“Beg pardon, sir,” said the coffee-set salesman, “did you make a choice?”
“Oh, shoot along the Queen Anne,” I said; and with the word “queen” something caught me.
“What name, sir?” said the salesman.
“Cleopatra,” I said, for I had it; and I got under way without worry over the impression I was leaving behind me. For now I had placed Miss Wellington of Denver, and I knew why I was familiar with her voice, with her hands, with her figure, and also why her face was a surprise to me. For she was Cleopatra, my ci-devant partner of the dances at the Flamingo Feather where I was ostensibly “Beets”, the safe blower in a hired Erasmus get-up, and she was mate to a lightly built Magellanic gent, who sopped up rather too much that evening and yet had proved nimble as any on the getaway.
I was absolutely sure of her; but she didn’t suspect me. I had been all swaddled in robes and cowls that night, you remember. Of course she’d heard my voice then, but she couldn’t have recognized it from anything I’d muttered at Caldon’s. I’m one of those mute buyers. So here I was, trailing her down Michigan Boulevard and wondering what in salvation to do.
From a Puritanical point of view, I had one plain duty; for I couldn’t feel the slightest doubt that Cleopatra there a few steps in front of me—present alias Miss Wellington of Denver—had never obtained that dangerous twenty in change. If she had just participated in any financial transaction at Field’s, I felt that Marshall III might just as well mark himself down twenty dollars or forty (or some higher multiple of twenty) on the total loss page of the day’s doings. Unquestionably I should, by all rules of citizenship, hand her over to the traffic officer at the approaching corner and ask him to blow his whistle to call the wagon.
On the other hand, my acquaintance with Cleopatra which now put me in position to suspect her (of course suspect doesn’t half say it) had been gained under circumstances which any one would call privileged. The whole fact of my presence at that dance was under a sort of sporting condition; and I couldn’t forget how this girl, herself, had held on to my wrist, warning me and keeping me out of trouble.
I actually owed something to her; but that wasn’t what I was thinking of, as I followed her. I was watching what a wallop she was as she went down the boulevard; much the neatest one in sight. She was rather small, I’ve said; and trim; wonderfully turned, she was, and dressed in plain, tailored things which always look the best, I think. I almost collided with a couple of my friends—girls—from up the Drive and around on Astor. We nearly crashed because they were looking, too. Everybody was gazing, at least a bit, at Miss Wellington; yet she wasn’t endeavoring at all to attract attention. Quite the opposite. She simply couldn’t help it.
She had me heeling her, therefore, without the least actual idea of handing her over to any one; but also without any intention of letting her go. For here I’d found her, after all that world of Jerry’s and of the Flamingo Feather had vanished into air.