THE
  OFFICIAL CHAPERON




By Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  The Official Chaperon
  C. O. D.
  The Man Inside
  The Lost Despatch
  The Trevor Case

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK




  THE OFFICIAL
  CHAPERON


  BY
  NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN
  AUTHOR of “C. O. D.,” “THE TREVOR CASE,” ETC.

  ILLUSTRATED


  NEW YORK AND LONDON
  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
  1915




  COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY


  Printed in the United States of America




[Illustration: Marjorie Langdon]




TO MY BROTHER

GEORGE GOULD LINCOLN


  “_We twa hae run about the braes,
    And pu’d the gowans fine;
  But we’ve wandered mony a weary foot
    Sin auld lang syne._”




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                            PAGE

      I. AN ILL WIND                    1
     II. MISSING                        7
    III. QUESTIONS AND QUERIES         18
     IV. TEMPTING FATE                 28
      V. GIVE AND TAKE                 37
     VI. AT FORT MYER                  47
    VII. TREASURE TROVE                61
   VIII. THE ONLY WOMAN                76
     IX. GAY DECEIVERS                 89
     X. IN THE COLD, GRAY DAWN        104
     XI. GREAT EXPECTATIONS           115
    XII. A TANGLED WEB                129
   XIII. DUNCAN’S DILEMMA             143
    XIV. THE PHILANDERER              159
     XV. IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING          169
    XVI. A TUG OF WAR                 177
   XVII. OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN        191
  XVIII. LIGHT-FINGERED GENTRY        204
    XIX. FALSE WITNESS                222
     XX. WATCHFUL WAITING             240
    XXI. THE STORM CENTER             255
   XXII. “TOUJOURS SANS TACHE”        272
  XXIII. THE HEARING EAR              282
   XXIV. THE KINGDOM OF THE BLIND     294
    XXV. PHANTOMS OF THE NIGHT        304
   XXVI. UNCOVERED                    317




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  Marjorie Langdon      _Frontispiece_
                                    FACING
                                      PAGE
  “She was about to call her by name, when Janet quietly
  took up a diamond sunburst”          100

  “Barnard again inspected Mrs. J. Calhoun-Cooper. ‘She
  looks like an Indian begum’”        214




THE OFFICIAL CHAPERON




CHAPTER I

AN ILL WIND


“WASHINGTON, Washington; all off for Washington!” The porter’s
stentorian call echoed through the Pullman sleeper. “This way out.”

A second more and the aisle was filled with sleepy passengers who
strove to push past each other with the impatient rudeness which
characterizes the average American traveler. The last to leave the car
was a tall man, whose leisurely movements left him a prey to a hovering
porter, and he surrendered his suit-case to the obsequious darky, after
first inquiring the way to the baggage room.

“Go ahead and engage a taxi for me,” he directed, following his guide
across the imposing concourse and into the waiting-room.

“Yessir.” The porter touched his cap respectfully; at one glance he had
appraised the traveler’s well-groomed appearance, and his palm itched
for the anticipated tip. “But you’d better hurry, suh; I kain’t hol’ a
cab long, suh, an’ dey’s mighty scarce at dis time ob de mawnin,’ suh.”

“All right.” The traveler quickened his steps, corralled a half awake
baggage clerk, gave his instructions, and sought the southern entrance
of the station without further waste of time.

“Heah’s yo’ cab, suh,” called the porter. The information was somewhat
superfluous, for only one taxi stood at the curb, the rest having been
requisitioned by other passengers. “Thank yo’, suh,” added the porter,
as his lingers closed over a half dollar; his intuition had not been
wrong. “Where to, suh?”

His question remained unanswered, for the traveler shouldered him
aside, and gave his directions to the chauffeur in so low a tone that
they were not overheard, then entered the cab and settled himself
comfortably on the roomy seat. Half dozing he took no notice of the
taxi’s progress up Massachusetts Avenue to Sheridan Circle, and was
only aroused from his nap by the abrupt stopping of the vehicle before
a white marble residence of imposing size. He started to leave the
taxi, then drew back.

“Lord!” he grumbled, inspecting the drawn blinds and closed vestibule
door. “I forgot I’m still south of Mason and Dixon’s line; everybody’s
asleep.”

“Want to be driven around a bit, sir?” questioned the chauffeur.

“I do not,” dryly, glancing askance at the register. He pulled out his
watch and scanned the dial. “Six-fifteen. Any Turkish Baths near here?”

“The Riggs’ Bath is the best, sir; get you there in a few minutes.”

“Very well,” and with a resigned sigh, the traveler leaned back and
studied his surroundings with interest as the taxi passed down the
quiet thoroughfares. On approaching the business section of the city
there were more signs of life, and in crossing a street the taxi was
held up by a number of heavy drays.

In the pause that followed the traveler casually inspected the side of
a red brick basement house whose entrance fronted on the other street.
The windows of what appeared to be a library on the second floor were
open, letting in the balmy air which accompanies Indian Summer in the
Capital City, and the traveler saw a colored servant dusting the room.
His feather duster, wielded with unusual vigor, struck against some
papers lying on a desk by the window, and the topmost sheet sailed
out. The wind carried it to the gutter where a small stream of water
from the recently flushed street swept it along to the sewer opening,
where it poised for a moment on the brink, then disappeared into the
dark depths beneath. The servant, leaning half out of the window,
breathlessly watched the paper’s progress with eyes and mouth wide
open, and his ludicrously agonized expression drew a faint chuckle from
the traveler as his taxi started down the street.

Some time later the traveler, refreshed by his bath, lay back in the
luxuriously furnished dormitory of the Riggs’ Turkish Bath and puffed
contentedly at his cigar. He paid no attention to three be-sheeted men
who were talking together as they lounged at one end of the room.

“Who was the pretty girl you were dancing with yesterday afternoon at
the Shoreham, Jimmie?” questioned the eldest of the three men.

“Janet Fordyce.” Jimmie Painter’s voice was of the carrying kind, and
as the name reached his ears the traveler sat bolt upright, but the
men, engrossed in their conversation, failed to observe his attention.
“A winner, isn’t she, Logan?” continued Jimmie complacently.

“Yes, trust you to pick ’em,” grumbled Logan, “and to cultivate them
afterwards, too. Who is she?”

“Daughter of Calderon Fordyce, the Western importer of----”

“Opium--tainted money,” jeered his companion.

“What difference? Its buying qualities make it refined gold.”

“You weren’t the only one bowled over by the Fordyce girl,” remarked
the youngest member of the group. “She made quite an impression on
Chichester Barnard.”

“Nothing doing there, Cooper!” exclaimed Jimmie Painter skeptically.
“Chichester’s not the kind to be attracted by a débutante; besides,
he’s too gone on Marjorie Langdon.”

“Not so gone he doesn’t keep his weather eye out,” retorted Joe
Calhoun-Cooper. “As far as Miss Langdon’s concerned it’s attention
without intention. She’s as poor as Job’s turkey.”

“I hear she’s crazy about Chichester,” volunteered Logan. “By Jove! if
I was first favorite, I’d marry Miss Langdon and risk poverty.”

“Too Utopian,” commented Joe. “Better choose a golden ‘Bud’--they are
the only kind worth plucking in Washington.”

“I agree with you,” put in Jimmie Painter. “Do you suppose old Calderon
Fordyce will come across with the money bags when his daughter marries?”

“I’m told he’s rolling in wealth,” acknowledged Joe. “But for all that,
you’d better go slow, Jimmie; there’s some kink in the family.”

“What do you mean?”

“An intimate friend said----” Joe never finished the sentence, for an
iron hand jerked him to his feet and swung him about face.

“I have been an unwilling listener to your conversation,” said the
traveler slowly, addressing the astounded men, and not loosening
his hold on Joe. “You can congratulate yourselves that you live in
Washington; such discussion of women would not be tolerated elsewhere.
I give you fair warning, each and all of you, if you mention Miss
Fordyce’s name in future conversations I will break every bone in your
bodies.”

It was no idle threat; the sheet had slipped from the traveler’s broad
shoulders, disclosing the brawn and build of an athlete.

“You understand me,” he added, his level glance seeking Joe’s, and his
vice-like grip tightened until the bones cracked.

“Yes, d-mn you!” muttered Joe, through clenched teeth. “Let go.”

“Who the ---- are you?” gasped Jimmie, hastily retreating beyond the
traveler’s reach.

“Miss Fordyce’s brother--Duncan Fordyce,” was the calm reply, and Joe,
released suddenly, collapsed on his couch.




CHAPTER II

MISSING


“YOU are, then, absolutely positive that Miss Langdon called up Mr.
Barnard the last thing before leaving this room yesterday afternoon?”
questioned Rear Admiral Lawrence, with such quiet persistence that
pretty Nurse Allen opened her eyes in wonder.

“I cannot swear that it was the last thing Miss Langdon did before
leaving here,” she answered, somewhat dryly. “I only know I found
her at the telephone when I came in to ring up Dr. McLane, and I
overheard her address the person she was speaking to over the wire as
‘Chichester,’ and tell him it was important that she see him.”

“Did Miss Langdon appear agitated?”

Nurse Allen shook her head. “Her manner seemed to be the same as usual;
but she looked pale and tired.”

“Was Miss Langdon holding this photograph in her hand?” As he spoke the
Admiral fumbled among the papers on his desk and knocked to the floor
the picture he was seeking. Muttering an ejaculation, he stooped to get
it, but Nurse Allen was before him and, her color heightened by her
hasty exertion, picked up the photograph. She barely glanced at the
kodak likeness of Chichester Barnard, but she read the message scrawled
across the bottom: “Love’s young dream--à la bonne heure! C. B.,”
before replacing the photograph on the desk.

“It may have been in Miss Langdon’s hand,” she said indifferently. “I
was only here for a second, as Sam brought me word that Dr. McLane had
come and I hurried back to Mrs. Lawrence. I really can give you no
information about the photograph.”

“Oh, no matter; I found it lying by the telephone. I suppose----”
the Admiral broke off abstractedly and drummed with nervous fingers
on the back of the chair against which he was leaning. In the pause
Nurse Allen permitted her eyes to wander downward to the photograph
lying face upward near her, and a ghost of a smile touched her mobile
lips. Clever as she was in her chosen profession, she was not, in this
instance, a discriminating observer, and utterly failed to connect the
scrawled message on the photograph with the faint mockery traceable
in Chichester Barnard’s expressive eyes. The snap-shot was a good
likeness, and Barnard’s fine physique and handsome features were
reproduced without flattery.

“Can you tell me how long Miss Langdon remained alone in this room?”
asked Admiral Lawrence suddenly arousing himself.

“No, sir, I have no idea. I did not come here again, until you sent for
me this morning.”

The Admiral stepped over to the window and raised the Holland shade
until the room was flooded with sunlight.

“I won’t detain you longer,” he announced, turning back to the young
nurse. “You will oblige me greatly by making no mention of our
conversation.”

“Certainly, sir.” Nurse Allen turned a mystified gaze on her employer
as she walked toward the door. “I’ll be in my room if you want me. The
day nurse is with Mrs. Lawrence now.”

The Admiral heaved an impatient sigh as the door closed behind her, and
seating himself at his desk turned his attention to several sheets of
manuscript, but they failed to hold his interest. A soft knock at the
library door interrupted him, and he looked up with an air of relief.

“Come in,” he called. “Oh, good morning, Marjorie,” as a girl appeared
in the doorway. “Aren’t you late this morning?”

“I was detained,” explained Marjorie Langdon, glancing in some
embarrassment at the Admiral; she had not expected to find him at his
desk. “How is Mrs. Lawrence?”

“About the same,” a deep sigh accompanied the words. “Dr. McLane holds
out little hope of her recovery. She may live a month, or----” his
gesture of despair completed the sentence.

“I am grieved to hear it,” Marjorie looked at the Admiral much
distressed. “Is there anything I can do for Mrs. Lawrence?”

“Thank you, I am afraid not,” he replied, carefully turning his back to
the light. He did not wish even his confidential secretary to read the
anxiety and sorrow written so plainly on his haggard face. His vigils
in the sick-room were breaking down his usually rigid self-control. “Is
there any mail for me?”

“Yes, sir; I found it on the hall table. There are a number of notes
inquiring about your wife, and a letter from your publisher.” Marjorie
left her typewriter desk and approached the Admiral, letters in hand.
“Do you wish to dictate the answers?”

“Not just now.” The Admiral took the neatly assorted letters from her
and without examining their contents, tossed them down on his flat-top
desk. “There is a matter of importance”--he stopped and cleared his
throat--“you recall typewriting a codicil to my wife’s will?”

“Perfectly,” put in Marjorie, as the Admiral paused again.

“You made a carbon copy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because your lawyer, Mr. Alvord, thought that Mrs. Lawrence, through
weakness, might spoil her signature on the first sheet, and he wished
to have a second copy at hand if it should be needed.”

“Do you recall what transpired after the signing of the codicil?”

“Very distinctly,” replied Marjorie, her surprise at the continued
questioning showing in her manner. “After the witnesses signed the
document, Mr. Alvord returned here to collect his papers. Just as he
was leaving you came in and asked him to leave the signed codicil.”

“Quite right,” broke in the Admiral. “Mrs. Lawrence wished it left
here, in order to read it again when she felt stronger. Before
returning to my wife, I requested you to put the codicil in my safe....”

“I carried out your instructions,” declared Marjorie, her heart beating
faster with a nameless dread.

“By placing the _unsigned_ carbon copy of the codicil in the safe--”
an ironical smile twisted the Admiral’s lips. “You improved on my
instructions.”

Marjorie’s lovely hazel-gray eyes widened in horror as the meaning of
his words dawned upon her.

“You are entirely mistaken,” she protested vehemently. “I put the
codicil Mr. Alvord gave me in the safe--upon my word of honor!”

“I found the unsigned copy there an hour ago,” replied the Admiral
steadily.

“The other must be there, too,” Marjorie moved impetuously toward the
small safe which was partly hidden from sight by a revolving bookcase.
“Let me look----”

“It is not necessary.” Marjorie wheeled about and her face crimsoned at
the curtness of his tone. “I have just searched the entire contents of
the safe--the signed codicil is not there.”

“You must be wrong,” gasped Marjorie. “Mr. Alvord had the carbon copy;
how could I put it in the safe?”

“I have just telephoned Alvord,” said the Admiral quickly. “He declares
he left the carbon copy on my desk.”

There was a ghastly pause. The Admiral glanced keenly at his silent
companion, and his eyes lighted in reluctant admiration of her beauty.
Unconscious of his scrutiny, Marjorie studied the pattern of the rug
with unseeing eyes, striving to collect her confused thoughts.

“Are you engaged to Chichester Barnard?” inquired the Admiral, abruptly.

