CHAPTER I
Across Bryant Park, chilled and damp under a gray sky emptied of stars, a man hurried. His overcoat collar was turned up. His soft hat was pulled down. His eyes between the two were dark-circled and deep-sunk. His feet covered the wet paths with the stumbling haste of one pursued.
To the east the faint gold streaks of an autumn dawn cut the clouds. They reached up above the irregular skyline that is New York, heralding the day some minutes after it was born.
The man sped across Fortieth Street and mounted the steps of one of the few brownstone houses, relic of an old aristocracy, that refused to be crowded out by the bourgeoisie of business. He fumbled in his coat pocket, brought out a key, dropped it in his anxiety, finally got the inner door open and made his way, still stumbling, up the stairs.
At an apartment on the second floor—for the house maintained its aloof air of aristocracy only on the outside—he paused and squared his shoulders. His whole body seemed to steel itself and then, very softly, he inserted the key and entered.
A gentle rustle came from the room beyond and a trained nurse with finger against her lips met him on the threshold.
[220]
] “She—she’s all right?” he whispered, lips twitching.
“Sleeping.”
“I tried to get back earlier. We rehearsed until a few minutes ago.” He threw hat and overcoat on a chair and sank into another. His head went down into his hands. “God, those hours, when every minute I thought—Miss Anderson,” he broke off, looking up to catch her expression, “she hasn’t taken a turn for the worse! She’ll pull through, won’t she?”
She smiled, a little sadly, at the desperate, so familiar query.