"I think so," said Francis, who was the pink of perfection this morning in a brown suit, garnet tie, and sard sleeve-links. His shoes were immaculately polished, and his young, healthy face glistened.
"I'll tell you what I want you to do. There is a young actress, or ******* actress, by the name of Stephanie Platow, who frequents the studio of an artist named Cross in the New Arts Building. She may even occupy it in his absence--I don't know. I want you to find out for me what the relations of Mr. Gurney and this woman are. I have certain business reasons for wanting to know."
Young Kennedy was all attention.
"You couldn't tell me where I could find out anything about this Mr. Gurney to begin with, could you?" he asked.
"I think he is a friend of a critic here by the name of Gardner Knowles. You might ask him. I need not say that you must never mention me.
"Oh, I understand that thoroughly, Mr. Cowperwood." Young Kennedy departed, meditating. How was he to do this? With true journalistic skill he first sought other newspaper men, from whom he learned--a bit from one and a scrap from another--of the character of the Garrick Players, and of the women who belonged to it. He pretended to be writing a one-act play, which he hoped to have produced.
He then visited Lane Cross's studio, posing as a newspaper interviewer. Mr. Cross was out of town, so the elevator man said.
His studio was closed.
Mr. Kennedy meditated on this fact for a moment.
"Does any one use his studio during the summer months?" he asked.
"I believe there is a young woman who comes here--yes."
"You don't happen to know who it is?"
"Yes, I do. Her name is Platow. What do you want to know for?"
"Looky here," exclaimed Kennedy, surveying the rather shabby attendant with a cordial and persuasive eye, "do you want to make some money--five or ten dollars, and without any trouble to you?"
The elevator man, whose wages were exactly eight dollars a week, pricked up his ears.
"I want to know who comes here with this Miss Platow, when they come--all about it. I'll make it fifteen dollars if I find out what I want, and I'll give you five right now."
The elevator factotum had just sixty-five cents in his pocket at the time. He looked at Kennedy with some uncertainty and much desire.
"Well, what can I do?" he repeated. "I'm not here after six. The janitor runs this elevator from six to twelve."
"There isn't a room vacant anywhere near this one, is there?"
Kennedy asked, speculatively.
The factotum thought. "Yes, there is. One just across the hall."
"What time does she come here as a rule?"
"I don't know anything about nights. In the day she sometimes comes mornings, sometimes in the afternoon."
"Anybody with her?"
"Sometimes a man, sometimes a girl or two. I haven't really paid much attention to her, to tell you the truth."
Kennedy walked away whistling.
From this day on Mr. Kennedy became a watcher over this very unconventional atmosphere. He was in and out, principally observing the comings and goings of Mr. Gurney. He found what he naturally suspected, that Mr. Gurney and Stephanie spent hours here at peculiar times--after a company of friends had jollified, for instance, and all had left, including Gurney, when the latter would quietly return, with Stephanie sometimes, if she had left with the others, alone if she had remained behind. The visits were of varying duration, and Kennedy, to be absolutely accurate, kept days, dates, the duration of the hours, which he left noted in a sealed envelope for Cowperwood in the morning. Cowperwood was enraged, but so great was his interest in Stephanie that he was not prepared to act. He wanted to see to what extent her duplicity would go.
The novelty of this atmosphere and its effect on him was astonishing.
Although his mind was vigorously employed during the day, nevertheless his thoughts kept returning constantly. Where was she? What was she doing? The bland way in which she could lie reminded him of himself. To think that she should prefer any one else to him, especially at this time when he was shining as a great constructive factor in the city, was too much. It smacked of age, his ultimate displacement by youth. It cut and hurt.
One morning, after a peculiarly exasperating night of thought concerning her, he said to young Kennedy: "I have a suggestion for you. I wish you would get this elevator man you are working with down there to get you a duplicate key to this studio, and see if there is a bolt on the inside. Let me know when you do. Bring me the key. The next time she is there of an evening with Mr.
Gurney step out and telephone me."
The climax came one night several weeks after this discouraging investigation began. There was a heavy yellow moon in the sky, and a warm, sweet summer wind was blowing. Stephanie had called on Cowperwood at his office about four to say that instead of staying down-town with him, as they had casually planned, she was going to her home on the West Side to attend a garden-party of some kind at Georgia Timberlake's. Cowperwood looked at her with--for him--a morbid eye. He was all cheer, geniality, pleasant badinage; but he was thinking all the while what a shameless enigma she was, how well she played her part, what a fool she must take him to be. He gave her youth, her passion, her attractiveness, her natural promiscuity of soul due credit; but he could not forgive her for not loving him perfectly, as had so many others. She had on a summery black-and-white frock and a fetching brown Leghorn hat, which, with a rich-red poppy ornamenting a flare over her left ear and a peculiar ruching of white-and-black silk about the crown, made her seem strangely young, debonair, a study in Hebraic and American origins.
"Going to have a nice time, are you?" he asked, genially, politically, eying her in his enigmatic and inscrutable way. "Going to shine among that charming company you keep! I suppose all the standbys will be there--Bliss Bridge, Mr. Knowles, Mr. Cross--dancing attendance on you?"
He failed to mention Mr. Gurney.
