CHAPTER XXVI

During all these days Larry waited for news of the result of the

experiment in psychology which meant so much to his life. He had not

expected to hear directly from Maggie; but he had counted upon learning

at once from Dick, if not by words, then either from eloquent dejection

which would proclaim Dick's refusal (and Larry's success) or from an

ebullient joy which would proclaim that Maggie had accepted him. But

Dick's sober but not unhappy behavior announced neither of these two

to Larry; and the matter was too personal, altogether too delicate, to

permit Larry to ask Dick the result, however subtly he might ask it.

So Larry could only wait--and wonder. The truth did not occur to Larry;

he did not see that there might be another alternative to the two

possible reactions he had calculated upon. He did not bear in mind that

Maggie's youthful obstinacy, her belief in herself and her ways, were

too solid a structure to yield at once to one moral shock, however

wisely planned and however strong. He did not at this time hold in mind

that any real change in so decided a character as Maggie, if change

there was to be, would be preceded and accompanied by a turbulent period

in which she would hardly know who she was, or where she was, or what

she was going to do--and that at the end of such a period there might be

no change at all.

Inasmuch as just then Maggie was his major interest, it seemed to Larry

in his safe seclusion that he was merely marking time, and marking time

with feet that were frantically impatient. He felt he could not stand

much longer his own inactivity and his ignorance of what Maggie was

doing and what was happening to her. He could not remain in this

sanctuary pulling strings, and very long and fragile strings, and

strings which might be the mistaken ones, for any much greater period.

He felt that he simply had to walk out of this splendid safety, back

into the dangers from which he had fled, where he might at least have

the possible advantage of being in the very midst of Maggie's affairs

and fight for her more openly and have a more direct influence upon her.

He knew that, sooner or later, he was going to throw caution aside

and appear suddenly among his enemies, unless something of a definite

character developed. But for these slow, irritating days he held himself

in check with difficulty, hoping that things might come to him, that he

would not have to go forth to them.

He had brought Hunt's portrait of Maggie to Cedar Crest in the bottom of

his trunk, and kept it locked in his chiffonier. During these days,

more frequently than before, he would take out the portrait and in

the security of his locked room would gaze long at that keen-visioned

portrayal of her many characters. No doubt of it: there was a possible

splendid woman there! And no doubt of it: he loved that woman utterly!

During these days of his ignorance, while Maggie was struggling in the

darkness of her unexplored being, Larry drove himself grimly at the

business to which under happier circumstances he would have gone under

the irresistible suasion of pure joy. One afternoon he presented to

Miss Sherwood an outline for his growing plan for the development of

the Sherwood properties on the basis of good homes at fair rentals. He

discovered that, in spite of her generous giving, she had much the same

attitude toward Charity as his own: that the only sound Charity, except

for those temporarily or permanently handicapped or disabled, was the

giving of honest values for honest returns--and that was not Charity at

all.

The project of reforming the shiftless character of the Sherwood

properties, and of relieving even in a small degree New York's housing

congestion, appealed at once to her imagination and her sensible

idealism.

“A splendid plan!” she exclaimed, regarding Larry with those wise,

humorous eyes of hers, which were now very serious and penetrating. “You

have been working much harder than I had thought. And if you will pardon

my saying it, you have more of the soundly humane vision which big

business enterprise should have than I had thought.”

“Thank you!” said Larry.

“That's a splendid dream,” she continued; “but it will take hard work to

translate that dream into a reality. We shall need architects, builders,

a heavy initial expense, time--and a more modern and alert management.”

“Yes, Miss Sherwood.”

She did not speak for a moment. Her penetrating eyes, which had been

fixed on him in close thought, were yet more penetrating. Finally she

said:

“That's a big thing, a useful thing. The present agents wish to be

relieved of our affairs as soon as I can make arrangements--and I'd

like nothing better than for Dick to drop what he's doing and get into

something constructive and useful like this. But Dick cannot do it

alone; he's too unsettled, and too inexperienced to cope with some of

the sharper business practices.”

She paused again, still regarding him with those keen eyes, which seemed

to be weighing him. Finally she said, almost abruptly:

“Will you take charge of this with Dick? He likes you and respects

your judgment; I'm sure you'd help steady him down. Of course you lack

practical experience, but you can take in a practical man who will

supply this element. Practical experience is one of the commonest

articles on the market; vision and initiative are among the rarest--and

you have them. What do you say?”

