Under cover of this diversion William R. suddenly rose. It was the best chance he was likely to get of extricating himself with any sort of dignity from a position which every second grew worse. Nothing doing with this girl, and it was hardly fair to bait her.
As Detective Addelsee, on the heels of the departing boy, moved towards the corridor, he was guilty of one more false step. For he looked back and said: “Good-bye, Miss Durrance, an’ good luck. Be careful this time to get in on the level. But I’ll say London is a tough burg. If any time I can help you any, my name’s Addelsee.” He had the temerity to open a gold cigar case and produce his card. “Scotland Yard, Whitehall, ’ll get me pro tem.” As concrete evidence of good will, Detective Addelsee had the further temerity to write his address upon the card and then with a bland smile to hand it to Miss Durrance.
It was asking for trouble. William R. Addelsee duly received a full ration. Miss Durrance tore the card across. Then she coolly lowered the window and flung out the pieces. “Beat it.” Her face was crimson, her eye ruthless. “And thank you for nix. Cops are no class at all, cops aren’t.”
With a little sigh that was offset by a humorous eye, Detective Addelsee raised the ten-dollar Stetson and followed the bell-boy along the corridor.
III
“SAY, Jackie Coogan, there’s no sugar.”
The polite boy in the button suit gazed at Miss Durrance with mild surprise. New stars constantly swam into his ken. Few had better opportunities than he of testing the simple truth that all sorts of people are needed to make a world. It was this, no doubt, which gave depth to his character. Nothing could have exceeded the grace of his regret for the sugar’s omission and of his promise to bring some.
“That kid’s fierce,” was the mental comment of the traveller to the English scene as this by-product gently closed the door upon her. She had a very keen and lively sense of things and the air and manner of the button suit’s wearer gave it a jolt.
Mame Durrance had certain preconceived ideas about the land she had come to and the odd folks who peopled it, derived in the main from exquisitely humorous writers, usually with Irish names, in her favourite magazines. The British, if not given to mirth themselves, were yet the cause of mirth in others. An obvious back number, the land of George Washington’s forebears was a mass of weary pomposities; it took itself so seriously that it couldn’t raise a smile to save its soul. Up till now she had not had much opportunity of judging it, but the funny little toy of a train in which she was puffing along to London, the tame scenery—what she could see of it—through which it passed, the little cubbyhole in which she sat alone, and the comic child with oiled hair and the manner of a senator who ministered to her wants, all seemed to fit neatly into the theory.
Buttons came back with two small pieces of sugar on a large tray.