It was ten o'clock in the morning when Martin brought his car to a stop and looked up at the heavy Gothic decorations of a pompous house in East Fifty-fifth Street."Is this it?""Yes," said Joan, getting out of the leather-lined coat that he had wrapped her in."It really is a house, isn't it; and luckily, all the gargoyles are on the outside." She held out her hand and gave Martin the sort of smile for which any genuine man would sell his soul."Marty," she added, "you've been far more than a brother to me.You've been a cousin.I shall never be able to thank you.And Iadored the drive with our noses turned to the city.I shan't be able to be seen on the streets until I've got some frocks, so please come and see me every day.As soon as Alice has got over her shock at the sight of me, I'm going to compose an historical letter to Grandmother.""Let her down lightly," said Martin, climbing out with the suit-case."You've won."
"Yes, that's true; but I shouldn't be a woman if I didn't get in the last word.""You're not a woman," said Martin."You're a kid, and you're in New York, and you're light-headed; so look out."Joan laughed at his sudden gravity and ran up the wide steps and put her finger on the bell."I've written down your telephone number,"she said, "and memorized your address.I'll call you up at three o'clock this afternoon, and if you've nothing else to do, you may take me for a walk in the Park.""I sha'n't have anything else to do."
The door was opened.The footman was obviously English, with the art of footmanism in his blood.
"Is Mrs.Gilbert Palgrave at home?" asked Joan as if the question were entirely superfluous.
"No, miss."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure, miss.Mrs.Palgrave left for Boston yesterday on account of hillness in the family, miss."There was an awkward and appalled silence.Little did the man suspect the kind of blow that his statement contained.
Joan darted an agonized look at Martin.
"But Mr.Palgrave is at 'ome, miss."
And that galvanized the boy into action.He had met Gilbert Palgrave out hunting.He had seen the impertinent, cocksure way in which he ran his eyes over women.He clutched the handle of the case and said: "That's all right, thanks.Miss Ludlow will write to Mrs.
Palgrave." Then he turned and went down the steps to the car.
Trying to look unconcerned, Joan followed.
"Get in, quick," said Martin."We'll talk as we go.""But why? If I don't stay here, where am I to stay?""I don't know.Please get in."
Joan stood firm.The color had come back to her face, and a look of something like anger had taken the place of fright."I didn't tell you to march off like that.Gilbert's here.""That's why we're going," Said Martin.
"I don't understand." Her eyes were blazing.
"I know you don't.You can't stay in that house.It isn't done.""I can do it, and I must do it.Do you suppose I'm going back with my tail between my legs?""If we argue here, we shall collect a crowd." He got into the car and held out his hand.
Joan ignored it but followed him in.She was angry, puzzled, disappointed, nonplussed.Alice had no right to be away on such an occasion.Everything had looked so easy and smooth-sailing.Even Martin had changed into a different man, and was ordering her about.
If he thought he could drive her back to that prison again, he was considerably wrong.She would never go back, never.
The car was running slowly."Have you any other friends in town?"asked Martin, who seemed to be trying to hide an odd kind of excitement.
"No," said Joan."Alice is my only friend here.Drive to some place where I can call up Gilbert Palgrave and explain the whole thing.
What does it matter about my being alone? If I don't mind, who should? Please do as I say.There's no other place for me to go to, and wild horses sha'n't drag me back.""You sha'n't go back," said Martin.He turned the car up Madison Avenue and drove without another word to East Sixty-seventh Street and stopped in front of a small house that was sandwiched between a mansion and a twelve-story apartment-house."This is mine," he said simply."Will you come in?"A smile of huge relief came into Joan's eyes."Why worry?" she said.
"How foolish of us not to have thought of this before!"But there was no smile on Martin's face.His eyes were amazingly bright and his mouth set firmly.His chin looked squarer than ever.
Once more he carried out the suit-case, put a latchkey into the lock and threw back the door.Joan went in and stood looking about the cheery hall with its old oak, and sporting prints, white wood and red carpet."Oh, but this is perfectly charming, Marty," she cried out."Why did we bother our heads about Alice when there is this haven of refuge?"Martin marched up to her and stood eye to eye."Because I'm alone,"he said, "and you're a girl.That's why."Joan made a face."I see.The conventions again.Isn't there any sort of woman here?""Yes, the cook."
She laughed.There was a comic side to this tragedy, after all, it seemed."Well, perhaps she'll give us some scrambled eggs and coffee.I could eat a horse."Martin opened the door of the sitting room.Like the one in which she had slept so soundly the previous night, it was stamped with the character and personality of the other Martin Gray.Books, warm and friendly, lined the walls.Mounted on wood, fish of different sizes and breeds hung above the cases, and over the fireplace there was a full-length oil painting of a man in a red coat and riding breeches.
His kind eyes greeted Joan.