he isn't himself connected with any commercial enterprise. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have him to discuss my subject with. He seems to be genuinely interested in it. I wish you were as much so, Cly!"
Clytie turned away, smiling somewhat ironically, an uncommon expression for her engaging features.
"You know," she said slowly, "that I don't quite trust him."
"Why, you two have been friends long enough, you should know him better by this time. You're intimate enough with him."
"Oh, it's only a feeling I have. You know I have my intuitions—but what friendship there is has been of his seeking."
"He's all right, Cly," her father said dictatorially. "I haven't lived in the West for fifty years without knowing something of men. I do want you to learn to appreciate him. He's got a future before him and he is certainly fond of you. You know, if anything did come of it, I would—"
Clytie arose abruptly. "I think dinner's almost ready, father, and I'm hungry. Are you ready?"
She was imperious, holding her tawny head erect, her chin high, her hands clasped behind her back, the willowy suppleness of her body now grown rigid. Mr. Payson sighed resignedly, and allowed a moment's silence to speak for him; then, finding that his daughter's attitude continued to dominate the situation, he, too, arose, patted her cheek and shook his head. This pantomime coaxed forth a gracious smile from her. He took his manuscripts and left to go up to his room. Clytie remained at the window till he returned.
They had nearly finished their dinner, when, after a casual dialogue, she remarked, without looking at him:
"Father, do you remember anything about an old crazy woman who lived down south of Market Street somewhere, years ago—in a cheap hotel, I think it was?"
He started at her question and his voice, ordinarily so calm and so mellow, quavered slightly.
"What do you mean? Who was she?" he asked earnestly.
"That's what I want to know," Clytie said, stirring her coffee.
"What do you know about her?"
"Why—I went to see her once."
"You went to see her? When?"
"Then you did know her!"
Mr. Payson spoke cautiously, watching his daughter. "I have heard about her, yes, but I never knew you had been there. How in the world did that happen? It must have been a long time ago." He stared as if he could scarcely believe her assertion.
"Mother took me there once or twice. It's almost the first thing I remember."
"She did? She never told me! It's strange you have never mentioned it before."
"Perhaps I oughtn't to mention it now. I thought, somehow, that she wouldn't want me to tell you about it."
His tone now was disturbed, anxious, pitched in a higher key.
"Why shouldn't you speak of it? What difference could it possibly make? I remember that woman, yes. She was not old, though. Do you recall her well? You were very young then."
"I can almost see her now. She had white hair and black eyebrows, with a vertical line between them; she was pale, but with bright red lips. She wore a strange red gown. I think she must have been very beautiful at one time. Who was she, father?" Clytie sent a calm, level glance at him.
"Oh, she was a friend of your mother's. Your mother and I used to keep track of her and help her, that's all."
"Was she poor, then?"
"No, she wasn't. That was the queer part of it. She had considerable ability and actually carried on a real estate business, though she was pretty mad. She had lucid intervals, though, when she was as reasonable as any one."
"What became of her?"
"She died, I think, of heart disease. It must have been the same year your mother died, if I remember rightly."
"What was her name?"
Mr. Payson grew more nervous at this questioning, but he replied, "They called her Madam Grant, I believe. How did you happen to bring up the subject after all these years, Cly?"
It was her turn to be embarrassed. "Well—I've recalled that scene occasionally, and wondered about it—it has always been a mystery I couldn't explain, and I never dared talk about it. Of course, it's only one of those vivid early pictures of childhood, but it has always seemed very romantic."
"It was a strange situation," Mr. Payson replied. "She was a very unfortunate woman and I was sorry for her. I never would have permitted you to go, if I had known, of course, but perhaps your mother knew best." He dropped his chin upon his hand. "Yes, I'm glad you went, now. What impression did she make on you?"
"I only remember thinking how beautiful she must have been."
"Yes," Mr. Payson's voice was almost inaudible. He pushed his chair back, rose and went into the library. Clytie followed him.
"Are you going out to-night, father?"
"Yes, I've got some business to attend to."
"In the evening?" she raised her brows.
"Oh, I'm only looking up something—for my book." He turned away to avoid her gaze.
"Oh!" She sat down and took up a book without questioning him further. Soon after, the front doorbell rang and Mr. Cayley was shown in by the Chinese servant.
Blanchard Cayley was well known about town, for he had a place in many different coteries. By his birth he inherited a position in a select Southern set that had long monopolized social standing and looked scornfully down upon the upstart railroad aristocracy and that nouveau riche element which was prominent chiefly through the notoriety conferred by the newspapers. Blanchard Cayley's parts gained him the entrée, besides, to less conventional circles, where his wit and affability made him a favorite. He belonged to two of the best clubs, but his inclinations led him to dine usually at French or Italian restaurants, where good-fellowship and ability distinguished the company. He wrote a little and knew the best newspaper men and all the minor poets in town. He drew a little, and was familiar with all the artists. He accounted himself a musical critic and cultivated composers. He knew San Francisco like a rat, knew it as he knew the intricacies of French forms of verse, as well as he knew the architecture of music and the history of painting. He had long ceased his nocturnal meanderings "down the line" from the Hoffman Bar to Dunn's saloon, but he occasionally took a post-graduate course, of sorts, to see whether, for the nonce, the city was wide open or shut. He had discovered the Latin Quarter, now well established as a show-place for jaded pleasure-seekers, and had played bocce with the Italians in the cellars of saloons, before the game was heard of by Americans. He had found the marionette theater in its first week, traced every one of Stevenson's haunts before the Tusitala had died in Samoa, knew the writings of "Phoenix" almost by heart, and had devoured half the Mercantile Library. Tar Flat and the Barbary Coast he knew as well as the Mission and North Beach, and as for Chinatown, he had ransacked it for queer jars, jade and hand-made jewelry, exhausting its possibilities long before San Franciscans had realized the presence, in that quarter, of anything but an ill-smelling purlieu of tourists' bazaars.
He had "discovered" women as well—women, for the most part, whose attractions few other persons seemed to appreciate. His last find was Clytie Payson—a much more valuable tribute to his taste than any heretofore. He had devoted himself assiduously to her, and it was his boast that he could remember the hat she wore when he first saw her, ten years before. His pursuit of her had been eccentric. Cayley was mathematical and his methods were built upon a system. During the first years of their acquaintance he alternated months of neglect with picturesque arrivals on nights so tempestuous and foul that his presence would be sure to be counted as a flattering tribute, and would outweigh, with his obvious devotion, the previous languor of his pursuit. This was a fair sample of the subtlety of his psychological amours, for Blanchard Cayley was not of the temperament to run across the