HEN a young man meets face to face the girl of his dreams, artistic or amatory, the nature of things requires that he shall be dressed to the queen's taste. What queen is irrelevant, as all the romancers I wot of disagree. Certainly it may not be the Lady of Cyprus, since she was non-sartorial; Margot, perhaps, or Mary; some half-goddess, posing mistily between history and tradition; not Elizabeth, to whom I deny any taste whatever. To proceed. He shall wear in his buttonhole a gardenia by preference, the popular vote having been given to that delicate flower in the remote but unforgetable epoch of Moths. There shall be no flaw in the outward make-up which appoints “men ... gay deceivers ever.” A doffed hat, all but brushing the varnished boots, a gloved hand covering the heart....
After all, I have no right to make light of Forbes' predicament. It is not very agreeable to have Her burst in upon you when you look ready for the oven, like a Thanksgiving turkey. And Forbes, for all his amatory flights, was (and is) a clean, kindly, honorable young man, capable of rising to heights, as shall be seen.
“What the devil are you doing here?” thundered the elderly man.
Forbes mumbled behind his handkerchief.
“What's been going on here?”
The girl, however, had some sense. She quickly unknotted the handkerchief. Forbes gasped hungrily, like a fish out of water, and worked his tongue around his cheeks. Something issued from his numb lips that sounded like “Thank you.”
“What has happened?” demanded the girl.
“A gentleman in a black mask....”
“Janet, the safe! We have been robbed! I told you it would happen!”
The girl and her father rushed over, getting in each other's way.
“Never saw the ruby nor the money!”
“But he has taken my jewel-box!” The girl stood up, leaning against the wall, her eyes shut. Forbes expected her to crumple up and sink to the floor, like one of Piffle's heroines. “My jewel-box!”—in a low murmur.
“I beg pardon,” said Forbes; “but I'd be extremely grateful if you'd take off these things. What time is it?”—irrelevantly.
“What time is it!” bawled the girl's father. “Well, you're a cool hand! Quarter after nine.”
“Quarter after nine? Haven't I been here any longer than that?”
“What I want to know is, what are you doing here at all?” The elderly man picked up the extension telephone.
“Father, what are you going to do?”
“Do?”—irately. “Why, send down to the club for the caterer. What do you suppose?”
“If you call the police you'll only make me very unhappy. I forbid you.”
“Good lord!” Her father set down the telephone roughly. “Have your own way; but some fine night we'll have our throats cut.”
Forbes stared at the girl, much astonished. No hysterical wringing of hands, no rushing about aimlessly; only a quiet acceptance of the inevitable. She did not want the police; investigation would only make her unhappy. What had that box contained? Then his astonishment gave place to speculative admiration. He saw her profile on the cover of The World-Wide, her arms filled with golden-rod. Corking cover. He could use the head for a year at least. No hesitant art-editors when they saw this. What a find!
“Will you kindly tell us how you came here?” The girl turned to Forbes inquiringly.
“I am Mortimer Forbes,” he said simply.
Her eyebrows remained elevated.
“The illustrator.”
No change in her expression.
She had never heard of him! And she wasn't a foreigner, either. Forbes was rather abashed.
“I came in here believing it to be the apartment of Mr. Jillson, my friend,”
“Jillson? Oh, now we are getting somewhere. Know him. Same club. Lives over us. Moved in last week. Soon find out whether you're telling the truth or not. I'll go up and get him. If he knows Mr.—ah—”
“Forbes”—dully. Not that Forbes was a vain man, but he believed it a matter of course that everybody had heard of him or seen his work.
“—Forbes. If what you say is true....” The excited parent did not complete the sentence but bolted from the apartment.
The girl walked over to the safe again and rummaged about. She was as pale as a lily. “You saw a man in a mask?”
“Yes.”
“You saw him take a box?”
“Yes. A Florentine affair.” The stole was biting painfully. “He made no attempt to open it.”
She nodded. Then she held out for his inspection a large roll of crisp green and yellow bills.
“He couldn't have seen it,” replied Forbes, understanding her gesture.
“Do you know how much is there?”