What a picnic the press agent would have! 'Held a prisoner by a band of savage Indians subdued by the spell of her wonderful voice' -- wouldn't that make great stuff? But I guess I quit the game winner, anyhow --there ought to be a couple of thousand dollars in that sack of gold dust I collected as encores, don't you think?"He left her at the door of the little Hotel de Buen Descansar, where she had stopped before.Two hours later he returned to the hotel.He glanced in at the open door of the little combined reception room and cafe.
Half a dozen of Macuto's representative social and official caballeros were distributed about the room.
Sefior Villablanca, the wealthy rubber concessionist, reposed his fat figure on two chairs, with an emollient smile beaming upon his chocolate-coloured face.Guil-bert, the French mining engineer, leered through his polished nose-glasses.Colonel Mendez, of the regular army, in gold-laced uniform and fatuous grin, was busily extracting corks from champagne bottles.Other pat-terns of Macutian gallantry and fashion pranced and posed.The air was hazy with cigarette smoke.Wine dripped upon the floor.
Perched upon a table in the centre of the room in an attitude of easy preeminence was Mlle.Giraud.Achic costume of white lawn and cherry ribbons supplanted her travelling garb.There was a suggestion of lace, and a frill or two, with a discreet, small implication of hand-embroidered pink hosiery.Upon her lap rested a guitar.
In her face was the light of resurrection, the peace of elysium attained through fire and suffering.She was singing to a lively accompaniment a little song:
"When you see de big round moon Comin' up like a balloon, Dis nigger skips fur to kiss de lips Ob his stylish, black-faced coon."The singer caught sight of Armstrong.
"Hi! there, Johnny," she called; "I've been expecting you for an hour.What kept you? Gee! but these smoked guys are the slowest you ever saw.They ain't on, at all.Come along in, and I'll make this coffee-coloured old sport with the gold epaulettes open one for you right off the ice.""Thank you," said Armstrong; "not just now, Ibelieve.I've several things to attend to."He walked out and down the street, and met Rucker coming up from the Consulate.
"Play you a game of billiards," said Armstrong."Iwant something to take the taste of the sea level out of my mouth.""GIRL"
IN GILT letters on the ground glass of the door of room No.962 were the words: "Robbins & Hartley, Brokers." The clerks had gone.It was past five, and with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub-women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story office building.A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows.
Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.
"Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night," he said."You out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch."Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, ner-vous, sighed and frowned a little.
"Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floral-hurst, especially in the winter."
A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley.
"I've found where she lives," he announced in the portentous half-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to his fellow men.
Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude.But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his liking, and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitan amusements.
"Here is the address," said the detective in a natural tone, being deprived of an audience to foil.
Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book.On it were pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No.341 East --th Street, care of Mrs.McComus.""Moved there a week ago," said the detective."Now, if you want any shadowing done, Mr.Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city.It will be only $7 a day and expenses.Can send in a daily typewritten report, covering -- ""You needn't go on," interrupted the broker."It isn't a case of that kind.I merely wanted the address.
How much shall I pay you?"
"One day's work," said the sleuth."A tenner will cover it."Hartley paid the man and dismissed him.Then he left the office and boarded a Broadway car.At the first large crosstown artery of travel he took an eastbound car that deposited him in a decaying avenue, whose ancient structures once sheltered the pride and glory of the town.
Walking a few squares, he came to the building that he sought.It was a new flathouse, bearing carved upon its cheap stone portal its sonorous name, "The Vallambrosa."Fire-escapes zigzagged down its front -- these laden with household goods, drying clothes, and squalling children evicted by the midsummer heat.Here and there a pale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous mass, as if wondering to what kingdom it belonged --vegetable, animal or artificial.
Hartley pressed the "McComus" button.The door latch clicked spasmodically -- now hospitably, now doubt-fully, as though in anxiety whether it might be admitting friends or duns.Hartley entered and began to climb the stairs after the manner of those who seek their friends in city flat-houses -- which is the manner of a boy who climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what he wants.
On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door.She invited him inside, with a nod and a bright, genuine smile.She placed a chair for him near a window, and poised herself gracefully upon the edge of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that are masked and mysteriously hooded, unguessable bulks by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night.
