With a pugilistic swagger, Aleppo strode forward. His beady little eyes flashed dangerously. His pugnacious jaw seemed coming along somewhat in advance of him. His big fists were clenched. Baring his teeth in a crooked grin, he snarled: “Now!—You’re so damned anxious to get into trouble—”
“Look out!” shouted Masterson, “Don’t do that!”
“Sock him!” yelled some youngster from the crowd.
Aleppo advanced belligerently until he was within reach of a surprise.
There were three quick, crunching blows in his face, a right to his left eye, a left to his right eye, and a right to the point of his chin. The big fellow’s knees buckled under him, and he collapsed without a sigh.
It was very quiet at Gordon’s for a moment. Everybody was stunned by the sudden turn of events.
Roughly pushing Masterson aside, Bobby turned to Joyce, stooped and gathered her up in his arms, and started down the steps of the stage, the crowd falling back to make way for him.
“Just a minute!” shouted Masterson, pursuing him. “I’ll take care of her. You needn’t be so officious!”
Bobby turned toward him, and said in a low voice, “You should have taken care of her a little sooner!”
Masterson was in a drunken rage over his humiliation.
“Well—if you think you can get away with that—”
He clutched Bobby’s throat, ripping off his collar; clawed at his hair; his cufflink dug deeply into his friend’s cheek, and the blood flowed freely, dripping from his jaw to his shirt bosom.
Supporting his limp charge with his left arm, Bobby let loose a short-arm jab at the pit of Masterson’s none too able stomach, which demoted him to the ranks of the noncombatants, and, taking Joyce again in his arms, marched forward, pushing chairs and tables out of his way with their bodies.
At the door, the burly head waiter barred his progress.
“Did you bring this young lady here?”
“No! But I am taking her away!”
“Well—not so fast! Let’s look into this!”
Again Bobby lowered Joyce’s feet to the floor, steadied her with his left arm, and growled, “Open that door! I have no intention of mixing it with anybody else here tonight, but if you try to stop me I’ll put you to sleep alongside your little friend up there.”
The bruiser hesitated. Someone shouted, “Let him go, before the joint gets pinched! He’ll see her home! Here—take her coat!”
The crisp blast of cold air swept Joyce back to partial consciousness.
A waiting taxi drove up under the porte-cochère. Bobby lifted her in, told the grinning driver to head east on the boulevard and he’d let him know presently where they wanted to go, and seated himself beside her.
Confusedly she recognized him, looked up dully into his face and mumbled thickly, “Oh, Bobby, you came at last, didn’t you? I’ve waited so long! I’ve wanted you so!”
She nestled her head against his shoulder, and he put his arm around her, spared the necessity of replying, for her revival was brief. In a moment she slumped and slept.
Now he’d got her, what should he do with her? It occurred to him he might take her some place and sober her up before presenting her at home, an idea he instantly rejected. She wouldn’t be even approximately normal for hours. Joyce was drunk, and no mistake! … Had he really done her a good turn with his swashbuckling excursion into her affairs? Perhaps it would result in more damaging notoriety for her than had she been left to go her own gait … Could he and Tom Masterson ever be friends again? … Doubtful.
The driver turned his head for definite instructions, and Bobby gave Joyce’s address. He’d have to take her home. Maybe he could put her into the house without stirring it up. He shook her awake as they neared the corner.
“Joyce! Where is your house-key?”
She began to fumble with her coat, and, acting on the clue, he discovered it in an inside pocket. The taxi drew up at the kerb and the driver obeyed his fare’s order to shut off the engine and wait.
Rousing, as the cold air rushed in through the opened door, Joyce twined her arms about Bobby’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. He was bleeding, but she was too far gone to notice.
It was easier to carry than drag her. The front door was quickly reached, opened and closed quietly. He remembered the appointments of the house. Depositing her on the davenport in the living-room, he drew off her slippers and covered her with a heavy steamer rug. Her face was bloody. That would undoubtedly call for explanations which would drag out the whole story, adding even more discredit to her plight and more chagrin to someone else whose dignity better deserved protection.
Presuming there must be a lavatory on the main floor, he looked about for it, and having made experimental forays into two coat closets, finally discovered the little wash room off the library; dampened a towel, and was on his way back with it when he heard a throaty voice that had never quite left his consciousness. It so completely bridged the weeks that it seemed to take on exactly where it had left off, “Good night, then—and thank you so much!”—“Joyce, you’ve been hurt!”
There was no reply … and a moment’s silence. Doubtless she was noticing the light in the library. Perhaps she had observed his coat, tossed across a chair. He decided not to be caught in ambush … They met at the door.
She seemed not quite so tall as he had remembered her, possibly because the little red and black slippers had lower heels. The disarray of her bobbed head, her tousled bangs, made her look like a child suddenly roused from sleep, to which juvenile effect her suit of Japanese pyjamas contributed—black with red poppies, buttoned high about her throat. Bobby was aware of the exquisiteness of her ensemble, but all that he saw distinctly was her bewildered blue eyes searching his with mystification.
On sight of him she gasped with surprise; put the back of
