Part 8 (1/2)
”You are sure there is no woman?”
Warrington laughed easily. ”Ah, if there was a woman! I expect to be lonely some day.”
Bennington put on his hat and gloves, and Warrington followed him into the hall. Once the prospective bridegroom paused, as if he had left something unsaid; but he seemed to think the better of silence, and went on.
”Tuesday morning, then?”
”Tuesday morning. Good night.”
”Good night, and luck attend you.”
The door closed, and Warrington went slowly back to his desk, his mind filled with pleasant recollections of youth. He re-read the letter, studied it thoroughly, in hopes that there might be an anagram. There was nothing he could see, and he put it away, rather annoyed. He arranged the sheets and notes of the scenario, marshaled the scattered pencils, and was putting the gla.s.ses on the tray, when a sound in the doorway caused him to lift his head. One of the gla.s.ses tumbled over and rolled across the desk, leaving a trail of water which found its level among the ash-trays.
”It is quite evident that you forgot me,” said the woman, a faint mirthless smile stirring her lips. ”It was very close in there, and I could hear nothing.” She placed a hand on her forehead, swayed, and closed her eyes for a second.
”You are faint!” he cried, springing toward her.
”It is nothing,” she replied, with a repelling gesture. ”John Bennington, was it not?”
”Yes.” His eyes grew round with wonder.
”I was going to keep it secret as long as I could, but I see it is useless. He is the man I have promised to marry.” Her voice had a singular quietness.
Warrington retreated to his desk, leaning heavily against it.
”Bennington? You are going to marry John Bennington?” dully.
”Yes.”
He sat down abruptly and stared at her with the expression of one who is suddenly confronted by some Medusa's head, as if in the straggling wisps of hair that escaped from beneath her hat he saw the writhing serpents. She was going to marry John Bennington!
She stepped quickly up to the desk and began to scatter things about.
Her hands shook, she breathed rapidly, her delicate nostrils dilating the while.
”Look out!” he warned, at her side the same instant. ”Your hat is burning!” He smothered the incipient flame between his palms.
”Never mind the hat. My gloves, d.i.c.k, my gloves! I left them here on the desk.”
”Your gloves?” Then immediately he recollected that he had seen them in Bennington's hands, but he was positive that the gloves meant nothing to Bennington. He had picked them up just as he would have picked up a paper-cutter, a pencil, a match-box, if any of these had been within reach of his nervous fingers. Most men who are at times mentally embarra.s.sed find relief in touching small inanimate objects.
So he said rea.s.suringly: ”Don't let a pair of gloves worry you, girl.”
”He bought them for me this morning,” a break in her voice. ”I MUST find them!”
The situation a.s.sumed altogether a different angle. There was a hint of tragedy in her eyes. More trivial things than a forgotten pair of gloves have brought about death and division. Together they renewed the search. They sifted the ma.n.u.scripts, the books, the magazines, burrowed into the drawers; and sometimes their hands touched, but they neither noticed nor felt the contact. Warrington even dropped to his knees and hunted under the desk, all the while ”Jack Bennington, Jack Bennington!” drumming in his ears. The search was useless. The gloves were nowhere to be found. He stood up irresolute, dismayed and anxious, keenly alive to her misery and to the inferences his best friend might draw. The desk stood between them, but their faces were within two spans of the hand.
”I can't find them.”
”They are gone!” she whispered.