The point blank question drove every vestige of color from Marjorie’s
cheeks. Slowly she turned and regarded the Admiral from head to foot.

“You have no right to ask that question,” she said icily.

“That is a matter of opinion,” retorted the Admiral heatedly. “I think
circumstances have given me that right. My wife, in this codicil,
revoked her bequest to her nephew, Chichester Barnard”--he stopped
impressively. “Alvord took down my wife’s instructions, then came here
and, without my knowledge, had you typewrite the codicil. The night
nurse, Miss Allen, tells me that after Alvord’s departure she came in
here to use the telephone, and you were talking to Chichester. Is that
true?”

“Yes, I rang him up,” defiantly. “I have done the same in the past.”

The Admiral sighed. “Miss Allen informed me that she overheard you tell
Chichester that you must see him at once on a matter of importance.”
He paused, waiting for some comment, but Marjorie stood as if turned
to stone, and he continued more gently, “Come, Marjorie, own up that a
mistaken, loyal impulse to aid and protect a--lover”--Marjorie shivered
and her cold fingers plucked nervously at her gown--“prompted you to
hold back the signed codicil. I will forget the matter if you will
return the document to me.”

“But I haven’t the codicil,” she protested.

“You have destroyed it?” leaning intently toward her.

“No. I have already told you I placed the paper in the safe.”

The Admiral’s face hardened. “You still stick to----”

“The truth,” proudly. “I have been your amanuensis for nearly two
years; in that time have I ever lied to you?”

“No.”

“Then you must believe my word now.”

Without replying the Admiral wheeled about in his swivel chair and
looked through the window at the street below. Marjorie could read
nothing from the side view of his face, and her heart sank. Suddenly he
swung back and confronted her again.

“I think it would be as well if you resigned,” he said, coldly.

The room swam before Marjorie; she felt half suffocated, then hot anger
came to her rescue, and she pulled herself together.

“You are treating me with shameful injustice,” she began, her eyes
glowing with indignation.

“On the contrary, I am most lenient,” retorted the Admiral. “You have
been guilty of a criminal act----”

“I deny it absolutely,” exclaimed Marjorie passionately. “You have no
grounds for such an accusation.”

“You had both incentive and opportunity to steal that signed codicil,”
declared the Admiral, paying scant attention to her denial. “Chichester
Barnard stands to lose a hundred thousand dollars by that codicil;
lack of funds prevents him from marrying a poor girl”--Marjorie
winced visibly and bit her lips to hide their trembling. “You were
the last person to leave this room yesterday afternoon; I never came
in here again until this morning. You had the signed codicil in your
possession, you knew the combination of the safe; the carbon copy was
lying on this desk--the substitution was easy!”

“Supposing your preposterous charge is true,” said Marjorie slowly.
“What good could I hope to accomplish by such a substitution?”

“After the excitement of signing the codicil, my wife suffered a
relapse, and was not expected to live through the night. If she
dies”--the Admiral shaded his eyes, which had grown moist, with his
hand--“only the unsigned codicil is here; therefore Chichester Barnard,
by the terms of her will, will inherit her bequest. However, my wife
still lives, and when she regains consciousness I shall have her sign
this carbon copy,” opening his desk drawer and removing a folded paper.
“After all, you were only partially successful.”

“To succeed, one must first undertake,” retorted Marjorie. “Tell me,
please, if you thought I would betray your trust, why did you give me
the codicil to place in the safe?”

“First, because I was not aware you knew the contents of the paper;
secondly, I never knew there was a carbon copy; thirdly, my wife’s
precarious condition effectually put out of my mind your infatuation
for Chichester Barnard.”

“My infatuation?” echoed Marjorie, a slow, painful blush creeping up
her white cheeks. “You are hardly complimentary, Admiral.”

“Put it any way you wish,” he replied wearily. “I must ask you to hurry
and gather your belongings, Miss Langdon, for I must return to my wife.”

“I shan’t be a minute.” Stung by his tone, Marjorie hurried to her desk
and rapidly put the drawers in order. As she covered the typewriter she
paused and gazed about the pleasant, sunlit room through tear-dimmed
eyes. She had spent many happy hours there, for both Admiral and Mrs.
Lawrence had done much to make her comfortable, and the work had been
interesting and comparatively easy. What had induced the Admiral
to credit so monstrous a charge against her? She stiffened with
indignation, and picking up the key of her desk, walked over to him. He
looked up at her approach, and the full light from the window betrayed
the increasing lines and wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. His hair
had whitened, and his usually ruddy cheeks were pale.

“Here is the key of my desk,” she said, laying it down before him. “The
carbon copy of your book is in the right-hand drawer, and your official
and business correspondence fills the other drawers. Will you please
examine them before I leave.”

He rose in silence and went swiftly through the contents of the
typewriter desk. “Everything is correct,” he acknowledged, noting with
inward approval the neat and orderly arrangement of his correspondence.

“Then I will leave; my hat and coat are downstairs,” and with a formal
bow Marjorie turned toward the door.

“One moment;” the Admiral stepped back to his own desk. “You forget
your check; I have made it out for one month in advance, in lieu of
notice.”

Mechanically Marjorie’s fingers closed over the slip of paper extended
to her; then she drew her slender, graceful figure erect.

“I am a girl, alone in the world,” she said clearly. “I have had to
take your insults today, but thank God, I can refuse to take your
money.”

The torn check fell in a tiny shower at the Admiral’s feet as the hall
door banged to behind her vanishing figure.

The seconds had slipped into minutes before the Admiral moved; then he
dropped into his desk chair.

“What does she see in Chichester?” he muttered. “What is there about
that scoundrel which attracts women? Where’s that photograph?”

But his search was unavailing; the photograph had disappeared.




CHAPTER III

QUESTIONS AND QUERIES


MARJORIE LANGDON contemplated her small wardrobe as it lay spread out
before her on the bed, and then gazed at the passbook open in her hand.
She saw the slender balance remaining to her credit at the bank through
diminishing glasses, and despair tugged at her heart-strings.

“The way of the bread-winner is hard,” she paraphrased bitterly. “I
don’t wonder there are so many transgressors in the world. Bless my
soul, Minerva, what do you want?”

The colored woman, who had entered the bedroom unnoticed a second
before, actually jumped at the sharpness of Marjorie’s usually tranquil
voice.

“’Scuse me, miss; but I knocked an’ knocked at de do’ ’till I was plum’
tired. My, ain’t dem pretty?” catching a glimpse of the dresses on the
bed. “Is ye fixin’ ter go ter a party?”

“Not exactly,” wearily. “I am sorry I kept you waiting, but I
was--thinking.”

“Yes, miss; I heard yo’ a talkin’ ter yo’self, an’ calculated yo’
didn’t hyar me.” Minerva backed toward the door. “Lunch am ready.”

“Is it time?” exclaimed Marjorie, glancing in surprise at her
wrist-watch, whose hands pointed to three minutes past one. “I’ll be
right down; tell Madame Yvonett not to wait for me.”

“Marse Tom’s hyar,” volunteered Minerva, as she disappeared over the
threshold, closing the door behind her.

Left to herself, Marjorie bathed her face, the cool water bringing some
relief to her throbbing temples, then after rearranging her hair, she
paused a moment and anxiously regarded her reflection in the mirror.
Except for an increased pallor, her expression gave no indication of
the shock the stormy interview with Admiral Lawrence had given her.
Feverishly pinching her cheeks in hopes of restoring her customary
color, and without stopping to replace her gowns in the closet, she
left the room and ran downstairs.

Six years previous Marjorie’s father, John Langdon, had died a
bankrupt, and his worldly possessions had gone under the hammer to meet
the demands of his creditors. His widow, never very strong, had soon
succumbed to the unequal struggle for existence that confronted her,
and after the death of her mother, Marjorie had made her home with
her great-aunt, Madame Yvonett, who owned a small house on Thirteenth
Street, opposite Franklin Square. She insisted on contributing her
share to the household expenses, for Madame Yvonett had trusted her
business affairs to her nephew’s management, and when John Langdon
failed, most of her property had gone in the general smash, and she
eked out her curtailed income by taking paying guests.

Madame Yvonett, a Philadelphian by birth, belonged to a distinguished
Quaker family, and at the age of sixteen had been, as the quaint term
runs, “read out of meeting for marrying one of the world’s people.”
Henri Yvonett had wooed and won the beautiful Quakeress when attached
to the French Legation, as it was then, and afterwards he was promoted
to other diplomatic posts. On his death some eighteen years before,
Madame Yvonett had made Washington her home, and her house became one
of the centers of fashionable life.

Her financial difficulties came when she was approaching three-score
years and ten, but only Marjorie divined the pang that her changed
fortunes cost the beautiful Quaker dame, for she never discussed her
troubles in public. She faced adversity with quiet fortitude; gave
up her handsome residence on Scott Circle, dismissed her staff of
servants, and moved into the Thirteenth Street house, which had been
one of her investments in happier days.

Marjorie hastened into the dining-room and found her great-aunt in
animated conversation with her cousin, Captain Thomas Nichols, of the
--th Field Artillery, who rose at her entrance.

“How are you, Madge?” he exclaimed, extending both hands in greeting.

“Very well, and very glad to see you,” she replied cordially. “Aunt
Yvonett, I am sorry to be late, do excuse me.”

“Thee is only a few minutes behind time, and Thomas has kept me very
agreeably entertained,” answered the Quakeress. She had always retained
her “plain speech,” and in her dress, the soft grays and browns of
the Friends. Silvery curls framed a face of the eighteenth-century
type, and, with arms, still rounded and white, showing below her elbow
sleeves, with the folds of a white fichu across her breast, she made
a novel and lovely picture as she sat at the head of the table. “Will
thee have some tea?” she asked.

“If you please.” Marjorie slipped into a seat opposite her aunt. “What
brings you over from Fort Myer, Tom?”

“Had to go to the War Department. Try some of these beaten biscuit,
Madge, Minerva has excelled herself,” smiling gaily at the colored
woman. “I thought Cousin Yvonett would take pity on me and give me a
bite.”

“I am always pleased to see thee, Thomas,” answered Madame Yvonett.
“But if thee only wants a bite, thee should join the ‘Hunger Club.’”

“The ‘Hunger Club’?” echoed Tom. “It doesn’t sound encouraging; is it
anything like the ‘starvation parties’ in Richmond before that city
surrendered to Grant?”

“Only alike in that they both leave much to be desired,” smiled Madame
Yvonett. “The club was organized two weeks ago by eleven wealthy women;
the twelfth place being left for an invited guest. A prize will be
awarded at the end of the season to the hostess who has given the most
appetizing luncheon for the least money.”

“How are they going to know how much each luncheon costs?”

“The hostess is required to write the price of every course on the back
of the place cards. The object of the club is to encourage simplified
living in fashionable circles,” she went on to explain. “I was the
invited guest at the luncheon yesterday.”

“Did you get anything to eat?” inquired Tom.

“She ate something before she went,” supplemented Marjorie
mischievously.

“Only some biscuits and a glass of sherry,” protested Madame Yvonett.
“Thee sees, Thomas, I do not like to have my digestion upset, and I
took precautions; a cold water luncheon never agrees with me.”

“Didn’t they give you anything solid to eat?”

“Yes; the luncheon, such as there was of it, was very nice. But the
discussion of the food and its price quite destroyed my appetite.”

“You prefer a soupçon of gossip to season a delicacy,” teased Tom. “I
bet you christened it the ‘Hunger Club.’”

“Your invitation read ‘to meet the Economy Luncheon Club,’” Marjorie
reminded her aunt.

Madame Yvonett smiled as she helped herself to some butter. “Did thee
not return earlier than usual from the Lawrences’, Marjorie?” she asked.

Involuntarily Marjorie stiffened; she had dreaded the question. She
dared not tell her aunt of Admiral Lawrence’s accusation. Their
physician had warned her that Madame Yvonett must not be excited, or
she would bring on one of her heart attacks. The last seizure two
months before had been most severe, Marjorie having found her aunt
lying unconscious on the floor of her bedroom. Knowing Madame Yvonett’s
indomitable spirit she realized that nothing, save perhaps physical
weakness, would prevent her from seeing Admiral Lawrence and demanding
an instant retraction of his charge against her niece. Such scenes
would undoubtedly bring on a return of her heart trouble, perhaps with
fatal results. Marjorie turned cold at the thought; Madame Yvonett was
very dear to her. But what excuse could she give for her dismissal
except the truth?

“I hear Mrs. Lawrence is not expected to live,” said Tom, breaking the
slight pause.

“Who told you that?” demanded Marjorie.

“Chichester Barnard; I met him on my way here. By the way, he wished
me to tell you he would not be able to go to Mrs. Marsh’s tea with
you this afternoon on account of a business engagement,” he glanced
curiously at her, but Marjorie was occupied in making bread pellets and
it was several seconds before she spoke.

“Mrs. Lawrence is critically ill. The Admiral is constantly at her
bedside, and he cannot attend to his book, so Aunt Yvonett,” looking
gravely at her, “my services are not required.”

“I am glad that thee is to have a vacation,” replied the Quakeress;
“but I am distressed to hear that Mrs. Lawrence is worse; she is a
lovely woman, her husband can ill spare her.”

“You must come over and spend the day at my quarters, Cousin Yvonett,
now that Madge has time at her disposal,” broke in Tom. “The drills are
being held every Friday afternoon, and I know you enjoy them.”

“Thee is most kind, and if the weather permits we will come. Who was
thy friend who came to the door with thee this morning, Thomas?”

“Joe Cooper. I didn’t bring him in, Cousin Yvonett, because, to be
frank, I don’t fancy the fellow.”

“I thought he was quite nice,” announced Marjorie, arousing from her
abstraction. “He is certainly most obliging.”

“Boot-licking,” with scornful emphasis.

“That’s hardly fair,” exclaimed Marjorie. “He had nothing to gain by
being nice to me, and secondly, his father, J. Calhoun-Cooper, is a
representative in Congress, and I am told, is very wealthy.”

“He has money,” acknowledged Tom grudgingly, “and that’s about all.
Joe’s grandfather started his fortune digging ditches in Philadelphia.”

“I know now of whom thee speaks,” interposed Madame Yvonett. “But thee
is mistaken; he didn’t dig ditches, he paved streets. Brother Hugh
helped John Cooper to get his start in life; at one time he slept in
our barn chamber.”

“I’d like Joe to hear that,” chuckled Tom. “He and I were at
Lawrenceville together, and I had enough of his purse-pride there. The
Calhoun-Coopers--don’t forget the hyphen, Cousin Yvonett--have leased
your old house on Scott Circle.”

Marjorie, her observation quickened by the deep love and veneration in
which she held her aunt, detected the shadow which crossed the benign
old face and the dimming of the bright eyes as memories of other days
crowded upon the Quakeress, and she swiftly changed the subject.

