# The Green Jacket/Chapter 9
### IX

The clerk behind the glass case near the door, in Daggett & Beals, looked up a little cynically at the woman in gray, waiting for an answer.
"Mr. Daggett is not at liberty," he said suavely. "Can I serve you in any other way?" with the slightest emphasis on the "other."
She opened a green purse.
The clerk's eyes rested on the curiously wrought gold fittings. It was an unusual piece of workmanship, and his fingers had a trace of respect as he accepted the card she gave him and bore it toward the inner office.
His air was more courteous—even a little eager when he returned.
"Will you kindly step this way, madame. Mr. Daggett will be pleased to see you," he said.
The door of the inner office closed behind the gray figure, and the clerk passing through the rows of cases holding jewels of fabulous price, wondered a little uncomfortably whether he had possibly been a trifle rude to the woman at first. She had looked so unimpressive when she asked for the head of the firm that he had expected at best a curt refusal to the card. But he knew his employer's face well—he had studied it for twenty-five years—and he had seldom seen a keener look of pleasure than passed across it swiftly when he glanced down at the card.
"Show her in at once," he had said promptly.
The door to the private office remained closed a long time. The clerk glanced at it from time to time, and wondered again whether he had possibly made a mistake, and still the door remained closed. He meditated bestowing a little courteous attention on the gray figure, when it should emerge, and he hovered near the outer door in readiness for it.
The door of the private office at last opened and the gray figure stepped out into the main room. And close behind it followed the proprietor himself, accompanying her between the cases, stopping here and there to comment or explain, or lift some piece for her inspection. In the most expensive section, they paused by the case containing the most valuable gems in the store. The proprietor took out a set of pearls and held them toward the woman in gray.
The clerk, hovering with anxious ear, heard plainly the words that accompanied the gesture. . . . "The setting was like this—only much more delicate. It was one of the finest pieces of work we ever sent out."
The woman in gray examined the pearls closely. She took a glass from her purse and ran it over the necklace carefully, as if each detail of the exquisite fashioning of the gold interested her. She returned it to the proprietor with a little smile.
"Thank you," she said.
The clerk retreated nearer to the door, to take advantage of any favoring chance. But the proprietor accompanied her even to the very door, and opened it for her with a little gesture of deference that the clerk well knew was reserved for incomes of at least five figures. He even stood for a moment by the great show-window watching the gray figure disappear in the crowd. There was a thoughtful look on his face and a little smile. And as he passed the case where the pearls lay in royal isolation on their velvet bed, he paused again and looked down at them; it seemed to the clerk that the look of approval he bestowed upon the pearls was not more generous than the one that had followed the gray figure disappearing in the crowd a moment before.
The figure moved rapidly down the street toward the busier portion of the town. The green purse had been slipped inside her gown and there was nothing to call the eye even for a flitting glance. No one who passed the figure could have recalled it and no one would have noted when it turned into the down-town office.
There were two or three pieces of work she must put in shape before she could leave for an absence of several days—it might be even weeks, she thought, as she entered her private office. The case had taken hold on her in a way she well recognized. Sometimes a case stood out from the others like this, and her mind seized on it with a tenacity that nothing could shake. It was the bulldog grip, she told herself.
She was conscious of no reason why some cases should pursue her, and compel her—often to her own disadvantage—to follow to the end. Often she wished for some one who would forcibly detach her from a piece of work that was absorbing her time and strength apparently to no purpose. . . . A partner? She thought of Tom and smiled.
Perhaps it was the thought of Tom and his disbelief in her ability to succeed that was setting her so grimly toward the solution of the Mason case. Perhaps she had merely a feminine desire to say some day, "I told you so," to the man who stood to her for all the efficiency and masculine incredulity in the world. . . . Then the face of the woman who had sat in her office flashed back to her—the unshapely black hands in their wrinkled gloves, the strange, sad face—and she knew that Tom's cynical disbelief in her ability to succeed where he had failed, was only a surface ripple on the deep-flowing purpose of her resolve to help the woman who had come to her in trouble.
She rang the bell and called in her private secretary and went over the work for the coming week. The secretary was a small, nervous young man who wore glasses and seemed perpetually stooping to something that threatened to evade him. Milly regarded him as a treasure. She had tried several women and had rejected them, one after the other, for the lack of some quality she herself could hardly define. She had found it only in Teddy McClean. His mind moved with her own—not parallel to it, or following along on the same track—but leaping to meet hers, almost in contest; and out of the encounter she would find her ideas emerging in clear shape.
