Some
of the nearer crests were etched against the midnight sky by dull red
creeping lines like a dying firework. The great hotel itself creaked
and crackled and warped though all its painted, blistered, and veneered
expanse, and was filled with the stifling breath of desiccation. The
stucco cracked and crumbled away from the cornices; there were yawning
gaps in the boarded floors beneath the Turkey carpets. Plate-glass
windows became hopelessly fixed in their warped and twisted sashes,
and added to the heat; there was a warm incense of pine sap in the
dining-room that flavored all the cuisine. And yet the babble of stocks
and shares went on, and people pricked their ears over their soup to
catch the gossip of the last arrival.
Demorest, loathing it all in his new-found bitterness, was nevertheless
impatient in his inaction, and was eagerly awaiting a telegram from
Stacy; Barker had disappeared since luncheon. Suddenly there was
a commotion on the veranda as a carriage drove up with a handsome,
gray-haired woman. In the buzzing of voices around him Demorest heard
the name of Mrs. Van Loo. In further comments, made in more smothered
accents, he heard that Van Loo had been stopped at Canyon Station, but
that no warrant had yet been issued against him; that it was generally
believed that the bank dared not hold him; that others openly averred
that he had been used as a scapegoat to avert suspicion from higher
guilt.
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