“Cousin Rebekah Graves is coming this afternoon to spend the winter
with us,” she volunteered. “What day can we bring her to Fort Myer,
Tom?”

“Come this Friday----” he stopped speaking as Minerva appeared from the
hall and approached Marjorie.

“Hyar’s a note done come fo’ yo’, Miss Marjorie, and de chuffer’s
waitin’ fo’ an answer.”

Marjorie scanned the fine, precise writing; it was not a hand she
recognized, and handwriting to her was like a photograph. Excusing
herself, she tore open the envelope and perused the note.

“Listen to this, Aunt Yvonett,” she began and read aloud:

                                             Sheridan Circle.

  “DEAR MISS LANGDON:

  I had expected to make your acquaintance before this date, but moving
  into my new home has occupied all my time. Can you come and take tea
  with me this afternoon at five o’clock? I am an old school friend of
  your mother’s, and as such I hope you will overlook the informality of
  my invitation. Trusting that I shall see you later, believe me,

                                             Sincerely yours,
  Wednesday.                                      FLORA FORDYCE.”

“It must be Janet Fordyce’s mother,” added Marjorie. “They have bought
the Martin house. Who was Mrs. Calderon Fordyce before her marriage,
Aunt Yvonett?”

Madame Yvonett shook her head. “I cannot tell thee. I was abroad when
thy mother was a schoolgirl, and knew none of her classmates. Will thee
accept Mrs. Fordyce’s invitation?”

“Of course. Cousin Rebekah’s train arrives at three-thirty; I will have
plenty of time to meet her and bring her here first. I must answer
Mrs. Fordyce’s note,” and pushing back her chair she hastened into the
parlor which was fitted up as a living-room. She was sealing her note
when Tom Nichols joined her.

“Let me give it to the chauffeur,” he exclaimed, taking the envelope
from her. “I’ll come right back.”

Marjorie was still sitting before the mahogany desk when Tom returned.
“May I smoke?” he inquired, pulling out his cigarette-case.

She nodded absently; then turned and studied him covertly as he stood
by the fireplace intent on lighting his cigarette, his well-knit,
soldierly figure silhouetted against the flickering light from the wood
fire blazing on the hearth. They were second cousins, and since his
detail with his battery at Fort Myer, Virginia, she had grown to know
and admire the fine qualities and kindly heart carefully hidden under
his off-hand manner. She debated whether she should take him into her
confidence. He was her nearest male relative; he would surely advise
her how best to refute Admiral Lawrence’s charge, and help her to prove
her innocence of the theft of the codicil.

“Where is Aunt Yvonett?” she asked suddenly.

“She went upstairs to lie down.” Tom threw a half-burnt match into
the fire, crossed the room, and sat down facing Marjorie. “What’s up,
Madge?” he questioned gravely. “You are not a bit like yourself. Won’t
you tell me the cause?”

“I had just decided to ask your advice; thank you for making it
easier for me,” a pitiful little smile accompanied the words, and Tom
impulsively clasped her hand in his.

“Little Cousin,” he began earnestly. “I don’t like to see you so
constantly with Chichester Barnard. I am sure he is making you unhappy.”

Marjorie whitened to her lips. “I, unhappy?” she exclaimed. “No, you
overestimate his abilities.”

“No I don’t; Chichester is more than merely handsome, he is
fascinating; and his influence is the greater.”

Marjorie rose slowly to her feet and a long sigh escaped her.

“After all, Tom, I don’t believe I’ll confide in you--you would not
understand.”




CHAPTER IV

TEMPTING FATE


MARJORIE, on her way out to keep her appointment with Mrs. Calderon
Fordyce, paused in the hall to examine the mail which Minerva, deeply
engrossed in the arrival of Miss Rebekah Graves, had deposited on the
hat-stand and forgotten. Two of the envelopes contained circulars, and
she tossed them back on the marble stand, but the third was a note from
their family lawyer curtly informing Marjorie that the savings bank
in which Madame Yvonett kept a small reserve account, had failed, and
asking her to break the news to her aunt.

Marjorie stumbled back and leaned weakly against the newel post, her
strength stricken from her. All that Madame Yvonett had been able to
save--gone! Oh, it was too cruel to be believed! From upstairs came the
sound of voices, and her aunt’s merry laugh rang out cheerily. “The
lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning”--the words recurred
to Marjorie as she started blindly up the stairs, the lawyer’s letter
still clutched in her hand.

She found her aunt in her bedroom talking to Miss Rebekah Graves, a
spinster whose brusque and didactic manner often gave offense. She
had also a most annoying habit of dragging in her religious beliefs
in ordinary conversation, and her intimate knowledge of the divine
intentions of Providence was a constant source of wonder to her
friends. Opposite as they were in character and beliefs, she and Madame
Yvonett were warmly attached to each other, and Marjorie was thankful
for the spinster’s presence, fearing as she did that her bad news might
give Madame Yvonett another heart attack. As gently as she could she
told her aunt of her financial loss.

“Thee means, child, that my money is gone?” asked Madame Yvonett dully,
as Marjorie came to a breathless pause.

“Yes. The bank has failed....”

“The Lord’s will be done!” ejaculated Miss Rebekah in devout
resignation.

“Thee is wrong, Rebekah; thy God and mine had no hand in the bank’s
failure,” retorted Madame Yvonett, her keen sense of humor dominating
her impulse to cry as the realization of her loss dawned upon her. “The
devil who tempts men to wickedness has wrought _his_ will in this. What
is thee giving me, Marjorie?”

“Some cognac; you must take it, Aunt Yvonett,” noting the pallor
stealing upward and the trembling of the bravely smiling lips. “You
must not worry, dearie,” handing her the wineglass. “I have a feeling
luck is going to change....”

“Misfortunes never come singly,” prophesied Miss Rebekah, her
pessimistic spirit surrendering at once to dismal forebodings.

“Rot!” exclaimed Marjorie, darting an indignant glance at the spinster,
who bridled at the disrespectful intonation of her voice. “You are not
to worry, Aunt Yvonett; I’ll recover that money by hook or by crook.
Cousin Becky will look after you until I return from seeing Mrs.
Fordyce. I won’t be any longer than I can help,” and gathering up her
belongings, she departed.

The clocks were just chiming the hour of five when Marjorie reached her
destination, and a footman in imposing livery showed her at once into
the drawing-room.

“Miss Langdon,” he announced, and disappeared behind the silken
portières.

At first Marjorie thought she was alone as she advanced into the room,
then her eyes, grown accustomed to the softly shaded lights, detected a
small, white-haired woman sitting in a large easy chair who rose as she
drew nearer, and Marjorie saw that she was a hunchback.

“I am glad you have come,” she said, taking the hand Marjorie held
out in both her own, and leading her gently forward. “But, my dear,
I thought you were much older,” her eyes traveling over the girl’s
beautifully molded features and small, well-set head. The November
wind had restored the roses in Marjorie’s cheeks, and she made a
charming picture in her well-cut calling costume and becoming hat,
both presents from a wealthy friend who had gone into mourning. “It was
years ago that your mother wrote me of your birth....”

“Perhaps she told you of my sister who died,” suggested Marjorie. “She
was eight years my senior.”

“That must have been it; pull up that chair,” Mrs. Fordyce added,
resuming her seat. “My husband and I went to the Orient shortly after
her letter, and gradually my correspondence with your mother ceased;
but I have many happy memories of our school days. Perhaps you have
heard her speak of me--Flora McPherson?”

“Of course, how stupid of me!” exclaimed Marjorie, suddenly
enlightened. “Mother often told me of your pranks at boarding-school.”

“I was well and strong in those days.” A slight sigh escaped Mrs.
Fordyce. “This curvature of the spine developed from injuries received
in a railroad wreck. Your mother would never recognize her old
play-fellow now;” a suspicious moisture dimmed her eyes, and she added
hastily, “Throw off your wraps, my dear, and make yourself comfortable.
I want to have a long talk with you.”

Obediently Marjorie threw back her furs and loosened her coat, as a
velvet-footed servant entered with the tea-tray and placed it on the
table by Mrs. Fordyce, and deftly arranged the cups and saucers. He
left the room to return in a moment carrying a “Curate’s delight”
filled with plates of delicious sandwiches and cake.

“How will you have your tea?” asked Mrs. Fordyce, removing the cover
from the Dutch silver caddy and placing some of the leaves in the
teapot while she waited for the water to boil in the kettle.

“Moderately strong, one lump of sugar, and lemon,” replied Marjorie.

“Our tastes are similar; I hope it’s a good omen,” smiled Mrs. Fordyce.
“Try some of these sandwiches.”

“How did you discover that I am the daughter of your old friend?”
inquired Marjorie.

“Mrs. Nicholas McIntyre, who was at Emma Willard’s school at the same
time your mother and I were boarders there, told me of you. She admires
you greatly.”

“Bless her heart!” ejaculated Marjorie warmly. “She has been lovely to
me since mother’s death. I didn’t know she had returned to Washington.”

“I don’t believe she has. I met her in New York just before coming
here, and she advised me----” she broke off abruptly. “How old are you?”

“I have just passed my twenty-fourth birthday.”

“You don’t look a day over eighteen.” Mrs. Fordyce frowned perplexedly
at the singing teakettle. “Mrs. McIntyre said you were private
secretary to Admiral Lawrence....”

“I have been,” interrupted Marjorie, “but I am with him no longer.”

“Then you could come to me--but”--checking herself. “You are so
young----”

“Why should my age, or lack of it, be a bar to my doing secretary
work?” questioned Marjorie, looking in puzzled surprise at her
hostess. “I write a fair hand, I am a moderately good stenographer and
typewriter, and if you need a social secretary....”

“But I don’t require a secretary,” said Mrs. Fordyce. “I want an
official chaperon for my daughter, Janet.”

“Oh!” The ejaculation escaped Marjorie unwittingly, and she flushed
slightly, fearing the older woman might be displeased by her open
astonishment. But Mrs. Fordyce, teacup poised in air, sat gazing
intently at her, oblivious of her confusion. Apparently what she saw
pleased her, for she came to a sudden resolution.

“I am going to make you a proposition,” she began, and Marjorie’s hopes
rose. “My infirmity prevents my accepting formal invitations, so I
cannot accompany my daughter to entertainments. I do not want Janet to
go alone, nor do I wish her to be dependent on the kindness of friends
to see that she has a good time. I expected to find you older; however,
on second’s thought, that doesn’t matter so much. Janet would far
rather have a companion than a stately dowager as chaperon. Will you
accept the position?”

“What will be my--my duties?” stammered Marjorie, somewhat overwhelmed
at the task offered her.

“To accompany Janet to dances, the theater, and call with her, and
preside at any entertainments we may give for her. See that she meets
the right people, and wears the proper clothes,” wound up Mrs.
Fordyce. “Your salary will be a hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fordyce, that’s entirely too much,” protested Marjorie,
aghast.

“You will earn it,” retorted Mrs. Fordyce. “The demands on your time
will be very great. Come to think of it, I believe you had better spend
the winter here with us.”

“Here? In this house?” Marjorie’s eyes grew big with wonder. “I--I
don’t believe I could leave Aunt Yvonett----” she stopped abruptly.
After all her aunt would not be alone; Cousin Rebekah Graves would
take most watchful care of her; she would not be greatly missed at the
little house in Thirteenth Street, in fact, it would mean one mouth
less to feed. With such a salary, she could turn over fully a hundred
and twenty-five dollars a month to her aunt; the money would be sorely
needed now that the bank’s failure had carried away Madame Yvonett’s
small hoard.

If she accepted Mrs. Fordyce’s offer, her lines would fall in pleasant
places. Marjorie glanced with increasing satisfaction about the large,
well-proportioned room with its costly hangings, handsome furniture,
and rare bric-a-brac. She was a bit of a Sybarite, and the beautiful
things, the outward and visible signs of wealth about her, satisfied
that craving. To go to dances, theaters, and dinners--what more could a
girl want?

Her eyes wandered back to Mrs. Fordyce, who sat patiently awaiting her
decision. Except for the ugly, curved back, the older woman, in her
dainty teagown, might have been a piece of Dresden china, so pink and
white were her unwrinkled cheeks, and her features finely chiseled.
Her dark, delicately arched eyebrows were in sharp contrast to her
snow-white hair. Mrs. Fordyce had a simplicity and charm of manner
which endeared her to high and low. As Marjorie encountered the full
gaze of her handsome eyes, she almost cried out, so much pathos and
hidden tragedy was in their dark depths. She rose impulsively to her
feet.

“Mrs. Fordyce,” she said, “I will gladly accept, but----wait,” she
stumbled in her speech. “Admiral Lawrence dismissed me this morning
because--because a valuable paper was missing.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Did you steal the paper?” asked Mrs. Fordyce quietly. Marjorie winced,
but her eyes never wavered before the other’s calm regard.

“No.” The monosyllable was clear and unfaltering. “But Admiral Lawrence
believes I did.”

Marjorie found the lengthening silence intolerable. Her hands crept
up to her coat and she buttoned it, then she commenced putting on her
gloves.

“When can you come to me?” inquired Mrs. Fordyce finally.

“You--you want me?” Marjorie advanced a step, half-incredulous. “After
what I’ve just told you?”

“I do.”

“Oh, you good woman!” With a swift, graceful movement Marjorie stooped
and laid her lips to the blue-veined hand resting on the chair arm.

“I flatter myself I’m a woman of some perception,” replied Mrs.
Fordyce, coloring warmly. “And truth doesn’t always lie at the bottom
of a well.”

Half an hour later all details of her engagement as chaperon were
satisfactorily settled, and bidding Mrs. Fordyce a warm good-night,
Marjorie, lighter hearted than she had been in many a day, tripped
down the hall and through the front door held open by a deferential
footman. As she gained the sidewalk a limousine turned in under the
porte-cochère and stopped before the door she had just left. Pausing to
readjust her furs, she saw a familiar figure spring out of the motor,
and a well-known voice said clearly:

“Look out for that step, Miss Fordyce,” and Chichester Barnard caught
his companion’s arm in time to save her from a fall as she descended
from the motor.

Marjorie watched them enter the lighted vestibule, her thoughts in
riot. Chichester Barnard’s “business engagement” had not prevented his
dancing attendance upon another girl--and she, Marjorie Langdon, was to
be that girl’s official chaperon.




CHAPTER V

GIVE AND TAKE


“DOES everything look in order in the dining-room, Duncan?” inquired
Mrs. Fordyce anxiously, on her son’s entrance, laying down the magazine
she was reading.

“Of course it is, dear mother,” he replied, sitting down on the
lounge beside her. “You can always trust Perkins to arrange the table
decorations to the Queen’s taste. Why so anxious tonight?”