"I've got to be away a few days, Teddy," she said as he came in.
"The Dexter case will need you," he replied briskly.
"Not far enough along, is it?"
He looked stubborn. "Foster was in this morning. He said they will be ready to report to-morrow. They have everything safe—no suspicion—all the parties where they can lay their hands on them."
"Better keep them there." She was thinking swiftly. "I want my mind free for a few days, Teddy. You'll have to brace up and take more responsibility."
He looked dejected.
She nodded. "You can handle the Dexter case all right—till I get back."
"How long are you going to be gone?" He was peering down and making swift notes.
"I don't know," she said shortly.
Teddy made another note and looked up.
"Shall I use my judgment about sending for you?" he asked.
She hesitated. "If it's necessary, absolutely necessary, and you're so stupid you can't handle it alone—" He smiled wanly and made the note.
"If you have to get me, telegraph—Miss Alice Brigham, Care of Mr. Oswald Mason, Lincoln."
He took it down swiftly. "That's near by? Can I telephone?"
"No. Telegraph."
"Shall I use code?"
"Mercy, no! I'm a seamstress!" she said severely. "Telegraph, 'Mother not well. Old trouble. Please come.’"
"The Skelton girl's making a lot of trouble," he said, looking over his papers. "More'n she's worth!"
"What is she doing now?" asked Milly.
"Keeps bothering the life out of us, saying she's got to see you."
"Well, she can see me, can't she?"
He looked at her cynically. "She isn't worth it. You made a mistake that time, Miss Newberry."
"Did I?" She looked thoughtful. "I'm sorry I am not going to be here for a while. Could you get her for me now, right off, do you suppose?"
He looked a little bored. "I shan't have to try very hard. She's probably out there now, rattling the heads off 'em."
"Send her in."
He looked doubtfully at his notes.
"I wanted to ask——"
"No. Don't ask me another thing. You can take care of them yourself. If you get stuck, telegraph me. I go out to-morrow morning. Now send in Mollie Skelton if you can find her."
He departed, grinning. The next moment the door opened on a girl with high heels, short skirts, small hat—a little to one side, and hands thrust into side-pockets as she came forward with short, mincing steps. She nodded brusquely.
"How'd do, Miss Newberry! They made a high old time about letting me in!"
"You're not due till Thursday, are you?"
"That's the day!" said the girl. She leaned her elbow on the desk and stared at Milly with hard eyes. Her jaw shifted the gum between her teeth and chewed on it a little.
"Well, what is it?" asked Milly.
"I'd rather be sent up for good!" said the girl.
"Why?"
"I ain't goin' to be coming here every Thursday, and all them guys out there"—she waved a hand at the office—"all knowin' I'm on prob. I'd rather be locked up, and done with it!"
Milly looked at her keenly. "They don't know what you come for," she said. "Nobody knows—unless you've told them."
The girl stared. "Didn't you tell 'em?"
"No."
"Not that Johnnie with the glasses?"
"McClean? If he knows, it's your own fault. He may have guessed. I have not told him, or any one. As far as the office is concerned, you may be a client for whom I am handling a case or a detective coming to make reports."
The girl grinned slowly. She chewed for a while. "Well"—he drew in her breath—"that's fair enough. Why didn't you tell me that before?" she demanded. She turned on her swiftly.
"You didn't ask me," said Milly. "I supposed you knew. I told you I should be square with you, didn't I?"
"Yes." The girl's eyes dropped sullenly. "But I don't like it—this Sunday-school business—trotting in here, and being told what to do!"
Milly's keen eyes were studying the rebellious face. "Who is your new friend?" she asked quietly.
The girl flashed up a look. "I don't know as that's any of your business!" she said defiantly.
"Yes—I think it is my business. It's my business to help you keep straight, and you're trying to bluff me—for the first time since I've known you. . . . You don't want to go to jail. If I took you at your word and told the police what I know——"
She glanced up furtively. "You wouldn't do it, Miss Newberry!" she said swiftly.
"No, I'm not going to do it. But I'm not going to let you off from coming to me either. The man who told you to come and try to bluff me was simply making a fool of you. You are a silly child!"
