"Who said anything about my going without you?" I retorted. "Oh, darling Man, do take me!"
That settled it: and as soon as the thing was decided, we were both keen to start. Our one cause for hesitation was fear for Ralston Murray's safety, now that he had so recklessly flung himself into Paul Jennings' hands. Still, in the circumstances, we could do little good if we stayed at home. Ralston had shut himself up, refusing to see any one—including ourselves. His mental state was bad enough to sap his newly restored health, even if I did Doctor Paul Jennings a grave injustice; and Mr. Smith could watch the Jenningses better than we could.
I did take the precaution to write Sir Beverley that his late patient had fallen into the clutches of the Merriton doctor, and beg him to call at the Manor some day, declining to take 'no' for an answer if he were refused at the door: and then we sailed. It was on the Aquitania again, and every moment brought back some recollection of Rosemary and Ralston Murray.
We travelled straight to Washington after landing, and were met at the station by the young detective Jim's friend had engaged. He had collected the information we needed for the beginning of our campaign, and had bought tickets for the first performance of a new play that night.
"The Brandreths have a party going," he said, "and your places are next to theirs. Yours are at the end of the row, so they'll have to pass you going in, if you're early on the spot."
I liked that detective. He had "struck" a smart idea!
We had only just time to dress and dine at our hotel, and dash to the theatre in a taxi, if we wished to arrive when the doors were opened.
It was lucky we did this, for the audience assembled promptly, in order to hear some music written for the new play by a popular composer. We had hardly looked through the programme after settling down in our chairs when a familiar fragrance floated to me. It was what I had always called "Rosemary's leitmotif," expressed in perfume. I turned my head, and—there she was in great beauty coming along the aisle with three or four men and as many pretty women.
I had got myself up that night expressly to attract attention—Rosemary's attention. I was determined that she should not, while laughing and talking with her friends, pass me by without recognition. Consequently, I was dressed more suitably for a ball than a play. I had on a gown of gold tissue, and my second best tiara, to say nothing of a few more scattered diamonds and a double rope of pearls. It was impossible for the most absent-minded eye to miss me, or my black-browed, red-haired giant in evening dress—Jim. As I looked over my shoulder at Rosemary, therefore, she looked at me. Our gaze encountered, and—my jaw almost dropped. She showed not the slightest sign of surprise; did not start, did not blush or turn pale. Her lovely face expressed good-natured admiration, that was all.
She glanced at Jim, too—as all women do glance—with interest. But it was purely impersonal interest, as if to say, "There's a man!"