Part 2 Chapter 11 Mr. Penway on the Grill

    Fate moves in a mysterious way. Luck comes hand in hand withmisfortune. What we lose on the swings we make up on the roundabouts.

　　If Keggs had not seen twenty-five of his hard-earned dollars pass atone swoop into the clutches of the _croupier_ at the apparentlyuntenanted house on Forty-First Street, and become disgusted with thepleasing game of roulette, he might have delayed his return to thehouse on Fifth Avenue till a later hour; in which case he would havemissed the remarkable and stimulating spectacle of Kirk driving to thedoor in an automobile with Mamie at his side; of Mamie, jumping out andentering the house; of Mamie leaving the house with a suit-case; ofKirk helping her into the automobile, and of the automobiledisappearing with its interesting occupants up the avenue at a highrate of speed.

　　Having lost his money, as stated, and having returned home, he wasenabled to be a witness, the only witness, of these notable events, andhis breast was filled with a calm joy in consequence. This wassomething special. This was exclusive, a scoop. He looked forward tothe return of Mrs. Porter with an eagerness which, earlier in the day,he would have considered impossible. Somehow Ruth did not figure in hispicture of the delivery of the sensational news that Mr. Winfield hadeloped with the young person engaged to look after her son. Mrs.

　　Porter's was one of those characters which monopolize any stage onwhich they appear. Besides, Keggs disliked Mrs. Porter, and thepleasure of the prospect of giving her a shock left no room for otherthoughts.

　　It was nearly seven o'clock when Mrs. Porter reached the house. She wasa little tired from the journey, but in high good humour. She had had athoroughly satisfactory interview with her publishers--satisfactory,that is to say, to herself; the publishers had other views.

　　"Is Mrs. Winfield in?" she asked Keggs as he admitted her.

　　Ruth was always sympathetic about her guerrilla warfare with thepublishers. She looked forward to a cosy chat, in the course of whichshe would trace, step by step, the progress of the late campaign whichhad begun overnight and had culminated that morning in a sort ofGettysburg, from which she had emerged with her arms full of capturedflags and all the other trophies of conquest.

　　"No, madam," said Keggs. "Mrs. Winfield has not yet returned."Keggs was an artist in tragic narration. He did not give away hisclimax; he led up to it by degrees as slow as his audience wouldpermit.

　　"Returned? I did not know she intended to go away. Her yacht party isnext week, I understand.""Yes, madam.""Where has she gone?""To Tuxedo, madam.""Tuxedo?""Mrs. Winfield has just rung us up from there upon the telephone torequest that necessaries for an indefinite stay be despatched to her.

　　She is visiting Mrs. Bailey Bannister."If Mrs. Porter had been Steve, she would probably have said "For thelove of Mike!" at this point. Being herself, she merely repeated thebutler's last words.

　　"If I may be allowed to say so, madam, I think that there must havebeen trouble at Mrs. Bannister's. A telephone-call came from her veryearly this morning for Mrs. Winfield which caused Mrs. Winfield to riseand leave in a taximeter-cab in an extreme hurry. If I might be allowedto suggest it, it is probably a case of serious illness. Mrs. Winfieldwas looking very disturbed.""H'm!" said Mrs. Porter. The exclamation was one of disappointmentrather than of apprehension. Sudden illnesses at the Bailey home didnot stir her, but she was annoyed that her recital of the squelching ofthe publishers would have to wait.

　　She went upstairs. Her intention was to look in at the nursery andsatisfy herself that all was well with William Bannister. She had givenMamie specific instructions as to his care on her departure; but younever knew. Perhaps her keen eye might be able to detect some deviationfrom the rules she had laid down.

　　It detected one at once. The nursery was empty. According to schedule,the child should have been taking his bath.

　　She went downstairs again. Keggs was waiting in the hall. He hadforeseen this return. He had allowed her to go upstairs with his storybut half heard because that appealed to his artistic sense. This story,to his mind, was too good to be bolted at a sitting; it was the idealserial.

