“But even if you show him up as worthless, will Helen come back to you, Jim?”
The color came to his face and he laughed with a queer twist to his mouth.
“Am I as horrible as all that, Bupps?”
His words brought a lump to my throat. I went over to him and almost hugged him.
“Jim, you're such a peach—dammit all—”
I heard a light step behind me.
“Oh, Bupps!” laughed Mary, “if you'd only make love to me in that ardent fashion, I'd drag you to the altar by your few remaining hairs.”
I stood up, blushing in spite of myself. She can always make me feel that whatever I am doing is either stupid or foolish.
“Dinner is served, and I'm starving. Come on, people!” she announced, leading the way to the dining-room.
“Where's Helen?” I asked.
“She's not coming down. She has a slight headache,” Mary answered, giving me a warning look. “I am delegated to be lady of the manor this evening.” She looked so adorable as she curtsied to us that I felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to grab her in my arms and smother her with kisses, but remembering what she had done to me once when I yielded to impulse, I refrained.
When we sat down to the table, Helen's empty place threatened to cast a gloom over the party, so Mary told Wicks to remove it.
“It's too much like Banquo's ghost,” she whispered, laughing merrily at Jim.
“Speaking of ghosts,” said Jim turning to me, “I hear the labor people are asking the governor to pardon Zalnitch.”
“A lot of good it will do them,” I responded. “If ever a man deserved hanging, he does.”
“I know, but labor is awfully strong now, and with the unsettled social conditions in the state, a bigger man than Governor Fallon might find it expedient to let Zalnitch off.”
“Who is Zalnitch? Don't think I've met the gentleman,” Mary said.
“He's the Russian who was supposed to be the ring-leader of the gang that blew up the Yellow Funnel steamship piers in 1915,” I explained.
“Do you mean to say he hasn't been hanged yet?”
“Yes!” Jim answered. “And what's more, I'm afraid he's going to be pardoned.”
“Not really, Jim?” I queried.
“Yes! I'm almost sure of it. Fallon is a machine man before everything else, although he was elected on a pro-American ticket. They are threatening to do all kinds of things to him, just as they threatened me, unless Zalnitch goes free, and I think Fallon is afraid of them, not physically perhaps, but politically. He wants reelection.”
Jim had helped the prosecuting attorney convict Zalnitch; in fact it was Jim's work more than anything else that had sent the Russian to prison. At the time, Jim had received a lot of threatening letters, just as every other American who denounced the Germans before we entered the war had received them. Nothing had come of it, of course, and after we went in, the whole matter dropped from public attention. Zalnitch had been sent to prison, but his friends had worked constantly for commutation of his sentence. With labor's new power, due to the fear of Bolshevism, they were again bringing influence to bear on the governor.
Wicks had removed the soup plates and was bringing in the roast, when Annie appeared. The girl was both frightened and angry.
“Mr. Felderson?”
Jim looked up. “What is it, Annie?”
“Will you come up-stairs, please, sir?”
Mary pushed back her chair, “I'll go, Jim.”
“It's Mr. Felderson that's wanted,” Annie said with just a touch of asperity.
“Yes, you two better stay here and amuse each other,” said Jim. “Bupps, you carve!”
“If Bupps carves, I'm sure to be amused,” laughed Mary.
Jim left, and I went around to his place. If there is one thing I do more badly than another, it is carving. At home it's done in the kitchen, but Jim takes great pride in the neatness and celerity with which he separates the component parts of a fowl and so insists on having the undissected whole brought to the table.
“What is it to-night?” Mary asked as I eyed my task with disfavor.
“Roast duck.” I tried to speak casually.
“Wait, Bupps, while Wicks lays the oilcloth and I get an umbrella.”
“Smarty!” I responded, grabbing my tools firmly, “you wait and see! I watched Jim the last time he carved one of these and I know just how it's done.”
I speared for the duck's back, but the fork skidded down the slippery side of the bird and spattered a drop of gravy in front of me.
“I'm waiting and seeing,” Mary chided.
“Well, you wanted some gravy, didn't you?”
“Yes, but on my plate, please.”
This time I placed the tines of the fork carefully on the exact middle of the duck's breast and gently pushed, giving some aid and comfort with my knife. The little beast eased over on the platter an inch or two.
“The thing's still alive,” I exclaimed, getting mad.
“If you'll let me have full control, I'll carve it for you,” Mary spoke up.
“Come on, then,” I responded, gladly relinquishing my place. With a deftness and ease that could only be explained by the fact that the duck was ready and willing to be carved, she removed the legs and then demolished the bird altogether.
There was the sound of voices raised in altercation up-stairs, the slamming of a door and the patter of feet rapidly descending the steps. The next moment Helen burst into the room. She was fully dressed for going out and was pinning on her hat with spiteful little jabs.
“Will you take me home, Warren?”
Mary left me and went over to her.
“What has happened, Helen?”
“Oh, I can't stay here another minute. It is bad enough to have to stay in the same house with a man you loathe, but when a husband bribes his wife's servants to spy on her and watch over her as though she were a dangerous lunatic—”
Her eyes were blazing. Mary put her arm around her and tried to quiet her.
“Helen, dear, you don't know how ridiculous that is. No one is spying on you.”
Helen tore herself away.
“That's right, stand up for him! You're all against me, I know. The only reason Warren brought you here, was to try to talk me into staying with him. Well, I won't, you understand? I won't! I hate him! I could kill him! If you won't take me home, Warren, I'll go alone.” She was almost hysterical.