Footprints by Kay Cleaver Strahan

I

The heavy glass and bronze door revolved, and released from its sections, out of the grizzly November mist and into the rosy and fragrant hotel lobby, malice and envy, joy and enthusiasm, vanity and greed. Fear, masked with dignity, wrapped in sealskin and topped with a charming bright red hat, came quickly and alone.

Two egg-shaped matrons glanced, lengthened and set their glances.

Purple-and-henna breathed, "Beautiful wrap."

"I'll tell you about her in a minute. " Brown-and-gold spoke from her throat.

Their gazes followed the sealskin down the long strip of Mosul to the mahogany desk behind which a glossy clerk suddenly discovered reverence and added it to his attitude.

"She's one of the Quilters," Brown-and-gold informed. "They are among the best-known families here in Oregon. They have an enormous ranch over east of the mountains in Quilter County; half of that country over there seems to be named for them. They're millionaires. Ken says everything they touch turns into money.

"I've never met her-exactly; that's why I didn't speak. But she was at a tea where I was, two years ago; it was given for the blind. Quilters are supposed to be very charitable; but why shouldn't they be? As I told Ken, a dollar doesn't mean any more to them than a thin dime does to us. " She paused to sigh.

"Does she live here at this hotel?"

"No. No-she lives out at the ranch. I can't imagine anyone wanting to live away from things, like that. The ranch is beautiful, though; quite a show place. Too bad you're leaving so soon-we might motor over to see it. Her brother, Neal Quilter, has been stopping here for a couple of days. I suppose she is here to see him. I've seen him twice lately in the dining room. He is awfully handsome-a bachelor, too. Will you look at the bellhop sliding to ring the elevator bell for her? I'm always allowed to ring it for myself. I hope she has to wait as long for that elevator as I usually do. The service here seems to be getting worse and worse; and, considering the prices they ask -- "

"She's as slim as an old maid. Or is she married?"

"She's a widow. Judith Quilter Whitefield. Has been, for years and years. Funny she's never married again, with her money. She's kind of sweet looking yet, don't you think? I guess she just didn't want to marry. I don't blame her; why should she? She toured Europe last year with her sister, Lucy Quilter Cerini, and her husband -- "

"Oh! Is that who she is? I didn't connect the names at all. I reviewed one of Lucy Quilter Cerini's books for our ladies' literary society, back home, last year. I remember I found then that she was born in Oregon, but I didn't place her at first. So she's her sister?"

"Yes. I've never read any of her works. Was the book you read good?"

"Well-yes. You know she's very highly spoken of -- "

The elevator door slid open, clinked shut.

Judith looked into the panelled mirror. She was too pale. She ducked her head and pinched pink into her cheeks with trembling fingers.

"Fifth floor, madam. To your right."

Five hundred and two-buckle my shoe. Five hundred and four-shut the door. Five hundred and -- How slyly, furtively soft these felt-padded carpets were. They had turned her into a sleuth, creeping, sneaking up on Neal. She wished that her advent might have been heralded by at least the smart clicking of heels. One could not, of course, whistle down hotel corridors. Perhaps she should have asked the clerk to telephone. But no, last night and again this morning she had thought and thought of that, and had rejected it.

Five hundred and sixteen. She paused, unfastened her fur collar and set it back from her firm white throat. She unclasped her handbag, took from it a gold locket of the sort that dangled from long bead chains in the eighteen nineties, and snapped it open. In one of its circles was the picture of an old gentleman with a white, squarely cut beard, a wide brow, small sensitive nostrils, and a humorous quirk near the eyes that miraculously saved the face from the frailty of saintliness. In the opposite circle, printed in tiny letters, was, Judith had long thought, a truer portrait of her grandfather. He had called it a rule of conduct, and had given it to her during the happiest period of her life: just after she and Gregory Whitefield had announced their engagement; months before the suspicion that "Greg's bad cold" could be serious.