next bedroom. Come over here,\nStent. Unpack your things on that table----\u201d\n\n\u201cIs--this girl--dead?\u201d faltered Derring, peering at the sheeted shape\nthrough his monocle.\n\nPockman consulted his watch: \u201cShe\u2019s been dead for three hours and forty\nminutes, George.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you t-tell me?\u201d stammered Derring. \u201cWhat are you going to\ndo to her? This isn\u2019t a morgue. It isn\u2019t a place for autopsies----\u201d\n\nSadoul drew the stammering man aside: \u201cIf you\u2019ll keep your mouth shut,\nPockman will see to it that this affair is kept out of the newspapers.\nGo downstairs, George, and when your party breaks up, come back here\nand we\u2019ll fix it up for you so there\u2019ll be no notoriety or scandal.\u201d\n\nDerring, white and inclined to tremble, suffered himself to be led to\nthe door and thrust out. Sadoul turned the key with a grimace and came\nback to where Pockman stood aiding his assistant, Stent, to unpack the\nvalises.\n\nA case of surgical instruments was laid on the table. Beside this Stent\nplaced a miniature porcelain refrigerator, several basins, packets of\nsterilized gauze, other objects unfamiliar to Sutton.\n\nThe young woman whom Pockman had addressed as Miss Cross came back from\nthe further bedroom clad in the white garb of a hospital nurse. She\nseemed to know what was to be done with the several packages from the\nvalises and became exceedingly busy.\n\nPockman and Sadoul, carrying other packets, went away together toward\nthe bathroom, leaving Sutton standing alone by the table.\n\nThe efficient Miss Cross paid him no attention. She first unrolled a\nrubber sheet and then began to undress the dead girl.\n\nSutton pivoted in his tracks and went slowly toward the bathroom, where\nPockman and Sadoul, their masquerade finery discarded, were dressing\nin the white robes of operating surgeons. A smell of disinfectants\npervaded the place.\n\n\u201cWhat are you preparing to do?\u201d asked Sutton.\n\n\u201cStick around and see,\u201d replied Pockman flippantly. His white robes and\nflat, fat face made a most unpleasant impression upon Sutton.\n\nSadoul, also, was ready now; they returned to the room of death.\n\n\u201cIf you\u2019re squeamish,\u201d remarked Sadoul, with his odd, shadowy smile,\n\u201cyou\u2019d better leave the room, Sutton.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cI? Nothing. Pockman, however, is going to try something.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf she\u2019s already dead, what more is there to try?\u201d asked the other\nhuskily.\n\n\u201cStand over here and watch. We shan\u2019t be long.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs--is this sort of thing legal, Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly. At least there\u2019s no law forbidding it. Pockman is a\ngraduate physician. There are no laws forbidding a qualified physician,\nwho has been called in to do his best, from doing his best. And this is\nPockman\u2019s one best bet.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut--after death--what _is_ there a physician can do?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat _is_ death?\u201d asked Sadoul, with his dark and shadowy smile.\n\nThere ensued a silence while the washing of the unclothed body was\naccomplished and the corpse laid face downward. One by one Pockman\ntook certain sterilized instruments from Miss Cross, employed each\nwith incredible deftness. Sutton had averted his head as Pockman made\na tiny, deep incision at the nape of the girl\u2019s neck. The hemorrhage\nwas slight; Sadoul opened the drawer of the miniature refrigerator,\nMiss Cross took from it something that she carefully placed in a vessel\nfilled with liquid. Twice she tested the temperature of the liquid.\n\n\u201cReady,\u201d she said in her low, pleasant voice.\n\nWith his forceps Pockman picked out from the liquid in the vessel\nsomething that seemed to resemble a small oviform body--like a lump of\nanimal tissue, and inserted it in the incision which he had made at the\nnape of the dead girl\u2019s neck.\n\nDeftly the wound was closed, sterilized, covered with a film of\ntransparent liquid which instantly hardened. A few drops of blood had\nflowed freely.\n\n\u201cAll right,\u201d murmured Pockman, \u201cturn her over.\u201d\n\nHe cast another brief glance at the dead girl, then walked back to the\nbathroom to wash.\n\nSadoul followed him, wiping his dark, bony hands on a bit of gauze.\nSutton, feeling slightly nauseated, turned away from the body which\nMiss Cross was now swathing in a sterilized sheet.\n\nHe stood at one of the darkened and dripping windows, staring out. It\nwas raining, but a few large snowflakes slanted through the downpour.\n\nThe odours in the room--the taint of death--were becoming insufferable;\nhe went to the door, drew the bolt, and stepped outside onto the\nbalcony.\n\nThe ball was over, the music gone. The last of the maskers were leaving\nthe studio--a loud-voiced group lingering in the supper room, another\nnear the entrance hall.\n\nOld Derring, in his rumpled royal robes, his crown on the back of\nhis ruddy, bald head, stood nervously receiving the adieux and noisy\ngratitude of his guests. The air reeked with perfume of roses and scent\nof wine; the floor was littered with d\u00e9bris of finery and confetti.\n\nWhen at length Sutton returned to the room, the daybed was empty;\nStent had already repacked both valises and was putting his hat on\nand buttoning his overcoat. Pockman, Sadoul, and Miss Cross had gone\ninto the farther bedroom, where a light burned. Sutton could see them\nthrough the vista of the connecting rooms, moving quietly about,\ndressed now in their street clothing--excepting Miss Cross, who still\nwore her nurse\u2019s garb.\n\nWhen he went in to the chamber where they were gathered he discovered\nthat the dead girl had been laid in Derring\u2019s guest-room bed.\n\nShe seemed asleep there on the pillow; her eyes were decently closed,\nthe bed sheets drawn to her throat. Only her wax-like skin betrayed her\ncondition.\n\nAs Sutton entered the room, Pockman turned toward him:\n\n\u201cYour views concerning the dignity and tragedy of death,\u201d he said, with\nthat ever present undertone of irony, \u201care the popular and accepted\nviews. So if you don\u2019t think it very charitable to leave this lady all\nalone here during the night, why not sit up with her until I return in\nthe morning?\u201d\n\nSutton flushed. \u201cSomebody ought to remain here out of mere decency,\u201d he\nsaid slowly.\n\n\u201cAll right. It\u2019s up to you. Miss Cross is to stay for another hour;\nand I\u2019d really be obliged to you if you\u2019d stand guard here tonight and\nkeep old Derring from making a fuss. Will you?\u201d\n\nAfter a silence: \u201cWhat was it you did to her?\u201d enquired Sutton in a\nconstrained voice, not yet under full control.\n\n\u201cNothing illegal. I am within my rights. Ask Miss Cross. If nothing\nhappens it won\u2019t make any difference, anyway. If anything should\nhappen, why, I don\u2019t care how much it\u2019s talked about. Do you, Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cRather not,\u201d said Sadoul, with that almost imperceptible smile on his\ndark face, that waned and waxed like a shadow.\n\n\u201cWhat _could_ happen?\u201d demanded Sutton. \u201cDeath is death--isn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\nPockman shrugged, gathered up his discarded carnival robes, went over\nand gazed at the dead girl with a sort of mockery in his washed-out\neyes--yet his silent scrutiny was sufficiently intent to reveal some\ngraver motive--something deeper seated than sardonic indifference.\nPresently he turned away, with a characteristic hunching of his\nshoulders.\n\nSadoul followed him; Miss Cross went to the door with them and there\nthey remained in low-voiced consultation until interrupted by the\nnervous entrance of Derring, still tremulous from shock but beginning\nto choke with indignation.\n\nAnd his anger knew no bounds when he learned what disposition had been\nmade of the dead girl; only a threat of newspaper notoriety hinted by\nPockman checked his rush to the telephone.\n\n\u201cIf she\u2019s dead,\u201d he kept repeating, \u201cwhat the hell do you fellows mean\nby keeping her here in my apartment? It isn\u2019t done, dammit all----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou go to the Ritz tonight,\u201d counselled Sadoul. \u201cShe\u2019ll be taken away\ntomorrow morning without any fuss or scandal. Tell your man to pack a\nbag--there\u2019s a good fellow. Be a sport, Derring. Pockman is trying\nsomething he never had a chance to try----\u201d\n\n\u201cConfound him, are there no hospitals and morgues? What does he mean by\nusing my place to try his ghastly experiments----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, shut up,\u201d said Sadoul, and shoved the master of the house through\nthe door.\n\nA fat man-servant arrived at his shrill summons, went into his master\u2019s\nbedroom, packed a suitcase, and carried it out again, breathing\nlaboriously. Sadoul and Pockman also put on their hats and went out.\nPresently the front grille clanged distantly. Miss Cross closed and\nlocked the apartment door and came back to the chamber of death, where\nSutton was standing, fumbling with a rose-bud which he had found in a\nsilver vase.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Miss Cross encouragingly, \u201clay it on her chest if you\nchoose.\u201d\n\nHe dried the stem with his handkerchief and laid the blossom on the\nwhite coverlet close to her snowy chin.\n\nMiss Cross hovered over the dead girl, touched the bright hair here\nand there, deftly curled and brought a saucy, wandering tendril under\ngraver discipline, more suitable to the circumstances.\n\n\u201cShe was very pretty, wasn\u2019t she?\u201d remarked Miss Cross in her low,\npleasant voice, \u201c--a very lovely young thing, physically--really quite\nperfect, I should say.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat--what was it Pockman did to her in the other room?\u201d enquired\nSutton in a strained voice.\n\nMiss Cross had taken a chair. She was a healthy, vigourous young woman,\nwith black eyes and hair, a rosy and cheerful mouth, and a tip-tilted\nnose.\n\nReplying to Sutton\u2019s question, she said: \u201cIf I answer you, I don\u2019t\nbelieve you\u2019ll entirely understand.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas it a precautionary test?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no. We all knew she was quite dead. Dr. Pockman desired to try\nsomething never before attempted----\u201d She looked up at Sutton,\nhesitated. \u201c--Why don\u2019t you smoke?\u201d she suggested. \u201cYou are dreadfully\nnervous. It\u2019s no disrespect to her. Seat yourself, Mr. Sutton, and\nlight a cigarette. I\u2019m sure if she could speak she\u2019d tell you to do so\ntoo, poor lamb.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER V\n\n\nSutton sat in an armchair, a cigarette between his fingers, but he\ncould not bring himself to light it.\n\nMiss Cross was seated rather nearer the bed. Behind them a small\nChinese lamp burned, casting a topaz tinted light over the dead girl\u2019s\nfolded hands.\n\n\u201cPoor baby,\u201d repeated Miss Cross, leaning forward and stroking the\nclasped fingers with a caressing touch. \u201cRigour has not yet set in,\u201d\nshe added, \u201cnor is there any discolouration of the skin.... Aren\u2019t you\ngoing to light your cigarette, Mr. Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d rather not, I think.\u201d\n\nMiss Cross bent lower and looked wistfully into the girl\u2019s face. \u201cYou\npathetic little thing,\u201d she murmured. \u201cI wish you could open your eyes.\u201d\n\nShe resumed her position in her chair presently, and sat silently\nsmoothing out her white clothing.\n\n\u201cHaven\u2019t you any idea what it was that Dr. Pockman attempted to do?\u201d\nshe asked.\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\u201cWould you care to have me explain it as well as I am able? I\u2019m not\nvery clear at explanations, but it will help pass away the time.\u201d\n\nShe settled herself back for her narrative.\n\n\u201cFirst of all--I am not a graduate nurse, Mr. Sutton. I was merely a\nprobationer at St. Stephen\u2019s. Dr. Pockman suggested that I assist in\nhis research work. Microscope mostly. That\u2019s what I\u2019ve been doing. Dr.\nPockman is a most remarkable man.\u201d\n\nSutton\u2019s acquiescent nod was a very slight one. He did not care for\nPockman personally.\n\nThe nurse continued.\n\n\u201cWhat Metchnikoff began, what Claude Bernard continued, what Martens,\nBeyer, and Voronoff did, and are doing, Sidney Pockman is continuing.\nBut all this means very little to a layman, I suppose?\u201d she added\namiably.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve heard of Metchnikoff,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cLet us go farther back than Metchnikoff--farther back than any man,\nliving or dead--farther back, even, than mankind itself--millions of\nyears back,\u201d said Miss Cross, smiling.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you nothing about the origin of life--the first glimmer of\nlife on this planet. Nobody can do more than speculate concerning the\nbirth of life.\n\n\u201cBut the _living thing_ which most closely approaches that form of life\nwhich first appeared on earth is a tiny, microscopic being composed of\na soft mass and a nucleus; and is in the shape of a cell.\n\n\u201cIt is called an am\u0153ba; it divides itself--reproduces swarms of its\nfellows by means of perpetual division. And it _never dies_.\u201d\n\nSutton seemed dully astonished.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s true,\u201d she said. \u201cThe am\u0153ba never dies. Voronoff himself says\ndecisively: \u2018The breath of life which for the first time gave animation\nto matter, held _nothing but life_. Nature, at that time, knew nothing\nof death.\u2019\u201d\n\nMiss Cross leaned over toward Sutton, resting her elbows on her knees,\nand laid one forefinger across the palm of the other hand.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s this way,\u201d she explained; \u201cthe human body is not an individual\nentity; it is an ensemble composed of billions of cells of different\nsorts, each cell alive, each cell invested with its own special but\nlimited functions and duties, and each cell busy night and day.\n\n\u201cThe human body is a society, a state, a republic of living cells,\nruled by the delicate cells that compose the brain.\n\n\u201cThe primitive type of cell is the protozoan. Our body\u2019s various and\nhighly organized cells are all derived from the elements of the initial\ncell.\n\n\u201cThe initial cell is deathless. But its highly sensitive and more\ncomplicated descendants which compose our tissues have been greatly\nmodified, and their life depends upon the assent and good will of all\nof the cells of our body.... I wonder if I am making it clear to you,\nMr. Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfectly.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, among all these billions of living and highly specialized\nworkers called cells, which compose that beehive, or anthill community\nwe call the human body, are many primitive cells without business or\nprofession, and they reproduce themselves continually. These are the\nwhite blood corpuscles and the conjunctive cells; and they are always\nat war with the more highly developed cells.\n\n\u201cWhen they win that war, as they always do in the end, _we die_.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat use are these conjunctive cells, then?\u201d asked Sutton, mildly\ninterested.\n\n\u201cThey are the regular army of the body-republic, and they fight and\nslay foreign microbes which invade us. When they become unruly,\ninsurgent, and a powerful majority, they attack their own fellow\ncitizens. Then the body-republic falls. _That_ is death, Mr. Sutton.\u201d\n\nHe said nothing, but the nurse saw he was more or less interested. She\nsaid:\n\n\u201cWhat controls and keeps in order these billions of citizen-cells in\nour body-republic are fluids from certain vital glands. If these glands\nare removed, the cells go crazy and murder one another, and we die.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are these vital glands?\u201d he enquired.\n\n\u201cThe thyroid in the throat; four small para-thyroid glands no bigger\nthan a needle\u2019s eye near it; the two small supra-renal glands; the\nlittle pituitary gland under the brain; the pineal gland in the middle\nbrain, which, a million years ago, was perhaps a third eye; and the\ngland called the metathoracic or nymphalic gland, which lies deep\nin the nape of the neck and which means instant death if injured or\nremoved.... And that, Mr. Sutton, was what caused this poor child\u2019s\ndeath.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou were not watching closely, were you, when Dr. Pockman operated?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot--closely, no.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou did not see him draw a long, gold-headed steel pin from where it\nwas imbedded in the back of her neck?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood God! I didn\u2019t see that!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt had been, probably, in her hair--to hold on her crown, perhaps,\nand had become dislodged. If she threw back her head suddenly it might\nhave driven the pin deep into her neck.... Well, there it was, under\nthe soft, bright hair at the nape of her neck. Death must have been\ninstantaneous.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid Pockman tell you I was dancing with her at the time--or about\nto--I already had placed my arm around her. She was laughing at\nsomething I said.... I remember, now, that she threw back her head and\nlaughed.... And crumpled up in my arms.... It is horrible--horrible\nbeyond words!----\u201d\n\nMiss Cross nodded. \u201cYes, Dr. Pockman told me. No wonder you are\nupset.... I really wish you\u2019d light your cigarette.\u201d But he shook his\nhead.\n\nAfter a moment he looked up at the nurse in pallid inquiry.\n\nShe nodded. \u201cNow I\u2019ll try to explain what Dr. Pockman did,\u201d she said in\nher cheerful voice. \u201cHe telephoned for Mr. Stent and me. You saw that\nminiature refrigerator?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen, Mr. Sutton. Death stops the heart and produces functional\ndiscord of the organs. The individual is dead then. Very well. But the\nseveral tissues composing that individual\u2019s body are not dead yet. Not\nat all. Hair continues to grow; the skin is alive; the bones retain\nvitality; the brain, the glands, almost all the organs still remain\nalive as long as eighteen hours.\n\n\u201cAnd if these organs are removed from the body before their own\nindividual death, they may be kept alive for weeks if preserved in a\nzero temperature. Did you know that?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, they retain all their vital energy for weeks.\u201d\n\nThere was a silence.\n\n\u201cShall I tell you what Dr. Pockman accomplished?\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease.\u201d\n\n\u201cDr. Pockman\u2019s original research is in the direction of gland grafting.\nToday a girl died at St. Stephen\u2019s, of a fractured skull. Dr. Pockman\nis externe there. He operated but could not save her. However, finding\nthe nymphalic gland uninjured and alive, he removed it in a jar of\nRinger\u2019s liquid maintained at a temperature of some forty degrees.\n\n\u201cI preserved this living gland in the refrigerator you saw. When he\ntelephoned, Mr. Stent and I brought it here. You saw us place it in\nRinger\u2019s liquid again, didn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--I suppose so.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou saw Dr. Pockman make the incision, remove the injured gland, and\ngraft this living gland in its place.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas that what he did?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat was what he did, Mr. Sutton.\u201d\n\nAfter a tense silence: \u201cWhy did Pockman do it?\u201d demanded Sutton\nhoarsely. \u201cHad he any hope--any idea that--that death is not finality?\u201d\n\nShe replied frankly: \u201cHe desired to know what effect on the cells the\nsecretions of this living gland might produce under these conditions.\nNobody knows. It never has been tried before. Theoretically it ought to\nrestrain the conjunctive cells in their onslaught against the nobler\ncells, and invigorate and stiffen the resistance of these latter in the\nincreasing anarchy now running riot.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow long before any conclusion can be reached?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy morning, perhaps. If there is anything to be noticed, four to five\nhours will show it.... Meanwhile, I must get some sleep.\u201d She rose. \u201cIf\nyou think--if you feel that somebody ought to watch here tonight,\u201d she\nadded, \u201cwhy, you may remain, of course. But really it is not necessary,\nI assure you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think I\u2019ll remain until Pockman arrives.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is nice of you, Mr. Sutton.\u201d\n\nShe left the room. After a while she returned wearing hat and street\ncostume and carrying her satchel.\n\nFor a few moments she bent silently over the bed, then, pausing to\noffer a firm, cool hand to Sutton, went away with a nod and a slight\nsmile. The outer grille clanged. Sutton and the dead were alone.\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER VI\n\n\nSutton was too much wrought up to fall asleep, although reaction\nfrom shock now weighted him with physical weariness. Still dazed and\ndepressed by the swift tragedy of his first romance, the memory of it\nboth confused and accused him. In his anguished mind he reviewed it;\ntheir chance encounter in the throng; a dance together; other dances;\nthe engaging shyness of the girl; her evident inexperience; something\nvaguely disturbing in the girlish fragrance of her. Then the lovely\nrevelation of a youthful heart caught off its guard--and, suddenly, the\nswift blaze of impulse flaming to a kiss!--and the silent confusion of\ntwo disordered minds--to remember it overwhelmed him anew; even now a\ndull glow kindled through his veins.\n\nHe lifted his heavy head from the armchair and gazed at her folded\nhands, so still--so terribly still--\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe was at that psychological period of general revolt when youth is\nmost pitifully at the mercy of The Talkers--the period when faith\nbecomes clouded and old beliefs grow obscure. He had heard The Talkers\nprove that there is no future existence. But now, gazing at the dead,\nhe felt that there ought to be some compensation.\n\nAfter a while he got up heavily, went to the bed and dropped on his\nknees.\n\nPrayer, which The Talkers had proven to be a survival of gross\nsuperstition, and to which he had been, lately, unaccustomed, now\nproved difficult. He was ashamed to pray only in emergency. Confused,\nweary, he strove to think and to behave unemotionally; tried to ask in\nher behalf merely an equity in abstract justice.\n\nIn his boy\u2019s heart, as in all hearts, there still remained fragments of\nthat temple builded to \u201cthe unknown God,\u201d which men call Hope.\n\nHis prayer was primitive enough--to the \u201cPower responsible for the\nsource of life\u201d--asking decent compensation for this young death. It\ntook long to formulate; left him on his knees with his head resting\nagainst the bed, very tired.\n\nAnd, after a time, and still on his knees, he fell into a troubled doze.\n\nOnly when the clock again was striking did he become conscious. Stiff,\nbenumbed, he stumbled to his feet. Recollection returned in horror;\nrealisation frightened him.\n\nHe dragged himself to the curtained window. It was still dark outside,\nbut the rain had ceased and snow covered the sill. He looked at his\nwatch. It was nearly six o\u2019clock in the morning.\n\nFor a little while he stood gazing into darkness, dreading to move.\nThen, very slowly he turned and went to the silent bedside.\n\nAnd noticed that her clasped hands had fallen apart.\n\nLethargy still fettered mind and body; dully he noticed; dully\nattempted to account. Then the shock came. For her right hand clutched\nhis rose-bud. And her fingers were stirring now--the hand almost\nimperceptibly creeping across the counterpane.\n\nAt that instant the girl opened her eyes.\n\nThere was no recognition in her gaze, no consciousness of environment.\nBut consciousness was dawning. It came with a spasm of pain.\n\nSuddenly she sat up.\n\n\u201cI want to get out of bed!\u201d she said in a frightened voice, struggling\nto free her body of the sheets. Already she was touching the floor with\none foot, when, half senseless himself, he restrained her, forcing her\nback to her pillow with shaking hands.\n\nAnd now recognition dawned in her terrified eyes.\n\n\u201cHelp me,\u201d she said faintly. \u201cSuch--such a pain!--in my neck--deep\ninside. Could I have a drink of water?\u201d\n\nHe brought it, trembling. She propped herself on one elbow, set her\nburning lips to the glass, draining it.\n\nShe asked for more; he brought it.\n\n\u201cWhere is Casimir Sadoul?\u201d she asked. \u201cHow long have I been here?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll night.\u201d But she seemed not to comprehend him.\n\n\u201cMy neck burns me so!\u201d she whimpered. \u201cWhere are my clothes? I must\nhave been very ill.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, very ill,\u201d he said thickly.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t see--clearly--\u201d she murmured. \u201cI can\u2019t hear the music, either.\nWhere is my green gown and my crown? Where are my clothes? I can\u2019t stay\nhere. I want to go!\u201d\n\n\u201cWait a little while----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, goodness--goodness!\u201d she whimpered, resting on one arm and gazing\npiteously around the room. \u201cI must have been very, very ill. But I am\nwell now. I want to get up----\u201d\n\nHer nervously moving hands encountered the rose-bud again. She looked\nat it stupidly, already half-blinded by a rush of tears.\n\n\u201cI--I want to go,\u201d she sobbed, bowing her ruddy head and covering her\nface with desperate white hands.\n\nHis stupefaction was vanishing in the overwhelming surge of rising\nexcitement. He brought her clothing to the bedside, drew her hands from\nher convulsed face:\n\n\u201cI want you to be careful,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019ve been unconscious for six\nhours. There is a wound at the back of your neck. Do you understand?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that what burns me?\u201d she asked tremulously, touching her neck with\none finger.\n\n\u201cFor God\u2019s sake be careful!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t bleeding,\u201d she said, looking at her finger.\n\nThen she drew the sheets closer about her shoulders and bowed her head\non her knees.\n\n\u201cPlease let me dress,\u201d she whispered.\n\n\u201cAre you strong enough?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll call if I need you.\u201d\n\nHe went out, drugged with excitement, incapable of reasoning--unable\nto realise--not daring to think--knowing only that the horror of that\nnight was over, the frightful nightmare ended.\n\nIt was very dark outside; no hint of dawn above the chimneys opposite.\nSnow lay everywhere, dim but unsullied. Familiar sounds of the living\nworld, however, now broke the wintry morning stillness. Once, to\nthe westward, an elevated train roared past; two trams clanged and\nclattered south along Sixth Avenue; toward Broadway a taxi became\naudible.\n\nWhen she called to him the sound of her voice almost stopped his heart.\nShe had contrived to dress herself in her ball gown, and was twisting\nup her hair with her back to the mirror as he entered the room. Her\nfeatures were painfully flushed; traces of tears marred her features.\n\n\u201cCould you find my masquerade costume for me?\u201d she asked. \u201c--And one of\nmy green slippers is missing----\u201d\n\nHe brought the golden-green robes of royalty and the missing slipper.\n\n\u201cAre you in much pain?\u201d he ventured.\n\n\u201cI deserve it. What did they do to my neck?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat long, steel pin you wore wounded it. A physician cared for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat pin do you mean? These?\u201d She displayed a bronze hairpin for\nhis inspection and then passed it through a thick, ruddy strand that\nclustered over one ear.\n\n\u201cI think it had a gold hilt. You wore it to hold on your crown, didn\u2019t\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh. That was a \u2018misericorde.\u2019 My father gave it to me .... You don\u2019t\nknow how deathly strange I feel,\u201d she murmured. \u201cI had horrible dreams\n.... We fought.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho fought?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnother woman and I. Ugh! It was too ghastly!... What time is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cHalf past six in the morning. You had better put on your costume, too.\nIt\u2019s cold out doors.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have a fur coat in the cloak room downstairs.... I am ready if you\nare.\u201d\n\nHe made a bundle of his own costume and they went out of Derring\u2019s\nliving quarters, leaving the lamps burning; and so, slowly, down the\nstudio stairs to the littered ball-room, where the stale air stank of\nrotting flowers.\n\nHe discovered her fur coat. When she was well wrapped in it, they went\nthrough the hall to the grille and let themselves out. Dawn already\ngrayed the street. A battered taxi, returning to headquarters, stopped\nfor them. She gave Sutton her address; he directed the driver and they\ndrove away over the snow, as yet unsoiled by traffic.\n\nLamp posts still remained lighted as they turned east into Thirty-fifth\nStreet and drew up along the curb. Looking out, Sutton saw a line of\ndarkened shops. Over them, the row of old-time brick houses evidently\nhad been converted into apartments.\n\nIn silence he aided her to descend.\n\n\u201cAre you still in pain?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cNot in pain.... No.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think I\u2019d better help you up the stairs.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you will, please.\u201d\n\nHe told the driver to wait, supported the girl to the swinging street\ndoor which was open, and aided her to mount a dark, uncarpeted stairway.\n\nAt the top of this was a narrow landing, a shop on the second floor, to\nthe left, and another swinging door to the right, also open, revealing\na shorter flight of carpeted stairs.\n\nShe was slow in mounting, rested on the landing of the third floor,\nsupporting herself against the old-fashioned banisters. From the pocket\nof her fur coat she drew a gold-mesh bag and handed it to him. Among\nits varied contents he discovered keys. She indicated the right one;\nhe fitted it and opened the door.\n\nIn a narrow hallway an electric bulb burned. To the right was a dim\ndining-room, to the left a living-room, where a lighted lamp stood on a\npiano.\n\nHe turned and closed the hallway door and led the girl into the large,\nsquare, lamp-lit room. Her bedroom opened out of it.\n\n\u201cHave you a maid?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cShe doesn\u2019t sleep here.\u201d\n\nHe drew off her fur coat, disembarrassed her of her masquerade robes,\nseated her in an upholstered armchair, and turned on the ceiling\nchandelier, which flooded everything with brilliant light. The room\nseemed very cold.\n\n\u201cLet me look at your injury,\u201d he said. And she bent her head and\nremained so, resting her face between both hands.\n\nThe tiny vertical scar was purple, the area indurated but only slightly\nswelled.\n\n\u201cDoes it pain very much?\u201d\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\u201cShall I try to get a physician?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, please.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat time does your maid arrive?\u201d\n\n\u201cAfter ten. But I need nobody.\u201d\n\nAfter a silence: \u201cHave you a telephone?... I should like to call you\nlater to inquire how you are.\u201d\n\nShe gave him her private number and he tore the margin from an evening\npaper and wrote it.\n\nThat seemed to be all there was to say. He picked up his hat; she\nextended her hand. He retained it for a moment, but neither spoke until\nhe turned and opened the hallway door.\n\n\u201cI think you\u2019re all right,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll call up to be sure.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, call me.\u201d\n\nAnd that was all.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER VII\n\n\nSutton slept late. The telephone beside his bed rang repeatedly but did\nnot awaken him. He was still stupid with sleep when he opened his eyes.\nFrom habit he rang for coffee and a newspaper. And he was preparing for\nfurther sleep when he remembered what had happened the night before.\n\nInstantly his startled brain cleared; he snatched his coat from the\nchair, discovered the slip bearing the telephone number, seized the\nreceiver, and called her.\n\nOnly when he recognised her voice did he realise what a panic possessed\nhim. Intense relief rendered him inarticulate for the moment.\n\n\u201cYes?\u201d she repeated; but her voice was almost a whisper.\n\n\u201cThis is Stuart Sutton speaking,\u201d he managed to say.\n\nAfter a pause \u201cYes, Mr. Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am very anxious to know how you are today?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am--well.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you feel any ill effects?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo pain?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you heard from Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she replied in a ghost of a voice.\n\n\u201cDo you expect to?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\nHer brevity disconcerted him. He said: \u201cI should like to see you again.\nWould you be at home at five?\u201d\n\nThere was a pause. Then her voice again almost inaudible: \u201cI did not\nimagine you would wish to see me again.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe inconvenience--annoyance I put you to----\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens! Could you help being ill? Let me come down----\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m ashamed--I could not face you--I haven\u2019t the--the assurance--Mr.\nSutton----\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m coming to see you at five,\u201d he interrupted confidently.\n\nWaiting for a reply, after a little while he heard it very faintly:\n\u201cGood-bye, then.\u201d\n\nA servant brought his breakfast and usual Sunday newspaper, a swollen\nbundle of coloured print. He got back into bed and took the tray on his\nknees. Coffee, clear, was all he could tolerate. Nor did the bloated\nSunday paper appeal to any need in him.\n\nFor now, all the confused emotions of the night before were astir\nagain. Vivid recollections, both poignant and charming, flared in\nsuccession--his encounter with Gilda Greenway; his gay, irresponsible\ncourtship, her shyness; then her sudden response and swift embrace; and\nthen the swifter tragedy--all the horror of it--every circumstance--the\nwarm scent of roses in the room, the distant laughter, music, the\ngirl\u2019s dead eyes fixed on him through her slitted mask, death stamped\non the pallid, upturned face, his fear and horror!----\n\nAnd suddenly he remembered his demand for justice--saw himself again,\nscared, half stunned, down beside her bed--heard again his own plea to\nthe Source of Life--to \u201cThe Unknown God.\u201d\n\nAnd now remembered that God and gods were easily proven to be myths\nwhere The Talkers gather to explain all things to all men, and play at\nGod one with another.\n\nHad the Unknown God answered his demand? Was this a resurrection? A\nmiracle? A reply? Had the girl really died who now was alive?\n\nHe wished to believe so. His recent fright had left him receptive,\nhumble--grateful, too, to somebody.\n\nHe lay back on his pillow, willing, anxious to be reassured, inviting\nmemories long dormant--recollections of quieter years--safe years--the\nyears when problems were simple--when the Source of Life was God--a God\nwho protected, who took the heavy responsibility of the world from a\nboy\u2019s shoulders.\n\nLying there with his arms crossed behind his crisp, blond head, he\ntried to remember whose daughter it was who had been raised from the\ndead.\n\nA sinister and forbidding legend of the Old Testament kept intruding\namong his thoughts; but it was not of Jephthah\u2019s daughter he had been\nthinking--not of pagan sacrifice and bloody altars, but of the still\nbrightness shining from Christ.... And of a little dead girl whom he\nmade alive again....\n\nThe Talkers had explained it, offering several solutions so that a\nwistful world, reproved and disillusioned, might take its choice:\n\nThe episode was a myth; or, whosesoever daughter it was had not\nbeen dead at all but in a coma; or, the account was not to be taken\nliterally because it was merely metaphor, Oriental imagery--all\nOrientals being fond of extravagant analogy--etc., etc.\n\nSutton was becoming perplexed and troubled, wavering between a boyish\nneed and a boy\u2019s respect for The Talkers--\u201cThe Talkers who talk of the\nBeginning and the End.\u201d\n\nHe got up heavily, looked at his watch. By half past four he had\ncompleted his toilet, and was already leaving the room when the\ntelephone rang.\n\nIt was Sadoul\u2019s voice, strained, scarcely controlled:\n\n\u201cSutton? Are you crazy? I\u2019ve been trying to find you all day----\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s on your mind, Sadoul?\u201d he interrupted.\n\n\u201cWhere did you send that body?\u201d demanded Sadoul harshly. \u201cI\u2019ve called\nthe morgue and the hospitals----\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense! The girl woke up and went home.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood God! You tell me she\u2019s--_alive_!\u201d\n\n\u201cRather. Your friend Pockman made a fool of himself. It looks like\nmalpractice to me----\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean--mean to tell me that she _got up_ and--and _went_ away?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do. She was quite all right--except where that ass Pockman jabbed\nher in the neck.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere did she go?\u201d demanded Sadoul in a strangled voice.\n\n\u201cHome, I believe.\u201d\n\nSadoul\u2019s voice had become almost a whisper: \u201cWhere does she live,\nSutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou ought to know; you brought her to Derring\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. Tell me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy do you ask _me_?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know where she lives, don\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cPossibly. Does that ass Pockman want to experiment further with her?\u201d\n\nSadoul\u2019s voice became harsher: \u201cSutton, she was _dead_! Absolutely\n_dead_! She had been dead three hours when Pockman operated. He knows\nshe was dead. So does Miss Cross. If she is actually alive now, it is\nSidney Pockman who put life into a corpse! And it is Pockman\u2019s right to\nknow where to find her. You understand that, don\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot entirely.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, understand this, then: Gilda Greenway is a friend of mine. I\nhave known her for years. She is alone in New York----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou left her alone, too, when you thought her dead, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you tell me where she is?\u201d demanded Sadoul, violently.\n\n\u201cWhy do you assume that I know?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause everybody saw how you behaved with her last night. You\u2019re\nheaded for trouble if you continue.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrouble with you?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps. Now, are you going to tell me where she lives, or not?\u201d\n\n\u201cProbably--not,\u201d drawled Sutton.\n\n\u201cWill you tell Pockman where to find her?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll consider that matter.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you trying to make an enemy of me, Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not trying to, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen tell me where Gilda Greenway lives.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell her that you inquired. Then it will be up to her.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou promise to tell her?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the other curtly.\n\n\u201cWill you ask her to communicate with me? And tell her it\u2019s vitally\nimportant----\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell her that you _say_ it is.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen do you expect to see her?\u201d\n\n\u201cAt her convenience, Sadoul.\u201d\n\nThere was a pause; then: \u201cVery well, Sutton.\u201d And Casimir Sadoul was\noff the wire, leaving a most disagreeable impression on Sutton.\n\nPresently it occurred to him that he might even be spied upon and\nfollowed if he lingered. He took his hat, overcoat and stick, went out\nand down in the lift, stopped a taxi, and directed the chauffeur to\ndrive toward the Park.\n\nHe was surprised at himself for his disinclination to reveal Gilda\nGreenway\u2019s whereabouts to Sadoul; more surprised, still, that Sadoul\nshould be ignorant of her address.\n\nIt had begun to snow again; the air was hazy with fine particles but\nnot very cold.\n\nThe Sunday traffic on Fifth Avenue was not heavy; but by the time his\ntaxi reached the Plaza it was time to turn around.\n\nHe alighted before the row of basement shops on Thirty-fifth Street,\nexactly at five o\u2019clock.\n\nA moment later, on the second landing, Gilda Greenway herself opened\nher door to him.\n\n\u201cHow d\u2019you do?\u201d she murmured, in flushed confusion. \u201cMy maid takes\nSundays out, but I\u2019ve made tea--if you care for it----\u201d\n\nShe lingered shyly while he disposed of overcoat, hat and stick, then\nled the way into her living room, where a tea-tray stood beside a wood\nfire.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s amazing to me,\u201d he said, \u201cthat you seem to feel so perfectly\nwell. You look wonderfully fit, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, it was only a very little wound,\u201d she protested. \u201cI\u2019m disgusted\nwith myself----\u201d\n\n\u201cMay I look at it?\u201d\n\nShe bent her head obediently. Like many people with red hair, her skin\nwas that dazzling, snowy white which flushes easily; and now a swift,\nshell-pink stain deepened and waned as he examined the closed wound.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s healing perfectly,\u201d he said. \u201cThis is absolutely astonishing.\u201d\n\nShe straightened herself, turned and poured tea, the colour still vivid\nin her cheeks.\n\n\u201cIt was so absurd of me to faint,\u201d she said, \u201c--so humiliating----\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d scarcely call it that. It was tragic. Did you know that you were\nunconscious for six hours?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow ghastly!\u201d\n\n\u201cRather. We thought you dead, you know.\u201d\n\nFor an instant she failed to grasp the startling import of what he had\nsaid; then, looking quickly around at him:\n\n\u201cAre you serious, Mr. Sutton?\u201d\n\nHe decided to enlighten her; and he told her as much as he himself\nunderstood of the affair, speaking gravely enough to impress without\nfrightening her.\n\nGilda Greenway\u2019s gaze never left his face. There was no fear in her\neyes, only growing astonishment.\n\nWhen he had ended his narrative, her first comment startled him:\n\n\u201cHow perfectly awful for _you_, Mr. Sutton!\u201d\n\n\u201cFor _me_!\u201d\n\n\u201cYour horrid situation--if I had really died!\u201d\n\nThere was a silence. Her face had become very grave and she shuddered\nslightly once.\n\nPresently she said: \u201cYou were more than kind to me. I--hadn\u2019t\nrealized----\u201d\n\n\u201cI did nothing----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou sat there all night because you thought me dead. Is that nothing?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne doesn\u2019t leave the dead alone all night--\u201d he muttered.\n\n\u201cThe others did. Even Sadoul.\u201d\n\nHe was silent.\n\n\u201cSo they all thought me dead,\u201d she murmured. \u201cAnd they all went\naway--even Casimir Sadoul----\u201d\n\nReminded suddenly of Sadoul\u2019s message, he gave it to her.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want Sadoul to know where I live,\u201d she said quickly. \u201cIs he a\nfriend of yours?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve known him for some time. He\u2019s very clever and amusing, when he\nchooses.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I know,\u201d she said in a low voice, \u201cI know Sadoul.\u201d\n\nThere was a silence, then they spoke of other things. She had become\ndiffident, almost unresponsive. Unless he spoke of the night before,\nconversation seemed difficult; for these two had no real knowledge of\neach other--no knowledge at all save for that brief flash of passion\namid the mocking unreality of masquerade.\n\n\u201cI am wondering how you happened to go to Derring\u2019s party with Sadoul?\u201d\nhe ventured at last.\n\nThe girl blushed scarlet. \u201cI--I met him quite by chance on the street\ntwo weeks ago. I hadn\u2019t seen him for--months. We talked. I lunched\nwith him. He asked me to go with him to Mr. Derring\u2019s party, and he\ndescribed the costumes to be worn. I wanted to go. I had to have a\ndinner gown anyway, this winter--or thought I had to have one.... Last\nnight I put on my costume here and drove in a taxi to the St. Regis,\nwhere Sadoul was waiting under the porte coch\u00e8re.... That is how it\nhappened.\u201d\n\nThey were busied with their tea for a while before he ventured a\nlighter tone.\n\n\u201cI am considering the eccentric capers of Fate,\u201d he said.\n\nShe looked up at him.\n\n\u201cWhen your mask slipped as we passed,\u201d he went on, \u201cit was Fate that\nloosened it. Do you doubt it?\u201d\n\nHer lowered face was all surging with colour now; she bent over her\ncup, motionless.\n\nThat the girl dreaded further reminiscences was pathetically plain to\nhim. And again her shyness puzzled him as it had the night before.\nBecause one scarcely expected to meet a novice at one of Derring\u2019s\nparties.\n\nAgain he became conscious of the subtle charm of her--felt the faint,\nsweet warmth of her presence invading him.\n\n\u201cIt would have been a jolly party if--\u201d he stopped short, aware already\nof his mistake.\n\nShe sat with head averted, but he suspected tears. After a little while\nshe crumpled her handkerchief, nervously, touched her eyes with it.\n\n\u201cYou are still under the strain,\u201d he said in a low voice. \u201cNo wonder.\nBut it came out all right, thank God----\u201d\n\n\u201cI--I can\u2019t--bear----\u201d She shrank back against the sofa and hid her\nface in her arms.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s nothing to feel that way about,\u201d he said, reassuringly.\n\u201cEverything is all right now----\u201d\n\n\u201cI--I can\u2019t bear it!--what happened. I can\u2019t endure the thought of--of\nwhat they m-must have done to me----\u201d\n\nHe reddened but said coolly: \u201cThere was nothing unusual--when one is\ndesperately ill----\u201d\n\n\u201cThey treated me as--as the dead are treated----\u201d\n\n\u201cThe physician and the nurse----\u201d\n\n\u201cSadoul was there.... Were _you_?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he said, lying.\n\nAfter a while he ventured to unclasp the desperate fingers from their\nclutch on the sofa--ventured to raise her to a sitting posture.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d he repeated confidently, \u201cit\u2019s all over. You\u2019re behaving like a\nkid,\u201d he added, forcing her to turn her head.\n\nThe glimmering eyes opened on him, closed quickly, and the tears rolled\ndown her cheeks.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all over,\u201d he insisted; \u201cisn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\nHe held both her hands. She released them. \u201cYes,\u201d she whispered, \u201cit\nis all over--all of it--all, all!...\u201d She slowly straightened her\nshoulders, slowly dried her cheeks, still sitting there with closed\neyes. And speaking so:\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the end.... And a new beginning.... I think the girl you knew\nreally did die last night.... I am not that girl.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes, you are, Gilda Greenway,\u201d he said cheerfully; \u201cyou are that\nvery same and very delightful Queen in Green!\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you think so?\u201d\n\nHer eyes unclosed. She considered him curiously, her gaze wandering\nover him almost absently.\n\nThe room had grown dusky. She reached behind her and lighted the lamp\non the piano.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s jolly,\u201d he said. \u201cI wonder if you feel like playing something.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you like it?\u201d\n\nShe stood up mechanically, moved to the piano and seated herself.\n\nAfter a moment a deadened chord or two broke the stillness. Then the\nold and well-known melody of Schubert grew more softly ominous in\nthe demi-light, lingered in deep, velvety pulsations, slowly expired.\nSilence absorbed the last muffled chord. The girl\u2019s hands drooped\nmotionless; she lifted her deep green eyes and looked across the piano\nat Sutton. Her face was partly masked by the transverse shadow of the\nlampshade.\n\n\u201cWhat was it you played?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201c\u2018The Young Girl and Death.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a cheerful jazz,\u201d he remarked, getting up. He took an uncertain\nstep or two, looked at her irresolutely, then went over to the piano\nand leaned on both elbows.\n\n\u201cWe mustn\u2019t turn morbid,\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019ve had the shock of our lives,\nbut it won\u2019t do to brood on it.... I want you to be as you were last\nnight.\u201d\n\nShe looked up at him, her hands still resting on the keys.\n\n\u201cYou were so jolly--such a bashful, charming kid,\u201d he added.\n\nSomething suddenly glimmered in her shadowed eyes.\n\n\u201cAre you smiling?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cI think I--am.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s about time! I\u2019m trying to remember what it was I said that\nmade you laugh, just before you--you were taken ill.\u201d\n\nShe could not seem to recall it; absently ran a scale or two; rested.\n\n\u201cWe were beginning to have such a gay evening together--weren\u2019t we?\u201d he\ninsisted.\n\n\u201cYes.... I enjoyed it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe fact is,\u201d he went on, \u201cI kidnapped you, didn\u2019t I?\u201d\n\n\u201cKidnapped? Are you really so old?\u201d In her shadowy eyes the glimmer\nappeared again.\n\n\u201cNo, I\u2019m not very aged, but Sadoul--I stole you from him, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you find it--difficult?\u201d\n\nShe moved as she spoke, and the lamp-light fell full across her face.\n\nAgain he was conscious of warmth in his veins--of a heart quickening a\nlittle in the shy revelation of her smile.\n\nAnd again he tried to account for her presence at Derring\u2019s party,\nwhere there was more pulchritude than bashfulness, and more experience\nthan both.\n\nAbout Gilda Greenway there seemed always a hint of wistful\ninexperience--a sort of unchastened innocence, which was not without\nits provocation, too.\n\nIn his rather brief career, Sutton had never encountered what is called\n\u201cdanger\u201d among women within his own caste or outside of it. Only the\nmale ass need dread the \u201cvamp\u201d; but he never does.\n\nAs for all the subtler species known as dangerous, from cradle-snatcher\nto the married-but-misunderstood, few had floated within his social ken\nwhere, on the Hudson, ancient respectability in substantial estates\nmaintained colonial tradition in summer, and modest but grim town\nhouses in winter.\n\nSmiling at the girl, now--wondering a little concerning her--and\ncurious, too--he asked her whether, like most of the others at\nDerring\u2019s, she was on the stage.\n\nIt seemed she was not.\n\n\u201cNor in pictures?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\nHer reserve was a smiling one, yet not encouraging him to further\ninquiry.\n\n\u201cYou dance so delightfully,\u201d he said, \u201cthat I thought--perhaps----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I don\u2019t do anything, Mr. Sutton.\u201d\n\nHe dissented and tapped the piano as emphasis.\n\n\u201cOh, I play a little.\u201d\n\nThe bench she was seated upon was long and narrow. He stepped around\nthe piano; she laughed and made room for him.\n\n\u201cTell me about all your accomplishments,\u201d he insisted.\n\n\u201cThey are too numerous to catalogue. I can cook if I have to; make a\nbed, wash windows, read, write, add and subtract----\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you American, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you\u2019ve lived elsewhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbroad.\u201d\n\nIt was plain that she had little inclination to speak of herself.\n\nHe wondered why she was living alone in New York. Suddenly he desired\nto ask her other questions--from whom she inherited her delicate beauty\nand shy manners--her cultivated speech, her pretty green eyes.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you want to tell me anything about yourself?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t necessary, is it?\u201d\n\nHe laughed. \u201cThere is no necessity about the matter, you funny child!\u201d\n\nShe seemed relieved for a moment, then a little troubled.\n\n\u201cWhat worries you, Gilda?\u201d he demanded, still smiling.\n\n\u201cNothing.... Would it be impertinent for me to ask your advice before\nwe really know each other?\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense! What is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are several things I would like to ask you--if I might----\u201d\n\n\u201cFor example?\u201d he inquired, much amused.\n\n\u201cWell, one thing is that I have some money. I\u2019d like to ask you how to\ninvest it.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens!\u201d he said. \u201cYou don\u2019t know anything about me! I might be\nthe King of the Crooks, for all you----\u201d\n\nShe did not seem to notice what he was saying, for she went on very\nseriously:\n\n\u201c--Also, I\u2019d like to have you recommend to me a lawyer whom you believe\ntrustworthy----\u201d\n\n\u201cEnter crook number two! All right, Gilda. What else?\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite a number of things--when we begin to know each other--a\nlittle----\u201d\n\n\u201cHaven\u2019t we even begun to know each other?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, no,\u201d she said, surprised.\n\n\u201cThen isn\u2019t it rather rash of you to ask me about investments?\u201d\n\nShe smiled at him. It was her charming answer--as pretty a compliment\nas ever was paid a man.\n\n\u201cGilda Greenway,\u201d he said with youthful rashness, \u201cask me anything and\nI\u2019ll do my best! You seem to know I will, too; but how you guessed it,\nI don\u2019t know.\u201d\n\nHe got up, took a short turn or two, stood looking at nothing for a few\nmoments.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t tell Sadoul where I live,\u201d she said in a low voice.\n\nHe swung around: the girl\u2019s expression had changed and her face seemed\nshadowy and pale.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he said, \u201cI shall not tell Sadoul.... Are you feeling ill?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot ill----\u201d\n\nShe rose abruptly, and again her changed expression struck him. It\nseemed almost as though her features had altered subtly--as though\nsomething familiar was fading, something he had forgotten in her face\nwas becoming vaguely visible.\n\n\u201cI want you to go, please,\u201d she said in a dazed way.\n\n\u201cIf you are feeling ill----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, not ill.... You must go.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Gilda, don\u2019t you want me to come again?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.... Telephone me.... But you must go!--oh, please!--please!----\u201d\n\nThe strangeness of her face silenced him.\n\nShe followed to the little hall, waited for his departure, her face\naverted. To his perplexed and troubled adieux her response was\ninaudible.\n\nThe next moment the door closed behind him and he stood alone in the\nwintry dusk of the shabby corridor.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER VIII\n\n\nThe intimacy between Sidney Pockman and Casimir Sadoul was a\ncompanionship rather than a friendship--a personal association based on\nsimilar tastes, similar inclinations, and a common lack of scruple.\n\nThis mutual accord seemed to be sincere; stood the usual strains to\nwhich real friendship is subject; and, so far, had remained unimpaired.\n\nBut when, that night at Derring\u2019s, Pockman raised his pale gaze from\nthe dead girl and rested it on Sadoul, Sadoul realised instantly that\nhe had never trusted Sidney Pockman. And for the first time in his life\nhe knew what it was to be afraid.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe following afternoon, closeted in the private office of the\nlaboratory with Pockman, and having recounted his telephone\nconversation with Sutton, he awaited Pockman\u2019s comment with a mind\nalready darkly on its guard.