He was perspiring freely as he took off the gloves. A shower-bath, followed by brisk massage at the energetic hands of Steve, made him feel better than he had imagined he could feel after that night of spiritual storm and stress. He was glowing as he put on his clothes, and a certain high resolve which had come to him in the night watches now returned with doubled force.
“Dingle,” he said, “how did I seem today?”
“Fine,” answered Steve courteously. “You’re gettin’ to be a regular terror.”
“You think I shape well?”
“Sure.”
“I am glad. This morning I am going to thrash a man within an inch of his life.”
“What!”
Steve spun round. Bailey’s face was set and determined.
“You are?” said Steve feebly.
“I am.”
“What’s he been doing to you?”
“I am afraid I cannot tell you that. But he richly deserves what he will get.”
Steve eyed him with affectionate interest.
“Well, ain’t you the wildcat!” he said. “Who’d have thought it? I’d always had you sized up as a kind o’ placid guy.”
“I can be roused.”
“Gee, can’t I see it! But, say, what sort of a gook is this gink, anyway?”
“In what respect?”
“Well, I mean is he a heavy or a middle or a welter or what? It makes a kind o’ difference, you know.”
“I cannot say. I have not seen him.”
“What! Not seen him? Then how’s there this fuss between you?”
“That is a matter into which I cannot go.”
“Well, what’s his name, then? Maybe I know him. I know a few good people in this burg.”
“I have no objection to telling you that. He is an artist, and his name is—his name is—”
Wrinkles appeared in Bailey’s forehead. His eyes bulged anxiously behind their glasses.
“I’ve forgotten,” he said blankly.
“For the love of Mike! Know where he lives?”
“I am afraid not.”
Steve patted him kindly on the shoulder.
“Take my advice, bo,” he said. “Let the poor fellow off this time.”
And so it came about that Bailey, instead of falling upon Kirk Winfield, hailed a taxicab and drove to the apartment of Mrs. Lora Delane Porter.
V
Wherein Opposites Agree
The maid who opened the door showed a reluctance to let Bailey in. She said that Mrs. Porter was busy with her writing and had given orders that she was not to be disturbed.
Nothing could have infuriated Bailey more. He, Bailey Bannister, was to be refused admittance because this preposterous woman wished to write! It was the duty of all decent citizens to stop her writing. If it had not been for her and her absurd books Ruth would never have made it necessary for him to pay this visit at all.
“Kindly take my card to Mrs. Porter and tell her that I must see her at once on a matter of the utmost urgency,” he directed.
The domestic workers of America had not been trained to stand up against Bailey’s grand manner. The maid vanished meekly with the card, and presently returned and requested him to step in.
Bailey found himself in a comfortable room, more like a man’s study than a woman’s boudoir. Books lined the walls. The furniture was strong and plain. At the window, on a swivel-chair before a roll-top desk, Mrs. Porter sat writing, her back to the door.
“The gentleman, ma’am,” announced the maid.
“Sit down,” said his aunt, without looking round or ceasing to write.
The maid went out. Bailey sat down. The gentle squeak of the quill pen continued.
Bailey coughed.
“I have called this morning—”
The left hand of the writer rose and waggled itself irritably above her left shoulder.
“Aunt Lora,” spoke Bailey sternly.
“Shish!” said the authoress. Only that and nothing more. Bailey, outraged, relapsed into silence. The pen squeaked on.
After what seemed to Bailey a considerable time, the writing ceased. It was succeeded by the sound of paper vigorously blotted. Then, with startling suddenness, Mrs. Porter whirled round on the swivel-chair, tilted it back, and faced him.
“Well, Bailey?” she said.
She looked at Bailey. Bailey looked at her. Her eyes had the curious effect of driving out of his head what he had intended to say.
“Well?” she said again.
He tried to remember the excellent opening speech which he had prepared in the cab.
“Good gracious, Bailey!” cried Mrs. Porter, “you have not come here and ruined my morning’s work for the pleasure of looking at me surely? Say something.”
Bailey found his voice.
“I have called to see Ruth, who, I am informed, is with you.”
“She is in her room. I made her breakfast in bed. Is there any message I can give her?”
Bailey suddenly remembered the speech he had framed in the cab.
“Aunt Lora,” he said, “I am sorry to have to intrude upon you at so early an hour, but it is imperative that I see Ruth and ask her to explain the meaning of a most disturbing piece of news that has come to my ears.”
Mrs. Porter did not appear to have heard him.
“A man of your height should weigh more,” she said. “What is your weight?”
“My weight; beside the point—”
“Your weight is under a hundred and forty pounds, and it ought to be over a hundred and sixty. Eat more. Avoid alcohol. Keep regular hours.”
“Aunt Lora!”
“Well?”
“I wish to see my sister.”
“You will have to wait. What did you wish to see her about?”
“That is a matter that concerns—No! I will tell you, for I believe you to be responsible for the whole affair.”
“Well?”
“Last night, quite by chance, I found out that Ruth has for some time been paying visits to the studio of an artist.”
Mrs. Porter nodded.
“Quite right. Mr. Kirk Winfield. She is going to marry him.”
Bailey’s hat fell to the floor. His stick followed. His mouth opened widely. His glasses shot from his nose and danced madly at the end of their string.
“What!”
“It will
