The Second Latchkey

								

conspicuously tall if conspicuous in no other way; dressed for dinner or
the theatre in a pale gray, sequined gown under a mauve chiffon cloak
meant for warm nights of summer.
Of course, as Mrs. Ellsworth (giver of dress and wrap) often pointed out,
"beggars mustn't be choosers"; and Annesley Grayle was worse off than a
beggar, because beggars needn't keep up appearances. She should have
thanked Heaven for good clothes, and so she did in chastened moods; but
it was a costume to make a girl hurry through the Strand, and just for an
instant she had been glad to turn from the white glare into comparative
dimness.
That was because offensive eyes had made her forget the almost immediate
future in the quite immediate present. But the hotel, with light-hearted
taxis tearing up to it, brought remembrance with a shock. She envied
everyone else who was bound for the Savoy, even old women, and fat
gentlemen with large noses. They were going there because they wanted to
go, for their pleasure. Nobody in the world could be in such an appalling
situation as she was.
It was then that Annesley's feet began to drag, and she slowed her steps
to gain more time to think. Could she--could she do the thing?
For days her soul had been rushing toward this moment with
thousand-horsepower speed, like a lonely comet tearing through space.
But then it had been distant, the terrible goal. She had not had to
gasp among her heart-throbs: "Now! It is now!"
Creep as she might, three minutes' brought her from the turning out of
the Strand close to the welcoming entrance where revolving doors of glass
received radiant visions dazzling as moonlight on snow.
"No, I can't!" the girl told herself, desperately. She wheeled more
quickly than the whirling door, hoping that no one would think her mad.
"All the same, I was mad," she admitted, "to fancy I could do it. I
ought to have known I couldn't, when the time came. I'm the last person
to--well, I'm sane again now, anyway!"
A few long steps carried the girl in the sparkling dress and transparent
cloak into the Strand again. But something queer was happening there.
People were shouting and running. A man with a raucous, alcoholic voice,
yelled words Annesley could not catch. A woman gave a squeaking scream
that sounded both ridiculous and dreadful. Breaking glass crashed. A
growl of human anger mingled with the roar of motor-omnibuses, and Miss
Grayle fell back from it as from a slammed door in a high wall.
As she stood hesitating what to do and wondering if there were a fire or
a murder, two women, laughing hysterically, rushed past into the hotel
court.
"Hurry up," panted one of them. "They'll think we belong to the gang.
Let's go into the hotel and stay until it's over."
"Oh, what is it?" Annesley entreated, running after the couple.
"Burglars at a jeweller's window close by--there are women--they're being
arrested," one of the pair flung over her shoulder, as both hurried on.