\n\nThe first unhealthy colour of excitement had faded from Pockman\u2019s\nflat features; he was taking the astounding news coolly enough. Even\na slight smirk returned as he looked up at Sadoul, who still wore his\nfaded soft hat and brown overcoat.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll have to find her for me,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t _have_ to do anything for you,\u201d retorted Sadoul softly.\n\nAfter a silence Pockman stole a stealthy glance at him, and learned\nnothing. However, he was already convinced.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you think it\u2019s up to you to find Gilda Greenway?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not certain it\u2019s up to me, Pockman.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is to do it, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s Sutton. And if he refuses, then there are confidential\nagencies----\u201d\n\n\u201cHadn\u2019t we better _cover_ this affair between ourselves?\u201d inquired\nPockman. \u201cIt\u2019s safer for--everybody--I imagine.\u201d\n\nThe slight menace was not lost on Sadoul, but he coolly chose to\nmisinterpret it.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re a little worried about the irregularity of what you did, I\nsuppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot the irregularity of what--_I_ did,\u201d retorted Pockman, smirking.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s bothering you, then?\u201d\n\nPockman opened a desk drawer, flicked a blue-print toward Sadoul.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d asked the other.\n\n\u201cFinger-prints. They were on the gold-headed pin--or dirk--or\nstiletto--whatever _you_ call it,\u201d he added with a slight snicker.\n\nSadoul studied the blue-print. Then he glanced up inquiringly.\n\n\u201cWhose?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201c_Yours_, Sadoul.\u201d\n\nSadoul continued to examine the whorls with detached interest.\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d he inquired finally. \u201cWhat\u2019s the idea?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing,\u201d said Pockman; \u201cyou needn\u2019t worry--only--_lay off on that\nstuff_, Sadoul.... Because I happen to need your girl in my business.\nThat\u2019s all there will be to it--as far as I\u2019m concerned.... Let me have\nthat blue-print.\u201d\n\nSadoul passed it back to him across the desk, thoughtfully:\n\n\u201cDo you really think I killed her?\u201d he asked, with his shadowy smile.\n\u201cOr are you facetious?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not speculating.... She isn\u2019t dead, anyway.... And I mean to see\nthat she remains alive and kicking. That\u2019s all.... So----\u201d He smirked,\ndropped the blue-print into the drawer, locked it, and pocketed the key.\n\n\u201cIn my safe-deposit box there\u2019s a duplicate print,\u201d he remarked. \u201cAlso\na statement.... I want to observe this girl for a while. _I don\u2019t want\nanything to happen to her._ When I\u2019m through with her--you can have the\nfinger-prints back if you like.... And the--weapon. Is it understood?\u201d\n\nSadoul, apparently preoccupied, and sitting motionless in his chair,\nmade no reply. But his brain was a flaming hell.\n\nImpulse after impulse flashed up and raged through him, tearing at\nself-control. For the first terrified instinct of self-preservation had\ninstantly become a violent desire to end forever the danger threatening\nhim. His powerful frame was tense with purpose. Yet, a trace of reason\nremained. And he seemed to realise that, even if he could bring himself\nto do it--and devise a way--it would not help matters to kill Pockman.\nIt was too late. He understood that. But his burning brain raged on.\n\nSadoul had never before planned murder. He had never even thought of it\nas a solution for any problem until he saw Gilda Greenway in Sutton\u2019s\narms. Then he went mad.\n\nBut, even then, had she not been so close--the warm fragrance of her\nvery body in his nostrils--and a weapon at hand, dangling from her\nperfumed hair----\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHis swarthy face grayed a little: he got up from his chair, as though\nvery tired, and put on his shabby hat.\n\n\u201cWhatever you think,\u201d he said in an altered voice, \u201cyou have no\nbusiness to threaten me.... Gilda is perfectly safe--you have my word\nof honour, if you wish. But you must let me have those--blue-prints.\u201d\n\nPockman was looking at him with intense curiosity. In his gaze there\nwas, also, a sort of half-fearful respect which the habitual smirk\nintensified.\n\n\u201cMy God, Sadoul,\u201d he murmured, \u201cI never even dreamed that sort of thing\nwas in you.\u201d\n\nSadoul picked up his worn portfolio, slowly buttoned his overcoat,\nstood so with head lowered.\n\n\u201cI must have the prints,\u201d he repeated in a low voice. Then he raised\nhis smouldering eyes.\n\nAfter a silence: \u201cDo you give me your solemn promise to let her alone?\u201d\ndemanded Pockman.\n\n\u201cI promise not to--harm her.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want you to keep away from her.\u201d\n\nSadoul thought for a few moments: \u201cPockman,\u201d he said calmly, \u201cI shan\u2019t\ninterfere with you if you desire to keep her under professional\nobservation. But, _otherwise_--I tolerate no other man.\u201d\n\nThe unhealthy flush made Pockman\u2019s face a livid pink again.\n\n\u201cMy interest in your damned girl is purely professional,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cLet it remain so. Because my interest is slightly different.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s _your_ interest in her? I thought you were through,\u201d sneered\nPockman.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m still--interested.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat girl is turning you crazy!\u201d burst out Pockman. \u201cYou\u2019d better look\nout or you\u2019ll find yourself on the front page some morning----\u201d\n\nSadoul turned on him, baring every tooth: \u201c_Tomorrow_ morning!--if you\ndon\u2019t get those prints for me. And you\u2019ll be there, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cGet out of my office, you crazy bum!\u201d shouted Pockman.\n\n\u201cDo you really mean that?\u201d\n\nThere was a long and tense silence.\n\nPresently Pockman found his voice, weakly: \u201cWhat in Christ\u2019s name has\ngot into you, anyway!\u201d he demanded.\n\nSadoul shook his sombre head: \u201cI don\u2019t know.... I don\u2019t know,\nPockman.... I can\u2019t manage to forget her--and I can\u2019t go on this\nway--always----\u201d\n\nPockman ventured to lay one hand, fearfully, on Sadoul\u2019s shoulder--he\nhad to force himself to do it.\n\n\u201cI wasn\u2019t serious. Hell! I\u2019ll get those things for you. Then you\u2019d\nbetter go away somewhere and rid yourself of this fool obsession before\nit kills you--or somebody----\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right.... Thanks.\u201d\n\nAfter a moment he opened the door and went out, moving as though\nfatigued, his shabby portfolio hanging from one bony hand.\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER IX\n\n\nSadoul went home. His thoughts were not very clear. The interview at\nthe laboratory seemed unreal; the day itself like one that had not\ndawned. He remembered little of what they said in the office--except\nthat Pockman had called him a crazy bum.\n\nThe large apartment which he had furnished for two, but which he alone\ninhabited awaiting the expiration of the lease, appeared unusually\ndreary and unreal.\n\nThe two canaries he had bought, the black cat, the potted flowers,\nfurniture, books--everything had taken on a misty, wavering aspect. He\nhad a numb sensation in his head, and he seated himself in the living\nroom, his hat and coat still on.\n\nThe only sound that broke the silence was the interminable\nseed-cracking of the canaries.\n\nIn the dull aftermath of fear, lethargy drugged his nerves and clouded\nthought.\n\nHe was tired to his very bones, tired, benumbed. And so, rested all\nalone there in the gray daylight.\n\nThe cat came in, and, passing his chair, paused to look up at him. Then\nwent on, noiselessly, without further notice.\n\nAbout one o\u2019clock his Japanese servant announced luncheon.\n\nSadoul awoke, rid himself slowly of coat and hat, went to the dining\nroom, and ate what was offered.\n\nAfter that he sought his study, where some manuscripts lay in various\nuntidy stages.\n\nAfter all, he had to keep going--he had to eat and clothe himself and\ngo on living--or--_did_ he have to go on at all?\n\nHe seemed, finally, to come to that conclusion, pulled a pad toward\nhim, inked his pen.\n\nHe had been writing for two hours or more when his servant came and\nannounced a lady.\n\n\u201cWho?\u201d demanded Sadoul.\n\n\u201cShe no name, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right--in a minute.\u201d\n\nThe Jap retired; Sadoul went on writing--was still writing when\nsomething moved at his doorway; and he raised his head. Gilda Greenway\nstood there.\n\nSadoul\u2019s visage turned a clay grey; Gilda\u2019s face, too, was very white,\nframed in her dark furs.\n\n\u201cSadoul,\u201d she said in a low voice, \u201cwhat have you done to me?\u201d\n\nHe sat as though paralysed for a while. Finally the shock passed; he\ngot up, rested against his desk, and after a moment found his voice:\n\n\u201cAre you coming back?\u201d he asked, somewhat indistinctly.\n\n\u201cNo. Answer me; what is it you have done to me?\u201d she repeated.\n\nHe moistened his lips, staring at her:\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what you mean, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, you do.\u201d\n\n\u201cSit down and tell me what you--think I have done to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well.\u201d She seated herself. He took his desk chair, his eyes never\nleaving her.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d she said, \u201ctell me what you have done to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing. You fainted at Derring\u2019s. Pockman brought you around----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou thought me dead!\u201d\n\n\u201cDid Stuart Sutton say so?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, he told me.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid he tell you what Pockman did to--revive you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019ll tell you. A gold-headed pin got loose from your hair and\npierced a vital spot in the nape of your neck.... That was our theory.\nSutton came to me; I got Pockman; he operated. That\u2019s all.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou thought me dead. So did Dr. Pockman.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe were mistaken. What of it?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you _did_ think I was dead!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat of it?\u201d he repeated, now in full control of his voice and himself.\n\nShe leaned a little toward him: \u201cWere you alone with me--after you\nthought me dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is a lie, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy do you think so?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it\u2019s a lie. You were alone with me after you thought me dead. I\n_saw_ you!\u201d\n\nHe made no reply, waiting.\n\n\u201cThat is all I remember,\u201d she said, \u201c--lying dead on a chair and\nlooking at you.... I _was_ dead. I didn\u2019t know it until now--until this\nvery instant. But I know it, absolutely, now.\u201d\n\nHis sombre eyes regarded her without expression and in silence.\n\nShe was watching them, too; and now she drew her white-gloved hand from\nher muff and rested it on her knee, clenched tightly.\n\n\u201cYou once told me,\u201d she said, \u201cthat I never could escape you, even by\ndying.\n\n\u201cYou told me that while Charcot was interested only in paralysing the\nbody by inducing hypnosis, there was no reason why the indestructible\nlife-principle itself could not be caught and controlled at the moment\nof death.... Did you tell me that?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you mean by the indestructible life-principle? The escaping\nsoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can call it that if you like.\u201d\n\nShe clenched her gloved hand tighter:\n\n\u201cYou told me that, at death, the life-principle has been seen and even\nphotographed. Is that true? Or is it one of your psychic lies?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is faintly luminous and has been photographed in the dark,\u201d he said\npatiently, and now quite prepared for whatever else she had to say to\nhim.\n\n\u201cWhat happened when _I_ died?\u201d she demanded, her childlike face whiter\nthan ever.\n\n\u201cIf you insist that you really died--I regret to say I was not\npresent----\u201d\n\n_\u201cI saw you!\u201d_\n\nHis shadowy smile flickered a moment.\n\n\u201cSadoul!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you try to stop my soul from leaving me?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I wouldn\u2019t have been such a blithering fool. Where do you get\nthat stuff?\u201d he added with his sneering laugh. \u201cI told you, once, that\nphotographs had been made in a dark death-chamber, which did really\nshow a nebulous something apparently freeing itself from the dead and\nassuming something like a human shape.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, you told me that.\u201d\n\n\u201cI certainly did. Also, I may have told you that psychic\nmaterialisations also have been photographed, exuding in rather\nunpleasant and luminous convolutions from the medium.\n\n\u201cAll students of psychology are interested. I am. Psychic phenomena in\ntheir relation to hypnosis also interest me----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. That is how you destroyed me.\u201d\n\nAfter a silence: \u201cThere was no destruction,\u201d he said in a low voice.\n\n\u201cWhat do you call it then, Sadoul? You caught my soul--spirit--or\nwhatever you call my tenant--outside my body. You hypnotised it,\nparalysed it, left my body for days without a tenant!... And once,\nwhen you released me, and I returned, I found a new tenant in\npossession.... Since that time I have had to turn her out a thousand\ntimes!... When I--died--she was there, waiting. We struggled for\npossession. And she is still waiting her opportunity to slip in--always\nwatching--always near.... Last evening, suddenly, she got possession of\nme--I was tired--off my guard. She locked me out----\u201d\n\nGilda\u2019s face began to flush and her gloved hands crisped and beat\nagainst her muff, crushing and scattering the bunch of violets:\n\n\u201c_That\u2019s_ what you did to me!\u201d she cried, \u201c--you tried to catch my soul\noutside of me and kill it, or something--so you could let in that other\none! You\u2019ve always tried to--always, always! You wanted my body, not\ncaring what tenant it had! And you\u2019ve tried to drive me out and let the\nother in!--you tried it even when I was dead!\u201d\n\nShe sat striking her muff hysterically with her little, gloved fists,\nher green eyes alight and the pretty mouth distorted with a rage she\nhad never known until that instant.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve wanted to live rightly,\u201d she said; \u201cbut this _Other One_\ninterferes! There was no other one until you let her in. She comes,\nnow, before I know it.... When I am almost happy--thinking no wrong,\nGod knows----\u201d\n\nShe sprang up, trembling: \u201cCan\u2019t you let me alone?\u201d she said. \u201cI never\nliked you; I never shall live with you.\u201d\n\nSadoul\u2019s eyes glowed, and he slowly got up from his chair:\n\n\u201cIf you won\u2019t live with me, you\u2019ll live with no other man,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want to! I couldn\u2019t, anyway--with the memory of that civil\nceremony rising like a nightmare to frighten me----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou had better remember it ... when such men as Sutton are dangling\naround you,\u201d he said with his alarming smile.\n\nGilda\u2019s face flushed scarlet.\n\n\u201c_I_ shall remember it,\u201d she said.... \u201cIt\u2019s the _Other One_ who--who\nfrightens me----\u201d\n\nShe took up her muff, abruptly, walked swiftly to the door, turned,\ntrembling, blinded with tears:\n\n\u201c_Now_, do you understand what you have done to me!\u201d she said in a\nchoking voice. \u201cEven the _Other One_ cares nothing for you! Even if\nshe ever manages to destroy me, it gains you nothing! And that\u2019s what\nyou\u2019ve done to me and to yourself!\u201d\n\nHe followed her to the hall and detained her on the landing.\n\n\u201cRemember,\u201d he said, \u201cI tolerate no other man.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no other man.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere may be.\u201d\n\nShe pushed by him and pressed the elevator bell.\n\n\u201cMy God!\u201d he whispered--\u201cMy God! Can\u2019t you be even half human, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s the trouble. I\u2019m not more than that, now, I suppose.\u201d\n\nHe kept on saying under his breath, \u201cMy God, my God! I can\u2019t go on this\nway! I can\u2019t go on without you----\u201d\n\nThe ascending cage interrupted.\n\nShe nodded adieu.\n\n\u201cLet me know where you are,\u201d he said.\n\nThe cage dropped. She made no reply. He stood still for a moment,\ndragging at his lips with bony fingers, then he snatched his hat and\nran down the spiral iron stairway.\n\nBut he was too late at the street door; and the porter had not noticed\nwhich way her taxi turned.\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER X\n\n\nGilda was in a hurry to get home, and this was the reason:\n\nA telephone call from Sutton had awakened her that morning; she had\nbeen glad to hear his voice again; the incident had made the beginning\nof a grey day very delightful.\n\nBathed, dressed, and having breakfasted, and still agreeably conscious\nof her waking pleasure, Gilda had gone lightly about her morning duties.\n\nFirst there came a consultation with her maid-of-all-work concerning\nmarketing. Then dish-washing. Then sweeping, dusting, airing, and\nbed-making, in which Gilda aided. Then accounts--Gilda crouched over\nher desk, very intent upon the few bills and advertisements which alone\ncomposed any morning\u2019s mail.\n\nMending was next in order. Then preparation for a walk, including\nshopping. After that, luncheon, the leisurely pleasure of a book,\nor a lazy needle embroidering towels--with contented glances at the\ncomfortable and pretty things surrounding her.\n\nHer bedroom, in blue, was an austere and rather dim place, with an\netching or two on the wall, and a slim bed and chair patterned after\nsome prim model of the 18th century.\n\nBut Gilda\u2019s living room was done in sunny hues which tinted it with\na summery light, even on sour, grey days. And here amid upholstered\nfurniture, a piano, old gilt mirror, a few mezzotints, hyacinths\ngrowing in a yellow bowl, a shelf of books, Gilda Greenway lived and\nhad her highly complex being.\n\nEarlier that afternoon she had been embroidering a doiley with\nbuttercups, sewing light-heartedly, with recollections of her pleasant\nwaking to the sound of Sutton\u2019s voice.\n\nShe had ventured to ask him to tea; but he couldn\u2019t come until after\nsix. But with this in agreeable prospect the winter day was passing\ntranquilly. Old, unhappy memories were being lulled by the soothing\nrhythm of her silken-threaded needle; old sorrows faded; her slowly\nmoving hand at last ceased and lay idle on her knee.\n\nAfter a while she no longer guided thought, but followed where it\nstrayed.\n\nVery stealthily Thought betrayed her.\n\nIt led her into a labyrinth and abandoned her there. Presently, into\nthat magic labyrinth there glided the phantom of him she had followed\nthither; and, mentally, she went to him as she had that tragic\nnight--yielded again to his swift embrace--to his lips--offering her\nown----\n\nAnd awoke to find herself on her feet and every startled instinct\nstriving to arouse her sleeping senses.\n\nStill partly dazed, throbbing with fear and shame, her confused mind\nwas offering no aid. With stiffened limbs and clenched hands she stood\nblindly facing what threatened her.\n\nDesperately she strove to warn her mind against the warm, sweet impulse\ninvading it--to free her excited heart of that which quickened it--to\nbar all ingress to that _Other One_--the invader--now gliding nearer.\n\nAs she struggled against the enchantment, she realised that the _Other\nOne_ had surprised her--that sensual thing which Sadoul had summoned,\noffering _her_ as its abiding place----\n\nSuddenly her anger blazed white. In raging silence she tore the shadowy\nintruder out of her, drove it forth, barred the citadel of her soul\nagainst it.\n\nFlaming, breathless, still bewildered by the battle, she strove to\nthink what must be done. Then fear came--the old dread began to creep\nupon her--old griefs stirred--the spectre of Sadoul took shape,\nmenacing her with destruction.\n\nScarcely knowing what she was doing, she ran to her bedroom closet,\npulled on her hat and fur coat, and took her muff to which the\nmorning\u2019s violets were still pinned.\n\nThen she went out into the city to seek Sadoul.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThus it was that she had found him, had accused him, and demanded of\nhim an answer. And, even as she demanded, a flash of clairvoyance\nanswered her own question.\n\nHe had lied to her, but she already knew the truth.\n\nSo she had left him--hurrying because it was already late.\n\nAnd now, driving east through the Park, where already electric\nlights sparkled amid naked trees, only one clear thought remained\nand persisted unconfused through all the tumult and bewilderment of\nmind--the calm recollection of her engagement with Sutton.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was only five when she arrived--time enough to regain composure,\nchange her gown, and make disposition of the few flowers which she had\nordered that morning and which had been delivered while she was out.\n\nAglow from her bath, and a vigourous struggle with her thick, burnished\nhair, action already was driving from her mind the hateful shadow\nhaunting it. Her maid came from the kitchen, wiped her efficient hands,\nand got Gilda into her gown.\n\nHer mistress had never had a guest to dinner, so Freda made no inquiry\nconcerning an improbable contingency; nor did Gilda even think of such\na possibility.\n\nShe went into the sitting-room, examined herself approvingly at full\nlength in the long gilt mirror, pirouetted, and immediately concerned\nherself with the flowers and the two glass vases destined for them.\nThe carnations she placed on the piano, the roses on the tea-table.\nThen she lightly made the tour of the room, poked the fire, dusted the\nhearth, straightened pictures which the interminable jar of street\ntraffic always left askew again.\n\nShe crossed to the piano, and, standing, ran scales nervously; then\nwent over to her desk, seated herself, opened a drawer and consulted\nher bank-book.\n\nShe must ask Sutton to advise her. Something must be done with her\nmoney.\n\nDelectable aromas from the kitchen reminded her agreeably that dinner\nwas preparing--then, horrified, she rose and opened both windows,\ncalling upon Freda to keep the kitchen door shut.\n\nWhile the place was airing, she roamed about, casting frequent glances\nat the clock which had struck six some time ago, and was now preparing\nto announce the half hour.\n\nAn abrupt thought that Sutton might not come almost hurt. She gazed\nrather piteously around at her preparations--the prim sofa cushions in\na row, the straightened pictures, the two vases full of flowers. She\nwas realising how happily she had counted on his coming.\n\nThe half hour sounded. She felt she would have scarcely any time at all\nwith him, dinner being so nearly ready.\n\nShe went slowly to the windows, closed them, drew the curtains. Her\nheart was becoming heavy.\n\nFive minutes later she was giving him up.\n\nAt a quarter to seven she gave him up.\n\nConfused, hurt, and innocently surprised at the hurt--and with an\neffort to believe that the disappointment was trivial--she heard seven\no\u2019clock strike and turned to nod to Freda, who came to announce her\ndinner.\n\n\u201cThose yoong yentleman do not come tonight?\u201d inquired Freda.\n\n\u201cNo, I think not.\u201d\n\nGilda walked slowly into her tiny dining room. Appetite had left her.\n\nAs she seated herself, her door-bell rang.\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER XI\n\n\nSutton, always debonair, came in gaily:\n\n\u201cAwfully sorry to be so late,\u201d he said, gracefully saluting and\nretaining her hand. \u201cI suppose you\u2019ll put me out bodily, as you did\nbefore----\u201d He checked his breezy loquacity as the lighted dining room\nand table caught his eye.\n\n\u201cOh, Lord! I didn\u2019t know I was that late!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cForgive me,\nGilda, and let me come tomorrow----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; stay, please.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut this is rotten of me----\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease stay. I hadn\u2019t thought of your remaining to dinner, but I\u2019d be\nhappy if you would.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou charitable girl!--you really don\u2019t want me----\u201d\n\n\u201cI _do_.\u201d\n\nHe hesitated; he even had the grace to blush; then he disembarrassed\nhimself of hat and overcoat, ashamed of himself for doing it.\n\nGilda ran into her bath-room, selected her best towels, combed out her\nsilver brush, dusted the powder from the toilet table, and returned to\nSutton.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m a beastly bore,\u201d he said, \u201cand you know it! Yet, now you propose\nto curry-comb me and feed me. Oh, Gilda!\u201d\n\nHer heart was blithe as she danced away to the kitchen door:\n\n\u201cOh, Freda, Mr. Sutton will dine with me. There\u2019s enough, isn\u2019t there?\u201d\n\nFreda proved adequate to the emergency; a place was ready at table for\nSutton when he reappeared.\n\nThere was a fragrant oyster stew, two chops and a baked potato apiece,\nhalf an artichoke with wonderful dressing, a cherry tart divided,\ncamembert, coffee, cigarettes.\n\nSutton appeared to be enchanted. He had an easy way of seeming so, but\nhe really was, this time.\n\nGilda was happy; her appetite had returned, and between them they ate\neverything.\n\nShe broke off a rose-bud and gave it to Sutton for his button-hole.\nThen they took their cigarettes and coffee into the living room, and\nsat down side by side on the wide sofa where Gilda had placed the row\nof prim cushions in pleasant anticipation of such an event.\n\nSutton was in high spirits, very sensible to the girl\u2019s beauty, very\nmuch the opportunist in any such situation.\n\n\u201cWhy did you eject me so suddenly the other evening?\u201d he asked in his\ngay, bantering way. \u201cFirst you bowled me over, Gilda, then you threw me\nout!\u201d\n\nShe turned shy at that, offering no reply, and addressed herself to her\nMinton coffee cup.\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t I behave properly?\u201d he insisted, laughing. But he could extract\nno comment from her, and her uncertain smile baffled him.\n\n\u201cAre you quite all right again?\u201d he inquired. \u201cYou look so wonderfully\nfit that I didn\u2019t even ask you.\u201d\n\nShe said, diffidently, that she was perfectly recovered; and, at his\nrequest, suffered him to examine the nape of her neck.\n\n\u201cAmazing!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cHave you heard from any of\nthem--Pockman--Sadoul?----\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cReally! When?\u201d\n\n\u201cToday.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh. What did he have to say about that rather ghastly affair?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe said I really died.\u201d\n\nSutton shrugged. He no longer believed it. \u201cDeath is death,\u201d he\nobserved. \u201cThere is no remedy for death, and there never was----\u201d\nSomething seemed to check him; he hesitated--\u201cNot since Christ,\nanyway,\u201d he added.\n\n\u201cI _did_ die,\u201d she said in a low voice.\n\nHer tranquil finality silenced him for a moment. He took her empty\ncoffee cup and set it aside with his own.\n\n\u201cGilda,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019ve a lot of very friendly curiosity about you--no\nuse pretending I haven\u2019t. Am I impertinent?\u201d\n\nShe remained mute, not looking at him, her slender and very white\nlittle hands clasped loosely in her lap.\n\nHe said: \u201cThe other evening you asked me to advise you in regard to\ninvestments, didn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d he went on, \u201cdon\u2019t you think I\u2019d better tell you\nsomething about myself?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you care to.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right. I\u2019m twenty-eight; I\u2019m in the lumber business. That\u2019s what\nmade me so late this evening--one of our men arrived unexpectedly from\nup-state. I had to talk to him. We\u2019re reforesting on a big scale--we\u2019re\ndriven to do it. Everybody has got to come down to cases in our\nbusiness, now, because the end of the standing timber is in sight, and\nthere\u2019ll be no more lumber unless we lumbermen begin to grow some. But\nyou\u2019re not interested in that----\u201d\n\n\u201cI might be. I don\u2019t know anything about lumber.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s an interesting business, really--if you\u2019ll let me tell you\nsometime. But now, in regard to any advice from me--it being your money\nand not mine--all I could say to you would be on old-fashioned lines:\nbuy for investment only; buy only what is absolutely safe.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that what you would do if it were your money?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d probably speculate,\u201d he admitted with a grin.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll do it if you advise it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI _don\u2019t_! Good heavens! I shouldn\u2019t want anything like that on my\nconscience.... Anyway, I know nothing about your circumstances----\u201d\n\nShe told him very frankly and simply how much money she had. He\npointed out that, even in spite of the income tax, safe investments in\nconservative securities would give her an income adequate to the needs\nand even the little luxuries required by any young girl living alone in\nNew York.\n\nShe nodded: \u201cI\u2019ll tell you a little more about myself. My father and\nmother did not live together. I grew up in boarding schools, here and\nin France. I never had seen my father. He wrote to me once a month. My\nmother sometimes visited me.... Then war came. My father suddenly sent\nfor me and I went to London. That was the first time I ever saw him....\nAnd the last.\n\n\u201cTroops were leaving; he was an officer.... I might have liked him....\nBut he went away.... Before he left, he made provision for me.... And\nthat is the money I now have.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat else happened?\u201d asked Sutton gently.\n\n\u201cMy father was killed in Asia.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see....\u201d\n\n\u201cMother arrived in London.... There was legal trouble.... I wanted her\nto have half, but my father\u2019s solicitors would not permit it. I was\ntrying to devise a way to divide with her when the German airships came\nover.... Mother was killed ... in Regent Street.... They found her\ngold-mesh bag.... Nothing else.\u201d\n\nSutton waited gravely. Gilda sat with head lowered, her clasped hands\nlying loosely in her lap, her brooding gaze remote.\n\n\u201cWhat happened to you then?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cI thought I ought to learn how to support myself in case the Germans\noverran the world and ruined everybody.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt nearly came to that,\u201d he remarked.\n\n\u201cYes.... So I hastened to learn shorthand and typing. When I was\nfairly efficient, there happened to be a demand in Paris for English\nstenographers who understood French.... So I took a position they\noffered with an English firm of stenographers in the rue Colchas.\u201d ...\nShe sat very still for a few moments, then, averting her head: \u201c--That\nis all, Mr. Sutton.\u201d\n\nOf course it was not all; she had not spoken of Sadoul nor of the\nperiod in her life wherein he had been a factor. However, it was,\nevidently, all she cared to tell him about herself.\n\nHe glanced sideways at her; she sat very still, gazing straight\nin front of her. The pretty, childish contours seemed altered,\nsomehow--less youthful, sharper where shadow fell, accenting a profile\nalmost nobly traced. He watched her furtively, curiously, interested in\nthe detached sadness of a face so young, in its pale preoccupation with\nthings beyond his ken.\n\nThe opportunist in him, too, had become subdued in the gravity of her\naltered mood.\n\nThe world always accepts you as you present yourself. So Sutton now\nfound himself inclined to view Gilda Greenway more seriously than he\nhad ever expected to. Usually he reserved for this sort of pretty girl\nthose gay, casual, amiable, irresponsible qualities usually expected of\na man by such girls.\n\nShe had not invited them, even at Derring\u2019s. Apparently she did not\nexpect them.\n\nWas she one of the impossible kind who supposed a man didn\u2019t know the\ndifference?... Or--was there, possibly, not as much difference as\nhe naturally had supposed--meeting her sans fa\u00e7on at Derring\u2019s--and\nfinding her so pliant in the end----\n\nHe had, of course, placed her, generally, but not at all definitely.\nThere seemed to be nothing specific about her--with her freshness and\nyouth and oddly winsome shyness.\n\nYet, there was Derring\u2019s anything but exclusive party; and there was\nSadoul.... Certainly, he thought, there are all sorts in the world; and\nof new kinds there is no ending.\n\nHe was first to break the long silence with a banality: \u201cSome day,\nGilda, will you tell me more about yourself?\u201d\n\nShe turned her head, faintly surprised: \u201cNo; I don\u2019t think so.\u201d\n\nHe took his snub with such unfeigned and flushed chagrin that she,\nalso, blushed.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t mean it unkindly,\u201d she murmured. \u201cIt sounds so. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d\n\nHer concern was so candid, so unconsciously sweet, that he recovered\nmuch too quickly. Such young men do. That\u2019s the trouble with candour\nand inexperience.\n\nHe told her, impulsively, how deeply interested in her he was becoming.\nHe took her passive little hands in his and told her again, with enough\nemotion in his voice to charm and trouble her.\n\nThe emotion was quite genuine. It always is in young men. The only\ntrouble is that they have an unlimited capacity for it--if only the\ngirl involved be fair to look upon.\n\nBut now, in hopeful recollection of an episode altogether charming,\nthis young man was slightly surprised when Gilda\u2019s supple body\nstiffened, and her firm, cool hand removed his enterprising arm.\n\n\u201cPlease,\u201d she said under her breath, \u201c--I had rather not.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou didn\u2019t say that at Derring\u2019s----\u201d\n\nHer lips tightened and she closed her eyes more tightly still, as\nthough chagrined at the remembrance.\n\n\u201cAre you really sorry, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.... I mean I don\u2019t know whether I am.... I had rather you didn\u2019t\nkiss me--again----\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t, if you don\u2019t wish it----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\nHe took it amiably enough--even a trifle anxiously, afraid of offending\na girl who was beginning to pique his curiosity--that overwhelming\nsymptom of masculine egotism ever latent in young men.\n\n\u201cOf course,\u201d he said gaily, \u201cit was carnival time at Derring\u2019s.... I\ndidn\u2019t mistake you for a moment.... I really like you tremendously,\nGilda.... You are such a lovely thing, anyway--don\u2019t be too severe with\nme.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot severe--with you.... No. It isn\u2019t that.\u201d ... She drew a deep\nbreath, smiled uneasily at him.\n\n\u201cI do like you.... I want to be friends.... Will you try always to\nremember that?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, you charming girl!----\u201d\n\n\u201c--Because--you may not think so, sometimes.... I may do things you\nwill not understand.... It won\u2019t be because I don\u2019t--don\u2019t like you.\u201d\n\nShe rose; he stood up, too. She said slowly:\n\n\u201cI want you to go, now.... Will you still believe that I like you, very\nmuch, if I--I ask you to say good-night to me?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course!... You\u2019re the most winsome girl, Gilda--the most\ndelightful!--I _do_ care a lot for you----\u201d\n\n\u201cTelephone me--soon.\u201d\n\n\u201cRather!\u201d ... He had his coat on, now.... \u201cI\u2019ll call you tomorrow, if I\nmay.\u201d\n\nShe nodded and opened the door for him. He wanted her hand again and\ngot it.\n\n\u201cYou like me a little, don\u2019t you, Gilda?\u201d\n\nHer tightly held hand began to tremble in his, and she loosened it with\na sudden nervous movement.\n\n\u201cI want you to go,\u201d she whispered.\n\nThere was a strange, uncontrolled note in her voice--and he looked at\nher green eyes in the demi-light.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you--sometime,\u201d she said breathlessly.... \u201cI do care for\nyou.... We must help each other--not destroy----\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat frightens you?\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease go, if you care for me at all!\u201d\n\nHe stepped back in silence; the door closed smartly, and he heard\nher bolt it. And, listening, he became aware of another sound in the\nstillness--a murmur, broken, incoherent, as though inside the door the\ngirl were whispering to herself, and whimpering all alone.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XII\n\n\nWhat was known concerning the extraordinary case of Gilda Greenway was\nbeing man-handled, daily, at the Fireside Club--old George Derring\nhaving gabbled widely to the fierce annoyance of Sadoul.\n\nPockman, also vastly annoyed, made the best of it--made no bones about\nit, in fact.\n\nBadgered, disgusted, but at bay, he was perhaps too cynical, too\nindifferent, or possibly too confident of himself to lie or to evade\nnewspaper publicity--the terror of all reputable physicians.\n\n\u201cWell, what astonishes you?\u201d he retorted to the veiled gibes from his\ntormentors at the Fireside. \u201cI\u2019ve killed rats and done the same thing\nto them.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean to tell us,\u201d demanded Harry Stayr, \u201cthat you\u2019ve\nresurrected dead rats by grafting glands on their necks?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne gland--the nymphalic.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! Have rats got that gland, too?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll vertebrates have it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd those rats really were dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey were not only dead,\u201d said Pockman wearily, \u201cbut I\u2019d had them in\ncold storage at zero for three months.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when you thawed \u2019em out and operated they came to and squealed\ntheir thanks,\u201d suggested Stayr, grinning.\n\n\u201cThey became lively enough in a few hours.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd squealed?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what they did, Harry.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid little Miss Greenway become gratefully demonstrative when you\nbrought her back from the Pearly Gates,\u201d inquired Julian Fairless, \u201cor\ndid she cry for her harp and halo?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen she came to life she dressed and went home in a taxi, I believe,\u201d\nreplied Pockman drily.\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s Sadoul\u2019s girl to prove it?\u201d demanded Sam Warne. \u201cI\u2019d like to\nask her what she saw up aloft after she died.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you believe in the survival of the soul, do you, Sam?\u201d said\nFairless languidly.\n\n\u201cWell--Pockman says so----\u201d\n\n\u201cI did _not_ say so,\u201d interrupted Pockman. \u201cI said that I have proven\nsurvival of the life principle in certain glands; and that, after what\nwe call death occurs, a state of anarchy prevails in the cadaver. All\nthe organs are still alive; the cells which compose them are engaged in\ncivil war.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is your theory, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cA very simple one--that the secretions of the nymphalic gland control\nevery one of the trillions of cells in the human body. I assume that\nultimate dissolution begins with atrophy of this gland. I believe that,\nby grafting a new and young and living nymphalic gland upon a dead\nhuman body, the organs of that body can be revived, rejuvenated, and\npersuaded to resume their natural functions. And I am now absolutely\nsatisfied that I have proven this theory to be a fact.\u201d\n\n\u201cWon\u2019t this make a considerable splash in the medical puddle?\u201d asked\nFairless.\n\n\u201cNot if the newspapers get hold of it,\u201d replied Pockman. \u201cAs\nShakespeare says, \u2018Publicity doth make monkeys of us all\u2019!\u201d He glanced\nabout him almost wistfully: \u201cIf you fellows would be reticent and\ndecent and permit me to go on for a year or two, and then, when I\u2019m\nready, let me make my own announcement through proper channels----\u201d He\nlooked around again at The Talkers; then the habitual and glassy smirk\ndisfigured him, and he shrugged his shoulders:\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the use?\u201d he concluded. \u201cYou\u2019re born to talk and you\u2019ll do it.\nSo I\u2019ll get the dirty end of the stick for awhile--I\u2019ll get what\u2019s\ncoming to me from the newspapers. I\u2019ll get hell from my profession. You\nfellows couldn\u2019t hold your tongues if you wanted to.\u201d\n\n\u201cMatters discussed in a gentleman\u2019s club are sacred,\u201d observed somebody\nheavily.\n\n\u201cSure,\u201d sneered Pockman; \u201c--I\u2019ve been a victim of gentlemen\u2019s\nagreements.\u201d His pale eyes rested mockingly on Derring, flickered,\ntravelled on impartially.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the dinner table that undoes you,\u201d he added, \u201c--when it\u2019s not\nyour best girl--in \u2018strictest confidence.\u2019 Yes--I know.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a nasty thing to say about any member of this club,\u201d protested\nJulian Fairless. \u201cI haven\u2019t the slightest desire to gossip, and your\ndamned glands don\u2019t interest me.\u201d\n\n\u201cA nasty insinuation and a nasty subject,\u201d broke out Derring, in his\nhigh, shrill voice. \u201cI\u2019m sure I had enough of it when they put a corpse\ninto my spare bed and performed autopsies all over my apartment----\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you object to our talking to Sutton and Sadoul about it?\u201d inquired\nHarry Stayr. \u201cI promise you it won\u2019t get outside this club----\u201d\n\nBut Pockman had no illusions: \u201cTalk your damned heads off if you\nlike,\u201d he said, getting out of his arm-chair and striding away in that\nungainly, rickety gait which, Stayr insisted, always made him think of\nHolbein\u2019s \u201cDance of Death.\u201d\n\nDeath continued to be the topic of The Talkers gathered around the\ngrate at the Fireside Club that snowy evening.\n\nSadoul, looking ill, wandered in later and joined the circle, but\nsullenly refused information regarding the episode in question,\nand stretched himself out on a lounge, his sombre eyes veiled in\nindifference. Only when Mortimer Lyken strolled in was the surgical\naspect of the affair revived--Dr. Lyken\u2019s researches having associated\nhim for years with the work of that shadowy personage generally known\nas The State Electrician.\n\nBut Sing Sing autopsies, not the grafting of glands, were Lyken\u2019s\nspecialties, and he had nothing new to contribute to the talk of The\nTalkers.\n\nSo The Talkers, who loved to talk of The Beginning and of The End,\nfell, presently, to discussing the soul--the same old soul which so\noften they had proved non-existent, and merely a component part of the\nexploded God-myth.\n\nSaid Stayr, whose articles on \u201cThe God-myth and Its Origin\u201d were known\neverywhere that Talkers talked:\n\n\u201cIf some of you millionaires like George Derring will back me, I\u2019ll\npost a standing offer to perform any miracle mentioned in the New\nTestament or forfeit the stakes.\u201d\n\nSomebody objected to treating such a matter as a sporting proposition.\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d insisted Stayr. \u201cIt\u2019s the way to exterminate the God-myth\nand Christ-superstition.\u201d\n\nSutton, who had come in unnoticed and seated himself by the fire,\ntouched Stayr on the arm:\n\n\u201cWhere does it get you, Harry, to prove there is no God?\u201d\n\n\u201cGet me? What do you mean? Don\u2019t you want the truth?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.... But are _you_ authorised to dispense it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, well,\u201d said Stayr, \u201c--if you want to take that tone you\u2019d better\nstick to the God of your forefathers, Stuart.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut where does it get you?\u201d persisted Sutton, \u201cif you convince people\nthat there is no Divinity, no resurrection, no survival? The world is\na wolf at heart. What\u2019s to control it if you destroy its belief in\nspiritual survival?\u201d\n\n\u201cSelf-interest. The good will continue to be good, not for any sordid\nreward hereafter, but because being good is good business. The bad will\nbe canned for the same reason.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou think the world could remain sane if it believed death meant\nspiritual annihilation?\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t the immortality of the cell enough?\u201d inquired Lyken.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s an authority on cells,\u201d piped up old Derring:\n\n    \u201cSing a song of Sing-Sing\n    To see a poor guy die--\u201d\n\nHis shrill doggerel ended in a cackle and he slapped his knee,\nconvulsed. It was George Derring at his most brilliant. But he gave\nparties.\n\nLyken forced a smile: \u201cYou are composed of several billion cells that\nnever can die, George. Ultimately these cells will reunite, form a new\nrepublic, and develop into another living being. Isn\u2019t that enough\nimmortality for you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all there is to this soul business, anyway,\u201d added Stayr.\n\u201cThere\u2019s no survival of individual personality after death.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou seem to differ with Sir Oliver, Sir William, and Sir Conan,\u201d said\nFairless, \u201c--not to mention a few million other educated folk.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll do that, too, if Derring will stake me,\u201d retorted Stayr. \u201cI\u2019ll\nmove tables, produce raps, report progress from celestial regions,\nand materialise spirits. I\u2019ll talk the jargon to you, too--all about\npsychic forces and planes and controls--the whole bunch of bunk!\u201d\n\nSadoul sat up on his couch and peered through the firelight at Stayr.\n\n\u201cAs long as the world can depend on _your_ omnipotence, Harry,\u201d he\nsneered, \u201cit won\u2019t miss God.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s worrying you?\u201d retorted Stayr. \u201cDo you believe in spiritual\nsurvival?\u201d\n\nSadoul gazed about him. Half of his face was painted an infernal red\nby the firelight, half remained in shadow. His lambent gaze rested on\nSutton, shifted from one man to the next, returned finally to Stayr.\n\n\u201cThe life-principle survives after death,\u201d he said in a dull voice.\n\n\u201cYes, several billions of \u2019em,\u201d rejoined Stayr, \u201c--separately.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; there is _personal_ survival--call it vital-principle\nlife-origin\u201d--he shrugged--\u201ccall it soul, spirit--anything you\nchoose.... But it is indestructible; and it isn\u2019t one of a billion\ncells, or any of them, or all of them--the thing I speak of--it\u2019s _you_\nyourself; it\u2019s your individual, personal survival in form, feature, and\nintelligence.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn other words, the same old orthodox soul we\u2019ve canned so often,\u201d\nnodded Stayr. \u201cBut up it pops like jack-in-the-box, every time you\npsycho-hypnotic gentlemen wave your hands and murmur \u2018abracadabra.\u2019\u201d\n\nFairless said politely: \u201cPerhaps Sadoul has proven his theory of\nindividual spiritual survival.\u201d\n\n\u201cPockman proved his theory of physical survival,\u201d added Warne,\n\u201c--according to his own deposition.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo a hypnotic or psychic stunt for us,\u201d urged Derring shrilly. \u201cGo\nahead, Sadoul. Seeing is believing, you know,\u201d he added, cackling.\n\nSadoul glanced at him disdainfully.\n\nSutton said: \u201cIf seeing were believing, there had been no crucifixion.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll believe what I see,\u201d piped Derring. \u201cBut you\u2019ve got to show me,\nSadoul.\u201d\n\nSadoul\u2019s sombre gaze returned to Derring. He looked at him intently for\na moment; then, measuring his words:\n\n\u201cVery--well--Derring. I\u2019ll--show--you. But--you--can--never--see;\nnever--understand. You--only--look--but--you--see--nothing.\nYou--hear--but--you--understand--nothing.... Stand--up--you--old--ass.\u201d\n\nEverybody had turned to stare at Derring. They saw him rise, obediently.\n\nThat he was under the control of Sadoul was evident to every man\npresent. Nobody questioned that; nobody exclaimed.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s very clever of you, Sadoul,\u201d said Stayr, putting on his\neye-glasses. \u201cHow did you pick him for a sure-fire subject?\u201d He tried\nto speak easily.\n\n\u201cCan you make him turn a hand-spring?\u201d asked Fairless.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t make a monkey of him,\u201d said Sutton sharply.\n\nDerring\u2019s faded, frivolous features remained fixed and rigid.\n\n\u201cSit down,\u201d said Sadoul, contemptuously. Derring obediently resumed his\nchair.\n\nSeated there, full in the firelight, there was something grotesquely\nrevolting about this carefully preserved, empty-headed, garrulous\nbon-viveur, with all his shrill chatter shut off, all his fidgety\ninitiative paralysed--nothing left except an inhabited suit of evening\nclothes and a foolish old face above a winged-collar----\n\n\u201cFor heaven\u2019s sake,\u201d said Sutton, \u201cwake him up, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cWake up, Derring,\u201d said Sadoul carelessly.\n\nDerring\u2019s eyes had been open. Now he moved in his chair, glanced about\nhim, then looked at Sadoul.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he said shrilly, \u201cseeing is believing. You\u2019ve got to show me,\nSadoul; I\u2019m from----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, for God\u2019s sake!\u201d snarled Stayr, and spat into the fire. Then,\nlooking at Sadoul: \u201cDo you expect a thing like that to survive?\u201d\n\n\u201cExpect what?\u201d piped Derring. \u201cWhat are you talking about? I missed\nsomething somebody said----\u201d\n\nFairless interrupted, speaking across the fire to Sadoul:\n\n\u201cClean stuff,\u201d he said, \u201c--very professional.... And can a surgeon\noperate under such conditions?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne first induces a more profound hypnosis.... After that--yes.\u201d\n\n\u201cMajor operations?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly.\u201d\n\n\u201cTreatment by suggestion, also, I suppose,\u201d ventured Sutton.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d admitted Stayr, \u201cyou called a bluff very cleverly, Sadoul. I\nadmit it. Now if you\u2019ll show us a soul or two----\u201d\n\n\u201cI showed one to Derring,\u201d returned Sadoul with a slight sneer.\n\n\u201cHey? Showed _me_? What do you mean?\u201d cried Derring. \u201cWhat did you show\nme? I didn\u2019t see anything----\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t say you did. I said you _looked_ at something.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod bless me, what the devil did I look at?\u201d exclaimed Derring. \u201cCome,\nnow, Sadoul; that won\u2019t do, you know. That\u2019s all bunk, d\u2019you see? I\u2019ve\nbeen sitting here all the time and I didn\u2019t see anything unusual, nor\ndid anybody else, I\u2019ll wager!\u201d\n\nSam Warne laughed. Stayr, always bored and never amused by Derring\u2019s\nobvious antics, turned to Sadoul:\n\n\u201cCome on,\u201d he said impatiently. \u201cShow me something I can\u2019t account for\nand I\u2019ll hand it to your orthodox God and go out of business.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should I? I don\u2019t care what you believe,\u201d retorted Sadoul wearily.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you care if I believe you a fakir?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, as a sporting proposition?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot even for the pleasure of making a monkey of me and putting me out\nof business?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I showed you--something--you wouldn\u2019t believe you saw it.\u201d\n\nFairless asked Sadoul if it were necessary for him to go into a trance\nto materialise anything. Sadoul shook his head, but his sombre eyes\nremained fixed on Sutton.\n\n\u201cWhat a fakir you are, Sadoul,\u201d observed Stayr.\n\nSadoul, not noticing him, said to Sutton: \u201cI can show you something.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n\n\u201cSomething you\u2019ll be up against unless you keep away from a certain\nperson of whom I have already warned you.... Shall I show you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t quite get you----\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well. _Look!_\u201d\n\nAlmost at the same moment Sutton saw something on the lounge beside\nSadoul--a greyish figure that became more distinct as he stared at\nit--the figure of a girl--her face already assuming the contour and hue\nof life.\n\nHe realised it was Gilda he was staring at--yet a Gilda he had never\nseen in living shape--this sensuous young thing with softly rounded\nbody, a trifle too heavy, with lips too full, too scarlet--this unknown\nGilda with her languid eyes--her smiling lips scarce parted----\n\nSwiftly the thing turned grey, faded--was no longer there.... Sutton\ngot up; Sadoul rose, also.\n\n\u201cDid you see anything?\u201d asked Sadoul grimly.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell--_that\u2019s_ what the cat brought back!... _You_ wouldn\u2019t like it,\nSutton.... But _I_ do.... So keep away or there\u2019ll be trouble----\u201d\n\nStayr, who had risen, took Sadoul by the elbow.\n\n\u201cVery clever,\u201d he said harshly, forcing his voice to steady it; \u201c--very\nneat and professional, Sadoul. I saw a grey thing, resembling a human\nfigure, seated on the lounge beside you.... You hypnotised me, of\ncourse----\u201d\n\n\u201cI told you that you wouldn\u2019t believe what you saw,\u201d sneered Sadoul,\nshoving past him and striding toward the door.\n\n\u201cDid _you_ see anything?\u201d demanded Fairless, pulling Stayr\u2019s sleeve. \u201cI\ndidn\u2019t.\u201d\n\nThe latter glanced around at the others with an annoyed expression, yet\nslightly foolish, too.\n\nNobody else, it appeared, had noticed anything unusual, but everybody\nwas curious to hear what Stayr had seen.\n\n\u201cThat fellow, Sadoul,\u201d said Stayr, \u201cis a fakir.... I thought I saw\nsomething.... I guess he got in some of his hypnotic bunk on me when I\nwas off my guard.... Something like that.... Isn\u2019t that about how it\nhit you, Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou _did_ see something, didn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know--I guess so,\u201d he said vaguely.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you want to talk about it?\u201d asked Stayr uneasily.\n\nSutton shook his head and walked slowly toward the cloak-room.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XIII\n\n\nSutton\u2019s daily programme was characteristic of young men of his sort.\n\nHe rose early enough in the morning to bolt a cup of coffee by nine\no\u2019clock, and be at his office by half-past nine.\n\nIn New York, workmen rise early; business men late--a custom that had\nbetter change before it is changed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSutton\u2019s business, in common with the business of most reputable\npeople, had suffered under the eight years\u2019 blight of a mindless\nadministration.\n\nEven from the beginning, the grotesqueries of a comic-opera cabinet had\nalarmed the business world. Now, through eight incredible years, amid\nthe ape-like leaps and capers of a contemptible Congress and the din\nof the demagogues in authority, a faint glimmer appeared in the grey\nobscurity.\n\nMonstrous policies, infamous measures were nearing a climax; social\nunrest was approaching a boiling point; all the national and local scum\nfrom those eight miserable years was coming to the surface.\n\nThere it floated in its filth, stupidity, arrogance,\nincompetency--there seethed the dregs, too--national humiliation,\nsectional ruthlessness, class hatred, bitter consciousness of the\nworld\u2019s amused contempt.\n\nThere were the poisonous precipitations, too, in this hellbroth wherein\nthe nation was stewing--enmities sown recklessly abroad; at home, the\nmost infamous tax laws ever imposed since the day of the German King of\nEngland, George III.