"Aw, cut out the vaudeville stuff! I asked you what you wanted my paintings for? Give me a straight answer!"
"All right--here's your straight answer: I want your paintings to sell them."
"Sell my paintings! Say, are you trying to say something still funnier?"
"I want them to sell them. Remember I once told you that I could sell them--that I could sell anything. Let me have them, and then just see."
"You'd sure have to be able to sell anything to sell them!" A challenging glint had come into Hunt's eyes. "Young fellow, you're so damned fresh that if you had any dough I'd bet you five thousand, any odds you like, that you couldn't even GIVE one of the things away!"
"Loan me five thousand," Larry returned evenly, "and I'll cover the bet with even money--it being understood that I'm to sell the picture at a price not less than the highest price you ever received for one of your 'pretty pictures' which you delight to curse and which made your fortune. Now bring down your pictures--or shut up!"
Hunt's jaw set. "Young fellow, I take that bet! And I'll not let you off, either--you'll have to pay it! Which pictures do you want?"
"That young Italian woman sitting on the curb nursing her baby--and any other picture you want to put with it."
Hunt went clumping up the stairway. When he was out of earshot, the Duchess remarked quietly:
"What did you really come for, Larry?"
Larry was somewhat taken aback by his grandmother's penetration, but he did not try to evade the question nor the steady gaze of the old eyes.
"I thought you might know where Maggie is, and I came to ask."
"That's what I thought."
"Do you know where she is?"
"Yes."
"Where is she?"
The old eyes were still steady upon him. "I don't know that I should tell you. I want you to get on--and the less you have to do with Maggie, the better for you."
"I'd like to know, grandmother."
The Duchess considered for a long space. "After all, you're of age--and you've got to decide what's best for yourself. I'll tell you.
Maggie was here the other day--dressed simple--to get some letters she'd forgotten to take and which I couldn't find. We had a talk.
Maggie is living at the Grantham under the name of Margaret Cameron.
She has a suite there."
"A suite at the Grantham!" exclaimed Larry, astounded. "Why, the Grantham is in the same class with the Ritzmore, where she used to work--or the Plaza! A suite at the Grantham!"
And then Larry gave a twitching start. "At the Grantham--alone?"
"Not alone--no. But it's not what just came into your mind. It's a woman that's with her; a hired companion. And they're doing everything on a swell scale."
"What's Maggie up to?"
"She didn't tell me, except to say that the plan was a big one. She was all excited over it. If you want to know just what it is, ask Barney Palmer and Old Jimmie."
"Barney and Old Jimmie!" ejaculated Larry. And then: "Barney and Old Jimmie--and a suite at the Grantham!"
At that moment Hunt came back down the stairway, carrying a roll wrapped in brown paper.
"Here you are, young fellow," he announced. De-mounted 'em so the junk would be easier to handle. The Dago mother you asked for--the second painting may be one you'd like to have for your own private gallery.
I'm not going to let you get away with your bluff--and don't you forget it! . . . Duchess, don't you think he'd better beat it before Gavegan and his loving friends take a tumble to his presence and mess up the neighborhood?"
"Yes," said the Duchess. "Good-night, Larry."
"Good-night," said he.
Mechanically he took the roll of paintings and slipped it under his raincoat; mechanically he shook hands; mechanically he got out of the pawnshop; mechanically he took all precautions in getting out of the little rain-driven street and in getting into a taxicab which he captured over near Cooper Institute. All his mind was upon what the Duchess had told him and upon a new idea which was throbbingly growing into a purpose. Maggie and Barney and Old Jimmie! Maggie in a suite at the Grantham!
What Larry now did, as he got into the taxi, he would have called footless and foolhardy an hour before, and at any other hour his judgment might have restrained him. But just now he seemed controlled by a force greater than smooth-running judgment--a composite of many forces: by sudden jealousy, by a sudden desire to shield Maggie, by a sudden desire to see her. So as he stepped into the taxi, he said:
"The Grantham--quick!"
