# If the Shoe Fits—/Chapter 3

pp. 11–14.

### III

IT was all confusion to John Rand. He knew that they had gone into a night court; he knew that his lawyers, Jasper Ruud's lawyers, had appeared; and that there had been money spent. He had heard something about a warrant for a man's murder being no warrant at all when the man who was supposed to have been murdered hadn't died, but was sitting up eating soft-boiled eggs. It appeared that a case of assault with a billiard cue was a matter which with money and management might be relegated to the domain of things of no moment. All of this and the scores of considerations by the way merged into a kaleidoscopic chaos, And one thing, one thing only was perfectly clear and simple—and stupefying!
There were the lights of the court; there sat the judge whose gravity had been for once disturbed. Yonder was an automobile with whirring motor from which District Attorney McAdams and Jasper Ruud's attorneys were waving their hats to him, across the street curved another car carrying Captain Hudson and his retainers back up the river, and at his side, her hand pressing his arm, was the most tantalizingly lovely maiden he had ever set his eyes upon. In her delight at the happy ending of the day's tragedy she had, openly and shamelessly, hugged him in the very face of the judge. And now she was saying coaxingly:
“Here's our car, Cootsie. It's dreadfully late. Let's hurry home!”
John Rand hesitated and selected his words carefully before he spoke. He had denied so much to-night, and so frantically and so earnestly, that he scarcely dared deny again. Nobody believed him, no one would listen seriously to him.
“We'll get into the machine,” he said gravely. “And we'll drive around a little, to the park, anywhere. I want to talk with you.”
She looked up at him curiously.
“It's nearly four o'clock,” she said, gently. “And after a day like this... Oh, you must be tired to death!”
“I want to talk with you,” he insisted. And with another quick glance into his eyes she pulled her gay-colored cloak close about her slim young body and hurried to the car.
Now, in the roomy comfort of the tonneau with one heavy rug drawn over their knees, with the girl insisting on nestling close to him, her hand seeking for his, John Rand began his explanation. He did not want to accuse her brother of the thing that Jasper Ruud had done, he did not want to show her that if her brother were not guilty of murder he was none the less guilty of a cowardly and mean action. So he said nothing about the meeting in the freight yards. But he told her how he had gone to the police station and how he had been seized, how the whole thing was an absurd mistake, how he was John Rand, a mining engineer but lately returned from South America, how he had lost what money he had there, and being anxious to get on to New York had “beat his way.” How, in a word, he was a rather reckless young man with large hopes in his heart and big holes in his pockets. And, he hurried on to his conclusion, her brother was all right and would show up within a few hours and—
And when he finished and turned to her, the little squeeze which she gave his hand and the tender, half reproachful look in her eyes told him that she hadn't believed a word he had said.
“Jasper, old boy,” she said with a little laugh which was all full of quivers, “you've had an awfully bad day. It has been enough to do you all up. And now you're coming straight home, and have a hot toddy and go to bed. Tom,” quickly to the chauffeur, “home!”
“Home, nothing!” cried Rand. “Let me out first!”
“Home, Tom!” very emphatically from Miss Audrey Ruud.
“But,” snapped Rand impolitely and with no intention of being polite, “I can't go home with you this way. I'm not your brother, hang it! I'm not even a married man, and what would people say when the truth came out?”
“We don't care about people, Jasper, dear—and, Tom, hurry!”
Rand flung aside the lap robe. “I'm going to get out,” he said shortly. “If he doesn't slow up I'll probably break my neck!”
“Hurry, Tom! He won't jump. He's just—just bub-bub-bluffing!”
She was sobbing wretchedly, and both arms were again around Rand's neck.
“I'll go,” he told her suddenly, taking her arms away. “Only I'd be much obliged if you could manage to pick up a chaperone somewhere.”
“Mum-mama's there,” he made out her choking voice to say, “And she can chaperone us, can't she?”
And then she laughed a little and cried a little and John Rand told himself that he wasn't going to hurt her again or frighten her, let the consequences be what they might.
