Joan and Co.
ahead. Breakfast itself ceased to be merely a concession to nature.
She enjoyed her toast and coffee and eggs. She ate with a relish that
caused Jeffrey to temper in his own mind the verdict of madness with
which in the kitchen his mistress was being accused. To be sure, it
was most unusual for a young lady to rise at seven and dress herself
unassisted; it was most unusual for a young lady, not starting on a
journey, to leave the house shortly after half-past seven; it was most
unusual for a young lady to remain at home after dinner night after
night. But if such a strange procedure not only improved the young
lady’s appetite and color, but her spirits as well, it was going a
bit far to hint that she was losing her mind. Stranger methods than
this were resorted to in search of just such results. He had heard of
barefoot walking at dawn in the parks, to mention only one.
It was when Joan left Charles at Third Avenue and hurried on alone,
that the color in her cheeks deepened. It was curious how, to so tiny
an adventure, she responded. But until these last few weeks it is
doubtful if ever she had walked alone three blocks in New York City,
and then only upon the one avenue. The other avenues were but numerical
facts lying either side of Fifth, made necessary by Fifth, as of course
one may not have five without one, two, three, and four, or, counting
backwards, one reaches fifth again through ten, nine, eight, seven, and
six.
But this Third Avenue was now taking on an individuality of its own.
It seemed to have nothing whatever to do with Fifth. It was almost
like a street in another city. She was surprised by the number of
other girls she met and with whom she walked shoulder to shoulder in
silence—all hurrying into buildings similar to the building she now
called hers. Many were of her own age, and in time there were some
she felt as though she knew. They were in a way like Mildred—like
sisters of Mildred. She would have liked to speak to them if only to
say “Good-morning.” Sometimes she met their eyes and sometimes she
smiled back into them, but more often than not they turned away without
response, as though refusing to admit her as one of them. At first she
did not understand this. It was a trim, confident little body from the
next office, whom she met several times in the elevator, who gave her a
hint by staring one day overlong at the sables she wore. She never wore
those down here again because she noticed that none of the other girls
wore sables. After that—it may have been merely an illusion—she thought
the girls became more friendly.
It was at about this time that the elevator boy began to call her by
name in the morning. It was always, “Good-morning, Miss Fairburne.”
And she answered, “Good-morning, Jimmy.”
She did not know how he learned her name or where she learned his name.
There seemed to be some vague bond of brotherhood among those who
met on their way to work in the morning. It was a little bit like on
shipboard, where somehow people come to know each other before the end
of the voyage even without formal introductions.
All these things Joan appreciated. These new faces and interests
enlarged her world as, to a lesser degree, did all those unknown people
with whom she corresponded in the name of the Devons Manufacturing
Company. They all helped to take her out of herself.
Just as Mark Devons did. She never thought of herself—her old self—in
connection with him. She did not associate him any longer with that
room he had occupied in her own home. Since the evening she had visited
him in Mullen Court he had always remained there in her thoughts—there
and in the office. It was much pleasanter to think of him in his own
surroundings. They were part of him and he a part of them. In their
simplicity and unconventionality they typified him. She liked the
directness of the life they stood for. They emphasized the man rather
than his trappings. In remembering the little attic room with its
refreshing bareness, it seemed as though he could not possibly live
anywhere else.
Here in the office he wore the long olive-green laboratory coat he had
used at Tech. It buttoned to his chin and came to his feet, and was all
stained with oil and burned full of holes by acids. It neutralized all
of him but his hands and his face, so that one was never conscious of
his dress. She liked him so. And she liked to watch him at work when
he was not aware of her gaze. She had to be careful about this because
every now and then he looked suddenly. Once or twice he had caught
her, and then she was never able to control the rush of color to her
cheeks. After she turned back to her work, she was sometimes left quite
breathless for a full minute or two.
Yet it was difficult not to admire the confident way in which he went
about his tasks. He was so sure of every movement of his steady hands.
He was so coolly accurate, so alert, so intense. This business was an
expression in him of his desire to do, to accomplish, to play his part
in the big, vibrant world of doers about him.
And she in her little way was playing her part also. As yet she could
not do very much and that little clumsily, but she thought she saw
every day an improvement in her typewriting. Doubtless the girl in
the next office would have laughed could she have seen her stabbing
erratically with her forefingers at the keys, forgetting very often to
strike the space bar at all between words. Doubtless the girl in the
next office could have done the same work better in one half the time
and with half the effort. She was a very capable-looking young lady of
a sharp, precise type. Joan had overheard the doctor recommending her
highly to Devons.
“She is quick and accurate,” he had said, “but if business doesn’t pick
up I may have to let her go. If I do, you’d better grab her.”
“Thanks,” Devons had answered; “I’ll keep her in mind.”
For a day or two Joan had felt more or less piqued by that
conversation. Devons had not replied as she expected him to reply. He
seemed to admit that in the future this other might be a possibility.