\n\nAnd then the grotesqueries--the fanatic, rampant and victorious,\nimposing _his_ will as ruthlessly as the Holy Office had dealt with\nany who opposed its dogmas--an entire people indicted as drunkards,\nand laws made to discipline everybody--laws contemplated, advocated,\nto regulate a people\u2019s religious beliefs, devotional observances,\nspiritual requirements, minds--every inherent liberty which was theirs!\n\nEverywhere the bigot, the despot, the mental pervert, were lifting\nhydra heads out of the accumulations of the last eight years. And, on\nthis rotting culture, the crack-brain fed and battened--the parlour\nsocialist; the ragged--and far more to be respected--anarchist;\nthe miserable scribbler of seditious articles; the half-crazed\nintellectual, writing in praise of human equality--to which he must\naspire in vain; the terrorist screaming in red print; the half-educated\nmillionaire, with his mischievous efforts to start a religious pogrom;\nCongressmen of the \u201cpoor white\u201d variety, appealing to sectionalism;\nand then the vast genus of Grafter--the contractor with his \u201ccode of\npractice\u201d; the politician getting \u201chis\u201d; the walking delegate; the\n\u201cleaders\u201d who make the very name of \u201clabour\u201d a nauseating stink.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow, in this grey, unhealthy obscurity befogging a nation, and\ngradually thickening during the last eight years, men\u2019s minds and\nthoughts became dull and greyish, too.\n\nDull minds ruled and dictated the \u201ctrend of modern thought,\u201d the cult\nof the commonplace made the average person duller, the stupid stupider,\nthe intellectual morose.\n\nIt was an era of joyless dulness in literature and in art; creative\nwork by the dull for the dull offered only what was negative and\ndreary. Solemnity reigned. The misty moroseness of Scandinavia and of\nRussia settled like a cloud over the country, clogging inspiration,\ntarnishing all brightness, reproving exuberance, so that in modern\nfiction there remained no buoyancy, no charm, no beauty, no tender\nfrailty, nor any hint of sun and blue sky--nothing of human\naspiration--no heart, no blood--only a monotony of all that is sordid,\ncolourless, and passionless in human life.\n\nIn art, too, the plodding pedant spread the accentless cult of the\ncommonplace, or of ugliness, physical and spiritual. That tour de force\nof degraded taste, _The Faun_, symbolised horribly the mental decadence\nof a sickened world.\n\nThe human-cow-school flourished: in every studio and art gallery\ncow-like human females suckled babies or dangled large bronze hands or\nmarble feet over meaningless pedestals.\n\nArchitects beautified such squares as The Plaza with chunks of Indiana\nlimestone and a series of superimposed cheeses for a fountain to\nface a gilded General, whose steed was led recklessly down town by a\nbarefooted servant-girl wearing wings.\n\nThe ugliness that was New York\u2019s!--the ugliness that was the\nnation\u2019s!--physical, mental, spiritual, affronting a Creator who\ncreated nothing unlovely since the first nebul\u00e6 floated incandescent on\nthe ocean of the night.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XIV\n\n\nThe only sign to indicate the suite of offices was a bronze and marble\ntablet between elevators:\n\n    SUTTON AND SON\n    (INC. 1809)\n    LUMBER\n\nAccording to custom, the senior Sutton always retired upon arriving at\nthe age of sixty, and turned over the business to his sons.\n\nStuart was the only son of the present generation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo his father, Charles Edward Stuart Sutton, conforming to the\ncustom of methodical forebears, strolled out of the flower-bedecked\nprivate office on his sixtieth birthday, wearing a white rose in his\nbuttonhole, and a bland expression on his handsome features.\n\nWhich troubled mightily his son and heir.\n\n\u201cFor heaven\u2019s sake, dad,\u201d he remonstrated, \u201cyou\u2019re not going to leave\nme flat like that, are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou bet,\u201d returned Sutton senior; \u201cI\u2019ve had enough. So hoist your own\nflag, Stuart, and lay your own course. Your mother and I propose to\nsaunter through the remainder of our lives.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if I signal for a pilot----\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly. Set signals if you need me. But unless you\u2019re really in a\npickle, be a good sport, Stuart.\u201d\n\nThey exchanged a handshake; Sutton senior strolled on; son,\nconsiderably sobered, stood motionless in the familiar private office,\nstaring at the masses of flowers, feeling uncomfortably modest and\nslightly alarmed.\n\nHe had supposed that he had already discounted the inevitable\nretirement of his guide, prop, and mentor. He really had. This painful\nmodesty was due to the sentimental shock that now stirred up his boyish\nemotions.\n\nThe normal boy experiences it at the moment his father leaves him at\nhis first boarding school. All bumptiousness disappears. He needs his\ndaddy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next day Sutton junior arrived alone at the office and was received\nrespectfully as the head of the firm.\n\nThere were fresh flowers for him. The entire office force presented\ncongratulations individually.\n\nThat ceremony over, Stuart closed the door, poked up the coal fire in\nthe grate, went to his desk and laid violent hands on a formidable\nmorning mail.\n\nUntil noon he dictated letters. He lunched at the Foresters Club--a\nluxurious place on top of the newest skyscraper.\n\nAll that rainy afternoon he remained busy with his secretary, Miss\nTower, or with business callers, or with officers and clerks of his own\nentourage.\n\nHe left rather late, and was too late to dress for dinner, finding his\nfather and mother already at table.\n\n\u201cDid you get along all right?\u201d asked his father, carelessly.\n\n\u201cWell, yes, I think so. You know there\u2019s one thing you inaugurated,\nabout which I don\u2019t know anything----\u201d\n\n\u201cOur land reclamation policy?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s it. I\u2019d better go up and look over the new pineries.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re mostly under snow, now. But I think you better go in the\nspring.\u201d\n\nHis mother said: \u201cIt\u2019s all like a dream. I can\u2019t realize that your\nfather has retired and that you are \u2018Sutton and Son.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, _I_ realise it,\u201d remarked the husband. \u201cI\u2019ve been trying to\ndecide between California, the West Indies, and the Riviera. I can\u2019t.\nCan you, Helen?\u201d\n\nThe mother smiled and looked at the son. She was loath to put such\ndistances between them.\n\n\u201cIf Stuart would only learn to take care of himself----\u201d\n\n\u201cFor heaven\u2019s sake, mother!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou won\u2019t go to a doctor when you take cold!\u201d retorted his mother.\n\u201cYou smoke too much, you don\u2019t eat properly, you sit up too late. I\nshall worry if I go away.\u201d\n\nHer son had passed the resentful age; some glimmer of understanding\nmitigated masculine impatience under maternal solicitude.\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t had a cold this winter; or needed a pill, either. Go ahead\nand gallivant with dad.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSutton senior and his wife were going to the opera, and the car had\nalready arrived.\n\nThey lingered over coffee in the library, listening to Stuart\u2019s\ndescription of his first day down town as head of the firm.\n\nMaternal pride struggled with eternal solicitude: \u201cYou\u2019ll stand by him\nat first, won\u2019t you, Charles? Stuart\u2019s shoulders must be gradually\naccustomed to such a burden. Before arriving at any vital decision he\nought always to consult you; etc., etc.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTheirs was that solid respectability that maintains ancestral estates\non the Hudson and a grim brownstone or brick foothold not too far from\nthe Marble Arch.\n\nThat section of society known as the Zoo recognized them, mechanically;\nbut there was no foregathering. Even the fat and formidable\nring-mistress of the Zoo, now in her dotage, but still socially\nformidable--and whose only remaining pleasure was in making lists of\npeople she did not want to know--had not cared to write off such folk\nas the Charles Edward Stuart Suttons.\n\nThe snob-sets were tolerantly aware of them; the intellectuals, the\nnomads, the scores of social whirlpools and puddles in which swam the\ncontents of Blue Book and Register, all were politely conscious of that\nrather placid and dowdy circle born of the Hudson and rooted amid the\nrocks of old Manhattan since he of the wooden leg marched out and the\nred ensign shot up over old Fort George.\n\n\u201cThey do anything they damn please, but ignore you if you do the\nsame,\u201d was a complaint not unknown in New York regarding such folk as\nforegathered with the Suttons.\n\nThis was true. They made no bones about doing as they pleased within\ntheir circle or outside it. But in one respect they were beyond\nreproach; they seldom made an undignified marriage. Where other sets\nhad been diluted by frequent m\u00e9salliances, they married and propagated\ntheir own sort. No obscure beauty born in outer barbarism, no frail and\nlovely meteor from the Follies, no charming daughter of the nouveau\nriche, had penetrated, matrimonially, those dull and dowdy mansions\nwhich gazed complacently upon the Hudson--frequently through dirty\nwindows.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA rather frowsy maid in limp black came to announce the family bus--a\nlimousine of pre-war excellence and dignity, and not to be discarded in\ndeference to fashion.\n\nFor six years it had rolled majestically over New York asphalt and the\nBoston Post Road, and had borne the Suttons between the town house on\nNinth Street and Heron Nest, the ancestral Hudson home.\n\nNow it was solidly ready to bear them unto the temple of music, and\nthence homeward ere it was solemnly put to bed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGoing, his mother fulfilled the ceremony of the family kiss:\n\n\u201cGood night, Stuart. _Don\u2019t_ sit up late; you won\u2019t feel well in\nthe morning.... I forgot to say there was a girl called you on the\ntelephone about six o\u2019clock--I should say a well-bred person from\nher voice. Her name was Greenway. But I don\u2019t seem to remember any\nGreenways----\u201d\n\n\u201cThere were the Courtland Greenways----\u201d remarked Sutton senior, giving\nhis son the family handshake.\n\nDescending the stairs, his wife reminded him that the Courtland\nGreenways were in London.\n\nAs the front door closed below, Stuart unhooked the telephone receiver\nand called Gilda Greenway\u2019s number.\n\nHe waited a long while. He could hear the operator ringing.\n\nAt last came the final nasal verdict: \u201cThe party doesn\u2019t answer.\u201d\n\nHe hung up, drew the evening paper toward him, hesitated.\n\nGilda\u2019s maid had gone home; Gilda had gone out.... He wondered\nwhere.... It was odd, but he hadn\u2019t thought of her as having\nfriends--going about in the evenings.... Still, he had first seen her\nat Derring\u2019s.... Derring\u2019s.... Was that the sort of thing she had gone\nto?... With whom?... With Sadoul?\n\nHe spread his newspaper with decision, read the headlines\nsuccessively--read on for a while ... sat thinking with the paper\nacross his knees.\n\nThat saturnine mountebank, Sadoul!... Clever, always; but always a\ncharlatan.... Yet not entirely a fakir.... Derring had been clay\nin Sadoul\u2019s hands that evening at the Fireside Club.... And as for\nthe--whatever it was--vision, or image--the shape he saw--_thought_ he\nsaw.... Of course that was some sort of mental suggestion--hypnotic\nsuggestion--something of that sort----\n\nAn impertinent thing for Sadoul to do.... Clever, of course--a\ntrick.... But outrageous to evoke--project--materialise--or rather,\nmentally suggest, to him such an aspect of Gilda.... That sensual,\nwanton-eyed, languid girl with her heavier limbs and her thick red\nlips----\n\nHe picked up his newspaper, tried hard to read it, flung it onto the\nsofa, and went to the telephone.\n\nHer number did not answer.\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER XV\n\n\nThe firm of Sutton & Son, while solvent, had been hard hit. All honest\nbusiness was in the same pickle or in a worse one.\n\nThrough a murk of business despair the miserable year approached its\nend. The national administrative body, too, like a dying rat, was\nnow nearing dissolution--with kicks and jerks and spasms from the\nintellectual tatterdemalions who composed the vital parts of it.\n\nDistant, still, loomed the incoming administration. It was too early\nto expect--perhaps even too early to hope--that the scandalous\ninequality of taxation might be remedied--that economical decency\nmight prevail, founded upon a budget system--that universal service,\nmilitary and civil, might unify the nation and make it secure and\nself-respecting--that an international tribunal, reserving national\nself-determination, and backed by proper means to enforce its verdicts,\nmight be erected upon the ruins of the ridiculous league which the\nnation had repudiated.\n\nPerhaps such a programme was too much to hope for, judging from the\ncongressional scum still stagnating in what had become the national\ndisposal plant.\n\nAnd New York was depressed with the approach of a blue Christmas, a\nbluer New Year, and prospects of the very bluest blue.\n\nAnd, among others, Sutton & Son paid the fourth quarter of its income\ntax and found that it had nothing left to lay aside.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo the Year of Graft was closing amid a mess of scandals--municipal,\nindustrial--all the old symptoms of corruption, and a few new ones.\n\nA good man is a good thing; and the American people, who love good\nthings, gorge themselves, over-eat, spew it up, and blame the good\nthing.\n\nSo went the greatest modern American; so went the best modern mayor of\nGotham; and the American people turned gratefully to their swill again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nStuart had come uptown early, aghast at the future taxes to be faced,\nterribly depressed by a long consultation with his bankers and the\nutter impossibility of obtaining sufficient financial aid.\n\nBut he had no intention of carrying such a face home. He continued on\nuptown, trying to walk himself into a glow of cheerfulness.\n\nBut the crowds on Fifth Avenue lent him no countenance; it was a\nnoticeably subdued throng, in spite of the late sunshine--not the\nbustling, cheery, complacent crowd that, in former years, stimulated\nalready by the distant prospect of Christmas, surged gaily north and\nsouth along acres of gilded grilles and plate glass.\n\nHe thought he would go as far as The Province Club--that dull oasis of\nsocial respectability usually avoided by its members--but the sight of\nit annoyed him and he kept on.\n\nSunset still reddened the western wastes of Jersey as he entered the\nPark.\n\nBut there the sheer dreariness of everything halted him.\n\nA first and sure symptom of hidden corruption is municipal neglect of\nthe Park.\n\nDead trees stood everywhere. The long row of elms stretching up Fifth\nAvenue, decimated, had been replaced by wretched little elms, instead\nof the only tree suitable--the sycamore.\n\nUntidy scraps of paper fluttered over path and grass; untidy employees\nslouched and dawdled and puttered among eroded hillocks and crippled\nvegetation.\n\nHigh in the sunset sky sea-gulls passed over toward the reservoirs and\nNorth River; and across dead grass starlings walked and chilly sparrows\nhopped and quarrelled.\n\nStuart turned back again into the shabbiest metropolis in the\nworld--but a good enough city for its fool inhabitants--and, not\nknowing where to take such a solemn face as he wore, walked on at\nhazard, infinitely depressed by the dinginess of life.\n\nWith the crowd he waited while the glare in the traffic-towers died out\nand a crimson lens and a green one signalled cross-street vehicles to\nmove. Then, as the white flare played out once more over the Avenue,\nhe walked on mechanically, a prey to sinister reflections, noticing no\npassing face, no lighted window, nothing specific in the moving swarm\nor in the glass corridors through which it poured.\n\nAt Forty-second Street, traffic having halted, he turned to cross to\nthe west side of the Avenue. Somebody, crossing eastward, nodded,\npassing him. As he took off his hat and turned to identify her, she\nalso looked back.\n\n\u201cGilda!\u201d he exclaimed, retracing his steps to join her.\n\nShe was in black and white and wore silver-fox and violets--a slender,\nelegant figure of Gotham type indigenous nowhere else on earth.\n\n\u201cAre you shopping?\u201d he asked, \u201cor are you homeward bound--or elsewhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m homeward bound, Mr. Sutton. Will you walk with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I may.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course.... It\u2019s two weeks since I have heard a single word from\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo weeks ago tonight I telephoned you,\u201d he retorted bluntly.\n\nShe frowned, considering, trying to recollect. \u201cTwo weeks ago\n_today_?\u201d Suddenly she remembered, with a rush of vivid colour to her\ncheeks.\n\n\u201cI called you at eight-thirty, and again at ten,\u201d he went on; \u201cbut your\nhouse did not answer.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry.... My maid sleeps out....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou also must have been out.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d She offered no further information. Her affairs were, obviously,\nnone of his business; yet once more he felt that slight resentment, as\nthough some explanation were due him.\n\nAt the corner of Thirty-fifth Street she stopped in the glare of the\nshow windows.\n\nAfter a moment\u2019s hesitation, she offered her white-gloved hand.\n\n\u201cAre you dismissing me?\u201d he asked good-humouredly.\n\n\u201cWhy, no,\u201d she said with a quick blush, \u201c--if you care to--remain with\nme----\u201d\n\n\u201cShall we dine somewhere and go to a show, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d love to; only, you see ... my maid already is preparing dinner.\u201d\nThere was a pause: she looked away from him, hesitated, added shyly:\n\u201cWould you care to dine with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you really want me again?\u201d he laughed.\n\nShe looked up, smiling: \u201cI\u2019m dying to have you,\u201d she said. \u201cYou know\nit.\u201d\n\nThe winning candour of the girl enchanted him, quickening the dull mind\nand heart he had carried about with him all day long.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re charmingly generous,\u201d he said, walking on beside her; \u201cit\nhasn\u2019t been a very gay day down town and I\u2019m not in extravagantly high\nspirits.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m so sorry. I\u2019ll try--try to----\u201d\n\n\u201c----To put me in boisterous humour?\u201d he inquired.\n\nThey both laughed as they climbed the dusky stairway to her apartment.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll try to be cheerful anyway,\u201d she said, unlocking her door.\n\nThey went in.\n\nShe left him to look after himself and continued on toward the\nkitchen. Her maid presently appeared, turned up the lights, smiled at\nSutton, and offered conveniences to enable him to rid himself of the\naccumulated grime of Gotham.\n\nLater, when he was seated on the sofa with the evening paper, the maid\nreappeared and closed Gilda\u2019s bedroom door.\n\nHe glanced at the financial columns; and gloom returned. There was more\nunpleasantness on the front page, with its scare-heads recording graft,\nviolence, greed, at home and abroad.\n\nGilda took the usual three evening papers--the one popularly supposed\nto make vice attractive, the one notorious for making virtue odious,\nand the third unpopularly known as \u201cpink and punk.\u201d\n\nThere was nothing of merit in any of them. The same clowns conducted\nspecial sections as vehicles for a sort of mother-wit; the same critics\ndevoted the same space to exploitation of their own idiosyncrasies,\noffering the reader nothing of value concerning the books and plays\nwhich they pretended to discuss.\n\nAn incredible meanness seemed to characterise these modern\npapers; there was in them nothing generous, nothing just, nothing\nhonest--nothing, in fact, except the dreary evidence of uneducated\ncontributors and of vulgar intelligences furtively directing them.\n\nStuart\u2019s depression had now returned with a vengeance. He got up and\nbegan to walk about, nervously inspecting Gilda\u2019s household gods--the\nfew inexpensive mezzotints, the orange-tinted curtains and upholstery;\nthe silvery-green carpet, the desk of sycamore and tulip wood painted\nwith tiny flowers, where lay writing materials, wax, seal, and a\nsilver-gilt candlestick bearing a yellow taper.\n\nExcept for the Adam desk, the English mirror, and a couple of old\nSceaux figures on the mantel, there was nothing either antique or\nvaluable in the room. Yet taste and colour charm were everywhere\nevident--in the yellow Japanese bowl where flowers were growing, in the\nlamp shades, draperies, pictures.\n\nHe went to the shelf of books and looked at their titles. All were\nstandard works in French or English--dramatists, essayists, poets,\nhistorians, haphazard memoirs--Saint-Simon, Fanny Burney, Lady\nRussell, Cardinal Retz, Evelyn, Pepys--a sprinkling of dictionaries\nand reference books--all of Tennyson, all of Shakespeare, volumes of\nColeridge, Keats, Robert Browning, the Laus Veneris--all of Moli\u00e8re,\nsome of Racine, Musset, Hugo--but nothing modern save Rostand and\nMaeterlinck.\n\nAnd among all there was not one unused volume, nor one doubtful or\nunhealthy or degenerate book--no fiction later than Dickens, Scott,\nThackeray, Hugo and Dumas, except the Belgian mystic and the great\nFrench poet.\n\nThe whole place, in fact, gave Stuart an odd sensation of having seen\nsuch a room somewhere else.\n\nHe said so when Gilda\u2019s door opened and she came forward in a black\ndinner gown, smiling inquiringly as though to ask him how he had spent\nthe time awaiting her.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s so comfortable--all this----\u201d he indicated the ensemble.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s cheerful, isn\u2019t it?\u201d she assented, pivoting to review the\nfamiliar place.... \u201cThere was a room in my father\u2019s house in London----\n... I tried to make this look a little like it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s probably what I feel,\u201d he nodded; \u201c----it\u2019s like a room in\nan English home.... And as for you, Gilda, you are very beautiful in\nblack; do you know it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she said, laughing. \u201cI don\u2019t.\u201d\n\nAll men like feminine youthfulness in black, but feminine youthfulness\nusually avoids black until it becomes inadvisable to wear it.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re lovely,\u201d he repeated. \u201cI once thought you very fetching in\ngreen, but you\u2019re adorable in black.\u201d\n\nShe gave him a demure glance to see if he were in earnest, and, seeing\nthat he was, turned happily to nod to Freda, then took his offered arm\nlightly, with exaggerated ceremony.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019re to dine on last night\u2019s turkey, my poor friend; do you mind?\u201d\nshe explained gaily, as Freda set the better part of a fine roasted\nbird in front of Stuart.\n\n\u201cThe wonder to me is that anybody can afford turkey,\u201d he remarked,\npreparing to carve.\n\n\u201cOh, this bird was a present. It\u2019s a wild turkey. I have some mallard\nducks, too, in the ice chest, and several quail.\u201d\n\nAlways it seemed to surprise him to discover that Gilda had other\nfriends than himself. He wondered who had sent her the game--a man, of\ncourse, and, of course, a wealthy one. Always, too, the slightest sense\nof uneasiness accompanied such discovery--perhaps with the memory of\nDerring\u2019s party in mind--the memory of Sadoul, too, and of Pockman, and\nall that irresponsible, over-accented crew of irregulars from which,\nsooner or later, are recruited the frail battalions of Cytherea.\n\nYet why he should make it a personal matter at all was not clear to\nhim: it was none of his concern what friends this young girl had--this\ngirl whose status had seemed more or less obvious when he first met\nher, and afterward anything but obvious.\n\nFor since then he had come to realise that he knew absolutely nothing\nabout her--that he never had encountered any prototype with which to\ncompare her.\n\nOnly one thing seemed evident; she didn\u2019t belong to Sadoul; she didn\u2019t\nbelong in the Cytherean element where he had found her. He simply\ncouldn\u2019t determine what might be her proper habitat, or to what genus\nto assign her.\n\nGilda was gaily animated during dinner--having discovered that shooting\ninterested her somewhat subdued guest.\n\nAnd presently Stuart warmed up, stimulated by her tactful questions;\nand he began to tell her all about the game club in Virginia of which\nhe and his father were members, and about the upland and water shooting\nto be had there--the live decoys and how they were cared for, handled,\nand bred; the kennels, and how promising pups were trained--all the\ngossip and lore of masculine haunts whither man repairs to shoot and\ndrink and gamble and sprawl and gossip with his brother man.\n\nAfter dinner she was still the interested hostess whose light, swift\nresponse to the voluble mood she had evoked in him gave him no interval\nfor gloomy reaction.\n\nBut reaction was inevitable; it was coming now. Aware of it, she went\nto the piano and started midway in one of those vivid, impetuous\nHungarian fragments, wild as a Tzigane\u2019s frolic where the flashing\nskirts reveal a knife in every garter.\n\nHe leaned moodily on the piano, passing his fingers through his crisp,\nblond hair, his gaze absently following her flying hands hovering like\nwhite moths above the keys.\n\nStopping capriciously, she rose and reached over for a pile of tattered\nmusic; but his hand checked hers; held it.\n\n\u201cI want to talk to you, Gilda.\u201d\n\nShe nodded, came from behind the piano: \u201cPlease don\u2019t look so worried,\nMr. Sutton. Can\u2019t I make you forget for a while?\u201d\n\nThey had seated themselves on the lounge where her prim cushions stood\nin a tidy row.\n\n\u201cAnyway,\u201d she said, \u201cyour troubles can not be really vital.\u201d\n\nHe looked at her with sudden curiosity:\n\n\u201cNo, they are not vital. Are _yours_?\u201d\n\n\u201cMine?... I have no troubles.\u201d\n\nAfter a silence she said lightly, but with an effort: \u201cAnyway, we are\nnot going to compare troubles this evening, I hope. Otherwise, I\u2019m a\nmiserable failure at amusing you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not thinking of my own troubles, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have not asked you to concern yourself with mine,\u201d she said coolly.\n\n\u201cIs that a snub?\u201d\n\nShe flushed: \u201cDo you think I could afford to snub my only friend in New\nYork?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have other friends, haven\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders and her head remained lowered.\n\n\u201cYou never speak of your friends to me, Gilda,\u201d he added.\n\n\u201cDo you speak of yours to me, Mr. Sutton?\u201d\n\nNaturally he had not. There had been no reason to--no point of contact\nor of interest, of course, between the people he knew and a girl he had\npicked up at Derring\u2019s.\n\nShe lifted her head and looked at him gravely:\n\n\u201cI am not interested in your friends. As for the people I know, I do\nnot believe they would interest you. They scarcely even interest _me_,\u201d\nshe added with a ghost of a smile.\n\n\u201cDo _I_ interest you, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo _I_ interest _you_, Mr. Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cMore than--than I can find words to tell you,\u201d he blurted.\n\n\u201cOh.... There\u2019s a dictionary in my bookcase--if you require words----\u201d\n\nHe turned very red.\n\n\u201cTo aid your limited vocabulary,\u201d she explained, already uneasy at her\nown badinage. But the next second he was laughing, and she seemed much\nrelieved.\n\nHer unexpected and delicate impertinence, and now her confused smile,\nenchanted him.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t need your dictionary,\u201d he said, \u201cto say you\u2019re the most\ncharming girl I ever knew--and that\u2019s how much you interest me!\u201d\n\nHe took one of her hands. She suffered it to remain in his possession\nbut gave him a sweet, confused look, utterly irresistible to\nsentimental youth.\n\nLike the majority of young men under similar circumstances, he had no\nparticular intentions when he drew her forward into his arms and kissed\nher. She shook her head, averted her face; but he tipped her head back\nagainst him; and she remained so, restless, unresponsive, silent.\n\nA little flame flickered in the boy\u2019s heart and stole through his\nveins, hurrying the rhythm of every pulse. The faint, warm scent of her\nrestless head--the softness of her body--were thrilling him; but he\ntried to speak lightly:\n\n\u201c----There was once a little Queen in Green who returned a kiss I gave\nher----\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t--any more.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d he urged.\n\n\u201cBecause there is somebody else to consider!\u201d\n\nChilled, he released her. She drew away slowly.\n\n\u201cYou didn\u2019t understand me,\u201d she said, not looking at him.\n\n\u201cYou meant that there is another man to consider, didn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI meant that I must consider myself.... Indiscretion is a temptation\nwhen I\u2019m with you.\u201d\n\nHe drew a swift breath of delight and relief: \u201cBut, Gilda dear, there\nis nothing to be afraid of with me!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you know?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause there\u2019s nothing rotten about me----\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you know there isn\u2019t about _me_?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d he cried incredulously; and caught her in his arms, laughing,\ndrawing her closer.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d he said gaily, holding her imprisoned, \u201care you afraid any more?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou weren\u2019t afraid at Derring\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.... But--that was before I--I died.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, Gilda?\u201d he demanded.\n\nShe said almost fiercely: \u201cBecause I _do_ care for you, I\u2019ve got to\ntell you everything, I suppose!... I wasn\u2019t afraid for myself that\nnight at Derring\u2019s.... I was merely bashful and stupid about it. But\n_now_, I\u2019m afraid.... Because I--I am _not_ that same girl you kissed\nat Derring\u2019s. That girl died.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! Do you actually believe you died that night?\u201d\n\n\u201cI _know_ I died.... And when my soul--or whatever it is called--tried\nto re\u00ebnter my body she found another occupant there!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnother--soul?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, a stranger. My own soul drove her out! I _saw_ that other one.\nShe was a sly, supple, beastly thing; and she struggled to stay....\nI might as well tell you, too, that she often comes back, slinking\naround, lurking about to get possession.... I suppose you\u2019ll think me\ninsane to tell you this. But--I like you--so much--that I had to tell\nyou.... And that\u2019s why I\u2019m afraid--to let you--touch--me----\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens, Gilda,\u201d he said, \u201cthis is a sort of waking nightmare--an\nobsession----\u201d\n\n\u201cI knew you wouldn\u2019t understand.... Ask Sadoul, then----\u201d\n\n\u201cSadoul!\u201d And all at once he remembered the shadow-shape he saw on the\nlounge beside Sadoul that night at the Fireside.\n\nA sudden, raging curiosity seized him, overwhelmed him, to learn\nmore--if there was more to learn--if, indeed, there was anything at all\nreal and coherent in this wild absurdity he had listened to.\n\nHe said: \u201cSadoul is a clever fakir--I suppose he hypnotised me--for\nhe once showed me something that vaguely resembled you--parodied you,\nGilda, in a rather dreadful way----\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen?\u201d she whispered.\n\nHe told her everything briefly. \u201cIf that\u2019s the thing you\u2019re afraid\nof,\u201d he added, \u201cmake yourself easy, Gilda, for it\u2019s not real; it\u2019s not\na spirit; it\u2019s nothing but a rather beastly brain-figment shaped by\nSadoul\u2019s mind. By hypnotic suggestion he made me see it, too. That\u2019s\nall there was to that affair.\u201d\n\nShe sat white, drooping, silent--not resisting when he drew her to him.\n\n\u201cYou mustn\u2019t be afraid,\u201d he said. \u201cYou didn\u2019t really die, of course.\nNothing threatens your soul, or mine.\u201d\n\nShe looked up, still very white; he put one hand behind her head, but\nshe turned her cheek to his kiss, shivering in his arms.\n\n\u201cI tell you,\u201d she said in a low, hurried voice, \u201cthat the _Other One_\nis watching us. I\u2019ve got to be on my guard----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou darling. You need not be----\u201d\n\n\u201cStuart!--for God\u2019s sake--listen----\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you afraid to let me kiss you, you adorable child?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes! And I\u2019m afraid to tell you--tell you what I\u2019ve got to tell you,\nnow--that it was not I who called you on the telephone two weeks ago.\nIt was the _Other One_! It was--it was _that thing you--you saw seated\nbeside Sadoul_!\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you mad?\u201d\n\nShe said desperately: \u201cI\u2019m trying to tell you something terrible that\nhas happened to me. I\u2019m trying to tell you that my own soul had been\ndriven out of me when I telephoned you, and that the _Other_ was in\npossession!\n\n\u201cAnd--and not finding you, that _Other One_ called Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cSadoul!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy God, yes! But only to mock and torment him--not for the reason that\nI--that _it_ called you.... I want you to listen to me, Stuart....\nSadoul came here that evening. I was waiting and ready, burning, the\nvery devil in me. We dined at the Palais Royal--danced. Then there were\nother places.... And later a party at Harry Stayr\u2019s.... I drank enough\nto terrify myself.... It was daylight before the dance ended. I don\u2019t\nknow what I said to the men there or the women. Women still call me up\nevery day. Men send flowers and ask me to dinner. One of them sent me\nthat game from the South.... And that\u2019s what I did!--God knows why!...\n_Now_, do you want to kiss me? Do you want to touch me? Do you care to\nchance what might happen if the _other_ caught us off our guard?\u201d\n\nHis face had become ghastly. He got up from the sofa, took an uncertain\nstep toward the door; looked back at her in horror; and saw her eyes\nblinded with welling tears.\n\n\u201cI had to tell you,\u201d she said.... \u201cYou won\u2019t care to--to see me again,\nwill you?... Because I told you I was afraid--if you kiss me--you might\nfind the--the _Other One_ in your arms----\u201d\n\nHe came back to her in a sudden passion:\n\n\u201cI\u2019d better look after you, I think, if you\u2019re likely to make another\nnight of it!\u201d\n\n\u201cStuart--do you care?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, damn it! You don\u2019t belong on Broadway. You don\u2019t belong at\nDerring\u2019s or at Harry Stayr\u2019s! I don\u2019t know what this crazy obsession\nof yours amounts to.... It can\u2019t be true. There are no such things as\nmalign spirits watching to possess and destroy anybody.... And God\nknows _I_ shan\u2019t ever harm you--Gilda--Gilda!----\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XVI\n\n\nWhen Stuart Sutton told Gilda Greenway that he intended to keep an eye\non her, he meant it.\n\nHer own account of her behaviour surprised and disconcerted him. He\nhadn\u2019t supposed she was likely to do that sort of thing; yet, after all\nthere was no reason for him to think otherwise.\n\nSomehow, his boyish egotism persuaded him that he had become a factor\nin Gilda\u2019s career. He had airily taken it for granted that, since their\nencounter at Derring\u2019s, the girl had lost interest in other parties and\nother men.\n\nHer description of her conduct had jarred, disappointed, even irritated\nhim, although he realised it was none of his business.\n\nHowever, all that was one thing; and her amazing belief in her\nspiritual peril was another.\n\nUndoubtedly the girl\u2019s dread was genuine. There could be no question\nthat she believed herself to be threatened by what she called the\n_Other One_.\n\nSutton had heard The Talkers talk about \u201cpossession\u201d--the temporary\nbut repeated seizure of the human body by mischievous disincarnate\nintelligences, when that human body was in a defenceless state due to\nphysical insensibility, either healthy or morbid.\n\nScience recognised the phenomenon, examples of which varied. The\npersonalities of the subjects \u201cpossessed\u201d were as far apart as Mr. Hyde\nand Sir William Crooke\u2019s pretty little helpmeet in her teens.\n\nHypnotic and psychic phenomena, in their sensational aspects, interest\neverybody.\n\nStuart Sutton had read a little--and superficially--concerning the\nlatter subject. He had heard The Talkers arguing about it. It was the\nfashion to take it seriously. Stuart so took it.\n\nLike the majority of people, he also concluded that individual survival\nafter death, even if not scientifically proven, was safely to be\nassumed as a fact. He had really never doubted anything about it\nexcept its orthodoxy. The indestructibility of that living, individual\nintelligence we call the soul is a belief necessary to the world\u2019s\nmoral health.\n\nBut to Stuart, as to the majority, the soul is a widely different thing\nfrom the physically living being which harbours it.\n\nModern scientific investigators, however, seem to think otherwise.\nAmong these were Sidney Pockman and Casimir Sadoul.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nStuart came into the Fireside Club for dinner one wet, windy night,\ntired from a bad day down town, where the banks cared to lend little\nmoney and everybody wore long faces and stocks had tumbled from seven\nto ten points at closing.\n\nThe boy was nervous, depressed, needed a cheerful face and voice, and\nfound neither. He had called Gilda on the telephone but her maid said\nshe was dining out--another disconcerting item in the long day\u2019s list.\n\nHis father and mother had gone to California; he dreaded a solitary\ndinner alone; the dull, pompous atmosphere of the Province Club\nrepelled him; it lay between the Harvard and the Fireside; and he chose\nthe latter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe noticed Sadoul and Pockman dining together at a small table, and it\nrelieved him to know that Gilda was dining with neither.\n\nHe exchanged nods with them. Pockman looked as unhealthy as usual.\nSadoul\u2019s long, dark visage seemed thinner and more shadowy, and his\neyes smouldered like a man\u2019s sick with fever.\n\nDerring was there in evening dress with Julian Fairless; Lyken wore a\ndressing gown and slippers, and was talking animatedly to Harry Stayr\nover a chafing-dish full of shrimps and whitebait.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no doubt,\u201d he was saying, \u201cthat consciousness remains in the\nbrain for an appreciable time after death. A swiftly severed head is\nperfectly conscious of its own ghastly predicament--the guillotine\nexperiments have suggested that--and now it has been proven in our\nresearch laboratories.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Stayr, busy with his food, as always, \u201cwhat happens to\nthe wretched boob in the chair at Sing Sing when the State Electrician\npulls the lever? Does he know he\u2019s dead?\u201d\n\n\u201c_The mind knows._\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat? With all those volts tearing tissues to pulp and vapour?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t kill the indestructible,\u201d insisted Lyken. \u201cYou can kill\nthe body, all right; but it takes time for the \u2018soul\u2019 to leave it....\nSometimes quite a long time even when bodily death is instantaneous.\u201d\n\nStuart, listening to the cheerless conversation, finished his dinner\ngloomily and went into the great main room to smoke.\n\nHere, by the fire, The Talkers, as usual, had gathered to \u201ctell the\nworld.\u201d\n\nThere seemed to be nothing they did not know. And there was nothing\nanybody else knew. They were there to persuade, to explain, to\ncontrovert. They were The Talkers, and they were there to talk.\n\nYet, before these men joined the Ancient and Unmitigated Order of\nTalkers, many among them had promised brilliancy in their several\nprofessions--science, art, literature, medicine, the law.\n\nBut talk is a stealthy and subtle malady which, discounting\ninitiative, infects talent and ability, gradually renders them\nsterile, paralyses action, and ultimately atrophies all functions\nexcept the vocal.\n\nStuart listened to The Talkers for a while; but action down town had\nalready satiated him. He got up and went slowly into another room,\nwhere a cannel-coal fire burned in a smoke-blackened grate. Nobody else\nwas there. He dropped into a deep leather armchair, as though very\ntired.\n\nHe may have fallen into a light sleep. Something caused him to open\nhis eyes. A cake of fat coal had crumbled, blazing with a sort of\nfrying-crackle as the flames set shadows dancing on the wall.\n\nOne of these shadows seemed to detach itself--a shape seated in sombre\nsilhouette before the fire. And, as Sutton looked, he saw it was\nSadoul\u2019s dark head resting against his hand, redly edged with firelight.\n\nStuart broke the silence: \u201cI\u2019ve been asleep, I think. When did you come\nin?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot long ago.\u201d\n\nNeither spoke for some minutes. Then Sadoul turned slightly in his\narmchair:\n\n\u201cDo you want to talk, Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a person who seems to cause some little feeling between you\nand me. I suppose you guess who I mean.\u201d\n\n\u201cLittle Miss Greenway?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. I thought I\u2019d speak of her----\u201d Sadoul half rose from the\ndepths of his chair and turned full on Stuart: \u201cI thought I\u2019d be\ncircumspect--beat about the bush--convey, intimate--as well bred men\nhandle such matters--that possibly you are seeing Gilda Greenway\noftener than might be good for her.\u201d\n\nStuart bade him go to the devil in a low voice.\n\nSadoul slowly shook his head.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he said, \u201cthat gets us nowhere. And I\u2019m not going about the\nmatter politely, either: I\u2019m going to speak quite plainly if you\u2019ll\nlisten. Will you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d\n\n\u201cTry. It\u2019s better to understand each other. May I speak?\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, there\u2019s no use in telling you that I\u2019ve been in love with Gilda\nGreenway from the moment I laid eyes on her----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou left her lying alone in Derring\u2019s bed when you thought she was\ndead.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know what you think----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou went downstairs to dance!\u201d\n\n\u201cI went downstairs to--kill myself.\u201d\n\nSutton sat up and shot an incredulous look at Sadoul.\n\n\u201cI went into the wash-room,\u201d said the latter quietly. \u201cI had a gun--and\nthere was a convenient mirror there.... Pockman stopped me and tried\nto take my gun. We discussed the chances of gland grafting. I\u2019d seen\nhim resurrect dead rats. So I thought I\u2019d wait and see.... After the\noperation Pockman discovered my gun in my overcoat pocket, and he took\nit and drove to his laboratory.\n\n\u201cWhen I found the gun was missing, I suspected Pockman and I took a\ntaxi after him. All I wanted was the gun. I was willing to go back to\nGilda and wait the limit before killing myself. I didn\u2019t want to die\nif she was coming back. But Pockman tricked me into his dark room and\nturned the key on me.... That\u2019s the story. Ask Pockman if you care to.\u201d\n\nSutton listened sullenly, not doubting the explanation, and not much\npleased with it, either.\n\n\u201cWell, what else?\u201d he asked bluntly. \u201cI\u2019m not concerned with your\nmorbid emotions, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose not. It was merely to make the case clearer. I want to\nclarify it still more. You speak of morbid emotions. My emotions are\nnormal. I\u2019m terribly in love.\n\n\u201cAnd I want to tell you a little about Gilda----\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want to hear anything that does not concern me----\u201d\n\n\u201cIt _does_ concern you----\u201d\n\n\u201cOr anything of a private nature in any way reflecting on her----\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t lie about women. I don\u2019t even tell the truth if it\u2019s\nunsavory,\u201d said Sadoul coolly.\n\nThat was his reputation.\n\nSutton shrugged acquiescence, muttering something about lack of\ninterest. But his boy\u2019s mind was flaming with interest if not with a\ncuriosity more vulgar.\n\nSadoul said: \u201cThe instant I set eyes on her I was in love. I couldn\u2019t\nhelp it. I wanted her or I didn\u2019t want to live.\n\n\u201cI couldn\u2019t help the nature of my passion. It suffocated me. I strove\nto involve her, to envelop her in it--not conscious, so help me God,\nthat it was hypnosis, mostly, that caught and held her.\n\n\u201cOnly by degrees did I realise it was mostly hypnosis that made her\nso exquisitely pliant, so docile. I tell you I had not consciously\nexercised any such power, in the beginning.\n\n\u201cThe awakening was for me. It was not--pleasant.... It was less\nagreeable when I did use that force to awake the child to normal\nlife.... My God, Sutton, when I discovered that the real Gilda cared\nnothing for me----\u201d\n\nHe sat twisting his lank limbs and bony fingers like some living\ngargoyle in torment.\n\n\u201cMy God,\u201d he said, \u201cmy God!... Well--I used the hypnotic force that was\nin me. I sent her back into the negative state.... And she was pliant\nagain--in a way.... We were together.... I know she likes my mind. I\u2019m\nintelligent. We went about together all the time.... She was amused.\n\n\u201cThen came a time when she had to go to England. A matter of\nproperty--attorneys to consult.... And I meant to tell you, every day\nor so there were terrible scenes if I let her slip back to normal even\nfor a minute....\n\n\u201cAfter she returned from England I did everything desperation suggested\nto an unscrupulous man crazed with passion. I threw the hypnotic switch\nwide open. I gave her every volt I could control.... Because there is\nno other woman for me. Never will be. It\u2019s Gilda or none.\u201d\n\nHe sat in silence for a very long time. Then he rose stiffly, his\nshoulders sagging.\n\n\u201cSometimes,\u201d he said, \u201cit does not take long to die. But it always\ntakes time for the indestructible life-principle to disengage itself\nfrom the body. If you think I speak at random, I can show you\nphotographs of the process. It\u2019s a curious affair--not resembling the\nescape of the moth from its chrysalis--not a metamorphosis----\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you trying to make me understand that the soul has been\nphotographed while leaving the body?\u201d demanded Sutton.\n\n\u201cMany times, recently; photographed, and also seen.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve seen it?\u201d\n\n\u201cSeveral times.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou talk very carelessly about seeing that which the world is longing\nto believe exists.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf the world saw it the world would not believe it.... I showed you\nsomething, once. Today you do not believe you saw it.\u201d\n\nSutton flushed: \u201cI don\u2019t understand such things.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor does the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t you suggest to me what I saw?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. But it became visible to you through both hypnosis and suggestion.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, what I saw--thought I saw--was not Gilda Greenway.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot--yet.\u201d Sadoul seated himself. Suddenly he swung his long, dark\nhead toward Sutton with a movement noticeable in powerful animals\nturning ugly. His eyes were wells of depthless shadow.\n\n\u201cThe bond between a corpse and its leisurely escaping soul,\u201d he said,\n\u201cis not more essential than the occult bond which knots my being to\nGilda Greenway.\n\n\u201cDo you know that a faintly luminous umbilical cord unites the escaping\nsoul to the body? When it is finally severed the body really dies--that\nis, the brain becomes empty of its deathless principle, though the\nvarious organs of the body continue living for a day or so....\n\n\u201cThat is what will happen to me if Gilda goes out of my\nlife completely. The tenuous bond will dissolve. I shall be\ndead--_here_!----\u201d He covered his forehead with his hand.... \u201cSutton,\nis it worth while for a casual young man to interfere, wantonly?\u201d\n\nHe sat with his hand still covering his forehead, gazing vacantly in\nfront of him. After a moment the stare faded to a darker glimmer, and\nhe looked directly at Sutton.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve told you as much as suits me--not all. I\u2019ll tell you one thing\nmore: When Gilda\u2019s body was dead, I tried to hold back her escaping\nsoul-principle long enough for Pockman to operate. But it got clear\nof her body except for the umbilical cord. And, no sooner was the new\nnymphalic gland in place, than another disincarnate intelligence drew\nnear and stood watching us.\n\n\u201cI recognised it, yet never before had seen it. Astronomers know\nthat unseen stars exist. I knew this _Other One_ existed. And now I\nencouraged it to seize Gilda\u2019s body for its habitation. _That_ was the\nfigure you saw seated on the lounge near me. That\u2019s what _I_ wanted.\nAnd I aided it--tried to.... I wanted it to possess Gilda\u2019s body,\nand drive out the tenant that stood near her head, vaguely luminous,\nstill attached by the umbilical cord to the corpse.... Do you think I\nhave encouraged that _Other One_ for the pleasure of any man except\nmyself?... Do you think I have started a spiritual conflict in Gilda\nGreenway for _your_ ultimate gratification, damn you?\u201d\n\nSadoul\u2019s voice had become a whisper; his hand fell from his forehead.\nHe got to his feet again, a bent, grotesque phantom against the\ndrifting glare of flame-tinged dusk.\n\n\u201cI--thought I\u2019d say this,\u201d he muttered in an odd, querulous voice not\nlike his own, but older, and with a sort of senile quaver.\n\nSutton got up, too:\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t quite see your object in telling me these things, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think you\u2019ll see it when you reflect.... There are other women,\nSutton.... I mean for you. I hope you\u2019ll see it that way.... There are\nso many other women to play with. There are some even to fall in love\nwith.... I hope you\u2019ll see it that way, Sutton.... So--good-night to\nyou.\u201d\n\nSadoul went out through the ruddy shadows, passed without a sound\nacross the velvet carpet, loomed for an instant, a wavering shape\nframed by the doorway, and was lost somewhere in the vista of uncertain\nlight beyond.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XVII\n\n\nAt the office one afternoon Stuart discovered among his letters a note\nfrom Gilda Greenway:\n\n  \u201cDear Mr. Sutton:\n\n  Freda told me that you telephoned. I\u2019m so sorry I was out. I haven\u2019t\n  heard from you since. Are you discouraged? I thought you threatened\n  to keep an eye on me. Empty threat!\n\n                                                                 GILDA.\u201d\n\n\nHe really hadn\u2019t missed her, except when he chanced to remember her.\nRomance abhors a busy man.\n\nBut her note stirred him. He went to the inner office and called her.\n\n\u201cIs it really you?\u201d she asked in the gayest of voices.\n\n\u201cCertainly. Are you all right?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d she mimicked him; \u201care you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou sound very frivolous.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am--being no longer in dread of that threatened eye.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you been going to parties?\u201d\n\n\u201cNow and then.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you seen Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cOui, monsieur.\u201d\n\n\u201cI supposed you weren\u2019t going to.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy did you suppose that?\u201d\n\n\u201cOn account of his--influence----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d she said carelessly, \u201cthat is of no use to him. Besides, it\u2019s\nworn out. I\u2019ve grown up. On one of my minds he has no longer any\ninfluence; and he\u2019s afraid of my other mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose you know what you mean,\u201d he said curtly.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t that a trifle impertinent, Mr. Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo am I.... But it\u2019s over now. What a wonderful day it is--the bluest\nsky and the air like champagne. I\u2019m riding this afternoon. I wish you\nwere.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you a horse?\u201d he asked, surprised.\n\n\u201cOh, no, just an Academy nag. Could you ride with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m nailed down here at the office until six.\u201d\n\nShe waited. He said no more.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d she said, \u201cif you care to see me, sometime, you\u2019ll do it, I\nsuppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you care?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do. But I\u2019ve concluded that your Guardian Eye is otherwise occupied.\nThere are _so_ many girls in the world! To keep watch on all his\nfriends, a modern young man ought to have more eyes than Argus----\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you going home after your gallop?\u201d\n\n\u201cVeronica Weld asked me to tea.\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t know you knew her.\u201d\n\n\u201cI met her at Katherine Ashley\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe devil! Do you know her, too?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou speak as though you didn\u2019t consider me presentable.\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense. I didn\u2019t know you went about with those people; that\u2019s all.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne must go where one is asked or remain a recluse.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose Derring and Warne and Fairless--all that crowd--will be\nthere.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cAt your confounded tea.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you come and get me?--unless you are otherwise engaged----\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be there at six-thirty to keep an eye on you, as I threatened.\u201d\n\n\u201cShall we dine--at--home?\u201d\n\nHer charming yet diffident acknowledgment of intimacy surprised and\ntouched him. He began to realise how impatient he was becoming to see\nher again.\n\n\u201cThat will be fine!\u201d he exclaimed, with all his former enthusiasm. \u201cI\nhave missed you, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re not obliged to say that merely because I have happened to miss\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you really? What an engaging child you can be----\u201d\n\n\u201cVery full of engagements this afternoon. I\u2019ve a taxi, now, spinning\nmoney down in the street. Will you really come to Veronica Weld\u2019s for\nme at six-thirty?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou bet----\u201d\n\n\u201cAu revoir, donc----\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt six he left the office and departed for home in the family\nlimousine. All the way uptown he thought of Gilda, sentimentally.\n\nIn high spirits, he took a red-hot bath and then an icy one; got into\nfresh linen and a dinner coat, and drove to Central Park, West, where\ndwelt Veronica Weld in a studio apartment overlooking the park.\n\nVeronica, always fair, and now becoming plump, had stepped from the\nWinter Garden to the hymeneal altar with the button-headed scion of a\nwealthy New York family.\n\nScion lasted three months; then Family bought him back. And Veronica\nmaintained herself agreeably upon the net profit of the transaction.\n\nShe always had a penchant for intellectuals--which cast a raw light\nupon the scion episode--and she preferred mind to matter when she could\nafford it.\n\nA tarnished residue of Talkers was apparent when Stuart entered\nthe salon of Veronica Weld. Fashion, too, was represented in a few\nchicken-headed youths, a few rickety old sports of the Derring type,\na woman or two who haunted the outer edges of things. As for Beauty,\nit was there, also--Katharine Ashley of the Filmy Films Studios;\nEve Ferral (born O\u2019Farrel), made famous overnight as _Godiva_ in\nthe great spectacle of that name at the Palisades Palace; and there\nwere Gilda Greenway, and Frances Hazlet, the brown-eyed dancer, and\nother specimens of pulchritude, all enveloped in cigarette smoke,\nintellectual atmosphere, and pretty gowns.