slue-footed in white-spatted feet, grinned at the sight
and catching Anthony’s eye, winked through the
glass. Anthony laughed, thrown immediately into
that humor in which men and women were graceless and
absurd phantasms, grotesquely curved and rounded in
a rectangular world of their own building. They
inspired the same sensations in him as did those strange
and monstrous fish who inhabit the esoteric world of
green in the aquarium.
Two more strollers caught his eye casually, a man
and a girl—then in a horrified instant
the girl resolved herself into Gloria. He stood
here powerless; they came nearer and Gloria, glancing
in, saw him. Her eyes widened and she smiled
politely. Her lips moved. She was less than
five feet away.
“How do you do?” he muttered inanely.
Gloria, happy, beautiful, and young—with
a man he had never seen before!
It was then that the barber’s chair was vacated
and he read down the newspaper column three times
in succession.
The second incident took place the next day.
Going into the Manhattan bar about seven he was confronted
with Bloeckman. As it happened, the room was
nearly deserted, and before the mutual recognition
he had stationed himself within a foot of the older
man and ordered his drink, so it was inevitable that
they should converse.
“Hello, Mr. Patch,” said Bloeckman amiably
enough.
Anthony took the proffered hand and exchanged a few
aphorisms on the fluctuations of the mercury.
“Do you come in here much?” inquired Bloeckman.
“No, very seldom.” He omitted to
add that the Plaza bar had, until lately, been his
favorite.
“Nice bar. One of the best bars in town.”
Anthony nodded. Bloeckman emptied his glass and
picked up his cane. He was in evening dress.
“Well, I’ll be hurrying on. I’m
going to dinner with Miss Gilbert.”
Death looked suddenly out at him from two blue eyes.
Had he announced himself as his vis-a-vis’s
prospective murderer he could not have struck a more
vital blow at Anthony. The younger man must have
reddened visibly, for his every nerve was in instant
clamor. With tremendous effort he mustered a
rigid—oh, so rigid—smile, and
said a conventional good-by. But that night he
lay awake until after four, half wild with grief and
fear and abominable imaginings.
And one day in the fifth week he called her up.
He had been sitting in his apartment trying to read
“L’Education Sentimental,” and something
in the book had sent his thoughts racing in the direction
that, set free, they always took, like horses racing
for a home stable. With suddenly quickened breath
he walked to the telephone. When he gave the number
it seemed to him that his voice faltered and broke
like a schoolboy’s. The Central must have
heard the pounding of his heart. The sound of
the receiver being taken up at the other end was a
crack of doom, and Mrs. Gilbert’s voice, soft
as maple syrup running into a glass container, had
for him a quality of horror in its single “Hello-o-ah?”
