Joseph Greer and His Daughter
“HELLO, DAD!"
SYNOPSIS. — Joseph Greer, a
black-bearded pirate of fifty,
having discovered a process of
extracting: fiber from flax straw.
Is made director of a big1 corpo
ration. For years distrusting
men of affairs, Greer has played
a lone hand. Now holding what
he considers the winning cards,
he is willing to sublet his wits
to wealth. To protect his own
interests. Joe has foisted his own
secretary, Jennie MacArthur,
upon the company. Henry Cra
ven, a bank clerk related to John
Williamson, the millionaire back
er of Greer’s new company, is
offered by Williamson the posi
tion of treasurer of the new com
pany, with the generally under
stood purpose of watching Greer.
Craven accepts. Joe tells Jennie
about his wife, who is about to
divorce him, and his nineteen
year-old daughter, Beatrice,
whom he has never seen. He is
planning to force the daughter
into Chicago society. Joe goes
to a week-end party at William
son's house, where he meets Vio
let. John’s wife, and is strongly
drawn to her. He fascinates her.
CHAPTER III—Continued.
“When did yo’’ know Sorolla?” she
asked. Her laugh seemed to be di
rected at her own astonishment.
“When he was here. I bought a pic
ture of his, one of those seashore
things. I’d like you to see It some
time. It’s better than the one they’ve
got at the Institute. He painted a por
trait of me, and then he wouldn’t let
me have it. Took it back to Spain
with him. We got pretty well acquaint
ed. I can talk Spanish, you see. bet
ter than English; politer, anyhow.”
She digested that in silence until
they got to where his car was standing
in the drive. Even then she made no
move to leave him.
“I'd commandeer you,” she said,
“and take you over to the Stannards’,
except that you'd be so bored you’d
never forgive me."
He thought it best not to insist that
he wouldn’t be. He offered the excuse
of work to do, and, getting into his
car, seated himself at the wheel.
“You will come to see the Sorolla some
time?” he asked. “Come to dinner,
you and your husband?”
She accepted this invitation a little
absently. Then promptly corrected
her manner and told him, with polite
enthusiasm, she'd love to. Still she
lingered for, a moment beside ids car,
her elbows on the door, one foot on
the running-board. She asked him
suddenly what he was smiling at.
“Speaking of bull-fights reminded me
I fought a bull once myself. In the
public square at Quito. I jumped over
the barrier on a bet a girl had just
made with me.”
“Oh, go away!” she cried, releasing
the car at last and stepping back. “But
come again. Soon. And telephone me
when you want us for the dinner. John
might forget.”
Joe hud lied to Violet in one minor
particular; it hadn’t been, directly, lier
reference to the bull-fights in Madrid
that had reminded him of the bull he
fought at Quito, but her own attitude,
during their moment of parting, while
she lingered beside his car. That had
brought back the young senora he’d
made the bet with. His first serious
love-affair hud been with her. Eight
een he must have been, or thereabout;
she couldn’t have been more than a
year or two older, And her husband
had been much the same sort of stall
fed hidalgo—in Ecuador—as William
son. There had been, he remembered,
about that Castilian girl the same
quality of silkiness. And the same
cool Insolence. She'd regarded him as
a barbarian—laughed at his rudimen
tary Spanisii and at his Northern man
ners. But she’d come to him. just
the same. It was queer how vividly
he remembered her. He hadn't thought
of her in years.
He had driven all the way back to
town, jit a speed reckless of the prowl
nc uro»« DdCK 10 i own.
tag Sunday motor cop, before It oc
curred to him that he hadn't told Vio
let a word about Beatrice—on whose
sole* account he hnd accepted John
Williamson’s Invitation In the first
place. He didn't go on to admit that,
from the mom«it of Violet's appear
ance at the traps, he'd forgotten all
about his daughter. What he decided
was that It was Just as well he’d wait
ed until he knew for sure the child
» «u coming.
CHAPTER |V
The Cub.