\n\nCups clattered, glasses tinkled accenting the tumult of The Talkers;\nDerring\u2019s falsetto titter added tintinabulation to the general jingle,\nin the midst of which Stuart made his bow to Veronica and received her\ntapering hand heavy with rings.\n\n\u201cToujours rondelette?\u201d he murmured with debonaire impudence, saluting\nthe most expensive ring.\n\n\u201cOld stuff, my dear,\u201d returned Veronica, unruffled; \u201cthe squelette is\nd\u00e9mod\u00e9.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re prettier than ever, Nika; the struggle with mighty intellects\nagrees with you.\u201d\n\nShe opened her fan and said confidentially: \u201cTake it from me, Stuart,\nit\u2019s the baby-doll that\u2019s crazy for knowledge, not the girl born to\nMiss Spence\u2019s. No Johnny believes that, but it\u2019s true seven times in\nten.\u201d\n\nHe smiled incredulously, declined the offered tea-cup, spoke to one\nor two people near him, stepped aside and gazed about him to discover\nGilda.\n\nThere she was, cornered by Stayr with a plate of cake, and otherwise\nhemmed in by Pockman and Fairless, with Sadoul looming darkly in the\nbackground.\n\nShe wore black and white and her silver fox with somebody\u2019s orchids.\nShe caught his eye, smiled and made a slight gesture of recognition.\n\nWhen he came up and spoke to her, Stayr said: \u201cYou\u2019re as popular as a\nrattlesnake, Stuart. Aren\u2019t there any other girls in the room?\u201d\n\nPockman said to Gilda: \u201cGood-bye, then, and don\u2019t forget your promise.\nIt means a lot to a poor devil of a doctor.\u201d\n\nFrances Hazlet drifted by, shook hands vigorously with Stuart, and\ndrifted on with Stayr and Julian Fairless in tow.\n\nAs Pockman left, Sadoul crossed over, nodded to Stuart and said to\nGilda in a low voice: \u201cI\u2019ve a table at the Palais des Miroirs and\ntheatre tickets--if you are free, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re busy?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\nHe stood a moment, then turned on his heel without a glance at Stuart.\nThe latter followed him with his eyes and saw him seat himself near the\ndoor, beside Katharine Ashley, where departing guests were within his\nrange of vision.\n\nStuart shrugged and looked at Gilda, who understood his glance:\n\n\u201cDoes it matter?\u201d she said carelessly.\n\n\u201cNot to me.\u201d\n\nThey smiled.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d forgotten how beautiful you are,\u201d he said, \u201c----or do you really\ngrow more lovely during my absence?\u201d\n\nThis commonplace seemed to make her happy; she gave him one of those\nshy, disconcerted little laughs, but managed to sustain his gaze.\n\n\u201cAdvanced thinkers,\u201d she ventured, \u201csay that beauty is a necessity....\nYou don\u2019t seem to agree.\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I\u2019ve remained away from you, and you are Beauty?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was my deduction from your premises.\u201d\n\nThey laughed.\n\n\u201cDo you want more tea, more atmosphere, more talk,\u201d he inquired,\n\u201c----or shall we go?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you desire to converse with some of these interesting people?\u201d\nShe adjusted her furs as she spoke, seeming to expect no answer. There\nwas a slight flush on her face as she went with Stuart to make adieux\nto Veronica.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t forget you\u2019re dining with me Thursday,\u201d said the latter to\nGilda, as they turned away.\n\nSadoul\u2019s sombre eyes avoided them as they passed him.\n\nStuart wondered whether he really might turn unpleasant some day, and\nthe surmise aroused a vague anger in him.\n\nHis car was waiting.\n\n\u201cOh, is it yours?\u201d asked Gilda curiously.\n\n\u201cThe family bus,\u201d he nodded; gave directions to the chauffeur, got in\nand pulled the fur robe over Gilda.\n\nProbably the Sutton bus had never had so lovely an occupant since its\nponderous wheels first turned on Gotham asphalt.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nBy the middle of December there was some talk among The Talkers of\nStuart Sutton and little Miss Greenway.\n\n\u201cShe plays her game quietly,\u201d remarked Julian Fairless. \u201cI haven\u2019t\nanything on her. She _looks_ straight.\u201d\n\n\u201cWasn\u2019t she Sadoul\u2019s girl?\u201d asked Sam Warne.\n\n\u201cYou never can tell whose girl any girl was.\u201d\n\nStayr said: \u201cIt\u2019s usually somebody you never heard of. Possibly she\nonce made a monkey of Sadoul. Probably she\u2019s making another of Stuart\nSutton. Certainly there has been, is, and will be a simian somewhere\ncherished by her.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it\u2019s true that there are two kinds of women,\u201d observed Fairless,\n\u201cno man can guess which is which unless they tell you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s only one kind,\u201d said Stayr.\n\n\u201cYou mean potentially, I hope.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes it matter?\u201d sneered Stayr. \u201cIf you marry you\u2019re stung; if you\ndon\u2019t you\u2019re stung just the same. It\u2019s fifty-fifty however you play \u2019em\nor however they play you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYours is not an amiable philosophy,\u201d said Warne, laughing.\n\n\u201cListen, old sport, here\u2019s the true and only solution: take \u2019em easy\nwhen they come; give \u2019em three cheers when they go. The man who makes\nof woman anything more than an agreeable incident belongs to the era of\nthe Dodo. Don\u2019t try to understand her. There\u2019s nothing to understand.\nYou have only to observe her. She\u2019s utterly obvious. A protozoan is\nsubtle compared to her.\n\n\u201cShe has only one imperative function--so has a cat that fills a\nbasket full of kittens. All her habits have their origin in that single\nnecessity.\u201d\n\nThus talked The Talkers, whose necessity is to talk, and who can no\nmore escape functional destiny than can the female cat.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGilda was forming a habit of going about with Stuart more or less,\ntraversing a lively but limited orbit the centre of which was a\nsemi-intellectual coterie of unclassified modernists who knew no law\nexcept inclination.\n\nAll were opportunists, but lived up to that creed only lazily. For the\ninclination of the majority was to think idly, live idly, follow lines\nof least resistance, and balance the account with talk.\n\nGilda went with Stuart to various teas, dances, restaurants, theatres,\nexhibitions, lectures, conferences, and parties of sorts. He dined\nat her apartment now and then. Their preference for each other was\ndiscussed and the intimacy criticised with varying degrees of charity\nand cruelty.\n\nWhat perplexed people was the absence of sentimental symptoms, none, so\nfar, being apparent even to the most malicious scrutiny.\n\nAs though, in the banquet of youth, these two had begun at the wrong\nend with the dessert, and now were progressing tranquilly backward\ntoward the hors d\u2019oeuvres.\n\nEven the smouldering gaze of Sadoul detected nothing to serve as fuel\nto feed inward fires. And Stayr, utterly gross, observed them uneasily,\ndisturbed that any theory of his should be punctured with impunity.\n\n\u201cThe trouble,\u201d snickered Pockman, \u201cis with Sutton. He\u2019s one of those\ncongenital celibates. The girl really is a little devil.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the trouble then?\u201d demanded Stayr. \u201cAny girl ought to land any\nsaint.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe trouble,\u201d said Pockman, \u201cis that she knows she\u2019s a devil, and\nwatches herself.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf she\u2019s a devil she\u2019ll behave like one some day. Otherwise, what\u2019s\nthe fun in being one?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere you are, Harry. Sometimes a girl like that gets more pleasure\nout of martyrdom. And I think that\u2019s the case with Gilda Greenway.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t there any question of morals involved?\u201d inquired Warne. \u201cSome\npeople have \u2019em, in spite of what you say.\u201d\n\n\u201cNone. Chastity is an heirloom in some families--like the Hudson River\nSuttons. There are certain things such cattle _won\u2019t_ do. As for the\ngirl--well, maybe it\u2019s a moral kink--I guess she was born with the\nusual virginal instinct--but she\u2019s had a brand new fight on her hands\never since she died----\u201d\n\nHe smirked and cast a stealthy glance at the men about him. Although a\ndoer, in spite of professional fears Pockman was also a born Talker. He\ncouldn\u2019t help it. But every indulgence in garrulous dissipation brought\nhim remorse. Even now he knew he would regret what he was going to say.\nBut he said it:\n\n\u201cI gave Gilda Greenway a new nymphalic gland and started her machinery\nagain. Sadoul tried to give her a new ego. But the original ego came\nback, too; and now, I fancy, there\u2019s mental hell to pay at times.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo _you_, a reputable physician, believe that?\u201d yawned Stayr in utter\ndisgust.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m telling you what Sadoul tried to do to her. I express no personal\nopinion concerning psycho-hypnosis. I entertain none concerning any\npsychic phenomena--not even when I see examples.\u201d\n\n\u201c_What_ have you seen?\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw Sadoul photograph the exuding ego from a cadaver in St.\nStephen\u2019s Hospital.\u201d\n\n\u201cA soul?\u201d\n\n\u201cCall it that.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did it look like?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt began to exude as a tenuous vapour, very faintly luminous. After\nforty-eight minutes and some fraction it commenced to assume human\nshape. An umbilical cord was visible.... The process continued for\nseveral hours.\u201d\n\n\u201cSadoul photographed it?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe did. And when the cord dissolved and the formed ego was ready to\ndepart, Sadoul actually halted it through what seemed to be hypnotic\ncontrol.... My God,\u201d muttered Pockman, suddenly sweating at the\nrecollection, \u201cwe had that damned thing in the death-chamber for hours,\nunder Sadoul\u2019s control, and subject to his every suggestion.... I don\u2019t\nscare easily. But I got sick with--well--with superstitious fright,\nI suppose.... I believe I\u2019d have gone crazy if Sadoul hadn\u2019t let the\nthing go.\u201d\n\nPockman\u2019s flat, livid features had become viscous with unhealthy sweat.\nHe wiped his face, hunched his shoulders, and started to move away at\nhis rickety \u201cHolbein\u201d gait.\n\n\u201cGo on and tell us more about those stunts!\u201d called Sam Warne after him.\n\n\u201cGo to the devil,\u201d retorted Pockman. \u201cI\u2019m sorry I told you fellows\nanything. You\u2019re all mouth and ears and there\u2019s nothing else to you\nexcept intestines!\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere wasn\u2019t much else--merely a matter of degree. Stayr was a greater\nfeeder than Derring; the latter had the larger ear area; Fairless more\nloquacity, etc., etc.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XIX\n\n\nIt was likely to be a dull evening at the Fireside. Frances Hazlet was\ngiving a birthday party--or, rather, some kind gentleman was giving\none for her, and had taken Fantozzi\u2019s drab, demure private mansion on\nLexington Avenue.\n\nSutton had gone home from the office to dress. He was rather restless\nbecause he had not been able to get Gilda on the telephone. He dined\nalone at the Province Club, finally, but continued to haunt the\ntelephone between courses.\n\nSomething in Freda\u2019s placid responses hatched suspicion in his mind. He\nbegan to wonder if Gilda was really at home and wouldn\u2019t come to the\ntelephone. He had vaguely suspected this on other occasions, but always\nconcluded there could be no reason for such behaviour, and was ashamed\nto mention it to her.\n\nHowever, the odd suspicion returned, now, to haunt him; and, the\nProvince Club palling on him, he sent for a taxi and drove to the\nFireside.\n\nSeeing Sadoul reading in a corner relieved him, although Sadoul also\nwas in evening dress and, moreover, wore a camelia. They exchanged nods\nbut no words. Sadoul calmly turned a page in his book. Sutton sat down\nby the log fire to smoke a cigar.\n\nToward eleven Pockman came rocking in with his coattails flying, an\nopera hat crammed over his prominent ears. Sadoul laid aside his book,\ngot up and went downstairs with him.\n\nAfter that there was a gradual exodus from the club toward Fantozzi\u2019s.\nWarne went, Lyken, other men.\n\nSutton tried to read; couldn\u2019t; grew irritable; decided to go home;\ndecided not to; tried Gilda\u2019s house again, but nobody answered, not\neven Freda.\n\nHis watch seemed to have gone wrong; he discredited what it reported.\nSo he went downstairs and looked at the standard clock in the lobby;\nand discovered it was long after midnight.\n\nWhere could Gilda be? It was none of his business, which made him\nthe madder. She had decided not to go to Frances Hazlet\u2019s party. She\ndeclined his guidance thither. Had she changed her mind?\n\nHarry Stayr strolled into the cloak-room to reconstruct his white\nevening tie.\n\n\u201cGoing to Fantozzi\u2019s?\u201d he inquired, looking at Sutton in the mirror.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Stuart shortly.\n\nStayr turned, took him by the elbow; but Sutton demurred, saying he\ndidn\u2019t feel like dancing.\n\n\u201cOne can always eat and drink,\u201d observed Stayr. \u201cCome on, like a\nsport. That Esthonian Prince and his suite are there, and it\u2019s likely\nto turn lively by this time. Besides, don\u2019t you want to pay homage to\nconcentrated pulchritude?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not in the humour----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re going with _me_, old dick! Get into your bonnet!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s one o\u2019clock--nearly half past one, Harry----\u201d\n\n\u201cThose night-blooming blossoms will be in the fuller bloom! Allons!\nHoup! Come into the garden, friend. There\u2019s many a nosegay to gather at\nFantozzi\u2019s.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen they descended from their taxi there was not a gleam of light\nvisible about the house; all shades were drawn; Fantozzi\u2019s had the\naspect of a private mansion fast asleep.\n\nThey ascended the brownstone steps and rang. The door opened.\n\nInto a dim vestibule they stepped; the outer door closed; then an inner\ngrille clicked and they stepped into a glaring inferno of heat and\nnoise.\n\nFantozzi\u2019s fairly seethed with colour and turmoil; the rooms to the\nright were swarming with dancers whirling through tobacco haze, amid a\ndeafening outcrash from the energetic orchestra.\n\nUpstairs, downstairs, _on_ the stairs, everywhere were pretty\nfaces--flushed, laughing, eager faces vis-a-vis masculine and ardent\nyouth--lank youth, fat youth, chuckleheaded youth, handsome youth--and\nmiddle age, too, bearded and saturnine like Sadoul, with a half sneer\non his features--dapper and bald like George Derring yonder, capering\nwith Nikka Weld, whose bobbed hair bobbed as she danced.\n\nAnd there was his Serene Highness of Esthonia footing it\nenthusiastically with Frances Hazlet. He and his suite looked like\nRitz waiters--having no backs to their heads--but they were tenderly\ncherished by beauty, and seemed to be having a magnificent time.\n\nAlready the party had become a trifle rough. There was a girl there\nwhose partner had lifted her off the floor, and was swinging her in\ncircles, her body and legs nearly horizontal.\n\nSutton eluded collision with this pair of flying feet and backed into\nthe hallway.\n\nHere a girl he had never before beheld seized him and danced with him.\nHere, later, he encountered Frances Hazlet, who kissed him boisterously\nin return for birthday wishes.\n\nAbout that time an Esthonian fell downstairs; and Freedom was preparing\nto shriek, but he landed uninjured on the back part of his skull which\nwasn\u2019t there.\n\nThe heat and noise were bewildering. Stayr beckoned Sutton to the punch\nbowl, where his Serene Highness, encouraged by Katharine Ashley, was\nbobbing for floating strawberries, amid shouts of laughter. He lifted a\ndripping muzzle in triumph and bolted a berry.\n\n\u201cNasty beast,\u201d muttered Stayr, tucking several bottles of champagne\nunder his arm and picking up a silver ice-bucket. \u201cCome on upstairs,\nStuart, and we\u2019ll crack a quart like gentlemen.\u201d\n\nThere was tumult, too, above stairs; laughter and singing at the supper\ntables; a negro banjo trio hammering stridently; sporadic dancing and a\nriotous tendency to throw flowers and sweet-meats at all new arrivals.\n\nSutton received a heavy handful of flowers full in the face; then the\ngirl in the white dinner gown, who had hurled them, rose straight up\namong the gay and disorderly group surrounding her, pushed her way\nviolently through the throng, gained the hall, and already had started\nrunning downstairs, when Sutton caught her by the waist.\n\nBoth were breathing irregularly and fast when they confronted each\nother. Her cheeks burned crimson, and there was a scent of wine in her\nbreath.\n\n\u201cI thought you weren\u2019t coming here,\u201d he said. \u201cYou told me so.\u201d\n\n\u201c_You_ said _you_ weren\u2019t coming!\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that why _you_ came?\u201d\n\nNo answer.\n\n\u201cTell me,\u201d he insisted.\n\n\u201cYes, it is,\u201d she panted, \u201c----if you\u2019ve got to know! Please, may I\npass you----\u201d\n\n\u201cOne moment, Gilda. Where are you going?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m going home.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I\u2019ll take you----\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t wish you to!\u201d\n\n\u201cIs somebody else----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Sadoul!--if you\u2019ve got to know.\u201d\n\nThe shock left him white and silent; the girl released herself, started\nto pass him, saw his ghastly face, stopped, stood motionless and mute\nwith her green eyes fixed on him.\n\nAfter a moment she shivered as though chilled. \u201cI\u2019m safe with Sadoul,\u201d\nshe said. \u201cCan\u2019t you understand that I\u2019m safe with Sadoul when I\u2019m this\nway?\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you had too much wine?\u201d\n\nShe shook her head, set one foot on the stair below, descended another\nstep, laid her left hand on the banister, halted, looked back and\nupward.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m better off with Sadoul,\u201d she said again.\n\nHe made no answer.\n\nSuddenly she turned, sprang up the stairs and came close to him where\nhe stood on the step above her:\n\n\u201cYou are not to care what I do!\u201d she cried. \u201cLet me go home! You don\u2019t\nknow what you\u2019re doing to me!\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not holding you,\u201d he said, astonished.\n\nHer fingers tightened on the banisters. All at once her eyes were\nglittering with tears.\n\n\u201cTake me home,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI can\u2019t stand this.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean it?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes! Yes! Can\u2019t you see I do?... Only--I was safer with Sadoul....\nWhen this happens--when I\u2019m this way--I\u2019m safe with anybody except you.\u201d\n\nShe took his hands, strained them convulsively between her own. Cheeks,\neyes, lips were burning; the column of her white throat was stretched\nup toward him. For the second time in their lives she threw both arms\naround his neck and returned his kiss as passionately as he gave it.\n\nBut now the hallway was invaded by a noisy company ascending the\nstairs. The girl clung tightly to his arm as he started downward with\nher through the increasing tumult and disorder.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe was tearful, excited, incoherent, when they entered the taxi;\nalmost hysterical when they ran up the dark stairway, unlocked her\ndoor, and entered.\n\n\u201cI want you to go,\u201d she wailed. \u201cI\u2019m not myself tonight--not the girl\nyou know--not even friendly----\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be frightened. Has Sadoul tried any of his beastly tricks----\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you understand what I mean!\u201d she cried. \u201cCan\u2019t you see it\u2019s not\nI who stand here? It\u2019s that damned _Other One_!\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the thing you saw!... She\u2019ll tear my heart out for this! She\u2019ll\ntear my soul out! I\u2019m trying to tell you that we\u2019re not safe with\nher.... I\u2019m asking--you--to go----\u201d\n\nShe turned with a tragic gesture and caught her quivering face in both\nhands. He stared. After a moment she dropped her snowy, naked arms,\nmoved her lovely head until her eyes met his.\n\n\u201cI suppose you know I\u2019m in love with you,\u201d she said.\n\nWhen he could find his voice he said: \u201cDo you know that I am in love\nwith you, also?\u201d\n\n\u201cI knew it tonight, on the stairs.\u201d\n\nNeither stirred for the moment, but the boy was all a-quiver now; swept\nby his first overwhelming surge of passionate love.\n\nShe came to him and rested both white hands on his shoulders.\n\n\u201cWhat are we going to do about it?\u201d she asked.\n\nHe gazed blindly into her altered face. All the flushed and sensuous\nstigmata were there. He felt the heavy sweetness of her body; the\nlanguour of her eyes invaded him.\n\nSuddenly the clamour of the telephone filled his ears. She paid no heed\nto it; her gaze lost in his, searched deeper; her red lips, too full,\ntrembled.\n\nBut the monotonous shrilling of the telephone had partly aroused him\nto some consciousness of the world about him--to _self_-consciousness,\ntoo. And, with this confused resurrection of submerged senses,\ncame mental awakening--a glimmering recognition of facts.... Of\nindestructible facts which never change.... Old, old facts which never\ncan be ignored, never altered....\n\nThere were two things which a man of his race did not do. One of these\nhe was about to do now.\n\nHe took the girl into his arms and held her close, not kissing her.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m in love with you, Gilda,\u201d he said unsteadily.\n\n\u201cI want you to be.\u201d\n\nThere was a brief and breathless silence, filled suddenly by the racket\nof the telephone bell. The metallic outburst cleared his brain, but it\nseemed to madden hers.\n\nShe flung wide her bare arms in a sort of childish rage, her lovely\nmouth distorted.\n\n\u201cDo you hear that telephone?\u201d she cried. \u201cThat\u2019s Sadoul! And _this_ is\nwhere his damned cleverness is urging me--not into _his_ arms--into\n_yours_!----\u201d And she clasped him fiercely, strained him to her with a\nlittle cry:\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s _you_, not Sadoul! It\u2019s you! only you! Shall I prove I love you\nbetter than my soul?\u201d\n\nThe boy turned scarlet: \u201cI want--want you to marry me,\u201d he stammered.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d she exclaimed in flushed astonishment.\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t you understand?\u201d he demanded.\n\n\u201cM-marry you?\u201d she faltered. \u201c_Darling!_ What are you saying? Don\u2019t you\nknow I can\u2019t _marry_?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I _am_ married.\u201d\n\nHe gazed at her aghast.\n\n\u201cDarling! I married Sadoul in Paris ten months ago. Didn\u2019t anybody ever\ntell you?\u201d\n\nHe seemed stupefied.\n\n\u201cI thought you knew it,\u201d she repeated in a bewildered voice. \u201cThat\u2019s\nwhy I ask you what are we to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he said vacantly;.... \u201cI\u2019d better leave you alone, I\nsuppose----\u201d\n\nShe caught his lips with hers to silence him; clung closer in a passion\nof fear until again he drew her to him.\n\nShe was trembling all over now, imprisoned in his arms. After a while\nthe boy dropped his blond head beside hers, pressing his face against\nher hot cheek.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what to do,\u201d he said, \u201c----it isn\u2019t in me--it isn\u2019t in\nany of my race--to love--lawlessly....\u201d\n\nThe girl was crying silently. But when he lifted his head she looked up\nat him through her tears:\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t ever want you to see me when I am this way,\u201d she said\ntremulously. \u201cThat\u2019s why I always try to escape being with you\nwhen--when the _Other One_ is in possession--and I seem to be what I am\nnot----\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean that this other--this intruder, this strange, depraved\nintelligence--is in possession of you _now_!\u201d he demanded hoarsely.\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t you see? Look at me, Stuart. Can\u2019t you see that tonight I am\nthe--the thing Sadoul showed you?\u201d\n\nBut already he knew it was true; knew that he was in love with her even\nas he saw her now--even with this depraved intruder gazing out at him\nthrough Gilda\u2019s lovely eyes.\n\nExasperated, well nigh beside himself, he took the girl by her bare\nshoulders, violently:\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve got to free yourself,\u201d he cried; \u201cYou\u2019ve got to rid yourself of\nthis obsession--this waking nightmare. You\u2019ve got to divorce Sadoul----\u201d\n\n\u201cHe won\u2019t let me, Stuart. What can I expect from a man who trapped my\nsoul when I lay dead and sent this _other_ shameless thing into me,\nhoping it would prove a friend to him?\u201d\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t your own soul drive it out?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is fighting now.... By tomorrow, I hope----\u201d\n\n\u201cBut your mind is still your own, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy own soul controls that, always. It\u2019s the senses that the _Other_\nseizes.\u201d\n\nHe looked at her fearfully, unloosed his clasp from her waist, stepped\nbackward, passing one hand heavily across his eyes.\n\n\u201cThis is incredible,\u201d he muttered. \u201cIf it\u2019s true, it\u2019s too monstrous to\nbe without remedy.... After all, God lives--somewhere----\u201d\n\nHe pressed his hand, tight, over his eyes again.\n\n\u201cStuart?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said harshly.\n\n\u201cShall I attempt to make it clearer to you? I think I can.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d\n\nShe thought a moment: \u201cDearest, I am going to try to show you more than\nSadoul once showed you. I want you to _know_ exactly what happens to\nme. Come.\u201d\n\nShe took his hand, led him across the room, and opened her chamber door.\n\nThere was a bright ceiling lamp burning in her bedroom. She lighted the\nrose-shaded night lamp also, then pointed toward the lounge.\n\nHe seated himself. She said in a low voice: \u201cI think God will let me\nshow you.... I pray that He will.... Don\u2019t touch me--_afterward_. Don\u2019t\neven speak. Just turn out both lights and go home very quietly. Do you\npromise?\u201d\n\nHe nodded.\n\nThe girl went over to the bed and lay down on the lace counterpane,\nextending her slender figure so that she rested on her left side. Her\nleft arm lay extended; her eyes were covered by her right hand.\n\nFor a second or so she moved a little, adjusting herself; then she lay\nunstirring under the brilliant ceiling light.\n\nMinutes passed. He scarcely stirred, watching her motionless form.\nBut into his memory crowded poignant recollections of another night,\nwhen he had sat beside a dead girl until, unable to endure it, he had\ndropped on his knees beside her to ask an \u201cUnknown God\u201d for equity and\njustice.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThinking of God now, and his eyes fixed upon the still form on the bed,\nhe was suddenly aware of another person in the room--a girl, standing\nnear the fireplace.\n\nOver his neck and back and thighs slow chills crawled.\n\nShe was like Gilda; lovelier, possibly. The brilliancy of her\ncomplexion under the ceiling light--the exquisite, nameless grace of\nher somehow seemed to still the surging fear in him--quiet his pulse\u2019s\npanic.\n\nIn the flood of light where she stood there was absolutely nothing\nunreal about her. And had Gilda not been lying there on the bed he\nwould have believed this girl was she.\n\nThen, to his astonishment, she looked at him smilingly; came to him and\nrested a light hand on his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of it; he\nlooked up into her face, and felt the fragrance of her breath.\n\nThis was no phantom. Scarcely knowing what he did, he started to rise,\nand was arrested by the pressure of her hand gently resisting.\n\n\u201cYou promised,\u201d she said, smiling. The sweetness of the low voice was\nindescribable.\n\n\u201cAre you real?\u201d he asked, under his breath.\n\nShe laughed silently. \u201cOh, very,\u201d she said. \u201cTouch me.\u201d\n\nHer arms and body were warm and firm. She took his hand and placed it\nover her heart. Under it he felt the steady beating.\n\n\u201cWho are you?\u201d he whispered.\n\n\u201cI am Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen--then _what_ is that on the bed?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy home. There is an intruder in it.... Look! Do you see her lying\nthere, watching us?\u201d\n\nAnd now, beside the motionless shape on the bed, he saw another figure\nlying, half hidden, peering stealthily at him over the naked shoulder\nof the unstirring form.\n\nSlowly, furtively, its head lifted; and he recognised the sensual\nfeatures of the thing that Sadoul had made him see--the languorous\neyes, the scarlet lips, the neck too white and thick, the limbs, marble\nfair, heavy, marvellous----\n\nThe thing rose on the bed, supported by one naked arm to prop it.\nSuddenly it leaped lightly to the carpet--a living creature, breathing,\npalpable, utterly real.\n\nThe girl on the bed stirred slightly and a deep sigh escaped her.\n\nThe figure beside Stuart bent down and whispered to him to put out the\nlights and go.\n\nHe rose. The _Other One_ laughed at him; touched his face with her soft\npink fingers as he passed her to extinguish the rose-shaded night lamp.\n\nBefore he put out the ceiling light he paused, his hand on the electric\nbutton, and looked at the three he was leaving in the bedroom--leaving\nin darkness there.\n\nHe looked at the motionless form on the lace counterpane; he looked\nat the _Other One_ in all her flagrant beauty; he looked at his first\nand loveliest visitor, who returned his gaze sweetly, tranquilly,\nreassuringly.\n\nThen he switched off the light.\n\n\n\n\n                               CHAPTER XX\n\n\nIt being Saturday, and a half day down town, Stuart went to the\nFireside on pretense of lunching, but particularly to find Casimir\nSadoul.\n\nFrom his office he had tried to get Gilda on the telephone, but she\nwas still asleep. Then he called up Sadoul at his apartment and at the\noffices of one or two periodicals, without finding him.\n\nNow, at the Fireside, he learned that Pockman and Sadoul, much the\nworse for wear, had breakfasted there about noon and had gone away\ntogether.\n\nHe had left word for Gilda to call him when she awoke. She had not\ndone so. After lunch he telephoned again. Freda informed him that her\nmistress was still asleep.\n\nStuart had had no sleep, having arrived home only in time to bathe and\nchange for the office.\n\nBut it was the nerve-shattering experience with Gilda which so\ndisorganized him that he could scarcely hold a fork or lift a glass of\nwater to his lips.\n\n\u201cWhere do you suppose I could find Sadoul?\u201d he asked Dr. Lyken, later,\nin the cloak-room.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s usually at Pockman\u2019s research laboratory in the afternoon. Have\nyou ever been there, Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cSome laboratory! You know what they\u2019re up to, don\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know, vaguely, what Pockman is doing.\u201d\n\n\u201cGlands. And Sadoul has taken the other end, now. He writes his\nvitriolic stuff in the morning, and investigates psychic phenomena all\nthe afternoon. Pockman staked him.\u201d\n\n\u201cStaked him?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. Pockman has given Sadoul several rooms in the laboratory and has\nfitted them up. He must believe in such things, or he wouldn\u2019t have\nspent all that money on quarters and apparatus for that clever fakir,\nSadoul. Why don\u2019t you go over and take a slant at the place?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOver toward Fifty-seventh Street and the East River. Of course,\nI can\u2019t bring myself to subscribe to such theories and procedure,\nalthough, like the majority of scientific men, I\u2019m on the fence and\nready to be convinced.... I couldn\u2019t tell you whether there is anything\nin it or not. I don\u2019t mean Pockman\u2019s work: that\u2019s sound; I mean\nSadoul\u2019s psycho-physical research.... If you\u2019re going over, I\u2019m walking\nthat way as far as Third Avenue.\u201d\n\nThey turned east at Fifty-seventh Street.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s quite a laboratory, Sadoul\u2019s,\u201d continued Lyken. \u201cHe\u2019s got one\nmachine there invented, I understand, by Sir Oliver Lodge. It\u2019s an\namazingly delicate affair. It keeps a record of all muscular effort on\nthe part of a medium during tests. Any loss of weight, any addition,\nis accurately noted. It gives a continuous chart of temperature,\npulse, breathing. It notes all mental activity; it even photographs\nvisualisation when concentration is sufficient----\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s impossible!\u201d ejaculated Stuart.\n\n\u201cNo, it really isn\u2019t,\u201d said the other. \u201cSensitized plates wrapped in\nopaque coverings have been tried out. When the subject concentrates on\nany object there is a very good photograph of it on the plate. Which\nseems to prove that thought-waves are really projected----\u201d\n\n\u201cHave _you_ seen any?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes.\u201d\n\n\u201cMade by Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\nAfter a silence, Lyken went on:\n\n\u201cSadoul uses ultra-violet rays and quartz lenses when he takes a movie\nof any psychic proceedings.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s well equipped with x-ray apparatus, radium tubes--the latest and\nmost delicate instruments.... You know you can\u2019t help respecting a man\nwho is so patiently trying out evidence.\u201d\n\nSutton walked along in silence beside the garrulous Lyken,\nunderstanding little of what the latter was saying.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m on the fence,\u201d repeated Lyken, \u201cbut I\u2019m no bigot, and I\u2019m quite in\nfavour of research experiments along those lines--if anybody has the\ntime and the courage.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose experimenters are ridiculed.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so much, now. Too many great names are associated with the\ninvestigations--Lodge, Wallace, Crookes, Edison, Imoda, Van Zeist,\nMatla, Zaalberg--too many tremendous names to scoff at.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do they want to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s their programme: experiments in, and investigation of,\nclairvoyance, materialization, dual projection, levitation, soul\nphotography, subconscious mind, human polarity----\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what those are,\u201d interrupted Stuart bluntly.\n\n\u201cNobody does. We don\u2019t even know what the electric fluid is; we know\nonly that it\u2019s there.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt least we can see it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe can see one phase of it. The vast, overwhelming forces--energy\nand its sources--are invisible. We know them only by their results.\nI don\u2019t see why these tremendous psychic forces should be visible,\neither. One thing is certain: they\u2019re there, and we know it because of\ntheir results. The thing to do is to find out what these forces really\nare--physical or psychical--manifestations of the psychical ego, the\nmental, or the spiritual.\u201d\n\nThey paused at Third Avenue.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m taking the Elevated,\u201d remarked Lyken. \u201cAre you going to swap yarns\nwith Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what I\u2019m going to do with Sadoul,\u201d returned Stuart\nunsmilingly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPockman\u2019s laboratory consisted of several shabby old houses converted\ninto a single rambling structure facing the river.\n\nA young woman in nurse\u2019s uniform admitted him and showed him to a dingy\nwaiting-room. Pockman presently appeared in white operating costume,\nwhich became him as cerements become a corpse.\n\n\u201cGlad to see you,\u201d he smirked. \u201cWhat the hell put it into your blond\nhead to come over here?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m looking for Sadoul,\u201d replied Stuart.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s in his own section. I\u2019ll send him in----\u201d\n\n\u201cPockman--just a second.... I want to ask you something--and I\ndon\u2019t know how to put it.... Is there any actual--any scientific\nbasis--anything to be taken seriously in these psycho-hypnotic tricks\nthat Sadoul does?\u201d\n\nPockman hunched his bony shoulders and began to walk about the room in\nhis jerky, cockroach way.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know how he does the things he does,\u201d he said. \u201cMaybe he\u2019s\nfaking; I can\u2019t tell.... But there seem to be phenomena along those\nlines worth investigating.... I\u2019ve given him a place of his own in the\nnext house.... If you want to talk to him----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I mean to talk to him.... But you\u2019re a graduate physician,\nPockman--a specialist in certain lines of research--and your standing\nis high, according to all I hear about you.\n\n\u201cAnd so I desire to ask such a man as yourself about these disquieting\nand somewhat unpleasant performances of Sadoul\u2019s----\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich one in particular?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn particular I\u2019m thinking of his meddling with little Miss Greenway.\u201d\n\n\u201cI supposed you had her in mind.\u201d Pockman cracked his knuckles,\nresumed his pacing, arms dangling and jerking: \u201cShe\u2019s a morbid\nsubject,\u201d he said. \u201cOtherwise he couldn\u2019t have snapped her up over\nthere.... God knows what one human mind can do to another, Sutton. No\nuse asking me; I can\u2019t tell you.... We don\u2019t know anything yet. You\ntell \u2019em! We don\u2019t know the alphabet of life. We don\u2019t know what life\nis, how, where, when it originated.... But we\u2019re going to know. You\ntell \u2019em that, too!\u201d\n\nHe burst into a harsh twitter and went racking on around the room like\nsome spavined thing, his arms jerking.\n\n\u201cI want to ask you,\u201d said Stuart in a low voice, \u201cdo you think Sadoul\nreally has any psychic control over Miss Greenway?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, by God, I don\u2019t know!\u201d almost shouted Pockman, coming to a stop\nin front of Sutton, his long arms flying about uncertainly:\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s a theory: we all have dual personalities--many of us have\nmultiple. Personality is that indestructible identity which persists\nafter bodily death. Call it a soul. It\u2019s a short word.\n\n\u201cNow, take little Miss Greenway\u2019s case. That girl\u2019s body died and\nremained physically dead for hours. No doubt about it, Sutton.\n\n\u201cBut what happened to her soul I don\u2019t know of my own knowledge. That\nindestructible identity which was Gilda Greenway certainly returned as\nher body\u2019s tenant; but whether it found another lodger in possession\nand has had to put up a continual fight, as Miss Greenway says----\u201d\n\n\u201cDid she tell _you_ that?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, she told me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe speaks of it every time she comes here----\u201d\n\n\u201cHere? Does Gilda come here?\u201d\n\nPockman\u2019s flat face was all glistening with sweat; he wiped it, but the\nghastly smirk remained.\n\n\u201cSay,\u201d he said, \u201cyou and Sadoul and Derring and Harry Stayr do nothing\nbut camp on that kid\u2019s trail.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m trying to keep tabs on her, and she\u2019s decent enough to see the\nscientific importance of submitting to daily observation. But you\u2019re\nall chasing her and keeping her excited and nervous, and where the hell\ndo _I_ come in?\u201d\n\nSutton, astonished and troubled, said nothing; Pockman flourished his\nflail-like arms:\n\n\u201cI\u2019m trying to keep a record of the only case on record. My God, can\u2019t\nyou fellows show some decency and self-control--you, taking her about\ntown at all hours and driving Sadoul insane with jealousy--Gilda\nclaiming that Sadoul is having her shadowed by a disincarnate, homeless\nand malicious soul that has no morals and wants to drive out her own\nsoul and get in--Sadoul, licking his chops as though it were true, and\nhopeful that there might be something for him with a new tenant in\npossession of Gilda\u2019s pretty body--and all those other johnnies chasing\nabout, sending her flowers and fruit from Florida and ducks from----\u201d\n\nHe went rocking and teetering around the room again, shaking his bony\nhands above his head:\n\n\u201cHow am I going to observe the results of transplanting a nymphalic\ngland into a corpse with all this feverish hullabaloo going on in\nthat child\u2019s life? What do you suppose it does to her?--all this\nexcitement----\u201d\n\n\u201cWait a moment!\u201d said Stuart, detaining him as he rambled past,\nand holding him by one flapping arm: \u201cAll I want you to tell me is\nwhether, in your opinion, it is scientifically possible for Sadoul\nto meddle spiritually--or in any occult way--with what you call that\nindestructible identity which is Gilda Greenway\u2019s soul?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m telling you I don\u2019t know!\u201d shouted Pockman. \u201cHe seems to be able\nto do things to identities. He materializes them, weighs them, takes\ntheir pulses, temperatures, blood-pressure--he photographs them,\nmeasures them, listens to their lung action---- There seems to be no\nend to what we are learning about those disincarnate personalities\nvulgarly known as \u2018spirits\u2019 and so long exploited by psychic crooks and\nfake \u2018mejums.\u2019\u201d\n\nHe wiped his unhealthy skin with the sleeve of his operating robe.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all very fine,\u201d he said. \u201cLet others go to it. The nymphalic\ngland is my job----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou haven\u2019t answered my question, Pockman.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich one? Oh! Do I think it possible for Sadoul to encourage some\nhomeless but more sensual spirit to enter little Miss Greenway and\nultimately drive out her real identity?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what I asked you.\u201d\n\n\u201cSutton, I don\u2019t know. I know he has always tried to arouse in the girl\nsome response to his own morbid, lovesick importunities. Normally the\ngirl always seems to have been fascinated by his brilliant intellectual\nequipment--seems, in a way, to have fallen a victim to it--probably\naided by hypnosis.\n\n\u201cBut for the rest--I guess not. No--I\u2019ve studied her. She isn\u2019t that\nkind. The girl is, when let alone, perfectly normal in everything.\n\n\u201cThe new nymphalic has put her in superb physical condition--a\nmagnificent young animal!--that\u2019s what the girl is.... And as far as\nI can see she has, normally, a vigourous, healthy mind to control her\nevery emotion.... And yet, she does break loose--like the other night\nat Fantozzi\u2019s.... But that\u2019s exuberance--letting off steam----\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you call that normal, Pockman?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, no, I don\u2019t.... And she tells me--with some very wild and\nbreathless tears--that it isn\u2019t natural for her to kick over the traces\nand raise the devil in that fashion.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt would almost look, then, as though----\u201d Stuart hesitated, his\nhaunted eyes fixed on Pockman.\n\nThe latter said:\n\n\u201cWell, she claims it\u2019s what she calls the _Other One_ that creeps\nin when she\u2019s asleep, or off her guard--at some psychological moment\nwhen her subconscious self is off duty.... _I_ don\u2019t know. We\u2019ve read\n\u2018Jekyll and Hyde,\u2019 and \u2018Peter Ibbetson,\u2019 and \u2018The Brushwood Boy\u2019--and\na score of other clever tales. This business of Gilda Greenway sounds\nlike another volume of the same series.... And then, again\u201d--he\nshrugged his bony shoulders--\u201cthe story of Gilda Greenway may be as\ntrue as anything in the world.... The world itself being only a big\nlie told to amuse a lot of gods--somewhere yonder--beyond the outer\nstars--and all laughing like hell----\u201d\n\nHe stood rocking on heels and toes with the irresponsible movement of\nsomething inanimate swept by tempests.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he muttered, wiping his clammy visage, \u201cwe don\u2019t know anything,\nso far.... My God, no.... Are you going in to talk to Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnother time.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! From your face I thought you were looking for him to kill him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not the killing sort, Pockman.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! Well, _he_ is. It\u2019s a tip--if you ever mean to mix it with Casimir\nSadoul.\u201d\n\nStuart looked neither interested nor surprised.\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t yet decided what I want of Sadoul,\u201d he said without a trace\nof threat, yet with a simplicity that seemed to make no question of\ngetting whatever he might wish for.\n\nPockman looked at him long out of fishy eyes. Then he snickered.\n\n\u201cSome day,\u201d he said, \u201cif you and little Miss Greenway are good to me\nand let me observe her in peace, I\u2019ll tell you both something about\nSadoul that will make it easier for you to put a crimp in him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, thanks,\u201d said Stuart coldly.\n\n\u201cAs you choose, Sutton.... Drop in again and look over my assortment of\nglands--all alive and guaranteed to start any corpse two-stepping....\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXI\n\n\nOften in those days, working with his secretary, or, in the little\ninner office, working alone, something approaching realisation of the\nproblems in which he was being involved would suddenly confront Stuart,\nleaving him dismayed.\n\nThe simpler of the problems was less disturbing. Their solution, if\nthey were to be solved, was obvious: he could ignore the traditions of\nhis race and drift on with little Miss Greenway as his mistress; he\ncould challenge those traditions and marry her--after her case had been\npulled through some legal knot-hole or other.\n\nHe was now aware that he had only to choose. Either choice lay outside\nthe customs and habits of his race. The Suttons had never condescended\nto irregular love affairs; the Suttons did not marry ineligible women.\n\nThe basic question, however, was yet to be solved--whether this\nimpassioned preference for little Miss Greenway was actually love. It\nhad several of love\u2019s ominous symptoms--all its impulse, restlessness\nand fever, all the familiar sieges, alarums, and excursions incident to\nthe oldest story in the world--older even than death.\n\nNot to see her for a day was endurable. And it was always during the\nfirst day\u2019s separation that he doubted the genuineness of his passion.\nA second day brought restlessness, and time lost in freeing his\nthoughts of her so that other matters might be pursued with a free mind.\n\nThen, before the third day, his vague unease became a longing. The\ndesire to see her set in like a tide--as passionless but as inevitable\nas some immemorial custom of nature obeying its law.\n\nIt was this phase that made him aware of depths within himself\nunstirred heretofore--blind, unplumbed depths, profoundly in motion.\n\nAlways their reunion quieted these deeps in him--even in that strange\nphase of her when her soul seemed helplessly entangled in obscurity and\nher over-flushed and altered beauty warned him of the dark transition.\n\nFor he found her, sometimes, during those unreal and shadowy moments\nwhen another intelligence possessed her.\n\nIn that lovely and tragic transfiguration she no longer attempted to\navoid him. On the contrary, she now called him, her changed voice alone\nbeing sufficient warning.\n\nFor they had talked it over together, sadly, in fear, consulting each\nother what was safest for them while the shadow of the _Other One_\npossessed her.\n\nThe boy had laid down the law, furiously. She was to call on him; never\nagain to face this obsession recklessly out of bounds.\n\nNo more parties where, unafraid and maliciously immune, she could watch\nSadoul, undaunted, and taunt him with the very lips he had altered\nfor his own desire. No more escapades. The fever must burn itself out\nbehind doors that opened only to him.\n\nHe was to take the brunt of it--though, in tears, she bade him remember\nand beware of treachery within herself--warned him that she must prove\na false ally in that occult crisis--in the burning obscurity of her\nobsessed mind; in the faithless intent of a subtle and uncaged heart.\n\n\u201cThere is no other way, dearest,\u201d he said. \u201cIf there\u2019s ever a d\u00e9b\u00e2cle\nthen we crash down together.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when I awake, Stuart?\u201d\n\n\u201cHad you rather awake in any other arms?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.... But I don\u2019t want ever to awake that way.... Even in your\narms.... What was it you told me about one of those Western states?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s necessary to establish a residence.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d\n\nHe went over it with her again--details that he spoke of with\ndifficulty--the whole sordid legal procedure so utterly repugnant to\nthem both, yet which held for them a miserable fascination. Also,\nthere was Sadoul, and they did not know what he might do to fight\ndivorce--she very certain that he would follow her--he aware that\nSadoul could close her road to complete freedom and make it a drawn\ngame.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne dark afternoon toward Christmas-tide, they had been speaking of\nit--an odd time to revert to so miserable a subject, for Gilda was\ngoing to have a tree for them both, and they had been dressing it.\n\nNow she knelt beside the tree with yards of tinsel trailing from her\nhand, watching Stuart winding the electric wire, with its rows of tiny\ncoloured bulbs, among the branches.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she murmured--\u201cI think the only way is to go on as we\nare. Don\u2019t you, Stuart?\u201d\n\nHe muttered something inaudible, twisted a strand of bulb-set wire\nthrough a fragrant green branch.\n\n\u201cWe are anything but unhappy,\u201d she ventured. And, as he said nothing,\nbusy with his wire among the branches: \u201cI wonder why you care to marry\nme. It would not be agreeable to your family.\u201d\n\nHe turned around: \u201cWhy do you assume that?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t assume it, Stuart. Sadoul told me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat damned business is it of Sadoul\u2019s----\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease! The conversation had become general; Veronica was giving us\ntea; George Derring talked snobbishly about old families and social\ntraditions. Somebody mentioned you. Sadoul etched one of his vivid\nportraits--a sort of composite portrait of a Sutton.... You know Sadoul\nis a master of trenchant English--a word is a phrase with him.... Your\nrace lived for a hundred years when he spoke.... I was quite scared....\nThen I realized that what he said was sneeringly meant for me.... That\nwas all, Stuart.\u201d\n\nAfter a silence he resumed his task among the branches:\n\n\u201cA man marries to please himself,\u201d he said in a slightly sullen voice.\n\n\u201cMen of your race marry within their family\u2019s approbation.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens, Gilda! That dreary, stilted era is as dead as Mrs.\nGrundy!\u201d\n\n\u201cSadoul says its traditions never die out among such families as yours.\u201d\n\nThat was true. He knew it. Even within himself, to his impatience and\nannoyance, the musty old precepts remained alive, surprising him at\ninopportune moments by their ridiculous virility.\n\n\u201cWell, Gilda,\u201d he said, \u201cif there remain in us absurdities, narrowness,\ntraces of the priggish Victorian, we\u2019re not utterly antediluvian. I\ndo not believe for a moment that the attitude of my family would be\nanything but cordial to the girl I marry.\u201d\n\nShe drew the shining strands of tinsel slowly through her slender\nfingers, still kneeling, not looking up.\n\n\u201cI was not thinking of myself,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cOf whom, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou, of course.... I would not have your pride suffer through me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you mean?\u201d\n\nThe girl sighed lightly. \u201cThere are so many ways--situated as you\nare.... I know a little about the traditions of old and conservative\nfamilies.... Their traditions are part of them. They are not to be\nsuppressed or removed. They are as much part of them as heart and\nlungs: they last till death.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou speak with familiar authority on such things,\u201d he said, smiling.\n\nShe looked up.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she said. \u201cI am a victim of tradition.\u201d\n\nHe came over and knelt down on the floor, facing her.\n\n\u201cHow do you mean, Gilda?\u201d he asked curiously.\n\nShe was sorry she had spoken; that seemed evident. She said,\nreluctantly: \u201cI am not yet twenty, Stuart.... I am living here in New\nYork quite alone. Nobody related to me is visible. There seems to be\nnobody to vouch for me.... Do you imagine it always was so?\u201d\n\n\u201cDear, I don\u2019t suppose so. But you never have spoken to me of these\nthings----\u201d\n\nShe shook her head: \u201cNo; there\u2019s no reason to.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if we should ever marry----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, there would be a reason then.... I would not wish you to think me\nless than I am.\u201d\n\nThe boy put both arms around her:\n\n\u201cI could not think more of you, dearest. I don\u2019t care what were your\ncircumstances----\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s the darling thing about you, Stuart,\u201d she said, flushing and\ndrawing his face to hers impulsively. \u201cYou know something about me. You\nknow vaguely about Sadoul--that once he was part of my life----But what\npart you don\u2019t know, you never ask; you are just sweet and kind to me,\nStuart, and I fell in love with you before I knew it--before I meant\nto--wanted to----\u201d\n\nHer fresh lips rested on his; she looked deep into his eyes.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t think there was any future for us when I fell in love,\u201d\nshe said. \u201cI didn\u2019t think of anything. If I had I\u2019d have been\nfrightened.... Because, if the world had not gone so wrong with me,\nI ought to have met you on your own level--if destiny intended us to\nmeet.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve always thought that,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cHave you? You\u2019re such a darling, Stuart. And you are not wrong....\nI\u2019d rather not talk about it--unless it ever should come true that we\nmarry. Just believe that I am not--not less than you would wish me....\nNot in _any_ way, Stuart.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t you tell me now?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t bring myself--please--you see there are--others to\nremember--shelter--unless I were married to you--when their honour\nbecomes yours also----\u201d\n\n\u201cI understand, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you? I am speaking of my father and mother. Unless I were married\nto you their tragedy could not be made a confidence between us to be\nguarded with our own honour by both of us.\u201d\n\nHe nodded gravely.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s as though,\u201d she explained wistfully, \u201cthere were such a tragedy\nin your own family. If I were less than your wife you could not permit\nme to take my share in it and help guard the common honour.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course.... That I am in love with you is not enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, dear; not even if you were my lover.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s the only thing that would ever make me doubt your quality,\nGilda--that you ever could consider such a thing possible----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Stuart, that is the peril to me when the _Other One_ is in\npossession. Because you and I _are_ of the same sort--and there is no\ncondescension--only the common fault--to share between equals----\u201d\n\n\u201cIf Sadoul really gave that _Other_ right of way into your heart, he\u2019s\na devil incarnate,\u201d said Stuart, slowly.\n\n\u201cHe did it because he wanted me at any cost. And it has cost _him_ his\nlast chance.... But _you_, Stuart!