can’t figure it out,” murmured Sim Peck, piteously. “I can,” said the Journal reporter. “This story will be all over town tomorrow.” He glanced at me, and I nodded. “It’ll be all over town,” he continued, “though not in any of the papers—and I don’t believe it’s going to hurt Dave Beasley’s chances any.”
Mr. Peck and his companions turned toward the street; they went silently.
The young man from the Journal overtook them. “Thank you for sending for me,” he said, cordially. “You’ve given me a treat. I’m fer Beasley!”
Dowden put his hand on my shoulder. He had not observed the third figure still remaining.
“Well, sir,” he remarked, shaking the snow from his coat, “they were right about one thing: it certainly was mighty low down of Dave not to invite me—and you, too—to his Christmas party. Let him go to thunder with his old invitations, I’m going in, anyway! Come on. I’m plum froze.”
There was a side door just beyond the bay-window, and Dowden went to it and rang, loud and long. It was Beasley himself who opened it.
“What in the name—” he began, as the ruddy light fell upon Dowden’s face and upon me, standing a little way behind. “What are you two—snow-banks? What on earth are you fellows doing out here?”
“We’ve come to your Christmas party, you old horse-thief!” Thus Mr. Dowden.
“Hoo-ray!” said Beasley.
Dowden turned to me. “Aren’t you coming?”
“What are you waiting for, old fellow?” said Beasley.
I waited a moment longer, and then it happened.
She came out of the shadow and went to the foot of the steps, her cloak falling from her shoulders as she passed me. I picked it up.
She lifted her arms pleadingly, though her head was bent with what seemed to me a beautiful sort of shame. She stood there with the snow driving against her and did not speak. Beasley drew his hand slowly across his eyes—to see if they were really there, I think.
“David,” she said, at last. “You’ve got so many lovely people in your house tonight: isn’t there room for—for just one fool? It’s Christmas-time!”
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