But Jock, stricken, could not even say something like that.
The door slammed.
Portrait of a lady, with a big black hat, with curving red hair, with lips that smiled and eyes that strangely did not smile. . . .
Then she was gone.
The next day, in the automobile section of a New York Sunday paper, Jock chanced upon a single-column cut of a man whose features were dimly familiar. The caption line conveyed nothing to him. "Parke Demorest, president and general manager of the Demorest Motors Corporation." He looked hard at the picture again, scowling in concentration. Then it came to him. This was the man with the cold blue eyes who had entered the restaurant that first time he and Yvonne lunched together—the man whom Yvonne had joined, and with whom she had talked so long. Jock could almost hear her voice again, saying, "You have me coming epigrams, Parke," and then something about jealousy. . . . So that was who the fellow was? Parke Demorest, of Demorest Motors. Rich as Croesus. . . .
He read the paragraph below the picture, an announcement of the purchase of some other, more obscure make of motor car by Parke Demorest. And finally, at the bottom, this:
"Mr. Demorest is leaving today for a sojourn in California . . ."