--_you_ know that I\u2019d be miserable,\nhumiliated, heartbroken, if I were your mistress--no matter how much I\nwas in love? It\u2019s only when the _Other One_ is in possession----\u201d She\ndropped her face on his breast, clung so, closely.\n\n\u201cI trust you so,\u201d she whispered, \u201c--even when the dark transition\ncomes--even when I am in your arms and the _Other One_ looks at you out\nof my eyes----\u201d\n\nA quick little sob cut her short; she rested one hand on his shoulder,\nsprang to her feet, whisked away a tear, laughed uncertainly.\n\n\u201cAre we going to dress our tree? Or make each other unhappy----\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019re going to dress this jolly little tree,\u201d he said, getting to his\nfeet.\n\nShe brought a big pasteboard box full of brilliant, flimsy\nthings--stars, globes, shining shapes of various patterns to dangle\nfrom the branches. He hung them subject to her approval, and they\nbecame very busy again.\n\n\u201cTell me,\u201d he said, \u201cwhat do you do over there at Pockman\u2019s laboratory\nwhen you go?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, it\u2019s a nuisance, Stuart. Pockman fusses around. He has a lot\nof charts--I don\u2019t understand them. It seems that it\u2019s important,\nscientifically, for him to keep me under observation for a while. He\ntakes measurements, pressures, all sorts of records--do you know I\u2019ve\ngrown a quarter of an inch since you first met me?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens, no!\u201d\n\n\u201cI _have_! Also, I\u2019m informed that I\u2019m superbly healthy, and--if you\nplease, monsieur--rather unusually symmetrical. Now, may I expect a\nmore respectful attitude from you?\u201d\n\n\u201cAm I lacking dear?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou never ask leave to kiss me.\u201d\n\nHe started toward her; she fled around the tree; taunted him; consented\nat last to kiss him through the branches; and came around to join him\nwith her box of baubles.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s going to be charming!\u201d she exclaimed, surveying the glistening\nboughs laden with glittering objects and striped canes of candy.\n\u201cStuart, there\u2019s only one thing I want you to give me for Christmas.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that, darling?\u201d\n\n\u201cA doll.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right. I\u2019ll give you a hum-dinger----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo! I want an old-fashioned French doll of wax. I want her eyes to\nopen and shut. I should like to have her say \u2018_Ma-ma!_\u2019 in a squeaky\nvoice when her tummy is gently indented. Will you give me that kind?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou bet, sweetheart!\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you. What do you wish, Stuart?\u201d she added. \u201cIf you say anything\nsentimental I\u2019ll throw this green globe at you!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then\u201d--he meditated for a moment--\u201cgive me a toy shovel and pail\nso I can transplant little pine trees this spring.\u201d\n\n\u201cShovel and pail,\u201d she repeated, making a mental note. The dressing of\nthe tree was resumed. Presently she said: \u201cWhen do you expect to go\nNorth?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot until the ground thaws.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt must be very lovely up there where all your tiny new forests are\ngrowing.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s pretty except where it\u2019s been lumbered. We\u2019re planting that by\ndegrees. And the standing timber, of course, is beautiful.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt must be,\u201d she said, with an unconscious sigh.\n\n\u201cWould you like to come with me?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cDarling!\u201d she protested with an enchanting smile.\n\n\u201cYou mean the Grundy?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do. You said she was dead, but I knew you were mistaken.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you really like to come?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d adore it. But how?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s Veronica----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Stuart, that wouldn\u2019t be wise. You know what they\u2019d all\nthink--Katharine Ashley, Frances Hazlet--and then the men----\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course,\u201d he said, \u201cwe\u2019ve got to care what is said about you.... If\nwe could get into my car and just beat it some day, nobody would be the\nwiser; and you and I know we\u2019re all right----\u201d\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d she said quite seriously, \u201cis the nuisance of not being\nmarried. And--oh, Stuart!--if ever you wanted to marry me afterward and\nyour family found out!\u201d\n\n\u201cAwkward,\u201d he admitted.\n\n\u201cWhat a perfectly beastly nuisance not to be married!\u201d exclaimed the\ngirl. \u201cThink of the things we could do, Stuart. Have you any idea how\nmy heart sinks when you have to go home, and I lock the door and come\nback here alone--thinking of a million things I forgot to tell you----\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you, dear?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. Don\u2019t you feel that way? Or are you pig enough not to?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you suppose I miss you as much as you do me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know.... I want you desperately, sometimes. A woman\u2019s\ndifferent, I suppose.... I don\u2019t think any woman in love is absolutely\nself-sufficient.... A man in love, I fancy, is not so dependent....\nA girl admits a companion to her mind and heart for the first time\nin her life when she falls in love.... A man has other comradeships\nwhich stave off loneliness of mind--of heart, too, perhaps.... It\u2019s\ncurious--and rather sad.... No woman ever completely filled her lover\u2019s\nmind. No lover but completely fills the mental and sentimental life of\nany girl who really loves.\u201d\n\nThe boy hung the last specimen of papier-mach\u00e9 fruit upon the tree,\ncame around and took the girl\u2019s idle hands in his.\n\n\u201cDo you think I\u2019m in love with you, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cI--think so.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you in love with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I _know_ it. You see, Stuart, it\u2019s merely the difference between\nknowledge and belief--the fundamental difference between our sexes.\nBelief satisfies us; knowledge alone satisfies you.\u201d She laughed,\nrested her lips lightly on his chin. \u201cSo--we both are satisfied.\u201d\n\nThey stood smiling at each other.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll go home and dress and we\u2019ll dine at----\u201d\n\n\u201cDear! Freda has such a nice dinner!\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you want to see a show----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you want----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. Are you tired of me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou lovely little thing----\u201d\n\n\u201cLet\u2019s stay with our tree. I adore it. I\u2019ll play for you, after\ndinner.... And we can read more of those vapid, egotistical memoirs----\u201d\n\n\u201cThat impossible woman!\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know,\u201d said Gilda, thoughtfully, \u201cshe really is not impossible.\nShe\u2019s quite nice and human--even sweet to people she likes.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou speak as if you knew her,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI do----\u201d The girl flushed as though recollecting herself, gave him a\nconfused look.\n\n\u201cYou know the Countess of Wyvern, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she said in a low voice. There was a silence. She lifted\ndistressed eyes to his, looked elsewhere, stood nervously twisting her\nfingers.\n\n\u201cLady Wyvern is--a relative,\u201d she murmured.\n\nShe had turned partly away. Now she went to the mantel and stood\nlooking at the clock.\n\n\u201cIf you have anything to do before dinner,\u201d she said over her\nshoulder--\u201cI think I had better see what Freda is about----\u201d\n\nShe turned on her boudoir and bathroom lights for him and continued on\nthrough the dining-room toward the kitchen.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXII\n\n\nThe week had been a clear and joyous one for Gilda. Not a shadow\ndisturbed it.\n\nChristmas Eve she was like a little girl, trotting about the apartment\nwith ropes of evergreen, filling every vase with holly, hanging wreaths\nat every window, tying up dozens of little packages--inexpensive gifts\nall destined for Stuart.\n\nThat young man came in after dusk, his arms full of packages, and Gilda\nflew to him, on fire with curiosity, touching the brilliant Christmas\nribbons with exploring forefinger.\n\n\u201cEverything is to be placed at the base of the tree,\u201d she explained\nbreathlessly, \u201c--yours are all there, Stuart--I _wonder_ what is\nin this big box! Darling--shall I take one little look? Oh, no; it\nwouldn\u2019t do, would it?\u201d\n\n\u201cKeep your lovely little hands off those packages,\u201d he warned her,\nlaying aside his hat and overcoat.\n\nThey went into the living room and she stood watching him in youthful\nexcitement as he squatted down and laid packet after packet around the\nbase of the tree.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the most real Christmas I ever had. It\u2019s a storybook Christmas.\nAll mine were in schools and most uninteresting. Isn\u2019t our tree lovely?\nNo, we must not light it until after dinner. Positively, dearest! And\noh, Stuart, _did_ you bring a stocking to hang up?\u201d\n\nHe gravely unrolled and displayed the desired hosiery. Hers already\nhung from the mantel, daintily empty; and she hung his beside it,\nstepped back to view the effect, clasped her hands with a swift intake\nof breath.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t they look perfectly darling together!\u201d she said as he drew her\nhead back against his shoulder. The next instant she wriggled free,\npinned a twig of holly to each stocking.\n\n\u201cPoke the fire, Stuart. I want to see the sparks. There! Isn\u2019t it\nenchanting?\u201d\n\nEverything was \u201cenchanting\u201d or \u201cadorable\u201d or \u201cdarling\u201d that Christmas\nEve; the dinner, too, with its roast goose--reconnoitered with\ndifficulty by an unskilled carver--its egg flip and mulled spiced\nwine, and its very British plum-pudding--that over-praised and soggy\nsham--which blazed gaily under its burning sauce, and exhaled the only\nappetising ingredient in it--its odour.\n\nThey stood up and drank to each other, almost unsmilingly, almost\nawkward in a seriousness unpremeditated.\n\nThat was in flip. He got up again later, and offered their \u201clove\neverlasting\u201d in a cup of mulled wine.\n\nAn odd shyness overcame her; she was able to reply only with a smile;\nbut as she lifted her silver cup, a swift mist glimmered in her eyes.\n\nShe closed her eyes and kissed the rim of her goblet; they exchanged\ncups, drank to love in silence.\n\nVery soon they were at their ease again with each other.\n\n\u201cA Christmas goose,\u201d he commented, \u201cis very English.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey always sent me one.\u201d\n\nHe looked up interrogatively.\n\n\u201cTo school--wherever I happened to be--in Belgium, or France. There\ncame always a Christmas box from my father--always.\u201d\n\nHe nodded gravely.\n\n\u201cMother also sent me my N\u00f6el,\u201d she added.\n\n\u201cThat helped,\u201d he ventured.\n\n\u201cYes.... Convent schools are not gay at Christmas-tide.... Isn\u2019t this a\nmost enchanting Christmas?\u201d\n\nHe thought: \u201cYou pathetic kid!\u201d But he said it was truly an old\nfashioned and genuine Christmas Eve.\n\nAs they left the table she said a trifle bashfully to the boy:\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what Christmas bowl we should drink after dinner. I\u2019ve\nlooked all through Dickens and his stories are full of steaming bowls,\nbut he doesn\u2019t say how they\u2019re made----\u201d\n\nStuart shouted with laughter, and they went on gaily to the piano.\n\nFor a while she sang in her clear, childish voice the quaint French\ncarols--the N\u00f6el of the peasants, or its sweet and sophisticated modern\nequivalents--charming chorals of convent days.\n\nShe drifted to a familiar hymn. He leaned beside her, sang with her.\n\nHer white hands hung listlessly on the keys; her cheek touched his.\n\nHesitatingly she mentioned her own faith; waited for some response. In\nthe wistful silence his boy\u2019s heart grew heavy. The Talkers had left in\nhim little with which to meet her appeal.\n\n\u201cHave you no God?\u201d she asked in a low voice.\n\n\u201cI would--would like to have one. Children are better off.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are only a boy, Stuart. You still need God.\u201d\n\nHe nodded. Presently he said: \u201cI needed Him when you died that night. I\nasked Him to be fair to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou prayed for me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI asked justice. I was over-wrought, overwhelmed. I suppose I\nreached out instinctively for help--my mind confused with memories of\nChrist--of miracles--and the little dead girl He made alive again----\u201d\n\n\u201cJairus\u2019 daughter.\u201d\n\n\u201cI remember now.... You seemed such a little girl to be dead....\u201d\n\nShe said, seriously: \u201cDo you think it was Christ--or what Pockman did?\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to think that what Pockman did was by grace of Christ.... I\ndon\u2019t see why a modern mind may not believe that.... Except....\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, Stuart?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I don\u2019t know.... There is so much to think of ... so much science\nand logic--and the wisdom of modern thinkers to consider. The trend of\nthought is not toward Christ as the ultimate solution of the world\u2019s\nproblems.\u201d\n\nThe girl sat very still, her cheek pressed against his shoulder.\n\nShe said: \u201cHow can modern science admit spiritual survival and deny\nChrist?\u201d\n\n\u201cSpiritual survival is being proven.\u201d\n\nAfter a pause: \u201cI didn\u2019t think I was at liberty to tell,\u201d she said in a\nvoice that was nearly a whisper, \u201cbut I saw Christ\u2019s shadow, once.\u201d\n\nHe turned slowly to look at her.\n\n\u201cWhen I lay dead in the chair.... You laid me there. Then you went\naway.... Shall I tell you?\u201d\n\nHe scarcely nodded.\n\n\u201cI lay there, dead. Sadoul came from behind the porti\u00e8res. My soul was\nalready leaving me. Sadoul saw it.\n\n\u201cGod only knows what he meant to do--but suddenly the white shadow of\nChrist passed between Sadoul and me!... I saw His shadow on the air,\nand knew it. And that is all I knew until I opened my eyes and saw you\nbeside my bed----\u201d\n\nShe pressed her face convulsively against him.\n\nThe boy caressed her passionately, in silence, trembling to remember.\n\nWhat she had told him was the delirium of a dying brain. But he did not\nsay so. All he did say was:\n\n\u201cSadoul did not come from behind the porti\u00e8res. I was alone with you\nwhen you died.\u201d\n\n\u201cSadoul was there.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, dear----\u201d\n\n\u201cI tell you he was behind the curtains, Stuart!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I went down stairs to find him----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou went down and did not find him. When you returned he was gone. But\nhe _was_ there. I saw him.\u201d\n\nShe sat upon the piano bench beside him and patted her bright hair into\nbetter order. He gave her a vague, incredulous look. Then an odd mental\nflash stilled his heart for an instant--a mere glimmer--a phantom\nthought scarce formed.\n\n\u201cBehind the curtains,\u201d he repeated, mechanically.\n\nShe nodded, still busy with her hair.\n\n\u201cStuart,\u201d she said, \u201cit is all passed and happily ended by the grace of\nGod. I died: God heard your prayer and gave me my soul again. Pockman\nwas only the instrument He chose----\u201d\n\nShe turned and took his hand impulsively:\n\n\u201cDarling, can\u2019t you believe that Christ made me alive again?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I can--in a way----\u201d\n\n\u201cBelieve it this Christmas Eve. That would be the most wonderful gift\nfor us--your new faith. Because you saw. What more does anybody ask?\nWhat clearer proof had the publican, Jairus? He asked aid. Christ\nanswered and raised his child from the dead. You asked God to help\nme----\u201d She threw wide her arms--\u201chere I am, alive!\u201d And she flung her\narms around his neck.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe touched the keys again. He sat humbly beside her, silent, while she\nsang in her lovely, child\u2019s voice the nobler hymns, or, sometimes, only\nplayed them.\n\nAnd very soon it was time to light the magic tree. But first she\nbanished him to her bedroom, closed the door, then ran to her desk and\ntook out the gaily beribboned little gifts for his stocking.\n\nWhen it was filled and bulging, she called to him and, in turn,\nsubmitted to banishment, and he drew from his overcoat pocket the\ngifts destined for her slim stocking, filling it from toe to knee.\n\nIt lacked a few minutes to midnight when they lighted the tree. She\ncried out in delight and caught his hand.\n\nThey stood so until the clock struck.\n\nAt the last stroke she turned and wished him an excited Christmas\ngreeting, and:\n\n\u201cOh, Stuart!\u201d she cried, \u201cI want to see what is in that large box!----\u201d\n\nIt was her old-fashioned French doll of wax. It opened and shut its\neyes. It bleated \u201c_Ma-ma_\u201d when its tummy was discreetly pressed.\n\nShe clung to it through all the heavenly excitement of that Christmas\nmorn. A slim hoop of diamonds glittered on her wrist; there were\nsome beautiful handkerchiefs, stockings, a garnished suitcase, boxes\nof gloves, books, bon-bons--and then the foolish little gifts, odd,\npretty, dainty things without value. But amid all she clutched her\ndoll to her breast in a passion of half laughing, half childish\npossession--the strange instinct that persists so often despite\nself-mockery, pretense, and denial--the little girl deathless in the\nadolescent--the heart\u2019s eternal youth till it beats its own requiem to\nthe last faint throb--the Feminine, immutable, imperious, imperishable.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nThey had expected to spend New Year\u2019s Eve together. She telephoned him\nat the office that morning, asking him to come uptown early. Something\nin her voice made him uneasy, and she admitted she was feeling a little\nrestless, but did not seem apprehensive.\n\nWhen he returned from lunching at the Forester\u2019s Club he learned that\nshe had called him again but had left no message.\n\nVaguely disturbed, he hastened to conclude business affairs for the day\nand arrange for everything over the holidays.\n\nHe was longer than he expected; some final stock transactions\ncalculated to mitigate taxes were not completed; the closing for a few\ndays of such a business required precaution and careful attention to\nevery detail in the machinery.\n\nHowever, after five, he wished everybody a happy New Year and sped\nuptown in his car.\n\nHe did not find Gilda at home, but he found a vaguely worded note from\nher saying merely that she was too nervous to see him that evening, and\nhad gone out with friends.\n\nA hot flush of anger carried him to the Fireside Club; but anxiety\nchilled it. Few men were in the club; the stillness was unusual; the\nTalkers ceased because they were few; silence remained unbroken save\nwhen there came distantly out of the dark city a dull rumour of tumult\nfrom the \u201cRoaring Forties.\u201d\n\nApprehension lay a dead weight on his heart; he made a pretense of\neating; then, for an hour or two, he haunted the telephone booths\nbelow. But Freda had left by that time and there was no response.\n\nWhere Gilda had gone and with whom he dared not surmise. If\nher uneasiness of the morning had been caused by any occult\napprehension--any premonition that the _Other One_ threatened her with\npossession, she had not intimated as much. And it had been understood\nthat, in such crises, she was to call him to bear the brunt of the dark\nobsession.\n\nStuart went home about eleven. His taxi skirted the Forties; far\nflashes from a river of fire revealed Broadway.\n\nBefore he fell asleep the vast droning of whistles penetrated his\nbreezy bedroom. The miserable year was ending in folly amid the empty\nhowling of a mindless people.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFreda answered his morning inquiry saying that her mistress was still\nsleeping.\n\nHe didn\u2019t bother to ring up again, and his resentment had not cooled\nany when he had dressed, breakfasted, and was on his way to call her to\naccount.\n\nFreda said that her mistress was not well--not even dressed. Stuart\nflung his coat and hat on the hall chair and went into the living room.\n\nThe curtains were still drawn. A chill demi-light revealed the shadowy\nChristmas tree still standing.\n\nOn the lounge lay Gilda\u2019s evening cloak and gloves, flung at random.\nIt was cold in the grey obscurity of the place. As he turned he set\nhis foot on something limp and slippery--a matted cluster of dead\norchids--and he kicked them aside and went across to her bedroom.\n\nThe door hung ajar. The girl was sitting on her bed huddled in a grey\nwool wrapper, clasping her doll.\n\nHer hair, loosened, fell in a coppery cascade; her little bare feet,\nslipperless, hung limp above the fur rug. She scarcely looked up when\nhe opened the door.\n\n\u201cWhere the devil have you been?\u201d he asked harshly--suddenly reacting\nfrom the tension.\n\n\u201cWhere--the devil--I don\u2019t know.... I don\u2019t know ....\u201d she said vaguely.\n\nThere was a silence; she drew the big wax doll closer, giving the boy a\nvacant look.\n\n\u201cAre you ill?\u201d he asked bluntly.\n\n\u201cIll? Yes--quite ill. The world slipped away--somewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you call me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI called you.... You were too far away.... Too far.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith whom were you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe night was squirming with faces.... I am sick of faces. There was\nno shelter.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas Sadoul there?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.... There was no shelter in that glare.... I am withered.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you spent the eve of the New Year with Sadoul in riot,\u201d he said\nfiercely.\n\n\u201cIn hell,\u201d she repeated in a ghost of a voice. \u201cThe blaze has burned me\nout--burned out my mind--blackened me....\u201d\n\nShe looked up out of the burnished disorder of her hair, and he saw in\nher eyes that the _Other One_ was still in possession.\n\n\u201cDrive out that damned thing!\u201d he cried in an ungovernable rage.\n\nBut the _Other_ looked out of her eyes at him in dangerous beauty: \u201cIf\nwe burn--together--our ashes will be clean.... Do you love me?\u201d\n\n\u201cGet into that bed!\u201d he said in a strangled voice; went to her, pushed\nher back among the pillows, and covered her to the face.\n\nHe stared at her for a moment--at her dangerous eyes looking at him,\nshadowed by her hair--at the vacant visage of the doll at her breast,\nits wax eyes closed.\n\nHe looked around him at the disorder--stockings, underclothing\ntrailing from the sofa or underfoot--a painted horn, a fancy paper cap\non the mantel----\n\nAn indescribable anger seized him; he went to the bed again, leaned\nover:\n\n\u201cYou poor little devil,\u201d he said in a strangled voice, \u201c--you poor,\nmiserable little devil----\u201d\n\nAlways her eyes watched him,--depthless wells of peril.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t get up. I want you to wait for me here. I\u2019ll be back this\nafternoon. Call Freda when you are able to eat. Do you promise, Gilda?\u201d\n\nShe lifted both arms in the wool sleeves, rested them on his shoulders\nand lay looking at him, her red lips parted.\n\n\u201cDo you promise?\u201d he repeated.\n\n\u201cYes.... I am so in love--Stuart----\u201d\n\n\u201cSo am I. But not with the beastly thing in command of you now.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you are in love with me, don\u2019t go,\u201d she breathed.\n\n\u201cBecause I am, I\u2019m going--loosen your arms!----\u201d\n\nHe used force; she lay on the pillows again, flushed, her eyes veiled\nwith tears.\n\nAt the door he looked back. She had bowed her head against the blond\nhead of the doll, burying both in the disordered glory of her hair.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nHe went to the Fireside Club but neither Pockman nor Sadoul were there.\n\nHe called a taxi and drove to the laboratory. It being New Year\u2019s Day,\nthe place was closed; but a very dirty old man, who said he was the\nengineer, answered the bell.\n\nIt seemed that, although the laboratory was closed and the employees\nabsent, Dr. Pockman had come in. Probably he was in one of the research\nrooms.\n\nStuart climbed the iron stairs, knocked at the private office. Nobody\nanswered; he went in. A flat, suspicious, morgue-like odour pervaded\neverything. Stuart opened the connecting door on a room full of jars\nand chemicals and unknown apparatus. A grey chill possessed the place\nand the sweetish odour hung heavily, horribly, as though it disguised a\nstench more foul.\n\nThe place was dusky and empty, but he heard a scuffling in the room\nbeyond and went in.\n\nIn the dim, chilly light he saw Pockman running round and round after\na crippled rat which had escaped. Along the wall hobbled and scrambled\nthe hump-backed thing, trailing paralysed hind legs, dodging the bony\ngrasp of Pockman in pursuit, who was capering about like Death gone\ncrazy.\n\nHe caught the creature, which shrieked, and he held it up, twisting and\ntrying to bite.\n\n\u201cWhere the hell did you come from?\u201d he demanded, seeing Stuart.\n\nThe latter was experiencing a slight sense of nausea.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m looking for Sadoul,\u201d he managed to say.\n\nPockman held up the squirming rat. He had it by the back of the neck.\nThen he ambled over and thrust it into a wire-faced hutch.\n\n\u201cI gave it a shot of the nymphalic,\u201d he explained, wiping the sweat\naway. \u201cIt\u2019s an old rat on its last legs, and it\u2019s going crazy with a\nrush of youth. Look here; I want to show you a few creatures under\nobservation----\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t wait, now. Is Sadoul in the building?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. That was a rough night last night. You weren\u2019t along,\nwere you, Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour girl was. Didn\u2019t Eve Ferral ask you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. Was it her party?\u201d\n\n\u201cHers and Katharine Ashley\u2019s. The whole \u2018Godiva\u2019 company showed up.\nIt was large, Sutton--very noisy and very large.... I haven\u2019t had any\nbreakfast. You ought to have come; Gilda let go last night----\u201d\n\nStuart\u2019s bloodless face checked him.\n\nAfter a moment: \u201cWhat part of the building does Sadoul occupy?\u201d asked\nthe boy.\n\n\u201cYou can go through that door, follow the corridor.... He may not be\nthere; I haven\u2019t seen him----\u201d\n\nStuart had already passed through the door. A whitewashed corridor,\nfull of the evil odour, led him to an iron door. He opened without\nknocking; and saw a small room with a lounge in it. Sadoul lay on the\nlounge. His eyes were open. He looked at Sutton as he entered, but made\nno motion to rise.\n\nNeither spoke for a few moments, but a sneer etched itself on Sadoul\u2019s\ndark features. Sutton came slowly toward him.\n\n\u201cSadoul,\u201d he said, \u201cwill you tell me the truth?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. Perhaps.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you really anything to do with these periodic outbreaks of Gilda\nGreenway?\u201d\n\nSadoul disdained to evade the issue.\n\n\u201cI suppose so.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, if you want to know, I suppose I put some badly needed animation\ninto her, widened her vision, stimulated a natural capacity for\npleasure. She needed a liberal education. She got it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you do this?\u201d asked Stuart curiously; but his clenched hand\nwas quivering and he dropped it into his overcoat pocket.\n\n\u201cI used what skill I had,\u201d replied Sadoul, coolly.\n\n\u201cHow? Psychically?\u201d\n\n\u201cPossibly.\u201d\n\n\u201cHypno-psychic suggestion?\u201d\n\n\u201cA very interesting subject,\u201d sneered Sadoul.\n\n\u201cYes.... You think, then, that Gilda\u2019s periodic outbreaks\u201d--he\nmoistened his lips--\u201cthese sudden alterations in her character--the\ntotal change----\u201d He could not go on for a moment or two. Sadoul lay\nwatching him out of smouldering, sardonic eyes.\n\n\u201cYou believe you are responsible for these things?\u201d he managed to say\nat last.\n\n\u201cDoes Gilda think so?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m flattered.\u201d\n\n\u201cSadoul,\u201d said the other slowly, \u201cif it is true that you are\nresponsible--that you have been able to call in another and sinister\nintelligence to combat her own self--break down in her all that\ninstinct and education have made her--can you, who have done this to\nher, drive out this intruder--this enemy you called in?\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes it concern you, Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are mistaken. It doesn\u2019t. But I\u2019ll tell you that I wouldn\u2019t undo\nanything I\u2019ve done if I could.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Can_ you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. Possibly. Probably. I have not tried. I don\u2019t intend to\ntry.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you could free her of this if you tried, couldn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow? Through hypno-psychic suggestion?\u201d\n\n\u201cUndoubtedly.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there any other way?\u201d asked Sutton, very white.\n\nThe two men looked hard at each other.\n\n\u201cIf you died--for example,\u201d added Sutton in a scarcely audible voice.\nAnd he saw in Sadoul\u2019s burning eyes that Gilda\u2019s freedom lay that way.\n\n\u201cSadoul,\u201d he said, \u201cyou had better free her of this obsession if you\ncan. Because, if you do not, I\u2019m going to do it for her.\u201d\n\nSadoul slowly raised himself to a sitting posture. There was murder in\nhis eyes and his dark face sharpened.\n\nSutton nodded: \u201cThat\u2019s it, Sadoul. You understand. If you don\u2019t free\nher, I\u2019m going to kill you. I\u2019ll give you time to do it. I\u2019ll give you\nreasonable time. I\u2019ll wait as long as I think proper. Then I\u2019ll set her\nfree in my own way.\u201d\n\nSadoul got up, his eyes ablaze.\n\n\u201cSo that\u2019s a threat, is it, Sutton?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot all of it. What were you doing behind the curtain the night that\nGilda Greenway died in my arms?\u201d\n\nSadoul\u2019s whole figure froze; a pallour swept the blood out of every\nfeature.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know how big a blackguard you were,\u201d said Stuart in a\ncuriously still voice. \u201cYou may have killed her. You had a chance--with\nthat misericordia. You look capable of it. I don\u2019t suppose we\u2019ll ever\nreally know.\n\n\u201cBut I know you\u2019ve tried to kill her soul--you and that shadowy devil\nthat you let into her.\n\n\u201cNow, take your shadow-devil and get out. Get out of her life; or I\u2019ll\nput you out of this life.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXV\n\n\nWhen Sutton came out on Fifty-seventh Street a raw wind was blowing\nfrom the river. Whether from this or from reaction the boy was\nshivering in his overcoat; and he turned up the collar around his\npinched and bloodless face.\n\nThere was no vehicle to be seen; he walked westward along the wide,\ndreary street, bisected at intervals by filthy, rusting elevated\nstructures and by desolate avenues through which dust whirled. Swarms\nof dingy people, shabby and purposeless as dirty, wind-driven leaves,\neddied about the streets.\n\nHalf-frozen children, their faces masked or smeared with rouge and\ncharcoal, drifted hither and thither, whining and begging for New\nYear\u2019s alms.\n\nHe hailed a taxi, at last, and drove to Thirty-fifth Street. Freda\nopened the door and went back to her kitchen. The place was still\ndusky, shades lowered, curtains drawn.\n\nAgain he passed by the ghostly Christmas tree, with its festoons of\ntinsel and its unlighted bulbs, and knocked at her bedroom door.\n\nHe heard her stir, heard a faint response, went in. She sat up\nsleepily, gave him a confused glance, stifled a yawn with the back of\nher hand.\n\nBut, in her clearing consciousness, now, he saw her own self looking at\nhim out of sweetly disconcerted eyes.\n\n\u201cStuart,\u201d she said, \u201cthis is rather casual of us, isn\u2019t it?----\u201d But\nalready she was remembering; the humourously uneasy expression faded\nfrom her features. She pushed aside her hair, gazed at him, then her\nface flushed to her throat, and her furtive gaze stole fearfully\naround the disordered room.\n\n\u201cOh, my God!\u201d she whispered to herself, and took her face between her\nsnowy hands.\n\nShe remained so in the chill of the semi-dusk, her knees drawn up to\nher chin, her face dropped between her hands, unstirring, silent.\n\nThere was some wood by the hearth, kindling, last evening\u2019s paper still\nfolded.\n\nHe built a fire, went into the bath-room and turned the hot water into\nthe tub.\n\nWhen he came out he stood looking at her for a moment.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll talk it over when you are ready, Gilda. Don\u2019t worry; we\u2019ll fix\nit. You must never go through this again.\u201d\n\nHe went out, closing the bedroom door, rid himself of hat and overcoat,\nwalked into the kitchen.\n\n\u201cCould we have breakfast in an hour?\u201d he asked. \u201cThat\u2019s fine, Freda.\nWe\u2019ll have it on a card-table in the living-room.\u201d\n\nThe living-room, evidently, had been swept and dusted, and Gilda\u2019s\nderelict evening garments removed.\n\nHe raised the shades and drew the curtains. A gleam of wintry sunshine\nstruck the wall.\n\nThe fire being laid, he set a match to it, seated himself to collect\nhis thoughts.\n\nReaction had brought that weariness for which rest seems to be no balm.\nHis tired mind seemed like some infernal machine which went on running\nafter all else had run down.\n\nIt continued hatching out thought--no use trying to stop it, quiet it,\nignore the hellish monotony of its functioning. He had to follow the\nrecord of the machinery, endlessly committing the same words, the same\nscenes to the custody of his tired brain.\n\nThe mantel clock timed the wearying reiteration; the flames on the\nhearth asked the same questions and answered them softly, lightly,\ninexorably. To what had his chance encounter with this girl brought\nhim? It had now brought him to the verge of murder.\n\nBecause he loved her? Yes, evidently. Because he loved her enough to\nlay down his own life for her happiness? Evidently. Then he really\nloved her? It seemed so. If there was no other way to help her he was\ngoing to kill a man for her sake. And pay the penalty.... And permit\nhis father and mother to share the penalty?\n\nThought went on burrowing through his brain to find a way out of it.\nThere was no way out, if he killed Sadoul.\n\nThere was no way out for Gilda, either, unless Sadoul held his\nhand--unless he should be able and willing to undo what he had done\ntoward her spiritual destruction.\n\nThe boy stared, hot-eyed, at the flames.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFreda opened and placed a card table on wabbly legs. In a few minutes\nshe brought breakfast. Gilda entered, fresh from the bath, her skin all\nroses and snow and her red-gold hair in two braids.\n\nShe stole a shamed look at Stuart as he set a chair for her by the\nhearth. They had little appetite, pretended to none. Freda took away\ntable and tray and closed the door.\n\nThe girl sank back in her deep chair, rested her chin on one hand and\nlooked steadily at the fire. The silk sleeve of her boudoir wrap fell\nto the elbow.\n\n\u201cTell me, Gilda,\u201d said the boy in a low voice.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d Her gaze never left the fire. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you, Stuart.... I\nhadn\u2019t slept well. I was a little restless; but I didn\u2019t think it was\nbecause of the _Other One_. Still, I wanted you--I wanted you to come\nearly.... Because it didn\u2019t seem as though I--I could endure my love\nfor you, alone.\n\n\u201cYou were in my mind, in every breath I drew, in every heart-beat....\nIt seemed to become so overwhelming.... Then that strange buoyancy\ncame over me; contact, touch of earth, consciousness of material\nebbed.... That flame-like lightness was all there seemed to be of\nme.... Even then it all seemed too heavenly to fear.... I was lying on\nthe couch.... I think my soul stood a little way from me. Over by the\nsecond window.... It\u2019s hard to remember. I can\u2019t remember, in fact....\nOnly my heart had been looking out of that second window from where it\nwould be possible to see your taxi when you arrived....\u201d\n\nHer bright head dropped on her hand, and her eyes grew tragic.\n\n\u201cWhen I realised that the _Other_ was in possession I got up in a dazed\nway. My heart was already in her control--I felt the fire stealing\nthrough my veins. But I thought my mind was still clear. I tried to\npray.... And sat up laughing, reckless, blind, deaf to everything----\u201d\n\nShe fell silent, dropped her hands in her lap and fell to turning a\nblack pearl ring that she sometimes wore.\n\n\u201cShall I tell you where I went?\u201d she asked, intent on her ring.\n\n\u201cI have heard.\u201d\n\nShe gave him a startled glance.\n\n\u201cPockman told me,\u201d he said in a dull voice.\n\nThe hot colour stained her to the forehead. Twisting her slim fingers,\nfighting to control her voice, she said:\n\n\u201cIf a girl can become so depraved is--is it worth your while to try to\nhold her?\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you depraved, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot utterly ... so far.\u201d\n\n\u201cWere you intoxicated?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\nThe boy\u2019s face had gone very white.\n\n\u201cWhat happened?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing I dare not tell you.\u201d\n\nHe looked into her eyes.\n\n\u201cThere are two ways out of this for you,\u201d he said. \u201cEither Sadoul must\nundo what he has done to you, or----\u201d\n\nAfter a pause: \u201cHe will not help me. What is the other way?\u201d she asked.\nAnd suddenly understood what he meant.\n\nPresently she fell to shivering, placed her feet on the fender. His\neyes rested on them. They were very white in the sandals.\n\n\u201cWhat good would it do me?\u201d she asked, trembling. \u201cWould it help if you\ndestroyed yourself and your father and mother? There are other ways.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat ways?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne, anyhow. Do you think I\u2019d let you destroy yourself to save me?\nI\u2019d rather give myself to you, innocence, evil, and all, and take the\nconsequences!\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you think it makes a difference _how_ your spiritual destruction is\nwrought?\u201d he demanded hotly.\n\n\u201cYes! The difference is that it\u2019s you, not Sadoul. I\u2019d rather kill\nmyself.... I shall, if you talk that way----\u201d\n\n\u201cGilda----\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall, I tell you. My physical virtue and bodily purity are not\nworth murder, if my mind is right. And my mind _is_ right--my real\nmind. You cannot make it more upright by shooting Sadoul and ruining\nyourself and your family\u2019s honour.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you expect me to do?\u201d he said with an ugly light in his eyes,\n\u201c--sit by complacently and see you go to hell?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you want to go, too, and leave your people to die under the\ndisgrace?\u201d\n\nThe boy gave her an agonized look, and she gave him a white and\nterrible look in return.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s another way,\u201d she said harshly. \u201cYou can step out of my\nlife--or I can step out of yours.\u201d\n\nHis visage grew ghastly.\n\n\u201cEither that, or I become your mistress.... Or, if you\u2019re afraid I\u2019d be\ntoo unhappy, I\u2019ll go away, or kill myself----\u201d\n\nShe leaned forward, twisting her fingers convulsively, her voice\nscarcely controlled:\n\n\u201cIf you think you are in love, I\u2019ll prove I love you better. If your\nconscience resents me, unmarried to you, send me away. I\u2019ll go. It\u2019ll\nhurt you. But you\u2019ll get well and marry somebody----\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t!--Gilda----\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, what? _What?_ Tell me! It\u2019s _your_ agony. You can\u2019t go\non--can\u2019t continue. Killing Sadoul won\u2019t help. I\u2019m trying to find\nsomething to help _you_. Don\u2019t you understand? I\u2019m trying to think of\nsomething to take away pain from _you_!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t that----\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is! _I_ can stand anything. When a girl loves as I love she can\nstand anything. It\u2019s love that keeps one dauntless. If you were dead,\nit would keep my head up. If you were my lover--and my pride agonising\nwithin me--it would keep my head high, and my heart in my eyes for you\nto see where love dwells!----\u201d\n\nShe got up, flushed, trembling, excited, took a step or two past the\ntree, turned and came back to confront him.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t ask you to look out for me,\u201d she said. \u201cI can do that. It is\nyou who need aid, who need counsel, education in the courage of love.\nIf you want me you shall have me. If it would help you to have me go,\nI\u2019ll go. It\u2019s for you to find out and tell me what to do for you.\u201d\n\nHe got up, dumb, crimson to his temples, confused and scorched by the\ngirl\u2019s fiery outburst. Something in his face excited her compassion,\nand she went on recklessly, feeling the tears in her eyes and throat:\n\n\u201cYou have said to me that men of your race are not accustomed to defy\nconvention. You must not think that I would defy it, lightly. What do\nyou suppose brought me here to New York, friendless, alone? Defiance of\nage-old law. But not by me.\n\n\u201cThat is why I never had a home. All the misery of my childhood and\nyouth arose from that. And do you think I would defy lightly the law\nthat still revenges itself on a girl because the dead are beyond its\npunishment?\u201d\n\nThe boy leaned heavily on the mantel, his face buried on his arm.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no way out of it,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cThe way out of it is what you choose to have me do.\u201d She came nearer,\nalmost blinded by tears:\n\n\u201cThere remains the last hope of all--to ask the Christ, who gave me\nresurrection, to stand by us, now.... If you wouldn\u2019t mind praying\nbeside my bed--with me----\u201d\n\nHe looked up; she could scarcely see, holding out one hand toward him.\n\nThey went into her room together, settled to their knees beside each\nother. Her low, trembling voice drove all other thought out of his mind.\n\n\u201cO God,\u201d she whispered, \u201clet Stuart be my husband, somehow--so that if\nI misbehave it will be with him--and let me marry him--unless it would\nmake him unhappy and ashamed, or alienate him from his parents....\nAmen.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nIt was Life\u2019s first hurricane for Stuart Sutton. It had arisen in fury\nout of nothing; caught him unprepared. Where was it driving him? On\nwhat unknown shore would it wreck him; in what maelstrom engulf him?\n\nIn the first hour he had ever set eyes on Gilda Greenway the tempest\nbegan to gather. With incredible swiftness it had burst within that\nhour.\n\nThen, for the first time in his life, he had seen Death in the midst of\nLife. He had known its stupefaction, its horror; had struggled against\nit in anguished incredulity.\n\nBewildered, almost hysterical, he had demanded justice and\nequity of the Unknown God. Justice had been accorded--by\nsomebody--something--somehow or other. The horror had dissolved\novernight; daylight ended the dream of evil. But the tempest was\nstill blowing, imperceptibly gathering force; storm clouds thickened,\nwrithing around this woman and himself.\n\nSuddenly out of the whirling, infernal light burst love, in flames,\nalready full grown, fully armed, dangerous.\n\nBeyond, a desolate vista opened through grey years, and endless,\npurposeless, hopeless as ages born of hell----\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOut of nothing had been hatched this hurricane--born of a green\ndisguise, a smile, a little mask half lifted--a kiss given;\npassionately forgiven.\n\nAll, instantly, became part of the boy\u2019s life. Death also entered,\nlingered, lightly withdrew.\n\nBut now the boy was learning that Death had left behind that which is\nstronger than Death--a lovely and defenceless tenement haunted of\nshadows--a young girl\u2019s body for a battle-ground--a sanctuary where\nvictim and assassin lurked, watching each other behind the temple of\nthe mind.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhere was the tempest driving him? Shallows of passion, deeps of\nlove--over these he had been hurried, blindly, without choice; and\nsuddenly, low on the horizon, leered the red smear of murder.\n\nSo far had the tempest hurled him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere came an hour, late on a winter afternoon, when the last clerk had\nleft his office, the last letter had been signed, and he remained alone\nat his desk, determined now to face the apparition of the future.\n\nInto a life which had been so accentless, so methodical, so pre-ordered\nas his own, had stepped from outer bournes a girl in pale silks and a\npale green mask.\n\nWhat was he to do with her?\n\nHe was trying, now, to think what to do. Distant doors closing alerted\nhim of departing stenographers, clerks, heads of departments. Now and\nthen he could hear the muffled stir in adjoining offices, the slam of\nroll-top desks, murmur of voices, a distant laugh.\n\nBehind him the coal fire burned low. He rose, stirred the coals, stood\nirresolutely looking at his overcoat, then walked to the window.\n\nOutside the pinnacles of Manhattan glittered like cliffs and peaks of\nsolid jewels. There was a young moon in the southwest--a mere tracery\nin the sky--then the towered masses of light, huge standing shapes\nof shadow--bridges with necklaces of gems festooned above an unseen\nriver--and the deep, interminable roaring rumour from below--New York\naspiring to the stars, growling in its caverns--New York monstrously\nbreathing, pulsing, gigantically, vulgarly vital, exhaling its false\naura under the stars.\n\nHe looked up at that little immemorial virgin, the moon, thin-edged,\nsly, spinster-like, malicious--like all who endure aborted.\n\nIn that glimmering magic framed by his window there seemed nothing\nfriendly. He turned, instinctively, to the fire.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat was he to do? Letters from his mother were in his pocket.\nCalifornia was warm, and sunny with ripe oranges.... And his father\nplayed golf.\n\nThere were other letters in his pocket--some stacked up on his desk--to\nbe acknowledged, answered somehow.\n\nA familiar, inherited social routine had been disrupted almost without\nexplanation since he had met Gilda Greenway.\n\nHe had been, practically, nowhere in that limited world reserved as a\nmatter of course for young men of his particular genus.\n\nDinners, dances, theatres, country parties--the usual succession of\nevents in which youth of his race mechanically participated--he had\navoided since he had known Gilda.\n\nIt was not a sudden distaste, not even inertia, not indifference.\nExcept for the civilised routine required in avoiding them the boy had\nbecome oblivious to any social responsibility.\n\nTo be forgotten overnight in New York is inevitable unless one employs\neffort to avert personal annihilation.\n\nStuart made no effort. Possibly, in the back of his crisp, blond head,\nhe realised that it is easy for such men as he to reappear.\n\nBut for some time, now, the clubs, the society, the amusements he chose\nwere not those familiar to his parents or to people composing those\ninterlinked circles wherein the Suttons were accustomed to consider\nthemselves at home.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat should he do about it?\n\nHere was a girl he couldn\u2019t marry. Her world was utterly alien\nto his own; her little circle peopled by garish imitations of the\nreal--by painted shadows on the screen of Life--Veronica, Eve,\nKatharine, Frances--by monstrous mouths--The Talkers--those who think\nthey do life\u2019s work with wagging jaws--and by darker phantoms--by\nSadoul, and Pockman, with his spasm-like smirk, and Lyken, handler of\nlightning--blasted cadavers--Harry Stayr, sensualist, grossly feeding a\nswathe through life; Julian Fairless, nimble painter in thin colours,\nnimble-witted as a thimble-rigger whose public pays for the living\nhe claims it owes him; Derring, empty as his own falsetto voice,\nfussing in the wake of noisy youth, sniffing its perfumed pleasures, a\nhigh-pitched titter amid its noisy gossip.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat was he to do? What was he becoming? Where was the end? Was there\nno end? By stepping out, the whole unreal pageant would pass like a\ndream. All this--all these tinted marionettes would go jerkily by him,\non and on, dwindling into toy perspective--somewhere--wherever they\ncame from.\n\nAll would pass on along a preordained path--all this grotesque Noah\u2019s\nArk--men, women, beasts--Nika, Eve, Pockman, Stayr--the pickled things\nin jars, the crippled rats and shreds of human flesh--the Monstrous\nMouths--all Talkers--and the phantoms, too--Sadoul, Gilda----\n\nWhat was happening to him? What was happening to the safe, familiar\nworld about him? Once, death had been death--irrevocable, definite, an\nend. Now it was no longer an end. There _was_ no end to life; not even\nany orthodox conclusion.\n\nThe world was peopled with deathless shapes--it swarmed with\nshadows--some malignant, like the wanton thing that haunted Gilda--that\nsensuous, red-lipped shape that sometimes hid within her and looked at\nhim out of her dear eyes----\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what to do,\u201d he said aloud, staring vacantly at the\ncoals. \u201cI thought we were protected from such things--that such things\nnever had existed.... I supposed God was in absolute control over\nevil----\u201d\n\nHe became silent as though somebody had spoken. Listening, he seemed to\nhear the words again: \u201cDeliver us from Evil.\u201d\n\nIt was his own mind answering him.\n\n\u201cBut deliver us from evil,\u201d he repeated. And sat thinking for a while.\n\nWere, then, such wandering, disincarnate intelligences--such\nindestructible and sinister individual survivals--a form of evil\nhitherto unrecognised--or not recognised since the gross superstitions\nof former days peopled the earth with malignant phantoms?\n\n\u201cDeliver us from evil.\u201d Was prayer the remedy? Was it a weapon? Was it\nthe whine of a coward for protection to a dull, monstrous, tyrannical\nGod, or was it a call to arms to an ally against a common enemy?\n\nThe boy stared at the whitening ashes. He did not know what to think,\nwhat to do, whether he loved enough, or loved rightly. There seemed to\nbe no outlook, no solution, no help.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs he got up and took his overcoat from the peg, his desk telephone\nrang.\n\n\u201cIs it you, Gilda?\u201d he said, happily.\n\n\u201cWhat in the world are you thinking of, darling? It\u2019s after eight and\npoor Freda is frantic about the dinner.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said, but his face had cleared and his voice was\njoyous, \u201c--I\u2019m so sorry, dear. Tell me, are you all right?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course I am. Are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--now. I\u2019ll come uptown immediately----\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t dare stop to dress, Stuart!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. Are you particularly and enchantingly gowned?\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope you\u2019ll think so.\u201d\n\n\u201cHad you rather I ate in the kitchen?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou silly thing!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich are you hungriest for, dinner or me?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I survive till you arrive I\u2019ll tell you. Hurry, dear, I\u2019m starving!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nSadoul came into the laboratory where Pockman was taking a tray of\nfrozen rats out of a refrigerator.\n\nSadoul looked thin and stooped; his clothes flapped on him. He glanced\nat the rows of frozen rats with a wizened sneer:\n\n\u201cI feel like one of those, sometimes.\u201d\n\n\u201cSometimes you look like one,\u201d returned Pockman. He tittered and\ncarried the tray to a porcelain table. First he sponged off the table\nwith some pale yellow solution, then he placed three frozen rats on\nit. The vermin were rigidly congealed. They lay there stiff as bits of\nmetal, discoloured teeth and naked feet exposed.\n\n\u201cIs Gilda Greenway here?\u201d inquired Sadoul.\n\n\u201cNot yet. Why?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wanted to see her after you had made your observations.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s late,\u201d said Pockman, absently. He counted out three more rats,\nlaid them on top of a wire-screened box, then returned the tray with\nthe remainder of the rats to the refrigerator.\n\nSadoul looked into the box. On a bed of sand lay several rat-snakes\ncoiled together for warmth. Pockman took a frozen rat by the tail,\nopened the lid of the box, and dropped the rodent. A slow head stirred\nin the composite snaky mass. There was no other movement.\n\n\u201cThey won\u2019t take it that way,\u201d said Pockman. \u201cThe trouble is that I\u2019ve\ngot to be careful they don\u2019t bite me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re not poisonous snakes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll ophidians are more or less poisonous.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou think so?\u201d asked Sadoul.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve yet to find one from which I couldn\u2019t extract venom of one sort\nor another. It\u2019s not always poisonous to man.\u201d\n\nPockman took the frozen rat by the tail and began to draw it across the\nsand. Like lightning the stroke came from the snaky mass--a rat-snake\nhad the rodent by the head. The next instant Pockman jerked away the\nrat by the tail and tossed it onto the porcelain table.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all I wanted,\u201d he snickered. \u201cNow we\u2019ll try to find out what a\ngland will do to that virus.\u201d\n\nHe immersed the rat in a dark solution which was warming in a porcelain\nbasin over a low-turned lamp.\n\n\u201cThey can eat the others,\u201d he said, taking the two remaining rats by\nthe tails and dragging them across the sand.\n\nInstantly a snake struck. After a few moments the snake\u2019s jaws widened\nspasmodically and a gush of saliva wet the frozen fur. Pockman went\nback to his simmering rodent; Sadoul watched the revolting process in\nthe box.\n\nThe other snake took more time--less hungry perhaps--and held the rat\ncrossways as a pickerel holds a minnow before bolting it by the head.\n\nPockman, busy with his four rats, and using a gland macerated to pulp\nfor grafting, heard Sadoul cough now and then.\n\n\u201cIf I had that bark I\u2019d take it to Arizona,\u201d he said. \u201cWhy the hell\ndon\u2019t you get your sputum analyzed?\u201d\n\nSadoul dropped the wire lid and came over to the table.\n\n\u201cPockman,\u201d he said, \u201cdid you ever tell anybody about those blueprints?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. Why?\u201d\n\n\u201cSutton once said something to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve never uttered a word. What did Sutton say?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing definite. He asked me why I was standing behind those curtains\nat Derring\u2019s that night.\u201d\n\nAfter a moment Pockman leered at him sideways:\n\n\u201c_Were_ you?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhether I were or were not,\u201d returned Sadoul calmly, \u201che had no\nknowledge of it.\u201d\n\nPockman worked on, using a syringe. Presently:\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you something, Sadoul. When little Miss Greenway lay dead on\nthe chair where Sutton had propped her, with the misericordia imbedded\nin the nape of her neck, she--that is, her still living mind--saw you\ncome out from behind those curtains.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe told you that?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe did. Probably she has told Sutton. Is that an explanation?\u201d\n\nSadoul slowly nodded.\n\n\u201cHow long,\u201d he asked, \u201cdoes consciousness persist in the brain after\ndeath?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor some appreciable time. It varies.