Chapter V: Encounter

IT wouldn’t, he realized fully, be sensible to see Isabel. And besides, it would be unfair to old Gilbert. He had promised to leave his destinies to his friend’s charge. He had better leave things as they stood.

When Gilbert left the hotel after breakfast to keep his appointment with the lawyers representing the other interests in the Ostrander case, it was with the understanding that they were to meet again at lunch for a final conference before Gilbert’s visit to Dr. Zerneke.

When Norman was left alone in their suite at the hotel, he wondered what to do with himself in the meantime.

He went out and strolled up Michigan Boulevard.

He passed the Steinbach Galleries.

Strolling back, he passed the Steinbach Galleries again.

Springer might be there, getting ready for his exhibit.

Norman turned and went in.

The place seemed to be empty. But as he went from one of the rooms to another, passing the little office, he heard young Steinbach’s voice, and then Springer’s.

He stopped, and sat down on a cushioned bench in the middle of the room, staring unseeingly across at a painting of a Pueblo Indian dance.

He supposed what he was doing was foolish. But he had to hear what Springer had to say--about him and Isabel.... For Springer would know about it all. Springer was her friend.... And if he could not go to see this doctor, if that must be left to Gilbert, yet here was something he could do, while he waited.... All Gilbert’s carefully-built-up edifice of caution and secrecy melted into mist, in his mind.

He had been there three minutes when Springer came out of the office. Norman well remembered that dark bushy head and great lumbering frame. Norman rose.

Springer paused, glanced at him idly, and took out his watch and looked at it in a bored way.

There had been no recognition in that glance. Norman was disconcerted. He would have to introduce himself.

“Mr. Springer,” he said.

Springer looked at him inquiringly. “Yes?”

“My name is Overbeck--Norman Overbeck.” And, since that seemed to mean nothing to Springer, he added: “I met you a year ago in Boston.”

Springer offered his hand with the embarrassment of one who had a bad memory in social matters. “Ah, yes,” he said, with an effort at cordiality. “How are you?”

It wasn’t at all what Norman had expected. It was quite obvious that Springer didn’t know who he was at all. So Isabel hadn’t told him! Norman readjusted his mind to that.

“Well, how did you find Italy?” asked Springer absently, misled by some _ignis fatuus_ gleam of false recollection.

Norman, ignoring this mistaken reference, said firmly: “Isabel Drury took me to your studio.”

“Oh, yes!” said Springer. “You wrote a play. I remember now.”

“No, I didn’t write a play,” said Norman indignantly. “I am a lawyer down in Vickley. I was at Harvard at the time, and”--he added--“a friend of Isabel’s.”

“I’m sorry,” said Springer, confused and chagrined at his blunder. “I remember your face quite well. So you are one of Isabel’s friends. Have you heard of her good luck?”

“Good luck?” Norman repeated, baffled.

“Yes, she’s going to Paris. Some rich woman is subsidizing her for a year’s study--isn’t it fine!”

“Yes,” said Norman. “But--”

He scarcely took in the news about Isabel’s going to Paris.

Was it possible that Springer didn’t know about what had happened to her? Or was he keeping that secret? Yes, naturally enough, a secret from an outsider.... That, Norman realized, was what he was to Springer--an outsider! Because Springer didn’t know. Isabel hadn’t told him that part of it. Maybe he didn’t know anything about it at all!

“How is Isabel?” Norman asked abruptly.

“Oh,” said Springer, “she’s all right.”

“All right?”

Why should he say that? Did he mean anything? Did he know anything?

“I suppose,” said Norman, as casually as possible, “that you keep in touch with her?”

“Well, yes,” said Springer.

“I understand,” said Norman, “that she’s here in Chicago now.”

“Why, yes, she is,” said Springer reluctantly.

So it was true!

“I’d like to see her,” said Norman. His heart was beating heavily. “Where is she?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, she’s--not seeing anybody. She’s just recuperating from an operation for appendicitis.”

The usual lie! Springer said it with an air of protecting her from intrusive acquaintances. And Norman couldn’t say: “You mean she’s just had a baby!” No, he had to accept what Springer told him. He was an outsider.

“Is that so?” he said, and his voice mechanically took on the proper tone of sympathy and courteous interest.

Springer, having got past that point, spoke more fluently and easily. “She’s going to Michigan to rest up for a few weeks, and then go on to Paris,” he said.

Norman wanted to ask him at what hospital she was. But he felt that Springer would evade that question.

“I’d like to see her before she goes,” he said.

“Are you going to be in town long?” asked Springer.

“No--a day or two.”

“I’m afraid there’s no chance,” said Springer.

“I suppose not,” said Norman.

The subject seemed closed.

“I’m having a show here next week,” said Springer.

“Yes, I would like to see it,” said Norman.

Springer held out his hand.

“Well, I may run into you here again,” he said.

Norman was dismissed.

He was conscious of two emotions--of annoyance with Springer, and, strangely enough, of an enormous relief. It was all true! He hadn’t doubted it, really, but something in his mind accepted this new evidence with gratitude. It was as though an unendurable tension had been relaxed. So Isabel had had a baby....

And then it occurred to him that he didn’t know whether her baby was alive or dead.

He had to go to see Dr. Zerneke.