“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”
“And now leave us. We would be alone.”
“Yes, Mr. Beamish,” said Officer Garroway humbly. “At once, Mr. Beamish.”
For some moments after the door had closed, the girl stood staring at Hamilton Beamish with wondering eyes.
“Was that man really a policeman?”
“He was.”
“And you handled him like that, and he said, ‘Yes, sir!’ and ‘No, sir!’ and crawled out on all fours.” She drew a deep breath. “It seems to me that you are just the sort of friend a lonely girl needs in this great city.”
“I am only too delighted that I was able to be of service.”
“Service is right! Mr. Beamish. …”
“My first name is Hamilton.”
She looked at him, amazed.
“You are not the Hamilton Beamish? Not the man who wrote the booklets?”
“I have written a few booklets.”
“Why, you’re my favourite author! If it hadn’t been for you I would still be mouldering in a little one-horse town where there wasn’t even a good soda-fountain. But I got hold of a couple of your Are You in a Groove? things, and I packed up my grip and came right along to New York to lead a larger life. If I’d known yesterday that you were Hamilton Beamish, I’d have kissed you on the doorstep!”
It was Hamilton Beamish’s intention to point out that a curtained room with a closed door was an even more suitable place for such a demonstration, but, even as he tried to speak, there gripped him for the first time in his life a strange, almost George Finch-like shyness. One deprecates the modern practice of exposing the great, but candour compels one to speak out and say that at this juncture Hamilton Beamish emitted a simpering giggle and began to twiddle his fingers.
The strange weakness passed, and he was himself again. He adjusted his glasses firmly.
“Would you,” he asked, “could you possibly. … Do you think you could manage to come and lunch somewhere tomorrow?”
The girl uttered an exclamation of annoyance.
“Isn’t that too bad!” she said. “I can’t.”
“The day after?”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I shall be off the map for three weeks. I’ve got to jump on a train tomorrow and go visit the old folks back in East Gilead. It’s Pop’s birthday on Saturday, and I never miss it.”
“East Gilead?”
“Idaho. You wouldn’t have heard of the place, but it’s there.”
“But I have heard of it. A great friend of mine comes from East Gilead.”
“You don’t say! Who?”
“A man named George Finch.”
She laughed amusedly.
“You don’t actually mean to tell me you know George Finch?”
“He is my most intimate friend.”
“Then I trust for your sake,” said the girl, “that he is not such a yap as he used to be.”
Hamilton Beamish reflected. Was George Finch a yap? How precisely did one estimate the yaphood of one’s friends?
“By the word ‘yap’ you mean. …”
“I mean a yap. The sort of fellow who couldn’t say Bo to a goose.”
Hamilton Beamish had never seen George Finch in conversation with a goose, but he thought he was a good enough judge of character to be able to credit him with the ability to perform the very trivial deed of daring indicated.
“I fancy New York has changed George,” he replied, after reflection. “In fact, now that I remember, it was on more or less that very subject that I called to see you in a professional capacity. The fact is, George Finch has fallen violently in love with Molly Waddington, the stepdaughter of your client, Mrs. Waddington.”
“You don’t say! And I suppose he’s too shy to come within a mile of her.”
“On the contrary. The night before last he seems to have forced his way into the house—you might say, practically forced his way—and now Mrs. Waddington has forbidden him to see Molly again, fearing that he will spoil her plan of marrying the poor child to a certain Lord Hunstanton.”
The girl stared.
“You’re right! George must have altered.”
“And we were wondering—Molly and I—if we could possibly induce you to stoop to a—shall I say a benevolent little ruse. Mrs. Waddington is coming to see you today at five, and it was Molly’s suggestion that I should sound you as to whether you would consent to take a look in the crystal and tell Mrs. Waddington that you see danger threatening Molly from a dark man with an eyeglass.”
“Of course.”
“You will?”
“It isn’t much to do in return for all you have done for me.”
“Thank you, thank you,” said Hamilton Beamish. “I knew, the moment I set eyes on you, that you were a woman in a million. I wonder—could you possibly come to lunch one day after you return?”
“I’d love it.”
“I’ll leave you my telephone number.”
“Thanks. Give George my regards. I’d like to see him when I get back.”
“You shall. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Beamish.”
“Hamilton.”
Her face wore a doubtful look.
“I don’t much like that name Hamilton. It’s kind of stiff.”
Hamilton Beamish had a brief struggle with himself.
“My name is also James. At one time in my life many people used to call me Jimmy.” He shuddered a little, but repeated the word bravely: “Jimmy.”
“Put me on the list,” said the girl. “I like that much better. Goodbye, Jimmy.”
“Goodbye,” said Hamilton Beamish.
So ended the first spasm of a great man’s love-story. A few moments later, Hamilton Beamish was walking in a sort of dance-measure down the street. Near Washington Square he gave a small boy a dollar and asked him if he was going to be President some day.
V
“George,” said Hamilton Beamish, “I met someone today who knew you back in East Gilead. A girl.”
“What was her name? Did Molly give you any message for me?”
“Madame Eulalie.”
“I don’t remember anyone called that. Did Molly give you any message for me?”
“She is slim and graceful and has tender grey eyes like mists floating over some pool in Fairyland.”
“I certainly don’t remember anyone in East Gilead like that. Did Molly give you any message for me?”
“No.”
“She didn’t?” George flung himself despairingly into a chair. “This is the end!”
“Oh, yes, she
