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CHAPTER 4—DAWN AFTER DOOMSDAY?
KYTO, who usually effaced himself, did not do so this morning. Kyto, having the untasted coffee for an excuse, called attention to himself and ventured:
“Mister, of course, comprehends the news?”
“Yes, Kyto; I understand it—partly, at any rate.”
“I may inquire, please, perhaps the significance?”
Tony stared at the little Jap. He had always liked him; but suddenly he was assailed with a surge of fellow-feeling for this small brown man trapped like himself on the rim of the world.
Trapped! That was it. Trapped was the word for this strange feeling.
“Kyto, we’re in for something.”
“What?”
“Something rather—extensive, Kyto. One thing is sure, we’re all in for it together.”
“General—destruction?” Kyto asked.
Tony shook his head, and his reply surprised himself. “No; if it were just that, they’d say it. It would be easy to say—general destruction, the end of every
thing. People after all in a way are prepared for that, Kyto.” Tony was reasoning to himself as much as talking to Kyto. “No; this can’t be just—destruction. It doesn’t feel like it, Kyto.”
“What else could it be?” questioned the Jap practically.
Tony, having no ansyer, gulped his coffee; and Kyto had to attend to the telephone, which was ringing.
It was Balcom.
“Hey! Tony! Tony, have you seen the paper? I told you Hendron had something, but I admit this runs considerably beyond expectations.… Staggers one, doesn’t it, Tony?… Now, see here, it’s perfectly plain that Hendron knows much more than he’s giving out.… Tony, he probably knows it all now!… I want you to get to him as soon as you can.”
As soon as possible, Tony got rid of Balcom—another rider on the rim of the world, trapped with Tony and Kyto and all the rest of these people who could be heard, if you went to the open window, ringing one another to talk over this consternation.
Tony commanded, from before the bathroom mirror, where he was hastily shaving: “Kyto, make sure that anybody else that calls up isn’t Miss Hendron, and then say I’m out.”
Within five minutes Kyto was telling the truth. Tony, in less than five more, was at the Hendrons’. The place was policed. Men, women and children from Park Avenue, from Third and Second avenues crowded the sidewalks; sound-film trucks and photographers obstructed the street. Radio people and reporters, refused admittance, picked up what they could from the throng. Tony, at last, made contact with a police officer, and he did not make the mistake of asserting his right to pass the police-lines or of claiming, too publicly, that he was a personal friend of the family.
“There is a possibility that Dr. Hendron or perhaps Miss Hendron might have left word that I might see them,” Tony said. “My name is Tony Drake.”
The officer escorted him in. The elevator lifted him high to the penthouse on the roof, where the street noises were vague and far away, where the sun was shining, and blossoms, in their boxes, were red and yellow and blue.
No one was about but the servants. Impassive people! Did they know and understand? Or were they dulled to it?
Miss Eve, they said, was in the breakfast-room; Dr. Hendron still was asleep.
“Hello, Tony! Come in!”
Eve rose from the pretty little green table in the gay chintz-curtained nook which they called the breakfast-room.
Her eyes were bright, her face flushed the slightest bit with her excitement. Her hands grasped his tightly.
Lovely hands, she had, slender and soft and strong. How gentle she was to hold, but also how strong! Longing for her leaped in Tony. Damn everything else!
He pulled her within his arms and kissed her; and her lips, as they had last night, clung to his. They both drew breath, deeply, as they parted—stared into each other’s eyes. Their hands held to each other a moment more; then Tony stepped back.
She had dressed but for her frock itself; she was in negligée, with her slim lovely arms in loose lace-decked silk, her white neck and bosom half exposed.
