He turned abruptly to Mamie.
“Mamie, you can tell them whatever you please when you get home. They can’t blame you. It’s not your fault. Tell them that Steve was acting for me with my complete approval. Tell them that the kid’s going to be brought up right from now on. I’ve got him, and I’m going to keep him.”
Mamie had risen and was facing him, a very determined midget, pink and resolute.
“I’m not going home, Mr. Winfield.”
“What?”
“If you are going to Bill, I am coming with you.”
“Nonsense.”
“That’s my place—with him.”
“But you can’t. It’s impossible.”
“Not more impossible than what has happened already.”
“I won’t take you.”
“Then I’ll go by train. I know where your house is. Steve told me.”
“It’s out of the question.”
Mamie’s Irish temper got the better of her professional desire to maintain the discreetly respectful attitude of employee toward employer.
“Is it then? We’ll see. Do you think I’m going to leave you and Steve to look after my Bill? What do men know about taking care of children? You would choke the poor mite or let him kill himself a hundred ways.”
She glared at him defiantly. He glared back at her. Then his sense of humour came to his rescue. She looked so absurdly small standing there with her chin up and her fists clenched. He laughed delightedly. He went up to her and placed a hand on each of her shoulders, looking down at her. He felt that he loved her for her championship of Bill.
“You’re a brick, Mamie. Of course you shall come. We’ll call at the house and you can pack your grip. But, by George, if you put that infernal thermometer in I’ll run the automobile up against a telegraph-pole, and then Bill will lose us both.”
“Finished?” said a voice. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Sorry.”
Mr. Penway was gazing at them with affectionate interest from the doorway. Kirk released Mamie and stepped back.
“I only looked in,” explained Mr. Penway. “Didn’t mean to intrude. Thought you might have finished your chat, and it was a trifle lonely communing with nature.”
“Bob,” said Kirk, “you’ll have to get on without me for a day or two. Make yourself at home. You know where everything is.”
“I can satisfy my simple needs. Thinking of going away?”
“I’ve got to go up to Connecticut. I don’t know how long I shall be away.”
“Take your time,” said Mr. Penway affably. “Going in the auto?”
“Yes.”
“The weather is very pleasant for automobiling just now,” remarked Mr. Penway.
Ten minutes later, having thrown a few things together into a bag, Kirk took his place at the wheel. Mamie sat beside him. The bag had the rear seat to itself.
“There seems to be plenty of room still,” said Mr. Penway. “I have half a mind to come with you.”
He looked at Mamie.
“But on reflection I fancy you can get along without me.”
He stood at the door, gazing after the motor as it moved down the street. When it had turned the corner he went back into the studio and mixed himself a highball.
“Kirk does manage to find them,” he said enviously.
XI
Mr. Penway on the Grill
Fate moves in a mysterious way. Luck comes hand in hand with misfortune. What we lose on the swings we make up on the roundabouts. If Keggs had not seen twenty-five of his hard-earned dollars pass at one swoop into the clutches of the croupier at the apparently untenanted house on Forty-First Street, and become disgusted with the pleasing game of roulette, he might have delayed his return to the house on Fifth Avenue till a later hour; in which case he would have missed the remarkable and stimulating spectacle of Kirk driving to the door in an automobile with Mamie at his side; of Mamie, jumping out and entering the house; of Mamie leaving the house with a suitcase; of Kirk helping her into the automobile, and of the automobile disappearing with its interesting occupants up the avenue at a high rate of speed.
Having lost his money, as stated, and having returned home, he was enabled to be a witness, the only witness, of these notable events, and his breast was filled with a calm joy in consequence. This was something special. This was exclusive, a scoop. He looked forward to the return of Mrs. Porter with an eagerness which, earlier in the day, he would have considered impossible. Somehow Ruth did not figure in his picture of the delivery of the sensational news that Mr. Winfield had eloped with the young person engaged to look after her son. Mrs. Porter’s was one of those characters which monopolize any stage on which they appear. Besides, Keggs disliked Mrs. Porter, and the pleasure of the prospect of giving her a shock left no room for other thoughts.
It was nearly seven o’clock when Mrs. Porter reached the house. She was a little tired from the journey, but in high good humour. She had had a thoroughly satisfactory interview with her publishers—satisfactory, that is to say, to herself; the publishers had other views.
“Is Mrs. Winfield in?” she asked Keggs as he admitted her.
Ruth was always sympathetic about her guerrilla warfare with the publishers. She looked forward to a cosy chat, in the course of which she would trace, step by step, the progress of the late campaign which had begun overnight and had culminated that morning in a sort of Gettysburg, from which she had emerged with her arms full of captured flags and all the other trophies of conquest.
“No, madam,” said Keggs. “Mrs. Winfield has not yet returned.”
Keggs was an artist in tragic narration. He did not give away his climax; he led up to it by degrees as slow as his audience would permit.
“Returned? I did not know she intended to go away. Her yacht party is next week, I understand.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Where has she gone?”
“To Tuxedo, madam.”
“Tuxedo?”
“Mrs. Winfield has just rung us up from there upon the telephone to request that necessaries for an indefinite
