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"But look here. Before the arrest was known, Ogston was in this room telling everybody that, last night, he gave Lennox a seat in Paliser's box. He will have to testify to it. He can't help himself." "Perhaps I can help him though. I was with Lennox at the time." "You were? That's awkward. You may have to corroborate him." "I certainly shall. I have the seat." "What?" "Lennox dropped the ticket.
But I have a ticket for the Metropolitan. You don't either of you want it, do you?" "Let me see, what is it, to-night?" Jones, with that same false smile, enquired. "And where is the seat?" "In Paliser's box. He's to be alone and left it here with a note asking me to join him." Deeply, beneath his breath, Jones swore, but with the same smile, he tried to shift the subject.
One pitied his wife. "This way, sir." In the inner and airy office, Dunwoodie nodded, motioned at a chair. "Ha! Very good of you to trouble." Jeroloman, seating himself, again removed his hat. Before he could dispose of it, Dunwoodie was at him. "Young Paliser's estate. In round figures what does it amount to?"
Over the ham and eggs of an earlier evening, the syllables of Paliser's name had awakened echoes of old Academy nights and Mapleson's "grand revivals" of the Trovatore, echoes thin and quavering, yet still repeating hymns in glory of the man's angelic papa. On the way from ham and eggs to Harlem, she had, in consequence, conjured, for Cassy's benefit, with performing fleas.
Below, in the street, a man, precipitatingly vacating the box of a machine, touched his cap at her. "Beg pardon, mem. Miss Cara? Mr. Paliser's compliments and he's sent a car." Cassy glanced at the man, who looked like a Roman emperor. From the man she turned to the car. Superiorly and soberly finished, it beckoned. Now, though, the Cæsar was holding open the door. Cassy got in.
The thought of these assets reminded her that in changing her clothes she had omitted to change back into her own stockings. Well, when she changed again she would return the pair which she had on and, as she determined on that, she saw Paliser's face as she had seen it when she threw the vase. That relapse into the primitive shamed her. She had behaved like a fish-wife.
According to the story that followed and which, Jones realised, must have reached the city editor just as the paper was going to press, an attendant, whose duty it was to visit the boxes after the performance and see what, if anything, the occupants had forgotten, had, on entering Paliser's box, found him at the back of it, unconscious, on the floor.
In greeting Lennox he seemed to be in a pleasant dream. The crowd swallowed him. "Who was that?" Mrs. Austen enquired. "Ten Eyck Jones." "The writer?" asked this lady, who liked novels, but who preferred to live them. Meanwhile Paliser was talking to Cassy Cara and the Tamburini. The latter listened idly, with her evil smile. Yet Paliser's name was very evocative.
Meanwhile dishes were brought and removed by servants, wooden-faced, yet with ears alert. The subject of elopements had seemed promising, but it led to nothing. At their own table, talk was gayer. Cassy enjoyed the food, the diluted wine, Paliser's facile touch. He appeared to know a lot and she surprised herself by so telling him. "I wish I did," she added. "I am ignorant as a carp."
Cassy, her steeple-chasing thoughts now out of hand, was saying something and he stopped. "It is very despicable of me even to listen to you. I don't think I would have listened, if you had not been frank. But you have had the honesty not to pretend. I must be equally sincere. It was Paliser's turn. With a laugh he interrupted. "Don't.
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