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I had been there could she have been conscious of it?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d snickered Pockman.\n\n\u201cFor how long?\u201d\n\n\u201cI tell you the time varies. The process of death is, as you know, a\nslow and gradual detachment of the indestructible or etheric body from\nthe corpse. There is resistance, sometimes. Some people die hard. There\nseems usually to be some difficulty.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the average length of time it takes to detach the etheric body\nfrom the cadaver?\u201d\n\n\u201cI couldn\u2019t tell you. I don\u2019t think we\u2019ve struck any average, yet. You\nare as familiar as I am with the process.\n\n\u201cIn a quick and easy death the cold creeps upward from the extremities\nto the brain. You and I have observed the procedure of the etheric body\nas it detaches itself from the physically dying body.\n\n\u201cSomething--some occult energy--seems to shake the etheric body, or\nsoul--loosen it, so to speak. When this lateral movement ceases,\nmillions of gentle vibrations begin, from the soles of the feet,\nupward. The indestructible soul-principle begins to withdraw from the\nextremities, upward, toward the head. Life slowly fades at the knees,\nthe thighs, the hips, the chest.... You and I have seen that faint\nbrilliancy gathering around the head. That, I fancy, is where the delay\nusually occurs.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think the brain dies hard,\u201d said Sadoul.... \u201cI wonder how long it\ntakes.\u201d\n\nPockman shrugged and continued to wrap up his rats in sterilised\ncheese-cloth and deposit each one in a sort of incubator.\n\nSadoul roamed about the place; Pockman had finished washing and drying\nhis hands when the door opened and Gilda Greenway came in.\n\nThe cold had made her pink; her furs accented the exquisite colour.\nUnder her toque the gold-red hair edged her cheeks with burnished flame.\n\n\u201cHow do you do, Dr. Pockman?\u201d she said cheerfully. \u201c----I\u2019m sorry I am\nso late----\u201d She caught sight of Sadoul. \u201cOh, I didn\u2019t know you were\nhere!\u201d\n\nHer face altered, yet still remained smiling--an odd little smile,\nslightly humorous, slightly guarded, faintly sarcastic, and entirely\ndevoid of fear.\n\nHe offered to shake hands with her, and she accepted with the hint of a\nshrug.\n\nTo Pockman she said: \u201cAren\u2019t you nearly finished investigating me? You\nmust have volumes already on the history of my case.\u201d\n\nPockman tittered, smirked, hitched his shoulders, started jerkily for\nhis private office. The girl turned, nodded to Sadoul, her gloved hand\non the door.\n\n\u201cCould I see you when you\u2019ve finished with Pockman?\u201d asked Sadoul.\n\n\u201cIf you like.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be in my end of the place.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well.\u201d\n\nShe went out; Pockman teetered after her. Sadoul\u2019s shadowy visage still\nremained red from the encounter. He had joined his bony hands and was\ntwisting them as though to subdue physical pain. His sunken eyes seemed\nfilmy, unseeing, as he turned his head with the curious, nosing motion\nof a blind thing caged, striving to realise its limits.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter a patient examination, Miss Cross being present to record all\nobservations, Gilda drew a quick breath of relief, smiled whimsically\nat Miss Cross, picked up her muff.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re destined to be a very celebrated young lady,\u201d said Miss Cross,\nsmiling, \u201c----if you permit Dr. Pockman to use your name in this\nreport.\u201d\n\nGilda laughed. \u201cHe has agreed to mention me as Miss X. I don\u2019t wish to\nbe celebrated as a pathological prodigy.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re a prodigy all right,\u201d snickered Pockman. \u201cI am given to\nunderstand that you\u2019re even a more amazing girl than you appear to be\nto me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, Dr. Pockman?\u201d\n\n\u201cPsychically. I understand that you have an extraordinary potentiality.\nIt\u2019s rather a pity you don\u2019t like Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t dislike him,\u201d she said quietly.\n\n\u201cI thought you did.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not like some things about him. Otherwise, I have always been\nrather fascinated by his cleverness and intelligence. He can be an\nextraordinarily agreeable companion.\u201d\n\nPockman said in a low voice: \u201cI never supposed you had any use for\nSadoul except to torment him--even,\u201d he added, \u201cwhen you let him take\nyou to parties.\u201d\n\nThe girl flushed and glanced at Miss Cross. The latter, however, was\nbeyond earshot; and left the room the next moment.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what I hate about Sadoul,\u201d said Gilda, quickly, \u201c----the\nmaterial side of him. It angers me. It arouses cruelty. I have a\ncontempt for that side of him, and he knows it!\u201d\n\nPockman held no brief for Sadoul, but the girl\u2019s scorn seemed to pepper\nhis sex generally.\n\n\u201cAfter all,\u201d he remarked, \u201che\u2019s only in love with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cPhysically,\u201d she retorted, reddening.\n\n\u201cWell--my God----\u201d began Pockman, thinking in terms of glands, but the\ngirl interrupted:\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s part of it, I suppose. In fact, I know it, now. And I don\u2019t\nwish to know any more about it--not from him--not from anybody.... What\nhas he to say to me? Do you know, Dr. Pockman?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I rather suspect it\u2019s something concerning your unusual psychic\npossibilities.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean _his_?\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean yours, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t know I had any--independent of Sadoul\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cHis amount to little compared to yours,\u201d said Pockman.\n\nShe gazed at him incredulously; he smirked at her. \u201cTehee,\u201d he\ntittered, \u201chow do you suppose you\u2019ve fought him off?\u201d\n\n\u201cWith mind and will.\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean in subconscious conditions--in successive periods of\nhypnosis--even in phases of obsession--how do you suppose you have held\nhim off?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy soul is captain of my mind--whatever else invades my body to betray\nit!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you know that?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. My soul seems to know.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so you fight it out, between soul and body?\u201d\n\n\u201cAt times.\u201d\n\nPockman snickered, but his pale eyes were intent on her:\n\n\u201cSoul always comes out top dog, I suppose,\u201d he said. \u201cThere are no\ndrawn battles, Gilda----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, there are,\u201d she said, crimsoning at her own honesty.\n\n\u201cNo drawn battles in which Sadoul figures? Hey?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnother man?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the other man has only to chip in to turn the tide of war one way\nor the other?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes he know this?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. He stands as ally to my real self. Our minds are comrades.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re at his mercy then?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen the dark change comes, I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cThin ice,\u201d tittered Pockman. \u201cA man\u2019s a man. He\u2019s likely to change\nhis battle-hymn to a Cytherean rag.\u201d Again judgment, conclusion were\narrived at in terms of glands. Why not? The world\u2019s work is done\nthrough them. The world\u2019s Talk continues for lack of them.\n\n\u201cCats and kittens,\u201d snickered Pockman. \u201cIt all filters out finally to\nthese. You needn\u2019t fear Sadoul. You know it.... Of course, I don\u2019t see\nwhy you need fear anything. But folk-ways rule the world of folk. Taboo\nremains tyrant. Always will. However, there\u2019ll always be kittens.\u201d\n\nGilda turned aside and looked out of the window.\n\n\u201cNice girl,\u201d said Pockman. \u201cMorals are fashions. Always keep up with\nthe latest creations. Smartness wins.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you on Sadoul\u2019s side?\u201d she asked, her face still averted.\n\n\u201cOn the contrary. The biggest lie ever hatched is that all the world\nloves a lover. Half the world is masculine. The only lovers they love\nare themselves.... No; I\u2019m not on Sadoul\u2019s side. I\u2019m not on any _man\u2019s_\nside.\u201d\n\nGilda continued to gaze out of the window. What she looked at was rusty\nchimney pots against a heavenly blue sky. What the girl saw is another\nthing--for her eyes were as remote as the skies.\n\nAfter a little while: \u201cIs there anything abnormal about me, Dr.\nPockman?\u201d she asked, turning her head.\n\n\u201cNo, Gilda.... No, not in a morbid sense, anyway.\u201d\n\nAt that she slowly faced around:\n\n\u201cYou speak with reserve.\u201d\n\nHe hesitated; an unhealthy colour came into his flat face.\n\n\u201cIt is possible,\u201d he said, \u201cthat, transplanting a brand new and very\nvigorous young nymphalic gland may have--have over-stimulated you a\nlittle--added powerfully, perhaps, to a naturally ardent physique.\u201d\n\nUnder his twitching smirk the girl lowered her eyes. She stood looking\nat her muff, pinching the fur with white-gloved fingers, smoothing it\nout.\n\n\u201cThere is nothing to distress you in what I said,\u201d insisted Pockman.\n\u201cYou\u2019ve doubled your natural vitality, that\u2019s all. You\u2019ve doubled your\nyears of youth, probably. You\u2019re to be envied, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. I may find life too long.... I was thinking that, the\nother day.\u201d\n\nHe looked at her keenly: \u201cI suppose you can\u2019t get rid of Sadoul,\u201d he\nsaid in a lower voice. \u201cHe won\u2019t stand for it, will he?\u201d\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t have you himself and won\u2019t let any other man,\u201d commented Pockman\nwith a subdued snigger. \u201cWell, that\u2019s man--except in novels....\nOr among the glandless. A Talker will talk himself into anything.\nWords are all he lives. If you\u2019d been married to a Talker, now, he\u2019d\nhave done a lot of fine phrasing--talked himself into a thousand\nattitudes--but he\u2019d have let you go.... Sadoul won\u2019t. He\u2019ll follow.\nHe\u2019ll fight. I don\u2019t know what else he might do.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor I,\u201d she said absently. \u201cI think he is capable of killing me.\u201d\n\nPockman stole a look at the door.\n\n\u201cYou obsessed him from the first. I think his mental balance isn\u2019t\nwhat it once was. I\u2019m always noticing. He\u2019s suspicious--difficult to\nobserve. I\u2019d walk pussy-foot for the time being. After all, you\u2019ve got\ntime. You\u2019ve more time coming to you than he has. He was handicapped\nanyway before I gave you a new gland. That man has no chance. Play the\nlady Fabian. That\u2019s where he loses. He can\u2019t wait. He can\u2019t stand the\npace of Time. It\u2019s your make as the cards lie. Take your time.\u201d\n\nShe said in a low voice: \u201cIt\u2019s a ghastly game. It\u2019s cruel,\nrevolting.... And he is so clever, so interesting--fascinating\nintellectually.... And has winning qualities. To subdue me, bend me to\nhis will--dominate and direct my inclination--this is a tragic madness\nwith him. All else is sane, likable, attractive. I ask no more amusing\ncomrade, no more stimulating companion.... Only--underlying everything\nis the pitiable tragedy of a man sane on all subjects excepting one.\nAnd on that, ruthless, brutal, inexorable.\u201d\n\n\u201cId\u00e9e fixe,\u201d muttered Pockman. \u201cYou may expect anything from that\negg.... Are you going in to see him?\u201d\n\nShe nodded; he opened the door for her.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nThe room which Gilda peeped into resembled a chemical laboratory in a\nway. There was some equipment for physical research, also, an X-ray\nmachine, a camera, electrical apparatus, dry batteries, arc lights,\nincandescent lights, Hewett-tubes, other paraphernalia less familiar.\nThere was also a bare table and several uncomfortable chairs. A dark\ncabinet adjoined, hung with black velvet draperies.\n\nSadoul was seated on one of the small chairs, his thin elbows on his\nknees, his shadowy face framed in both hands. He got up as though\nfatigued when she came forward.\n\n\u201cGilda,\u201d he said in a peculiarly agreeable voice, without any taint\nof the habitual sneer, \u201cyou are doing a lot of things to help Sidney\nPockman. He\u2019s building future fame on your kindness. Submitting\nyourself to his observations means everything in the world to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d be disgustingly selfish not to help him,\u201d she said, seating\nherself. \u201cWhatever I am,\u201d she added lightly, \u201cI\u2019m not ungrateful.\u201d She\nrested her muff on the table and looked amiably, almost wistfully, at\nSadoul.\n\nHe dropped both elbows on the same table, propping his chin on\ninter-linked fingers--the pale, bony fingers of a sick man.\n\n\u201cI wondered,\u201d he said, \u201cwhether if I asked you\u2019d be willing to help me\na step or two toward fame and fortune.\u201d Irony in his voice was faint\nbut it was there.\n\n\u201cAlways,\u201d she said, \u201c----reasonably.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you lend yourself to an experiment or two?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf what nature?\u201d\n\n\u201cPsychic.\u201d\n\n\u201cAm I psychic, independently of you?\u201d\n\n\u201cUnusually so.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you wish me to do for you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI want you to give me a chance to study your two selves at close\nrange, with every paraphernalia, every equipment, every condition\nfavourable to exhaustive observation.\u201d\n\nA slight flush mounted to her cheeks: they looked intently at each\nother across the table.\n\n\u201cI have only one self--excepting the intruder you let in,\u201d she said\ncurtly.\n\n\u201cThere are always two selves, Gilda. What you call the _Other\nOne_ belonged to you. You say I called her in. She was already in\nattendance. She always has been. She\u2019s part of you--not the stranger\nyou think--not an intruder from outer regions.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is _not_ part of me!\u201d cried the girl, blushing.\n\n\u201cShe is and always has been,\u201d he repeated calmly; \u201c----but she always\nhad remained aloof--outside--during your waking hours. When you slept\nshe crept in and slept, also. All I did was to awake her before it was\ntime. And when you died, and your other self resisted her entrance,\nI gave her ingress. That is all I did; I aroused her before the--the\nconventional hour for her awakening had arrived. And when you fought to\nevict her, and bar yourself against her, I merely let her in.\u201d\n\nHe bent his cadaverous head; one hand shaded his eyes.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry I meddled,\u201d he said. \u201cShe has proved no friend to me.\u201d\n\nGilda fixed her eyes on her locked fingers.\n\nShe said slowly and without resentment: \u201cIt was a devilish thing to do\nto a girl.\u201d\n\nShe looked up, saw in his fixed gaze regret--not for what he had done,\nbut because it had failed.\n\n\u201cYou were willing to carry me to hell with you,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cIf there were no other way. Besides, there is no hell, except what I\u2019m\nin now.\u201d\n\n\u201cSadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you happen to be behind that curtain?\u201d\n\nHe denied his presence, pleasantly.\n\n\u201cI was thinking,\u201d she said, \u201cif you could do such a devilish thing as\nyou did to me, perhaps you killed me.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Tu mihi solus eras._ I did not kill you, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith a misericordia?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d he asked, patiently good humoured.\n\nShe dropped her head, thinking of Stuart and their first kiss. Then,\nvague eyed, she regarded Sadoul.\n\nStrange scenes in her long resistance against this man took shape and\nfaded in her mind. It seemed odd that she hated him so little--and\nonly one phase of him. It seemed strange how much of sorrow, of pity,\nof wistfulness tempered her resentment--how much attraction remained,\ninclination to overlook, understand, forgive, this blazing, ruthless\nmind which had failed to subdue hers.\n\nShe looked sadly at his features, marred and worn and sunken by the\nsickness of aborted passion.\n\nUndaunted, his deep set, smouldering eyes returned her gaze. Within\nthat great, bony frame the dull fire burned on, stealthily devouring\nhim. In his ravaged features she marked its devastation. And it would\nburn on, consuming all--even his mind in the end. She could not look at\nhim unmoved.\n\nImpulsively she placed a slim, gloved hand on his. She saw that her own\ncause was hopeless, appeal useless. But she was not thinking of herself.\n\n\u201cI am not your enemy,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ll help you if I can.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou trust me?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cNo, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are afraid?\u201d\n\nShe laughed miserably: \u201cOh, no, I\u2019m not afraid. I never was. I\u2019m so\nsorry you never understood that.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did understand. I knew it. The fear was mine alone. Fear! The most\nterrible thing in the world. Fear is the real Slayer; Death the\ngentle, grave physician who assists at the birth of souls. Death--the\nworld\u2019s family doctor--wise, kind, faithful, always on time. He\nshuts the door against Fear and locks it. He delivers the soul,\npatiently, skilfully. He severs the natal cord. A new birth is tenderly\naccomplished.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat have you feared, Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo live without you.\u201d\n\nTears flooded her eyes: \u201cI couldn\u2019t--under God----\u201d she faltered. \u201cI\ncouldn\u2019t--I couldn\u2019t, Sadoul----\u201d\n\nShe buried her face between her arms. Sadoul looked at her in silence;\ngazed, burned on.\n\nAfter a little while she got up, found a handkerchief in her muff.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said. She remained busy with her handkerchief for a\nfew moments. Then:\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll have to show me what you wish me to do.... When shall I come?\u201d\n\nHe suggested a day; asked her if she were free. She nodded. After a\nshort silence she turned and walked toward the door.\n\nHe opened it for her. After she had gone he stood so, for a long while,\npeering down the empty corridor and nosing the silence like a great\nbeast blinded, bereft, confused by its unutterable isolation.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nIt being Saturday, Sutton came uptown early and found Gilda lying on\nthe couch before the fire, still clad in a loose Chinese lounging robe\nand slippers.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re outrageously late,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ve had no breakfast.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you wake up?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe bed was warm and I lazy. It doesn\u2019t excuse you for keeping\nbreakfast waiting. You annoy me, Stuart.\u201d\n\nHe came over to her but she refused to kiss him, lay warm and spineless\nin his arms, half lifted from the couch.\n\n\u201cDarling, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said. \u201cI can feel that you\u2019ve lost several\npounds. You\u2019re wasting away!\u201d\n\nHer face remained averted but he could see she was smiling. Then,\ngradually her arms encircled his neck; she looked up at him, tenderly\nhumorous, pretending defiance.\n\n\u201cYou bully me,\u201d she said. \u201cKindly remove that blond head!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re holding it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAm I? Well, it\u2019s mine. I don\u2019t know what to do with it either.\u201d\n\nShe considered him, searched him with hostile eyes, then with a swift\nsigh relented and gave him her lips.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFreda brought the card-table and spread it. Gilda, on the couch, one\nknee crossed over the other, glanced absently through the morning\npaper, pausing between pages to reach out her pretty hand to Stuart.\n\n\u201cBosh,\u201d she said, \u201clisten to this, Stuart: \u2018In response to cheers the\nPresident doffed his hat.\u2019 Did you ever hear anything as vulgarly\nexpressed? A gentleman lifts his hat; an old gaffer \u2018doffs\u2019 it. Can\nyou imagine the American newspaper as an educational influence? Or a\nschoolmaster using double negatives?\u201d\n\nStuart laughed: \u201cThe Great American Boob doesn\u2019t know the difference.\nHis native tongue, properly written, perplexes and annoys him. Like\nMr. Lillyvick he doesn\u2019t \u2018like the langwidge.\u2019 Besides, it is he who\nis writing our newspapers and our novels for us; and he likes what\nhe writes; he likes it fine, Gilda. _He_ would doff _his_ hat. What\ndoes he know about other people? Don\u2019t ever be afraid of anarchy. The\nterrifying part of the social revolution in America was accomplished\nlong ago.\u201d\n\nThe girl swung her slippered foot and laughed, carelessly turning the\npages of the great New York daily.\n\n\u201cI thought you were a good republican,\u201d she said. \u201cAre you doomed to\nthe guillotine, too?\u201d\n\nHe smiled: \u201cI love my country passionately,\u201d he said. \u201cThe people in it\nare its only defects.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, dear!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cI can see where our heads are going to fall\nsome day. Mine always did fall every time the blade dropped in the\nPlace de la Revolution.\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t know _you_ felt that way.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow should you know how a girl feels whom you picked up at Derring\u2019s?\nDame Theroigne was a natural inference----\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens,\u201d he protested, \u201c----stop that baby chatter----\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t you pick me up?\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you serious?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, darling. You can\u2019t tell where you\u2019ll find a lost diamond, or why\nthe setting wore out. They\u2019re even found in sewers, you know----\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat the deuce,\u201d he exclaimed, irritated by her wayward humour.\n\n\u201cYou sweet thing,\u201d she said, \u201cI\u2019m bad tempered because I\u2019m hungry. You\nknow I don\u2019t belong in a sewer. So do I. Where on earth is Freda?\u201d She\njerked the paper open again, swung her foot with the nervous grace of a\nkitten switching its tail.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m cross,\u201d she remarked, \u201cbecause I haven\u2019t a vocation.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you want one, dear?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I don\u2019t.\u201d\n\nThey both laughed and she flung the paper at him.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want to do anything except be your wife,\u201d she said, swinging\nher slim foot to and fro and clasping her knee with both hands.\n\n\u201cI want children, too,\u201d she said with a rebellious little kick. Her\nslipper flew. He got up and replaced it, touching her instep with his\nlips.\n\n\u201cAll that,\u201d he said, \u201cis a vocation to which no other can compare.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t believe you want me for your wife, Stuart.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou believe it utterly.\u201d\n\nShe turned to him, searched his face. Slowly the smile dawned,\ndeep-eyed, heavenly. She rested her cheek on her shoulder and watched\nhim; abandoned her hand to him, her eyes, vaguely sweet, following his\nstill caresses.\n\nFreda came with breakfast, but they scarcely took the trouble to\nseparate.\n\nHowever, the grossly material perfume of hot muffins aroused Gilda from\nethereal bowers, and she sat up hungrily surveying the tray.\n\nDuring breakfast she told him about her promise to Sadoul, explained\nwhat was wanted of her.\n\nHe was hearing this for the first time, could not comprehend, was not\nat all edified.\n\n\u201cYou darling,\u201d she said, vigorously occupied with bacon and coffee, \u201cdo\nyou suppose I\u2019d do anything I shouldn\u2019t?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t see how you can endure that man----\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense! I always shall find him interesting. Whatever he did to\nme has wrecked him, not me.... And it may seem strange to you--to a\nman--but a woman is sorry.... If she really has been loved, she can\u2019t\nhate utterly. Sad indifference, regret for a man fiercely wasted,\nunhappy solicitude for mad perversity which brings only agony and\ndisaster--these all generous women feel.... Once, on a lonely mountain,\nmy collie dog went crazy and attacked me. Chasing me he fell into an\nabandoned well. I went back and saw the dog swimming around and \u2019round\nin the bottom of the well. There was no ladder, no rope, no way to save\nhim. It tore my breast to look at him. I wanted to go away--but the\ncreature had seen me, and kept up a horrible sort of screaming as it\nstruggled.... I thought it did not want to die entirely alone.... It\nalmost killed me to remain. But I--I talked to him--until the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere was this?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn Wales, when I was a child.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s like you, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s like any woman--if a thing once loved her.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are willing to help Sadoul in his research work?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am helping Dr. Pockman. I couldn\u2019t refuse Sadoul. He\u2019s not very\nsuccessful. His books are partial failures. Outside of the free-lance\npress nobody reads him, nobody hears of Sadoul. Besides, I am\nnot--untouched--by his unhappiness.\u201d\n\nShe lifted her lovely, honest eyes to Stuart:\n\n\u201cOut of your own abundance,\u201d she said, \u201cgive something to this man.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are giving.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot without permission.\u201d\n\n\u201cDearest,\u201d he said, deeply stirred, \u201cwhat you choose to do is my choice\nalways.\u201d\n\n\u201cI knew it. Your will is mine, also.\u201d She smiled at him.\n\n\u201cWhat time are you due there?\u201d he asked without enthusiasm.\n\n\u201cAt three. But you are coming with me, of course.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat may not please Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d she remarked, \u201cis of no consequence whatever. I never intended\nto go without you.\u201d\n\nHe drew a sharp breath of relief. \u201cAll right,\u201d he said.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXX\n\n\nAt the laboratory they were shown into the small reception room. There\nwas nothing there except a wired crate marked \u201cCobra. Do not handle.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s amusing,\u201d remarked Stuart. \u201cWhat does Pockman want of a cobra?\u201d\n\nMiss Cross, in her neat uniform, came in. She remembered Sutton, gave\nhim a quick look, clear, interested, but without conclusion concerning\ntheir appearance together for the second time within her personal\nexperience.\n\nShe shook hands smilingly with Gilda, turned to Stuart, quizzical,\namused:\n\n\u201cA more agreeable reunion than our first association, Mr. Sutton.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cI was pretty badly scared.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou were the most tragic young man I ever beheld. You wouldn\u2019t smoke.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou were very nice to me,\u201d he said, forcing a rather painful smile.\n\n\u201cI was sorry for you----\u201d She looked at Gilda, \u201csorrier for you, dear.\nBut it turned into a happy miracle.\u201d She smiled, looking from one to\nthe other, the invisible and delicate antenn\u00e6 of feminine intuition\nexploring the situation without comprehension, until Gilda looked at\nStuart, and the boy returned the fleeting glance.\n\nMiss Cross knew, then. But that was all she knew.\n\nGilda inquired for a dressing room; Miss Cross took her away to hers.\nStuart started to pace the narrow floor, but a door opened and Sadoul\ncame in.\n\nHe was prepared to see Sutton; Gilda had averted him by telephone,\ntersely, hanging up as he began to demur.\n\n\u201cCome in, Sadoul,\u201d said Stuart coolly. \u201cI\u2019m rather relieved at the\nopportunity to tell you that I spoke thoughtlessly the other day.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no,\u201d said Sadoul, \u201cyou\u2019d thought it all out.\u201d\n\nSutton reddened. \u201cYes, I had. And I came here to say what I did say.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you changed your mind?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; I shan\u2019t ever kill you. It\u2019s one solution, but not a satisfactory\none.\u201d\n\nSadoul laughed. \u201cYou mean not a respectable one. I\u2019d die only once, but\nthe Hudson River Suttons would die every day that they lived----\u201d A fit\nof coughing interrupted him.\n\nThe colour in Stuart\u2019s face deepened.\n\n\u201cUndoubtedly. That\u2019s the only reason it\u2019s no solution for our problem.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe problem\u2019s yours,\u201d remarked Sadoul, \u201cnot mine. As for Gilda, she\nbelongs to me--whatever you and she choose to do about it. But I don\u2019t\nworry. The Gods of the Mountain--the Holy Catskills--will hold you to\nrespectability. As for Gilda, her chastity is--more--admirable----\u201d\n\nAnother fit of convulsive coughing shook his bony frame. He wiped his\nface, looked sneeringly at Stuart:\n\n\u201cWhat a gift of God is a truly good young man,\u201d he said. \u201cBut a\nrespectable young man is a pearl without price----\u201d Another access of\ncoughing seized him. The crisis passed. He leered at Stuart, unable to\nspeak.\n\nThe rushing, confused impulse to kill this man surged, ebbed, passed,\nleaving the boy dazed and pale.\n\n\u201cI thought you\u2019d do it,\u201d panted Sadoul; \u201cit would have been worth it\nto me to make a clean sweep of all Suttons. You got rather white. But\nrespectability is a sheet-anchor and the Highlands of the Hudson a firm\nfortress----\u201d\n\nThe words choked in his throat: a thin stream of bright blood squirted\nfrom his mouth--gushed over his chin.\n\nMoments of silence, terribly significant: Sadoul, eyes closed, sopping\nhis mouth with crimsoned handkerchief, the boy staring.\n\nSadoul opened his eyes, red with hell. His shoulders sagged, his gaunt\nchest heaved, he leaned trembling against the wall like a horse,\nsinking by the withers.\n\n\u201cCan I do anything, Sadoul?\u201d ventured the boy in a ghostly voice.\n\nSadoul nodded: \u201cYes, mind your business.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t care what you say to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t either.\u201d Sadoul sat down, rested for a while, got up.\n\n\u201cAre you all right?\u201d asked Stuart.\n\nTheir eyes met. Both knew now it was only a waiting game. And, with\nthis astounding knowledge, the boy softened.\n\n\u201cYou ought to go away,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll play square.\u201d\n\n\u201cArizona and a clean shirt?\u201d sneered Sadoul. He looked at his wet\nhandkerchief, at his stained hands.\n\n\u201cPlay square, eh?\u201d he repeated. \u201cWell, that\u2019s a little more than being\nrespectable. That\u2019s emotional. Respectability doesn\u2019t admit of any\nexcept prescribed and predigested emotions. Be prudent, Sutton, or your\nancestors will squirm underground.\u201d\n\nStuart said: \u201cWell, whatever you do I\u2019ll play square, Sadoul. I think\nI\u2019d do it on my own account. But Gilda likes you----\u201d\n\nSadoul, on his way out, paused at the door.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re never going to have her,\u201d he said. \u201cSo don\u2019t lie awake on my\naccount.\u201d\n\nHe went out, leaving the door ajar. Sutton heard him in the wash-room.\n\nA little later Gilda returned alone, noticed his expression, came to\nhim, questioningly.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s nothing. Sadoul was here. We always upset each other.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it. I hated to ask you to come.\u201d\n\nPockman came in at his crazy gait, arms jerking and dangling and his\nface glistening with sweat.\n\n\u201cAll ready,\u201d he said. \u201cLyken is in there with an electrician and camera\nman. I hope we\u2019ll get something. How do you feel, Miss Greenway?\u201d\n\nShe smiled and said she felt very well indeed.\n\n\u201cIs Sutton expected to be present?\u201d he asked with a smirk.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d she said, \u201c----if I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, sure!\u201d He cast a stealthy glance at Stuart, then led the way out.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was the same room in which she had last seen Sadoul. Except that the\nvarious machines were ready to go into action, and a lot of flowers\nabout, the room was the same.\n\nDr. Lyken shook hands with her; the electrician and camera-man bowed.\n\nMiss Cross came in with another young woman in uniform--a Miss Parry,\nwho seated herself prepared to make stenographic records and fill in\ncharts.\n\nThe electrician took up his station; to control and direct the delicate\ngradation of light was one of his jobs. The camera-man\u2019s assistant\nentered. A few minutes later Sadoul appeared, went immediately to\nGilda. She removed her hat. Miss Cross took it. They consulted in quiet\nvoices for a while, then she went with Sadoul into the dark cabinet.\n\nAlmost immediately Sadoul came out alone and nodded to Pockman. Lyken\nand Stuart also followed. The interior of the cabinet was very dark.\nPockman flashed an electric torch.\n\nGilda lay on a fur rug on the floor, partly resting on her right side,\nher legs a little drawn up. Both hands covered her face. She did not\nstir. Her breathing was regular and quiet. Temperature, pulse, heart\naction, blood-pressure, all proved normal.\n\n\u201cNothing morbid in that trance,\u201d said Pockman in a cautious tone.\n\nThey returned to their chairs near the table. Lights faded to a\ndiscreet twilight. Miss Parry withdrew to a corner where a shaded bulb\nhung low.\n\n\u201cIs that camera ready?\u201d asked Sadoul.\n\nLyken whispered to Stuart: \u201cHe\u2019s using a quartz lens. They\u2019ll flood the\nroom with violet rays when they shoot.\u201d\n\nPockman, on the other side of him, said: \u201cThe only thing to do is to\nsettle the question definitely one way or another: whether these forces\nthat \u2018sensitives\u2019 possess, and which induce psychical phenomena, are\nmerely forces of nature at present unknown to us, or forces exerted by\nliving identities which have survived physical death.\u201d\n\nSadoul, speaking in a natural voice, said to Lyken: \u201cI\u2019ve used a\nmicroscope on the body exudations from a highly sensitized medium. It\ndisclosed living cells of a type not found in the human body.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas there a nucleus to each cell?\u201d\n\n\u201cPositively.\u201d\n\nLyken seemed startled. \u201cWhat are we to expect, now, from little Miss\nGreenway?\u201d he inquired of Pockman.\n\n\u201cDual projection, I believe.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaterialization?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Sadoul.\n\nAt that moment the vague dark draperies of the cabinet were flung aside\nand a young girl in white stepped out.\n\nFrom somewhere a cool breeze stirred in the room, blowing the perfume\nof the cut flowers.\n\n\u201cCamera!\u201d said Sadoul quietly. And, to the electrician: \u201cViolet,\nplease.\u201d\n\nThe figure in white came forward tranquilly, unembarrassed. As she\nneared the table a book lying there caught her eye, and she paused,\nturned the pages curiously, as though interested.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s Einstein\u2019s book,\u201d whispered Lyken. \u201cIf she can understand that\nshe\u2019s better than I am.\u201d\n\nThe figure raised its head, smiling, as though she had overheard the\nremark.\n\nShe was a trifle shorter than Gilda, like her in a celestial way, with\na more dazzling skin.\n\n\u201cAre you Gilda?\u201d asked Sadoul.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she said quietly. Her voice was like Gilda\u2019s, with another\nindefinable quality--something exquisitely lark-like, unsullied as pure\nsong showered down from skies.\n\n\u201cLook at the _Other_!\u201d exclaimed Lyken.\n\nSadoul called to the electrician: \u201cFlood!\u201d And to the camera-man, \u201cGo\non shooting. Get them both together!\u201d\n\nStuart sat rigid in his chair, gripping it. He saw the _Other One_\nadvancing, brilliant in white, exquisitely indolent, every movement\ngracefully sensuous, and her mouth a red flower in the demi-light.\n\nShe paused beside the table, leaned on it, bending her face to the\nflowers.\n\n\u201cAre you Gilda?\u201d asked Sadoul unsteadily.\n\nShe looked up and laughed. Stuart saw her clearly for the first time,\nand trembled a little, so lovely she was.\n\nThe other figure leaned there beside her, too, near-smiling, fresh,\nexquisite, unsullied.\n\n\u201cSadoul,\u201d said the _Other One_, \u201cwhy do you try to create dissension\nbetween us?\u201d She encircled the other\u2019s waist. The latter looked\nseriously at Sadoul: \u201cWe are in harmony. Why do you try to separate\nus? Why try to distinguish between us? If you separate us you make us\nself-conscious. You offer us violence, Sadoul.\u201d\n\nSadoul got up from his chair. Both figures laid their hands on his. He\ndrew them a little way aside.\n\n\u201cGod,\u201d said Pockman, sweating, \u201cthat\u2019s going some! For Christ\u2019s sake\nkeep on grinding that camera, you----\u201d\n\nSadoul held the two white figures by their right hands resting between\nhis own.\n\nHe said: \u201cIs _that_ why there is no hope for me? I didn\u2019t understand.\u201d\n\nThe _Other One_ said: \u201cYou sow dissension between us who are twins.\nDidn\u2019t you understand that we really are one?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.... That is the reason, then.\u201d\n\nThey nodded: \u201cThat is the reason, Sadoul.\u201d\n\nHe stood for a little while with dark head lowered, retaining their\nhands. The _Other One_ seemed impatient; her companion drew a stem of\nfrisia from the vase on the table and laid it in Sadoul\u2019s hand where\nher own had been lying.\n\nThen she leisurely crossed the room, passing so close to Sutton that\nher white garment touched him, and he felt the breathing warmth of her\nbody.\n\n\u201cGilda,\u201d he whispered.\n\nShe paused, looked down at him.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s no ghost,\u201d said Lyken, nervously. \u201cAsk her if she\u2019ll let you\ntake her in your arms.\u201d\n\nThe figure looked uncertainly at Sutton as he rose.\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t hurt you,\u201d he whispered.\n\n\u201cBe very gentle,\u201d she said. \u201c_She_ is asleep in the cabinet and you\ncould easily hurt her.\u201d\n\nShe came into his arms, rested against him, a warm young creature, a\nliving, breathing shape.\n\n\u201cIs she real?\u201d demanded Lyken.\n\n\u201cAbsolutely.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen somebody had better look into that cabinet,\u201d he said, almost\nviolently. \u201cReason is reason and a joke\u2019s a joke, God da----\u201d\n\nThe _Other One_, passing near, closed his mouth with her slim hand, and\nLyken nearly fainted on his chair.\n\n\u201cGet out if you can\u2019t control yourself,\u201d said Sadoul coldly. And, to\nPockman: \u201cTake their pulse and temperature.\u201d\n\nThe slender figure in Sutton\u2019s embrace released herself, rested one\nhand on his arm and leaned down to re-open the book. The page that\ninterested her was printed solid with mathematics.\n\n\u201cDo you understand that?\u201d whispered Sutton.\n\n\u201cYes. How simple and interesting.\u201d\n\nPockman came with a clinical thermometer and Sutton stepped back.\n\nHe watched nervously the procedure--the tests made with this radiant\nbeing--the weighing, the stethoscope, the vial for saliva, a\nmicroscopic paring from a finger-nail, a few red-gold hairs, a tear\nduct excited and the secretion caught and bottled while the lovely\ncreature laughed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPockman and Sadoul, camera-man and electrician, and the stenographer,\nMiss Parry, were busy for hours, it seemed to Sutton.\n\nGradually the lights had been increased to an intensity where\nphotography required nothing else to aid it.\n\nLyken, inert on his chair, slack-jawed and pop-eyed, merely stared and\nstared, utterly valueless as any assistance.\n\nThe _Other One_, who had come curiously to look at Sutton once or\ntwice, and who did not seem very friendly toward him, now smiled at him\nfor the first time, rather shyly.\n\n\u201cI am glad you did not touch me,\u201d she said. \u201cSome day, perhaps. We are\ngoing now. Good-bye.\u201d\n\nSadoul turned from the camera: \u201cHave you got to go?\u201d\n\nThey nodded smilingly.\n\n\u201cI want to ask one more thing of you,\u201d he said, following the two\nfigures toward the cabinet. \u201cI beg you to let us see you both, with\nGilda lying asleep at your feet. Will you do this?\u201d\n\nThey seemed uncertain, whispered together for a moment. Then the _Other\nOne_ nodded.\n\nPockman and Sutton joined them; Lyken lurched up from his chair and\nstumbled toward the cabinet.\n\nIt was very dark inside.\n\nSadoul reached up and turned on a flood of light.\n\nGilda lay as they had left her, her face in her hands. Beside her the\ntwo white figures looked down at her, gravely.\n\n\u201cCamera!\u201d said Sadoul, with an effort. \u201cPull that curtain wide, Sutton!\u201d\n\nIn the silence they heard behind them the grinding of the machine.\n\n\u201cTurn off the light,\u201d said the _Other One_ to Sadoul.\n\n\u201cMust I?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\nHe closed and bolted the door, lifted a bony arm and plunged the\ncabinet into darkness. Nobody moved for a few minutes except Lyken,\nswaying on legs that scarce supported him. Then Sadoul turned on the\nlight. Both white figures were gone.\n\nOn the rug at their feet Gilda sighed and stirred and opened her eyes.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nThe daily grind down town was beginning to wear on young Sutton. It was\nnot the routine of business, not the new responsibility that dragged\nhim; it was the constant depression, the interminable whining. Gloom\npossessed the ca\u00f1ons of the district like a dirty fog from the bay.\nNobody did anything except snivel about the rottenness exposed by the\nseveral investigating committees, Civil, State, and Federal.\n\nThe interminable jeremiad set men\u2019s nerves on edge; nothing was to be\nlooked for from the moribund Administration and only mischief came from\nit--the last spiteful and convulsive clawing at the people who had done\nit to death.\n\nPygmy wrath, miserable bunkum, sullen inertia--these were to be endured\nuntil March. Then the rat-pit would be empty and ready for fumigation.\n\nMeanwhile, those joyless bacteria which feed and propagate on gloom\nbecame noisier in their bigoted zeal, boasting of their ability to\nblackmail a cowardly Congress. Paul Pry was at the keyhole; Mrs. Grundy\nat her window; Torquemada junior, an itinerant advance-agent, notifying\na half-educated people from the Gulf to the Lakes that the incredibly\ncruel and stupid old god of Sabbath had come back to burn all heretics.\n\n\u201cBelieve as I believe or I\u2019ll roast you,\u201d bawled Torquemada junior. \u201cIt\npleases me to twiddle my thumbs on Sunday; and you\u2019d better twiddle\nyours or I\u2019ll know the reason why!\u201d\n\nTime\u2019s great pendulum was being swung by fools too violently and too\nfar forward. The backward swing was nearly due. A patient people,\nmostly ignorant or semi-educated, looked on, confused by the din of the\nfools and the Talkers.\n\nBut they were the people who had suddenly arisen in spite of the\nAdministration and battered the face of Destiny out of all recognition.\n\nThe people who had burned for a space, transfigured in the blazing\nbeauty of their Flaming Sword. And had dulled to a cinder, and returned\nto their millions of wallows, grunting of grandeur--the wonder,\nlaughter, and sorrow of the world they saved for the sake of Jesus\nChrist.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe lumber business, in common with all affairs, remained in the\ndoldrums.\n\nFinancing anything through old and accustomed channels was now the\nidlest of dreams.\n\nAlso an open winter in the Northland did not help. There was little\nsnow. Logs were difficult to move. And when, late in January, arctic\ncold settled over a naked North, it was not good for forests.\n\nStuart Sutton worried a great deal. He worried about logs; he feared\nfor the new plantations unprotected by snow. They sent him reports of\ndepredations by deer--miles of browse--balsam, hemlock, Norway spruce\ncleaned out.\n\nSlashings and danger of fire in reforested regions were ever in his\nmind; the weevil was a nightmare, too. But most terrifying of all to\nhim was the white-pine blight--that dreadful, leprous thing out of the\nOrient. And he turned the ledger pages devoted to extirpation of wild\nand cultivated currant and gooseberry, and figured out the cost of\nsaving from extinction the noblest tree that ever grew in North America.\n\nOnly less noble was the chestnut, now, from another leprous blight,\nalmost extinct. And upon the lumber-men of the land lay the\nresponsibility for the survival of the white pine.\n\nLetters from his father and mother in California were a trifle\ndisturbing, too. They had heard that their son and heir infrequently\ndecorated those social circles wherein, since Colonial days, the Hudson\nRiver Suttons were accustomed to gyrate. They confidently laid it to\nthe exactions of business, fatigue from overwork. And cautioned him\nagainst it.\n\nWhich tender admonition hurt his Sutton conscience; in a rush of\nremorse he accepted a number of invitations; reappeared among his kind\nfor a few weeks, bored and impatient at losing all that time away from\nGilda; and then dropped out again--Gilda and the lumber business being\nall he could possibly attend to in life.\n\nSuspecting this state of affairs, the girl chided him.\n\n\u201cYou mustn\u2019t give up your family\u2019s friends,\u201d she said. \u201cSuch ties are\ngenerations in making. They are worth something, mean something. If one\nhas an undisputed place in the social fabric, one should not vacate\nit without a reason. I know how that is,\u201d she added with a light,\nunconscious sigh.\n\nThey were seated before the fire in her living room. He reached over\nand rested one hand on hers.\n\n\u201cDo you care to tell me a little, dear?\u201d he asked.\n\nShe did not misunderstand him, though not prepared for a demand of\nconfidence so intimate.\n\nAfter a short silence, and absently caressing his hand where it lay on\nher lap:\n\n\u201cThere was domestic unhappiness when I was a child. My parents\nseparated. Mortification made my father a recluse. My mother spent the\nremainder of her life in Europe--until the tragic end.\u201d\n\nShe took his hand between both of hers, pressed it, clung a little:\n\n\u201cThe courts,\u201d she said, \u201cleft me under joint control.... I understand,\nnow, that my father\u2019s attitude toward me was not aversion; it was that\nthe sight of me made his shame and grief unendurable.\n\n\u201cMy mother was much younger. She cared for gaiety and the brightness\nof things. She was very pretty; she had ample means, friends ... a\nposition, once.... And still a position on the Continent.... It was\nobvious that my place was in boarding school. Under the court\u2019s ruling\nI could not remain more than a fortnight with my mother. I could have\ngone home to father, but he did not want me.\n\n\u201cSo--you see what position in the world we had was vacated. There was\nno longer any circle; no longer a family; nor family friends.\n\n\u201cThere were--and are--relatives. They write to me, still. They are very\nkind.... But I prefer liberty--the liberty of reserving my parents\u2019\naffairs for my own private attention. Kinship can be a burden.... I\ncould never endure being accounted for, explained ... at the expense of\nfamily privacy ... and the domestic misfortune of two dead people who\ngave me birth ... and whose sorrow is no concern of strangers.\u201d\n\nPresently he said: \u201cIt is for you to decide, of course. And yet,\npresentable relatives mean almost anything to a girl alone.\u201d\n\nThe Hudson River Suttons who spoke out of his mouth were right. Perhaps\nGilda Greenway was righter.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t, Stuart. I am not very discreet, not even cautious. You know\nthat. I\u2019m not fastidious. You know how we met. But whatever else I\ndo--whatever I condescend to, unworthy perhaps--I can\u2019t go back and let\nmy relatives account for me at the expense of my father and mother.\u201d\n\nHe made no attempt to discuss the matter. Perhaps he felt that, when\nthe time came, it would smooth their way with his own relatives and\nfriends if Gilda had somebody presentable to account for her.\n\nHowever, he said nothing further on the subject, nor did she.\n\nAlso, it was time to change her gown, for she had persuaded him to\ngo to a reception at the Creative Arts Association with her--the girl\nrefusing to neglect any opportunity to enlarge the pathetically small\nand badly mixed circle wherein she had her only social exercise.\n\nIt was a tea in aid of a drive to provide the starving inhabitants of\nRoumelia with fezzes.\n\nStuart usually lent himself to this sort of thing when she asked\nhim, speculating uneasily at times upon his own future and unaided\nability to lead her into a duller, more respectable circle--the sacred\nwater-hole, trodden deep, hatched up, and trampled by generations of\nsocial pachyderms and gazelles.\n\n\u201cOr we\u2019ll make our own wallow,\u201d he concluded. But the alternative\ncaused him a slight pang when he remembered the family corral on the\nHudson, the old-time gardens, the ancient domain, tradition, tenantry,\ndirty window-panes and all.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey arrived at the Creative Arts Association in Sutton\u2019s car.\n\nThe function was in full blast; the Talkers were talking; big lions,\nlittle lions, fat lions, meagre lions, mangy lions, all were roaring.\nPotential pup-lions, pathetic, lovable adolescents, yapped shyly when\nnoticed and patronised. There was the Fifth Avenue matron with a\nhome on the Hudson and stringy hair, who condescended for charity\u2019s\nsake. Other fashionables were there, gracious, profusely democratic,\npatiently ready to endure, for the sake of Roumelia and half a million\nred fezzes.\n\nThe Creative Arts were there, physically hungry, mentally ravenous\nto filch material, but mostly bursting with necessity for vocal self\nexpression.\n\nListeners were few, Talkers dominated. Here an intimidated world was\ntold where it got off sixty times every minute.\n\nOn the edge of this milling mess of mouths Gilda stood, unconsciously\nholding tight to Stuart, who good humouredly identified for her the\nfauna:\n\nMrs. Marmot de Grasse, prominent at Newport and in Greenwich Village.\nHer Article in _The Post_, \u201cShould an Art Student Pay $10,000 for a\nStudio?\u201d was shaking Fourth Street to its profoundest cabarets.\n\nMiss Smith-Durian, the wealthiest maiden lady in Tuxedo, had offered a\nprize of $300 annually for the best novel by a New Yorker. The novel to\nremain the property of Miss Smith-Durian.\n\nHarry Stayr came up grinning like Silenus, and shook hands with Gilda.\n\n\u201cHeavens,\u201d he said, \u201cwhat food. All squashy; and a fake punch to add\nthe classic insult.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s so interesting,\u201d said Gilda, \u201c----and one doesn\u2019t think of food.\u201d\n\n\u201c_One_ does!\u201d retorted Stayr with a grimace. \u201cMrs. Bazelius Grandcourt\nswindled me into coming, promising booze. I gave up ten bones. You\u2019re\nstung, too, I suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Derring sent me tickets,\u201d said Gilda. \u201cWho is that preparing to\nsing, Harry?\u201d\n\nIt proved to be the lovely Farrar, immortally young, always generous in\ncharity.\n\nThe Talkers ceased for a while: Heaven opened; then the celestial\ntransformation faded, drowned by the \u201cnoise of the storks.\u201d\n\nJulian Fairless presented himself, saluted Gilda\u2019s hand, turned to\ninterpret and identify at her eager request:\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re all there. That\u2019s the new novelist, Theodore Howard\nBelper--small-town stuff, you know--wrote \u2018The Town Pump\u2019--the last\nword in rube stuff.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy do you suppose he wrote it?\u201d she asked with a distressed smile.\n\n\u201cSmall towns want small-town stuff.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut New York reads it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNew York\u2019s the smallest of \u2019em all, only it doesn\u2019t know it,\u201d sneered\nStayr. \u201cThat solemn guy, Gilda, is Horatio McPhoon, the sculptor. He\nhas submitted a plan to make a bronze statue of the President a mile\nhigh, and erect it on top of Pikers Peak.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, dear,\u201d she said unhappily.\n\nFairless pointed out to her in rapid succession the bald, wide-eared\neditor of the _Daily Pillar_; Montgomery Skippy, the great publisher\nand platitudinarian; young Rawmore, the romantic actor, idol of\nthe metropolis; Fitz-William Paunder, patron, director, founder,\nlife-member of everything corporate in Gotham; Mrs. Charles Gilderling,\na beauty once, socially formidable, and mother of several already\nnotorious young Gilderlings.\n\nAnd there were the Talkers, Leopold Pouncing, the critic; old\nHunkerson, book-reviewer, brilliant as a spitting cat in the dark;\nhis confr\u00e8re, the ponderous gabbler on the _Daily Forum_, Seth\nHawver; Scratchowsky, the Polish etcher; Sir Daniel Brunderby of the\nEmbassy, worn and perplexed by Yankee and Sinn Fein alike, but talking\nhands-across, God bless him!--the only Talker of them all who had a\nword to say worth hearing.\n\nMrs. Gillately Gray fluttered up, always bright and birdish: and \u201cHow\nd\u2019you do, Mr. Stayr, Mr. Fairless, Mr. Sutton--isn\u2019t it too wonderful\nfor poor Roumelia?--_How_ d\u2019you do, Miss Greenway!----\u201d fluttering to\nthe presentation, _toujours oiseau_, preening the nearest feather, her\nown or another\u2019s--_vrai t\u00eate de linotte_.\n\nAfter migration, Stayr said: \u201c_Oiseau de flamme et bec de gaz!_ Brrr!\nWhat a humming-bird!\u201d\n\nFairless said to Gilda: \u201cShe has the social importance conferred by the\nsocial column. Her opera box drips diamonds. There\u2019s nothing else to\nher.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, come,\u201d said Sutton; \u201cshe\u2019s civil and anxious to please. Why the\ndevil do you knock everybody, Julian?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t have to,\u201d retorted Fairless. \u201cBut your boosting is as\nsnobbish as my knocking. I don\u2019t know which is the more sickening,\nafter all----\u201d\n\nThe greatest of living pianists began to play. It was an artistic\nmistake; the place was unsuitable; but it was a charitable success.\nRoumelia could be proud of her fezzes.\n\n\u201cIf you\u2019ll shake this and come around to my place I\u2019ll shake something\nin a shaker that would shake a Shaker to----\u201d\n\nJulian\u2019s elbow in his stomach silenced him.\n\nThe most famous of string-quartettes was deliciously beginning.\n\nBut this, too, like all happiness, came to its own enchanting end.\nAgain the place was clamorous with the talk of the Talkers.\n\nSutton whispered in Gilda\u2019s ear: \u201cWho would you care to meet, darling?\u201d\n\nShe ventured a preference or two, shyly. The men he went after, rounded\nup, and fetched. To the women he took Gilda, casually secure in his own\nself assurance.\n\nAnd Gilda was too lovely to suspect--until she had gone--when the\ninevitable feminine reaction occurs, and any man is under suspicion who\npresents one woman to another.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe had enjoyed every moment. She said so to Stuart.\n\n\u201cI know where you belong,\u201d he said glumly. \u201cAnd you\u2019re going there some\nday.\u201d\n\nHe meant, of course, the sacred water-hole.\n\nGilda surmised it, looked at him tenderly, humorously, inclined to\nlaugh, wholly inclined to adore him and his funny social instincts.\n\nTo certain English people there are no particular social distinctions\nto be expected in America. The only difference they notice is between\nthose who are amusing and those who are not.\n\nPerhaps Gilda\u2019s parents might have entertained some such idea--if they\never had troubled their heads about it at all.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey were going to the theatre that evening.\n\nHe took her home, went back to dress, returned to take her to dinner at\nthe Ritz. And found her in her black evening gown, flushed, feverish\nfrom weeping.