The Business of Life

He laughed: "Better question your own memory, little lady. Maybe it isn't about you and Desboro at all; maybe it's something else."

"There was nothing else."

"There was —me!"

"You?"

"Sure," he said cheerfully. "What happened in Philadelphia, if put skillfully before any jury, would finish you."

"Nothing happened! And you know it!" she exclaimed, revolted.

"But juries – and the public – don't know. All they can do is to hear the story and then make up their minds. If you choose to let them hear your story – "

"There was nothing! I did nothing! Nothing– " she faltered.

"But God knows the facts look ugly," he retorted, with smirking composure. "You're a clever girl; ask yourself what you'd think if the facts about you and young Desboro – you and me – were skillfully brought out?"

She sat dumb, frightened, twisting her fingers; then, in the sudden anger born of torture:

"If I am disgraced, what will happen to you!" she flashed out – and knew in the same breath that the woman invariably perishes where the man usually survives; and sat silent and pallid again, her wide eyes restlessly roaming about her as though seeking refuge.

"Also," he said, "if you sue the Tattler for slander, there's Munger, you know. He saw us in Philadelphia that night – "

"What!"

"Certainly. And if a jury learned that you and I were in the same – "

"I did not dream you were to be in the same hotel – in those rooms – you miserable – "

"Easy, little lady! Easy, now! Never mind what you did or didn't dream. You're up against reality, now. So never mind about me at all. Let that Philadelphia business go; it isn't essential. I've enough to work on without that!"

"I do not believe you," she said, between her teeth.

"Oh! Are you really going to defy me?"

"Perhaps."

"I see," he said, thoughtfully, rising and looking instinctively around. He had the quick, alert side-glance which often characterises lesser adepts in his profession.

Then, half way to the door, he turned on her again:

"Look here, Elena, I'm tired of this! You fix it so that your husband keeps those porcelains, or I'll go down town now and turn in that manuscript! Come on! Which is it?"

"Go, if you like!"

There ensued a breathless silence; his fat hand was on the door, pushing it already, when a stifled exclamation from her halted him. After a moment he turned warily.

"I'm desperate," he said. "Pay, or I show you up. Which is it to be?"

"I – how do I know? What proof have I that you can damage me – "

He came all the way back, moistening his thick lips, for he had played his last card at the door; and, for a second, he supposed that he was beaten.

"Now, see here," he said, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to smash anybody, let alone a woman. But, by God! I'll do it if you don't come across. So make up your mind, Elena."

She strove to sustain his gaze and he leered at her. Finally he sat down beside her:

"I said I wouldn't give you any proofs. But I guess I will. I'll prove to you that I've got you good and plenty, little lady. Will that satisfy you?"

"Prove it!" she strove to say; but her lips scarcely obeyed her.

"All right. Do you remember one evening, just before Christmas, when you and your husband had been on the outs?"

She bit her lip in silence.

"Do you?" he insisted.

"Perhaps."

"All right, so far," he sneered. "Did he perhaps tell you that he had an appointment at the Kiln Club with a man who was interested in porcelains and jades?"

"No."

"Well, he did. He had an appointment for that night. I was the man."

She understood nothing.

"So," he said, "I waited three hours at the Kiln Club and your husband didn't show up. Then I telephoned his house. You and he were probably having your family row just then, for the maid said he was there, but was too busy to come to the telephone. So I said that I'd come up to the house in half an hour."

Still she did not comprehend.

"Wait a bit, little lady," he continued, with sly enjoyment of his own literary methods. "The climax comes where it belongs, not where you expect it. So now we'll read you a chapter in which a bitter wind blows heavily, and a solitary taxicab might have been seen outward bound across the wintry wastes of Gotham Town. Get me?"

She merely looked at him.

"In that low, black, rakish taxi," he went on, "sat an enterprising man bent upon selling to your husband the very porcelains which he subsequently bought. In other words, I sat in that taxi. I stopped in front of this house; I saw you leave the house and go scurrying away like a scared rabbit. And then I went up the steps, rang, was admitted, told to wait in the library. I waited."

"Where?" The word burst from her involuntarily.

"In the library," he repeated. "It's a nice, cosy, comfortable place, isn't it? Fine fat sofas, soft cushions, fire in the grate – oh, a very comfortable place, indeed! I thought so, anyway, while I was waiting for your husband to come down stairs."

"It appeared that he had finally received my telephone message – presumably after you and he had finished your row – and had left word that I was to be admitted. That's why they let me in. So I waited very, v – ery comfortably in the library; and somebody had thoughtfully set out cigars, and whisky, and lemon, and sugar, and a jug of hot water. It was a cold night, if you remember."

He paused long enough to leer at her.

"Odd," he remarked, "how pleasantly things happen sometimes. And, as I sat there in that big leather chair – you must know which one I mean, Elena – it is the fattest and most comforting – I smoked my cigar and sipped my hot grog, and gazed innocently around. And what do you suppose my innocent eyes encountered – just like that?"

"W – what?" she breathed.