“It is our first dinner-party in Washington, and I want everything to
go off well for Janet’s sake. First impressions count for so much.”

Duncan laughed outright. “You, mother, worrying about a simple dinner
of sixteen? Your Beacon Street ancestors will disown you.”

“My dear, Beacon Street traditions and Washington etiquette have to
assimilate slowly. The official and diplomatic life here presents many
pitfalls for the unwary, and Janet is young....”

“But you have provided her with a chaperon.” Duncan yawned as he
arranged his white tie.

“The chaperon isn’t any too old,” confessed Mrs. Fordyce. She had not
taken her family entirely into her confidence in referring to Marjorie,
contenting herself with mentioning the fact, two days before, that she
had engaged a chaperon for Janet, a statement which raised a storm of
protest on that young débutante’s part.

“Then why in the world did you engage her?” asked Duncan.

Mrs. Fordyce debated the question. “Mrs. McIntyre assured me she was
altogether charming, and most popular. She said she knew Washington’s
complex social system to a dot....”

“And we are to supply the dash?” Duncan shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Apparently you have secured a domestic treasure; well, your plan may
work out all right, but, mother, I don’t like the idea of your retiring
so much from social life.”

“With my infirmity I cannot face strangers; don’t ask me, dear.”

“Mother! As if anyone ever thinks of that after they have once met
you,” exclaimed Duncan, greatly touched by the unuttered grief in Mrs.
Fordyce’s eyes, and he gave her an impulsive hug.

“Here, here, this will never do,” protested a hearty voice from the
other end of the boudoir. “Duncan, my boy, do you realize there are
young ‘buds’ downstairs waiting for your fond embraces?”

“Oh, get out!” retorted Duncan undutifully.

“Are our guests arriving, Calderon?” asked Mrs. Fordyce in some alarm.
“And you are not in the drawing-room?”

“Perhaps they haven’t come just yet,” admitted her husband. “Don’t
take me too literally, Flora. Where did you pick up the chaperon?”

“She came to me highly recommended,” said Mrs. Fordyce, her placid
manner undisturbed. “You were not in town, Calderon----”

“As if that would have made any difference?” he chuckled. “My dearest,
your wish is law in this house; if you want a dozen chaperons you shall
have them. I predict, Duncan,” turning to his son who had risen and was
lazily stretching himself, “that with Janet and her chaperon on deck,
we shall have a lively winter.”

“Back to the wilds for me!” retorted Duncan. “Tell me, mother, did your
chaperon pick out our guests tonight?”

“Oh, no; Janet selected the young girls and men who have already shown
her attention, the invitations were sent out over ten days ago. You
see, in place of giving a big reception to introduce Janet, I plan to
have a series of weekly dinner-dances.”

“What is the name of your paragon?” asked Duncan.

“Marjorie Langdon, her mother was an old school friend of mine.”

“The name sounds familiar,” Duncan wrinkled his brow in puzzled thought.

“Go down and meet her and then you’ll be certain about it,” put in his
father. “Now, Flora, will you give me your attention....”

Taking the hint Duncan strode to the door and vanished. As he reached
the head of the staircase he heard his name called, and turning
around, saw Janet standing before the elevator shaft. He retraced his
steps and joined her, and they entered the lift together.

“How do I look, Duncan?” she asked eagerly, turning slowly around for
his inspection, as the automatic car shot downward.

“The gown’s all right; the worst piece is in the middle,” he teased,
glancing admiringly at her blond prettiness. She was dressed in
exquisite taste, and her suddenly acquired grown-up manner sat quaintly
upon her. Her slightly offended expression caused him to add hastily:
“I like your hair arranged that way.”

“I do think it’s becoming,” admitted Janet, twisting about in the
lift so as to catch a better glimpse of herself in the tiny mirror.
“Marjorie Langdon dressed it for me. Do you know, Duncan, I believe I’m
going to like her.”

He was saved from comment by the stopping of the lift, and Janet, her
dignity flying to the four winds, scampered over to the drawing-room.
Duncan followed her more slowly, and paused abruptly at the threshold
of the room on perceiving a tall girl arranging roses in a vase, on one
of the empire tables.

Marjorie Langdon belonged to a type which appears to greater advantage
in evening dress than in street costume, and with half-cynical, wholly
critical eyes Duncan studied the girl, who, unaware of his presence,
stood with her profile turned toward him. In her shimmering white gown,
which suited her perfectly, and her color heightened by the excitement
of her first official appearance in the Fordyce house, she was well
worth a second look.

“Lord! she needs a chaperon herself,” Duncan muttered under his
breath, then stepped toward her as Marjorie looked in his direction.
“I shall have to present myself, Miss Langdon--Duncan Fordyce,” he
said pleasantly. “My sister Janet is too much excited to remember the
formalities.”

“I beg your pardon,” broke in Janet from the window seat. “I thought
you two had met.”

Successfully concealing her surprise under a friendly smile, Marjorie
shook his hand cordially; until that moment she had not known of Duncan
Fordyce’s existence. “When did you come to Washington?” she inquired.

“Three days ago----” the arrival of his father and several other men
interrupted his speech.

Ten minutes later the last guest had arrived, and Duncan, keeping up a
detached conversation with a nervous débutante, watched Marjorie with
increasing interest. Her youth might be against her as a chaperon, but
her poise and good breeding left nothing to be desired. No sign of
awkwardness was discernible in her manner as she stood by Janet’s side
assisting her in receiving the guests, and Calderon Fordyce, stopping
beside his son, whispered a vehement: “She’ll do.” His attention
distracted, Duncan failed to see one guest’s quickly concealed
astonishment on beholding Marjorie standing beside Janet.

“You here!” exclaimed Chichester Barnard. “How--how--delightful!”

“Thank you,” replied Marjorie gently. “I think, Chichester, you are to
take out our hostess, Miss Fordyce,” as the butler and footman parted
the portières. “Ah, Baron von Valkenberg, am I your fate? Suppose
we wait until the others have gone out,” and she stepped back, the
diplomat at her side.

After the arrival of the ices, Marjorie permitted herself a second’s
relaxation, and sat back in her chair. Both her neighbors were busily
engaged in conversation with the young girls sitting on the other
side of them, and glad of the respite, she glanced about the table.
She had been talking incessantly since the commencement of dinner and
her vocal chords actually ached. Everyone seemed to be having a gay
time, there was no lull in the conversation. Marjorie took in the
handsome silver and glass table appointments, and the beautiful flower
centerpiece with secret satisfaction; the dinner and the service had
been irreproachable. In fact, the ease and quiet elegance of the dinner
recalled her own mother’s delightful hospitality before they lost
their money. Marjorie sighed involuntarily; then her lips stiffened
resolutely. She had, on thinking over Mrs. Fordyce’s proposal, decided
to back out of her engagement, but Madame Yvonett, delighted with the
plan, refused to permit her to withdraw her acceptance, and bag and
baggage she had arrived at the Fordyce residence at five o’clock that
afternoon.

“Aren’t you going to give me a word?” inquired Duncan, her left-hand
neighbor, turning abruptly to her. “All I’ve seen of you is a pink ear.
Baron von Valkenberg has monopolized you outrageously.”

“He is a stranger,” replied Marjorie laughing. “He has only been in
this country five weeks; I’ve been trying to make him feel at home.”

“A very laudable object; but I’m a stranger, too,” protested Duncan.
“You might be nice to me.”

“But you _are_ at home,” Marjorie’s smile was one of her greatest
charms, and Duncan, all unconscious, fell under its spell. “Is this
your first visit to Washington?”

“No. When at Yale I used to spend my vacations here with Mrs. McIntyre.
That was ten years ago. Do you know, at the two entertainments I’ve
been to already, I saw some of the people I met here then, and they
knew me.”

“I’m not surprised; Washington is a place where one is never missed and
never forgotten. Where have you been since leaving Yale?”

“Knocking about the world,” carelessly. “I’ve just come up from Panama.
Who’s the good-looking man sitting on my sister’s right?”

“Chichester Barnard.”

“Oh!” The name struck a chord of memory, and the scene at the Turkish
bath three days before flashed before Duncan and he frowned. Some
telepathy seemed to tell Barnard that he was under discussion, and
catching Marjorie’s eye across the table, he raised his champagne glass
in gay challenge. She lifted hers to her lips in response, and set
it down untasted. “He’s remarkably fine looking,” reiterated Duncan.
“Something Byronic about him.”

“Yes,” agreed Marjorie; then turned abruptly to Baron von Valkenberg,
who, having refused the sweets, had been for the past five minutes
reaching under the table in a manner which suggested the loss of his
napkin. “What’s the matter, Baron?”

The young diplomat straightened up suddenly, and gravely replied: “I
sink it is a flea.”

For a moment gravity was at a discount, then Marjorie, catching Janet’s
eye, rose, and the guests and their hostess trooped back into the
drawing-room.

The men wasted but a short time over their cigars and liqueur, and
soon the dancing in the ballroom was in full swing. It was after
midnight when Chichester Barnard approached Marjorie and asked for
a dance. There was a barely perceptible pause, then, with a word of
thanks to her former partner, she laid her hand on Barnard’s arm, and
they floated out on the floor. They were two of the best dancers in
Washington, and Duncan, dancing with Janet, watched them with an odd
feeling of unrest. They had circled the room but twice when Barnard
stopped near the entrance to the library.

“I must talk to you, Madge,” he whispered hurriedly. “Come in here,”
and he led the way to a comfortable leather-covered divan. They had the
room to themselves. “Why didn’t you consult me before coming here as
chaperon.”

“Because I did not think my affairs interested you further.”

“Madge!” The soft, caressing voice held a note of keen reproach. “How
can you so misjudge me?”

But she refused to be placated. “It’s some days since I have seen you,”
she replied wearily. “How is your aunt, Mrs. Lawrence?”

“About the same, I believe,” shortly. “Tell me, how did you come to
give up your secretary work there?”

“You ask me that?” A sparkle of anger darkened Marjorie’s eyes, and he
glanced uncomfortably at the mantel clock. “You are better informed as
to what transpires in the Lawrence home than I am.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he complained. “Admiral Lawrence has a
grudge against me, witness his advising my aunt to cut me out of her
will; and now I believe he has influenced you to turn against me.
Madge, it’s not like you to go back on a pal,” he added bitterly.

“I am not the one who has ‘gone back,’” she retorted with spirit. “And
I think it’s best, all things considered, to return you this”--taking
a heavy gold signet ring out of a fold of her bodice and placing it in
his hand.

He looked at it in stupefied silence for a moment, then threw it
contemptuously on the large library table.

“Do you think by returning that ring that you can break the tie that
binds me to you, my darling?” he cried, real feeling in voice and
gesture. “That bit of gold is but a symbol of my love--as long as life
lasts, my heart, my homage, are yours.” Her pulse quickened under the
ardor in his eyes. “God! why am I poor!” He struck one fist impotently
in his other palm. “Cannot you understand, my darling, that it hurts me
cruelly to see you living here as a paid chaperon when you should reign
as queen.”

“Miss Langdon,” called Janet from the doorway. “Our guests are waiting
to say good-bye.”

Marjorie, dragged once more to earth, started guiltily for the door,
without a glance at her companion. A chaperon had small right to sit in
corners with attractive men.

After the last guest had departed Marjorie, leaving Janet and her
father and brother discussing the events of the evening, slipped back
into the library. But her search of the table and other pieces of
furniture was fruitless.

“In spite of his protests, he pocketed the ring,” she muttered, and a
queer smile crossed her lips.




CHAPTER VI

AT FORT MYER


“THIS way, sir; your seats are in the upper gallery,” announced a
cavalry corporal. “Right up here, miss,” and he assisted Janet up
the first steps of the narrow stairway, then made way for Chichester
Barnard who followed her. “Let me see your tickets, please,” continued
the corporal as Duncan Fordyce appeared at his elbow, Marjorie in his
wake. “Very sorry, sir, but these seats are in the north gallery at the
other end of the riding-hall. You’ll have to go outside to get there,
sir.”

“Thundering devils!” ejaculated Duncan, taking back the two pink
pasteboards. “Mrs. Walbridge sold mother these four tickets. I supposed
the seats were all together. Wait here just a minute, Miss Marjorie,
and I’ll run out to the ticket agent and see if I can’t exchange these
seats for others on this side of the hall.”

Marjorie nodded a cheerful assent, and in Duncan’s absence watched the
new arrivals swarming into the building. The annual drill, given under
the auspices of the Woman’s Army Relief Society, was a great event, not
only at Fort Myer but in the National Capital and Georgetown as well,
and fashionable society had apparently turned out en masse to attend it.

“Splendid success, Marjorie,” boomed a voice close to her ear, and
turning she recognized Mrs. Walbridge, majestic in her ermine coat and
nearly two hundred pounds avoirdupois. “The ticket committee told me
the President and most of his Cabinet will be here. The hall is sold
out. Haven’t you a seat, child?”

“Yes, I am waiting for----” the name was lost in the slamming down of
chairs and the stamping of feet.

“That’s all right,” exclaimed Mrs. Walbridge, much relieved. “I
couldn’t have you stand. Be sure and bring your escort over to the
Administration Building for tea after the drill,” and she moved
ponderously down the aisle to her seat.

“Sorry to have been so long,” apologized Duncan, rejoining Marjorie. “I
succeeded in exchanging my tickets for two seats in this lower section.
Come on,” but Marjorie held back, and her face grew troubled.

“Hadn’t I better go upstairs and sit with your sister, and let Mr.
Barnard join you in these lower seats?” she asked.

“You take your chaperonage too seriously,” declared Duncan firmly. “I
hardly ever see you alone, Miss Marjorie, and now Fate has given me a
chance to enjoy myself, I decline to have your New England conscience
spoil my fun. But if it will make you feel any easier, I’ll run up and
tell Barnard where we are sitting. Here, Corporal, show this lady to
her chair,” and he turned and dashed upstairs.

Marjorie slowly followed the non-commissioned officer down the aisle to
the front row, speaking to her different friends as she passed them.
As she made herself comfortable in the narrow chair, she recognized
Baron von Valkenberg and the military attaches of the foreign embassies
at Washington, always interested spectators at the drills, sitting
near her. To her left was the box reserved for the President and the
Commandant of the Post, draped with the President’s personal flag and
the Stars and Stripes, while the Chief of Staff and his aides occupied
an adjoining box.

Duncan saw Janet and Barnard sitting midway in the front row of the
gallery, and with many apologies to the occupants of the chairs whose
feet he encountered on his way to them, he reached Barnard’s side, and
in a few words explained the situation, then, not waiting for comment,
turned and ran downstairs, reaching Marjorie’s side just as the opening
bars of the National Anthem echoed through the hall, and the entire
audience rose as the President stepped into his box.