　　"Keggs.""Madam?""Where is Master William?""I fear I do not know, madam.""When did he go out? It is seven o'clock; he should have been in anhour ago.""I have been making inquiries, madam, and I regret to inform you thatnobody appears to have seen Master William all day.""What?""It not being my place to follow his movements, I was unaware of thisuntil quite recently, but from conversation with the other domestics, Ifind that he seems to have disappeared!""Disappeared?"A glow of enjoyment such as he had sometimes experienced when theticker at the Cadillac Hotel informed him that the man he had backed insome San Francisco fight had upset his opponent for the count began topermeate Keggs.

　　"Disappeared, madam," he repeated.

　　"Perhaps Mrs. Winfield took him with her to Tuxedo.""No, madam. Mrs. Winfield was alone. I was present when she droveaway.""Send Mamie to me at once," said Mrs. Porter.

　　Keggs could have whooped with delight had not such an action seemed tohim likely to prejudice his chances of retaining a good situation. Hecontented himself with wriggling ecstatically. "The young person is notin the house, madam.""Not in the house? What business has she to be out? Where is she?""I could not tell you, madam." Keggs paused, reluctant to deal thefinal blow, as a child lingers lovingly over the last lick of ice-creamin a cone. "I last saw her at about five o'clock, driving off with Mr.

　　Winfield in an automobile.""What!"Keggs was content. His climax had not missed fire. Its staggeringeffect was plain on the face of his hearer. For once Mrs. Porter'spoise had deserted her. Her one word had been a scream.

　　"She did not tell me her destination, madam," went on Keggs, making allthat could be made of what was left of the situation after its artisticfinish. "She came in and packed a suit-case and went out again andjoined Mr. Winfield in the automobile, and they drove off together."Mrs. Porter recovered herself. This was a matter which called forsilent meditation, not for chit-chat with a garrulous butler.

　　"That will do, Keggs.""Very good, madam."Keggs withdrew to his pantry, well pleased. He considered that he haddone himself justice as a raconteur. He had not spoiled a good story inthe telling.

　　Mrs. Porter went to her room and sat down to think. She was a woman ofaction, and she soon reached a decision.

　　The errant pair must be followed, and at once. Her great mind, playingover the situation like a searchlight, detected a connection betweenthis elopement and the disappearance of William Bannister. She had longsince marked Kirk down as a malcontent, and she now labelled the absentMamie as a snake in the grass who had feigned submission to her rule,while meditating all the time the theft of the child and the elopementwith Kirk. She had placed the same construction on Mamie's departurewith Kirk as had Mr. Penway, showing that it is not only great mindsthat think alike.

　　A latent conviction as to the immorality of all artists, which had beenone of the maxims of her late mother, sprang into life. She blamedherself for having allowed a nurse of such undeniable physicalattractions to become a member of the household. Mamie's very quietnessand apparent absence of bad qualities became additional evidenceagainst her now, Mrs. Porter arguing that these things indicated deepdeceitfulness. She told herself, what was not the case, that she hadnever trusted that girl.

　　But Lora Delane Porter was not a woman to waste time in retrospection.

　　She had not been in her room five minutes before her mind was made up.

　　It was improbable that Kirk and his guilty accomplice had sought sonear and obvious a haven as the studio, but it was undoubtedly therethat pursuit must begin. She knew nothing of his way of living at thatretreat, but she imagined that he must have appointed some successor toGeorge Pennicut as general factotum, and it might be that this personwould have information to impart.

　　The task of inducing him to impart it did not daunt Mrs. Porter. Shehad a just confidence in her powers of cross-examination.

　　She went to the telephone and called up the garage where Ruth'sautomobiles were housed. Her plan of action was now complete. If noinformation were forthcoming at the studio, she would endeavour to findout where Kirk had hired the car in which he had taken Mamie away. Hewould probably have secured it from some garage near by. But thisdetective work would be a last resource. Like a good general, she didnot admit of the possibility of failing in her first attack.

