Mr. Moto Is So Sorry by John P. Marquand Page A

whispered.
    He had forgotten about propriety and she had only been an abstraction to him until he was in her room, but when he was there he felt a self-conscious embarrassment at his rudeness. He had broken in upon something which he was not meant to see, upon a different person from the girl he had known on the train and upon a sort of privacy that made him stare at her blankly. She had on a negligee of delicate pastel green. Her bare feet were thrust into green silk mules, and her hair fell over her back and shoulders in a dark, misty cloud that framed the delicate oval of her face. Even with the startled look in her wide brown eyes her face was beautiful. In that moment of surprise she was very young and entirely untouched by the world outside.
    The bare ugliness of the room had been changed by her small possessions—a gold-backed comb and brush upon the bureau, and some books on a chair. Her small blue leather traveling clock was on the table. They were all small things, but all of them made her different and all of them told him that he should not be there. For a second she was breathless and confused, and he shared her confusion.
    â€œWhat do you mean by coming in here?” she said breathlessly. “What do you mean by pushing the door open?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Calvin Gates. Her face was growing red and so was his. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I haven’t got much time.”
    Miss Dillaway bit her lower lip and pulled her green gown more tightly about her, a quick instinctive gesture which reminded him that he was staring at her.
    â€œGates,” she said, “are you going to get out of here or shall I have to ring? I didn’t think you’d act like this. You’re like all the rest of them. I thought—”
    â€œDon’t,” Calvin answered. “There isn’t time. I came here to help you.”
    â€œOh,” she said, “that’s one way of putting it.”
    â€œDon’t,” Calvin Gates repeated. “I do want to help you, Miss Dillaway. I’m afraid you’re in trouble.”
    The confusion and the anger had left her face and her brown eyes grew wider.
    â€œGo ahead,” she answered. “What is it, Gates?” And Calvin told her bluntly because it was the only way to tell it.
    â€œYour Russian has been murdered,” he told her. “A political murder I think—by the police.”
    She walked toward him and rested her hand on his arm and her lips trembled. It was an ugly enough moment, but he was only conscious that she trusted him and that she had touched his arm.
    â€œMurdered,” she whispered. “How do you know that?”
    â€œI know it,” he answered, “because I saw him die.”
    She reached her hand toward him again, and he held it in his for a moment.
    â€œIt’s going to be all right,” he said.
    Then she drew her hand away and it was exactly as though a door had closed between them, for her composure had come back—that same casual mask which he had seen on the train.
    â€œI want you to listen,” Calvin Gates went on. “I want you to try to trust me and do what I tell you. Do you think you can?”
    â€œYes,” she said, “I think I can. I don’t know you very well.” And she smiled. It was a poor attempt at a smile. “Do you have to be so dramatic, Gates?”
    Calvin Gates looked back at her soberly.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he began, “to have broken in here.”
    â€œGood heavens,” said Miss Dillaway, “let’s not go over that again. What are you staring at, Gates?”
    â€œIt’s you,” said Calvin Gates, “you’re beautiful.”
    â€œWell, you needn’t look so surprised,” said Miss Dillaway. “You didn’t come here to tell me that.”
    â€œNo,” he said, “I didn’t. The Russian was killed on account of that cigarette case, the one