The Heart Line 28

The Heart Line 28

Madam Spoll glared at her in silence till she had gone; and then, with

an agility extraordinary in so stout a woman, she sprang to the closet,

opened the door and picked up an envelope lying on the floor. It had

been opened. She took the letter out, gave it a hurried glance and then

returned to her seat, stuffing the paper up under her basque.

 

The letter was short enough for her practised eye to master the contents

almost at a glance. It ran:

 

 

My dear Mr. Granthope:—I hope you didn’t take offense at my frankness

the other day—if I was too candid don’t misinterpret it and my interest

in you. Sometime I may explain it more intelligently, but for the

present believe me to be, Your friend, CLYTIE PAYSON.

 

 

Granthope came out after she had concealed the note. He was fully

dressed and almost unrecognizable in his costume. He walked gracefully,

with the light-footed stride of a mandarin, and saluted her with mock

gravity. Madam Spoll stared at him with her mouth open. For a moment

she did not appear to know him. Then she chuckled.

 

"For the land’s sakes, what are you up to now, Frank? Doing the Chinese

doctor’s stunt and selling powdered sea-horses?"

 

He laughed at her surprise. "No, I’m doing society," he explained.

 

"Do ’em good, then! Lord, you are a-butting in this time, ain’t you! I

wouldn’t know you from a Sam Yup highbinder on a Chiny New Year in that

rig! What is it, a fancy-dress ball at the Mechanics’ Pavilion?"

 

"Worse than that," he laughed; "this is a private supper-party in

costume and I am a guest."

 

"Lord, you are getting on, for fair! You ain’t been conning them swell

girls for nothing, have you? And, to be frank with you, I always thought

you was after something very different. I was kind of afraid they’d

spoil you, too. It’s a good graft, Frank, and if I can do anything to

give you a lift, just say the word."

 

"Thanks," he said dryly, taking a seat in front of her and pulling his

long sleeves up to his wrist.

 

She kept her eyes upon him, as if fascinated by the gorgeousness of his

costume, seemingly a little in fear of his elegant manners as well.

Then she broke out, pettishly:

 

"Say, Fancy’s getting pretty fresh, seems to me. She’s a very different

girl from what she was when she used to play spook for us. She was glad

enough once to be polite—butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth them days!"

 

"Oh, you mustn’t mind Fancy; she’s all right when you get used to her."

 

"She’s pretty, if she is sassy," the medium acknowledged. "I can hardly

blame you, Frank. I s’pose you find a good use for her. She seems to

be pretty fond of you."

 

Granthope scowled. "Never mind about her. She’s a great help to me

here, and I like her—that’s enough for you. You didn’t come here to

talk about Fancy Gray."

 

"I should think your ladies would object, though," the medium pursued.

"It looks kind of funny, don’t it? She stays here pretty late, it seems

to me, if any one was to notice it. Some ladies don’t like that sort of

thing; they get jealous. Fancy’s too pretty by half!"

 

"That’ll be about all about Fancy Gray. Suppose we change the subject."

 

"Very good then; we’ll change it to another girl that’s as pretty. How

would Miss Payson do to talk about?"

 

"What about her?"

 

"A whole lot about her. How are you getting along with her, for the

first thing?"

 

Granthope smiled with an air of satisfaction, but contented himself with

remarking, "Oh, I’m getting on all right. I can attend to my own end of

the game, thank you. I’ve handled women before."

 

"More ways than one, eh?"

 

"She’s not that kind. Don’t you believe it!"

 

"Then what, for the Lord’s sake, are you doing with her!" Madam Spoll

gave her words a playful accent that he resented. Then she added, more

seriously: "Frank, d’you know, I believe you could marry that girl. If

you have changed yourself enough to like that kind, you might go farther

and fare worse. She’d give you a good stand-in with the Western

Addition, too. And we might help you out a bit; who knows! I can see

all sorts of things in it, just as it stands."

 

"I haven’t begun to think of anything like that," he replied carelessly.

 

"Of course not. I know well enough what you was thinking of. But you

take my advice and don’t spoil a big thing for a little one. Work her

easy and you can land her. That’s better a good sight than playing with

her in your usual way."

