“I won’t go,” said Juan.
“Please wait outside then. We’ll see you later.”
“I won’t wait outside. I want to speak to Noel. It was you who interrupted.”
“And I have a perfect right to interrupt.” His face reddened angrily. “Just who the devil are you, anyhow?”
“My name is Chandler.”
“Well, Mr Chandler, you’re in the way here—is that plain? Your presence here is an intrusion and a presumption.”
“We look at it in different ways.”
They glared at each other angrily. After a moment Templeton raised Noel to a sitting posture.
“I’m going to take you upstairs, dear,” he said. “This has been a strain today. If you lie down till dinnertime——”
He helped her to her feet. Not looking at Juan, and still dabbing her face with her handkerchief, Noel suffered herself to be persuaded into the hall. Templeton turned in the doorway.
“The maid will give you your hat and coat, Mr Chandler.”
“I’ll wait right here,” said Juan.
VII.
He was still there at half past six, when, following a quick knock, a large broad bulk which Juan recognized as Mr Harold Garneau came into the room.
“Good evening, sir,” said Mr Garneau, annoyed and peremptory. “Just what can I do for you?”
He came closer and a Sicker of recognition passed over his face.
“Oh!” he muttered.
“Good evening, sir,” said Juan.
“It’s you, is it?” Mr Garneau appeared to hesitate. “Brooks Templeton said that you were—that you insisted on seeing Noel”—he coughed—“that you refused to go home.”
“I want to see Noel, if you don’t mind.”
“What for?”
“That’s between Noel and me, Mr Garneau.”
“Mr Templeton and I are quite entitled to represent Noel in this case,” said Mr Garneau patiently. “She has just made the statement before her mother and me that she doesn’t want to see you again. Isn’t that plain enough?”
“I don’t believe it,” said Juan stubbornly. “I’m not in the habit of lying.”
“I beg your pardon. I meant——”
“I don’t want to discuss this unfortunate business with you,” broke out Garneau contemptuously. “I just want you to leave right now—and come back.”
“Why do you call it an unfortunate business?” inquired Juan coolly. “Good night, Mr Chandler.”
“You call it an unfortunate business because Noel’s broken her engagement”
“You are presumptuous, sir!” cried the older man. “Unbearably sumptuous.”
“Mr Garneau, you yourself were once kind enough to tell me——”
“I don’t give a damn what I told you!” cried Garneau. “You get out of here now!”
“Very well, I have no choice. I wish you to be good enough to tell Noel that I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
Juan nodded, went into the hall and took his hat and coat from a chair. Upstairs, he heard running footsteps and a door opened and closed—not before he had caught the sound of impassioned voices and a short broken sob. He hesitated. Then he continued on along the hall towards the front door. Through a portiere of the dining-room he caught sight of a man-servant laying the service for dinner.
He rang the bell the next afternoon at the same hour. This time the butler, evidently instructed, answered the door.
Miss Noel was not at home. Could he leave a note? It was no use; Miss Noel was not in the city. Incredulous but anxious, Juan took a taxicab to
Harold Garneau’s office. “Mr Garneau can’t see you. If you like, he will speak to you for a moment on the phone.”
Juan nodded. The clerk touched a button on the waiting-room switchboard and handed an instrument to Juan.
“This is San Juan Chandler speaking. They told me at your residence that Noel had gone away. Is that true?”
“Yes.” The monosyllable was short and cold. “She’s gone away for a rest. Won’t be back for several months. Anything else?”
“Did she leave any word for me?”
“No! She hates the sight of you.”
“What’s her address?”
“That doesn’t happen to be your affair. Good morning.”
Juan went back to his apartment and mused over the situation. Noel had been spirited out of town—that was the only expression he knew for it. And undoubtedly her engagement to Templeton was at least temporarily broken. He had toppled it over within an hour. He must see her again—that was the immediate necessity. But where? She was certainly with friends, and probably with relatives. That latter was the first clue to follow—he must find out the names of the relatives she had most frequently visited before.
He phoned Holly Morgan. She was in the south and not expected back Boston till May.
Then he called the society editor of the Boston Transcript. After a short wait, a polite, attentive, feminine voice conversed with him on the wire.
“This is Mr San Juan Chandler,” he said, trying to intimate by his voice that he was a distinguished leader of cotillions in the Back Bay. “I want to get some information, if you please, about the family of Mr Harold Garneau.”
“Why don’t you apply directly to Mr Garneau?” advised the society editor, not without suspicion.
“I’m not on speaking terms with Mr Garneau.”
A pause; then—“Well, really, we can’t be responsible for giving out information in such a peculiar way.”
“But there can’t be any secret about who Mr and Mrs Garneau’s relations are!” protested Juan in exasperation.
“But how can we be sure that you——”
He hung up the receiver. Two other papers gave no better results, a third was willing, but ignorant. It seemed absurd, almost like a conspiracy, that in a city where the Garneaus were so well known he could not obtain the desired names. It was as if everything had tightened up against his arrival on the scene. After a day of fruitless and
