Part 26 (1/2)

But the paper. Talc.u.m powder would not bring them out on that. It must be something black.

A lead pencil! Eagerly she seized it and with, a little silver pen-knife whittled off the wood. Sc.r.a.pe! sc.r.a.pe! until she had a neat little pile of finely powdered graphite.

Then she poured it on the paper and taking the sheet daintily by the edges, so that she would not mix her own finger prints with the others, she rolled the powder back and forth. As she looked anxiously she could see the little grains adhering to the paper.

A fine camel's hair brush lay on the table, for penciling. She took it deftly. It made her think of that first time when she painted the checks for Carlton. A lump came into her throat.

There they were, the second pair of telltale prints. But what tale did they tell? Whose were they?

Her reading on finger prints had been very limited but, like everything she did, to the point. She studied those before her, traced out as best she could the loops, whorls, arches, and composites, even counted the ridges on some of them. It was not so difficult, after all.

She stopped in an uptown branch of her brokers in one of the hotels.

The market was very quiet, and even the Rubber Syndicate seemed to be marking time. As she went out she pa.s.sed the telephone booths. Should she call up Warrington? Would he misinterpret it? What if he did? She was mistress of her own tongue. She need not say too much. Besides, if she were going on a fis.h.i.+ng expedition, a telephone line was as good as any other--better than a visit.

”This is Mrs. Dunlap,” she said directly.

”Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Dunlap. I have been intending to call you up, but,” he paused, and added, ”you know we are having a pretty strenuous time down here.”

There was a genuine ring to the first part of his reply. But the rest of it trailed off into the old blase tone.

”I'm sorry,” she replied. ”I enjoyed last night so much.”

”Did you?” came back eagerly.

Before he could add anything she asked, ”I suppose you are going to see Stella again this afternoon.”

”Why--er--yes,” he hesitated. ”I think so.”

”Where? At Vera's?” she asked, adopting a tone not of curiosity but of chiding him for seeing Stella instead of herself.

The moment of hesitation, before he said that he didn't know, told her the truth. It was as good as a plain, ”Yes.”

For a few moments they chatted. As she hung up the receiver after his deferential goodbye, Constance knew that she had gained a new angle from which to observe Warrington's character. He was intensely human and he was ”in wrong.” Here was a mess, all around.

The day wore on, yet brought no indecision as to what she would do, though it brought no solution as to how to do it. The inaction was worse than anything else. The last quotations had come in over the ticker, showing the Syndicate stocks still unchanged. She left her brokers and sat for a few moments in the rotunda of the hotel, considering. She could stand it no longer. Whatever happened, she would run around to Charmant's. Some excuse would occur when she got there.

As Constance alighted from the private elevator, a delicate scent as of attar of roses smote lightly on her, and there was, if anything, a greater air of exotic warmth about the place. Everything, from the electric bulbs buried deep in the cl.u.s.ters of amber artificial flowers to the bright green leaves on the dainty trellises, the little square-paned windows and white furniture, bespoke luxury. There was an inviting ”tone” to it all.

”I'm glad I've found you,” began Constance to Stella, as though nothing had happened. ”There is something I'd like to say to you besides thanking you most kindly for the good time last--”

”Is there anything I can do for you?” interrupted Madame Charmant in a business like tone. ”I am sure that Miss Larue invited you last night because she thought you were lonely. She and Mr. Warrington, you know, are old friends.”

Charmant emphasized the remark to mean, ”You trespa.s.sed on forbidden ground, if you thought you could get him away.”

Constance seemed not to notice the implication.

”There is something I'd like to say,” she repeated gently.

She picked up a little inking pad which lay on a mahogany secretary which Vera used as an office desk.