Part 11 (1/2)

She squints foxy at us for a minute. ”After all this fuss,” says she, ”it ought to be two or three hundred--maybe five. No, I mean a thousand.”

”Huh!” says I. ”A thousand! Got your nerve with you, ain't you? But suppose it was that much, what would you do with it?”

”Do!” says she, her eyes brightenin'. ”Why, I would--I---- Ah, what's the use! I'd make a fool of myself, of course. And inside of ten days I'd be in a D.T. ward somewhere.”

”No old home or folks that you could go back to?” I suggests.

She shakes her head. ”It's too late for me to go back,” says she. ”Too late!” She don't try to be tragic, don't even whine it out, but just states it dull and flat.

”But most everyone has a friend or so somewhere,” says I.

At first that don't make any impression at all. Then all of a sudden she sits up and gazes vague over the top of my head.

”There's the Baron!” says she.

”The which?” says I.

”Von Blatzer,” says she. ”Oh, he's a real Baron, all right; an odd-looking, dried up little chap with a wig and painted eyebrows. Yet he's hardly sixty. I got to know him at Atlantic City, where I had a Board Walk pitch one season. Queer? That's no word for it! Shy and lonesome he was; but after you got to know him, one of the brightest, jolliest old duffers. Our first talk was out on the end of one of those long piers, by moonlight.

”After that it was a regular thing. We'd walk up and down like two kids, telling each other all about ourselves. I'd never stated my full opinion of Fletcher Shaw to a soul before; but somehow old Von was so friendly and sympathetic that I cut loose. The Baron ground his teeth over it. He said that Fletcher should have been caught young and shot from a cannon.

Good old Von Blatzer! Wanted me to go back to Vienna as the Baroness.

Think of it--me! But I was having a good season. Besides, I didn't think I could stand for a wig. I didn't know how much I was going to miss him.”

”You wouldn't shy at the wig now, eh?” says I.

”Would I?” says she. ”Honest, I liked Von Blatzer, for all his freaky ways. He was human, he was, and we understood each other. He'll be at Monte Carlo now. Roulette, you know. That's all he lives for. Plays a system. Nice little income he has; not big, but comfortable. And during the season he feeds it all into the wheel. Someone ought to cure him of that.”

”Think you could, I expect?” says I. ”But how about you and the juniper juice?”

”Oh, I could quit that easy if there was anything else to do,” says she.

”But there isn't.”

”Then here's a proposition,” says I. ”You query him by cable to see if he's changed his mind; and if he's still a candidate for matrimony--well, I guess Mr. Steele will see that you get to the Baron.”

”You--you mean that?” says she gaspy.

”Uh-huh,” says I. ”It's up to you.”

”But--but I---- Why, look at me!” says she.

”Two weeks on the water wagon, a few visits to the beauty parlors, and an outfit of tango skirts ought to make some diff'rence, hadn't it?”

says I. ”Those items would be included. What do you say?”

I expect it was a good deal of a proposition to spring on a female party. No wonder she choked up over it.

”If I thought you were just guying me,” says she, ”I--I'd----”

”Here's a cable blank,” says I. ”Frame up your call to the Baron while I state the case to Mr. Steele.”

He couldn't see it at all, J. Bayard couldn't. ”What!” says he. ”Waste all that money on such a wretch! Why, the woman is unworthy of even the most----”