She applied herself more industriously than ever to the sentence, “Now
is the time for all good men to rally to the aid of their country,”
with the result that she cut down her slips from ten to six and in the
process almost forgot Miss Manning entirely.
Then, coming in one morning a little later than usual, she found Miss
Manning sitting in her chair, behind her typewriter, busily opening the
early mail. Dazed she looked swiftly about the office for Devons. He
was not there.
“This is Miss Fairburne?” inquired Miss Manning.
Joan must have answered, though she was not conscious of it.
“I am Miss Manning,” the girl informed her. “Mr. Devons asked me to
give you this note.”
Joan took the note and for a moment held it in her hand.
“Where is Mr. Devons?” she asked.
“He has gone out.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps the note will explain,” suggested Miss Manning indifferently.
Joan tore open the envelope. The note was brief.
“Dear Joan,” it read, “please to go home. I will try to get in touch
with you there some time to-day.”
CHAPTER XXVII
REAL NEWS
The story Moran had run into was bigger than he anticipated. As a rule
the layman’s conception of what makes good reading does not measure up
to professional standards, but in this case it was necessary to give
Forsythe credit for having the real news instinct. A daughter of the
Fairburnes working as a stenographer was essentially good stuff. Moran
had the word of the society editor that the Fairburnes were the real
thing and had been for a couple of generations. One had only to read a
list of Fairburne’s clubs if skeptical.
But even so the story would have had considerably less value had not
the girl been so good-looking. To be sure, the story would have been
headed just the same, “Beautiful Society Girl, a stenographer,” even
if she had been red-headed, cross-eyed, and snub-nosed, but it added
a great deal to its worth to be able actually to come across with
photographs to justify such a statement. And an eye for the dramatic
value of pictures was Moran’s specialty. He did not bother Joan herself
because he did not care to run the risk of frightening her away. He
merely followed her to her home one afternoon, and thereby learned her
name and address. The society editor and the graveyard supplied certain
other details, and the elevator boy at the loft building unconsciously
revealed her business habits.
“She gets down here about eight every morning,” he informed Moran.
At half-past six the next morning Moran had Bill Somers, one of the
staff photographers, stationed opposite the Fairburne house to snap
her as she stepped into her waiting limousine to go to work. It would
be difficult to beat that for a picture. They then followed her to the
point where she stepped out and proceeded on foot. Another corker!
Finally they took her as she entered the building off Third Avenue. He
found in stock, to serve as an effective contrast, certain pictures
which had been taken of her at the time of her début in an exquisite
gown from Paris which revealed the beautiful curves of her neck and
arms.
Armed with these and a half-column story which, though somewhat vague
in details, was still adequate to carry the pictures, Moran appeared
before Forsythe late one afternoon.
“I want to run this Sunday after next,” he informed Forsythe.
“Steady,” Forsythe warned. “Remember I have an option on these.”
He looked them over with satisfaction. The job could not have been
better done had he done it himself—which was a good deal for a man like
Forsythe to admit. A little more might have been made of Devons, but he
could write that in himself. He rose.
“Leave these to me.”
“Eh?”
“If I can use these as I think I can, I’ll pay you big.”
Moran looked uncomfortable.
“I’m risking my job.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” replied Forsythe sententiously.
“I know, but—hang it all, you aren’t going to try to hold up the girl
or anything like that?”
It was a strange speech for Moran to make. He had never spoken to the
lady in question and never seen her except at a distance, but somehow
she had made a hit with him. He liked the way she carried herself. She
was not only good-looking but something more—a whole lot more. She
looked like a good sport—the kind a man doesn’t like to hurt. Besides,
he might occasionally have done a thing or two in his life that was
not strictly professional, but he had never before been involved in
anything such as Forsythe’s eyes suggested. Had it been possible he
would have pulled out of the whole affair at that moment.
Forsythe scented danger. He forced a smile.
“It’s the man I’m after,” he explained. “It’s sort of one on him,
that’s all. Don’t worry.”
“I’ll be back for those to-morrow morning,” said Moran uneasily.
“Right,” nodded Forsythe. “Good-day.”
Moran went out reluctantly. No sooner had the door closed behind him
than with a cautious glance toward Burnett’s office, Forsythe picked up
the telephone and called up the Devons Manufacturing Company.
It was the girl whose picture he held in his hand who answered him.
“Mr. Devons, please,” said Forsythe.
After an interval Devons responded.
“My name is Forsythe,” he announced. “Yes—of the Burnett Manufacturing
Company. I want to see you to-night on a very important matter. No,
I can’t tell you over the telephone. Yes, partly business and partly
personal. If you’ll come into the Waldorf lobby I’ll pick you up near
the desk. At eight. You understand this is really important? At eight,
then, to-night, near the clerk’s desk at the Waldorf. Good-bye.”