chapter 36

With a quick, deft motion, Max Caldwell struck her nose with his open hand. 

There were then bloody towels on the bathroom floor, scolding women's voices, and a long, broken wail of pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his nap and, dazed, started toward the

door. Halfway there, he turned around and stared at the scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and comforting as they stumbled among the crowded furniture with items of

aid, and the despairing figure on the couch bleeding profusely and trying to cover up with a copy of 'Town Tattle.' 

Then Mr. McKee turned and continued out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed. 

"Come to lunch some day," he suggested as we descended in the elevator. 

"Where?" 

"Anywhere." 

"Keep your hands off the lever," snapped the elevator boy. 

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. McKee with dignity, "I didn't know I was touching it." 

"All right," I agreed, "I'll be happy to." 

… I was standing beside his bed, and he was sitting up between the sheets, dressed in his underwear, holding a large portfolio. 

"Beauty and the Beast… Loneliness… Old Grocery Horse… Brooklyn Bridge…" 

Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning 'Tribune' and waiting for the four o'clock train.