Larry could not say anything at once. The suddenness of her offer, the

largeness of his opportunity, bewildered him for the moment. And his

bewilderment was added to by his swift realization of quite another

element involved in her frank proposition. He was now engaged in the

enterprise of foisting a bogus article, Maggie, upon this woman who was

offering him her complete confidence--an enterprise of most questionable

ethics and very dubious issue. If he accepted her offer, and the result

of this enterprise were disaster, what would Miss Sherwood then think of

him?

He took refuge in evasion. “I'm not going to try to tell you how much

I appreciate your proposition, Miss Sherwood. But do you mind if I hold

back my answer for the present and think it over? Anyhow, to do all

that is required I must be able to work in the open--and I can't do

that until I get free of my entanglements with the police and my old

acquaintances.”

Thus it was agreed upon. Miss Sherwood turned to another subject. The

pre-public show of Hunt's pictures had opened the previous day.

“When you were in the city yesterday, did you get in to see Mr. Hunt's

exhibition?”

“No,” he answered. “Although I wanted to. But you know I've already seen

all of Mr. Hunt's pictures that Mr. Graham has in his gallery. How was

the opening?”

“Crowded with guests. And since they had been told that the pictures

were unusual and good, of course the people were enthusiastic.”

“What kind of prices was Mr. Graham quoting?”

“He wasn't quoting any. He told me he wasn't going to sell a picture,

or even mention a price, until the public exhibition. He's very

enthusiastic. He thinks Mr. Hunt is already made--and in a big way.”

And then she added, her level gaze very steady on Larry:

“Of course Mr. Hunt is really a great painter. But he needed a jolt to

make him go out and really paint his own kind of stuff. And he needed

some one like you to put him across in a business way.”

When she left, she left Larry thinking: thinking of her saying that

Hunt “needed a jolt to make him go out and really paint his own kind

of stuff.” Hidden behind that remark somewhere could there be the

explanation for the break between these two? Larry began to see a

glimmer of light. It was entirely possible that Miss Sherwood, in so

finished and adroit a manner that Hunt had not discerned her purpose,

had herself given him this jolt or at least contributed to its force. It

might all have been diplomacy on her part, applied shrewdly to the

man she understood and loved. Yes, that might be the explanation. Yes,

perhaps she had been doing in a less trying way just what he was seeking

to do under more stressful circumstances with Maggie: to arouse him to

his best by indirectly working at definite psychological reactions.

That afternoon Hunt appeared at Cedar Crest, and while there dropped in

on Larry. The big painter, in his full-blooded, boyish fashion, fairly

gasconaded over the success of his exhibit. Larry smiled at the other's

exuberant enthusiasm. Hunt was one man who could boast without ever

being offensively egotistical, for Hunt, added to his other gifts, had

the divine gift of being able to laugh at himself.

Larry saw here an opportunity to forward that other ambition of his:

the bringing of Hunt and Miss Sherwood together. And at this instant

it flashed upon him that Miss Sherwood's seemingly casual remarks about

Hunt had not been casual at all. Perhaps they had been carefully thought

out and spoken with a definite purpose. Perhaps Miss Sherwood had been

very subtly appointing him her ambassador. She was clever enough for

that.

“Stop declaiming those self-written press notices of your unapproachable

superiority,” Larry interrupted. “If you use your breath up like that

you'll drown on dry land. Besides, I just heard something better than

this mere articulated air of yours. Better because from a person in her

senses.”

“Heard it from whom?”

“Miss Sherwood.”

“Miss Sherwood! What did she say?”

“That you were a really great painter.”

“Huh!” snorted Hunt. “Why shouldn't she say that? I've proved it!”

“Hunt,” said Larry evenly, “you are the greatest painter I ever met,

but you also have the distinction of being the greatest of all damned

fools.”

“What's that, young fellow?”

“You love Miss Sherwood, don't you? At least you've the same as told me

that in words, and you've told me that in loud-voiced actions every time

you've seen her.”

“Well--what if I do?”

“If you had the clearness of vision that is in the glassy eye of a cold

boiled lobster you would see that she feels the same way about you.”

“See here, Larry”--all the boisterous quality had gone from Hunt's

voice, and it was low-pitched and a bit unsteady--“I don't mind your

joshing me about myself or my painting, but don't fool with me about

anything that's really important.”

“I'm not fooling you. I'm sure Miss Sherwood feels that way.”

“How do you know?”

“I've got a pair of eyes that don't belong to a cold boiled lobster. And

when I see a thing, I know I see it.”