It was not on the cards that Joe
should forget about his daughter for
long. It was not until a couple of days
had gone by, however, that he heard
from the serviceable lawyer In Pasa
dena. It contained the brief news that
his daughter had asked for the entire
thousand dollars and that he had given
It to her with misgivings, and said that
she would probably have arrived In
Chicago before his letter.
A week went by without news of the
girl and then he became worried. At
Jennie’s suggestion he wired his wife
and found that she was equally lack
ing in knowledge of Beatrice’s where
abouts. Two days later a photograph
of his daughter arrived and he was
astounded at the marvelous resem
blance It bore to himself. It did not
picture the old-fashioned girl he had
imagined, all frills and lace, but a
thoroughly sophisticated modern wom
an—for It was a woman the picture
revealed.
Jennie’s comment on It was straight
out. “You’ll find she Is a duplicate
of yourself. Probably an explorer,
like you are. Willing to take a chance
on almost anything, Just for the ex
.eitement.”
A few days later Joe gave his party
—It turned out to be a supper Instead
of a dinner. At It Margaret noticed
the photograph of Beatrice on her fa
ther’s dresser—he had given up his
room to his feminine ' guests—and
learned for the first time that Joe
was married, that his wife was getting
a divorce and that he expected his
daughter to come on and live with him.
“No telegrams today?” For more
than a week it had been Joe’s first
question of the butler as the man
opened the door for him upon his daily
return from the office, despite a stand
ing order that any wire that came to
the apartment during the day should
be telephoned on to wherever he was.
Tonight Anson said, as always, ‘‘No
telegram, sir," but the inflection of the
phrase was different and Joe demand
ed sharply, “Well, what?”
“The young lady herself has arrived.
Miss Greer, sir.”
“Arrived? In town? Where is she
now?”
“In the library, I believe, sir.”
Joe found that he was trembling.
The man had taken his hat. There
was no reason why lie shouldn’t go
straight into the library, but he hesi
tated. “When did she come?” he
asked.
“Just after noon, sir. Around two
o’clock, I think.”
“Two o’clock 1” Joe echoed. “Why
the devil wasn’t I told of it?”
“Miss Greer wished me not to dis
turb you, sir. She said she wished a
little time to get settled.” He paused,
but Joe was speechless, so, after a
moment, he went on. “I assisted in
unpacking her trunk. She had it sent
down to the storeroom about an hou’
ago.” He added, a little anxiously,
“She took the blue room. I trust It’s
all right, sir.”
“Of course it’s all right,” Joe an
swered curtly. “She’s my daughter,
you understand? Going to live with
me, for the present anyhow. That’s
all,” he concluded. "You can go.” He
waited where he was until the man
had gone through the service-door.
Then, after a steadying moment, alone,
he made his way to the library.
She must have heard him talking to
Anson, but she gave no overt sign of
being aware of his approach. She sat
facing him, one of the evening papers
open in both hands so that it hid her
like a curtain. It occurred to Joe that
one didn’t hold a paper quite so rig
idly as that when one was reading it.
“Is that you, Beatrice?” he asked.
He had halted without coming very
close to her.”
At his voice she flung the paper
aside and sprang to her feet. “Hello,
Dad!” she cried. She almost managed
the air of one greeting a familiar at
the end of a day's • separation. Her
voice, like Joe’s, had a startling
resonance and a wide inflectional
swing. She added, "I suppose that is
you.” She had tried, as before, to say
it casually, pertly even, but the wire
edge in her voice betrayed that she
was frightened.
He had expected that. What sur
prised him was that he was fright
ened too. Almost for the first time in
his life he felt that he hud to lock his
teeth to prevent them from chattering.
He turned his look abruptly away from
tier, but still, as he gazed blankly out
the window, he could see the picture
of her. She’d come. Incredibly, to live
with him. She’d unpacked her trunk
and sent it down to the storeroom.
She’d dressed us a woman dresses
when she Is securely at home, in the
sort of thing they called, he thought,
a tea-gown. And white-silk stockings
and black-satin slippers, high-heeled
with straps. He’d find her like that,
every day—nnless he frightened her
off.
