«I said I’d take some coffee.»
Roger discreetly deposited the tray on a table beside the bed and returned quickly to the kitchen.
«We’re going away until to-morrow afternoon,» he told Bebé, «and I want to close up the house right now. So you just put on your hat and go home.»
He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight, and he wanted to catch the 8.10 train. He waited five minutes and then tiptoed softly up-stairs and into Gretchen’s room. She was sound asleep. The coffee cup was empty save for black dregs and a film of thin brown paste on the bottom. He looked at her rather anxiously, but her breathing was regular and clear.
From the closet he took a suitcase and very quickly began filling it with her shoes—street shoes, evening slippers, rubber-soled oxfords—he had not realized that she owned so many pairs. When he closed the suitcase it was bulging.
He hesitated a minute, took a pair of sewing scissors from a box, and following the telephone-wire until it went out of sight behind the dresser, severed it in one neat clip. He jumped as there was a soft knock at the door. It was the nursemaid. He had forgotten her existence.
«Mrs. Halsey and I are going up to the city till to-morrow,» he said glibly. «Take Maxy to the beach and have lunch there. Stay all day.»
Back in the room, a wave of pity passed over him. Gretchen seemed suddenly lovely and helpless, sleeping there. It was somehow terrible to rob her young life of a day. He touched her hair with his fingers, and as she murmured something in her dream he leaned over and kissed her bright cheek. Then he picked up the suitcase full of shoes, locked the door, and ran briskly down the stairs.
III
By five o’clock that afternoon the last package of cards for Garrod’s shoes had been sent by messenger to H. G. Garrod at the Biltmore Hotel. He was to give a decision next morning. At 5.30 Roger’s stenographer tapped him on the shoulder.
«Mr. Golden, the superintendent of the building, to see you.»
Roger turned around dazedly.
«Oh, how do?»
Mr. Golden came directly to the point. If Mr. Halsey intended to keep the office any longer, the little oversight about the rent had better be remedied right away.
«Mr. Golden,» said Roger wearily, «everything’ll be all right to-morrow. If you worry me now maybe you’ll never get your money. After to-morrow nothing’ll matter.»
Mr. Golden looked at the tenant uneasily. Young men sometimes did away with themselves when business went wrong. Then his eye fell unpleasantly on the initialled suitcase beside the desk.
«Going on a trip?» he asked pointedly.
«What? Oh, no. That’s just some clothes.»
«Clothes, eh? Well, Mr. Halsey, just to prove that you mean what you say, suppose you let me keep that suitcase until to-morrow noon.»
«Help yourself.»
Mr. Golden picked it up with a deprecatory gesture.
«Just a matter of form,» he remarked.
«I understand,» said Roger, swinging around to his desk. «Good afternoon.»
Mr. Golden seemed to feel that the conversation should close on a softer key.
«And don’t work too hard, Mr. Halsey. You don’t want to have a nervous break——»
«No,» shouted Roger, «I don’t. But I will if you don’t leave me alone.»
As the door closed behind Mr. Golden, Roger’s stenographer turned sympathetically around.
«You shouldn’t have let him get away with that,» she said. «What’s in there? Clothes?»
«No,» answered Roger absently. «Just all my wife’s shoes.»
He slept in the office that night on a sofa beside his desk. At dawn he awoke with a nervous start, rushed out into the street for coffee, and returned in ten minutes in a panic—afraid that he might have missed Mr. Garrod’s telephone call. It was then 6.30.
By eight o’clock his whole body seemed to be on fire. When his two artists arrived he was stretched on the couch in almost physical pain. The phone rang imperatively at 9.30, and he picked up the receiver with trembling hands.
«Hello.»
«Is this the Halsey agency?»
«Yes, this is Mr. Halsey speaking.»
«This is Mr. H. G. Garrod.»
Roger’s heart stopped beating.
«I called up, young fellow, to say that this is wonderful work you’ve given us here. We want all of it and as much more as your office can do.»
«Oh, God!» cried Roger into the transmitter.
«What?» Mr. H. G. Garrod was considerably startled. «Say, wait a minute there!»
But he was talking to nobody. The phone had clattered to the floor, and Roger, stretched full length on the couch, was sobbing as if his heart would break.
IV
Three hours later, his face somewhat pale, but his eyes calm as a child’s, Roger opened the door of his wife’s bedroom with the morning paper under his arm. At the sound of his footsteps she started awake.
