The Crimson Tide Part 33

"I had you looked up," continued Skidder. "It listened good. And--I got money, too. And I got that property in my vest pocket. See. And there's a certain busted fillum corporation can be bought for a postage stamp--all 'ncorporated 'n everything. You get me?"

No; Mr. Puma, who was all art and heart, could not comprehend what Mr.

Skidder was driving at.

"This here busted fillum company is called the _Super-Picture Fillums_," said Skidder. "What's the matter with you and me buying it?

Don't you ever do a little tradin'?"

Jim rose, utterly disgusted, but immensely amused at himself, and realising, now, how entirely right Sharrow had been in desiring to be rid of this man Skidder, and of Puma and the property in question.

He said, still smiling, but rather grimly: "I see, now, that this is no place for a broker who lives by his commissions." And he bade them adieu with perfect good humour.

"Have a seegar?" inquired Skidder blandly.

"Why do you go, sir?" asked Puma innocently. No doubt, being all heart and art, he did not comprehend that brokers can not exist on cigars alone.

His commission had gone glimmering. Sharrow, evidently foreseeing something of that sort, had sent him out with Puma to meet Skidder and rid the office of the dubious affair.

This Jim understood, and yet he was not particularly pleased to be exploited by this bland pair who had come suddenly to an understanding under his very nose--the understanding of two petty, d.i.c.kering, crossroad traders, which coolly excluded any possibility both of his services and of his commission.

"No; only a kike lawyer is required now," he said to himself, as he crossed the street and entered Central Park. "I've been properly trimmed by a perfumed wop and a squinting yap," he thought with intense amus.e.m.e.nt. "But we're well clear of them for good."

The park was wintry and unattractive. Few pedestrians were abroad, but motors sparkled along distant drives in the sunshine.

Presently his way ran parallel to one of these drives. And he had been walking only a little while when a limousine veered in, slowing down abreast of him, and he saw a white-gloved hand tapping the pane.

He felt himself turning red as he went up, hat in hand, to open the door and speak to the girl inside.

"What on earth are you doing?" she demanded, laughingly, "--walking all by your wild lone in the park on a wintry day!"

He explained. She made room for him and he got in.

"We rather hoped you'd be at the opera last night," she said, but without any reproach in her voice.

"I meant to go, Elorn--but something came up to prevent it," he added, flushing again. "Were they singing anything new?"

"Yes, but you missed nothing," she rea.s.sured him lightly. "Where on earth have you kept yourself these last weeks? One sees you no more among the haunts of men."

He said, in the deplorable argot of the hour: "Oh, I'm off all that social stuff."

"But I'm not social stuff, am I?"

"No. I've meant to call you up. Something always seems to happen--I don't know, Elorn, but ever since I came back from France I haven't been up to seeing people."

She glanced at him curiously.

He sat gazing out of the window, where there was nothing to see except leafless trees and faded gra.s.s and starlings and dingy sparrows.

The girl was more worth his attention--one of those New York examples, built on lean, rangy, thoroughbred lines--long limbed, small of hand and foot and head, with cinder-blond hair, greyish eyes, a sweet but too generous mouth, and several noticeable freckles.

Minute grooming and a sure taste gave her that ultra-smart appearance which does everything for a type that is less attractive in a dinner gown, and still less in negligee. And which, after marriage, usually lets a straight strand of hair sprawl across one ear.

But now, coiffeur, milliner, modiste, and her own maiden cleverness kept her immaculate--the true Gotham model found nowhere else.

They chatted of parties already past, where he had failed to materialise, and of parties to come, where she hoped he would appear.

And he said he would.

They chatted about their friends and the gossip concerning them.

Traffic on Fifth Avenue was rather worse than usual. The competent police did their best, but motors and omnibuses, packed solidly, moved only by short spurts before being checked again.

"It's after one o'clock," she said, glancing at her tiny platinum wrist-watch. "Here's Delmonico's, Jim. Shall we lunch together?"

He experienced a second's odd hesitation, then: "Certainly," he said.

And she signalled the chauffeur.

The place was beginning to be crowded, but there was a table on the Fifth Avenue side.

As they crossed the crowded room toward it, women looked up at Elorn Sharrow, instantly aware that they saw perfection in hat, gown and fur, and a face and figure not to be mistaken for any imitation of the Gotham type.

She wore silver fox--just a stole and m.u.f.f. Every feminine eye realised their worth.

When they were seated:

"I want," she said gaily, "some consomme and a salad. You, of course, require the usual nourishment of the carnivora."

But it seemed not. However, he ordered a high-ball, feeling curiously depressed. Then he addressed himself to making the hour agreeable, conscious, probably, that reparation was overdue.

Friends from youthful dancing-cla.s.s days, these two had plenty to gossip about; and gradually he found himself drifting back into the lively, refreshing, piquant intimacy of yesterday. And realised that it was very welcome.

For, about this girl, always a clean breeze seemed to be blowing; and the atmosphere invariably braced him up.

And she was always responsive, whether or not agreeing with his views; and he was usually conscious of being at his best with her. Which means much to any man.

So she dissected her pear-salad, and he enjoyed his whitebait, and they chatted away on the old footing, quite oblivious of people around them.

Elorn was having a very happy time of it. People thought her captivating now--freckles, mouth and all--and every man there envied the fortunate young fellow who was receiving such undivided attention from a girl like this.

But whether in Elorn's heart there really existed all the gaiety that laughed at him out of her grey eyes, is a question. Because it seemed to her that, at moments, a recurrent shadow fell across his face. And there were, now and then, seconds suggesting preoccupation on his part, when it seemed to her that his gaze grew remote and his smile a trifle absent-minded.

She was drawing on her gloves; he had scribbled his signature across the back of the check. Then, as he lifted his head to look for their waiter, he found himself staring into the brown eyes of Palla Dumont.

The heavy flush burnt his face--burnt into it, so it seemed to him.