They have all been nice to me."
Cowperwood"s gorge rose at her calling Lane Cross dear. It incensed him, and yet he held his peace.
"Do give me your word that there will never be anything between you and any of these men so long as you are friendly with me?" he almost pleaded--a strange role for him. "I don"t care to share you with any one else. I won"t. I don"t mind what you have done in the past, but I don"t want you to be unfaithful in the future."
"What a question! Of course I won"t. But if you don"t believe me--oh, dear--"
Stephanie sighed painfully, and Cowperwood"s face clouded with angry though well-concealed suspicion and jealousy.
"Well, I"ll tell you, Stephanie, I believe you now. I"m going to take your word. But if you do deceive me, and I should find it out, I will quit you the same day. I do not care to share you with any one else.
What I can"t understand, if you care for me, is how you can take so much interest in all these affairs? It certainly isn"t devotion to your art that"s impelling you, is it?"
"Oh, are you going to go on quarreling with me?" asked Stephanie, naively. "Won"t you believe me when I say that I love you? Perhaps--"
But here her histrionic ability came to her aid, and she sobbed violently.
Cowperwood took her in his arms. "Never mind," he soothed. "I do believe you. I do think you care for me. Only I wish you weren"t such a b.u.t.terfly temperament, Stephanie."
So this particular lesion for the time being was healed.
Chapter XXVIII
The Exposure of Stephanie
At the same time the thought of readjusting her relations so that they would avoid disloyalty to Cowperwood was never further from Stephanie"s mind. Let no one quarrel with Stephanie Platow. She was an unstable chemical compound, artistic to her finger-tips, not understood or properly guarded by her family. Her interest in Cowperwood, his force and ability, was intense. So was her interest in Forbes Gurney--the atmosphere of poetry that enveloped him. She studied him curiously on the various occasions when they met, and, finding him bashful and recessive, set out to lure him. She felt that he was lonely and depressed and poor, and her womanly capacity for sympathy naturally bade her be tender.
Her end was easily achieved. One night, when they were all out in Bliss Bridge"s single-sticker--a fast-sailing saucer--Stephanie and Forbes Gurney sat forward of the mast looking at the silver moon track which was directly ahead. The rest were in the c.o.c.kpit "cutting up"--laughing and singing. It was very plain to all that Stephanie was becoming interested in Forbes Gurney; and since he was charming and she wilful, nothing was done to interfere with them, except to throw an occasional jest their way. Gurney, new to love and romance, scarcely knew how to take his good fortune, how to begin. He told Stephanie of his home life in the wheat-fields of the Northwest, how his family had moved from Ohio when he was three, and how difficult were the labors he had always undergone. He had stopped in his plowing many a day to stand under a tree and write a poem--such as it was--or to watch the birds or to wish he could go to college or to Chicago. She looked at him with dreamy eyes, her dark skin turned a copper bronze in the moonlight, her black hair irradiated with a strange, luminous grayish blue. Forbes Gurney, alive to beauty in all its forms, ventured finally to touch her hand--she of Knowles, Cross, and Cowperwood--and she thrilled from head to toe. This boy was so sweet. His curly brown hair gave him a kind of Greek innocence and aspect. She did not move, but waited, hoping he would do more.
"I wish I might talk to you as I feel," he finally said, hoa.r.s.ely, a catch in his throat.
She laid one hand on his.
"You dear!" she said.
He realized now that he might. A great ecstasy fell upon him. He smoothed her hand, then slipped his arm about her waist, then ventured to kiss the dark cheek turned dreamily from him. Artfully her head sunk to his shoulder, and he murmured wild nothings--how divine she was, how artistic, how wonderful! With her view of things, it could only end one way. She manoeuvered him into calling on her at her home, into studying her books and plays on the top-floor sitting-room, into hearing her sing. Once fully in his arms, the rest was easy by suggestion. He learned she was no longer innocent, and then-- In the mean time Cowperwood mingled his speculations concerning large power-houses, immense reciprocating engines, the problem of a wage scale for his now two thousand employees, some of whom were threatening to strike, the problem of securing, bonding, and equipping the La Salle Street tunnel and a down-town loop in La Salle, Munroe, Dearborn, and Randolph streets, with mental inquiries and pictures as to what possibly Stephanie Platow might be doing. He could only make appointments with her from time to time. He did not fail to note that, after he began to make use of information she let drop as to her whereabouts from day to day and her free companionship, he heard less of Gardner Knowles, Lane Cross, and Forbes Gurney, and more of Georgia Timberlake and Ethel Tuckerman. Why this sudden reticence? On one occasion she did say of Forbes Gurney "that he was having such a hard time, and that his clothes weren"t as nice as they should be, poor dear!" Stephanie herself, owing to gifts made to her by Cowperwood, was resplendent these days. She took just enough to complete her wardrobe according to her taste.
