Chapter XVIII

Clancy came out of her faint mentally alert, although physically weak. It took her but the smallest fraction of time after she recovered consciousness to remember all that had led up to her collapse. And she kept her eyes closed long enough to marshal to her aid all those defensive instincts inherent in the human species. So, when she did open her eyes, that consummate courage which is mistaken for histrionism made her wreathe her lips in a smile. She was lying on a leather-covered couch in what she learned, in a moment, was Vandervent's private office. Her eyes rested on the tenant of that office. His broad shoulders were slightly stooped as he bent toward her. In his hand, he held a glass of water. She noted immediately that his hand shook, that water slopped over the edge of the glass.

"You--feel better?" he asked breathlessly.

Clancy sat upright, her hand straying to her hair. She looked beyond Vandervent to where stood a man in a badly cut blue suit. His black mustache was gray at the roots, and the vanity that this use of dye indicated was proved by the outthrust of his lower lip. A shrewder observer than Clancy--one versed in the study of physiognomy--would have known that the jutting lip had been trained to come forward, that the aggressiveness it denoted was the aggressiveness of the bully, not of a man of character. His round chin was belligerent enough, as were his little round blue eyes, but there was that lack of coordination in his features that is found in all weak souls.

But, to Clancy, he was terrifying. His small eyes were filled with suspicion, filled with more than that--with a menace that was personal.

Clancy reached for the glass of water; she drank it thirstily, yet in a leisurely manner. She watched the blue-suited man closely. She put back the glass into Vandervent's outstretched hand.

"Thank you--so much," she said. "It's a wonder that you didn't let me lie where I fell, after my playing such a silly joke."

She saw Vandervent cast a glance over his shoulder at the blue-suited man. His head nodded slightly. Had he phrased it in words, he could not more clearly have said, "I told you so."

And if the blue-suited man had replied verbally, he could not have said more clearly than he did by the expression of his eyes, "She's lying."

Vandervent's shoulders shrugged slightly; his keen gray eyes gleamed. Once again it was as though he spoke and said, "I'll show you that she isn't."

It was a swift byplay, but need sharpens one's wits. Not that Clancy's ever were dull, for, indeed, a lesser character, even in such danger as hers, might have been too concerned with her physical well-being, her appearance, to notice anything else. But she caught the byplay, and it brought a silent sigh of relief up from her chest. She was on her own ground now, the ground of sex. Had Vandervent been a woman, such a woman as Sophie Carey or Sally Henderson, Clancy would have surrendered immediately, would have known that she had not a chance in the world of persuading any woman that she had played a joke when she announced herself as Florine Ladue. But with a man--with Philip Vandervent, whose hand shook as he held a glass of water for her, whose eyes expressed a flattering anxiety--Clancy's smile would have been scornful had not scorn been a bit out of place at the moment. Instead, it was shyly confident.

"A--er--a joke, of course, Miss Deane," said Vandervent.

"Not so very funny, though, after all," said Clancy, with just enough timidity in her manner to flatter Vandervent.

The blue-coated man snorted.

"'Joke!' 'Funny!' Excuse me, lady; but where do you get your humor?"

Vandervent wheeled and glared at the man.

"That'll be about all, Spofford!" he snapped.

Spofford shrugged.

"You're the boss," he said. "Only--how does she happen to know the name Florine Ladue? Answer me that, will you?"

"I told her," said Vandervent shortly.

Spofford caressed his mustache.

"Oh, I getcha. Oh-h!" His grin was complimentary neither to Clancy nor Vandervent. Then it died away; his eyes became shrewd, although his voice was drawling. "And the faintin'--that was part of the joke, eh, lady?"

Clancy felt a little chill of nervous apprehension run between her shoulder-blades. Confidence left her. This man Spofford, she seemed to foresee, might be dangerous. She was not out of the woods yet. But Vandervent's words reassured her.

"Miss Deane doesn't need to explain anything to you, Spofford."

There was a touch of petulance in the assistant district attorney's voice. Spofford recognized it.

"Sure not, Mr. Vandervent. Certainly she don't. Only--" He paused; he turned, and started for the door.

Vandervent recalled him sharply.

"What do you mean by 'only,' Spofford?"

"Well, she come in here and said she was Florine Ladue--and then she faints when you come out to see her. I meant that, if there was any of the newspaper boys hangin' around----"

"There weren't," said Vandervent. "And if the papers should mention Miss Deane's joke--" The threat was quite patent.

"They won't," said Spofford.

He cast a glance at Clancy. It was a peculiar glance, a glance that told her that in his eyes she was a suspicious character--no better than she should be, to put it mildly.

And Vandervent's expression, as he turned toward her, drove away what fears Spofford's expression had aroused. For, despite his effort to seem casual, the young man was excited. And not excited because of the name that she had sent in, or because she had fainted, but excited simply because Clancy Deane was alone in the room with him. He moved toward her. Quite calmly she assumed control of the situation, and did it by so simple a method as extending her hand for the glass which he still held and uttering the single word: "Please."

She held the glass to her lips for a full minute, sipping slowly. Falsehood was repugnant to her. Yet she must think of how best to deceive Vandervent.

"I suppose I've made you very angry," she said, putting the glass down upon the couch beside her.

"'Angry?' How could you make me angry--by coming to see me?"

Vandervent, with an acquaintance that comprised the flower of American and European society, was no different from any other young and normal male. His attitude now was that of the young man from Zenith or any other town in America. He was embarrassed and flattered. And he was so because a pretty girl was showing a certain interest in him.

