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Her brown head and white throat, her soft, rose-tinted face emerging from the black dress, were youth itself a vision of youth and lusty-hood brilliantly painted on the white wall. Delane looked his fill.
We see finally that dominant Press itself, personified in the all-powerful Delane, a potentate with convictions at once flexible and vehement; forceful without spite and merciless without malignity; writing no articles, but evoking, shaping, revising all.
"You've got to arrange a time when I can see you alone? When shall it be?" Silence. But far ahead there were sounds as of some one approaching. Delane leapt on the step of the cart. "This is Monday. Wednesday night get rid of everybody! You can do it if you like. I shall come at nine. You've got to let me in." Her white, quivering face was all his answer. "Don't forget," he said, jumping down.
The only problem with regard to such a man is who will get him first. Fate had decided that it should be Lora Delane Porter. To-day Mrs. Porter, having circled the park in rapid time, turned her car down Central Park West. She was feeling much refreshed by the pleasant air.
There were flowers on the table, and the meal wore a home-like and tempting air to the crouching spy outside. Rachel smiled incessantly, and it seemed to Delane that the handsome man beside her could not take his eyes from her. Nor could Delane.
He became a contributor, and very soon a leading contributor, to the "Times," while his close and confidential intercourse with Mr. Delane gave him a considerable voice in its management.
But the wood of the shutter was old and full of chinks, and Delane, pressing his face to the window, was able to get just a glimpse of the scene within Rachel at the head of the table, the man in uniform beside her three other women. A paraffin lamp threw the shadow of the persons at the table sharply on the white distempered wall.
And so it came about that Bailey, instead of falling upon Kirk Winfield, hailed a taxicab and drove to the apartment of Mrs. Lora Delane Porter. Wherein Opposites Agree The maid who opened the door showed a reluctance to let Bailey in. She said that Mrs. Porter was busy with her writing and had given orders that she was not to be disturbed. Nothing could have infuriated Bailey more.
Lora Delane Porter came downstairs with the measured impressiveness of one who bears weighty news. Her determined face was pale and tired, as it had every right to be; but she bore herself proudly, as one who has fought and not been defeated. "Mr. Winfield," she said. There was no answer. Looking about her, she found the studio empty.
Once the idea suggested itself, she was certain of it it must be true. The appearance in the lane had been cleverly premeditated. She had been watched for days, perhaps for weeks. Ellesborough had been watched, too, no doubt. She drew a shuddering breath. She was afraid of Roger Delane. From the early days of her marriage she had been afraid of him.
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