Dangerous Days

DANGEROUS DAYS
by Mary Roberts Rinehart
CHAPTER I
Natalie Spencer was giving a dinner. She was not an easy hostess. Like
most women of futile lives she lacked a sense of proportion, and the
small and unimportant details of the service absorbed her. Such
conversation as she threw at random, to right and left, was trivial and
distracted.
Yet the dinner was an unimportant one. It had been given with an eye
more to the menu than to the guest list, which was characteristic of
Natalie's mental processes. It was also characteristic that when the final
course had been served without mishap, and she gave a sigh of relief
before the gesture of withdrawal which was a signal to the other
women, that she had realized no lack in it. The food had been good, the
service satisfactory. She stood up, slim and beautifully dressed, and
gathered up the women with a smile.
The movement found Doctor Haverford, at her left, unprepared and
with his coffee cup in his hand. He put it down hastily and rose, and the
small cup overturned in its saucer, sending a smudge of brown into the
cloth.
"Dreadfully awkward of me!" he said. The clergyman's smile of
apology was boyish, but he was suddenly aware that his hostess was
annoyed. He caught his wife's amiable eyes on him, too, and they said
quite plainly that one might spill coffee at home - one quite frequently
did, to confess a good man's weakness - but one did not do it at Natalie
Spencer's table. The rector's smile died into a sheepish grin.

For the first time since dinner began Natalie Spencer had a clear view
of her husband's face. Not that that had mattered particularly, but the
flowers had been too high. For a small dinner, low flowers, always. She
would speak to the florist. But, having glanced at Clayton, standing tall
and handsome at the head of the table, she looked again. His eyes were
fixed on her with a curious intentness. He seemed to be surveying her,
from the top of her burnished hair to the very gown she wore. His gaze
made her vaguely uncomfortable. It was unsmiling, appraising, almost -
only that was incredible in Clay - almost hostile.
Through the open door the half dozen women trailed out, Natalie in
white, softly rustling as she moved, Mrs. Haverford in black velvet, a
trifle tight over her ample figure, Marion Hayden, in a very brief
garment she would have called a frock, perennial debutante that she
was, rather negligible Mrs. Terry Mackenzie, and trailing behind the
others, frankly loath to leave the men, Audrey Valentine. Clayton
Spencer's eyes rested on Audrey with a smile of amused toleration, on
her outrageously low green gown, that was somehow casually elegant,
on her long green ear-rings and jade chain, on the cigaret between her
slim fingers.
Audrey's audacity always amused him. In the doorway she turned and
nonchalantly surveyed the room.
"For heaven's sake, hurry!" she apostrophized the table. "We are going
to knit - I feel it. And don't give Chris anything more to drink, Clay.
He's had enough."
She went on, a slim green figure, moving slowly and reluctantly toward
the drawing-room, her head held high, a little smile still on her lips. But,
alone for a moment, away from curious eyes, her expression changed,
her smile faded, her lovely, irregular face took on a curious intensity.
What a devilish evening! Chris drinking too much, talking wildly, and
always with furtive eyes on her. Chris! Oh, well, that was life, she
supposed.
She stopped before a long mirror and gave a bit of careless attention to
her hair. With more care she tinted her lips again with a cosmetic stick

from the tiny, diamond-studded bag she carried. Then she turned and
surveyed the hall and the library beyond. A new portrait of Natalie was
there, hanging on the wall under a shaded light, and she wandered in,
still with her cigaret, and surveyed it. Natalie had everything. The
portrait showed it. It was beautiful, smug, complacent.
Mrs. Valentine's eyes narrowed slightly. She stood there, thinking
about Natalie. She had not everything, after all. There was something
she lacked. Charm, perhaps. She was a cold woman. But, then, Clay
was cold, too. He was even a bit hard. Men said that; hard and
ambitious, although he was popular. Men liked strong men. It was only
the weak they deplored and loved. Poor Chris!
She lounged into the drawing-room, smiling her slow, cool smile. In
the big, uncarpeted alcove, where stood Natalie's great painted piano,
Marion Hayden was playing softly, carefully posed for the entrance of
the men. Natalie was sitting with her hands folded, in the exact center
of a peacock-blue divan. The others were