Fortunately His Excellency, far from disapproving such violations of the rules which he had imposed, appeared to regard them as superstrokes of a talent patent from the start. They lent to the reality of the tale, prolonged suspense and multiplied his enjoyment in her sufferings. To him, prone to delight in the inherent worst of devils and of men, the words she could not force herself to utter often meant more than those which had fallen from her lips.
Again, when his own impatience, increased by that of the demon audience, stripped bare her soul and lashed her, with malevolent threats, into renewed effort, he would chortle aloud from satisfaction in his mental degeneracy.
From his infinite fund of information regarding persons of importance whose trails had crossed the girl-soul’s own, he was able frequently to furnish facts regarding others when, at times, she failed.
The earth-story of Dolores Trent, free in version and filled in from the super-supply of Satanic intelligence, ensues.
CHAPTER III
Close to five o’clock the decrepit vehicle which, with a dingy hearse, had formed the funeral cortège of Trevor Trent, creaked to a stop. The entrance to the Heartsease Apartments gaped wide, just as it had gaped a few hours earlier when the remains of the wastrel had passed through for the last time. The relic of a Jehu, in crinkled topper and faded blue livery sans buttons, lowered rheumatically from his seat on the box. Adjusting his soiled dickey, mainstay of a celluloid collar and green tie, he threw open the door with what might have been taken for extra ceremony, had he not verbally urged his passengers to hurry lest he miss the hot free-lunch which, with the weak prohibition-time “suds” that washed it down, was the most pleasureable event of his day.
Those who alighted stood a moment in regretful silence—two typical Harlem matrons, one with a child in arms, both with offspring attached like lead weights to their skirts. Between them was the girl whom they were seeing to-day, through the goggles of sensation, in the stellar rôle of chief mourner.
“Pore thing—pore young thing!”
Their tears, more or less sincere, vied with those of the dripping heavens, although not tears for Trevor Trent. Indeed, they who had known his life for the past seventeen years had no apologies, even to the angels, for omitting to weep over his demise. Their toil-dulled compassion went out in this loneliest moment that succeeds a death to the orphaned daughter who, hitherto, had been a detached unit in their congested midst. A substantial escort, they ushered her up the steps, unheeding the querulous welcome of the young hopefuls left at home.
“Was it a long, good, joggly ride, Ma?”