THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
of life might be crowded? The devil always uses this argument; it is the best he has.
The disembodied spirit of the girl crept back into the sordid bedroom. Then imagination took up the thread where retrospection had laid it down. She saw a limousine stop before the house in Washington Square, perhaps twenty minutes after she had left it. Out of the car jumped a man in evening clothes. A fine Panama gave a rakish touch to his dark, handsome head. There was eagerness in his step as he hurried up to the door and rang the bell. His pose as he waited reminded one of Romeo, or Lothario, or the devil in mufti; it all depended on whether one saw him through the eyes of a romantic young girl, a poor young man, or the shade of Virgil. Under his arm he carried a long, narrow box such as florists use. He smiled.
Presently she saw the landlady open the door.
"Miss Warren?"
"She is gone."
"Gone?"
"Yes."
"When will she return?"
"She will not return. She has left for good."
He laid the flowers on the stand. "Will you be so good as to tell me exactly what has happened?"
"I have not the least idea. She left twenty minutes ago, bag and baggage. If you will leave your address …"
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