His curly brown hair gave him a kind of Greek innocence and aspect.
She did not move, but waited, hoping he would do more.
“I wish I might talk to you as I feel,” he finally said, hoarsely, a catch in his throat.
She laid one hand on his.
“You dear!” she said.
He realized now that he might.
A great ecstasy fell upon him.
He smoothed her hand, then slipped his arm about her waist, then ventured to kiss the dark cheek turned dreamily from him.
Artfully her head sunk to his shoulder, and he murmured wild nothings—how divine she was, how artistic, how wonderful!
With her view of things, it could only end one way.
She manoeuvered him into calling on her at her home, into studying her books and plays on the top-floor sitting-room, into hearing her sing.
Once fully in his arms, the rest was easy by suggestion.
He learned she was no longer innocent, and then— In the mean time Cowperwood mingled his speculations concerning large power-houses, immense reciprocating engines, the problem of a wage scale for his now two thousand employees, some of whom were threatening to strike, the problem of securing, bonding, and equipping the La Salle Street tunnel and a down-town loop in La Salle, Munroe, Dearborn, and Randolph streets, with mental inquiries and pictures as to what possibly Stephanie Platow might be doing.
He could only make appointments with her from time to time.
He did not fail to note that, after he began to make use of information she let drop as to her whereabouts from day to day and her free companionship, he heard less of Gardner Knowles, Lane Cross, and Forbes Gurney, and more of Georgia Timberlake and Ethel Tuckerman.
Why this sudden reticence?
On one occasion she did say of Forbes Gurney “that he was having such a hard time, and that his clothes weren’t as nice as they should be, poor dear!”
Stephanie herself, owing to gifts made to her by Cowperwood, was resplendent these days.
She took just enough to complete her wardrobe according to her taste.
“Why not send him to me?” Cowperwood asked.
“I might find something to do for him.”
He would have been perfectly willing to put him in some position where he could keep track of his time.
However, Mr. Gurney never sought him for a position, and Stephanie ceased to speak of his poverty.
A gift of two hundred dollars, which Cowperwood made her in June, was followed by an accidental meeting with her and Gurney in Washington Street.
Mr. Gurney, pale and pleasant, was very well dressed indeed.
He wore a pin which Cowperwood knew had once belonged to Stephanie.
She was in no way confused.
Finally Stephanie let it out that Lane Cross, who had gone to New Hampshire for the summer, had left his studio in her charge.
Cowperwood decided to have this studio watched.
There was in Cowperwood’s employ at this time a young newspaper man, an ambitious spark aged twenty-six, by the name of Francis Kennedy.
He had written a very intelligent article for the Sunday Inquirer, describing Cowperwood and his plans, and pointing out what a remarkable man he was.
This pleased Cowperwood. When Kennedy called one day, announcing smartly that he was anxious to get out of reportorial work, and inquiring whether he couldn’t find something to do in the street-railway world, Cowperwood saw in him a possibly useful tool.
“I’ll try you out as secretary for a while,” he said, pleasantly.
“There are a few special things I want done.
If you succeed in those, I may find something else for you later.”
Kennedy had been working for him only a little while when he said to him one day:
“Francis, did you ever hear of a young man by the name of Forbes Gurney in the newspaper world?”
They were in Cowperwood’s private office.
“No, sir,” replied Francis, briskly.
“You have heard of an organization called the Garrick Players, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Francis, do you suppose you could undertake a little piece of detective work for me, and handle it intelligently and quietly?”
“I think so,” said Francis, who was the pink of perfection this morning in a brown suit, garnet tie, and sard sleeve-links. His shoes were immaculately polished, and his young, healthy face glistened.
“I’ll tell you what I want you to do.
There is a young actress, or amateur actress, by the name of Stephanie Platow, who frequents the studio of an artist named Cross in the New Arts Building.
She may even occupy it in his absence—I don’t know.
I want you to find out for me what the relations of Mr. Gurney and this woman are.
I have certain business reasons for wanting to know.”
Young Kennedy was all attention.
“You couldn’t tell me where I could find out anything about this Mr. Gurney to begin with, could you?” he asked.