Tom, knowing dimly that something was amiss and clearly that it was late and he was sleepy, sent his machine along merrily through the quiet streets and to the Ruud mansion on the Drive. Rand got down and gave his hand to the girl. Until the last minute he was tempted to break and run for it, but knowing that she already feared for her brother's sanity and that he must humor her now or hurt her, let her hand cling to his arm and went with her up the broad steps. A servant flung the door open, bowing gravely as though the Ruud home had not been in the turmoil of terror since morning, and informed them quietly, as though they were just returning from the theater, that a supper was waiting for them in the little dining-room.
“Come on,” coaxed Audrey Ruud, “let's get something to eat. And don't make a noise. Mama's upstairs and she'd only scold you if she came down. Come on,” dragging at his arm. “You must be just starved, Cootsie!”
John Rand planted his feet widely and stubbornly apart.
“I'll come on just one condition,” he said emphatically. “And that is that you don't call me 'Cootsie' any more! I don't like it!”
“All right, Jas—”
“And don't call me Jasper. That's worse than Cootsie. Call me John Rand—because,” with a final attempt to make his stand firm, “because that's my name.”
“Then, John Rand, dear, come with me to get something to eat!”
And John Rand, dear, went.
She seated him in his own particular chair ... he knew that it was his own particular chair because she told him that it was ... she sent the servant away and waited on him herself. She fluttered about him with her hair down in a thick brown braid across each shoulder, and in a gossamery, filmy, lacy “thing”—she had flung her gay-colored cloak upon a chair—that he was very much afraid was not quite a proper thing to wear before a young gentleman whom she had just met. But it was very pretty for all that, and he could not again insist that he was not her brother, so he tried not to look too much at her. She made him a hot toddy... the way he liked it, as she also told him ... and poured his coffee and set fruit and cold meats before him. And then she climbed up on top of the table, and taking her own cup of coffee in her hand, watched him while he ate.
Now she was the gayest, and the tenderest little body he had ever dreamed of. And he was suddenly happy, happy just to be with her, and suddenly glad that the whole thing had happened. She would learn after a while that she had made a mistake, and she might be sorry that she had hugged him before the court. But he would know her and he would make her forget the embarrassing portions of their evening, and she would remember that he had tried hard and persistently not to take advantage of her. So he drank his toddy to her good health and young beauty, and ate his cold meats and had his cigarette in almost untroubled enjoyment,
“And now, Coot—” she caught his eye and changed it quickly to “John Rand, dear—don't you feel a whole lot better?”
He leaned back and smiled at her.
“I do. I feel like a white man again. That's the first real meal I've had since I left San Francisco.”
She put down her own cup, clasped her hands about her knees, and looked at him intently. He knew what she was thinking. And he was not surprised when she said gently:
“Now I'm going to make you go right straight to bed. You're all tired out. And we'll have breakfast together, a late breakfast.” She slipped down from the table. “Come on, Coot—John Rand, dear. I'll go with you and see if everything is all comfy for you.”
So they went upstairs, John Rand following, Audrey flitting ahead and flinging open the door of Jasper Ruud's bedroom. She threw back the covers of the bed for him, laid his bathrobe across the back of a chair, placed his slippers for him by the fireplace, put cigarettes and matches on the little table by the bed ... even turned on the water in the bath. And then she came back to him and stood before him, her rosy face lifted wistfully to his.
“Good night—and go to sleep right away like a good old boy. And aren't you going to kiss me good night?”
For a wonderful tantalizing second he hesitated. And then he turned his eyes away from her.
“Audrey Ruud,” he said, almost sternly to keep from saying it entirely sentimentally, “you are driving me to distraction. I'd rather kiss you good night than own the Great Golconda. And—”
“Then why don't you do it?” coaxingly.
“Because I haven't any right to. Because I'm a sort of a sheep in wolf's clothing. Because—oh, just because my name is John Rand.” And then quickly, as he saw the distress coming back into her eyes: “Will you explain to me why my shoes don't fit me?”
He held out towards her a foot with its loose shoe, shaking it back and forth as he had done for McAdams, until the shoe dropped off. And she laughed at him.
“You great big goose! Is that what's bothering you? I was in such a hurry, and I couldn't find anything—and those shoes are Talcott, the butler's!”
She wafted him a kiss from the tips of her fingers and the door closed behind her. And John Rand searched feverishly until he found a pair of Ruud's shoes. They fitted him like a glove made to order. Seeing nothing else for it he plunged into his hot bath, tumbled into bed and went to sleep.