Bradley a bit—say something[75] good about me—and implant in him the idea that he ought to consult me?” [75] “Could I? Why don’t you write me an act that’d bring out my talents? It’s already done—what you going to do next?” “That depends on whether Mr. Morton comes to see me, and whether I get anything out of him.” Uncle George heaved himself to his feet. “Come on, son, see me safe aboard a taxi.” Outside, in the cab, he reached forth and laid a hand on Clifford’s shoulder. “Remember, son, there’s just as good mermaids in the sea as have ever been caught.” “Bon voyage,” said Clifford as the car started. The old man, winking a genial, satyr-like wink, blew Clifford a kiss through the open window. At half-past ten that night Clifford sat at a little table in the Gold Room at the Grantham. There had come a message from Uncle George that he should be in this room at this hour. Beyond this the message had said nothing. Clifford had wandered through the score of big public rooms that comprised the first two floors of the Grantham—the lounges, the parlors, the half-dozen restaurants—with the feverish hope that he might glimpse Mary Regan (so little effect had Uncle George’s wisdom had upon him!), but with no idea of what he should do or say should he see her. He had had an impulse to call again at her suite, but had restrained himself from that folly. He now glanced through the slowly filling Gold[76] Room, but he did not sight her. He wondered just where she was—what she was thinking of—what she was planning. Should he, if all other methods failed, block her worldly plans and the as yet unpenetrated scheme of Loveman and Bradley by telling the Mortons who she was? He felt himself a cad whenever he thought of it; but, yes, if he had to, he would do it!... [76] A hand fell upon his shoulder. “Wake up there, you old crystal-gazer!” called a cheerful voice. Clifford looked up. Smiling down on him was a cherubic face: a somewhat elderly cherub, to be sure, since where usually there is the adornment of divine curls there was the glaze of baldness. “Sit down, Loveman, and join me in a drink.”
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