“Oh, isn’t it grand!” shouted Janet to Barnard, clapping her hands as
a troop of cavalry rode on to the tanbark, and with a ringing cheer,
swept at a run down the hall straight to the President’s box, their
chargers’ noses stopping just short of the high railing, and their
sabers flashing in salute; then the drill was on.

So absorbed was Janet in the different events scheduled that her
companion received but scant attention.

“I declare, our soldiers are magnificent!” Janet drew a long breath,
and regretfully watched the company of picked roughriders leave the
hall.

“You little enthusiast!” Barnard’s handsome eyes glowed with some
warmer sentiment than mere approval as he studied her piquant face.
“Jove! It’s a liberal education to know you.”

“Now you are making fun of me,” she said reproachfully, her foot
beating time to the stirring tune the post band was playing across the
hall.

“I never was more in earnest.” The two heads were bent very close
together, and the tender timbre of his voice made her heart beat
quicker. “You have no idea, little girl, of the influence you
unconsciously exert on those about you. Please God, I’m a better,
cleaner man for having known you; only having known you----” his
whisper reached her ear alone--“life will never be the same unless you
are with me--always!” She stirred uneasily, frightened by the vehemence
of his manner. “Surely you guessed,” he whispered, bending down so that
she looked directly at him. His nearness, his comeliness, held her.

“I--I--don’t know!” she slid one trembling hand in his. “I know you
better than any other man. I think of you--often.”

His face lightened with hope. “I’ll make you love me,” and pretending
to pick up the program, he stooped and pressed his lips to her hand.

“Oh, don’t,” she stammered. “Suppose Duncan should see you.”

“I am willing that he should,” Barnard smiled happily. “But don’t
worry, your brother is too attentive in another quarter to bother about
us.”

“Duncan attentive?” in sharp surprise. “To whom?”

But Barnard’s eyes had wandered to the high jumping going on below them
and apparently he did not hear the question. “He’s down!” he shouted as
horse and rider plunged headlong to the ground, and for a time he and
Janet watched the jumping in absolute silence.

“How do you like your chaperon?” he asked finally.

“Marjorie? Very much, indeed. Father and mother think she is splendid,
and she has been just lovely to me. I don’t know how I could have
gotten through this month without her.”

“Good; I’m delighted to hear she’s such a success,” he exclaimed
heartily. “To be candid, I was afraid the experiment wouldn’t work.
Marjorie is not always easy to get along with; she just lost an awfully
good job before your mother engaged her. And Marjorie’s so blessed
poor, she needs every cent she can make.”

“It is fine the way she helps Madame Yvonett,” said Janet with genuine
enthusiasm. “Marjorie took me to see her aunt, and I think she is a
darling. I met her cousin there, Captain Nichols----”

“I hope you don’t think he’s a darling also?” in mock jealousy.

“Don’t be absurd!” But a warm color mantled Janet’s face, and to cover
her confusion she examined the program. “Oh, I see it is his battery
that is to drill this afternoon....”

“And here they come now,” broke in Barnard; a trumpet call drowned his
words.

Tom Nichols, looking every inch a soldier, rode at the head of his
battery and, after saluting the President, backed his horse to the side
of the hall and took up his station there, followed by his trumpeter.
Janet, her pulses dancing with excitement, leaned far over the balcony,
and watched the battery drill, that most stirring of spectacles, with
breathless attention. If her eyes stole now and then from the racing
mounted cannoniers, the plunging horses, and leaping gun-carriages to
a soldierly figure sitting erect and watchful on a restive charger, no
one, not even Barnard, was aware of it.

The two other members of their party sitting in the gallery beneath
them, had been almost as absorbed in the exhibition drill as Janet and
Barnard.

“Tired?” inquired Duncan, turning to Marjorie. She had watched
each thrilling performance in silent enjoyment, replying mostly in
monosyllables to his few remarks, and Duncan, slowly learning to divine
her moods and tenses, had been content to sit quietly by her side,
only occasionally stealing covert glances in her direction.

“No, indeed,” she protested. “I feel ‘abominably refreshed,’ as Aunt
Yvonett puts it. Is the drill over?”

“Apparently so.” Duncan rose and Marjorie followed his example. “Stand
here out of the crowd,” he suggested a moment later as they approached
the entrance. “We can see Janet and Barnard as they come down.” But
the crowd had thinned materially, and the band was playing its last
stirring quick-step, before the others put in their appearance.

“Awfully sorry to be so long,” apologized Barnard, holding open the
large swing door for Marjorie to pass through. “Where to now?”

“There’s a tea-dance at the Administration Building,” began Marjorie.
“Shall we go over there?”

“I have a better plan than that,” put in a voice behind her, and Tom
Nichols joined the little group. “Come and have tea with me; I am
particularly anxious to have you see my quarters.” The invitation was
addressed to Marjorie and her companions, but Tom’s eyes sought Janet,
and impulsively she responded to their mute pleading.

“Of course we’ll come,” and slipping her hand inside Marjorie’s arm,
she kept step with Tom as he piloted them across the parade grounds.
Duncan paused long enough to direct his chauffeur to bring the
limousine to Captain Nichols’ quarters, then hastened after them. With
no little pride Tom ushered his guests into his semi-detached house.

“Let me help you off with your coat, Miss Fordyce,” he said, but he was
too late; Barnard was already assisting her. Slightly discomforted Tom
turned back to Marjorie, only to find she had stepped into the parlor,
and was gazing into the lighted dining-room which opened out of it.

“Are you a magician, Tom?” she asked. “Here is your table all set for
tea, and you only knew three minutes ago that we were coming.”

Tom reddened under his tan. “I hoped you would come; Miss Fordyce told
me at the Army and Navy Club last night that she had tickets for the
drill.” Janet, scenting a discussion, hurried into the parlor, followed
by her brother and Barnard. “Besides,” added Tom, with honest intent,
but stumbling over his speech. “I--eh--gave a--eh--half invitation to
Joe Cooper to bring his mother and sister--there they are now,” and he
hastened into the reception hall as the electric bell buzzed.

Marjorie stifled an impatient sigh; she did not like the
Calhoun-Coopers. The dislike was mutual. They had tried assiduously
to cultivate the Fordyces, and Marjorie’s veiled opposition to any
intimacy between Pauline Calhoun-Cooper and Janet had aroused their
silent enmity.

“Mother was very sorry not to be able to come,” announced a penetrating
voice in the hall. “It was too sweet of you to ask us. Is this your
parlor?” and the portières were pulled back, admitting a strikingly
gowned young woman whose good looks were slightly marred by a
discontented expression. “Dear Miss Fordyce, so glad to see you,” she
gushed. “And of course, Miss Langdon,” but the latter handshake was
perfunctory, and Pauline turned with added warmth to greet Duncan and
Barnard. Joe Calhoun-Cooper was more quiet in his entrance, and Tom
was leading his guests into the dining-room before Duncan noticed his
presence. Barnard, lingering in the background, observed Duncan’s curt
nod and Joe’s darkening face, and his curiosity was instantly aroused.
It was the first time Joe had met Duncan since their encounter in the
dormitory of the Turkish Bath, Joe having been in New York, but he had
neither forgotten nor forgiven Duncan for his plain speech that day,
and the physical force with which he had punctuated his meaning.

“Will you take charge of the tea, Madge?” asked Tom, pulling out the
chair at the head of the table. “I hope everything is here,” anxiously
examining the bountifully supplied table. “Let me draw up a chair for
you, Miss Fordyce.” Then turning to the others. “Do make yourselves
comfortable,” he entreated.

Duncan found himself sandwiched in between Pauline and her brother,
Joe, and at some distance from Marjorie. He was spared the trouble of
making small talk, for Pauline took that matter into her own hands, and
kept up a running fire of comment which required only an occasional
answer. To his great annoyance he discovered that Barnard and Marjorie
were holding an animated, low-toned conversation, and Barnard’s manner
was becoming more intense as the slow minutes passed. Pauline finally
observed which way Duncan’s attention was straying, and her black eyes
snapped with anger.

“They make a very handsome couple,” she whispered confidentially,
nodding toward Marjorie. “An old affair....”

Duncan favored her with a blank, noncommittal stare, while inwardly
furious. “Ah, indeed,” vaguely, then in a voice which made his sister
jump, he called out: “Nice quarters you have, Nichols.”

“Mighty glad you like them, old man,” replied Tom, beaming with
pleasure. “Marjorie came over here when I first moved in and helped me
settle the house. She deserves all the praise.”

“I do not,” contradicted Marjorie, breaking off her tête-à-tête
with Barnard, and Duncan sat back well satisfied. “Aunt Yvonett is
responsible for your home.”

“I never knew before that bachelors had so much furniture,” chimed in
Pauline.

“They don’t,” replied Tom. “Most of this stuff,” waving his hand
vaguely toward the heavy pieces of furniture, “belongs to the
Government.”

“How long is your detail here?” asked Barnard.

“There is no specified limit, but we are expecting to be ordered to
another station very shortly.”

“I should think you’d hate to give up all this furniture when you move
away,” commented Janet, looking admiringly about the cozy room.

“I’ll find some exactly like it in the officers’ quarters at my
next post,” carelessly. “Uncle Sam partly furnishes all the houses
on Government Reservations, you know. What I shall miss will be
Washington.”

“Perhaps the War Department will extend your detail here,” exclaimed
Marjorie hopefully.

“No such luck,” groaned Tom. “Now, in the good old days ... I suppose
you have all heard of the marine officer who was stationed for so
many years at the marine barracks in Washington, that when he died he
bequeathed his Government quarters in the Yard to his daughters in his
will, thinking it belonged to him.”

“If you don’t want to leave Washington, Tom, why don’t you chuck the
service?” asked Joe. “You are a bloated plutocrat now.”

“What does he mean, Tom?” demanded Marjorie quickly. “Have you
inherited money?”

“No. Shut up, Joe.”

“Well, with your luck anything might happen,” protested Joe. “If you
don’t resign they may make you a major-general.”

“Bosh!” Tom looked as provoked as he felt. “Let me explain Joe’s
nonsense. When in Brussels two years ago, I attended the Vieux Marché
where the townspeople and peasants bring old junk on Sundays to be sold
for what it will bring, and I picked up an old coin for five centimes.
The other day I heard Admiral Lawrence discussing numismatology in the
club, and it occurred to me to show my coin to an antique dealer. Joe
went with me yesterday, and I’m blessed if the dealer didn’t tell me
the coin was worth between twelve and fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Oh, how romantic!” ejaculated Pauline, and Janet looked her interest.

“Let’s see the coin, Tom,” suggested Joe, “or have you sold it?”

“No, the dealer only gave me the address of a New York coin collector
whom he thought would buy it. If you really care to see the coin,”
looking anxiously at Janet, who nodded her head vigorously. “Just a
moment, I’ll run upstairs and get it.”

Pauline promptly opened a lively conversation with Barnard across the
table, and Duncan was just thinking of changing his seat when Tom
rejoined them carrying a small pasteboard box.

“There, isn’t that an ugly thing to be worth all that gold,” he said,
placing the coin in Janet’s hand, and the others crowded about to get a
better look at it.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” admitted Janet, handing it back to
Tom. “Personally I’d rather buy....”

A long blue flame shot out from under the teakettle, and Marjorie
jumped from her seat in alarm.

“Lord! the alcohol lamp’s busted,” shouted Tom, dropping the pasteboard
box on the sideboard, and reaching over he seized the boiling kettle
and its nickel frame. “Open the window, Fordyce,” and he tossed the
burning lamp out on the ground where it exploded harmlessly. “Were you
burned, Madge?” he asked, returning to her side.

“Oh, no, only frightened; the flame shot at me so suddenly.” Marjorie
passed a nervous hand over her mouth, conscious that her lips were
trembling.

“I really think we must be leaving,” broke in Pauline. She did not
like having attention diverted from herself, and playing second fiddle
to a girl who worked for her living was too novel a sensation to be
agreeable. “We’ve had a delightful time, Captain; good-bye everybody,”
and she sailed out of the room, accompanied by her flurried host and
her brother.

“I don’t like to hurry you, Janet, but we must be going also,” said
Marjorie quietly.

“Yes, it’s later than I thought,” responded the younger girl.
“Gracious, I entirely forgot we are going to the theater tonight.”

“We will all meet there,” Barnard helped Janet into her coat with
solicitous care. “Nichols and I are both invited by Judge and Mrs.
Walbridge.”

“Good-bye, Tom, we’ve had an awfully good time,” Marjorie gave her
cousin’s hand an affectionate squeeze as he helped her into the
limousine. The Calhoun-Coopers’ car was already a dim speck in the
distance.

“Good-bye--see you all tonight,” shouted Tom, and watched the limousine
out of sight. On re-entering the house he was on the point of going
upstairs when he remembered the coin. Retracing his footsteps he went
to the sideboard in the dining-room and opened the box. It was empty.

Tom glanced in deep perplexity at the box, and then about the room. He
had a very distinct recollection of stuffing the coin back into the box
just as the flame from the lamp leaped out, and of dropping the closed
box on the sideboard. There had been only himself and his guests in the
house, for he had sent his striker over to assist at the tea-dance at
the Administration Building, after first setting his master’s tea table.

Tom went rapidly through all his pockets; then searched the room,
then the parlor; next he went into the servants’ quarters and, as he
expected, found them empty. From there he went over the house, but he
was the only person in it, and the windows and doors were all securely
locked. Convinced of that fact, he returned to the dining-room, and
dropped bewildered into the nearest chair. His eyes fell on the
uptilted cardboard box; there was even a slight impress left on the
cotton where the coin had lain.

“It’s gone!” exclaimed Tom aloud. “Really gone!” And his face was as
blank as the opposite wall.




CHAPTER VII

TREASURE TROVE


MINERVA glared at her image in the glass she was polishing with unusual
diligence. “A cleanin’ an’ a cleanin’,” she exclaimed rebelliously.
“Miss Rebekah don’t hardly ’low me time ter eat. Miss Marjorie didn’t
never turn me inter a--a--flyin’ squadron”--Minerva hadn’t the faintest
idea of the meaning of “flying squadron,” but she had picked up the
words while waiting at table, and they sounded big enough to express
her state of mind. “An’ I ain’t gwine ter church termorro’, nohow; las’
time I went, I come home an’ foun’ Miss Rebekah had done took all my
china an’ glass off de pantry shelves, an’ I had ter put it back. What
kind ob a Christian am she, anyhow? An’ when I’m down on my marrow
bones a scrubbin’ de flo’, she flops down an’ keeps me a prayin’ fo’
five minutes. Lan’ sakes! dar’s de bell.” Hastily washing her hands and
putting a white apron over her gingham one, she took her leisurely way
to the front door.