　　And, luck being with her, it happened that at the moment when she setout, Mr. Penway, feeling pretty comfortable where he was, abandoned hisidea of going out for a stroll along Broadway and settled himself topass the next few hours in Kirk's armchair.

　　Mr. Penway's first feeling when the bell rang, rousing him from hispeaceful musings, was one of mild vexation. A few minutes later, whenMrs. Porter had really got to work upon him, he would not haverecognized that tepid emotion as vexation at all.

　　Mrs. Porter wasted no time. She perforated Mr. Penway's spine with hereyes, reduced it to the consistency of summer squash, and drove himbefore her into the studio, where she took a seat and motioned him todo the same. For a moment she sat looking at him, by way of completingthe work of subjection, while Mr. Penway writhed uneasily on his chairand thought of past sins.

　　"My name is Mrs. Porter," she began abruptly.

　　"Mine's Penway," said the miserable being before her. It struck him asthe only thing to say.

　　"I have come to inquire about Mr. Winfield."As she paused Mr. Penway felt it incumbent upon him to speak again.

　　"Dear old Kirk," he mumbled.

　　"Nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Porter sharply. "Mr. Winfield is ascoundrel of the worst type, and if you are as intimate a friend of hisas your words imply, it does not argue well for your respectability."Mr. Penway opened his mouth feebly and closed it again. Having closedit, he reopened it and allowed it to remain ajar, as it were. It washis idea of being conciliatory.

　　"Tell me." Mr. Penway started violently. "Tell me, when did you lastsee Mr. Winfield?""We went to Long Beach together this afternoon.""In an automobile?""Yes.""Ah! Were you here when Mr. Winfield left again?"For the life of him Mr. Penway had not the courage to say no. There wassomething about this woman's stare which acted hypnotically upon hismind, never at its best as early in the evening.

　　He nodded.

　　"There was a young woman with him?" pursued Mrs. Porter.

　　At this moment Mr. Penway's eyes, roving desperately about the room,fell upon the bottle of Bourbon which Kirk's kindly hospitality hadprovided. His emotions at the sight of it were those of the shipwreckedmariner who see a sail. He sprang at it and poured himself out a stiffdose. Before Mrs. Porter's disgusted gaze he drained the glass and thenturned to her, a new man.

　　The noble spirit restored his own. For the first time since theinterview had begun he felt capable of sustaining his end of theconversation with ease and dignity.

　　"How's that?" he said.

　　"There was a young woman with him?" repeatedMrs. Porter.

　　Mr. Penway imagined that he had placed her by this time. Here, he toldhimself in his own crude language, was the squab's mother camping onKirk's trail with an axe. Mr. Penway's moral code was of the easiestdescription. His sympathies were entirely with Kirk. Fortified by theBourbon, he set himself resolutely to the task of lying whole-heartedlyon behalf of his absent friend.

　　"No," he said firmly.

　　"No!" exclaimed Mrs. Porter.

　　"No," repeated Mr. Penway with iron resolution. "No young woman. Noyoung woman whatsoever. I noticed it particularly, because I thought itstrange, don't you know--what I mean is, don't you know, strange thereshouldn't be!"How tragic is a man's fruitless fight on behalf of a friend! For oneshort instant Mrs. Porter allowed Mr. Penway to imagine that thevictory was his, then she administered the _coup-de-grace_.

　　"Don't lie, you worthless creature," she said. "They stopped at myhouse on their way while the girl packed a suitcase."Mr. Penway threw up his brief. There are moments when the stoutest-hearted, even under the influence of old Bourbon, realize that to fighton is merely to fight in vain.

　　He condensed his emotions into four words.

　　"Of all the chumps!" he remarked, and, pouring himself out a furtherinstalment of the raw spirit, he sat down, a beaten man.

