LITMIR.BIZ

CHAPTER IV—A LITTLE JOURNEY IN PARANOIA

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      HALF an hour later Peter tiptoed over and closed the door. Then he sat down at his typewriter, removed the paper he had left in it, put in a new sheet and struck off a word.

      He sat still, then, in a sweat. The noise of the keys fell on his tense ears like the crackling thunder of a machine gun.

      He took the paper out and tore it into minute pieces.

      He got another sheet, sat down at the desk and wrote a few hurried sentences in longhand.

      He sealed it in an envelope, glancing nervously about the room; addressed it; and found a stamp in the desk.

      Then he tiptoed down the room, softly opened the door and listened.

      Hy was snoring.

      He stole into the bedroom, found his clothes in the dark and deliberately dressed, clear to overcoat and hat. He slipped out into the corridor, rang for the elevator and went out across the Square to the mail box. There was a box in the hall down-stairs; but he had found it impossible to post that letter before the eyes of John, the night man.

      For a moment he stood motionless, one hand gripping the box, the other holding the letter in air—a statue of a man.

      Then he saw a sauntering policeman, shivered, dropped the letter in and almost ran home.

      Peter had done the one thing that he himself, twelve hours earlier, would have regarded as utterly impossible.

      He had sent an anonymous letter.

      It was addressed to the Reverend Hubbell Harkness

      Wilde, Scripture House, New York. It conveyed to that vigorous if pietistic gentleman the information that he would find his daughter, on the following evening, Saturday, performing on the stage of the Crossroads Theater, Tenth Street, near Fourth: with the added hint that it might not, even yet be too late to save her.

      And Peter, all in a tremor now, knew that he meant to be at the Crossroads Theater himself to see this little drama of surprises come off.

      The fact developed when Hy came back from the office on Saturday that he was meditating a return engagement with his new friend Betty. “The subject was mentioned,” he explained, rather self-consciously, to Peter.

      The Worm came in then and heard Hy speak of Any Street.

      “Oh,” he observed, “that piece of Zanin's! I've meant to see it. You fellows going to-night? I'll join you.”

      So the three Seventh-Story Men ate at the Parisian and set forth for their little adventure; Peter and Hy each with his own set of motives locked up in his breast, the Worm with no motives in particular.

      Peter smoked a cigar; the Worm his pipe; and Hy, as always, a cigarette. All carried sticks.

      Peter walked in the middle; his face rather drawn; peeking out ahead.

      Hy swung his stick; joked about this and that; offered an experimentally humorous eye to every young woman that passed.

      The Worm wore the old gray suit that he could not remember to keep pressed, soft black hat, flowing tie, no overcoat. A side pocket bulged with a paper-covered book in the Russian tongue. He had an odd way of walking, the Worm, throwing his right leg out and around and toeing in with his right foot.

      As they neared the little theater, Peter's pulse beat a tattoo against his temples. What if old Wilde hadn't received the letter! If he had, would he come! If he came, what would happen?

      He came.

      Peter and the Worm were standing near the inner entrance, Waiting for Hy, who, cigarette drooping from his nether lip, stood in the me at the ticket window.

      Suddenly a man appeared—a stranger, from the casually curious glances he drew—elbowing in through the group in the outer doorway and made straight for the young poet who was taking tickets.

      Peter did not see him at first. Then the Worm nudged his elbow and whispered—“Good God, it's the Walrus!”

      Peter wheeled about. He had met the man only once or twice, a year back; now he took him in—a big man, heavy in the shoulders and neck, past middle age, with a wide thin orator's mouth surrounded by deep lines. He had a big hooked nose (a strong nose!) and striking vivid eyes of a pale green color. They struck you, those eyes, with their light hard surface. There were strips of whiskers on each cheek, narrow and close-clipped, tinged with gray. His clothes, overcoat and hat were black; his collar a low turnover; his tie a loosely knotted white bow.

      He made an oddly dramatic figure in that easy, merry Bohemian setting; a specter from an old forgotten world of Puritanism.

      The intruder addressed the young poet at the door in a low but determined voice.

      “I wish to see Miss Susan Wilde.”

      “I'm afraid you can't now, sir. She will be in costume by this time.”

      “In costume, eh?” Doctor Wilde was frowning. And the poet eyed him with cool suspicion.

      “Yes, she is in the first play.”

      Still the big man frowned and compressed that wide mobile mouth. Peter, all alert., sniffing out the copy trail, noted that he was nervously clasping his hands.

      Now Doctor Wilde spoke, with a sudden ring in his voice that gave a fleeting hint of inner suppressions. “Will you kindly send word to Miss Wilde that her father is here and must see her at once?”

      The poet, surprised, sent the message.

      Peter heard a door open, down by the stage. He pressed forward, peering eagerly. A ripple of curiosity and friendly interest ran through that part of the audience that was already seated. A young man

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