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They were rich, they had a fine house, but nothing ever happened there and it was evident that Chrystie wanted things to happen. It was a situation which Lorry had not foreseen and before which she quailed, feeling herself inadequate.
Then she addressed the waiting Chinaman, "Lee, let Fong open the door, I want more coffee." Lee went to fetch the coffee and direct Fong. Everybody in the house always did what Chrystie said. Aunt Ellen laid her old, full-veined hand on the table and pushed her chair back. "Maybe it isn't a visitor," she said, looking tentatively at Lorry she hated visitors, for she had to sit up.
Mark had to straighten it out for her. "Their friends do ranchers up in the hills, and their pals in the towns. But the sheriffs and the general public don't. When they're out for business they cover their faces, tie handkerchiefs or gunny sacks round them." Chrystie shuddered delightedly. "How awful they must be! I'd love to be held up just to see them."
Chrystie-worship was inaugurated by the side of the blue and white bassinet, the nursery was a shrine, the blooming baby an idol installed for their devotion. When George Alston died, Lorry, thirteen years old, had dedicated herself to the service, held herself committed to a continuance of the rites. He had left her Chrystie and she would fulfill the trust even as he would have wished.
Sadie had no need to avail herself of it; she had stocked hers well before coming, making a special trip to Sacramento for that purpose. But Pancha, who had lost everything but a nightgown and slippers, was scantily provided. Before dinner there had been a withdrawal to Lorry's room, whence had issued much laughter and cries of admiration from Chrystie.
With keen, contemplative eye he viewed it at the end of the vista, calculating his distance, gathering his powers to cover it in a swift dash, sure of his success. One afternoon, a week later, Chrystie Alston was crossing Union Square Plaza. It was beautiful weather, the kind that comes to San Francisco after long spells of rain.
"That'll do, Jack, we can't handle any more." As Lorry turned away she heard his desperate rejoinder: "Yes, we got it out here, but how in hell are we goin' to get it any farther?" After that she went to Mrs. Kirkham's. There was no reason to expect news of Chrystie there, except that the old lady was a friend, had been a support and help on occasions less tragic than this.
"They certainly are," said Chrystie, driving a long pin through the hat. "Or chalk and cheese, or brass and gold, or whatever else stands for the real thing and the imitation." "What's the matter with you, Chrystie? Are you angry?" "Me?" She gave a glance from under her lifted arm. "Why should I be angry?" "I don't know but " An alarming thought seized Lorry, and she moved nearer.
Some day later she would hear the truth, which Lorry had learned from Pancha Lopez. Lorry had also decided that the world must never know just what did happen to the second Miss Alston. The advertisement in the Despatch was withdrawn in time, and those who shared the knowledge were sworn to secrecy. Her efforts to invent a plausible explanation caused Chrystie intense amusement.
When he had finished he could not trust his voice, and staring at the paper, he heard her say: "I've known for some time Chrystie was troubled and not herself, and this afternoon when I saw her go I knew something was wrong. She looked ill; she could hardly speak to me. And then that came, and I telephoned to the Barlows' the place she was going.
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