"Yes,” he said, "we're here together
at last.” Then, in order not to stop
talking, he went on, "You gave me a
great scare. It’s two weeks since that
lawyer telegraphed you’d left.”
“You got my picture, though,” she
reminded him. “I wrote on it I was
coming. I had to gc to San Francisco
first to get some clothes. Mother never
would let me have a tiling I was fit to
lie seen In. I thought I’d better make
a good Impression, so you wouldn’t
send me back on the next train.” She
gave a nervous laugh. “Have I? Do
1 you like me?”
By HENRY KITCHELL WEBSTER *
Copyright by The Bobbs-Merrlll Co.
Somehow he couldn’t look round at
her, but he nodded and said, “Yes— I
must wire your mother you’ve come.
She’s been In a terrible state about
you.’’
She had begun coming toward him,
but now she stopped. ‘‘I guess you’re
still mad at me,” she remarked, ‘‘for
having kept you waiting.”
At tills he turned to her. “I kept
you waiting longer than that,” he said.
‘‘So what forgiving there Is you’ll have
to do.”
"Well, then,” she answered, “let’s
kiss and make up. I suppose that's
the next thing to do.” She uttered
that same nervous laugh again as she
They Had the Room to Themselves.
came to meet him, and, when he took
her in his hands, he saw that she
winced. Her head went back like a
frightened animal’s.
Instantly he let her go, and stepped
back. “We’ll let that stand over
while you’re getting used to me,” lie
told her.
Blood surged up Into her face, and
it was with a shrug she turned away.
“Suit yourself about that,” she said.
The paralysis which had been upon
him lifted. His thought spoke itself,
naturally, in words. “My dear, the
only woman who ever kissed me with
out wanting to was your mother.' I’m
not going to have that handed on to
you. You’re going to like me some
day, and when you do you’ll come and
kiss me without having to stiffen your
back.”
At that she smiled round a little
more spontaneously upon Tiim. “I’m
going to like it here, all right,” she
said.'
And with this encouragement, par
tial as it was (for it was it, he noted,
that she’d prophesied she’d like, rather
than him), he took matters into his
own hnnds. Had she said anything to
Anson about dinner—about anything
she’d specially like? Was she tired
after her long journey? If not, what
would she say to their dining down
town—at tfie Blackstone, perhaps?
And seeing a show afterward, by way
of making it a party?
The party that night was a success.
True, he frowned a trifle at the way
she dressed. Her San Francisco
clothes showed they had been bought
by one used to making forty dollars
look like four hundred. A trifle bizarre
for the fashionable hotel at which they
dined and with an impossible lint. Joe
ordered two cocktails and suggested
that she could sip hers and he would
finish it for her. She drank it down
instead and it showed a little in her
heightened color and a tendency to be
on her guard.
It might have been that or the show
that followed, a charming little play
with a heroine in dotted Swiss, whom
Beatrice seemed to resent, that made
her fancy her fntlver was in a patron
izing mood. Riding home from the
theater (h* had not suggested pro
tracting the adventure further) shp
had seemed a trifle frightened at his
proximity and it was with evident re
lief that she took his casual dismissal
of her to bed, without any demand for
confidences.
At nan-past seven tne next morning,
as he was sitting <’ >wn to breakfast,
she amazed him by coming into the
dining-room. She was clad In a loose
sleeved bath-robe, over her nightgown,
and her hair, in two thick black braids,
hung over her shoulders. Her eyes
were bright with youth, and the bloom
of sleep luy upon her unpainted skin.
Her greeting was a mere playful
caress of one hand upon his shoulder.
Then she sat down in the armchair op
posite his, and made a great play of
the domesticities of breakfast; had
the coffee-urp and all the serving
dishes removed to her side »f the
table. ’’ i
She chaffed him brightly while ahe
served and, In the intervals, made a
hearty breakfast of her own. She.
made light of his concern that she
should be up and about so early. She
wasn’t one of the sort who hnd to
sleep away their days. There was
nearly always something better to do
than sleep, she thought, and "certainly
her first breakfast with her futher was
one of them.
