Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/228



IT WAS LATE AND IT WAS EARLY. IT had been only by great effort that Paul Boudreaux had persuaded Gaylord Le Claire not to go directly to his hotel. Now, his heart pounding, Paul led the way up a dimly lighted threadbare flight of stairs.

Gaylord had no idea how far the cab had taken them. He tried to understand the significance of why he was here. He thought of his parents; his vacant hotel room. He looked at the kind eyes that had just turned, there was something very nice about them. Perhaps it was the dark hair, the expressive mouth and quick smile. They all had a peculiar effect on him. He compared what he saw with the others they had just left; Paul was the most intelligent, the cleanest of them all.

"Can you see?" Paul asked … "Here, take my hand."

Gaylord took the hand offered him. "I'm all right," he answered. "Little dizzy though."

They reached a second landing. The dilapidated state of the hall surprised him. The worn carpet had been patched from various rugs, the paint on the walls curled, and the ceiling was a design of brown water stains. Not even a straight chair was in sight, only an old fashioned floor-lamp stood in the hall; a cluster of artificial flowers, made from faded georgette, drooped and sagged on it. They looked decayed and tired. Too tired to drop in the rusted waste basket beneath them. Five doors, in dark and dismal frames, leaned against the right wall. At the second one from the left, they stopped. In the center of this dark and varnished door something shone. Gaylord looked hard. 218