“Barney and Old Jimmie!” ejaculated Larry.  And then:  “Barney and Old Jimmie—­and a suite at the Grantham!”

At that moment Hunt came back down the stairway, carrying a roll wrapped in brown paper.

“Here you are, young fellow,” he announced.  “De-mounted ’em so the junk would be easier to handle.  The Dago mother you asked for—­the second painting may be one you’d like to have for your own private gallery.  I’m not going to let you get away with your bluff—­and don’t you forget it! . . .  Duchess, don’t you think he’d better beat it before Gavegan and his loving friends take a tumble to his presence and mess up the neighborhood?”

“Yes,” said the Duchess.  “Good-night, Larry.”

“Good-night,” said he.

Mechanically he took the roll of paintings and slipped it under his raincoat; mechanically he shook hands; mechanically he got out of the pawnshop; mechanically he took all precautions in getting out of the little rain-driven street and in getting into a taxicab which he captured over near Cooper Institute.  All his mind was upon what the Duchess had told him and upon a new idea which was throbbingly growing into a purpose.  Maggie and Barney and Old Jimmie!  Maggie in a suite at the Grantham!

What Larry now did, as he got into the taxi, he would have called footless and foolhardy an hour before, and at any other hour his judgment might have restrained him.  But just now he seemed controlled by a force greater than smooth-running judgment—­a composite of many forces:  by sudden jealousy, by a sudden desire to shield Maggie, by a sudden desire to see her.  So as he stepped into the taxi, he said: 

“The Grantham—­quick!”

CHAPTER XVII

The taxi went rocking up Fourth Avenue.  But now that decision was made and he was headed toward Maggie, a little of judgment reasserted itself.  It would not be safe for him to walk openly into the Grantham with a mouthful of questions.  He did not know the number of Maggie’s suite.  And Maggie might not be in.  So he revised his plan slightly.  He called to his driver: 

“Go to the Claridge first.”

Five minutes later the taxi was in Forty-Fourth Street and Larry was stepping out.  Fortune favored him in one fact—­or perhaps his subconscious mind had based his plan upon this fact:  the time was half-past ten, the theaters still held their crowds, the streets were empty, the restaurants were practically unoccupied.  He was incurring the minimum of risk.

“Wait for me,” he ordered the driver.  “I’ll be out in five minutes.”

In less than the half of the first of these minutes Larry had attained his first objective:  the secluded telephone-room down behind the grill.  It was unoccupied except for the telephone girl who was gazing raptly at the sorrowful, romantic, and very soiled pages of “St. Elmo.”  The next moment she was gazing at something else—­a five-dollar bill which Larry had slipped into the open book.