He had never dreamed what this neglect might mean to her. He had not thought of her as mere woman, after all, with more than pride to satisfy, with more than a mind to suffer. When the realization overwhelmed him her nobility was not diminished in his eyes, but to all her former qualities was added the human element. She was flesh and blood, and a martyr in the flames. And the ingrate who had the godlike privilege of her embrace abandoned her for a public creature.
Dyckman felt himself summoned to avenge her.
It happened that he found the Cheever limousine waiting outside. He said to the chauffeur:
“Where does Miss Zada L'Etoile live?”
The chauffeur was startled. He answered, with a touch of raillery:
“Search me, sir. How should I know?”
“I want none of your back talk,” said Dyckman, ready to maul the chauffeur or anybody for practice. He took out his pocket-book and lifted the first bill he came to. It was a yellow boy. He repeated, “Where does Zada L'Etoile live?”
The chauffeur told him and got the bill. It was better than the poke in the eye he could have had instead.
Dyckman had sent his own car home. He had difficulty in finding a taxicab on Fifth Avenue along there. At length he stopped one and named the apartment-house where Zada lived.
The hall-boy was startled by his manner, amazed to hear the famous Dyckman ask for Miss L'Etoile. He telephoned the name while Dyckman fumed. After some delay he was told to come up.