And, luck being with her, it happened that at the moment when she set out, Mr. Penway, feeling pretty comfortable where he was, abandoned his idea of going out for a stroll along Broadway and settled himself to pass the next few hours in Kirk’s armchair.
Mr. Penway’s first feeling when the bell rang, rousing him from his peaceful musings, was one of mild vexation. A few minutes later, when Mrs. Porter had really got to work upon him, he would not have recognized that tepid emotion as vexation at all.
Mrs. Porter wasted no time. She perforated Mr. Penway’s spine with her eyes, reduced it to the consistency of summer squash, and drove him before her into the studio, where she took a seat and motioned him to do the same. For a moment she sat looking at him, by way of completing the work of subjection, while Mr. Penway writhed uneasily on his chair and thought of past sins.
“My name is Mrs. Porter,” she began abruptly.
“Mine’s Penway,” said the miserable being before her. It struck him as the only thing to say.
“I have come to inquire about Mr. Winfield.”
As she paused Mr. Penway felt it incumbent upon him to speak again.
“Dear old Kirk,” he mumbled.
“Nothing of the kind,” said Mrs. Porter sharply. “Mr. Winfield is a scoundrel of the worst type, and if you are as intimate a friend of his as your words imply, it does not argue well for your respectability.”
Mr. Penway opened his mouth feebly and closed it again. Having closed it, he reopened it and allowed it to remain ajar, as it were. It was his idea of being conciliatory.
“Tell me.” Mr. Penway started violently. “Tell me, when did you last see Mr. Winfield?”
“We went to Long Beach together this afternoon.”
“In an automobile?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! Were you here when Mr. Winfield left again?”
For the life of him Mr. Penway had not the courage to say no. There was something about this woman’s stare which acted hypnotically upon his mind, never at its best as early in the evening.
He nodded.
“There was a young woman with him?” pursued Mrs. Porter.
At this moment Mr. Penway’s eyes, roving desperately about the room, fell upon the bottle of Bourbon which Kirk’s kindly hospitality had provided. His emotions at the sight of it were those of the shipwrecked mariner who see a sail. He sprang at it and poured himself out a stiff dose. Before Mrs. Porter’s disgusted gaze he drained the glass and then turned to her, a new man.
The noble spirit restored his own. For the first time since the interview had begun he felt capable of sustaining his end of the conversation with ease and dignity.
“How’s that?” he said.
“There was a young woman with him?” repeated Mrs. Porter.
Mr. Penway imagined that he had placed her by this time. Here, he told himself in his own crude language, was the squab’s mother camping on Kirk’s trail with an axe. Mr. Penway’s moral code was of the easiest description. His sympathies were entirely with Kirk. Fortified by the Bourbon, he set himself resolutely to the task of lying wholeheartedly on behalf of his absent friend.
“No,” he said firmly.
“No!” exclaimed Mrs. Porter.
“No,” repeated Mr. Penway with iron resolution. “No young woman. No young woman whatsoever. I noticed it particularly, because I thought it strange, don’t you know—what I mean is, don’t you know, strange there shouldn’t be!”
How tragic is a man’s fruitless fight on behalf of a friend! For one short instant Mrs. Porter allowed Mr. Penway to imagine that the victory was his, then she administered the coup de grâce.
“Don’t lie, you worthless creature,” she said. “They stopped at my house on their way while the girl packed a suitcase.”
Mr. Penway threw up his brief. There are moments when the stoutest-hearted, even under the influence of old Bourbon, realize that to fight on is merely to fight in vain.
He condensed his emotions into four words.
“Of all the chumps!” he remarked, and, pouring himself out a further instalment of the raw spirit, he sat down, a beaten man.
Mrs. Porter continued to harry him.
“Exactly,” she said. “So you see that there is no need for any more subterfuge and concealment. I do not intend to leave this room until you have told me all you have to tell, so you had better be quick about it. Kindly tell me the truth in as few words as possible—if you know what is meant by telling the truth.”
A belated tenderness for his dignity came to Mr. Penway.
“You are insulting,” he remarked. “You are—you are—most insulting.”
“I meant to be,” said Mrs. Porter crisply. “Now. Tell me. Where has Mr. Winfield gone?”
Mr. Penway preserved an offended silence. Mrs. Porter struck the table a blow with a book which caused him to leap in his seat.
“Where has Mr. Winfield gone?”
“How should I know?”
“How should you know? Because he told you, I should imagine. Where—has—Mr.—Winfield—gone?”
“C’nnecticut,” said Mr. Penway, finally capitulating.
“What part of Connecticut?”
“I don’t know.”
“What part of Connecticut?”
“I tell you I don’t know. He said: ‘I’m off to Connecticut,’ and left.” It suddenly struck Mr. Penway that his defeat was not so overwhelming as he had imagined. “So you haven’t got much out of me, you see, after all,” he added.
Mrs. Porter rose.
“On the contrary,” she said; “I have got out of you precisely the information which I required, and in considerably less time than I had supposed likely. If it interests you, I may tell you that Mr. Winfield has gone to a small house which he owns in the Connecticut woods.”
“Then what,” demanded Mr. Penway indignantly, “did you mean by keeping on saying ‘What part of C’nnecticut? What part