“Howdy, Marse Tom?” she exclaimed, showing all her ivories in an
expansive smile on seeing the young officer standing in the vestibule.
“De Madam will be mighty glad ter see yo’; step right inter de pawlor,
I’ll go tell her yo’ am hyar.”

Madame Yvonett found Tom walking restlessly up and down the small room
when she entered a few minutes later.

“I am pleased to see thee, Thomas,” she said, kissing him warmly. “Thee
finds us rather topsy-turvey; this is cleaning day, but make thyself
comfortable, I will sit here,” selecting her customary high back
arm-chair, and producing her knitting.

Tom established himself in one end of the rosewood sofa.

“You must miss Marjorie awfully,” he said, inspecting the disarranged
room with some wonder.

“I do;” an involuntary sigh escaped Madame Yvonett. “Marjorie is young,
but she understands the foibles of the old; she is a good child.”

“I’m afraid Cousin Rebekah Graves is a bit too strenuous for you.”

“Becky’s a trifle breezy, but anything’s better than a dead calm,”
responded the Quakeress. “I am pleased that Marjorie is with the
Fordyces; from what she says they must be charming people.”

“They are,” declared Tom with such positiveness that a faint gleam of
amusement lit his companion’s eyes. “Has Marjorie been in to see you
today?”

“No. She usually comes about this time on her return from market. Thee
knows Mrs. Fordyce has turned the housekeeping over to her.”

“It strikes me they put a great deal on Marjorie....”

“Tut! Marjorie’s shoulders are young and broad. It would be better if
the younger generation carried more responsibilities; too much is done
for them by their elders. In my day”--dropping her knitting in her
lap as she warmed to her subject--“the development of character went
hand-in-hand with education; now, education is founded on indulgence.
The modern child must be amused, spoiled, its fits of temper
condoned....”

“Spare the rod and spoil the child,” quoted Tom, in open amusement.

“A sound doctrine,” affirmed Madame Yvonett with spirit. “And if
the American nation is to endure, character in the child must be
cultivated.”

“There’s a lot in what you say,” agreed Tom. “I came in this morning
hoping to see you alone;” he rose and sat down close by her. “I am
anxious to consult you about an incident that occurred yesterday
afternoon in my quarters,” and in a few words he described the
disappearance of the coin.

Madame Yvonett listened with absorbed attention to the story, and at
its conclusion, sat back and gazed unbelievingly at Tom, her busy
needles idly suspended in air.

“Does thee mean to say thee can find no trace of the coin?” she asked
incredulously.

“It has disappeared absolutely.”

“Is thee certain that thy servant was not in the house at the time the
lamp exploded?”

“Positive. Mrs. Sims, wife of the Commandant, told me he was
assisting the other servants in the Administration Building from the
commencement of the tea-dance until its close.”

“Then thee infers that one of thy guests stole the coin?”

“What other conclusion can I reach?” hopelessly. “And yet it’s a
devilish thought.”

“Has thee suspicions against anyone in particular?” Madame Yvonett
paled as she put the question, but she sat with her back to the light
and Tom did not perceive her agitation.

“Yes, I have,” reluctantly. “Joe Calhoun-Cooper.”

“Cooper? Ah, yes, I recollect; thee means John C. Cooper’s grandson.
What leads thee to suspect him?”

“I know he’s hard up; he’s been trying to borrow money, his father
having shut down on his allowance;” Tom paused thoughtfully, then
continued. “Joe was with me when I learned the coin’s value. He first
spoke of it yesterday--I never should have mentioned the matter--and
suggested I show the coin to my guests, evidently depending on chance
to give him an opportunity to steal it.”

“It dove-tails nicely,” acknowledged Madame Yvonett. “In fact, too
nicely; beware, Thomas, be not hasty in thy judgment.”

“I’m not,” doggedly. “Joe’s always been tricky, even as a schoolboy.”

“Then how does it happen that thee associates with him now?”

“Well--eh--his family have been very decent to me, and I’ve gone there
a good bit.” Madame Yvonett’s shrewd eyes twinkled. “While accepting
their hospitality I couldn’t refuse to know Joe. Although I’ve never
liked him, I knew no real ground for dropping him, until now,” and
Tom’s pleasant face hardened.

“Does thee intend to prosecute him for the theft of the coin?”

“I haven’t quite decided,” admitted Tom. “The loss of such a sum of
money means a good deal to me; still, I have only the dealer’s word
that the coin was worth between twelve and fifteen hundred dollars. I
could have Joe arrested,” doubtfully. “It’s a dirty business. Perhaps
it would be better to keep silent, but tell Joe to leave Washington or
I’ll expose his rascality.”

“Thee’ll have to secure more proof against him to make that threat
effective,” put in Madame Yvonett, sagely.

“I’ve already written to the coin collector in New York, describing my
coin, and asking him to notify me if such a coin is offered to him, and
by whom. Joe was with me when the dealer here gave me the New Yorker’s
address.”

“That is a good move,” Madame Yvonett nodded approvingly.

“I’ve also notified the Washington dealer, and he has agreed to send a
letter to other well-known numismatists telling them of the coin, and
asking for the name of the person who offers it for sale. Fortunately
the coin is very rare, and its appearance will arouse interest----”

“And cupidity,” chimed in Madame Yvonett. “Collectors are said to be
not too scrupulous; if they can buy it cheaply from the thief they will
not be likely to notify thee, the real owner.”

“Of course, there’s that danger,” admitted Tom, rising. “I’m afraid I
must be going, Cousin Yvonett; you’ve been awfully good to listen to
me.”

“I am always interested in anything that concerns thee, Thomas, and thy
news today is startling. Shall I mention the matter to Marjorie?”

Tom pondered for a moment before answering. “I don’t believe I would;
she is thrown a good deal with the Calhoun-Coopers, and knowledge of
Joe’s dishonesty might embarrass her in her relations with them.”

“Had thee not better question her about the disappearance of the coin?
She may be able to throw some light on the mystery.”

Again Tom shook his head. “If any of the others had seen Joe steal the
coin, they would have denounced him then and there, or dropped me a
hint later, and Marjorie particularly would have been sure to have done
so.”

“That is true, Marjorie has thy interests very much to heart; she has
not forgotten how good thee has been to me financially.”

“Don’t you ever speak of that again,” protested Tom warmly. “I’d do
everything for you if I could.”

“Thee is like thy father in generosity,” Madame Yvonett patted his
shoulder lovingly. “Be cautious in thy actions, Thomas; better lose a
coin than wrongfully accuse another. I advise thee to go carefully over
the floor of the dining-room and parlor, the coin may have rolled and
slipped into a tiny crevice, or down the register.”

Tom frowned in disbelief. “There are no registers, the house is heated
by steam; however, I’ll look again over the furniture and floors. I’m
not going to the dinner the Calhoun-Coopers are giving next week. I
can’t eat their food, believing Joe a thief. Good-bye, I’ll be in again
soon.”

After his departure Madame Yvonett remained seated in the little
parlor, her knitting in her lap and her usually industrious fingers at
rest, while her thoughts centered themselves on Tom’s account of the
disappearance of his coin.

“I wish Marjorie had not been present,” she said aloud.

“Did you call me?” inquired Miss Rebekah, as she divested herself of
her coat and gloves in the hall. “All alone, Cousin Yvonett? Why,
Marjorie told me she was surely coming in to be with you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Marjorie had fully intended stopping in to see her aunt that morning,
but she had been delayed in reaching Center Market, and afterwards,
having an errand to do on F Street, she had decided to walk instead of
taking a street car. Turning the corner at Ninth and F Streets she
came face to face with Chichester Barnard.

“What good luck to meet you!” His tone of pleasure was convincing in
its heartiness, and Marjorie’s eyes danced. “Which way are you going?”

“To Brentano’s.”

“I have an errand there, too,” falling into step beside her. “I had
a telephone a short time ago from Miss Janet asking me to lunch with
them.”

“She said she intended to invite you;” some of the sparkle had
disappeared from Marjorie’s eyes. “Can you come?”

“Yes, fortunately this is not a very busy day with me,” he raised his
hat to Mrs. Walbridge who passed them in her automobile. “Are you and
Miss Janet going to Mrs. Walbridge’s Christmas Eve dance?”

“I think so; here we are,” and she led the way inside the book-store.
It did not take her long to complete her errand, and she found Barnard
waiting for her at the entrance, a magazine tucked under his arm.

“All ready?” he inquired, holding open the door for her. “Are you going
to do any more shopping?”

“No.”

“Then take a walk with me?” eagerly. “We don’t have to be at the
Fordyce’s until one o’clock.”

“I told Aunt Yvonett I would run in for a few minutes on my way
uptown....”

“You can go there after lunch,” broke in Barnard. “Besides, there’s a
business matter I must talk over with you.”

A premonition of bad news sent a faint shiver down Marjorie’s spine,
and she glanced almost pleadingly at her companion.

“What----?” she began, then stopped. “Where shall we go?”

“Suppose we walk around the White Lot,” he suggested, after a moment’s
thought. “We’re not likely to be interrupted there,” turning to bow to
some friends.

“Very well,” agreed Marjorie briefly, quickening her pace, and talking
of indifferent subjects they made their way up busy F Street, across
Fifteenth, back of the Treasury, and round to the Ellipse. Barnard
pointed to one of the empty benches which stood on the outer edge of
the huge circle of well-kept turf, and Marjorie followed him to it.

“Well, what is your news?” she demanded, after waiting for him to speak.

“You are so literal, Madge,” he said, with a half sigh. “Give a poor
beggar a chance to look at you; I’m reveling in having you to myself
again.”

But Marjorie drew away from him. “Your news, please; I know it’s bad,
or you would not hesitate to tell me.”

“Have it your own way,” Barnard thumped the turf nervously with his
cane. “Do you know your aunt, Madame Yvonett, has a chattel mortgage
with the Wellington Loan Company?”

“Yes; she took it out during mother’s last illness. How did you come to
hear of it, Chichester?”

“The Wellington Company has turned the mortgage over to me to collect
for them. I do their legal work, you know.”

“No, I wasn’t aware of it.” Marjorie drew in her breath sharply. “The
interest is not due until next week.”

“But, my dearest girl, they want more than their interest--they require
the principal.”

“The company agreed to permit Aunt Yvonett to pay that off gradually.”

“Has your aunt a written agreement to that effect?”

“I don’t know positively, but Mr. Saunders always attends to that for
her.”

“Unfortunately Saunders is no longer president of the company, and the
new head is a very different type of man. He insists on calling in all
loans which have run for a considerable period.”

“It’s hateful of him!” Marjorie stamped with sudden fury. “Aunt Yvonett
is trying so hard to pay off her debts, and she took this mortgage so
that mother could have some comforts and proper care before she died.
Oh, I can’t let him foreclose!”

Unconscious of Barnard’s intent gaze, she stared at the distant White
House, picturesque in its setting; then with tired, restless eyes
turned to look at the still more distant Washington Monument, whose
tapering shaft seemed lost in fleecy clouds. She knew that hundreds of
migrating birds nightly beat themselves to death against the towering
marble shaft, a shaft as immovable as that Fate which was shaping her
destiny.

“How much money does Aunt Yvonett owe the company?” she asked abruptly.

Barnard consulted his note book. “The total sum is eleven hundred and
forty-three dollars and seventeen cents.”

Marjorie swallowed hard; the amount loomed even larger than the
Washington Monument. Her first month’s salary at the Fordyces’ had gone
to meet current expenses, and to buy Madame Yvonett a much needed gown.
Where could she turn?

“I took over this business,” continued Barnard, “because I feared
another lawyer might give you trouble. Why not let me advance you the
money, Madge?”

“No, never!” Barnard winced at the abrupt refusal, and observing his
hurt expression, she added hastily, “Your offer was kindly meant,
Chichester, and I thank you; but accepting your assistance is quite out
of the question.”

“I don’t see why,” quickly. “I worship the ground you walk on--Madge,
darling, why must I give all, and you give nothing?”

“Nothing?” asked the girl drearily, and she closed her eyes to keep
back the blinding tears. “Worship is not all a woman requires; there is
honor and faith....”

“You doubt my sincerity?” he demanded hotly.

“Can you blame me?” She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “Have I
not daily evidence of your attentions to Janet Fordyce?”

Barnard threw back his head and laughed long and heartily. “Madge,
are you quite blind?” he asked. “I am attentive to Janet, yes,
because then I can be near you. Do you really suppose I care for that
bread-and-butter miss?”

“Bread and butter’s very good for a steady diet,” Marjorie passed a
nervous hand over her forehead. “Particularly when it’s spread with
gold dust.”

“Steady, Madge, steady; there are some insults a man can’t take from
even a woman.” Barnard’s eyes were flashing ominously, and every bit
of color had deserted his face. “Have you no spark of feeling about
you? Are you all adamantine? Have you no recollection of the night we
plighted our troth?” his voice quivered with pent-up passion, and she
moved uneasily.

“I am not the one who forgot, Chichester,” she said, refusing to meet
his eyes. “When I found--changed conditions, I gave you back your
freedom.”

“Because I had not been to see you for a couple of days. What a
reason!” he laughed mirthlessly. “You accuse me of lack of faith; come,
where was _your_ faith?”

“It’s the pot calling the kettle black;” Marjorie, intent on
controlling her impulse to cry, failed to observe Barnard’s altered
demeanor. He had been intently studying the varying emotions which
flitted across her face, and, keen student of human nature that he
was, instantly put his knowledge of her character to the test.

“Come,” he sprang to his feet. “We will go to Madame Yvonett....”

“What for?” in alarm, the recollection of the chattel mortgage
returning to her.

“To ask her consent to our marriage.”

Marjorie sat back in her seat. “Would you wed me, the beggar maid?”

“Within the hour, if you wish.” He leaned nearer her, and his hot
passionate words soothed her troubled heart, and finally dispelled
her last lingering doubt. She gazed at him half shyly, never had he
appeared to greater advantage, her chevalier “_sans peur et sans
reproche_.” A piercing automobile siren brought her back from her
day-dream.

“What time is it?” she asked in some alarm.

Barnard looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes of one.”

“Then we can just do it,” and snatching up her chain bag, she led the
way to Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Are we going to Madame Yvonett’s?” he asked tenderly.

“Not now.” Her eyes smiled wistfully back into his.

“Madge, won’t you marry me?” stopping directly in front of her.

“Not just yet.” Marjorie only saw the bitter disappointment in the fine
eyes regarding her so wistfully; she never caught the significance of
his long-drawn sigh of relief. “I have some pride, Chichester. Let me
first get clear of my debts, and then we’ll talk of marriage.”

“Won’t you let me help you with that chattel mortgage?” pleaded Barnard.

“No,” gently. “I shall write to some friends in New York--here comes
our car, Chichester, do hurry.”

