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Chrystie's manner on her departure had disturbed Lorry. As she dressed for the opera that night she pondered on it, and back from it to the change she had noticed in the girl of late. She hadn't been like the old, easy-going Chrystie; her indolent evenness of mood had given place to a mercurial flightiness, her gay good-humor been broken by flashes of temper and morose silences.
Pancha took up a hand glass and turning her back to him studied her profile in the mirror. It did not occur to Crowder that he never before had seen her do such a thing. "Rich, is she?" she murmured. "How rich?" "Something like four hundred thousand dollars; her father was one of the Virginia City crowd. Chrystie's just come into her part of the roll.
It was proof of Chrystie's unpractical trend of thought that her comment was an uneasy, "A hotel in the Mission?" "Yes, a new place, very quiet and decent. I heard of it from some people who are living there. I'll not come to see you, but I'll phone over in the evening and find out how you're getting on. And the next morning I'll be on the platform at Oakland, watching out for you."
The old lady shrieked and clutched at her skirt. "No no, I won't allow it." Then as the girl drew her dress away, "Lorry Alston, do you want my death on your head as well as your own? If you want anything let Fong get it. He seems willing and anxious to risk his life." "Fong can't do this. I'm going to telephone; I want to find out if Chrystie's all right.
She's got a lot to learn of course; even the way I feel about her I can see she needs to be more educated. But no matter how long it takes she's going to be financed that's what they call it till she's finished and ready. Lorry's guaranteed that." "Lorry's awful grateful to them, isn't she?" "Lorry!" Chrystie's glance showed surprise at such a question.
But when she was in her own room, the blank silence of the house about her, it fell from her and left her defenseless against growing fears. It was impossible to believe it utterly foreign to Chrystie's temperament. She racked her memory for occasions in the past when her sister had indulged in such cruel teasing and not one came to her mind.
These had been tenanted at long intervals, once by an uncle from the East, since deceased, and lately by the Barlow girls, Chrystie's friends from San Mateo. That had been quite an occasion. Chrystie talked of it as she did of going to the opera or on board the English man-of-war. Lorry was sitting in front of the glass brushing her hair, when Chrystie, supposedly retired, came in fully dressed.
"Do you expect someone?" Lorry shook her head. She rarely expected anyone; evening callers were generally school friends of Chrystie's. Fong, muttering, was heard to pass from the kitchen. "I do hope," said Christie, "if it's some horrible bore Fong'll have sense enough to shut them in the reception room and give us a chance to escape." Chrystie, like Aunt Ellen, was fond of going to bed early.
Before she reached the gate she called, hoarse and breathless. "Is Chrystie there?" Aunt Ellen started and looked at her. "Oh, dear, here you are at last! I've been in such a state about you. No, of course Chrystie's not here. I knew she wouldn't be. They say all the trains are stopped the rails are twisted. How could she get back?" Lorry dropped on to the steps.
There was a moment's pause. He saw Chrystie's face, blank, taking it in, then terrible rising questions began to show in her eyes. He went on, glaringly hostile, projecting his words at her as if she was a target and they were missiles: "My mother liked the name. She thought it was unusual. It was she who gave it to me." Chrystie's lips opened on a comment, also on laughter.
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