"Why not send him to me?" Cowperwood asked. "I might find something to do for him." He would have been perfectly willing to put him in some position where he could keep track of his time. However, Mr. Gurney never sought him for a position, and Stephanie ceased to speak of his poverty. A gift of two hundred dollars, which Cowperwood made her in June, was followed by an accidental meeting with her and Gurney in Washington Street. Mr. Gurney, pale and pleasant, was very well dressed indeed. He wore a pin which Cowperwood knew had once belonged to Stephanie. She was in no way confused. Finally Stephanie let it out that Lane Cross, who had gone to New Hampshire for the summer, had left his studio in her charge. Cowperwood decided to have this studio watched.
There was in Cowperwood"s employ at this time a young newspaper man, an ambitious spark aged twenty-six, by the name of Francis Kennedy. He had written a very intelligent article for the Sunday Inquirer, describing Cowperwood and his plans, and pointing out what a remarkable man he was. This pleased Cowperwood. When Kennedy called one day, announcing smartly that he was anxious to get out of reportorial work, and inquiring whether he couldn"t find something to do in the street-railway world, Cowperwood saw in him a possibly useful tool.
"I"ll try you out as secretary for a while," he said, pleasantly.
"There are a few special things I want done. If you succeed in those, I may find something else for you later."
Kennedy had been working for him only a little while when he said to him one day: "Francis, did you ever hear of a young man by the name of Forbes Gurney in the newspaper world?"
They were in Cowperwood"s private office.
"No, sir," replied Francis, briskly.
"You have heard of an organization called the Garrick Players, haven"t you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, Francis, do you suppose you could undertake a little piece of detective work for me, and handle it intelligently and quietly?"
"I think so," said Francis, who was the pink of perfection this morning in a brown suit, garnet tie, and sard sleeve-links. His shoes were immaculately polished, and his young, healthy face glistened.
"I"ll tell you what I want you to do. There is a young actress, or amateur actress, by the name of Stephanie Platow, who frequents the studio of an artist named Cross in the New Arts Building. She may even occupy it in his absence--I don"t know. I want you to find out for me what the relations of Mr. Gurney and this woman are. I have certain business reasons for wanting to know."
Young Kennedy was all attention.
"You couldn"t tell me where I could find out anything about this Mr.
Gurney to begin with, could you?" he asked.
"I think he is a friend of a critic here by the name of Gardner Knowles. You might ask him. I need not say that you must never mention me.
"Oh, I understand that thoroughly, Mr. Cowperwood." Young Kennedy departed, meditating. How was he to do this? With true journalistic skill he first sought other newspaper men, from whom he learned--a bit from one and a sc.r.a.p from another--of the character of the Garrick Players, and of the women who belonged to it. He pretended to be writing a one-act play, which he hoped to have produced.
He then visited Lane Cross"s studio, posing as a newspaper interviewer.
Mr. Cross was out of town, so the elevator man said. His studio was closed.
Mr. Kennedy meditated on this fact for a moment.
"Does any one use his studio during the summer months?" he asked.
"I believe there is a young woman who comes here--yes."
"You don"t happen to know who it is?"
"Yes, I do. Her name is Platow. What do you want to know for?"
"Looky here," exclaimed Kennedy, surveying the rather shabby attendant with a cordial and persuasive eye, "do you want to make some money--five or ten dollars, and without any trouble to you?"
The elevator man, whose wages were exactly eight dollars a week, p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.
"I want to know who comes here with this Miss Platow, when they come--all about it. I"ll make it fifteen dollars if I find out what I want, and I"ll give you five right now."
The elevator factotum had just sixty-five cents in his pocket at the time. He looked at Kennedy with some uncertainty and much desire.
"Well, what can I do?" he repeated. "I"m not here after six. The janitor runs this elevator from six to twelve."
"There isn"t a room vacant anywhere near this one, is there?" Kennedy asked, speculatively.
The factotum thought. "Yes, there is. One just across the hall."
"What time does she come here as a rule?"