　　Mrs. Porter continued to harry him.

　　"Exactly," she said. "So you see that there is no need for any moresubterfuge and concealment. I do not intend to leave this room untilyou have told me all you have to tell, so you had better be quick aboutit. Kindly tell me the truth in as few words as possible--if you knowwhat is meant by telling the truth."A belated tenderness for his dignity came to Mr. Penway.

　　"You are insulting," he remarked. "You are--you are--most insulting.""I meant to be," said Mrs. Porter crisply. "Now. Tell me. Where has Mr.

　　Winfield gone?"Mr. Penway preserved an offended silence. Mrs. Porter struck the tablea blow with a book which caused him to leap in his seat.

　　"Where has Mr. Winfield gone?""How should I know?""How should you know? Because he told you, I should imagine.

　　Where--has--Mr.--Winfield--gone?""C'nnecticut," said Mr. Penway, finally capitulating.

　　"What part of Connecticut?""I don't know.""What part of Connecticut?""I tell you I don't know. He said: 'I'm off to Connecticut,' and left."It suddenly struck Mr. Penway that his defeat was not so overwhelmingas he had imagined. "So you haven't got much out of me, you see, afterall," he added.

　　Mrs. Porter rose.

　　"On the contrary," she said; "I have got out of you precisely theinformation which I required, and in considerably less time than I hadsupposed likely. If it interests you, I may tell you that Mr. Winfieldhas gone to a small house which he owns in the Connecticut woods.""Then what," demanded Mr. Penway indignantly, "did you mean by keepingon saying 'What part of C'nnecticut? What part of C'nnecticut? Whatpart----'""Because Mr. Winfield's destination has only just occurred to me." Shelooked at him closely. "You are a curious and not uninteresting object,Mr. Penway."Mr. Penway started. "Eh?""Object lesson, I should have said. I should like to exhibit you as awarning to the youth of this country.""What!""From the look of your frame I should imagine that you were once a manof some physique. Your shoulders are good. Even now a rigorous courseof physical training might save you. I have known more helpless casessaved by firm treatment. You have allowed yourself to deteriorate muchas did a man named Pennicut who used to be employed here by Mr.

　　Winfield. I saved him. I dare say I could make something of you. I cansee at a glance that you eat, drink, and smoke too much. You could nothold out your hand now, at this minute, without it trembling.""I could," said Mr. Penway indignantly.

　　He held it out, and it quivered like a tuning-fork.

　　"There!" said Mrs. Porter calmly. "What do you expect? You know yourown business best, I suppose, but I should like to tell you that if youdo not become a teetotaller instantly, and begin taking exercise, youwill probably die suddenly within a very few years. Personally I shallbear the calamity with fortitude. Good evening, Mr. Penway."For some moments after she had gone Mr. Penway sat staring before him.

　　His eyes wore a glassy look. His mouth was still ajar.

　　"Damn woman!" he said at length.

　　He turned to his meditations.

　　"Damn impertinent woman!"Another interval for reflection, and he spoke again.

　　"Damn impertinent, interfering woman that!"He reached out for the bottle of Bourbon and filled his glass. He putit to his lips, then slowly withdrew it.

　　"Damn impertinent, inter--I wonder!"There was a small mirror on the opposite wall. He walked unsteadilytoward it and put out his tongue. He continued in this attitude for atime, then, with increased dejection, turned away.

　　He placed a hand over his heart. This seemed to depress him stillfurther. Finally he went to the table, took up the glass, poured itscontents carefully back into the bottle, which he corked and replacedon the shelf.

　　On the floor against the wall was a pair of Indian clubs. He pickedthese up and examined them owlishly. He gave them little tentativejerks. Finally, with the air of a man carrying out a great resolution,he began to swing them. He swung them in slow, irregular sweeps, hiseyes the while, still glassy, staring fixedly at the ceiling.