But what spirit of perversity was ruling her? Toward the steps of the Sturgis brownstone she did not turn; did not give them so much as a glance. Briskly as before she continued down the avenue until at the Sixty-third Street corner she again turned east.
Was the house to be gained by some rear entrance from the lower street—one made advisable by the disguise she wore? From its mid-block position, this supposition did not seem tenable. Pape decided to take no chances, except with the traffic. Crossing the street with a rush, he gained a point a hundred or so feet behind her, then timed his steps with hers. Due east they walked, at a good pace, but without undue hurry. She seemed fully reassured. Although she inclined her young face and bent her young back to the old part, she did not glance back as though nervous over possible pursuit. The block was lined mostly with homes—of the near-rich, he judged from the look of them. Of the few people who passed none gave more than a casual glance at the actively shuffling “old lady.”
They crossed what the street sign told Pape was Madison Avenue; passed several apartment houses and more residences. Across Park and Lexington, still due east, the tone of the section fell off. From Third Avenue onward it went continually “down.” Pape kept one eye on the figure he was following and the other on his surroundings, figuratively speaking. Both were interesting. This was his first excursion into the far East Side and he was surprised by the mid-width of Manhattan Isle.
They came to a block lofted with tenements on one side and shadowed by huge, cylindric gas tanks on the other. Children swarmed the sidewalk thick as ants over a home-hillock and screamed like Indians on rampage. Washings left out for overnight drying were strung from one fire-escape to another of the scaly brick fronts. As though laving the cross-street’s dirty feet, the East River shimmered dimly in the lights from shore and from passing steam craft. Beyond loomed that isle of punishment dreams come true—the Blackwell’s which politicians would rename “Welfare.”
Thoughts murky as the water at the foot of the hill came to Peter Pape. Could Jane Lauderdale be seeking the river for surcease from some disappointment or fear more direful than he had supposed? Why should she be, with youth, beauty and devotion all her own? And yet, why not? Others as young, fair and fondly desired had been depressed to such extent. His heart swelled with protective pity for her. His pulses beat from more than the speed with which he closed the distance between them to about twenty feet, that he might be ready for emergency.
They had come to a building which broke the tenement line, a relic residence of by-gone days. With a sudden turn, the little old lady undertook the steps. So close was Pape that he pulled the Fedora over his eyes lest she recognize him. But he need not have feared. She did not look back. Her attention was focused ahead upon some one who sat on the small Colonial-type stoop—some one who had been waiting for her.
“Home, dear, at last!” Pape overheard the greeting in a deep, rich voice. “I couldn’t imagine what was keeping you. I almost risked starting out in search of you. Did you——”
He heard no more. But he saw more than he wished. The some one arose, a tall, strong, masculine outline against the flickering gas light from inside the hall; clasped an arm about her shoulders; lowered a fine-cut profile, crowned by a mass of lightish hair, to her kiss. The pair entered the house together and closed the door.
Sans preface, the volunteer escort reached the crux of his conclusions. He had seen his “Nellie” home, yes. And the anticipated romance had come at evening’s end—romance with another man!