The Last Drive by Rex Stout Page B

terrier in her lap, and on one of those hands imprinted a well-directed and unmistakable kiss.
    The girl remained motionless and silent. “Of course,” she said, finally, “I can’t very well be angry, since it was my own fault. But it is really too bad, for now you must go.”
    â€œYou know perfectly well,” protested Thrawn, “that within five minutes from the time I leave you will be frightfully bored. And so will I.”
    The girl was silent. Thrawn rose from the bench and beckoned with his stick to a taxicab that was passing on Central Park West. The taxi circled back to the park entrance and stopped on the drive some twenty feet from the path.
    â€œOf course,” said Thrawn,” you are probably right. Discretion is the better part of valor. Like all sensible people, you realize that it is wiser to avoid danger than to overcome it. It is rather curious that you should have been so mistaken when you first saw me. Only one other girl was ever unfortunate enough to tell me I was harmless.”
    â€œI suppose,” said the girl scornfully, “that she died of a broken heart.”
    â€œNo,” said Thrawn, with a reminiscent sadness, “she is still living. You see,” he continued, “there is no good in your feeling mortified, because your asking me to leave is a confession of weakness. It’s universal. Not, of course, that I am irresistible.”
    â€œBut you think you are,” declared the girl. “You have more conceit with less reason than any man I know. Where are you going?”
    Thrawn hesitated. “To the Plaza, for tea,” he hazarded.
    â€œI’m not surprised,” the girl declared. “The palm room at the Plaza is exactly suited to you.”
    â€œShould I carry the parasol?” asked Thrawn.
    â€œNo. You may take the dog.”
    Thrawn took the terrier in his arms and led the way across the lawn to the taxi.
    â€œWhat was it,” he asked, as the taxi swept through the park, “that first made you like me?”
    â€œYour hat,” said the girl, after a careful scrutiny. “Yes, it must have been your hat. It is so flat and ugly.”
    â€œThank you,” said Thrawn.
    As they were passing into the tea-room from the outer corridor at the hotel the girl halted suddenly.
    â€œWhere’s the dog?” she asked.
    Thrawn stopped and gazed at her blankly.
    â€œLost,” he said simply.
    For ten minutes they tramped through corridors and ante-rooms—all in vain. The little Paisley had completely disappeared. Thrawn had lifted it from the taxi, turned to pay the chauffeur, and forgotten all about it.
    â€œIt was extremely thoughtless of me,” said he, as they sat down on a divan to rest. “I am dreadfully sorry.”
    The girl was silent.
    â€œYou see,” continued Thrawn presently, “its all your own fault. If you hadn’t said I was harmless we would be sitting in the park in the sunshine talking about Browning or something, instead of running after a confounded dog.”
    â€œIt isn’t,” the girl contradicted. “It isn’t a—a—that kind of dog.” She was either laughing or crying.
    â€œBeside,” Thrawn continued, “how could I help forgetting? You should have known that a creamy white face with a coat of tan, a little nose and funny twinkly eyes is to me the most beautiful sight in the world. The dog demanded too much attention. I’m glad I forgot him. I’m glad he’s gone.”
    The girl put up her handkerchief to catch a tear that was just ready to fall. I have said that she was either laughing or crying. Thrawn saw the tear, and gasped.
    â€œDid you love him so well?” he asked.
    The girl nodded, and again pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
    â€œWas he—did you have him long?”
    Again the girl nodded. “That is the reason I care,” she said. “He could never be replaced. We all