Satisfied with his investigation, he left the porch and walked rapidly down the street to the corner. Here there was a lamp, and halting under its light he drew from his pocket a leather wallet and took therefrom Dominick Ryan’s card with an address written on it. The penciled numbers were the same as those on the door he had just left, and he stood looking fixedly at the card, an expression of excitement and exultation growing on his face.
CHAPTER XXV
THE ACTOR’S STORY
The afternoon of the next day Dominick came home earlier than usual. His New York friend, who was en route to Japan, had but a couple of days in San Francisco, and again claimed his company for dinner. The theater was to follow and Dominick had come home to change his clothes, and incidentally either to see Berny and explain his absence or to leave a message for her with the Chinaman.
He felt rather guilty where she was concerned. He had seen nothing of her for two days. The only time they met was in the evening after business hours, the only meal they took together was dinner. With every spark of affection dead between them, their married life the hollowest sham, she had so long and so sternly trained him to be considerate of her and keep her on his mind, that he still instinctively followed the acquired habit of thinking of her comfort and arranging for it. He knew she would be annoyed at the two lonely dinners, and hoped to see her before he left and suggest to her that she telephone for one of her sisters to join her.
The flat was very quiet when he entered, and after looking into one or two rooms for her he called the Chinaman, who said Mrs. Ryan had gone out early in the afternoon, leaving no message except that she would be home to dinner. Dominick nodded a dismissal and walked into the den. He carried the evening papers in his hand, and looking at the clock he saw that he had an hour before it would be necessary for him to dress and leave the house. Berny would undoubtedly be home before then; she was rarely out after six. Meantime, the thought that she was not in and that he could read the papers in unmolested, uninterrupted silence caused a slight sense of relief to lighten the weight that was now always with him.
He had hardly opened the first sheet when a ring at the bell dispelled his hopes. It was one of his wife’s habits never to carry a latch-key, which she looked upon as a symbol of that bourgeois, middle-class helpfulness that she had shaken off with her other working-girl manners and customs. Dominick dropped the paper, waiting for her entrance, and framing the words with which he would acquaint her with the fact that he was to be absent again. Instead, however, of the rustle of feminine skirts, he heard the Chinaman’s padding steps, and the servant entered and presented him with a card. Traced on it in a sprawling handwriting was the name “James Defay Buford.” Dominick remembered his invitation to the man to call, and realized that this probably was the only time that the actor could conveniently do so. There was an hour yet before dinner would be served, and turning to the servant Dominick told him to show the gentleman up.
A moment later, Buford entered, smiling, almost patronizingly urbane and benign. He was dressed with a rich and careful elegance which gave him a somewhat dandified air. After bestowing upon Dominick greetings that sounded as unctuous as a benediction, he took his seat at the end of the cozy corner facing the door which led into the hall. From here he looked at the young man with a close, attentive scrutiny, very friendly and yet holding, under its enfolding blandness, something of absence, of inattention, as though his mind were not in the intimate customary connection with the words that issued from his lips. This suggestion of absence deepened, showed more plainly in an eye that wandered to the door, or, as Dominick spoke, fell to the carpet and remained there, hidden by a down-drawn bush of eyebrow. Dominick was in the middle of a query as to the continued success of the “Klondike Monologue” when the actor raised his head and said politely, but with a politeness that contained a note of haste and eagerness beneath it,
“Is Madame at home?”
“No, she’s not at home,” said Madame’s husband. “But she may be in any moment now. She generally goes out for the afternoon and gets back about this time.”
“Perhaps you can tell me,” said Buford, looking sidewise at his gloves and cane as they lay on the end of the divan, “who—you’ll pardon my seeming curiosity, but I’ll explain it presently—who was the lady that came in here last night at about half-past seven?”