“My God, Paul,” she said, “I’m glad that I met you!”
Paul Pry watched the outer door of the apartment move slowly shut until the spring lock automatically clicked into position and then smiled at her. “It was,” he said, “a real pleasure to me, Stella.”
“And,” she said, smiling at him with half-parted lips and steady eyes, “we’re old friends. Wasn’t that the understanding, Paul?”
“Yes, Stella.”
“Very well then,” she said, “I’m going to get out of these clothes and get into something comfortable. Wait here and make yourself at home.”
Paul Pry’s hand once more hovered about the lapel of his coat as she opened the door of the connecting bedroom, but the door closed without event and Paul Pry moved to a chair which gave him a commanding position, sat down, crossed his knees and lit a cigarette.
Five minutes later the bedroom door opened and Stella came out, a vision of filmy loveliness. And it may or may not have been accident that she had placed a very bright light directly behind her, that she stood for a long moment in the doorway of the bedroom before switching out the light, and that the brilliant illumination transformed her silken coverings into a mere filmy aura which served to frame, without concealing, her every curve.
She switched out the light and came to him.
She perched on the arm of his chair; her fingers smoothed his hair; one leg swinging free in a pendulum-like arc, swung clear of the filmy silken covering.
“Paul,” she said, “really and truly I feel as though I’ve known you all my life.”
“Go ahead then,” he said, “and confide in me.”
She sighed and her hands dropped from his hair, brushed lightly along his cheek and then came to rest on his shoulders.
“Paul,” she said, “don’t look at me while I tell you. I can’t bear that. Sit just as you are and listen.”
“Listening,” he told her.
“Did you ever hear of a man called ‘Silver’ Dawson?”
“No,” said Paul Pry. “Who is Silver Dawson?”
“The worst fiend unhung,” she said with vehemence.
“That still leaves a lot to my imagination,” Paul Pry reminded.
“He’s got the letters,” she told him.
“What letters?”
“The letters that I wrote to a man who betrayed my confidence.”
“Indeed?” said Paul Pry.
“Yes,” she said. “And you see I was married at the time.”
“Ah,” said Paul Pry in a tone of quickening interest, “and you’re married now?”
“No, my husband is dead.”
“I see,” he said, in a tone of one who waits for further revelations.
“But he left this peculiar will,” she said, “in which my inheritance was predicated upon my fidelity. The will contained a proviso that if it should appear I had been unfaithful to him during our married life, the inheritance was to go to a charitable institution.”
“I see,” said Paul Pry, “and the letters threaten to complicate things?”
“The letters,” she said, “would ruin me.”
“You shouldn’t have written them,” he told her.
She slid her palm under his chin, tilted his head so that her eyes could stare down into his. “Tell me,” she said, “did you ever do anything that you shouldn’t have done?”
“Lots of times,” he said.
“All right then. So have I.”
Paul Pry laughed and patted her hand.
“And,” she said meaningfully, “I intend to do other things that I shouldn’t do. It’s lots of fun. But I don’t like to lose an inheritance on account of an innocent affair.”
“Innocent?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
“Then the letters can’t be so very bad,” he told her.
“The letters,” she said archly, “are quite likely to be misunderstood. You understand I have always been a woman of restrictions and inhibitions. It goes back to the time of my girlhood. I was brought up by old-fashioned parents and I was the victim of a too puritanical training. As a result, when I started to write, all of my repressed desires came to the front and were manifest in the letters.”
“I take it, then,” said Paul Pry, “the letters would not listen well in front of a jury.”
“Well,” she said judicially, “unless the members of the jury were pretty well up on lovemaking they’d get some great ideas.”
“Therefore,” said Paul Pry, “you do not wish to have the letters read before a jury.”
“Naturally.”
“What,” asked Paul Pry, “does Silver Dawson say about it?”
“He’s a cold-blooded snake,” she said. “He’s called Silver because of his shock of white hair, that makes him look old, patient, dignified and sort of grand. But he’d steal the pennies off the eyes of a corpse.”
“Naturally,” said Paul Pry, “he has some proposition to offer.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s ruinous.”
“Certainly,” said Paul Pry, “he wouldn’t want more than a percentage of what you inherited.”
“It isn’t money he wants,” she said. “He wants things that I cannot give.”
Her voice lowered until it was hardly more than a whisper.
“He said that I must go to Europe with him.”
Her face took on an expression of virginal, injured innocence. Her eyes seemed limpid with tears that were about to spring to the surface and she stared pathetically at Paul Pry.
“And what do you intend to do?” asked Paul Pry.
“I told you,” she said, “I was going to commit suicide.”
“Now you’ve changed your mind?” he asked her, petting her hand.
“Yes. I’ve so much to live for — now.”
“Well,” pressed Paul Pry, “haven’t you any scheme?”
She looked at him in impersonal appraisal. Just the sort of a glance which a scientist might give to an impaled butterfly before classifying it.
“Well,” she said slowly, “I have a scheme which I was thinking of while we were dancing. You seemed so graceful and well knit, so poised and completely able to take care of yourself, that a wild idea flashed through my head. But I’m afraid that it’s hardly practicable, and it’s something I have no right to ask a virtual stranger.”
“An old friend, Stella,” he said, patting her hand.
“Very well then,” she said, “as an old friend you’re entitled to hear the scheme, and — to have the prerogatives of an old friendship.”
She leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly, full upon the lips.
“Ah,” said Paul Pry. “The duties of such a friendship certainly cannot detract from its net advantage!”
She laughed and pinched his cheek. “Silly boy!” she said.
Paul Pry said nothing, but sat waiting.
Once more the blue eyes gave him that appraising glance, and then she spoke in low, throaty tones.
“Silver Dawson has a certain circle of acquaintances, not in the best class of society but, nevertheless, a wealthy class. He’s giving a masquerade party tomorrow night at his house. I just had an idea that you might capitalize on that. You see, the guests will be in all sorts of costumes. I thought it might be possible for you to go as a highwayman.”
“A highwayman?” asked Paul Pry.
“Yes. You know with a mask and a gun and everything. It would make an interesting costume.”