So intent were they on catching the car that neither noticed a
well-dressed young woman watching them from a bench in Lafayette
Square. Nurse Allen grew white to the lips and her pretty eyes
glittered with a more powerful emotion than tears as she observed
Barnard’s tender solicitude for Marjorie as he escorted her across the
street.

“Still playing the old game,” she muttered, tossing a handful of
peanuts to three park squirrels, and gathering up her bag and muff she
turned her footsteps toward Admiral Lawrence’s house.

On their arrival at the Fordyce residence Barnard was ushered into the
sunny library by the footman, while Marjorie hastily sought her room.
Barnard found Janet and her brother waiting for him.

“I hope I’m not late,” he said, selecting a seat near Janet, who
resumed work on the necktie she was crocheting.

“You are just on time,” remarked Duncan. “Mother is the tardy member of
the household--and Miss Langdon.”

“Marjorie is usually prompt,” Janet gave a tug at her spool of
silk; the work-basket overturned, and its contents scattered in all
directions. “Oh, don’t trouble,” as the two men stooped to gather up
the different articles.

“What’s this, Janet?” asked Duncan, picking up a heavy gold object
which had rolled toward him. Barnard’s eyes dilated, and he shot a
swift look at Janet.

“A ring,” she replied. “A gold signet ring.”

“So it seems.” Duncan examined it with care. “A man’s ring?” raising
gravely questioning eyes to his sister’s.

“And made to fit a girl’s finger.” Janet took it from him, and slipped
it on, “but too large for me.”

“Take it off,” commanded Barnard in her ear as the library door opened,
but she shook her head violently and turned to the newcomer.

“Look, Marjorie,” she called audaciously, displaying the ring on her
finger. “Treasure trove.”

Recognizing the familiar ring, Marjorie’s heart lost a beat, then raced
onward, as she said clearly:

“To have and to hold, Janet,” and Barnard’s eyes shifted before the
scorn in hers.




CHAPTER VIII

THE ONLY WOMAN


“ALMOST the amount,” mused Marjorie folding the letter and placing
it carefully away in the top drawer of her bureau. “The company will
have to take it and wait for the remainder. I can do no more,” and
she turned dejectedly in her chair and surveyed her room, the dainty
furnishings of which left nothing to be desired in point of taste and
comfort. Mrs. Fordyce had given Marjorie the large double room on the
second bedroom floor, and adjoining Janet’s, the two girls using the
communicating dressing-room.

The past few days had sorely taxed Marjorie’s composure and endurance.
Besides her worry over money matters, her awakening to Chichester
Barnard’s duplicity had shocked her beyond measure. The disillusion
had been complete. Barnard was but a common fortune hunter; Janet his
quarry, and her paid chaperon only a plaything to amuse his idle hours.
Marjorie burned with shame and indignation at his daring to hold her so
cheaply. What had she done that he should have so poor an opinion of
her intelligence and integrity as to believe she should tamely submit
to being made a cat’s-paw? The thought scorched her like a white-hot
iron. She saw Barnard with new eyes; he was undeniably handsome,
entirely selfish, plausible--ah, too plausible; it had been his charm
of manner and fascinating personality which had held her captive for so
long, and quieted her haunting doubts of his sincerity.

She felt it to be her duty to warn Mrs. Fordyce of Barnard’s true
character, but hesitated, fearing her motive might be misconstrued.
Janet would undoubtedly declare her interference sprang from jealousy.
It was obvious that the young girl was flattered by Barnard’s
attention, and Marjorie reasoned that opposition would but fan her
liking into an impetuous espousing of his cause, and that might lead
to the very thing Marjorie most heartily wished avoided. During
wakeful nights she decided to temporize; to quietly undermine whatever
influence Barnard had gained over Janet’s impressionable nature, and to
see that his friendly footing in the household was discontinued. But it
was uphill work, for Barnard had ingratiated himself with every member
of the family, except Duncan, and Marjorie had sought her room after
luncheon thoroughly discouraged. A tap at the door disturbed her, and
on opening it, she found Mrs. Fordyce’s maid standing in the hall.

“Mrs. Fordyce would like to have you stop in her boudoir, Miss
Marjorie, before you go out,” she said respectfully.

“Tell Mrs. Fordyce I will come at once, Blanche,” and pausing long
enough to get her coat and furs, she ran down to the first bedroom
floor and entered the boudoir. With a word of apology, she passed
Calderon Fordyce, and sat down on the lounge by his wife.

“Father’s on the rampage,” announced Janet, uncurling herself in the
depths of a large chair. “He pretends to be awfully shocked at the
Calhoun-Cooper dinner last night.”

“There’s no pretense about it,” fumed Fordyce. “Why I was invited is
beyond me....”

“I suppose they thought they couldn’t ask me without you,” broke in
Janet. “Duncan hasn’t been decently civil to Joe, and Marjorie wasn’t
invited either.”

“If you had followed Marjorie’s advice you would not have accepted the
invitation, Calderon,” said Mrs. Fordyce mildly. “Were the Coopers so
very _outré_?”

“Oh, the Coopers themselves weren’t bad,” admitted Fordyce.

“You seemed to get on beautifully with Pauline during dinner,”
protested Janet.

“How was she dressed?” asked Mrs. Fordyce, whose busy mind was taken up
with replenishing Janet’s wardrobe.

“I don’t know, I didn’t glance under the table,” growled Fordyce.

“I hear Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper and Pauline are called ‘High-Lo,’” added
Janet, winking mischievously at Marjorie.

“And who is ‘Jack in the game’?” demanded Fordyce.

“Her latest admirer,” retorted his daughter, flippantly.

“What roused your ire at the dinner?” demanded Mrs. Fordyce, bestowing
a frown on Janet.

“Janet’s contemporaries made up the guests, Judge and Mrs. Walbridge
and I being thrown in for good measure,” smiled Fordyce. “Left more or
less to myself I watched the arrival of the young people, and I give
you my word, Flora, the main endeavor of each guest appeared to be how
to enter the drawing-room without greeting their host and hostess--and
most of them succeeded in their purpose. I have seen better manners in
a lumber camp.”

“What would the older generation do if they didn’t have us to
criticize?” asked Janet, raising her hands in mock horror.

“Let me tell you, young lady, if I catch you forgetting the manners
your mother taught you, I’ll pack you off to a convent,” warned Fordyce.

“You needn’t get so awfully excited,” objected his daughter, looking a
trifle subdued. “I’m sure some of the married people are just as rude.”

“The more shame to them; they are old enough to know better,” declared
Fordyce. “Life is too short to bother with ill-bred and stupid people.
I came to Washington to avoid them.”

“Pray, who sent you here?” inquired Marjorie.

“I thought a friend,” Fordyce’s eyes twinkled. “Now I’ve mingled
in Capital society, I’m beginning to believe that my friend had a
perverted sense of humor.”

“You are too harsh in your judgment, Calderon,” put in Mrs. Fordyce.
“Rudeness we have with us everywhere, whereas in Washington, while
there are numerous _nouveaux riches_ seeking social recognition,
who think lack of manners shows _savoir faire_, there are also many
distinguished men and women spending the winter here. In addition the
resident circle is certainly most charming and cultivated. The people
who strive for vulgar ostentatious display are grafted from other
cities.”

“I have no desire to be put in that class,” remarked Fordyce. “So,
Janet, mind your p’s and q’s.”

Janet rose abruptly. “’Nuff said, Daddy. Are you going downtown,
Marjorie?”

“Yes. Did you wish to see me, Mrs. Fordyce?”

“I will be greatly obliged if you will stop at Galt’s, Marjorie, and
order the articles I had put aside yesterday, sent to me; then please
stop at Small’s....”

“I think I’ll go with you,” volunteered Janet.

“Hurry then,” Fordyce darted an impatient look at the mantel clock.
“Two thirty-five. I’ll send you both down in the motor, and you can
stop at the bank, Janet, and draw a check for me. I’ll go and make it
out; come to the library before you go,” and he left the room, followed
by Janet.

“Are you happy here, Marjorie?” asked Mrs. Fordyce, turning directly to
the girl.

“What a question, dear Mrs. Fordyce! You have done everything for my
comfort,” and Marjorie looked gratefully at the older woman. “I have
seldom met with such consideration and kindness. You--you are not
dissatisfied with me?” in quick alarm.

“No, indeed.” Mrs. Fordyce’s tone was flattering in its sincerity, and
Marjorie’s fears were allayed. “I can’t get on without you; in fact, I
am afraid I’m putting too much upon you. You are so dependable I forget
your youth.”

Marjorie’s laugh was followed by an unconscious sigh. “Youth with me
is a thing of the past; I rival Methuselah,” she said lightly. “Don’t
worry about me, dear Mrs. Fordyce; I can never do enough to repay your
kindness. My work here is most congenial.”

“Come along, Marjorie,” called Janet from the hall.

“Go, my dear,” Mrs. Fordyce impulsively kissed Marjorie. “Don’t keep my
husband waiting; he’ll never forgive you.”

Mrs. Fordyce had been by herself but a scant ten minutes when the hall
door again opened and Duncan walked in.

“Where’s everybody?” he demanded, seating himself by her.

“Your father had an engagement at the Riding and Hunt Club.” She
inspected the clock. “He should be there now.”

“And what are the others doing?”

“Janet and Marjorie? Oh, they are out shopping for Christmas.”

“I wish I’d known it, I’d have gone with them,” and he beat an
impatient tattoo on the back of the lounge.

“I am afraid you find Washington very dull,” said Mrs. Fordyce
regretfully. “But I am selfish enough to wish to keep you here. Stay as
long as you can, dear.”

“Of course I’m going to stay,” heartily, catching the wistful appeal
in her eyes. “I’ve given up returning to the West until February and
you’ll have me on your hands until then.”

“That’s dear of you, Duncan,” she leaned over and stroked his hand. “My
bonnie big boy,” and there was infinite pride in her tone. “You have
no idea of my joy in having your father, Janet, and you under one roof
again. This will be a blessed Christmas to me.”

She sat silent as memories of lonely years in their San Francisco home
rose before her. Originally from Boston, she had married Calderon
Fordyce in New York, and had accompanied him to the Pacific coast where
he had eventually built up an immense importing trade. His business had
taken him frequently to the Orient, and Mrs. Fordyce after her railroad
accident had perforce remained in San Francisco. She had not minded
her husband’s absences so much while her children were young, but when
Duncan departed to college, and later Janet to boarding school, her
loneliness and physical condition had preyed so much on her mind that
her husband had become alarmed. On consulting their physician, Calderon
Fordyce had been advised to see that his wife had more distractions,
and placing his business affairs in competent hands, he and Mrs.
Fordyce had spent the past few years traveling in Europe, and while
there she had formed the plan to introduce Janet to Washington society
on her reaching her eighteenth year.

“I am particularly glad for Janet’s sake that you are here, Duncan,”
she said presently. “It is nice for her to have a big elder brother at
dances and dinners.”

“Miss Langdon takes such excellent care of Janet that my services as
cavalier are not required,” replied Duncan lazily. “Janet is pretty
enough to have plenty of partners, and Miss Langdon sees that she meets
men.”

“I think I was very lucky to secure Marjorie,” and Mrs. Fordyce nodded
her head complacently.

“I think you were,” agreed Duncan, idly turning the leaves of a
magazine. “I’m afraid Janet is tiring her out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Too many late parties,” tersely. “Miss Langdon is fagged out.”

“She doesn’t look strong,” admitted Mrs. Fordyce thoughtfully. “But I
think her pale cheeks and distrait manner are induced by a love affair.”

“Eh!” Duncan turned toward his mother with unusual sharpness. “Who’s
the man?” The question seemed almost forced from him.

“Chichester Barnard.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense,” replied Mrs. Fordyce, somewhat nettled by his
manner. “I have watched them very closely when they are together, and
I am sure I am right.” Duncan rose abruptly and walked over to the
window. “Mr. Barnard and Marjorie are both so good looking that they
would make an ideal couple.”

“Ideal?” Duncan’s laugh was mirthless. “You are an idealist, mother.”

“Better that than an image breaker,” retorted Mrs. Fordyce. “Now, run
along, dear, I must take my usual afternoon nap.”

“All right, mother, I’ll be down in the billiard-room if you should
want me.”

Duncan spent an unsatisfactory hour knocking the balls around,
then took refuge in the library. Selecting a novel he made himself
comfortable before the open fire, and commenced reading. But his
attention wandered from the printed page; before him constantly was
Marjorie Langdon’s face. Surely he had not found his ideal but to lose
her? He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the fireplace,
and his mouth set grimly. What chance had his plain features and
taciturn manner against Barnard’s handsome face and gay debonair
personality? He had inherited his looks and his temperament from some
dour Scotch ancestor. It would take a miracle to make him a parlor
knight. His book fell with a thud to the floor, and as he stooped to
pick it up, the door opened and Marjorie walked in.

“Can I see your father?” she asked.

“I am sorry, he is not in,” Duncan sprang up and pushed forward a
chair. “Won’t I serve the purpose?”

“Oh, yes.” She stepped forward and removed a small roll of bank notes
from her muff. “Janet cashed one hundred and fifty dollars for your
father, and asked me to give it to him. Will you see that the money
reaches him?” placing the bank notes on the library table. “I’m afraid
I can’t sit down, Mr. Fordyce; your sister is waiting for me.”

“Let her wait,” calmly. “It’s beastly cold outside; I am sure the fire
will be a comfort. Sit down for a moment.”

“I mustn’t,” Marjorie’s color, made brilliant by the wind outside,
deepened to a warmer tint as she caught his eyes. “Janet and Baron von
Valkenberg are waiting in the motor for me; we are going down to the
Basin to skate. The river is frozen over, you know. Good-bye,” and she
vanished through the doorway.

“D--mn! they might have asked me to go along!” Duncan threw a fresh log
on the fire as a slight vent to his feelings, then strolled over to the
window opening on Sheridan Circle. He was just in time to see Marjorie
assisted into the waiting motor by Chichester Barnard.

Duncan drew back, stung to the quick, and making his way to the table,
dropped into his father’s revolving chair. For a time he sat blindly
scratching marks on a pad, then threw down his pencil in disgust.

“The only woman!” he muttered, and his clenched hands parted slowly. As
he rose to leave the room his eyes fell on a small pile of bank notes
lying on the floor where he had knocked them some minutes before. He
gathered them up, and paused idly to count the bills.... “Nine tens,
ten tens, one hundred; one ten----” his hand remained suspended in the
air; surely Marjorie had mentioned one hundred and fifty dollars? Where
was the odd forty? He went slowly over the bills again, with the same
result--one hundred and ten dollars.