"But to--fool you! I--you'll forgive me?" She was conscious that she was pleading prettily.

"Forgive you? Why--" Vandervent had difficulty in finding words. He was not a particularly impressionable young man. Had he been so, he could not, with his name and fortune, have remained a bachelor until his thirtieth birthday.

Clancy took up the not easily rolling ball of conversation.

"Because it was a terrible impertinence. I--you see----"

She paused in her turn.

"Jolly good joke!" said Vandervent, finally finding, apparently to oblige his guest, humor in the situation. "You can't imagine my excitement. Just had a wire from the chief of police in Belknap, Ohio, that Fanchon DeLisle was dead. Didn't see how we could locate this Ladue woman, when in comes a clerk saying that she's outside. I tell you, I never was so excited. Then I saw you, and you--tell me: why did you faint?" He put the question suddenly.

"Why did I faint?" She tried to laugh, and succeeded admirably. "I'm used to cold weather and blizzards. In Zenith, sometimes, it is thirty below, and the snow is piled ten feet high in the big drifts. But one dresses for it, or doesn't go outdoors. And, to-day, I wanted to see New York so much. I've only been here since Monday. The cars aren't running very regularly, so I walked down-town. And I guess I grew cold and tired. I feel ever so much better now," she ended chirpily.

"I'm glad of that," he smiled.

"And some one told me that this was the Criminal Courts Building, and I thought--I thought of--" She paused at exactly the right moment.

"Of me?" asked Vandervent. He colored faintly.

"I'm here," said Clancy. "And I thought that perhaps you wouldn't remember my name; so I--thought I'd play a joke. You _will_ forgive me, won't you?"

He laughed.

"I'm afraid that Spofford won't, but I will."

"'Spofford?' The man who was here?" asked Clancy.

"One of the detectives attached to the staff. Hasn't much sense of humor, I'm afraid. But it doesn't matter."

He sat down, pulling up a chair opposite her.

"I think it's mighty nice of you to call down here, Miss Deane."

"You don't think it's bold of me?" she asked.

"Hardly. Would you like to go over the Tombs?"

Clancy shuddered.

"Indeed I wouldn't!"

"No morbid curiosity? I'm glad of that."

"'Glad?' Why?"

"Oh, well, just because," he blurted.

Clancy looked demurely downward, fixing a button on her glove. For a moment, there was silence. Then Clancy rose to her feet. She held out her hand to Vandervent.

"You've been so kind," she said. "If you'd arrested me for my silly joke, you'd have done to me what I deserved to have happen."

"Not at all," he said. "I feel that--that maybe I scared you when I came in----"

"Not a bit. I was--tired."

"You must let me take you home," he said.

She shook her head.

"I've troubled you enough. _Please!_"--as he seemed about to insist. "I'm _really_ all right."

He eyed her doubtfully.

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"All right, then; but--I'd _like_ to."

She became mockingly stern.

"I've interrupted the course of justice enough for one day. Some other time, perhaps."

"There'll be another time?" he asked eagerly.

"Well"--she was doubtful--"I can't promise."

"But we might have luncheon together. Or tea? Or dinner?" He was flatteringly eager.

"I'll see," said Clancy.

Down-stairs, in the great lobby of the building, she marveled that she had escaped so easily. To have announced herself as Florine Ladue, the woman wanted for Beiner's murder, to have fainted when Vandervent came out, and still to have avoided, by a puerile explanation, all penalties was a piece of good luck that was incredible. She blessed the person unknown who had left the newspaper on the bench. The luckiest of chances had saved her from betrayal. Had she not read of Fanchon's death-- She shuddered.

Then her eyes clouded. She had been fighting, with all the wit she owned, for liberty. She had not yet had opportunity to pay to Fanchon's death the tribute of sorrow that it demanded. She had known Fanchon but slightly; the woman was of a class to which Clancy could never belong--a coarse but good-hearted vulgarian. And she had tried to help Clancy in return for little kindnesses that Clancy had shown her when she lay ill with the "flu" in Zenith.

And now this same disease had finally killed the kindly soubrette. Her death had saved Clancy from disgrace--from worse, perhaps, if there is anything worse than disgrace-- She suddenly realized how lucky she had been.

She stopped outside to adjust her veil. And she noticed that Spofford, the dyed-mustached gentleman of Vandervent's office, also emerged from the building. She shuddered. If her wit had not been quick, if she had not remembered, on, coming out of her faint, that the item in the paper had removed all danger, his hand might now be clasped about her wrist. Instead of walking toward the subway, she might now be on her way to the Tombs.

Spofford turned south toward the Brooklyn Bridge. She would never, thank God, see him again. For nothing would ever tempt her to the Criminal Courts Building another time. Its shadow would hang over her soul as long as she lived. She had had the narrowest escape that was possible, and she would not tempt fate again.

She would never learn. As her mind ceased to dwell upon the problem of her connection with Beiner's mysterious fate and moved on to consider what she should do with Grannis's ten thousand dollars, it was as though the Beiner incident were forever closed. Clancy had too much Irish in her for trouble to bear down upon her very long. She would never learn that issues are never avoided but must always be met. She was in a congratulatory mood toward herself because Vandervent had not suspected the grim truth behind what she called a jest. She had conquered this difficulty by the aid of fate; fate would help her again to handle the Grannis-Zenda-Weber matter. So she reasoned. It would straighten itself out, she assured herself.