The girl was staring at the wall of the room, chewing swiftly. The weak lines of her face sagged a little.
"I didn't want to come," she said slowly. "But he kept at me—kept saying to do it——"
"Don't blame the man!" said Milly sharply. "Blame yourself!"
"Yes'm," said the girl meekly. She looked down at the toe of her shoe and dug it in the leg of the table.
"How long have you known him?" asked Milly.
"Oh—'bout a week now."
A look of relief crossed Milly's face. "You hadn't seen him when you reported last week?"
"Well—I'd kind o' seen him," she replied soberly. "But I'm straight! Honest, Miss Newberry, I'm straight!" The defiance had left her face.
Milly knew that for to-day she had won. The girl would be putty in her hands. But she would be putty in the hands of the next person, too. If she could see her every day for a while, she could tide her over. But—a week? She shook her head.
"See here, Mollie!"
The girl looked up.
"You're a terrible bother to me! It's been over a year now——"
"Goin' on two," said the girl sullenly. "And you let Sadie Batson off in three months!"
"Yes. Sadie had a better start than you have, Mollie."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded the girl.
"I mean her father and mother or her grandfather and grandmother put better stuff into her."
"They're common folks—the Batsons," said Mollie sceptically. "Her mother works out—she's cook somewhere."
"Yes. But she, or some one, gave Sadie the power of holding out. You've got it, too. But you've got to do more of the work yourself. Nobody has done it for you apparently. You've got to take a grip on yourself."
"All right," she said.
"I've got to be out of town for a while," said Milly. "Do you think I'd better send you out of town, too? This man will try to see you, I suppose?"
"Yep. He'll see me, all right!" said the girl with a weak flourish of pride. "He's dead stuck on me."
"What is his name?" asked Milly.
"James Silliman, 346 Mill Street," said the girl glibly. She grinned as Milly took it down. "You'll catch him, easy! He's done things enough to land him in jail any day!"
"Do you know that?" asked Milly. "Or are you just talking?"
"I ain't talking!" said the girl. "Jim Silliman's a bad one, if ever there was!"
"Well, we shall look out for him. I think you would better be out of town for a while."
"All right," said the girl. "Will it be pious ones? I didn't like that minister's family you sent me to last time." She looked at her hopefully.
Milly smiled. Then she sighed. She rested her head on her hand and looked down. She was tired; the morning had been taxing, and there was still a personal problem to solve before she could get away. It would probably take most of the afternoon.
She looked at the girl doubtfully. "I wonder if you could help me, Mollie?" she said slowly.
"Help you—" The girl turned quickly. "What could I do?"
"I thought you might know of some one—some reliable person I could get to stay with my mother while I am away. Our servant has the grippe. I need some one to do the work and look after my mother's comfort. She is not very strong. You don't know any one—who is trustworthy, do you?"
The girl looked at it. She shook her head slowly. "Not unless it's me," she replied. "Of course you wouldn't call me—trustworthy."
Milly looked at her.
"I'm always doing things!" she went on half-wistfully, and Milly's mind worked fast. Her mother's frail figure passed before her, and the girl's shabby jacket and hat and the cheap, high-heeled shoes that waited hopefully.
"I'm a kind o' good cook," she volunteered.
"I believe it might work!" said Milly, half to herself.
The girl nodded. "I'll take good care of her, Miss Newberry. You needn't be a mite afraid anything'll happen to her while you're gone. I like takin' care of folks—doin' for 'em!"
"Then that's settled," said Milly with a look of relief. "Here is the address. Be sure to be there not later than three o'clock this afternoon. It's out of the city a little way. You take the Holley car at Broad Street and get off at Chestnut."
"All right." The girl slipped the paper into the pocket pf her flaunting coat. "I'll go home and get my things together. I've got some other togs. You needn't be afraid I'll frighten the old lady with these! I'll take good care of her, Miss Newberry. You see!" Her face was aglint with high resolve as she marched from the room. She did not even glance at the young man in eye-glasses as she passed him at his desk.
The eye-glasses followed her reflectively. "There goes some more of Miss Newberry's good time and strength!" he said resentfully under his breath.
And the girl, hurrying out of the building, was saying over and over to herself: "You got-to get a grip on, Mollie Skelton! You got-to take a-hold. That's what she said: 'You got-to get a grip!’"
And Millicent Newberry, gathering up her papers in the office, went over what remained to be done.