The meal prolonged Itself far be
yond his usual limit for breakfast, and
the morning paper lay unregarded on
the floor. At last, however, he rose
and said he must be off. She rose, too
—they had the room to themselves
Just then—and for a moment she
stood before him, breathless and a lit
tle flushed. Then she flung her arms
around him, tight, and kissed his
mouth. He gathered her up In his
arms, and tears, utterly unwonted and
amazing, filled his eyes.
"It was your beard I was afraid of,”
she murmured. "But I guess I like
It.”
He let her go, abruptly, for there
was another damned echo In that. It
was a thing that had been said to him
before.
Then he dashed the unwelcomed
memory out of Ills mind. “Look here 1”
he cried. "How long will It take you
to dress? If you’ll be quick, I’ll wait.
Take you down-town with me to the
office. I wnnt 'em to see you. Besides,
It’s the place you’ll have to come when
you wont money.”
“T'll flv.” she said.
Tlie tears she saw In her father’s
eyes, when she’d kissed him over their
first breakfast, obliterated the fear
that she’d be shipped back to Pasa
dena as unsatisfactory; as his for
bearance, the evening before, had
made it plain that she wouldn’t have
to run away from him. They’d “get
on” all right. And the menage she
found him In, as well as the place he
seemed to offer her In It, was far be
yond the wildest of her hopeS> The
"good flat” and the two cars he had
mentioned In hIS letter had suggested
no such establishment as this.
Anson — dignified. Inscrutable, so
phisticated, and, Implicitly at least,
under her orders—wns as incredible as
if he’d come out of the movies. And
Burns, the chauffeur—her chauffeur,
in effect, since her father seemed never
to require his services by day—was as
good-looking and jolly and serviceable
to her caprice ns any of the young
princes of Hollywood who sometimes
disguised themselves In jobs like that,
for a lark-—or a purpose.
The car she elected to do most of
her driving in was not the sumptuous
monster In which Joe had taken her
down to dinner on that first evening,
but a sport model of the same famous
make. Her first edict was that sb be
allowed to learn to drive It. They
made daily cruises, she and young
Burns, of uncounted miles and un
reckoned hours. She even liked the
country. The color and freshness and
variety of the foliage excited her, ac
customed as she was to the palmetto
punctuated monotony of southern Cali
fornia.
Most of the time during those first
few days she felt like All Baba when
he had first said, “Open sesame 1” But,
again like All Baba, she was to experi
ence no comfortable security in the
possession of her treasure-trove. There
were enigmas about her father’s life
she couldn’t solve; alarms that kept
her constantly on the alert.
She’d stumbled upon the first of
these the morning Joe took her to the
office. He’d introduced her round
promiscuously, during the ostensible
process of showing her over the place,
to all sorts of people—draftsmen,
clerks, stenographers—usually In a
perfectly one-sided manner; “This Is
my daughter, Beatrice”; of course. It
didn’t matter to her who they were.
But to this procedure there had been
striking exception. On leading her up
to one young woman—a creature with
some pretense to looks and a lot of
red hair; probably some sort of head
stenographer since she seemed to
have an office of her owq—her father
had said, “Beatrice, this is Jennie
MacArthur.” He’d said It, too, on a
different note, significantly somehow,
and the significance seemed to be that
here was somebody who, for an un
guessed reason, did matter. He add
er, as if to put it beyond doubt, “I
wnnt you two to get acquainted.”
Beatrice, startled and feeling herself
flushed, managed a rather cavalier nod
and an abbreviated “How do you do”;
and then, though she hadn’t meant to,
extended her hand.
The woman didn’t act snubbed at
all, though the Intention, Beatrice
thought, had been plain enough. Her
look was penetrating and deliberate.
‘‘We’re very glad you’ve come,” she
said. Then, turning to him—her em
ployer, “Congratulations!” She didn’t
merely say it, either; she put some
thing into It, some special meaning.
There’d been conversation—disjoint
ed, rather at random—after this;
questions about the sort of trip she’d
had across the continent; a brief ac
count of what they’d done the night
before.
