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Frank found Aleta, dry-eyed, frantic, pacing up and down her little sitting room which always looked so quaintly attractive with its jumble of paintings and bric-a-brac, its distinctive furniture and draperies all symbolic of the helter-skelter artistry which was a part of Aleta's nature. She took Frank's hand and clung to it. "I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "I'm so glad you've come."
A third attempt, however, and Aleta's voice, half frantic, answered his. "He's killed himself," she cried. "Oh, Frank, I don't know what to do." "He? Who?" Frank asked startled. "Frank, you know! The man who wanted me to " "Do you mean the Supervisor?" "Yes.... They say it was an accident. But I know better. He lost his money in the safe deposit failure.... Oh, Frank, please come to me, quick."
He had received the funds that corrupted an entire city government. Gallagher had been the go-between, receiving a part of the "graft funds" to be divided among his fellow Supervisors. Each of the crooked sixteen had been guaranteed immunity from imprisonment in consideration of their testimony. "Well, that saves Aleta's friend, at any rate," thought Frank.
"Tell me of your actress friend. Do you see her often?" Bertha asked. "Not very. She's a good pal. But she's ... well, not like you." Her eyes searched him. "Do you mean she's not as pretty, Frank?" "Oh, I don't know," he answered. "It's because I love you, dear. Aleta's right enough. But she's not oh, you know essential." Bertha squeezed his arm. Was silent for a moment.
Well, she had fulfilled her promise. God grant, he thought passionately, that the awakening had been in a happier world. At six o'clock he went to Aleta's apartment. She had not yet arrived but presently she came. He saw that she had been crying. She could scarcely speak. "Frank, let us walk somewhere," she said. "I can't go upstairs; it's too full of memories. And I can't sit still.
Frank signalled to the waiter. "She's anybody's kind," he said, forcibly. "But not yours, Mr. Stanley." "Mine? Why not?" "Because you don't love her." Norah's tone was sad, half bitter. "Will you forgive me? I'm sorry I provoked you.... But I had to know.... Aleta's such a dear. She's been so good to me." The Christmas holidays brought handsome stock displays to all the stores.
Frank was grateful to the Powers for this rushing pageant of political events. It gave him little chance to grieve. Now and then the tragedy of Bertha gripped him by the throat and shook him with its devastating loneliness. He found a certain solace in Aleta's company. She was always ready, glad to walk or dine with him. She knew his silences; she understood.
But his prophetic eloquence availed him little. Schmitz and all the Union Labor candidates won by a great majority. Frank sought Aleta at the Dusty Doughnut some months later. He was very tired, for the past few days had brought a multitude of tasks. He had counted on Aleta's smile. It seldom failed to cheer him, to restore the normal balance of his mind.
He remembered now Aleta's mention of a love affair that turned out badly. Aleta had gone down to hearten her friend from these dolors. And he recalled, with a desperate, tearing remorse, a casual-enough remark of Norah's: "You always cheer me up, Frank, when you come to see me." He recalled, as well, her comment, months before, that she would awake from her dream in one way or another.
"If you'll forgive me," her eyes were upon him, "I am driving at masculine obtuseness ... and Aleta's happiness." "Then you're wasting your time," he spoke sharply. "Aleta loves another.... She's told me so." "Did she tell you his name?" "No, some prig of a professor, probably.... Thinks he's 'not her kind." "Yes ... let's have another cup of coffee. Yes, Aleta told me that."
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