\n\nBut when, surprised and troubled, he took her to his breast, she\nwound her arms around him, strained him to her, kissed him, sobbing,\nstammering, warning him to beware. And gazing intently into her\ntear-wet eyes he saw the dark change coming, mirrored there in peril,\ntrembling on her reddening lips, fragrant in her breath.\n\nShe turned, covering her quivering face with both desperate hands, sank\ndown on the sofa.\n\nHe laid aside his overcoat and hat, seated himself near, and turned his\naltered face to watch her, grimly determined to see it through.\n\nFreda had gone. But there was food in the refrigerator--a cold\npheasant, salad, a bottle of claret.\n\nWhen she heard him in the kitchen she rose and went out.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll do all that,\u201d she said humbly.... \u201cDo you really mean to stay\nwith me?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you think I want you to call up Sadoul?\u201d he said bitterly.\n\nShe had laid the cloth; she stood now, with a handful of silver, gazing\nat him. The _Other One_ was rapidly possessing her. She gave him a\nlovely, flushed look.\n\n\u201cIt is always one kind of hell for Sadoul,\u201d she said. \u201cIt will be\nanother kind for you if you stay.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d he said, reddening with anger at the maddening\nhopelessness of it all.\n\nShe laid the knives and forks on the cloth and came close to him.\n\n\u201cYou had better let me call up Sadoul,\u201d she said. \u201cI am safe with him.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are safe with me,\u201d he said with an oath.\n\nThey both reddened painfully. He caught her hand, asking pardon--but\nreleased the burning palm.\n\n\u201cIt is destruction for you to stay.... I still know what I\u2019m saying.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m going to stay. We\u2019ll have to win out together, Gilda.... Do you\nunderstand?\u201d\n\nShe made no reply. And, looking at her, he realised that she no longer\nunderstood.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nToward morning the girl had cried herself to sleep, lying flung across\nthe bed, face buried in her dishevelled hair, and one little hand\nso convulsively linked in his that the boy could scarcely manage to\nrelease himself.\n\nHe sat on the chair beside the bed for a while, gazing at her out of\nhaggard eyes. Then, when he saw the dark change fading from her burning\ncheeks he got up, took his hat and coat and went out into the grey\nlight of a foggy morning.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nSadoul, playing with his cobra--or rather tormenting it--said to\nPockman:\n\n\u201cTake the case mentioned by Chevreuil among scores of others. It is\ncertain that the \u2018sensitive\u2019 experiences terror and anguish when any\nmaterialisation in which he or she has been concerned is subjected to\nbrutal handling.\u201d\n\nPockman looked around from his microscope at Sadoul, then at the cobra\nin its glass-faced double hutch. It was a black cobra, not a spectacled\none.\n\nSadoul ran his gaunt forefinger up and down the glass. Inside, the\nsnake, erect in its coils, followed every movement.\n\nSadoul said: \u201cThe sensitive seems to be physiologically an\u00e6mic. It is\nher own substance of which the phantom is composed. There are other\ncells, too, but the structural emanation is from the sensitive. And\nwhen anything excites or shocks, the sensitive begins to recover her\nown cells.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your deduction?\u201d inquired Pockman.\n\n\u201cThis: that any common identity of sensitive and phantom is largely\nmaterial; that this mutual sharing of substance accounts for bodily and\nmental injury to the sensitive if the materialisation be injured.\u201d\n\n\u201cLogically argued,\u201d nodded Pockman. \u201cIf one knew how to sever the natal\ncord between medium and phantom, the former would die, probably.\u201d\n\nSadoul stood absently teasing the cobra. \u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cBut in a case\nof dual projection, what?\u201d\n\n\u201cA case of Siamese twins, I suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have in mind the case of Gilda Greenway?\u201d Pockman spoke, leering\ninto his microscope.\n\nSadoul no longer cared what Pockman thought--no longer took the trouble\nto conceal motive or purpose. He said, coolly:\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve concluded it would endanger her if I attempted to rid her of one\nof these phantoms.\u201d\n\n\u201cRid yourself, you mean--don\u2019t you?\u201d tittered the other.\n\nSadoul\u2019s silent glance, full of effrontery and contempt, measured\nPockman from head to foot.\n\n\u201cYes, rid myself,\u201d he said. \u201cBut I don\u2019t know how.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour cobra was a premature investment,\u201d remarked Pockman, agitated\nwith a sort of whispering laughter which hunched his shoulders to his\nears.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Sadoul, \u201cI got the snake too late, I\u2019m afraid.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you do with your hypodermics full of venom?\u201d\n\n\u201cTry them on sputum.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhose?\u201d\n\n\u201cMine.\u201d\n\nPockman looked up incredulously. \u201cThat\u2019s a new one, isn\u2019t it?\u201d he asked\nwith a ghastly smirk.\n\n\u201cQuite new.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes it do the business?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbsolutely.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see. You mean to attenuate it, gradually attempt to render yourself\nimmune. Then--what? Inject it?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s the idea,\u201d said Sadoul tranquilly.\n\nPockman skeptical, disdainful of any amateur, yet intelligent enough to\nbe interested, stared at the other in silence.\n\nSadoul\u2019s hand, moving rhythmically on the glass, seemed to hypnotise\nthe snake which, towering from its coils, hood dilated, swayed gently\nwith the moving hand.\n\nSuddenly Sadoul made an abrupt pass; the cobra struck like lightning; a\nstream of venom clouded the glass and ran down inside.\n\nThe cobra seemed to collapse like a punctured rubber tube, falling limp\nin a flattened coil.\n\nSadoul took a bamboo rod, went to the rear of the hutch, opened a\nsmall panel, and, with the rod, flung the snake into the adjoining\nhutch and lowered the dividing screen of glass.\n\nThen he opened the entire back of the hutch, stepped in and filled a\nsmall syringe from the cloudy pool gathering in the cup-shaped glass\nsill.\n\nPockman watched the proceedings with a sort of horrid, mocking\nintentness. To play with death was part of his profession. To watch\nan amateur do so approached the levity of a sport. Here was a man who\nmight easily have abrasions on his skin, handling without rubber gloves\nthe most deadly and rapid poison known to man--a poison for which no\nknown antidote exists.\n\n\u201cKeep the damn thing away from me,\u201d he said as Sadoul came toward him\nwith his syringe. \u201cIf you get any of it in your skin it\u2019s going to act\nlike lightning.\u201d\n\nSadoul made no comment, and Pockman realised that perhaps he didn\u2019t\ncare very much what happened. Which discovery did not particularly\naffect Pockman, except that if Sadoul died he might as well die a\nvictim to research as die a jackass.\n\nHe said as much with a hunch and a shrug, but the other replied with\na sneer: \u201cQuand m\u00eame, on ne meurt pas; on s\u2019addresse, tranquilment,\ngentilement, au pays de l\u2019ombre.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you want to, you can stop that murderous cough,\u201d said Pockman. \u201cAnd\nif you\u2019re so fond of snakes there are plenty in Arizona and New Mexico.\u201d\n\nSadoul laughed: \u201cYou think I\u2019ll leave those two together?\u201d\n\n\u201cBetter than to leave them together permanently. You had another\nhemorrhage this morning----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou lie, Pockman.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, you damned lunger,\u201d shouted Pockman, \u201cI saw you in the wash-room.\nDon\u2019t tell me I lie or I\u2019ll fire you out of my place.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019d better not try,\u201d said Sadoul, his indifferent eyes on the angry\nman.\n\nHe went away presently, to his own quarters, carrying the syringe\ncarelessly in one hand.\n\nAt the further end of the two rooms which Pockman had allotted to him\nfor his experiments, was a third and smaller room. This he had fitted\nup as a combination of bedroom and study, and here he now did his\nwriting.\n\nTo this place he had removed various articles from his apartment--some\nbooks, clothing, photographs of Gilda taken abroad, small personal\npossessions, letter-files, private papers, even the canary birds that\nnever sang, for some reason or other, and that hopped and hopped and\ncracked seeds all day long in the tarnished tinsel cage.\n\nAs for the big, lonely apartment which he had taken nearly a year\nago, he went there rarely. The Japanese servant remained as guardian\nof the furniture--all the dreary accumulations necessary to equip a\nhousekeeping apartment for married people--furnishings for living-room,\nbedrooms, dining-room, kitchen--pictures, mirrors, curtains, linen,\ncarpets, silver, glass, china, batterie-de-cuisine--the whole appalling\noutfit.\n\nThat apartment had become a horror to him; there were no recollections\nconnected with it except painful ones; no phantoms haunted those\ndusky rooms to evoke in him even the wistful pleasures of sadness; no\nmemories clung to the unused, desolate place.\n\nExcept by a tuner the piano never had been touched; the brocaded chairs\nhad never known the caress of her slender body; no lovely ghost looked\nout from the dim depths of gilded mirrors; there was nothing anywhere\nof her for whom, because of whom, he had cabled to Pockman to lease a\nhome.\n\nHe might have sub-let it for the remainder of the year, but, sullenly\ndetermined upon her return, he had hung on.\n\nNow it was not worth while; storage charges would more than balance\nany advantage of sub-letting. So he let it go with a final auction\nvaguely in mind, and established himself here on the East River. It\nwas less lonely. He could sit, when feeling ill, and gaze out on the\ngrey stream; on barge, schooner, steamer; on the forbidding prison in\nmid-stream; on the vast and dreary bridge overhead.\n\nHere, when very tired--perhaps with a towel wetted crimson in his\nclutch--he could lie in a morris-chair and follow the gulls in their\ninterminable flight; or mark the mile-long convolutions of smoke from\nsome lofty chimney, tinged with sombre sunset hues, or see the diamond\nblaze of light flash out across the bridges as the red west smouldered\nthrough thickening mists.\n\nAnd, lying here, he could ponder the eternal problem--the only problem\nthat preoccupied him since he first laid eyes on Gilda Greenway.\nWays, means, methods, chances, how to win her, hold her, dominate,\npossess--always the dull fierce searching in his fevered mind--always\nthe fixed idea, sleepless, burning, eternal.\n\nAll else was but an incident in the unaltered problem--the aborted\nmarriage, the domestic d\u00e9b\u00e2cle, the advent of Sutton--even the\ngirl\u2019s death--all were merely incident to the main never-changing,\nnever-ending problem.\n\nHis own physical condition, so long and sullenly unrecognised and\nunadmitted, merely enraged him with impatience. Yet, far in the sombre\ndepths of his mind he was conscious of an ominous mental stillness.\n\nIt was the stillness of fear, awakening to the advent of the\nFuture--trying to estimate its approaching speed--watching in a sort\nof stunned apathy the swift coming of something which had not existed\nyesterday.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAlong with his daily free-lance work--always in demand, always\nprofitable and to be depended upon to give him competence--he carried\nhis psycho-hypnotic research. There was a road, that way, leading\ntoward something--recognition, perhaps, authority, fame, as much of\nFortune as the jade carries in her stuffed purse, perhaps.\n\nAlso, it was something to do--food to feed fever--possibly a key to\nunlock the Problem--the only problem existing for him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe filled a phial with his cobra venom, washed the syringe without\nprecaution, pocketed it, sealed his phial, stood for a while staring\nabsently about him; then, very tired, lay down by the window and\ncrossed his arms behind his dark head.\n\nPresently his thoughts began to hover around death--but not his\nown--like grey dusk-moths round a ghostly blossom.\n\nLong since satisfied of the incidental unimportance of human\ndissolution, he had left that conclusion as a starting point for\nresearch; for speculation, too.\n\nFor the exploring mind, impatient of proof, wanders on out of bounds.\nAnd Sadoul\u2019s idler thoughts roamed at hazard among scenes peopled by\nsurviving identities--entered vast regions thickly inhabited, stirring\nwith colour and energy and life in its every and illimitable aspect.\n\nAnd now, finally, he thought of himself. How would it be with him and\n_her_? His passion must survive if he died.... Would her indifference\nsurvive with her? Was the pursuit endless as a star\u2019s course in\norbit--endless as the drift of the universe?\n\nIf it must be, it must be. Eternal or not, it was a part of the scheme\nof things, irrevocable, inalienable, eternal.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA fog gathered on the river. Tall masts passed like shrouded spectres;\nthe deep vibrations of the fog-horns grew in the thickening stillness;\ndock lights burned from every pier; long rows of windows glittered\ndimly in Astoria; a melancholy bell tolled incessantly.\n\nSadoul closed his heavy-lidded eyes, then opened them with an effort.\n\nRiver whistles were blowing; the hour struck on some phantom ship; one\nby one the giant bridges festooned themselves with gems, veiled in the\ncerements of the fog.\n\nA chill sweat grew on Sadoul\u2019s forehead, dampening his thick black\nhair, but in his hollow cheeks dull fire burned.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe awoke in the dark, coughing, ensanguined, wet to the skin with icy\nsweat.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nThere had come into Stuart\u2019s voice a hint of anxiety in these days when\nhe greeted Gilda over the telephone. It was always the same eager,\nboyish question: \u201cAre you all right, dear?\u201d And a swift breath of\nrelief when reassured.\n\nThe girl had taken up her music again, vocal and piano, and, three\ntimes a week, she had an Italian lesson as corollary to vocal\ncultivation.\n\nA visit with Stuart to an exquisite loan exhibition at the Metropolitan\nMuseum gave birth to an artistic impulse in the girl. The needle-work\non the French renaissance furniture thrilled her; she ardently desired\nto learn the art; and she discovered a place on Fifth Avenue where\ninstruction was given in _gros point_ and _petit point_--where canvas\nwas supplied, designs furnished and stamped.\n\nOften, now, she sat by the window, her oval frame on her knees, an\narray of rainbow tinted skeins of silk at her elbow, embroidering with\ndull-tipped needle.\n\nIt was slow, minute, painstaking work, but Gilda, quite mad about it\nalready, nourished a plan to tell in _petit point_ the deathless story\nof Eros and Psyche.\n\nThe girl had copied designs filched bodily from every available source;\nand, determined upon covering two chairs, a sofa, and a footstool--none\nof these period pieces yet acquired--regarded her dismaying programme\nwith mingled excitement and despair.\n\n\u201cAfter all,\u201d she ventured to Stuart, \u201cwe have a whole lifetime before\nus. Princesses used to sit in turrets and peg away at a lifetime\u2019s work\nwithout impatience.\u201d\n\nShe showed him the designs she had copied and tinted--delicate panels\nfrom the industrious Angelica, from Fuseli via Bartolozzi, even from\nFlaxman transposed into Bartolozzian terms--lovely, pastel tinted\ndesigns in regulation cartouches.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re terrifyingly clever,\u201d he said. \u201cI wonder,\u201d he added, smilingly\nuneasy, \u201cwhat you ever saw in a lumber merchant to attract you.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be silly, Stuart.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not going to be. But I\u2019m wondering a little----\u201d\n\n\u201cPiffle, darling. I was taught to draw by various teachers in various\nconvents. That\u2019s where I learned to play, also. No girl could escape.\nWhether one wished it or not one was compelled to produce designs, tint\nthem with watercolours. I could have learned _petit point_ from the\nsisters; I did learn ordinary embroidery, crochet, the simple tapestry\nstitch. I don\u2019t want you to think me talented.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he said, \u201cmusic, design--any artistic manual dexterity is\nutterly beyond me--any creative talent or any interpretive one.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat I do is nothing,\u201d she said, smilingly occupied with her needle.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re better read than I am, too,\u201d he went on. \u201cYou\u2019ve read more\nwidely in standard literature. You\u2019re familiar with things I\u2019ve merely\nheard of. I don\u2019t know what the devil I learned at Harvard. I\u2019ve\nbrought nothing away with me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve brought away an unspoiled boy--with a blond head--and the\nperfect equipment of all that is ideal in manhood,\u201d she said, keeping\nher eyes on her embroidery.\n\nHe bent and kissed her where, at the nape of the neck, the hair grew\nsoft as pale red-gold.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d better read up on art and things,\u201d he said, \u201cor there\u2019ll be\nsilences at the breakfast table some of these days.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope there\u2019ll be too many children for that,\u201d she murmured, intent\non her needle.\n\nThe boy laughed and she flushed at her temerity, but the former,\nthrilled by the picture, took her small, smooth hand and rested his\nlips on it.\n\n\u201cAll the same,\u201d he said, \u201cI don\u2019t want to be the only dumb creature at\nbreakfast, Gilda. You are far more cultivated than I and it worries me\nnow and then.\u201d\n\nShe laughed: \u201cI\u2019m glad of it. I don\u2019t wish you to be too sure of me.\nYou made me love you far too easily to suit my feminine complacency.\u201d\n\n\u201cWasn\u2019t it inevitable, dear?\u201d he asked, so seriously that the girl\nlaughed again.\n\n\u201cOf course, blaming destiny softens the shameful fact that I no sooner\nbeheld you than I seized you.\u201d\n\nHer eyes sparkled, her colour glowed, her hair seemed a living flame\nenveloping the dainty head lowered above her embroidery, where the\nneedle flashed in her white fingers.\n\nPresently her expression altered; she said gravely:\n\n\u201cLove,\u201d she said, \u201cnecessarily originates in propinquity. But I do not\nbelieve I ever could have loved any other man.\u201d\n\nThen, with a swift upward glance, and laughing again: \u201cSo you see,\ndear, lumber merchant or prince of the blood, it made no difference in\nmy destiny. It was to be _you_. It _is_ you. And I think you\u2019d better\ntell me something about your pine trees and your business so that I may\nenjoy it with you.\u201d\n\nHe remained silent and preoccupied for a while, then: \u201cGilda, I\u2019ve got\nto go to Heron Nest for a few days. Will you come as my guest?\u201d\n\n\u201cDarling! I couldn\u2019t, in your parents\u2019 absence.\u201d\n\n\u201cAren\u2019t we engaged?\u201d he insisted stubbornly.\n\n\u201cHow can we be when I\u2019m already married?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see why you can\u2019t come.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt wouldn\u2019t be well for me if I ever marry you. It isn\u2019t going to be\neasy, anyway. I realise that.\u201d\n\nHe shrugged his indifference and impatience. The least conceited of\nmen thinks himself sufficient compensation for troubles shared.\n\nThe girl looked at him sweetly but very soberly, her needle idle: the\nboy, boy-like, was busy thinking how he could have his way.\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t your house, yet; it\u2019s your father\u2019s and mother\u2019s,\u201d she\nreminded him.\n\n\u201cAnd I\u2019m going to marry you! What of it? If I wait a million years I\u2019m\ngoing to marry you.\u201d\n\nShe shook her head: \u201cIt doesn\u2019t alter things.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want you to see the place----\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to see it.\u201d\n\n\u201cReally, Gilda, it\u2019s rather nice in its way--nothing very grand, you\nknow--but homelike. All my childhood, boyhood, was centered there....\nOh, come on up! There are only a few snuffy old servants at Heron\nNest----\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll go up with you if you like, but it wouldn\u2019t do for me to stay\novernight.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not! Good Lord, if we\u2019d wanted to get into mischief----\u201d\n\n\u201cI know. But I shall not sleep at Heron Nest until the master of the\nhouse asks me.... Even if I were unmarried I ought not to. But probably\nI would,\u201d she added.\n\n\u201cDo you mean to leave me there and come back alone to town?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is nothing else for me to do, dear.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder,\u201d he mused, \u201cif I hadn\u2019t better telegraph dad and mother that\nI\u2019m engaged to you----\u201d\n\n\u201c_Can\u2019t_ you remember that I\u2019m married!\u201d she exclaimed in dismay.\n\n\u201cOh, the devil! Well----\u201d he drew a long, unhappy breath; \u201cWell then,\nGilda, I\u2019ll wire Heron Nest to expect us for lunch----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, no! I won\u2019t touch your father\u2019s bread and salt in his absence\nand without his knowledge. Don\u2019t ask me, Stuart. A roof means something\ndefinitely personal to me.... My father\u2019s roof meant it.... The roofs\nof relatives offered to me as shelter mean more to me than I am willing\nto give for offered sanctuary. No! I\u2019ll go anywhere else with you. If\nit\u2019s indiscreet, reckless, nevertheless I\u2019m not afraid. But eat and\nsleep, unasked, under your father\u2019s roof, I will not.\u201d\n\nAgain he remained silent, busy with another train of ideas.\n\n\u201cAll right, Gilda. I know what we\u2019ll do. We\u2019ll go to Heron Nest, look\nover things, take the train that same evening for our timber lands, and\nhave a wonderful two weeks together in the wilds!\u201d\n\nThe girl gazed at him amazed and disconcerted, but enthusiasm was\nfiring him; he was ravished by the idea, and he painted an enchanted\npicture of the trip.\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cI\u2019ve got to go anyway. We know we\u2019re quite\nall right together. Nobody can misunderstand us because there\u2019ll be\nnobody there except lumber-jacks, bosses, river-drivers--a lot of\nIndians, Kanucks, native mountaineers.\n\n\u201cI tell you it will be heavenly,\u201d he cried, \u201c--just you and I, Gilda,\nand the forest. I\u2019ll choose your outfit for you; I\u2019ll wire ahead and\nmake arrangements. I\u2019ll have Leggett put up a brand new log camp for us\nand stock it from the store.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are inviting me to disappear with you?\u201d she asked, bewildered.\n\n\u201cFor ten days, dearest. Can you stand me ten days?\u201d\n\nThe girl nodded. \u201cIt isn\u2019t that I don\u2019t want to go. I do. I\u2019m going\nwith you. I\u2019m just trying to comprehend our doing it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt _is_ like an enchanting dream, isn\u2019t it?\u201d he said, delighted. \u201cI\u2019ve\nbeen dreading it--not the work, but being away from you. It never\noccurred to me to ask you to go.\u201d\n\n\u201cProbably,\u201d she said, with faint sarcasm, \u201cit would have occurred to\nme. All our improprieties seem to originate with me----\u201d\n\nHe caught her in his arms.\n\n\u201cThey _do_,\u201d she insisted, breathlessly. \u201cSo I\u2019m rather glad that this\nimprudence originated in your own blond head.... Darling, be careful of\nmy needle----\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was something new to wait for, to plan for as the winter drew toward\nits end.\n\nOn Saturday afternoons they haunted those fascinating shops on Fifth\nAvenue and Madison which are devoted to sporting outfits--new and\nwondrous sources of delight to Gilda, who stood in ecstasy before\nracks full of skis and snow-shoes, hung over glass cases brilliant\nwith troutflies, glittering with reels and lures of metal and\nmother-of-pearl.\n\nWith Stuart she pored over the mechanism of guns, or compared fashions\nin hunting knives, or switched delicate rods of lance-wood or\nsplit-cane to test their stiffness, limberness, resiliency.\n\nThey looked at everything whether needed by them or not--at saddles,\nstirrups, polo mallets, golf-clubs. And as for sport clothes, he would\nhave given her more costumes than the Empress of India, so adorable was\nshe in knickers, in rough kilts and sleeveless jackets, in the hundred\nand one delightful confections invented for the outdoor convenience and\nadornment of healthy girlhood.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThose were sparkling, halcyon afternoons when he came uptown early and\nmet her at the Ritz for luncheon.\n\nNothing untoward marred them; of weather they were scarcely conscious,\nand it might rain or snow, or the sun might shine for all those two\nnoticed such eccentricities of Mama Nature.\n\nIn those days late in winter another matter became apparent--more so\nevery day they dared believe. And finally it became certain that longer\nand longer periods of time were elapsing between those dreaded hours\nwhen the dark change came over the girl and all the old unreal terror\nand bewilderment and despair overwhelmed them and left them exhausted,\ncrushed, spiritually prostrate under the vast menace of destruction.\n\nSuch trouble seldom threatened them now. And, thinking of it, half\nfearfully, sometimes the boy wondered whether the grim vitality, now\nburning low in Sadoul, had anything to do with its infrequency--whether\nthe will to suggest was becoming impaired.\n\nFor it was plain to him that Sadoul was ill. Even had he not witnessed\nthat scene in the laboratory earlier in the winter, the physical\nalteration in Sadoul\u2019s features had now become sufficiently ominous.\n\nGilda noticed it, but attributed it to Sadoul\u2019s habits, not surmising\nthe truth. She expressed her concern to Sadoul in a guarded, aloof way,\nnever certain that her sympathy might not be mistaken by him and his\never smouldering and passionate tyranny blaze out anew.\n\nBut in these days she found Sadoul unusually silent, less saturnine,\nand frequently so tired that the weariness in voice and manner seemed\na sort of gentleness which she was scarcely able to associate with the\nman.\n\nBut she soon learned of her mistake when she ventured an appeal to his\ngenerosity in behalf of their common and unhappy marital situation. For\ninstantly the old passion flamed in his ravaged face and he swore that\nhe would tolerate no legal separation, no other man as far as she ever\ncould be concerned.\n\n\u201cYou will come back to me some day,\u201d he said. \u201cThere is no other\ndestiny for you. It matters nothing if we die. Ultimately you will come\nback.... Or I\u2019ll fetch you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou never had me, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall have you absolutely. You\u2019ll come of your own accord or I\u2019ll go\nand get you.... Wherever you are.... Wherever I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sorry you believe that,\u201d she said gently.\n\nHe muttered unintelligibly. He seemed suddenly fatigued. She had been\nwriting automatically for him, sheet after sheet of matter which proved\nmeaningless to her in a normal state.\n\nFor half an hour or more she had been sitting there at his desk in the\npart of the laboratory reserved for him, her head resting on a pillow\nlaid on the desk, her right hand flying over the pad from which he\nremoved each sheet as it was covered.\n\nHe, now that she was awake, had been reading over what she had written,\nstriving to identify the controlling intelligence, certain that the\nwritten matter never originated in her or in himself.\n\nGilda never displayed any curiosity concerning what her subconscious\nself did for him. She displayed none now, tranquilly satisfied that she\nhad helped him in accumulating data for future research.\n\nResting in her chair, idly playing with her pencil, she looked at the\nchanged face of the man rather sadly. Already he was growing gray at\nthe temples; his face, always thin, had grown unpleasantly bony; and\nhis waxen hands were the hands of a big skeleton under a drawn membrane\nof colourless skin.\n\nHe continued to look over the sheets she had written, making marginal\nnotes now and then. His under lip sagged. Noticing it, she also saw a\nfleck of blood on it.\n\nCatching her eye, made suspicious perhaps, he wiped his mouth with a\nhandkerchief already spotted with dark stains.\n\n\u201cHave you hurt yourself?\u201d she asked.\n\nHe said he had bitten his lip, and went on reading, holding the\nhandkerchief to his face.\n\nGilda consulted her wrist watch.\n\n\u201cI have a vocal lesson in half an hour,\u201d she said, rising.\n\n\u201cYou mean an engagement with Sutton,\u201d he sneered.\n\n\u201cI mean a lesson,\u201d she retorted, disdainfully.\n\n\u201cA love-lesson?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. But suppose I had,\u201d she said with cold resentment.\n\n\u201cIt wouldn\u2019t do you any good. Or him. You\u2019re married and he\u2019s a snob.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am wondering,\u201d she said, exasperated, \u201cwhether I shall trouble\nmyself any further to help your research work.... I need not sacrifice\nmy time by coming here and enduring your bad temper. I don\u2019t know why I\ndo it, either.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do. You belong to me and you know it.\u201d\n\nThe very devil gleamed in her eyes:\n\n\u201cI know to whom I belong,\u201d she said in a sort of whisper, \u201cand he\ncan have me any time--a word, a touch--a look from him is enough....\nI don\u2019t know why I have any pity left for you, any feeling except\nindifference.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou feel the tie,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cThat civil ceremony--when you confused me, used your power of\nsuggestion on a bewildered, subconscious mind? Do you think that\nmockery of a marriage ceremony is any tie?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is one strand in the occult bond.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no bond!\u201d she said violently, \u201c--no accord, no sympathy, not\na wisp or shred to tie me to you except brief memories of a brilliant\nmind perverted--rare intervals of mental pleasure--pity for you who\nmight have been a friend and who so ruthlessly plotted my destruction!\u201d\n\nShe turned and went to the door. He sat looking at her.\n\n\u201cI am deeply sorry for you,\u201d she said. \u201cGood-bye.\u201d\n\nHe said in a weary voice: \u201cSo you must go to your love-lesson.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat will be later, I hope,\u201d she flashed.\n\nHe nodded: \u201cLater. Much later.... After you and I are dead.... Then,\nthe first lesson. A lesson in love.... Our first.... Good-night, Gilda.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\nThe Talkers were talking at the Fireside Club. The Talkers were talking\nof women. Fairless quoted Lombroso, Kraft-Ebbing, and Havelock-Ellis.\nHarry Stayr, who had been for years \u201chalf-way\u201d in a \u201c_new_ novel,\u201d and\nwho, like all Talkers, was taking out the remaining \u201chalf\u201d in talk,\nlaid down axioms, hard boiled, for his listeners to digest at leisure.\n\n\u201c_Si duo sunt idem_,\u201d he insisted in dog-Latin, \u201c_non sunt idem_.\nBut it\u2019s only in detail they differ,\u201d he added, \u201c--finger-prints are\nstill the prints of fingers. Like abhors like. There always is a\nlatent antipathy between women. It is not so between men. Toward men\nwomen unconsciously but always cherish sex antipathy. There is no such\nfundamental instinct in men.\n\n\u201cWoman is a poor specimen of the species--if, indeed, she be not a\nsub-species. She is perfectly equipped to be the worst possible comrade\nfor man. The normal woman is originally conservative, practically\npassionless. That is why it became necessary to invent the convention\nof marriage. That is why men are polygamous.\n\n\u201cIn marriage she remains the congenital egotist. Necessity for beauty\nhaving passed, she becomes a slut. Like all animals she nourishes her\nyoung; fights for them. So do rats.\n\n\u201cWhat in God\u2019s name is there admirable about a woman except her beauty?\n\n\u201cBecause she is soft, graceful, fine skinned, delicately limbed, men\nascribe to her a sensitiveness which she is absolutely without.\n\n\u201cShe is less sensitive physically than men; bears pain more easily.\n\n\u201cShe suffers less spiritually than men. She has less capacity for real\nemotion, less mental potentiality, less physical sensibility.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sick listening to the cant of poets and novelists. They\ndescribe themselves and their own sensations when they try to write\nrealistically about women. They ascribe qualities to her of which\nshe is ignorant, virtues of which, constitutionally, she is utterly\nincapable; vices to which she is too lazy and indifferent to fall a\nvictim.\n\n\u201cI tell you she\u2019s a tenth rate imitation of man, and man is a bum\nchromo of Christ.\n\n\u201cNow, go and tell that to the Great American Boob! Tell it to the\nAmerican Aunty. Tell it to the Demagogue, the sissy sentimentalist, the\npastoral crape-hanger, the national hypocrite, the dog-town fanatic!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you tell \u2019em yourself in your great novel, Harry?\u201d asked\nFairless.\n\nSam Warne said: \u201cIf you\u2019d stop stuffing yourself, Harry, you\u2019d reverse\nyour argument. Your perversely sordid theories originate in that\npat\u00e9-de-fois-gras which you think is your liver.\u201d\n\nThe shrill cackle of Derring left Stayr with his mouth opening to speak.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s it,\u201d he said, \u201c--livers talk, not brains! If you\u2019d ever had a\ndear old mother you couldn\u2019t talk that way. Even a guy in Sing-Sing\nwill admit that. Ask Lyken what they say when they\u2019re bumped off! Every\ndamned one of \u2019em cries for his dear old mother. Isn\u2019t she a woman?\nAren\u2019t there billions of mothers? Almost every man has had one. You\nought to be ashamed, Harry----\u201d\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t you love a thing that\u2019s imperfect?\u201d growled Stayr. \u201cIt\u2019s the\nonly thing man can love. If you\u2019re crazy about a girl it\u2019s because, in\nthe back of your head, you know she\u2019s imperfect.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t the damned novelists say so?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho cares,\u201d sneered Pockman, \u201cwhat a novelist says? It never matters.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s where you\u2019re wrong, old Holbein,\u201d retorted Stayr. \u201cLook what\nthese slops have done to the country! Look what the \u2018good woman\u2019 stuff\nhas done to the Middle West. Why, they\u2019re a race of chipmunks out\nthere. \u2018The good woman\u2019 is running the country, knocking cigarettes\nout of your mouth, scaring a poltroon nation into prohibition,\nplanning blue laws, re-gilding the old god Bunk to trot him out and\nscare a boob republic into Sabbath superstition again. That\u2019s what\nyour women-praising novelists are doing. That\u2019s why the fanatics are\nraising the slogan of Christ and Kansas! Can you beat the blasphemous\nvulgarity? No, nor anybody else, including a Hottentot!\u201d\n\nSutton, rather red, got up and started for the door.\n\n\u201cAm I right, Stuart?\u201d cried Stayr. \u201cIs there any difference in chickens\nexcept the colour of their feathers?\u201d\n\nSutton said: \u201cIf we men really believed what you say, Harry, I think\nthe decent ones among us would blow out our brains.\u201d\n\nAfter he had gone, Stayr said: \u201cWhat can you expect? He\u2019s acting up\nto the little Greenway girl as though he meant to marry her. He\u2019s\nthe sort that would. There\u2019s your congenital celibate. There\u2019s your\nwoman-worshiper for you! Why, Joseph was a lounge-lizard compared to\nthat hick! Hell! He\u2019s spoiled as good a little sport as ever danced at\nDerring\u2019s!\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSutton, nauseated with talk, and now, for the first time, utterly\nloathing the Talkers, shook the dust of the Fireside from his heels and\ndrew in a lung-full of outside air.\n\nAll the pretense, tinsel logic, shabby intellectuality,\npseudo-deduction--all the squalid impotence of these men who created\nnothing, produced nothing, meant nothing to the world, was becoming\napparent to a young man who knew no more of modernism than to wish to\nbe a decent member of the human family.\n\nWhat was fundamentally right and what was wrong concerned him less than\ntradition regarding right and wrong--the tradition which had preserved\nthe world through its development--the tradition which had proved\nwholesome to the human race, which had safeguarded his country, his\nfamily.\n\nWhoever had framed the Decalogue, God or man, was the father of men.\nThe records of the New Testament were chronicles of a God and his\narchangels, human or immortal.\n\nGradually he had been sickening of the Talkers. Now he was utterly\nsickened. Pockman had said they were mostly mouth and the remainder\nonly an intestine.\n\nMore clearly, now, this boy whose business in life was to grow, cut,\nand sell timber, began to understand that there are only two kinds of\nmen--Talkers and Doers. Some Doers are talkative; no Talkers ever do\nanything.\n\nThis great gabbling Mouth was the plague of the working world. It was\nthe parasite of the people, a hook-worm to energy, a louse to humanity,\nbreeding bacteria that poisoned all mankind.\n\nHe wondered, now, how the Talkers of the world had contrived to loosen\nhis grip on Truth; how they had managed to emasculate his belief in\nGod. Why, what pitiable imitations they were!--what mental dwarfs! And\nhe thought of Vathek, and the \u201cnoise of the storks and the dwarfs.\u201d And\nhe thought of the little daughter of Jairus, too. And of Gilda lying\ndead in her green mask.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe long, open New York winter had come to end. In the Park the grass\nwas intensely green. Grackle and starling walked amid dandelions;\nthorns were white, yellow bell-flowers in bloom; some trees in sunny\nhollows and along the east wall were exquisitely green.\n\nThe gilded bronze General now rode his delivery-wagon nag behind a\nlimestone balustrade--which he, his horse, and the winged servant-girl\nwould be obliged to leap if they insisted on continuing down Fifth\nAvenue.\n\nProudly the expensive marble buildings looked down upon a new limestone\nquarry. Saucily the naked bronze jade across the way inspected the grim\nold warrior--who knew a pretty lass when he saw one, they say, and must\nhave been bored to death with the winged domestic at his stirrup.\n\nSutton glanced up at the most classically uninteresting mansion in\nManhattan, soon to be converted to business uses. Opposite, another\nand interesting commercial structure was rising almost over night.\nFarther down, the most beautiful private residence in Gotham, doomed\nto pay tribute to Hermes, flanked the most lovely of all metropolitan\nchurches--cool, calm, silver-grey fa\u00e7ades in the feverish riot of\narchitecture roystering away southward toward the tawdry horrors of\nBroadway.\n\nWhat a city! What would it become if Faith died within its grotesque\nwalls; on its crazy heights? What would these milling swarms turn into\nif belief withered--if conformation to custom, trust in tradition,\nperished?\n\nIf it were true, as Stayr said, that there are only two parties in\nthe world--Conservatives, who are women; Liberals, who are men; then\nthe salvation of the world is due to its conservatism--to woman, the\nperfect egotist, born respecter of custom and tradition--and not to\nLiberal man whose atavistic instinct is for an informality that would\nbring the temples of the earth crashing about his ears.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nStuart turned into Thirty-fifth Street. He was thinking: \u201cThe thing\nto do, the thing to believe, is what your father did, and what he\nbelieved. And _his_ father. And _his_.... Not, of course, going too far\nback.... When they burnt witches....\u201d\n\nHe ascended the stairs, stood a moment at Gilda\u2019s door.\n\n\u201cThe thing to do,\u201d he concluded, \u201cis to take what\u2019s coming to you\nwithin the law. Or fight it.... But always fight _inside_ the law. You\nstand no show out of bounds.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFreda admitted him. He found Gilda pale, silent, seated at her\nsatin-wood desk, a few sheets of scored music-paper before her--some\ntask in transposition set her; the ink still wet on the heavily penned\nsixteenth notes.\n\n\u201cAre you all right, dear?\u201d he asked uneasily.\n\nShe nodded, lifted her childish face; the long line of the neck so\nlovely that he kissed her throat.\n\n\u201cI have our transportation,\u201d he said happily. \u201cYour luggage is checked\nand so is mine. Leggett wires that our shanty is ready----\u201d He\nhesitated, looking at her. \u201cWhat is the matter, Gilda? You _are_ all\nright, aren\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I am all right.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnything to worry you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou haven\u2019t had any unpleasant experience with Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot recently.... He\u2019s been decent since I relented and went back to\nhelp him. He looks so ill, Stuart--so emaciated.\u201d\n\nThe boy kept his counsel, sombrely, playing square with the man who was\nslowly losing out. For a while he sat gazing absently at the sheets of\nruled paper, darkly lost in a mental maze. After a little he looked up;\nregarded her more intently:\n\n\u201cGilda, what\u2019s the matter?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing serious. I\u2019m silly to be upset.... The surprise ... unexpected\n... kindly intended, no doubt----\u201d\n\nHe waited, perplexed.\n\nShe leaned over and blotted the wet score: \u201cFancy,\u201d she said. \u201cI was in\nmy bedroom--combing out my hair, I believe--when Freda came with her\ncard!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhose card?\u201d\n\n\u201cA--woman\u2019s. A relative of mine.\u201d\n\nGilda drummed on the desk with nervous fingers.\n\n\u201cI supposed she was in England. I didn\u2019t know she was coming. And there\nshe was.... In this room!\u201d\n\n\u201cWas it not agreeable to have her come to see you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI hadn\u2019t asked her. I have declined to visit her. Or any of them. I\nreply to their letters. I am civil. That seemed sufficient.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy does it upset you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know why it does.... For one thing, your sport-coat and stick\nwere on the lounge where you left them this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Lord!\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cIt was all right. Being British she took them for mine. It wasn\u2019t\nthat.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, everything, Stuart. It was all well meant, you see, but I\u2019d\navoided it.... Didn\u2019t I once tell you that I couldn\u2019t endure being\naccounted for by my respectable relatives? Well, she is one of them and\nthat was it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did she wish of you?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe desired me to accept the respectable shelter of herself and the\ncommon family tree.... It\u2019s full enough of foliage without me. Also,\nshe\u2019d have to explain me.... No, no, no! A thousand, thousand times no!\nTo explain me is to reflect on my parents. The British are not reticent\nin family matters. If they don\u2019t like anybody in their own family they\ndon\u2019t hesitate to say so. I know how they regarded my mother. It\u2019s no\nuse; they have nothing to offer that I could accept.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe wished to take you back to England?\u201d he asked, worried.\n\n\u201cTo California first. She\u2019s travelling.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd afterward?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe goes to Italy. Constantinople, too; and China and India, I\nbelieve. Ultimately to England. I couldn\u2019t endure it.\u201d She looked up\nat the boy: \u201cNot that she\u2019s not presentable. I didn\u2019t mean it that way.\nThere\u2019s nothing queer about her. You\u2019d probably like her--\u201d she smiled\nfaintly--\u201cyour parents would quite approve, Stuart.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s just it,\u201d he said seriously. \u201cIt would make things so easy for\nus----\u201d\n\n\u201cBut _darling_! Can\u2019t you ever recollect that I\u2019m married? I\u2019d have to\ntell my relatives and your parents. How could I account for you to my\naunt? How could you account for me to your mother?\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t it rotten luck?\u201d he said fiercely.\n\n\u201cYes, but listen, dear. Even if there were any prospects for my\nfreedom, do you imagine my aunt and your mother would tolerate our\ncompanionship until the law unmarried me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose not,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cYour supposition is painfully correct, monsieur.... I fancy that\nyour people are rather conservative. My relatives are quite as rigid.\nThey\u2019ve had their nets and lines out angling for me from the day\nmy father died. I thought they\u2019d never notice me again when, after\nfulfilling legal requirements in London, I refused to remain to be\ncherished and explained.\n\n\u201cBut my father was their idol. He died in battle. They continue writing\nto my dead father\u2019s only child--as in duty bound--or bound, perhaps, by\nsomething that may be more vital still to such gentle-folk as they.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can understand,\u201d said the boy.\n\n\u201cThat is why I mentioned it--because you can understand.\u201d\n\nAn odd consciousness of the subtle but complete reversal of roles\npreoccupied him. This girl was, unconsciously, accounting to herself\nfor him, a Hudson River Sutton. Evidently she expected, ultimately, to\naccount to her relatives for him.\n\nAnd what had always caused him anxiety for the future was that he must\naccount for her to a family and a circle which was entirely equipped to\nmake them miserable at will.\n\nIt seemed funny. He smiled, then looked worried.\n\n\u201cHow long does your aunt remain in New York?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, she left this afternoon for Denver.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen it won\u2019t make any difference about your going to the Forest?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, darling. I said I\u2019d go.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if you think----\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think! I won\u2019t think. There\u2019s no harm in it if we\u2019re not\ncaught. I want to go; and I\u2019m going to marry you sometime, anyway. And,\noh! my beautiful sportclothes, and my trout-rod, and you--_you_--O\nwonderful clairvoyant who looked into a muddy crystal and saw love on\nhis knees to you!\u201d\n\nShe looked at him humourously, tenderly, studying his features with the\nenigmatical smile hovering on her lips.\n\n\u201cAt first,\u201d she said, \u201cyou naturally thought me depraved. I was merely\nqueer. Not as queer as you very reasonably supposed. Not wanton.\nWhen you comprehended that you were sweet. Then I scared you....\nAnd myself.... And went to pieces. You picked them up. You glued\nme together. I\u2019m almost as good as new. I\u2019ll be quite new when we\nmarry.... Your brand new toy.\u201d\n\nAfter a moment he asked her if she had told Pockman and Sadoul that she\nwas going away.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she said, \u201cI had to. Of course, I did not say I was going with\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid they object?\u201d\n\n\u201cDr. Pockman grumbled. But I told him very gently that I didn\u2019t expect\nto be under observation indefinitely.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas Sadoul unpleasant?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. He merely asked me to let him know when I returned.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s not like him, is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s made me a little uneasy,\u201d she admitted. \u201cBut what could he do to\nus?\u201d\n\nFreda appeared to announce dinner.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was late when the boy took his coat and stick, walked with his arm\naround Gilda to the hall, took her into his arms, then with a happy\ngood-night put on his hat and went out.\n\nShe waited till she heard the upper door slam, then locked herself in\nfor the night.\n\nStuart crossed the lower landing. The place was rather dark. Half way\ndown the stairs a tall shadow detached itself from the wall. The boy\nhalted, instinctively. There was a moment\u2019s silence.\n\n\u201cSadoul!\u201d he said sharply.\n\nSadoul\u2019s first shot deafened him; then the pistol crashed again; but\nStuart was already jerking the weapon upward, wrenching it free.\n\nThe bitter smoke strangled them both; he hurled Sadoul at the lower\ndoor, kicked him through it, kicked him across the sidewalk, saw him\nstumble, collapse, roll over on the asphalt.\n\nHe stood looking on as Sadoul got up on hands and knees, then staggered\nto his feet. His chin and collar and shirt were all over blood.\n\nStuart was still breathing hard. \u201cGo home, you lunatic!\u201d he managed to\nsay. \u201cDo you want a cop to butt in?\u201d\n\nSadoul stood swaying slightly, fumbling toward his handkerchief. A\npassing taxi slowed up, interested. Stuart took Sadoul by the arm and\nlooked into his deathly face.\n\n\u201cWhere do you want to go?\u201d he said in an altered voice. \u201cHome?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d whispered Sadoul.\n\nTo the driver: \u201cThis gentleman has fallen and hurt himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cI get you,\u201d returned the driver.\n\n\u201cHadn\u2019t I better go with you?\u201d asked the boy.\n\nSadoul, lying back in the cab, shook his head.\n\n\u201cI think I\u2019d better see you safe, Sadoul. That was a nasty fall.\u201d\n\nHe got into the cab. It started with a buck and a jerk, ran skittishly\nto Fifth Avenue, rolled rapidly uptown.\n\nSadoul seemed exhausted, but when they arrived at the laboratory he\ndescended from the cab without aid.\n\nAt the door of the building Stuart took the pistol out of his pocket,\npulled out and threw away the clip, and handed the weapon to Sadoul.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s your gun,\u201d he said in a low voice. \u201cIt wouldn\u2019t have solved our\nproblem.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere are you going with her?\u201d whispered Sadoul hoarsely.\n\n\u201cOnly to look over our Forest. I\u2019m playing square with you both,\nSadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll bring her back?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, in a week or ten days.\u201d\n\nSadoul touched his bloody lips with his handkerchief:\n\n\u201cIn--in ten days?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot longer.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.... Don\u2019t stay longer.... I am--ill, Sutton.\u201d\n\nHe went up the steps, his shoulders sagging, carrying the empty pistol\nin his hand.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cWhat the hell did you hand that guy?\u201d inquired the driver as Sutton\nwent slowly back to the cab.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think it was, a ham sandwich? Drive back to Thirty-fifth\nStreet and step on the tack!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XXXV\n\n\nIt was the most wonderful week in Gilda\u2019s life.\n\nThey had stopped for an hour at Heron Nest. She would not cross the\nthreshold; but inspected the big, dowdy old mansion from every outside\nangle, and the poor boy pointed out to her endless unwashed windows,\ndescribing eagerly what lay behind each. His room, his mother\u2019s, his\nfather\u2019s, all were identified by windows; library, dining room, the two\nparlours--he spared her not a square inch of his natal roof.\n\nBut the girl adored it, tenderly desirous of making up for his\ndisappointment at her refusal to enter the abode of the Suttons.\n\nHowever, she went through the gardens with him, finding them quaint and\nlovely in the fresh brilliance of spring flowers.\n\nSome young fruit trees still remained in blossom; hedges wore unsullied\ngreen, the warm aroma of newly turned earth where gardeners were\nworking blended deliciously with the perfume of new blossoms.\n\nThere was an acre of glass. She went with him into two or three\ngreenhouses, the grapery, melon shed--glimpsed the carnations, now\nin the sere and withered finis, accepted the violets that a gardener\nbrought her, and then walked to the low, grey wall which overlooked the\nvalley and its famous river.\n\nFar below a train rushed by toward the metropolis, leaving writhing\ncoils of smoke in the green ravine. Beyond, the Hudson sparkled under a\nblinding sun. Haze veiled the rolling heights to westward. Lagoon-like\nbackwaters and bays were brimming with the flood-tide. From the south\ncame a grey Destroyer speeding upstream.\n\nThe boy had possession of the girl\u2019s hand. He had a story to tell her\nof every inch of ground along the grey stone wall.\n\nHere he had shot his first hawk; in yonder oak his first squirrel;\namong the distant reeds across that inlet he had pursued black duck and\ncoots in a punt.\n\nIf she sighted along his levelled arm she could see a great blue heron\nwading out there in the shallows.\n\nShe laid her soft cheek against his shoulder and took aim with\nbeguiling eyes. When, finally, she had discovered the dignified wader,\nshe softly kissed her lover\u2019s sleeve. He touched her hair with his lips.\n\nA squirrel derided them from the fatal oak.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat was her confused recollection of Heron Nest--the scent of spring,\na squirrel shrilling in a lofty tree, miles of sunlit river, and her\nlover\u2019s cheek against her own.\n\nAnd now they were on their way northward once more, thundering through\nshort tunnels, roaring along rock-ribbed cuts, out into blinding\nsunshine again with the river a blinding waste of light quivering away\ninto the magic North.\n\nSunset reddened the cars at Albany; starlight silvered their berths at\nUtica.\n\nThe boy lay awake, too thrilled to sleep. The girl, in her berth\nopposite, slept dreamlessly in supreme surrender to a destiny no longer\nquestioned.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt ten o\u2019clock the next morning the train stopped on signal at\nFisher-cat Dam.\n\nDan Leggett, planting superintendent, awaited them in a Ford.\n\nThe road was awful; the flivver crawled as a dog negotiates an unsteady\nbridge, on its belly.\n\nPink-cheeked, glad of her fur coat, astonished to find the springtime\njust beginning here, excited by the heady air and the aroma of the\npines, Gilda clung to Stuart and gazed fearfully from the pitching car.\n\nShe was full of breathless exclamations--now enchanted by a tumbling\nmountain brook, now in ecstasy as the blue view widened away over acres\nof forests accented by ridges of hard wood and set with steep little\ntree-clad hills.\n\nOnce, ahead in the bed of the brook which Leggett spoke of as \u201cthe\nroad,\u201d a burly woodchuck scrambled over the stones and out of sight.\nAnd Gilda\u2019s excitement knew no bounds.\n\nShe stood straight up in the car when a ruffed grouse, \u201cdusting,\u201d got\nup, leisurely, and walked on ahead with an irritated, reproachful air.\n\nWild birds called wistfully from thin depths of newborn foliage; pale\nblossoms starred the woods, clotted the twigs of slim grey shrubs.\n\nIn Gilda\u2019s breath the wine of the pines sweetened, intoxicating her; in\nher veins the fire of youth ran moulten. Solitude, and her lover! There\nwas nothing else in the world. Nothing more to desire, beyond.\n\nAnd all the while Stuart was talking--explaining trees, identifying\npine, hemlock, spruce, and balsam, instructing her in the differences\ncharacterising each species, estimating \u201cmarkets,\u201d guessing at\n\u201ccalipers,\u201d pointing out \u201cripe\u201d growths, \u201ccruising\u201d in his mind\u2019s eyes\nas the creaking flivver crawled upward.\n\nShe only heard his voice as a celestial melody without words. Clinging\nto him in their lurching craft, her girl\u2019s eyes were as remotely lost\nas the rim of misty blue-green mountains on the horizon.\n\nOnce, in a gorge below, a stony river leaped into sight. But the\nriver-driving was ended; the run of log was over. A few lay stranded\nhere and there, or, caught between boulders crossways in mid-stream,\nlay massive and black, drenched with snowy spray.\n\nA haze filled one valley where men were sawing. The wicked whine of the\nsteam-saw came thinly to their ears.\n\nBeyond, men were busy with slashings, preparing lumbered areas for\nreforestation.\n\nAfter a while they began to pass panels of red pine and Norway\nspruce--the trees in various panels varying from eighteen inches to ten\nfeet in height.\n\nAcres of beautiful silvery grey-green trees were in sight, now--Scotch\npines, soft as pyramids of moss to the eye, and prickly as briers to\nthe touch.