The Deaves Affair. Footner Hulbert

The taxicab was at the curb. Evan flung himself in.

      "Back to the library!" he ordered.

      He sought out his friend the librarian. A hasty investigation showed that Lockhart's History had been collected in due course from the table and returned to the shelves. It had not been called for since. The money was gone, of course.

      "His confederate was waiting there in the reading-room, perhaps at the same table," Evan said gloomily. "As soon as I was out of the way he got the money. What a fool I was!"

      "But how could you have foreseen that?" said the librarian.

      Evan then had the pleasant task of returning to the Deaves house and telling them what had happened. Father and son were waiting for him in the library. They instantly saw by his face that things had not gone well, and each snarled according to his nature. When he heard that the money was gone the old man broke into piteous lamentations.

      "Five thousand dollars! Five thousand dollars! All that money! Flung to the rats of the city to gnaw!"

      "What's the matter with you?" snapped his son. "It was my money."

      "I earned it, didn't I? You have nothing but what I gave you!"

      "We may get them yet through the banks," suggested Evan.

      "Yah! We'll never get them now!"

      But however they might quarrel with each other, father and son united in blaming Evan.

      "Look at him!" cried the old man, beside himself. "He knows where the money's gone! Of course he didn't catch them. I believe he engineered the whole thing!"

      "Be quiet, Papa," said George Deaves in a panic. He turned to Evan with an anxiety almost obsequious. "Don't mind him," he said. "He's excited. You'd better go now. But I'll see you later."

      Evan was not deceived. It was clear that George no less than his father believed that he was a party to the crime, but was afraid to say so outright.

      "I live at 45A South Washington Square," he said curtly. "You'll find me there any time you want me."

      CHAPTER VII

      PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP

      Charley Straiker came in to dinner that night in a highly effervescent state. This was not at all unusual.

      "Listen, Ev!" he cried. "I've seen her! Oh, a peach! a little queen! Her name is Corinna Playfair. Isn't that mellifluous? Corinna Playfair! Corinna Playfair! Like honey on the tongue! Listen, when I came in a while ago I heard a woman's voice talking to Carmen in her room on the ground floor. So I went back, making out I wanted to see Carmen. And there she was! Bowled me over completely. Red hair, you old misogynist! Piles and piles of it like autumn foliage. It's the colour of a horse chestnut fresh out of the bur – and her skin's like the inside of the bur – you know – creamy! Oh, ye gods!

      "Well, she was telling old Carmen this and that; her blinds wouldn't work, and the gas-jet in the dressing-room was out of order, and your Uncle Dudley sees his chance and speaks up. 'I'll fix the gas-jet and the blinds,' says I. There was nothing free and easy about her, though. Made her eyebrows go up like two little crescent moons. Looked at me as much as to say: 'What is this that the cat has brought in?' 'Oh, thank you very much,' says she in a voice as friendly as a marble headstone. 'I couldn't think of troubling you. Miss Sisson will attend to it.'

      "But of course old Carmen wasn't going to miss the chance of getting her odd jobs done for nothing. She took my part. 'Mr. Straiker, Miss Playfair,' says she, grinning like the cat who's turned over the goldfish bowl. 'He will fix you up, I'm sure. I wouldn't be able to get a man in before next week.'

      "Well, to make a long story short, I fixed the blinds so's they'd roll up, and cleaned out the gas burners. She didn't unbend any. Discouraged all my efforts to make conversation. Thanked me all over the place, and gave me to understand that I needn't build on it, you know. But I swear I'll make her thaw out. I've thought of a scheme. I tried all her burners – to gain time, you understand – and the one she mostly uses whistles like a peanut stand. So I'm going out to get her a swell gas mantle to-night, and say Carmen sent it, see? Trust l'il Charley to find a way!"

      Evan, of course, had his own ideas as to entertaining Miss Playfair this evening. "How about the life class at the League?" he suggested casually – too casually.

      This was a sore subject with Charley. Evan had him there. "Oh, blow the class!" he said, scowling. "A fellow doesn't get a chance like this once in a lifetime." He boiled over again. "I say, I didn't mention her eyes, did I? Lord! They're like immense brown stars! – Oh, that's rotten! I mean velvety, glowing – oh, words fail me! You'll have to take her eyes on trust!"

      Evan refused to be diverted. "You cut the class last time," he said. "What do you expect to get out of it?"

      "Lord! One would think you wanted to get me out of the way so you could make up to her yourself!" said Charley, frowning.

      Evan glanced at him sharply. This, however, was a random hit. Charley was quite unsuspicious.

      "Only I know you're a hermit-crab, a woman-hater!" he went on.

      "It's only last week you were chasing after a blonde," Evan persisted remorselessly. "When she threw you down you swore you'd go to work."

      "Oh, well, I'll go to the old class," muttered Charley. "I'll get the gas mantle to-morrow."

      Evan breathed freely again.

      When Charley was safely out of the way Evan made haste to array himself in the best that their joint wardrobes afforded. They shared everything. His conscience troubled him a little over his treatment of Charley, but he salved it with the thought: "Well, anyway, I saw her first. I quarrelled with her before he even laid eyes on her." Evan gave anxious thought to the matching of ties and socks, and spent many minutes in vigorously brushing out a slight tendency to curl in his hair. He despised curly hair in a man.

      But when he was all ready a sudden fit of indecision attacked him, and he flung himself into the old chair, glooming. She had all but driven him out of her room the night before. Well, if he presented himself at her door now, it would be simply inviting her to insult him. Even though she didn't mean it, even though she might want him to come (Evan had that possibility in mind, though his ideas as to the psychology of girls were chaotic), how could he give her the chance to put it all over him? Surely she would despise him. On the other hand, he could hardly expect her to make the first overtures. Evan sighed in perplexity.

      It was not that he liked her any the worse for being so difficult; on the contrary. But he had to think out the best thing to do under the circumstances, and the trouble was he wanted to go down so badly he couldn't think at all.

      He made up his mind he wouldn't go down – not that night anyway. He lighted his pipe in defiance of the whole sex. But somehow he couldn't keep it going. He only smoked matches. Nor keep his legs from twitching; nor his brain from suggesting vain pretexts to knock at her door. He might go out and buy her a gas mantle – but that would be a low trick on Charley. He flung down the pipe, he walked up and down, he looked out of the window; a score of times he swore to himself that he would not go down, yet his perambulations left him ever nearer the door.

      Finally with a great effort of the will he closed it. But almost instantly he flew to open it again, bent his head to listen, then threw it back with a note of deep laughter. He commenced to run downstairs. She was singing, the witch! She had made the first overture. Let her make believe as much as she liked, she must have calculated that the song would bring him. Outside her door – it was closed to-night – he pulled himself up short. "Easy! Easy!" he said to himself. "If you're in such a rush to come when you're called she'll have the laugh on you anyhow. Let her sing for a while, the darling! You won't miss anything here."

      It was a jolly little song, full of enchanting runs and changes; old English, he guessed:

      "Oh, the pretty, pretty creature;

      When I next do meet her,

      No more like a clown will I face her frown

      But gallantly will I treat her."

      "A hint for me," thought