“You're all wrong, Larry. If you'd heard what she said to me less than a

year ago--”

“You make me tired!” interrupted Larry. “You two were made for each

other. She's waiting for you to step up and talk man's talk to her--and

instead you sulk in your tent and mumble about something you think she

might have thought or said a year ago! You're too sensitive; you're too

proud; you've got too few brains. It's a million dollars to one that in

your handsome, well-bred way you've fallen out with her over something

that probably never existed and certainly doesn't exist now. Forget it

all, and walk right up and ask her!”

“Larry, if I thought there was a chance that you are right--”

“A single question will prove whether I'm right!”

Hunt did not speak for a moment. “I guess I've never seen my part of it

all in the way you put it, Larry.” He stood up, his whole being subdued

yet tense. “I'm going to slide back into town and think it all over.”

Larry followed him an hour later, bent on routine business of the

Sherwood estate. Toward seven o'clock he was studying the present

decrepitude and future possibilities of a row of Sherwood apartment

houses on the West Side, when, as he came out of one building and

started into another, a firm hand fell upon his shoulder and a voice

remarked:

“So, Larry, you're in New York?”

Larry whirled about. For the moment he felt all the life go out of him.

Beside him stood Detective Casey, whom he had last seen on the night

of his wild flight when Casey had feigned a knockout in order to aid

Larry's escape from Gavegan. Any other man affiliated with his enemies

Larry would have struck down and tried to break away from. But not

Casey.

“Hello, Casey. Well, I suppose you're going to invite me to go along

with you?”

“Where were you going?”

“Into this house.”

“Then I'll invite myself to go along with you.”

He quickly pushed Larry before him into the hallway, which was empty

since all the tenants were at their dinner. Larry remembered the scene

down in Deputy Police Commissioner Barlow's office, when the Chief of

Detectives had demanded that he become a stool-pigeon working under

Gavegan and Casey, and the grilling and the threats, more than

fulfilled, which had followed.

“Going to give me a little private quiz first, Casey,” he asked, “and

then call in Gavegan and lead me down to Barlow?”

“Not unless Gavegan or some one else saw and recognized you, which

I know they didn't since I was watching for that very thing. And not

unless you yourself feel hungry for a visit to Headquarters.”

“If I feel hungry, it's an appetite I'm willing to make wait.”

“You know I don't want to pinch you. My part in this has been a dirty

job that was just pushed my way. You know that I know you've been framed

and double-crossed, and that I won't run you in unless I can't get out

of it.”

“Thanks, Casey. You're too white to have to run with people like Barlow

and Gavegan. But if it wasn't to pinch me, why did you stop me out there

in the street?”

“Been hoping I might some day run into you on the quiet. There are some

things I've learned--never mind how--that I wanted to slip you for your

own good.”

“Go to it, Casey.”

“First, I've got a hunch that it was Barney Palmer who tipped off the

police about Red Hannigan and Jack Rosenfeldt, and then spread it among

all the crooks that you were the stool and squealer.”

“Yes, I'd guessed that much.”

“Second, I've got a hunch that it really was from Barney Palmer that

Barlow got his idea of making you become a stool-pigeon. Barney is a

smooth one all right, and he figured what would happen. He knew you

would refuse, and he knew Barlow would uncork hell beneath you. Barney

certainly called every turn.”

“What--what--” stammered Larry. “Why, then Barney must be--” He paused,

utterly astounded by the newness of the possibility that had just risen

in his mind.

“You've got it, Larry,” Casey went on. “Barney is a police stool. Has

been one for years. Works directly for Barlow. We're not supposed to

know anything about it. He's turned up a lot of big ones. That's why

it's safe for Barney to pull off anything he likes.”

“Barney a police stool!” Larry repeated in the stupor of his amazement.

“Guess that's all the news I wanted to hand you, Larry, so I'll be on my

way. Here's wishing you luck--and for God's sake, don't let yourself be

pinched by us. So-long.” And with that Casey slipped out of the hallway.

For a moment Larry stood moveless where Casey had left him. Then fierce

purpose, and a cautious recklessness, surged up and took mastery of him.

It had required what Casey had told him to end his irksome waiting and

wavering. No longer could he remain in his hiding-place, safe himself,

trying to save Maggie by slow, indirect endeavor. The time had now come

for very different methods. The time had come to step forth into the

open, taking, of course, no unnecessary risk, and to have it out face to

face with his enemies, who were also Maggie's real enemies, though she

counted them her friends--to save Maggie against her own will, if he

could save her in no other way.

And having so decided, Larry walked quickly out of the hallway into the

street.