Dramatists -- Fiction; Love stories; Mystery fiction
"You've been disappointed in something or some one," he said. "Oh," as
she made a gesture, "don't think I'm belittling it! I know it was
something big. But the finish you chose wasn't meant to be, or it would
have come off. You see that, don't you? The very sun in its course took
pains to show you to me in time to stop it. That means something, Miss
Mayo."
She seemed slightly startled.
"It is Miss Mayo, isn't it? That's the name the elevator boy gave me,
yesterday."
"It will do." She spoke absently, already on the trail of another
thought. Suddenly she caught it.
"Then you brought the basket, or sent it?" she cried. "It was _you!_ How
dared you!"
She had half risen from her chair. Bending across the table, he gently
pushed her back into it.
"Sit down," he said, imperturbably.
She hesitated, and he repeated the command, this time almost curtly.
Under the new tone she obeyed.
"I'm going to tell you something," he went on. "I've exhausted my
slender resources of experience and tact. I don't know what any one else
would do in this situation; but I do know what I'm going to do myself.
And, what is a lot more important, I know what you're going to do."
She laughed, and he winced at the sound.
"That's easy," she said. "I'm going to finish the act you interrupted."
"Oh, no, you're not!"
Her lips set.
"Do you imagine you can prevent me?"
"I know I can."
His quiet assurance impressed her.
"How?" she asked, half mockingly.
"Very easily. I can take you from this restaurant to the nearest police
station, and have you locked up for attempted suicide. You know, it's a
crime here."
The word they had both avoided was out at last. Although he had spoken
it very softly, its echoes seemed to fill the big room. She shrank back
and stared at him, her hands clutching the sides of her chair.
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Wouldn't I? I'll do it in exactly fifteen minutes, unless you give me
your word that you will never make another attempt of the kind." He took
his watch out of his pocket and laid it on the table between them.
"It's exactly quarter-past twelve," he said. "At half-past--"
"Oh!--and I thought you were kind!"
There was horror in the brown eyes now and an antagonism that hurt him.
"Would it be kinder to let you go back to that studio and--"
She interrupted.
"How dare you interfere in my affairs! Who gave you the right?"
"Fate gave me the right. I'm its chosen specialist on the job, and you
may take my word for it, my dear girl, the job's going to be done, and
done up brown."
He lit a fresh cigarette.
"It will be mighty unpleasant for you," he went on, thoughtfully.
"There's the publicity, you know. Of course, all the newspapers will
have your pictures--"
"Oh!"
"And a lot of romantic stories--"
"Oh--you--you--"
"But of course you can avoid all that," he reminded her, "by giving me
your promise."
She choked back her rising fury, and made an obvious effort at
self-control.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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