\n\nHe told her all about it. The weevil, curse of white pine and Norway\nspruce, also attacked these Scotch pines. It remained to be seen\nwhether they were worth the planting.\n\nAcres of emerald green, bushy, broom-like young evergreens clothed the\nhills ahead.\n\n\u201cRed pines,\u201d he explained, \u201cimmune to weevil and blister.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo far,\u201d drawled Leggett.\n\n\u201cSo far,\u201d echoed Stuart gloomily.\n\nGilda dreamed on blissfully, their voices vague as in a trance. A\nheavenly rapture possessed her through which her soul floated, drifted,\nslumbered on the wing, or swept the green earth below like the shadow\nof a sky-lark.\n\nThe sun\u2019s heat, waxing intense, distilled aromatic nectar from every\nstem and leaf and blossom, and delicate wild perfumes arose from black\nmould and rotting leaves.\n\n\u201cHey, Mike!\u201d shouted Leggett, as the car rattled across a log bridge.\n\nGilda opened bewildered eyes. Stuart was laughing at her.\n\nOn the edge of a flashing stream she saw twin log houses, and a faded\nman in formless, faded garments standing between them.\n\nOn a board over the door of one was painted _Villa Gilda_; over the\nother, _Hotel Sutton_.\n\nIn her ears was the golden melody of the stream; in her eyes the glory\nof the sun.\n\nEden!\n\n\u201cThis is Mike Hanford, Gilda, who is going to look out for us. He\ntosses the finest flap-jack in the North Woods.\u201d\n\nMr. Hanford removed his cap and scratched his head to atone for such\nservility.\n\n\u201cReckon you\u2019ll eat a snack,\u201d he surmised. And spat to readjust social\nconditions throughout the earth.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXXVI\n\n\nNever had Gilda known such delight.\n\nTheir Eden was guarded by two sign-boards on the wood-road a hundred\nyards north and south of the log bridge.\n\nThe signs were painted and erected by Mr. Hanford. One read: \u201cKeep offn\nthis here privut rode. Ladies presunt.\u201d The other: \u201cDon\u2019t go into them\nwoods; there is ladies loose.\u201d\n\nA cordon of infantry with machine guns might have failed to impress the\nsauntering timber-cruiser and lowly lumber-jack. But these signs routed\nthem. Only the squirrel and the grouse invaded their leafy solitude.\n\nThe weather was perfect. The wonder-days waxed and waned.\n\nNeither dawn nor the wild birds\u2019 choral awoke these two.\n\nBut when the sun gold-plated their glazed windows the boy and the girl\nstirred and awoke, and heard the fire roaring in the sheet-iron stoves\nbehind the closed door of the only other room.\n\nIn bathing-dress, blanket-coated, they hailed each other from windows\nopposite. Gilda came out of her shanty, Stuart emerged from his. Hands\ntouching they picked their way to the edge of the brook where Mike had\ndammed it.\n\nHere spread a long, green, transparent pool--\u201cungodly cold,\u201d they\nagreed--but if it was hell to go into it, it was heaven the next minute.\n\nThe thickets of bank ferns trembled under the rain of spray they\ndashed into the air. Outraged squirrels protested overhead; blue-jays\nexchanged malicious gossip regarding these shameless intruders; the\naffrighted trout fled upstream.\n\nThe girl\u2019s laughter echoed through the woods; distant wild birds\nanswered. The boy dived and dived like a halcyon.\n\nThen they ran glowing and dripping to their shanties, continuing\nconversation through open windows while preparing for the day.\n\nWhen Gilda was ready, Stuart went out and dingled a cow-bell. Mr.\nHanford, lurking within earshot, presently rambled into sight, bearing\nfood.\n\n\u201cMornin\u2019, ma\u2019am. Mornin\u2019, Mr. Sutton. I jess heard some\u2019n a-dribblin\u2019\nonto a cow-bell, so, thinks I, I\u2019ll jess run over a spell an\u2019 help cook\nbreakfast--_if_ I\u2019m wanted.\u201d\n\nHe always said this; always appeared uncertain that he was needed,\nalways belittled his own culinary efforts, and hinted darkly of\nmetropolitan gastronomic orgies in which, doubtless, they were daily\naccustomed to indulge.\n\nThus spake Mr. Hanford while tossing flap-jacks and frying brook-trout.\n\nBut he was secretly aghast at their capacity, and never before had two\npeople compelled him to toss flap-jacks so fast.\n\nHis summons to breakfast was, \u201cCoffee\u2019s bilin\u2019, ma\u2019am.\u201d And that was\nthe signal for him to toss with all his agility and skill against the\nrapid inroads on the brown and fragrant stack of cakes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cMy conscience,\u201d he said to Leggett, \u201cI\u2019ve seen feedin\u2019 in Kanuck\nlumber camps but I hain\u2019t never seen nothin\u2019 like them two.\u201d He added\nirrelevantly: \u201cAin\u2019t she pretty, Dan? Say, when she sets curled up\non the moss eatin\u2019 onto a hunk o\u2019 fried fish, I never seen nothin\u2019\nprettier. She\u2019s cunnin\u2019 as a suckin\u2019 caaf, she is.\u201d\n\nHalcyon days!--ecstatic hours along the stream, struggling to lift fat,\nheavy, lustily resisting trout from icy, foaming deeps; hours on the\nbroader river with silk lines whistling out across pool and shallow,\nand the virgin wind blowing, and the fat trout splashing with a glint\nof rose and silver.\n\nAll day, all night the interminable song of the pines filled their ears.\n\nIn a depthless blue vault the sun glittered; stars jewelled the dark;\nand always the endless anthem of the pines.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe accompanied him when he went on tours of inspection. Everything in\nthis utterly new world enchanted her.\n\nShe wandered through the seedling nursery, where rows and rows of\noblong beds, raised and rounded above the trodden paths, bloomed like\ndelicately tinted mosses. This flower-bed covered with pale blue velvet\ncontained thousands of Coster\u2019s seedling spruces. This blue-green moss\nwas composed of thousands of seedling white pines. Here were panels of\nsilver-grey-green Scotch pines, panels of leafgreen red pines, misty\nstretches of spruce.\n\nShe saw acres of one year, two year, three years\u2019 transplants; acres of\nthree foot, four, five, six foot trees; acres of new forests, ten foot\ntrees, thirty foot trees.\n\nOver the plowed \u201crides\u201d she plodded, her hand on Stuart\u2019s arm. Once,\ndizzy, but trusting to him, she climbed a fire-tower, where the stolid\nlook-out sat chewing tobacco and nursing a telescope.\n\nShe went afield with him after weevils, and saw the green terminal\nshoots ominously a-droop, or still upright clotted with white, or rusty\nand bent.\n\nHe peeled for her a terminal shoot and showed her the fat grey-white\nlarvae in the heart of it, packed like cartridges in a rod-magazine.\n\nEverywhere in some plantations men were severing and burning infected\nshoots. She heard Stuart swearing under his breath.\n\nAnother day she went with him on a graver errand.\n\nNo \u201cblister\u201d had appeared in the Sutton forests, and Stuart was\ndetermined that the leprous curse should never gain a foothold in the\ndomain of his forebears. Yet, across the border, New England festered\nwith it in certain districts.\n\nShe saw men in the woods working with grub-hoe, pick, and bush-hook;\nsaw green fires burning.\n\nStuart showed her a sneaking growth of wild currant--tested the\ninfernal toughness and resistance of the wretched shrub, turned the\ncoarse leaves to search for the deadly rusty spores, and thanked God\nthat he discovered none.\n\nSo she learned that the leprosy called \u201cpine blister\u201d begins as a rusty\nstain on the under side of a currant or gooseberry leaf. It can not\noriginate on the doomed pine itself; it must have its loathsome birth\non currant or gooseberry.\n\nWinds or birds carry it to a pine. But the hellish spores must work\nquickly because ten minutes is their span of life unless they reach a\nwhite pine tree.\n\nWhen they do the tree is as good as dead. Yet the diseased tree can not\ninfect others of its species. Only spores from currant or gooseberry\ncan do that.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDays came when Stuart remained in seemingly incessant consultation with\nMr. Leggett. There were maps and deeds to consult, letter files to\ninspect--a never-ending mass of detail.\n\nGilda desired to listen, was gratefully encouraged by Stuart,\nunderstood as well as anybody could who had not been conversant with\nthe operations of Sutton & Company for the last decade.\n\nBut there were intervals when clerical details formed the subject under\ndiscussion. And at such times the girl literally took to the tall\ntimber.\n\nThe wild flowers of the Northland were a never-ending surprise and\ndelight to her. She picked few, but was on her knees to every one--to\nthe pink moccasin flowers on tall, slender stalks, to the white\ntrilliums, to the violets, blue, white, yellow; to the scented wild\nlilies-of-the-valley, like patches of snowy foam in the woods.\n\nEverywhere spread carpets of bloom, straw-yellow, purple, green-white.\n\nThe dull strawberry red of another trillium clotted the still places\nwith an odour of death and decay--gloomy, unlovely flowers which drew\ncarrion flies.\n\nBut the silvery shad-bush was in flower; witch-hopple, viburnum,\nsquaw-berry, moss and fern were gay and lovely in their resurrection.\n\nInto sunny glades flitted the Beauty of Camberwell on cream-edged\nbrown-velvet wings, embroidered with violet-blue. Comma butterflies\nflashed to a resting spot on treetrunks glowing like dull spots of\nfire; green-clouded swallowtails in floppy but rapid flight winnowed\nthe dusk through wet woods.\n\nShe lay by the stream in grey shirt and knickers, pillowing her head\non both arms crossed behind, and looked up through new leaves into a\nsky as blue as a cat-bird\u2019s egg; and saw squirrels in tiny silhouette,\nrunning along highways of tangled branches.\n\nShe rolled over on her stomach and looked down into amber water where\ntrout lay stemming the current, their tails all waving like wind-blown\nbanners above the golden bottom-gravel.\n\nStrange little bluish grey birds creeked and cheeped and whined as they\ncrept up and down mossy tree-trunks; chickadees found her and lingered,\nconversing with her in friendly levity; near by, low in the sky, two\nhawks mewed querulously, and their broad shadows swept the trees.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut there were not many hours alone, for Gilda Greenway. Her lover was\nnever far away, and he never left her long in solitude--if the forest\nsilence could be called that--for forest solitude is in the soul, not\nin the still places of the earth--never in wilderness or desert or upon\nthe grey waste of waters until man brings it with him into the silent\nplaces.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA week was gone before they realised it had fairly begun.\n\nIt worried them both. Gilda was washing out underclothes below the\ndam. Her full yet slender hands bore scratches where the little Ladies\nof the Briers had caressed her, and they were tanned to a creamy\ntint--which seemed to be the limit of sunburn on skins like hers.\n\nThey had mentioned the horrifying speed of Time that morning, surprised\nand disgusted that day and night should have played them so treacherous\na trick.\n\nNow, soberly soaping her intimate attire, Gilda felt inclined to mingle\na tear or two with the suds as she watched the iridescent bubbles dance\naway on the amber current.\n\nNever, never had she been so happy and free from care. Never for an\ninstant had the dark change threatened her; never had the shadow of\nthe _Other One_ stirred in sunlight or lamplight or in the witch-light\nof the stars. Care slept; memory was kind; life an enchanted vision\nthrough which days burned like fire and every second was a flaming\njewel.\n\nShe lived and moved in a sort of passionless ecstasy; the forest,\nthe sunlight, her lover were impersonal miracles; and she herself a\nblessed, unreal, unfamiliar thing, born of the magic that enveloped all.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe had spread her wet and immaculate attire on bushes in the sun.\nThen she got up, slim as a boy and graceful as a girl in her shirt\nand knickers; and was carrying the soap to her cabin when Stuart came\nacross the bridge waving a telegram.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve got to stay here!\u201d he cried joyously. \u201cThey sent in a runner from\nFisher-cat Dam. The office wires me that our deal has gone through; we\ntake over the Lamsden tract; the lawyers are to meet at Chazy, and the\nsurveyors are leaving Utica tonight!\u201d\n\nShe flung the soap upon the moss and her wet arms around his neck.\n\n\u201cOh, how divine!\u201d she cried. \u201cI never want to go back!--never, never.\nTell me how long we have?\u201d\n\n\u201cNearly three more weeks. Can your linen stand it?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it doesn\u2019t, I\u2019ll play Eve,\u201d she said, kissing him with abandon.\nThen she freed her sagging hair of the last pin, flung it wide and\nflashing, and danced away over the log bridge.\n\n\u201cGood-bye,\u201d she called, waving one hand behind her. \u201cI\u2019m going to dance\nthrough the woods until I fall down! Good-bye--good-bye--good-bye!\u201d\n\nHe was after her now; she dodged like a squirrel; and off she sped, a\nglimmering shape among the trees. He caught her at last and tossed her\nup into his arms, where she lay panting--her face a pink flower in a\nshower of gold-red hair.\n\nAnd so he carried her back to Gilda\u2019s Villa, slowly through the wood,\nhis blond head bent, his lips resting on hers.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXXVII\n\n\nThe hemlock wore its honey-pale tassels; the white pine its waxen\ncandelabra; the spruce its tender terminals; the balsam was veiled in\nmisty blue. June had begun magnificently in the forest; but the dweller\nin the Villa Gilda and the boy with the blond head had taken their last\ndip in Mr. Hanford\u2019s pool, swallowed the last mound of Mr. Hanford\u2019s\nflap-jacks.\n\nThe only fishers in the pools were mink and otter; the only frolickers\nin the forest the red squirrels. In the Villa Gilda, wood-mice prepared\nto nest; a porcupine promenaded the porch of the Hotel Sutton.\n\nThey had come for a week and had remained a month. Not one shadow had\nfallen across their Eden. Yet, in that month the girl had learned\ndefinitely what manner of man she had to deal with; the youth began to\ndiscover in the girl her genius for comradeship.\n\nShe found that she had to do with the average American man, inartistic,\nunimaginative, capable, chaste by habit, law-abiding through custom,\nkind by inclination, brave through heredity.\n\nThere was no glimmer about him. The qualities he had, shone. To her\nthey formed a steady aureole. His instinctive cleanliness of mind and\nperson fascinated her. He was 28 but utterly a boy. Only the restlessly\nintellectual mature and age early, not this average, crisp-blond type\nwith little imagination to worry it, no excesses to over-ripen it,\nnothing morbid to regret.\n\nThe boy-man was normal. He knew his mate when he saw her. And she knew\nhers. Subtler than he, she had realised it at their first encounter.\nPerhaps that was why, conscious of non-fulfilment, she had passionately\nreturned his kiss.\n\nWell, their destiny was clear to her now. Earth held for her only this\nman.\n\nAs for Stuart, her unfeigned interest in what interested him was a\nthrilling revelation.\n\nTimber, the growing of timber, its cutting, its selling--these\nthings had been the principal, the vital interest in his family for\ngenerations. It was his principal interest. He wished it to be his\nson\u2019s. And now, when his lips rested on this young girl\u2019s soft hand, he\nfelt that it would be.\n\nMentally, to her, he accredited all that was to be intellectually\nsensitive and imaginatively fine in the visionary family which he so\nvaguely evoked.\n\nHers the aspiration of talent and cultivation. She the source of mental\nexhilaration, the medium through which he was to understand and care\nfor those things of the mind to which he had been unresponsive.\n\nBut even so, what a stimulating and delicious comrade had he found to\nwalk with him on his own plane, listen to him, understand him, labour\nwith him, play with him upon the common playground of the average man.\n\nMen of his race loved but once, married fairly early or never. There\nwas _no_ other woman for him. There had been none before her. His\nability to love could not survive her. His only chance was this girl.\nAnd he must take that chance if it lasted a lifetime.\n\nThus their mutual conclusion after a month together.\n\nBut their journey back to town was not entirely a gay one. There\nwas reaction, defiant, pleasurable, piqued by a sort of indefinable\napprehension.\n\nThat they had shattered all canons of convention had something to\ndo with their rather excited state of mind, no doubt. That they had\nnothing else to regret ought to have been a balm.\n\nShe said, laughingly, when they reached the Mohawk Valley: \u201cI have a\nplaguey premonition that we\u2019re going to hear from this escapade.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see how,\u201d he said, forcing a smile but feeling a trifle\nuncomfortable.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t, either. Gossip can\u2019t travel through a wilderness. Anyway,\nthose nice men thought no harm of us.\u201d\n\n\u201cFancy Leggett or Mike thinking scandal,\u201d he said, smiling at her.\n\n\u201cAnd there wasn\u2019t any,\u201d she added.\n\nThey ought to have been mutually reassured.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t suppose your aunt came back to town?\u201d he ventured.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t imagine so. But she\u2019ll be coming very soon. She sails from New\nYork.... I never thought to speak to Freda. Do you suppose that woman\nwould tell anybody that I went away for a month with you?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens, no,\u201d he said, a little startled.\n\nGilda remained silent, her eyes gravely absent.\n\n\u201cWhat is on your mind, dear?\u201d he inquired uneasily.\n\n\u201cNothing. I was wondering, for the first time, what that woman really\nthinks of us.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter, does it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose not.... Still, if she\u2019s got a mind she thinks with it....\nI\u2019ve had to write her. I\u2019ve had to send her wages.... I wasn\u2019t\nconcerned at the time but I suppose it would have been more sensible if\nwe hadn\u2019t had the expressman check our hand-luggage from my apartment.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing will happen,\u201d he said, more carelessly than he felt.\n\n\u201cNo.... Your people are not in town, are they, Stuart?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re on their way back, I believe----\u201d\n\nA white clad negro bent ceremoniously beside her: \u201cDinner is served\nin the dining car, madam,\u201d he murmured; bowed again to Stuart, and\ncontinued his ceremonious progress through the car.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey arrived in town at noon on a cloudless day in early June.\n\nGilda had telegraphed Freda to prepare luncheon for two. No trace of\nuneasiness remained to cloud the gay excitement of their home-coming.\nRed-caps piled their taxi with luggage; their vehicle swung into\nMadison Avenue. It was but a five-minute drive.\n\nStuart and the driver carried up the baggage. Freda welcomed them with\na pale Scandinavian smile.\n\n\u201cOh, Stuart!\u201d cried the girl, \u201cit _does_ look nice!\u201d\n\nShe stood by the piled luggage in the sitting-room, unpinning her hat\nand looking happily about at the familiar place.\n\n\u201cIt looks jolly comfortable,\u201d he admitted, tossing hat and light coat\non the sofa. Gilda flung her hat after them, caught his hand, and\nwalked him slowly about the apartment.\n\n\u201cWhy shouldn\u2019t we like it?\u201d she murmured. \u201cYou told me you loved me in\nthis room. Every thing means you, here.\u201d\n\nThey looked soberly at the four walls which had witnessed already so\nmuch that had been happy and tragic in their brief existence together.\nThey walked into her bedroom and she seated herself before her mirror\nand began to unpin her ruddy hair.\n\n\u201cScrub first, if you like, darling,\u201d she said; \u201cand try to remember\nwhich tooth-brush is yours.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt luncheon it was arranged that he should go down town to the office,\nstop at his own house on the way back and dress, call for her and take\nher to the Ritz for dinner.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll leave my luggage now, and carry it home tonight,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m\ngoing to take the subway to the office.... You look wonderfully fit,\nGilda,\u201d he added, lingering sentimentally.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll have a fit if you don\u2019t go,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ve simply _got_ to look\nover my wardrobe if you expect me to dine out with you, darling.\u201d\n\nBut when he opened the door to go she detained him, wound her arms\ntightly around his neck.\n\n\u201cYou have given me the most beautiful month in my life,\u201d she said.\n\u201cI hope God will let me make it up to you--a year for every day of\nhappiness you gave me....\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the office of Sutton & Sons he nodded smilingly right and left in\nreturn for greetings.\n\nIn the outer office Miss Tower smiled primly upon him.\n\n\u201cMr. Sutton senior is here,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d he exclaimed.\n\n\u201cYour father is here, Mr. Stuart.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the private office, sir.\u201d\n\nHe found his father there talking with Mr. Connolly, department chief.\nAmenities were exchanged; Mr. Connolly left.\n\n\u201cWell, for heaven\u2019s sake, dad! I didn\u2019t expect you and mother until\nThursday.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe came on. We got here day before yesterday. When did you arrive from\nthe forest, Stuart?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust now. We--I got in about noon.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh. You lunched at home.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh. You haven\u2019t seen your mother?\u201d\n\n\u201cI had no idea she was home.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe\u2019ll know you are by your luggage,\u201d remarked his father.\n\nStuart reddened violently, went over to his desk and fumbled the mail.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said his father, \u201cyou put over the new deal, I hear.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did. How did you hear, dad?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne of their surveyors from Chazy was in here a little while ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich?\u201d asked the boy involuntarily.\n\n\u201cAnderson.\u201d\n\nStuart\u2019s face pulsated with hot, surging colour as he bent lower over\nthe papers on the desk. His father, twirling his eyeglasses by the silk\ncord, was looking out of the window.\n\n\u201cDid you and mother have a good time in California?\u201d the boy managed to\ninquire.\n\n\u201cVery.... Who did you take to the Forest, Stuart?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho was it you had up there?\u201d repeated his father, not looking at him.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not quite sure I understand you,\u201d said the boy.\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t you have some people as guests up there?\u201d inquired Sutton\nsenior, glancing casually at his only son.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mind saying who they were?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere was only one.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh. I thought you had a girl or two in the party.\u201d\n\nSilence was too nearly a lie. The boy said: \u201cThere was a girl.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo I heard from Jock Anderson. Is she anybody your mother and I know?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\nHis father said carelessly: \u201cAll right. No doubt she was well looked\nafter.\u201d\n\nSilence, again, was conniving at untruth.\n\n\u201cThere was nobody else,\u201d said the boy, \u201c--no other woman.\u201d\n\nAfter a silence:\n\n\u201cWell, old chap, wasn\u2019t that rather idiotic?\u201d suggested his father\ncalmly.\n\n\u201cIt really wasn\u2019t, dad.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt really _was_,\u201d retorted Sutton senior. \u201cDo you care to talk about\nit, Stuart?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.... Not now.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt your convenience, my son.\u201d\n\nHe got up: \u201cGlad to see you back, Stuart. Glad to be back. Heron Nest\nmust be charming. I think your mother and I will go up this week. Will\nyou be home to dinner?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll see mother. I\u2019m dining out.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome in for tea then. We have a guest. It would be civil to speak to\nher.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right, dad; I\u2019ll be home by five.\u201d\n\nThey shook hands--his father dropped one hand on the boy\u2019s shoulder.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t ever be afraid of me, Stuart.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.... Besides, dad, I have nothing to be afraid of.... I was going to\ntell you all about it anyway ... when the proper time arrived.... I\u2019m\nall right, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I do know.... And if you\u2019d been an ass, you\u2019re my son.... Also,\nyou are Sutton & Son.... You talk to me when you\u2019re ready. That\u2019s what\nI\u2019m for.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re a corker, dad.... What did Anderson say?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, to be plain, he said you had a very pretty girl up there named\nMiss Greenway, occupying the shanty next to yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt sounds rather awful, doesn\u2019t it?\u201d said the boy.\n\n\u201cWell----\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t mention it to mother, will you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t intend to,\u201d replied his father drily.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell her myself some day. It\u2019ll be all right. Don\u2019t worry, dad.\u201d\n\nThey exchanged a hand-grip. His father went out.\n\nStuart tried to read his mail, but couldn\u2019t. This business was going to\nworry Gilda. Not that it could matter, ultimately. But there had been\nobstacles enough without adding this one.\n\nThere seemed to be no point in telephoning her about the episode.\nThey\u2019d dine, then he\u2019d tell her.\n\nHe turned again to his letters but the depression persisted. He was\nsorry his father had first learned about Gilda in that way. He felt a\nhot animosity toward Anderson. Probably the fool meant no mischief--yet\nhe might have, too. He was just one of the vast brotherhood of\nTalkers--low in the scale because he had only petty gossip to\ndetail--low enough to be stupid--too low to know, instinctively, when\nto hold his gabbling tongue.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe went up town about five and walked across to his own house, using\nhis latch-key to enter.\n\nFrom the east drawing-room came social noises--modulated voices, the\nclink of the tea cup.\n\nHe laid his hat on the console and walked in.\n\nThere were a number of people there. He kissed his mother, paid his\ncompliments to her friends. One woman he had not met, but approached in\nhis friendly, boyish way.\n\n\u201cMy son, Stuart,\u201d said his mother, smilingly; and, to him: \u201cLady\nGlyndale, Stuart, with whom we came East.\u201d\n\nHe took a cup of tea beside Lady Glyndale.\n\n\u201cDo you like California?\u201d he asked politely.\n\n\u201cYes, excepting the natives,\u201d she replied with British frankness.\n\n\u201cI thought them rather nice,\u201d he said, smiling.\n\n\u201cI daresay there are few nice ones. The natives are a poor lot, poor\nfarmers, slothful, stupid. The Japanese are far more interesting,\nbetter farmers, better tenants. It\u2019s rather extraordinary your wishing\nto get rid of them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know very much about the squabble between California and\nJapan,\u201d he admitted.\n\n\u201cYou should,\u201d she remarked.\n\nWhich was perfectly true, and the young man winced.\n\nHe talked to others, exchanged a few words with his mother, when\nopportunity offered.\n\nSideways he inspected Lady Glyndale and found her typical--arched\neyebrows and small, flat feet; high bridged nose and little gouty\nhands; high-coloured and flat as a board at the back; and with that\nindefinable something that slightly irritates, slightly amuses, and\nwholly commands respect--the unmistakable aura of race and breeding.\n\nHe thought: \u201cWhatever you think of them you can count on them every\ntime.\u201d\n\nHe asked her if she\u2019d had any tuna fishing at Catalina.\n\nShe did not warm but became seriously animated. They discussed tuna and\ntarpon.\n\nThen, having to dress, he made his adieux, regretted his inability to\ndine at home, and expressed his pleasure that Lady Glyndale was to be\ntheir guest.\n\n\u201cYou shall tell me more about your tuna,\u201d she said. \u201cI read late in\nyour climate. I don\u2019t know how anybody sleeps at all in your American\nair.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen he was dressed he went out into the June evening and hailed a\ntaxi. All the western streets were bathed in the rosy glory of the\nsetting sun.\n\nIn dinner coat and straw hat he felt the happy relaxation of informal\nsummer; lay back in the open vehicle to savour a cigarette and gaze at\nthe familiar streets in their new June setting.\n\nAt the door of Gilda\u2019s abode he got out and told the driver to wait.\n\nFreda admitted him. He caught sight of Gilda on the sofa, and went to\nher. She gave him a rather pale smile and a listless hand.\n\n\u201cAre you all right, dear?\u201d came his invariable and anxious question.\n\n\u201cYes.... Sit here near me.\u201d She took his hand again, absently, the\nfaint smile still on her lips.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re tired from the journey,\u201d he concluded.\n\n\u201cNo.... My aunt came in somewhat unexpectedly.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout two o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\nThere was a silence.\n\n\u201cWell--did it upset you?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cA little.... Our luggage lay there where we left it. Your overcoat,\ntoo.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Lord!\u201d\n\nShe touched his palm, lightly, reflectively, with each finger-tip in\nturn.\n\n\u201cIt _was_ awkward.... I had a bath. I was still in my bath-robe. The\nbell rang and I heard Freda go.... It was too late to instruct her.\n\n\u201cShe showed my aunt in and brought me her card.... So I got into a\nboudoir robe.... There she sat--with all that damning luggage under her\nvery nose--and your overcoat and stick.... I\u2019d forgotten it. I turned\nscarlet-hot to my toes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat happened?\u201d he asked, miserably.\n\n\u201cNothing much. She\u2019d arrived here three days ago. She\u2019d been here every\nday. Freda forgot to mention it. But yesterday she told my aunt that a\ntelegram had come and I was to arrive today.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did your aunt say?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe asked me where I\u2019d been.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you tell her?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. But I didn\u2019t go into details.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did she say about the luggage?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing. But I knew she had noticed it.... Stuart, she wants me to\nsail with her on the 6th.\u201d\n\nHe forced a smile: \u201cAre you going to?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was wondering.... I\u2019d like to consult an attorney.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout securing my freedom.... If it would help any for me to go\nabroad----\u201d\n\nThe telephone rang on the table beside her. She picked up the receiver.\n\n\u201cYes?... Yes, this is Miss Greenway.... Oh, I didn\u2019t recognise your\nvoice, Dr. Pockman.... Yes, I have been away nearly a month....\n_What?_.... No, I had no means of knowing it.... Is he seriously\nill?... Do you mean he is not going to recover!!!\u201d\n\nFor a full minute she sat with the receiver pressed to her ear,\nterribly intent on what she heard. Then:\n\n\u201cYes, I\u2019ll come.... Who?... Did he ask for him?... He is here now....\nYou had better speak to him yourself, Dr. Pockman.\u201d\n\nShe passed the receiver to Stuart. Her hand trembled slightly.\n\n\u201cSadoul is dying,\u201d she said.\n\n\n\n\n                            CHAPTER XXXVIII\n\n\nThey had gone to the laboratory as they were, not delaying to dine,\nGilda in her black dinner-gown, Stuart wearing his dinner jacket. For\nPockman had advised haste.\n\nThey both were a little dazed--even Sutton, who knew what Gilda had not\nknown. But he had looked for nothing like this--nothing swift--even\nnothing deadly, perhaps.\n\n\u201cWhy does he want me,\u201d he said, partly to himself. \u201cI can understand\nthat he would desire to see _you_.\u201d\n\nHer ungloved hand crept into his but she remained silent.\n\nThe June night was cool and spangled with big stars. It was deliciously\ncool near the river where a breeze was blowing from the Sound.\n\nAs they descended, Stuart said to the driver: \u201cWe will be here for some\ntime. Don\u2019t go.\u201d\n\nMiss Cross met them in the hall. She took Gilda\u2019s hand and caressed it;\nspoke pleasantly to Stuart.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s in his own room. The doctor is there, expecting you.\u201d\n\nThey followed her. Pockman rose and came forward in the subdued\nlamplight.\n\nSadoul, lying on his bed near the open window, did not open his eyes.\n\nPockman said to Gilda: \u201cI\u2019ve called up your house every day for a week.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen did this happen?\u201d she asked.\n\nAt the sound of her voice Sadoul\u2019s eyes unclosed.\n\n\u201cIs that you, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d She went forward, slowly; laid one slender hand on the\nbed-clothes over his chest.\n\nThey looked at each other for a little while in silence.\n\n\u201cIf you don\u2019t come back to me, I\u2019ll have to go after you,\u201d he murmured.\n\nHe closed his sunken eyes, opened them presently, looked up at her.\n\n\u201cGilda, _t\u2019en souviens tu_?----\n\n    \u2018--_Et quand, dernier t\u00e9moin de ces sc\u00e8nes fun\u00e8bres,\n    Entour\u00e9 du chaos, de la mort, des t\u00e9n\u00e8bres,\n    Seul, je serais debout; seul malgr\u00e9 mon effroi,\n    Etre infaillible et bon, j\u2019esp\u00e9rerais en toi,\n    Et, certain du retour de l\u2019\u00e9ternelle aurore,\n    Sur les mondes d\u00e9truits je t\u2019attendrais--encore--_\u2019\u201d\n\nHis breath came harsh, laboriously, obstructing the voice.\n\n\u201cGilda, Gilda,\u201d he sighed.\n\nShe said nothing. He stared at her out of burning eyes, then, as his\ngaze wandered, he caught sight of Sutton.\n\n\u201cYou damned liar,\u201d he said in a stronger voice.\n\n\u201cIs that what you wished to say to me, Sadoul?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s one of the things. You told me you\u2019d remain away only a week or\nten days. You\u2019ve been gone long enough to find me dying.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry.... I expected nothing like this. Business detained me\nlonger than I expected.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe business of making love to another man\u2019s wife,\u201d said Sadoul.\nAnd, to Gilda: \u201cWell, what do you think of my marksmanship with an\nautomatic, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy endeavours to--shoot up--your young man,\u201d he gasped, suddenly husky\nand shaken by his laboured breathing.\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d she repeated, bewildered.\n\n\u201cDo you mean to say he didn\u2019t tell you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what you mean, Sadoul.\u201d\n\nSadoul looked at Sutton: \u201cDidn\u2019t you tell her?\u201d he barked.\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\nThe sick man lay gasping and fumbling at the covers, his fevered eyes\nroving from Gilda to Sutton.\n\n\u201cI guess you didn\u2019t mean to lie about coming back,\u201d he panted. \u201cSit\ndown. I once showed you something. Do you remember?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll show you something better than that. You\u2019ll be surprised.\u201d To\nGilda: \u201cSit down. Are you in a hurry?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you a little time?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right. I want to show Sutton something. But you\u2019ll have to make\nhim see it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it you wish him to see?\u201d she asked gently.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m going to die,\u201d he panted, \u201cand I want him to see me do it.\u201d\n\nPockman approached and looked down at him with a reassuring smirk:\n\u201cWhile there\u2019s life there\u2019s----\u201d\n\n\u201cTell it to Sweeny,\u201d whispered Sadoul with a pallid sneer. \u201cYou know\ndamned well I\u2019m dying.\u201d\n\nPockman laughed: \u201cYou\u2019ve plenty of vitality yet, I notice----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou tell \u2019em,\u201d barked Sadoul. And, to Gilda, with an effort: \u201cI\u2019m\ngoing after you when the time comes, if you don\u2019t come back of your own\naccord.\u201d To Sutton: \u201cI want you to see what you\u2019ll be up against--some\nday----\u201d\n\nA terrible spasm of coughing overwhelmed him. Pockman and Miss Cross,\nbeside him, supported his head. The nurse, presently, carried basin and\ntowels away.\n\nPockman seated himself and placed his hand on Sadoul\u2019s pulse.\n\nFor a long while the room was very quiet. A river breeze blew the\ncurtains. Stars looked in.\n\n\u201cGilda,\u201d whispered the dying man.\n\n\u201cI am here, Sadoul.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs _he_ here, too?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want him to see. Will you let him?\u201d\n\n\u201cSee--what?\u201d she faltered.\n\nSadoul\u2019s voice burst from him with startling violence: \u201cI want you to\nlet him see what you are going to see.... What you\u2019ll both have to\nreckon with some day.... The indestructible I! The surviving identity\nwhich is _I_ myself!... And always will be--eternal, deathless----\u201d\n\nHe struggled to sit up, his eyes glittering with fever: \u201cWill you do\nthat last thing for me, Gilda?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she answered, deathly pale. And to her lover: \u201cHe asks\nme to let you see his soul, when it leaves him.\u201d\n\n\u201cSutton! Are you afraid to look!\u201d gasped Sadoul.\n\n\u201cNot if you wish it.\u201d\n\nSadoul\u2019s glazing eyes were fixed on him: \u201cI--want you to see--for\nyourself--what you\u2019ll be up against--some day--\u201d ...The hemorrhage was\nstrangling him.... \u201cOn ne--meurt--pas--\u201d he whispered.... \u201cJe ne fais\nque--mon d\u00e9but----\u201d\n\nHis voice failed; Miss Cross eased him back to the stained pillow.\nAfter a silence, Pockman turned partly around, his hand still on\nSadoul\u2019s wrist.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s going,\u201d he said in a low voice.\n\nAfter ten minutes: \u201cHe\u2019s nearly gone.... It isn\u2019t his lungs, either.\nIt\u2019s that cobra serum.... I told him so. Hell! Cobra virus will kill\nKoch\u2019s bacilli. So will dynamite. So will jumping off the Woolworth\nbuilding.\u201d\n\nHe released the pulse; laid his hand on Sadoul\u2019s heart. Miss Cross\nhanded him a mirror and turned up the lights.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s gone,\u201d said Pockman.\n\nGilda, very pale, rose, walked to the bedside, sank to her knees.\n\nAfter a while she averted her head, covered both eyes with her\nhandkerchief, held out one hand, blindly, to her lover.\n\nHe lifted her, drew her back to their seats by the wall, retaining her\nhand.\n\nPockman drew the sheet over the dead man\u2019s face, nodded dismissal to\nMiss Cross, turned out all lights, teetered over to an arm-chair and\nsat down.\n\n\u201cDo you want a couch?\u201d he asked Gilda.\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right. Can you include me in this affair?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well.... Whenever you are ready.\u201d\n\nThe girl turned, rested her right hand on her lover\u2019s shoulder, palm\nupward; laid her cheek in the hollowed hand.\n\nSutton gazed at the bed. Over Sadoul\u2019s shadowy, sheeted face a faint\nlight shone--starlight, he supposed.\n\nAfter a few minutes he realised it was not starlight.\n\nHe gazed at the bony outline of Sadoul\u2019s face beneath the sheet,\nremembering what this dead man had said concerning the post-mortem\npersistence of consciousness.\n\nWas Sadoul lying there dead, still conscious? The brain died last\nof all. Was Sadoul\u2019s brain still alive? What was that pale light,\nimperceptibly increasing above the shrouded head?\n\nThe girl resting on his shoulder was now breathing softly, regularly as\na sleeping child.\n\nHe dared not stir; his eyes were fixed upon the outlined figure on the\nbed.\n\nSuddenly the covered head became visible in silhouette, as though an\nelectric bulb had been turned on under the bed sheet.\n\nSteadily the glow spread to a radio-activity so intense that Sadoul\u2019s\nhead itself seemed translucent, revealing the shadowy cerebrum and\ncerebellum slowly expanding within the skull.\n\nThe Senate of the body was preparing to adjourn _sine die_.\n\nNow, the preparations for the spirit\u2019s departure from its worn out\ntenement were fully completed. The intense brilliancy of the head began\nto fade. A softly luminous atmosphere grew above the covered head,\nslowly assuming the contours of another head.\n\nThis new head developed more and more distinctly, more compactly,\nindescribably brilliant.\n\nAll around it spread a luminous atmosphere, seemingly in great\ncommotion. This agitated pool of light penetrated like the white fire\nof an aurora; but, as the new head became more perfect, it waned,\nfaded, disappeared.\n\nSteadily, harmoniously, the neck, shoulders, chest, were developed in\ntheir natural progressive order.\n\nThe etheric body was slowly rising over the head and at right angles to\nthe deserted body.\n\nNow, about the feet of the etheric shape, a blinding vital light played\nlike electricity, linking it with the sheeted head. For a few minutes\nthis lasted, then the natal cord grew thin, fine as a luminous thread,\nparted.\n\nAll light died out on the dark bed. In the starlight a tall, greyish\nshape stood beside the dead--a figure like Sadoul, not quite as\ntall, with no mark of sickness on body or face; younger, tranquil of\ncarriage, with vague, untroubled eyes that rested on the living without\nemotion, without surprise.\n\nLeisurely, without effort, the figure moved to the open window and\nstood there gazing out into the starlight for a while. Then, turning,\nit passed Pockman, noticing him; passed before Gilda, sleeping on\nSutton\u2019s shoulder, quietly observant, moved on to the open door, into\nthe corridor beyond, where lights were burning on the whitewashed wall.\n\nHere it became perfectly distinct, differing in no way from a living\nbeing.\n\nThe street door was open; the aged door-keeper sat in his box reading\nan evening paper.\n\nSadoul looked at him as he passed, smiled, and went out into the street.\n\nIn the death chamber Pockman got up on his rickety legs, pulled out his\nwatch.\n\n\u201cTwo hours, thirty-three minutes, nine and a fraction seconds,\u201d he\nsaid; smirked, wiped his sweating features, picked up a pencil and\nwrote down his observation on the chart.\n\nOn Stuart\u2019s shoulder Gilda was stirring. Presently she sighed lightly,\nopened her eyes, drew a deeper breath, sat upright.\n\nFor a few moments she sat gazing at the bed, her left hand still\nresting on her lover\u2019s shoulder.\n\nPockman came teetering across the room, holding out something that\nglittered in the dim radiance of the stars.\n\n\u201cHe wanted me to give you this,\u201d he said with a sort of ghostly snigger.\n\nShe took the shining object. It was the gold-hilted misericordia.\n\nThe girl slowly stood up. There was a white rose at her sash. She drew\nit out, walked to the bed and placed it on Sadoul\u2019s breast. Beside it\nshe laid the misericordia.\n\n\u201cBury these with him,\u201d she said to Pockman. And to the still figure\nunder the sheet: \u201cGood-bye, Sadoul.\u201d\n\nPockman accompanied them to the street door, his arms twitching and\njerking, the vague, habitual grin stamped on his flat and pallid face.\n\n\u201cHe could have euchred old man Death in New Mexico or Arizona,\u201d he said\nwith a mechanical snicker. \u201cHe preferred to take a chance with that\nsnake. Hell!\u201d\n\nSutton guided Gilda down the battered steps.\n\n\u201cI think,\u201d he said in a low voice, \u201cthat we\u2019d better drive to the house\nand see my father and mother. I think we ought to set matters straight\nwithout delay.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you think it best.... What time is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cA quarter to ten.\u201d\n\nShe stood for a moment close against him. He could feel her whole body\ntrembling. Then she slowly moved forward, leaning on his arm.\n\nHe gave the driver directions, stepped into the taxi behind her and\ndrew her icy hands into his.\n\nThe girl\u2019s eyes were glimmering with unshed tears.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPockman, in his own lamplit study, touched the bell on his desk.\n\nTo an orderly who appeared, he said: \u201cSend that damned snake to the\nBronx tomorrow.\u201d\n\nAfter the orderly had retired he sat thinking, mopping up the\nperspiration that drenched his hair. Then he opened a locked drawer in\nhis desk, drew out a packet of blue-prints, examined them one by one,\nand, one by one, tore each into minute pieces.\n\nThere was a handful of these. He sat sifting them from one hand to the\nother for a long while. Finally he rose, went to the open window and\nscattered them in the pale lustre of the stars.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXXIX\n\n\nThere were lights in both drawing-rooms when Stuart let in Gilda and\nhimself with his latch-key. She let slip her evening wrap; he laid it\non a chair by the console, with his hat and stick.\n\nThere were no traces of tears on Gilda\u2019s face, but she was rather\ncolourless.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s dreadfully late,\u201d she whispered to Stuart; \u201cdo you think you\nshould have brought me?\u201d\n\n\u201cFather knows there was a girl with me as my guest in the Forest. That\nass Anderson--do you remember I introduced him when we walked over to\nFisher-cat Dam? Well, he\u2019s here and he mentioned my being there with a\n\u2018pretty girl.\u2019 That\u2019s why I don\u2019t care to lose any time about it.\u201d\n\nGilda\u2019s colour came back quickly. \u201cNo,\u201d she said, \u201cit\u2019s better not to\ndelay.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry I had to tell you,\u201d he said. \u201cI hope it won\u2019t disconcert\nyou.\u201d\n\nShe seemed a trifle surprised that the prospect of meeting his family\nunder any circumstances should disconcert her.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re really not formidable,\u201d he added, seriously.\n\nShe regarded him blankly, suddenly melted into a bewitching smile.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re so sweet,\u201d she murmured, \u201cand so entirely all that you should\nbe. Take me to your parents and explain me, darling, and I\u2019ll try to be\nscared to death.\u201d\n\nHe was too nervous himself to notice her adorable but saucy levity.\nHe glanced into the west drawing-room and saw his mother there alone,\nplaying solitaire.\n\n\u201cIs it you, Stuart?\u201d she said, busy with her cards. \u201cI thought I heard\nyour key in the door.\u201d\n\nHe took Gilda\u2019s soft hand and went in. When his mother raised her\nabstracted eyes she saw them standing before her in an odd, faintly\nsmiling silence.\n\n\u201cMother,\u201d he said, \u201cthis is Gilda Greenway. I\u2019m madly in love with\nher. She has consented to marry me. We haven\u2019t thought much about the\ndate--in fact, we haven\u2019t talked about it--but if she is willing I\ncan\u2019t see any use in waiting----\u201d\n\nThe flushed astonishment on his mother\u2019s face checked his nervous\neloquence.\n\nHis mother arose. The manners of all the Suttons were perfect when they\nchose.\n\nShe held out a gemmed hand to Gilda. When the girl laid her own on it:\n\u201cMy child, what is this young man of mine trying to tell me?\u201d asked his\nmother.\n\nUnder the calm scrutiny the girl\u2019s colour heightened to a lovely tint,\nbut she smiled.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s trying to say to you that we are very much in love, Mrs. Sutton.\nWe met this last winter. I\u2019m sure it was love at sight with me.\u201d\n\nShe bent her charming head, hesitated:\n\n\u201cWe have been spending the evening together. Stuart thought that\nperhaps this was the best way----\u201d\n\n\u201cMother,\u201d said the boy earnestly, \u201cshe\u2019s a perfect darling!----\u201d\n\nThis is the moment in the lives of two young people when what is said\nand done by parents determines the future relations of all concerned.\n\nThese children did not know it, but the boy\u2019s mother did. She knew\nshe could lose her son to this girl by a word or look--lose him in\nbitterness which never could be entirely forgotten. Every instinct\nin her was antagonistic to this departure from rule-of-thumb, from\nimmemorial routine, from inherited conformation to convention.\n\nSlowly she looked from her only son to this stranger. The girl was\nlovely to look upon.\n\nShe started to speak, waited to control her voice--the tremor of sudden\ntears in her throat--a throat all a-quiver with the protest of offended\npride--of resentment, revolt indescribable.\n\nBut all the time she realised what this moment would mean to her and to\nher son, and to their future relationship.\n\nShe had her voice under control. She said to Gilda:\n\n\u201cIf you love as I do, you understand Stuart\u2019s mother at this moment\nbetter than he can.\u201d\n\nGilda\u2019s face became beautifully grave.\n\n\u201cI do understand. It wasn\u2019t fair for me to come--I didn\u2019t realise how\nunfair, until now----\u201d\n\nShe turned impulsively toward her lover, but his mother retained her\nhand:\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t go. My son\u2019s guests are welcome.... I think you would be welcome\nanyway. And if he is to marry you, this is your proper place, my child.\u201d\n\nGilda\u2019s eyes became suddenly misty: she averted them, turned her head\nslightly:\n\n\u201cIt was not the thing to do,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was your right to be told,\nfirst--to talk to your son undisturbed. I--I\u2019ve made a rather ghastly\nfaux pas----\u201d\n\n\u201c_I_ have!\u201d said Stuart. \u201cI dragged you here----\u201d\n\nHis eyes fell on his father who, hearing voices, had come from a game\nof chess in the other drawing-room.\n\nWith Sutton senior was his chess-antagonist, Lady Glyndale, wearing the\ncomplacent expression of the victor.\n\nBut when Lady Glyndale\u2019s satisfied gaze encountered Gilda, it altered\nradically.\n\nStuart, nervously retaining command of the situation, or supposing he\ncommanded it, had already presented his father and Gilda to each other,\nand had begun in a determined voice:\n\n\u201cLady Glyndale, my fianc\u00e9e, Miss Greenway----\u201d when his affianced\ninterrupted calmly:\n\n\u201cLady Glyndale is my aunt, Stuart. And how on earth we\u2019ve managed to\nencounter each other here----\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you engaged to be married, Gilda?\u201d demanded Lady Glyndale grimly.\n\n\u201cYes, I am, Aunt Constance.... If--I am--approved----\u201d She looked at\nSutton senior in a bewildered way--turned to Stuart\u2019s mother with the\nna\u00efve, involuntary impulse of a child seeking refuge.\n\nIn an overwhelming rush of relief that lady fully retained her aplomb.\n\n\u201cIt appears,\u201d she said to Lady Glyndale, \u201cthat your niece and my son\nhave chosen to surprise us.\u201d\n\nShe looked at Gilda. The girl went to her, took both her hands,\npressing them convulsively.\n\n\u201cYou odd, sweet child,\u201d murmured her lover\u2019s mother. \u201cIt\u2019s perfectly\nclear to me that this absurd, rattle-headed son of mine is to blame.\u201d\n\nLady Glyndale, looking at Gilda, said grimly: \u201cSo _that\u2019s_ the reason\nyou have declined to travel with me. Why didn\u2019t you say so?\u201d\n\nThe girl\u2019s lips were quivering: \u201cI don\u2019t know, Aunt Constance.... I\nseem to be a--a mindless sort----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve no monopoly of mindlessness,\u201d said Sutton senior, staring hard\nat Sutton junior.\n\n\u201cFor heaven\u2019s sake, dad----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, for heaven\u2019s sake,\u201d said his father.\n\nThere was a silence. Then the boy\u2019s mother drew the girl to her, and\nthe girl\u2019s red head dropped on her shoulder.\n\nSutton senior walked over, obviously pulling himself together.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like to have a look at my own daughter-in-law,\u201d he said to Gilda.\n\u201cI\u2019d like to see her smile, once----\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t bother the child now,\u201d said his wife.\n\nBut Gilda lifted her head smiling, with wet lashes, and held out her\nhand.\n\n\u201cGood girl,\u201d said Sutton senior, and shook it gravely. And turned and\nshook the hand of his only son:\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s easy to see she\u2019s much too good for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, dad.\u201d\n\nHis mother smiled at him. He drew a swift, happy breath, went over to\nLady Glyndale.\n\nThat lady was in two minds about this business:\n\n\u201cYour mother and father are charming people,\u201d she said frankly. \u201cI hope\nyou are.\u201d\n\nThe boy laughed: \u201cI hope I am,\u201d he said, \u201cand I\u2019m sure you can be if\nyou care to, Lady Glyndale.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d she said, \u201cI\u2019m not at all sure. It quite depends, you see. Come\nand talk to me tomorrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall, indeed,\u201d he said, fervently pressing her half-extended hand.\n\nThen Lady Glyndale went over and resolutely kissed Gilda.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you think,\u201d she inquired with some sarcasm, \u201cthat you could find\na few moments to talk over matters with me before I sail?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Aunt Constance,\u201d said the girl meekly.\n\nLady Glyndale took a brief, comprehensive sweep of the situation, the\npeople, their environment. And into her absolutely British visage came\nan expression which seemed to mean: \u201cMost certainly this is America and\nnowhere else, because these things never happen anywhere else on earth.\u201d\n\nBut aloud she said amiably: \u201cGood night. I\u2019m going to bed.\u201d\n\nThe men accompanied her to the lift. She graciously declined further\npoliteness, got into the lift, started it, and hoisted herself bedward.\n\nSutton senior and Stuart exchanged an unpremeditated and crushing grip.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t Gilda wonderful?\u201d said the boy.\n\n\u201cAbsolutely,\u201d replied his father with every symptom of conviction. \u201cSo\nare you, by the way.\u201d\n\nThey laughed. Stuart went back to the west drawing-room. Gilda saw him,\nwould have stepped back, but his mother retained her by the hand.\n\nTo her son she said: \u201cDear, I\u2019m so glad you\u2019re happy.\u201d And held him\nwistfully a moment after they had kissed.\n\nThen, smiling, she kissed Gilda, and went leisurely from the room,\nleaving her boy to his new love as must all mothers who bear a\nman-child in pain and travail and gratitude to God.\n\n\n                                THE END\n\n\n\n\n_Novels by_ ROBERT W. CHAMBERS\n\n\n  THE TALKERS\n  ERIS\n  THE FLAMING JEWEL\n  THE LITTLE RED FOOT\n  THE SLAYER OF SOULS\n  THE CRIMSON TIDE\n  THE LAUGHING GIRL\n  THE RESTLESS SEX\n  BARBARIANS\n  THE DARK STAR\n  THE GIRL PHILIPPA\n  WHO GOES THERE!\n  ATHALIE\n  THE BUSINESS OF LIFE\n  THE GAY REBELLION\n  THE STREETS OF ASCALON\n  THE COMMON LAW\n  THE FIGHTING CHANCE\n  THE YOUNGER SET\n  THE DANGER MARK\n  THE FIRING LINE\n  JAPONETTE\n  QUICK ACTION\n  THE ADVENTURES OF A MODEST MAN\n  ANNE\u2019S BRIDGE\n  BETWEEN FRIENDS\n  THE BETTER MAN\n  POLICE!!!\n  SOME LADIES IN HASTE\n  THE TREE OF HEAVEN\n  THE MOONLIT WAY\n  IN SECRET\n  CARDIGAN\n  THE RECKONING\n  THE MAID-AT-ARMS\n  AILSA PAIGE\n  SPECIAL MESSENGER\n  THE HAUNTS OF MEN\n  LORRAINE\n  MAIDS OF PARADISE\n  ASHES OF EMPIRE\n  THE RED REPUBLIC\n  BLUE-BIRD WEATHER\n  A YOUNG MAN IN A HURRY\n  THE GREEN MOUSE\n  IOLE\n  THE MYSTERY OF CHOICE\n  THE CAMBRIC MASK\n  THE MAKER OF MOONS\n  THE KING IN YELLOW\n  IN SEARCH OF THE UNKNOWN\n  THE TRACER OF LOST PERSONS\n  THE CONSPIRATORS\n  A KING AND A FEW DUKES\n  THE HIDDEN CHILDREN\n  IN THE QUARTER\n  OUTSIDERS\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Note:\n\n\nPunctuation errors have been silently fixed. Archaic forms and minor\ninconsistencies in hyphenation and spelling have been retained as\nprinted.\n\nThe list of novels by Robert W. Chambers has been moved to the\nend of the book.\n\nNew original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the\npublic domain.\n\nThe following changes have been made:\n\n  On page 218: current to currant\n  On page 274: a to are","title":"The talkers","tradition":"ritual-magic","translated_text":null,"word_count":73861}