"Bosh! What's the use? Thank God some women know that some women are square without being told. Men seem to think we're all cats. Even women talk of each other as if they were a different sort of human animal. But not Miss Payson—she's a thoroughbred. I can see that all right. You can't fool Fancy Gray about petticoats. I take off my hat to her. She's got every woman you ever had running after you beaten a mile. Don't you worry—she'll never be surprised to find that a woman can be square. Well, I'll fade away then."
As she talked she buttoned up her jacket and stuck the hat pin in her hair. Now her eyes grew dreamier and she went over and sat on the arm of his chair and put her hand on his hair affectionately, saying:
"Say, Frank, I don't know—after all, perhaps sometime you might just tell her this—sometime when the thing's all going straight, when she's got over—well, what I saw in her eyes to-night—when she finds out what you're worth—when she really knows how good you are—you just tell her this—say: 'There's one thing about Fancy Gray, she always played fair!' She'll know then; but just now, you can be careful of her—watch out what you do with her, she's going to suffer a whole lot if you don't. You know something about women, but you'll find out that when you're sure enough in love you'll need it all, and what you know isn't a drop in the bucket to what you've got to learn. I hope you'll get it good and hard. It'll do you good. You only know one side now. You'll learn the rest from her. She's not the sort to do things half-way. When she begins to go she'll go the limit."
She leaned over him. "You might give me one kiss just to brace me up, will you? It may take the taste of Vixley off my lips. Well, so long. Don't take any Mexican money! If there's anything I can do, let me know." She rose and tossed a smile at him with her old jaunty grace. Then she patted him on the cheek and went swiftly out.
CHAPTER IX
COMING ON
By artful questions, and apparently innocent remarks to lure his confidence, by a little guess-work, more observation, and a profound knowledge of the frailties of human nature, Madam Spoll had plied Oliver Payson to good advantage.
She got a fact here, a suggestion there, and, one at a time, she arranged these items in order, and with them wove a psychological web strong enough to work upon. It was partly hypothetical, partly proved, but, slender and shadowy as it was, upon it was portrayed a faint image of her victim—a pattern sufficient for her use. Every new piece of information was deftly used to strengthen the fabric, until at last it was serviceable as a working theory of his life and could be used to astonish and interest him. Of this whole process he was, of course, unaware, so cleverly disguised was her method, so skilful was her tact. She never frightened her quarry, never permitted him to suspect her. Her errors she frankly acknowledged and set down to the ignorance of her guides. She had, indeed, many holes by which she could escape—set formulæ for covering her petty failures.
After two or three interviews, she had filled up almost all the weak spots in her web, and was prepared to encompass her victim by wiles with which to bleed him.
Mr. Payson had gone away from his first interview limping slightly more than usual, and had talked considerably about his ailment to his daughter. Clytie, not knowing what had increased his hypochondria, was inclined to laugh at his fears and complaints. He found a more sympathetic listener in Blanchard Cayley, who took him quite seriously and discoursed for an hour in Payson's office upon the possibilities of internal disorders, such as the medium had mentioned.