«What time is it?» she demanded.
He looked at his watch.
«Twelve o’clock.»
Suddenly she began to cry.
«Roger,» she said brokenly, «I’m sorry I was so bad last night.»
He nodded coolly.
«Everything’s all right now,» he answered. Then, after a pause: «I’ve got the account—the biggest one.»
She turned toward him quickly.
«You have?» Then, after a minute’s silence: «Can I get a new dress?»
«Dress?» He laughed shortly. «You can get a dozen. This account alone will bring us in forty thousand a year. It’s one of the biggest in the West.»
She looked at him, startled.
«Forty thousand a year!»
«Yes.»
«Gosh»—and then faintly—»I didn’t know it’d really be anything like that.» Again she thought a minute. «We can have a house like George Tompkins’.»
«I don’t want an interior-decoration shop.»
«Forty thousand a year!» she repeated again, and then added softly: «Oh, Roger——»
«Yes?»
«I’m not going out with George Tompkins.»
«I wouldn’t let you, even if you wanted to,» he said shortly.
She made a show of indignation.
«Why, I’ve had a date with him for this Thursday for weeks.»
«It isn’t Thursday.»
«It is.»
«It’s Friday.»
«Why, Roger, you must be crazy! Don’t you think I know what day it is?»
«It isn’t Thursday,» he said stubbornly. «Look!» And he held out the morning paper.
«Friday!» she exclaimed. «Why, this is a mistake! This must be last week’s paper. To-day’s Thursday.»
She closed her eyes and thought for a moment.
«Yesterday was Wednesday,» she said decisively. «The laundress came yesterday. I guess I know.»
«Well,» he said smugly, «look at the paper. There isn’t any question about it.»
With a bewildered look on her face she got out of bed and began searching for her clothes. Roger went into the bathroom to shave. A minute later he heard the springs creak again. Gretchen was getting back into bed.
«What’s the matter?» he inquired, putting his head around the corner of the bathroom.
«I’m scared,» she said in a trembling voice. «I think my nerves are giving away. I can’t find any of my shoes.»
«Your shoes? Why, the closet’s full of them.»
«I know, but I can’t see one.» Her face was pale with fear. «Oh, Roger!»
Roger came to her bedside and put his arm around her.
«Oh, Roger,» she cried, «what’s the matter with me? First that newspaper, and now all my shoes. Take care of me, Roger.»
«I’ll get the doctor,» he said.
He walked remorselessly to the telephone and took up the receiver.
«Phone seems to be out of order,» he remarked after a minute; «I’ll send Bebé.»
The doctor arrived in ten minutes.
«I think I’m on the verge of a collapse,» Gretchen told him in a strained voice.
Doctor Gregory sat down on the edge of the bed and took her wrist in his hand.
«It seems to be in the air this morning.»
«I got up,» said Gretchen in an awed voice, «and I found that I’d lost a whole day. I had an engagement to go riding with George Tompkins——»
«What?» exclaimed the doctor in surprise. Then he laughed.
«George Tompkins won’t go riding with any one for many days to come.»
«Has he gone away?» asked Gretchen curiously.
«He’s going West.»
«Why?» demanded Roger. «Is he running away with somebody’s wife?»
«No,» said Doctor Gregory. «He ‘s had a nervous breakdown.»
«What?» they exclaimed in unison.
«He just collapsed like an opera-hat in his cold shower.»
«But he was always talking about his—his balanced life,» gasped Gretchen. «He had it on his mind.»
«I know,» said the doctor. «He’s been babbling about it all morning. I think it’s driven him a little mad. He worked pretty hard at it, you know.»
«At what?» demanded Roger in bewilderment.
«At keeping his life balanced.» He turned to Gretchen. «Now all I’ll prescribe for this lady here is a good rest. If she’ll just stay around the house for a few days and take forty winks of sleep she’ll be as fit as ever. She’s been under some strain.»
«Doctor,» exclaimed Roger hoarsely, «don’t you think I’d better have a rest or something? I’ve been working pretty hard lately.»
«You!» Doctor Gregory laughed, slapped him violently on the back. «My boy, I never saw you looking better in your life.»
Roger turned away quickly to conceal his smile—winked forty times, or almost forty times, at the autographed picture of Mr. George Tompkins, which hung slightly askew on the bedroom wall.
