Free Rex Stout by Red Threads Page B

first place, it seems quite possible that you hit me on the head last evening and stole my clothes.”
    “Me? Good God! You say I did that?”
    “I said it seems possible.”
    “That I knocked you on the head? You aren’t serious.”
    “I am absolutely serious.”
    “Then you’re an awful fool.” He got up, without haste, and walked to her. He towered above her, frowning down at her, the muscles of his jaw perceptibly moving. “Look here, Miss Farris. The other day we seemed to … No, I won’t say that. I don’t know how it seemed to you. But to me it seemed—what I said, that your eyes were open to me. I felt that there was no fear and no meanness between us, and no calculation. That was the first time in my life that I ever had that feeling. I thought—from the way you talked—that you felt the same way. Perhaps I was wrong.” He stopped, regarded her a moment in silence, and then returned to his chair. He repeated, this time making it a question, “Perhaps I was wrong?”
    “Perhaps.” Jean wasn’t looking at him. As he had stood frowning down at her he had been unspeakably stern and darkly handsome, and now she wasn’t looking at him. “Or perhaps I was. You really want to be frank, do you? Then for meanness, how about your asking me to give you that skirt and jacket, without any reason? Now wait a minute! It was only the second time we were together that evening at Lucky Hills two weeks ago. When I admired that jacket you told me it was realbayeta and you’d like to have me take it. You told me it wasn’t in its original blanket form anyway, and even if it had been you wouldn’t care, because you’d like to see what my art could do with it. And you said—certain other things. So I took it, and I didn’t even let one of my girls unravel it; I did it myself, here in this room, and I spent hours selecting yarns to go with it, and I spent twenty more hours at one of the looms, weaving it myself. Then I took it to Krone, and I wouldn’t let his cutter touch it; I did the cutting. When it came yesterday I thought it was beautiful. This is what they call a sob story. When you showed up at Barth’s you didn’t even notice it; you barely glanced at it. That was all right; maybe you had something else to do. But a little later you calmly came and asked me to give it to you because it was desirable for you to have it!” Jean’s eyes flashed at him. “I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Carew, I’m a well-known designer, and where my work is concerned I’m conceited and jealous, and I haven’t taken the time or the trouble to unravel any yarn or run a loom myself for years, and what surprises me is that I should bother to say anything to you at all except go to the devil! Except one thing, that I intended to send that jacket and skirt to you this morning by parcel post!”
    Guy Carew was still frowning at her. “The trouble is,” he muttered, “the chief trouble is, the kind of man I am. But I’m that kind. I don’t know why, either; it isn’t a Cherokee trait; the average Cherokee will tell you anything. Maybe it’s the mixture. It isn’t acquired, for I’ve always been that way. I was like that when I was a boy, and later at college, and the three years I spent in Europe, and since then among the tribes. I don’t think I’m secretive, exactly, it’s just a lack of impulse to communicate my own affairs. And then, there really was a reason for me to hesitate to tell any one why I wanted you togive me that jacket and skirt. Especially—I had no right to burden you with such confidence.”
    Jean said drily, “You thought knocking me on the head was better.”
    “I did not. You know very well I did not. And in any case, I admit I had no right to ask you for it without saying why I wanted it. Another thing, I should have told you why I was sticking close to Portia Tritt.”
    “Not at all. That’s none of
my
business.”
    “But you seemed to think it was. I mean, the remark you made. When