George and Kay were greeted affectionately: people moved over and made place for them. The Hawaiians performed and the Duncan sisters sang at the piano. From the moment George saw who was here he guessed that Helen Avery would be here, too, and the fact annoyed him. It was not appropriate that she should be part of this gathering through which he and Kay had moved familiarly and tranquilly for years.
He saw her first when someone opened the swinging door to the kitchen, and when, a little later, she came out and their eyes met, he knew absolutely that he didn’t love her. He went up to speak to her, and at her first words he saw something had happened to her, too, that had dissipated the mood of the afternoon. She had got a big part.
“And I’m in a daze!” she cried happily. “I didn’t think there was a chance and I’ve thought of nothing else since I read the book a year ago.”
“It’s wonderful. I’m awfully glad.”
He had the feeling, though, that he should look at her with a certain regret; one couldn’t jump from such a scene as this afternoon to a plane of casual friendly interest. Suddenly she began to laugh.
“Oh, we’re such actors, George—you and I.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You did this afternoon. It was a pity we didn’t have a camera.”
Short of declaring then and there that he loved her, there was absolutely nothing more to say. He grinned acquiescently. A group formed around them and absorbed them, and George, feeling that the evening had settled something, began to think about going home. An excited and sentimental elderly lady—someone’s mother—came up and began telling him how much she believed in him, and he was polite and charming to her, as only he could be, for half an hour. Then he went to Kay, who had been sitting with Arthur Busch all evening, and suggested that they go.
She looked up unwillingly. She had had several highballs and the fact was mildly apparent. She did not want to go, but she got up after a mild argument and George went upstairs for his coat. When he came down Katherine Davis told him that Kay had already gone out to the car.
The crowd had increased; to avoid a general good night he went out through the sun-parlour door to the lawn; less than twenty feet away from him he saw the figures of Kay and Arthur Busch against a bright street lamp; they were standing close together and staring into each other’s eyes. He saw that they were holding hands.
After the first start of surprise George instinctively turned about, retraced his steps, hurried through the room he had just left, and came noisily out the front door. But Kay and Arthur Busch were still standing close together, and it was lingeringly and with abstracted eyes that they turned around finally and saw him. Then both of them seemed to make an effort; they drew apart as if it was a physical ordeal. George said goodbye to Arthur Busch with special cordiality, and in a moment he and Kay were driving homeward through the clear California night.
He said nothing, Kay said nothing. He was incredulous. He suspected that Kay had kissed a man here and there, but he had never seen it happen or given it any thought. This was different; there had been an element of tenderness in it and there was something veiled and remote in Kay’s eyes that he had never seen there before.
Without having spoken, they entered the house; Kay stopped by the library door and looked in.
“There’s someone there,” she said, and she added without interest: “I’m going upstairs. Good night.”
As she ran up the stairs the person in the library stepped out into the hall.
“Mr. Hannaford—”
He was a pale and hard young man; his face was vaguely familiar, but George didn’t remember where he had seen it before.
“Mr. Hannaford?” said the young man. “I recognize you from your pictures.” He looked at George, obviously a little awed.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, will you come in here?”
“What is it? I don’t know who you are.”
“My name is Donovan. I’m Margaret Donovan’s brother.” His face toughened a little.
“Is anything the matter?”
Donovan made a motion towards the door. “Come in here.” His voice was confident now, almost threatening.
George hesitated, then he walked into the library. Donovan followed and stood across the table from him, his legs apart, his hands in his pockets.
“Hannaford,” he said, in the tone of a man trying to whip himself up to anger, “Margaret wants fifty thousand dollars.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” exclaimed George incredulously.
“Margaret wants fifty thousand dollars,” repeated Donovan.
“You’re Margaret Donovan’s brother?”
“I am.”
“I don’t believe it.” But he saw the resemblance now. “Does Margaret know you’re here?”
“She sent me here. She’ll hand over those two letters for fifty thousand, and no questions asked.”
“What letters?” George chuckled irresistibly. “This is some joke of Schroeder’s, isn’t it?”
“This ain’t a joke, Hannaford. I mean the letters you signed your name to this afternoon.”
III
An hour later George went upstairs in a daze. The clumsiness of the affair was at once outrageous
