Scott’s first feeling, once the shock had worn off, was one of almost acute relief that his engagement to Chloe was off. He was a little ashamed of the feeling and berated himself roundly. Chloe’s exquisite loveliness and her pretended keen interest in his profession had not been more than surface deep, he assured himself; he had discovered her selfishness, her complete absorption in her own charms, and her determination that she must be the most important thing in the world.
“Wise after the fact, aren’t you?” he told himself, thinking back over the past few weeks, and the times they had quarreled because he had had to break dates with her in order to answer emergency calls to patients. Her callousness, her egotism, had left little rents here and there in the bright, soft fabric of her enchantment for him. He had told himself that once they were married she would change. And he had known in his heart, even as he had offered himself that specious comfort, that he was lying. She would not change. She was supremely satisfied with herself as she was; if there were changes to be made she expected other people to make them. If there were to be adjustments, they would have to be his, not hers.
Of course the news of the broken engagement rocked the town, or at least that part of it which was concerned with Chloe Parham and the young doctor. The grapevine had reported the real reason behind the broken engagement: that Chloe had abandoned Scott, with a badly injured man on a country road. And sympathy was all with Scott. Not that Scott asked for it, wanted it, or even expected it. His engagement was his own affair, he felt; and the breaking of it was something he did not feel it necessary to discuss.
A week after Chloe’s sudden departure for New York, Scott received a letter from Liss. He studied the square, ivory-tinted envelope, with its dashing handwriting and its New York postmark, then thrust it unopened into his pocket until he had finished his day’s work and was back in his apartment after dinner.
He opened it with a feeling of reluctance. The address was in Liss’s writing, but would the letter it contained be from Chloe? Could it be that Chloe was begging forgiveness? It was as though when he held the letter in his hand he felt a thousand tiny silken strands, strong as steel, winding about him, dragging him in a direction he didn’t want to follow. Then he told himself he was being a fool and unfolded the letter.
“Scott, My Hero,” it began exuberantly, “this is just to tell you that I admire you extravagantly and love you dearly — in, of course, a strictly platonic way. If ever a gal was simply spoiling for a comeuppance our little Chloe was that gal. And you certainly said comeuppance in fine style. I’m proud of you, darling! Anyway, she arrived here with blood in her eye, and breathing fire and brimstone. I concealed my delight at the knowledge the engagement was broken, and soothed her down by introducing her about among Clay’s more affluent friends. Among them there was an advertising executive who came up with the brilliant idea that Chloe, being definitely photogenic, should become a model. He was just the man that could manage it — surprise, surprise! So now Chloe is happily installed in the Hotel Baronne, happy hunting ground of career gals, and doing all right for herself and having herself a time. And within less time than it takes to tell it, I feel quite sure that, being Chloe, she will snag herself a husband who can keep her in the style to which she will assuredly become accustomed in short order, since she has always felt that the best was no less than Chloe Parham deserved.
“All of this, darling, I tell you in the fond belief that it will comfort you, you being the sort of blessed sap who might go around worrying for fear you’ve ruined the gal’s life! I assure you with all the vehemence at my command — which is considerable — you haven’t. So, have fun, darling and forget all about l’affaire Chloe, and if you’re as smart as I hope you are, you’ll suddenly discover that lovely gal, Kate Ryan, who is one of earth’s nicest creatures.
“Clay sends you his best and if ever you are in these parts, he will see to it that you have the keys to the city and any other thing your little heart desires. By which you may gather that he and I are so happy we go around walking on clouds and bumping our heads against the stars, and you couldn’t be more right! And when I think that if you hadn’t told me some unpleasant facts about myself that I was too stupid to realize, I’d still be blundering around in the darkness, lonely and heart-sick — well, we don’t have to keep talking about it, do we? Anyway, we are eternally grateful, and with Clay’s wholehearted approval, I send you our love.”
Scott grinned as he put the letter down. Liss was happy. Chloe was happy. And he need no longer worry about Chloe’s return to Hamilton or any suggestion that she would like the engagement to be resumed.
The summer slid by and the long, lovely Indian summer that was winter in this sheltered Southern clime began. Scott was working. He was contented. He felt that he was definitely getting ahead, in all ways save one; and that was in his effort to learn something definite about the Ku Klux Klan with which he could go to the authorities and demand decisive action.
Late one night in early October, he had had the unaccustomed luxury of getting to bed by ten o’clock. He was tired and he slept dreamlessly, until suddenly he was awakened by the sound of something thumping at the front door. Awake instantly, he leaped out of bed, but before he could answer the summons at the front door, he became aware of a strangely brilliant light that illuminated his room. Too bright for moonlight, too steady and white to be the headlights of a car, it drew him to the window, where he looked out on an unbelievable scene.
Full in the center of the small lawn, stood a four-foot-high cross, blazing furiously. Beyond it in the brilliant light of that blazing cross, he saw a group clad in hoods and long white robes. It was his first sight of a Ku Klux Klan in full regalia, and for a moment it held him spellbound.
The ghostly figures in the blazing white light were motionless. Fifteen or twenty in number, they were lined up watching the cross, making no sound, no movement. And Scott, feeling the brisk surge of anger that rose within him, sensed what a terrifying sight that would be to the usual Klan victims.
But for himself there was no fear; just an angry determination to see the faces of one or two of these men at the least. If he could learn the identity of one or two, caught red-handed at the scene of a demonstration, then he would have something which he could use as evidence. He felt sure that if pressure were brought to bear on such men, positively identified, some action would have to be taken by the authorities.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, he was jerking on his trousers, thrusting his bare feet into soft leather moccasins, and slipping silently down the hall to the back door. There was a low privet hedge between this cottage and the one next door.
All but holding his breath, he slipped across the drive and managed to reach the shelter of the hedge. And then, bending low, moving as stealthily as some wild creature, he crept down the hedge to the sidewalk. The brilliant flare of the blazing cross was dying down now and there was a little stirring among the group of men — low-voiced murmurs as they prepared to depart, their work of intimidation supposedly over.
At that moment, moving swiftly, silently, Scott leaped toward the nearest man, catching him from behind, ripping the hood from his face as the man swore and whirled around. For a moment, the man goggled at him, too surprised for action; and Scott saw his face.
“Well, hello! Joe Blake, isn’t it?” said Scott happily.
The man swore and leaped at him. Others, hearing the man’s oath, whirled, and Scott, fighting with everything he had, went back beneath the onslaught of fists and feet. For a moment he was conscious; and then a heavily booted toe struck viciously against his knee and he went down and stayed down….