There was rapid packing—a silent carrying-down of baggage—a ride through the night in a car that could be traced from no taxi station—and Mary Regan was once more in the apartment in the Mordona, where, months before, her glowing dream had changed to a sober, patient, cautious struggle to re-make Jack Morton into a man.
CHAPTER XXV
A FATHER’S HOPE
The next day the first open move in this struggle was made—a minor development, perhaps signifying no more in the unfolding of events than their delay. Clifford learned of it when he dropped into the Grand Alcazar the following evening on the chance of finding Uncle George.
“Hello, son—sit in with me on a little drink of this here wine drowned in seltzer,” said the old man. And when Clifford was seated, he drawled on, a solemn eye on his glass. “Son, I’ve been tapering fast toward prohibition. In another month I’ll be a bone-dry state. But I’m such a weak creature of habit, son, that I know I’ll just keep on tapering. I’m a worried man, and here’s what’s worrying me: after I’ve reached water, and am still tapering, what am I going to drink next? What’s the answer? I tell you what, son, it’s an awful problem I got to face single-handed and single-livered and all alone in the world—this getting good so sudden and so fast that I can’t stop myself. Why, man, when I hit heaven, I’m afraid I’ll have up so much speed that I’ll shoot clean through.”
Clifford made no response; he knew none was expected. He gave solemn gaze for solemn gaze. Then Uncle George permitted his bald left eyelid to droop in a slight wink.
“Son, I been doing a little private blood-hounding—in my own special delicate motor-truck fashion. The czar and the little czarovitch have fled from the capital to Siberia.”
“Meaning who?”
“Meaning Mr. Morton and one freshly recovered son.”
Clifford was at once interested. “You talked with them?”
“Yes. Over at the Biltmore. The father don’t suspect how good I am—therefore he doesn’t mind chinning with me a bit when we meet.”