"I'm fresh, you think? Well, I suppose it seems that way, but—I don't mean to be, Miss Deane. Only—well, my name and address are in the telephone-book. If you ever happened—to want to see me again—you could reach me easily."
"Thank you," said Clancy. "Good-night." For a moment, her fingers rested in his huge hand; then, with a little nod, she left the restaurant.
She did not look behind her as she walked down Fifth Avenue and across Washington Square. Randall was not the sort to spy upon her, no matter how anxious he was to know where she lived. And he was anxious—Clancy felt sure of that. She didn't know whether to be pleased or alarmed over that surety.
She felt annoyed with herself that she was even interested in Randall's attitude toward her. She had come to New York with a very definite purpose, and that purpose contemplated no man in its foreground. Entering Mrs. Gerand's lodging-house, she passed the telephone fastened against the wall in the front hall. It was the idlest curiosity, still—it wouldn't do any harm to know Randall's address. She looked it up in the telephone directory. He had offices in the Guaranty Building and lived in the Monarch apartment-house on Park Avenue.
She was more exhausted than she realized. Not even fear could keep her awake to-night, and fear did its utmost. For, alone in her room, she felt her helplessness. She had avoided the police for a day—but how much longer could she hope to do so?
In the morning, courage came to her again. She asked Mrs. Gerand for permission to look at the morning paper before she left the house. The Beiner mystery was given less space this morning than yesterday afternoon. The paper reported no new discoveries.
And there were no suspicious police-looking persons loitering outside Mrs. Gerand's house. Three rods from the front door and Clancy's confidence in her own ability to thwart the whole New York detective force had returned.
Mrs. Gerand had recommended that she breakfast in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue, praising the coffee and boiled eggs highly. Clancy found it without difficulty. It was a sort of bakery, lunch-room, and pastry shop.
Blown by a brisk wind, Clancy stopped before a mirror to readjust her hat and hair. In the mirror, she saw a friendly face smiling at her. She turned. At a marble-topped table sat Mrs. Carey. She beckoned for Clancy. Short of actual rudeness, there was nothing for Clancy to do but to accept the invitation.
"You look," Mrs. Carey greeted her, "as though you'd been out in your catboat already. Sit down with me. Jennie!" she called to a waitress. "Take Miss Deane's order."