Sue, alter a moment, quietly withdrew her hand. But she did not flush, as Betty had flushed in somewhat similar circumstances a few hours earlier. Peter laid his hands on the table; pushed back his chair; and, lips compressed, got up. “Oh,” cried Zanin--“not going?” “I must,” Peter replied, slowly, coldly. “I have work to do. It has been very pleasant. Good night.” And out he went. Hy, after some hesitation, followed. Peter did not speak until they were nearly across the Square. Then he remembered-- “The Walrus asked you where she was, did he?” “He sure did.” “Worried about her, I suppose!” “He's worried, all right.” “Humph!” said Peter. He said nothing more. At the rooms, He partly undressed in silence. Now and again his long face worked in mute expression of conflicting emotions within. Suddenly he stopped undressing and went into the studio (he slept in there, on the couch) and sat by the window, peering out at the sights of the Square. Hy watched him curiously; then called out a good night, turned off the gas and tumbled into bed. His final remark, the cheery observation--“I'll tell you this much, my son. Friend Betty is some pippin!” drew forth no response. CHAPTER IV--A LITTLE JOURNEY IN PARANOIA |HALF an hour later Peter tiptoed over and closed the door. Then he sat down at his typewriter, removed the paper he had left in it, put in a new sheet and struck off a word. He sat still, then, in a sweat. The noise of the keys fell on his tense ears like the crackling thunder of a machine gun. He took the paper out and tore it into minute pieces. He got another sheet, sat down at the desk and wrote a few hurried sentences in longhand. He sealed it in an envelope, glancing nervously about the room; addressed it; and found a stamp in the desk. Then he tiptoed down the room, softly opened the door and listened. Hy was snoring. He stole into the bedroom, found his clothes in the dark and deliberately dressed, clear to overcoat and hat. He slipped out into the corridor, rang for the elevator and went out across the Square to the mail box. There was a box in the hall down-stairs; but he had found it impossible to post that letter before the eyes of John, the night man. For a moment he stood motionless, one hand gripping the box, the other holding the letter in air--a statue of a man. Then he saw a sauntering policeman, shivered, dropped the letter in and almost ran home. Peter had done the one thing that he himself, twelve hours earlier, would have regarded as utterly impossible. He had sent an anonymous letter. It was addressed to the Reverend Hubbell Harkness Wilde, Scripture House, New York. It conveyed to that vigorous if pietistic gentleman the information that he would find his daughter, on the following evening, Saturday, performing on the stage of the Crossroads Theater, Tenth Street, near Fourth: with the added hint that it might not, even yet be too late to save her.