_£VL mai one omu, umn/-ui^i,v, xuric a
nothing much here this morning, Joe.
Why don’t you take the day off?*’
Though he vetoed the suggestion,
brnskly -there was something he par
ticularly wanted to get at—he didn't
seem to feel that there’d been anything
•fflclous about It. And the “Joe”
neither of ,them seemed to have been
conscious of at all. Evidently It was
what she called him.
She thought her father acted, now,
as If he’d still like to stay longer, bat
was conscious of being turned out. He
said, "Well, we won't bother you any
more, now, but—”
Later, casuully. In the codrse of a
driving lesson, she put a question or
two to Bums. Who was the good
looking woman In the office with red
hair?
Miss MucArthur? Oh, yes, he knew
her. Very pleasant she was, und
smart, too, he guessed. He understood
she was secretary of the company.
She lived ud in Edsrewater. He'd
driven her home once or twice when
her own car had been out of commis
sion.
She had a car, then, Beatrice com
mented. ‘
He qualified this. It was a flivver
coupe.
"Home from where?” Beatrice
asked. ‘‘Does she ever come to our
house?”
“I couldn’t say as to that,” he an
swered, and It struck her that his
manner was a little artificially dis
creet. Not even the thrill of learning
to run the big car could drive the
problem out of her mind.
But It was pretty well supplanted,
a few days later, by another, more
serious. Her father, as they were
leaving the breakfast-table, said to
Anson, ‘‘Mr. Craven and his sister are
dining with us tonight. No one else.”
She perceived, from the moment of
real attention he gave the butler’s
question as to what wine they should
hnve, that the dinner wasn’t quite the
casual thing his offhand announce
ment of It was meant to make it ap
pear. (Wine hadn't been an item at
their dinners, nor e'ven, since that first
night at the Blackstone, cocktails. Her
father helped himself to whisky out
of a carafe, but never offered any to
her.) She asked, when he was on the
point of going off without telling her,
who tlie Cravens were.
“Why, you met Henry that day at
the office,” he said. “He’s treasurer of
the company.”
“Was he the smallish man with eye
glasses?” she asked. And, at his nod,
“Is he a particular friend of yours?”
There was something she took as
not quite serious about his answer.
“Sure he Is. Henry and I have cot
toned up In great style.” He hesitat
ed, then went on, more soberly, “His
sister Murgaret’s n mighty fine woman.
You want to make a good impression
on her.” At the door he turned back
to say, “Better wear your little bine
dress, I guess. More the thing for a
small family dinner than the red one.”
She was in two minds, during the
day, whether she wouldn’t defy him
here, by way of establishing a prin
ciple she was in danger of al
lowing to lapse. But a misgiving,
picked up she knew not where, about
that rose-colored costume, which had
looked so desirably smart In the Mar
ket street shop, led her to follow her
father’s suggestion. For a few min
utes after their guests arrived she
was glad she had done so. She
sniffed danger in the wind, and until
It had passed she didn’t want her hands
tied by a quarrel, no matter how
trivial, with her father.
She couldn’t have said just what It
was that made her uneasy, but her
pitiless young eyes saw, beneath Mar
garet’s surface suavity, something
"Mr. Craven and Hit Si6ter Are Din
ing With Us Tonight. No One Else."
haggard. It betrayed itself In the
corners of her eyelids and in the tight
ness of her throat-muscles. It could
be heard, sometimes, in the wire edge
of a word—addressed, usually, to her
brother, or when, with what was meant
to sound like pure good humor, she
told stories at his expense. She was
old and tired and, for some reason
only to be guessed, not far from des
perate.
But, all the more for that, she was
formidable. Over the cocktails In the
drawing-room site had addressed her
host as Joe, but ^without—quite—Jen
nie MacArthur’s unconsciousness. A
gleam In his eye told the girl, too, that
he had noted it, with interest and per
haps with pleasure. So It must have
been the first time. The woman hadn't
done It idly; nothing she did was idle.
“They Knew I'm hard-boiled
and they euepect I'm dangerous."
i
.1 ' ..in.—
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
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When you are made to see yourself
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