"It's been everywhere else," she said loudly to the accusing, still,
small voice, "and it might jest as well go the limit. 'T won't bring
much, but 'twill help."
Through byways and highways Amarilly sought the region of the three-
balled porticoes. The shop of one Max Solstein attracted her, and she
entered his open door. Max, rat-eyed and frog-mouthed, came forward
propitiatingly.
"What'll you gimme on this?" came with directness from the small
importuner.
He took the garment, shook it, and held it up for falcon-gaze
inspection.
"Not worth much. A quarter of a dollar."
Amarilly snatched it from his grasp and fled. Not because of his low-
figured offer; she had fully expected to have to "beat him up." But when
she had entered, a youth who had all the recognized earmarks of a
reporter was lounging in the doorway. At sight of the uplifted garment
he had come eagerly forward, scenting a story. She knew his kind from
snatches of conversation she had heard between the leading lady and Lord
Algernon. In the lore of the stage at Barlow's, reporters were "hovering
vultures" who always dropped down when least wanted, and they had a way
of dragging to light the innermost thoughts of their victims.
"You read your secrets," Lord Algernon had dramatically declared, "in
blazoned headlines."
Hitherto Amarilly had effectually silenced her instinctive rebellion
against the profaning of St. John's surplice, but she had reached the
limit. No Max Solstein, no threatening landlord, no ruthless reporter
should thrust the sacred surplice into the publicity of print.
She darted from the shop, the reporter right at her heels, but the
chasing of his covey to corner was not easily accomplished. He was a
newly fledged reporter, and Amarilly had all the instinct of the lowly
for localities. She turned and doubled and dodged successfully. By a
course circuitous she returned to Hebrew haunts, this time to seek, one
Abram Canter, a little wizened, gnome-like Jew. Assuring herself that
there was no other than the proprietor within, Amarilly entered and
handed over the surplice for appraisal.
Once more the garment was held aloft. At that psychological moment an
elderly man of buxom build, benevolent in mien, and with smooth, long
hair that had an upward rolling tendency at the ends, looked in the shop
as he was passing. He halted, hesitated, and then entered. Of him,
however, Amarilly felt no apprehension.
"Looks like Quaker Oats, or mebby it's the Jack of Spades," she thought
after a searching survey.
"My child, is that yours?" he asked of Amarilly, indicating the garment
by a protesting forefinger.