 

He rose and walked to the window and looked out, vaguely annoyed. He

turned, in a moment, to ask, "Has the old man made a will?"

 

"D’you mean to say you ain’t found that out yet? Lord, Frank, you _are_

getting slow. I don’t know. I ain’t come to that yet. But if he

ain’t, I’ll see that he does make one, and that’s where I can look out

for your interests."

 

There was a slight sneer on his face. "Oh, don’t trouble yourself.

I’ve my own system, you know. I haven’t made many breaks yet. It’s

likely that I can help you more than you can me. That reminds me; you

might take these notes. It’s about all I have got from the girl so far.

They may come in handy."

 

He went to his desk, took a couple of cards from a tin box in the top

drawer, and handed them to Madam Spoll. She looked them over

interestedly.

 

"Much obliged. H’m! So she thinks she’s a psychic, does she? They

might be something in that. Supposed to be engaged to B. Cayley. Well,

you’ll have to fix _him_, won’t you! Father writing a book—ah! That’s

just what we want. Say, that’s great! Me and Vixley will work that

book, don’t you worry! Wears a ring with ’Clytie’ inside. Turquoises.

Mole on left cheek. Goes to Mercantile Library three to five. Sun-dial

with doll buried under it. That’s funny. I wish it was papers, or

something important—I don’t see what we could do with a doll, do you?

Still, you never can tell. All’s generally fish that comes to my net.

I’ve known stranger things than dolls. Making a birthday present of a

hand-bound volume of what? Montaigne? What’s that? Say, what’s this

about Madam Grant, anyway?"

 

He turned to her and held out his hand for the card, now distinctly

impatient. "I don’t know—that is, I forgot I put that on. There’s

nothing there that will help you, I guess. You’d better let me have it

back, after all. It’s chiefly about Miss Payson, anyway, and that isn’t

your business."

 

Madam Spoll refused to return the card. Instead, she tucked it into the

front of her dress, saying, "Oh, I don’t know. You never know what may

be useful. It’s well to be prepared."

 

"See here; you understand that you’re to keep your hands off Miss

Payson," said Granthope with emphasis. "She’s my game. Do what you like

with the old man, but leave me alone, that’s all!"

 

"Don’t you fret yourself about that. Ain’t we worked together before,

for gracious sakes? I guess I can mind my own business!"

 

The palmist walked over to the fireplace, stood leaning against the

mantel and kicked the fender meditatively, somewhat disturbed by Madam

Spoll’s presence. He had seen Miss Payson only twice, yet he had already

come to the point where he was annoyed to hear her so cold-bloodedly

discussed, and his own heartless notes quoted. Even less could he enjoy

thinking of so fine and delicate a creature in the toils of Vixley and

Spoll. No, she was for his own plucking. She was a quarry well worth

his chase. To share his plans with such vulgar plotters seemed to

cheapen the prize, to rub off the bloom of her beauty and charm. He

would play a more exquisite, a more subtle game. It would not do,

however, to break with the mediums. They were still useful to him, in

spite of his assertion of independence. They knew, besides, altogether

too much about him for him to dare to kindle their resentment.

 

If Madam Spoll had noticed his detachment she did not show it. She

herself had, evidently, been thinking something over, and now she

interrupted his meditation.

 

"Say, Frank, about that old Madam Grant, now—"

 

"She wasn’t so old, was she?"

 

"How d’you know she wasn’t?"

 

He covered his mistake as well as he could with: "Oh, I’ve heard she was

a young woman, not more than thirty, when she died."

 

"Well, it’s so far back, it seems as though she must have been old. You

know I fished a little with what you give me about her and Payson;

putting that together with what Lulu Ellis got, I believe I can work

him. Funny you happened on that bit. Did the Payson girl tell you?"

 

"Oh, I got it—she let it out in a way. You know."

 

Madam Spoll chuckled. "Lord, they tell us more’n we ever tell _them_,

don’t they! But I was saying: I wish I could find out more about that

little boy Madam Grant used to keep. I wonder was he her son, now?"

 

"I suppose you might find out something if you looked up the files of the _Chronicle_."