“Where are they going?—what are they going to do? Did he tell you?”
“Son, my intellect may not be what it once was, but a gentleman doesn’t have to tell me anything for me to know what he’s going to do. We talked baseball; I was willing to put two bits on the Giants to win the pennant next season—from which I learned that Mr. Morton was going to beat it far from the night-blooming anemone of Broadway and the tender folk-songs of the cabarets—and that he was going to give his only offspring the advantage of his direct, undivided, and unsleeping personal attention.”
Clifford nodded. This fitted in with Mr. Morton’s determination announced the night before in front of Le Minuit when he had refused Mary’s offer—his cool decision that he was now going to handle Jack. Well, he was a master at directing men, at bending them to his will; now that he had set himself to the task, perhaps he might also really manage Jack.
Though Mr. Morton was out of the city, Clifford privately kept watch on Mary, half expecting that her pride and her temperish self-confidence would get the better of her caution and impel her into that vaguely hinted action against Jack’s father. He tried to think out what course might be brewing in her mind. He remembered that Mr. Morton, ignorant of her true relationship to Jack, had tried to make love to her—the passing love of a worldly man; and he knew that Mary was capable of playing any part. She might, in her desire to even matters with Mr. Morton, and reckless of herself and her own name, lead him on, always eluding him, until—well, there was no guessing what Mary, bitter and reckless, might attempt. But whatever she might try, she would carry through.
Also—with the help of Lieutenant Jimmie Kelly, and the confidential aid of Commissioner Thorne—he privately watched Bradley and Loveman, alert for signs of attempt to carry out their self-protecting scheme against Mary. But Mary’s hiding was a temporary check alike to herself and the two men, and the next development in this complicated human drama was to have its inception in another quarter.
Uneventful weeks passed; spring grew into summer; and then one evening Clifford was surprised with a message from Mr. Morton asking him to call at once at the Biltmore. Clifford went to the Biltmore, wondering what lay behind this unexpected summons. Mr. Morton admitted him to his sitting-room and asked him to be seated.
There was a litter of mail upon the table—evidently an accumulation of correspondence that had not been forwarded. As Clifford sat down his eyes were caught and sharply arrested by an open letter. He recognized the writing—it was Mary’s; and almost before he knew what he was doing he had read this fragment:—
I have been thinking your suggestion all over—and possibly, possibly, if it were repeated—
Mr. Morton, who had followed Clifford’s eyes, reached sharply forward, and snatched up the letter.
“Pardon my seeing it—I couldn’t help it,” said Clifford. And then: “I remember you offered to take the writer of that letter on a very private cruise. I suppose she has now consented?”