With infinite pains Duncan searched the table and then the floor.
Leaving the library he went carefully down the hall and staircase, and
from there to the front door and down to the street. Finding no trace
of any bank notes, he retraced his steps to the house, but instead of
mounting the stairs he went up in the lift, first carefully examining
its interior. On reaching the drawing-room floor he returned to the
library and sat for some time contemplating the fire. The tinkle of the
telephone bell aroused him, and he hastened to remove the receiver.

“Yes, this is Duncan Fordyce,” he called. “Yes, Janet, what is it?”

“I can’t rent a pair of skates here that will fit me,” came Janet’s
answer. “Please have Blanche hunt in my closet and find my own pair,
and send them down to me by messenger at once, Duncan.”

“I’ll attend to it,” he promised. “Wait, Janet. Did you draw out some
money for father?”

“Yes, a hundred and fifty dollars. Marjorie said she gave it to you.
What did you say, Duncan?”

“Nothing. I’ll send the skates. Good-bye,” and he banged up the
receiver. But it was some minutes before he moved, and when he rose
there were lines about his mouth which had not been there before. He
pushed the electric bell, and on Perkins’ entrance, gave him full
instructions regarding the skates. As the butler left the room,
Calderon Fordyce appeared.

“All alone, Duncan?” he asked. “Where’s Janet?”

“Down skating on the Potomac.”

“Deuce take the girl! What does she mean by gadding about? I told her
to return here at once with my money. I promised to advance Perkins’
wages, and----”

“Janet left it with me,” Duncan stepped forward and handed his father
the roll of bills. “Here it is.”

“Thanks, Duncan,” Fordyce took out his leather wallet and stuffed the
bank notes inside it.

“Hold on,” cautioned Duncan. “Hadn’t you better count your money?”

Fordyce eyed his son in astonishment. “What are you driving at?” he
demanded brusquely. “I’m not in the habit of questioning anything you
and Janet give me.”

“Some of that money is missing,” stated Duncan.

“What?” Fordyce’s smile vanished, and his eyes darkened.

“I borrowed forty dollars,” added Duncan tranquilly. “Here’s my check
for the amount,” taking it up from the table. “I needed the ready
money, so”--smiling whimsically, “helped myself.”




CHAPTER IX

GAY DECEIVERS


MRS. CALHOUN-COOPER contemplated her daughter with distinct admiration,
albeit mixed with some alarm.

“My dear Pauline,” she said, lowering her lorgnette. “I have seldom
seen you look so well, but--eh--don’t you think your gown is a trifle
too--too pronounced?”

“Of course it isn’t.” Pauline revolved slowly, the better to show the
expensive Paquin model which she was wearing. “Nothing is extreme these
days; I mean everything is extreme.”

“Hello, why the beauty show?” demanded Joe from the doorway of the
library.

“Joseph! You are not in evening clothes!” wailed his mother. “And
Pauline is waiting for you to take her to the Walbridge dance.”

“I forgot the beastly thing,” grumbled Joe, sauntering over to a chair.
“I’ve been so busy today.”

“Same old business, Joe?” questioned Pauline significantly, scanning
his rumpled appearance with no kindly eye. “Really, father will be
deeply interested to hear you are so engrossed in the pursuit of
pleasure.”

“Cut it out,” admonished her brother roughly. “I’ve stood all I’m going
to from you.”

“Stop this bickering, instantly,” commanded Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper.
“And you, Joseph, go upstairs at once and change your clothes. If
you don’t,” meeting the mutinous glare with which he favored her, “I
shall telephone at once to the Capitol and report your conduct to your
father. You know what _that_ means,” with marked emphasis.

Joe knew only too well. Spoiled and indulged by a silly mother, bullied
by Pauline, the only person he held in wholesome awe was his father.
Some of his indiscretions had been exploited in the newspapers, and
before coming to Washington, his father had lain down a cast-iron rule
for him to follow in the future. Joe moved uneasily in his chair.

“There’s no occasion for you and Pauline to get excited,” he protested.
“It won’t take me ten minutes to shift into my dress suit.”

“Take time enough to make yourself presentable,” cautioned Pauline.
“I’m particular as to the appearance of my escorts.”

“One wouldn’t guess it, judging from the men you have hanging around,”
sneered Joe, wrath overcoming discretion.

“That will do,” Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper stamped her foot. “Joseph, go at
once to your room; the car is already waiting for you and Pauline.”

Muttering uncomplimentary remarks under his breath, Joe started for the
door. Passing his father’s desk his eyes fell on a pile of apparently
unopened letters awaiting Representative Calhoun-Cooper’s return
from the Capitol where he had been detained since noon. Recognizing
the handwriting on the topmost envelope, Joe’s flushed face paled,
and a slight shiver ran down his back. Pauline, intent on arranging
a corsage bouquet, paid no further attention to her brother, and
Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper was equally absorbed in watching her. Joe paused
a moment in indecision; then leaned over and palmed the letter with
neatness and dispatch.

Judge and Mrs. Erastus Walbridge’s handsome residence was _en fête_
when Pauline and Joe finally put in an appearance. The spacious rooms
and hallways, festooned with Southern smilax in which were twined
tiny iridescent electric lights, and hung with holly, mistletoe, and
poinsettia, resembled fairyland. Mrs. Walbridge’s Christmas Eve dances
had become a time-honored institution, and invitations to them were
eagerly sought. She insisted that her guests should arrive at half-past
nine and depart at two o’clock; such early dancing hours being kept at
no other house in the National Capital. As she always provided the best
of music and the most delicious of suppers, society invariably abided
by her rulings, although sometimes enjoying a hearty laugh behind her
back.

Pauline did not linger in the dressing-room. Taking her cloak check,
she hastened into the ballroom followed by Joe, who presented a
remarkably immaculate appearance considering the short time consumed
in changing his clothes. Mrs. Walbridge, conscious that the hour was
getting late, received them with some stiffness, but Pauline’s profuse
apologies for their tardy arrival caused her to unbend.

“I think you already know Baron von Valkenberg,” she said, as the
diplomat joined them, and in a second more Pauline was dancing with him.

Joe, left to himself, for Mrs. Walbridge’s attention was instantly
claimed by an older guest, saw Marjorie Langdon standing talking to
several friends and crossed the room to speak to her. He did not share
his family’s antipathy for Marjorie. It took him several moments to
dodge the dancers as he progressed across the floor, and just as he
reached Marjorie’s side Chichester Barnard came up.

“No you don’t, Barnard,” he exclaimed. “First come, first served. My
dance, Miss Langdon?”

“I beg your pardon, I have a prior claim,” protested Barnard.

“Quite wrong,” smiled Marjorie. “I am promised to nobody for this
dance.”

“Then I’m Johnny on the spot,” chimed in Joe, triumphantly. “Come,” and
placing his arm about Marjorie’s waist, the two danced down the room.

Refusing to meet the eyes of several wallflowers who were looking
hopefully in his direction, Barnard idly watched the gay throng, as the
waxed floor swayed under the tread of flying feet.

“The popular Mr. Barnard not dancing!” exclaimed a voice over his
shoulder, and turning he found Pauline standing at his elbow.

“I was looking for you,” he answered readily, “but I thought I saw you
with von Valkenberg....”

“He was sent for to go to the telephone,” she pouted prettily, “and had
to excuse himself.”

“Let me take his place,” and clasping her hand they joined the dancers.
When the music stopped Barnard secured a glass of punch for his partner
and himself, and they strolled about, at last going into what Mrs.
Walbridge called her “tea-room.”

“Isn’t that Joe and Miss Langdon sitting over there?” questioned
Pauline, indicating a deep window recess partly screened from the
general view by tall palms.

“Yes.”

“Suppose we join them,” paying no attention to the shortness of his
tone. “Joe is so susceptible to pretty women, and Miss Langdon is more
than pretty. How does she get on with Mrs. Fordyce?”

“Very well, I believe.”

“Then she must have a remarkable disposition, for I am told that Mrs.
Fordyce’s peculiarities make her difficult to live with,” responded
Pauline. “A friend of mother’s acted as her companion in San Francisco
while Janet was at boarding-school, and she said Mrs. Fordyce’s
curious....” she broke off abruptly. “Good evening, Miss Langdon,”
sweetly. “I am afraid I shall have to carry off my brother,” slipping
her arm inside his as he rose at her approach. Joe’s face darkened, and
he raged inwardly. It was like Pauline to spoil his fun and make him
appear ridiculous.

“Be satisfied with Mr. Barnard, sister mine,” he said coolly. “I am
having a very good time where I am.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Pauline’s voice was venomous under its honey
sweetness. “But do think of poor Miss Langdon! There are two débutantes
anxious to meet you, dear, so come; Miss Langdon will excuse us.”

“Oh, certainly,” Marjorie allowed a faint hint of her secret amusement
to creep into her charmingly modulated voice. “I quite understand.
Shall I keep a dance for you later, Mr. Cooper?” purposely omitting the
“Calhoun.”

“Well, rather; two at the very least,” pleaded Joe. “Do, Miss Langdon,
I’ll be right back.”

“Coming, Mr. Barnard?” inquired Pauline, then bit her lip as he shook
his head.

“I have the next dance with Miss Langdon, so of course----” a courteous
bow completed his sentence, and Pauline turned abruptly on her heel and
left them.

“A curious pair,” commented Barnard. “Cooper appears completely under
his sister’s thumb.”

“She has the stronger personality.”

“You put it politely,” laughed Barnard. “Miss Calhoun-Cooper is a
handsome vixen.”

“A type you do not admire.”

“I admire no type,” smoothly. “Only one girl.”

“Janet will be complimented.”

“I was not referring to Miss Janet....”

“Actions speak louder than words.”

“Not when the wrong construction is put on them.”

“Must we go over that again?” asked Marjorie wearily.

“Yes,” vehemently. “On my word of honor I never gave that ring to
Janet.”

“What a liar you are, Chichester.”

Barnard’s hand closed over her wrist in a grip that made her wince. “By
heaven! you must take that back.”

For reply she shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. Her open scorn stung
him. Freeing her wrist, he fumbled in his vest pocket, then drew out
his signet ring and held it before her.

“Are you convinced, O Doubter?” he asked.

Marjorie shot a swift look at him, and then at the gold circlet in his
hand. “How did you get it back?”

“By asking for it.”

“On what grounds?”

“That I lost the ring the night of their first dinner-dance.”

Marjorie’s scornful regard swept him from head to foot.

“Too flimsy,” she commented. “I have been fooled by you once too often.”

Between rage and passion Barnard’s habitual self-control forsook him.
Catching her hand he forcibly closed her fingers over the ring.

“It’s yours, yours--do you hear!”

“No, no,” she retreated several steps from him, and he followed her,
his face alight with passion.

“My own darling!”

But she struck down his encircling arm, and fled back into the
drawing-room.

Pausing to regain her usual tranquil bearing, she discovered she had
stopped beside Duncan Fordyce, and she drew back. During the past
week an indefinable something in Duncan’s manner, an aloofness, and
a lack of the gentle deference he had first accorded her, had been
noticeable. From seeing him frequently, she hardly saw him at all.
She partly turned and studied him attentively. The dimple, almost a
deft, relieved his stubborn chin of some of its aggressiveness, and
while he could never be called handsome, he carried the “hall mark,”
and his fine figure never showed to better advantage than in a dress
suit, the crucial test offered to mankind by modern customs tailors.
Involuntarily she contrasted him with Barnard, and admitted in her own
mind, that the latter, as ingratiating and handsome as he was, suffered
by the comparison. Her woman’s intuition warned her that Duncan was a
man to be trusted, while Barnard....

Tired of watching the dancers, Duncan swung around to leave the
ballroom and almost collided with her.

“You here!” he exclaimed. “And I didn’t know it.” He pulled himself up,
and his manner changed. “You must think me very rude, Miss Marjorie.”

“Oh, no, only absorbed,” lightly, scanning the scene before her.
“There’s Janet dancing with Tom Nichols.”

“As per usual,” Duncan laughed outright. “Where are your eyes, Miss
Chaperon?”

Marjorie reddened. “Upon my word, I look on Tom as a brother--I never
thought....” her voice trailed off, and Duncan waited in vain for her
to finish her sentence.

“Nichols is a good fellow,” he said finally. “I like him. Shall we
dance?”

The invitation was given in so perfunctory a tone that Marjorie’s
ears tingled. She checked the curt refusal on her lips, and instead
accepted with a nonchalance which matched his own. He should pay for
his indifference, pay dearly, she vowed to herself, and her alluring
smile stirred his pulses. Like many big men he was extremely light on
his feet, and Marjorie circled the room with him in complete enjoyment
of the dance. Suddenly her strength deserted her, and she stumbled and
leaned heavily on his arm.

“The heat,” she murmured, as alarmed he bent toward her. “I will be
better in the hall.”

Shielding her from the other dancers, he helped her from the room. The
cooler atmosphere outside revived her somewhat, and she was mumbling
some words of apology into Duncan’s anxious ear when Mrs. Walbridge
hove in sight. Seeing the pair sitting on the stairs, she moved toward
them as rapidly as her avoirdupois permitted. Quickly Duncan explained
the situation to her.

“You poor child,” she said. “Go right upstairs to my bedroom and lie
down. You will find a pitcher of ice water up there, or do you prefer
a glass of champagne?” Marjorie replied in the negative. “Then go
right up, my dear; I’ll be along presently,” and she moved toward the
ballroom.

“Would you like me to go with you?” inquired Duncan anxiously. “Or
shall I ring for a servant?”

“Neither, please. I know the house well, and I’ll be all right after a
short rest. You’ve been very kind,” holding out her hand impulsively.
He held it tightly in both his own for a second, then silently left
her. She watched his tall form out of sight, and sighing started slowly
upstairs.

“Well, Duncan, where have you been hiding?” asked Janet, meeting him on
his return to the ballroom.

“Smoking,” laconically. “Do you want to dance?”

“Of course I do,” with uncompromising honesty. “You haven’t been near
me this evening.”

“I saw you were plentifully supplied with partners,” Duncan suited his
step to Janet’s. “Having a good time?”

“Oh, lovely,” and Janet’s animated face attested the fact. “Where’s
Marjorie?” They had reached the end of the room, and as they made the
turn, a man left the group of stags and placed a detaining hand on
Duncan’s shoulder.

“Brother and sister dancing together,” laughed Barnard. “This will
never do. Split this number with me, Miss Janet?”

“Perhaps I will,” Janet hesitated. “It will serve you right, Duncan;
you’ve neglected me shamefully....” waving a gay farewell she and
Barnard disappeared in the crowd of dancers. Duncan, making his way to
the smoking-room, encountered Pauline, and paused to talk with her.

Barnard, conversing as he danced, finally observed Pauline and Duncan
sitting together. “Your brother had better resign himself to the
inevitable; Miss Calhoun-Cooper has her talons on him,” he laughed.

“You don’t know Duncan,” retorted Janet. “He has a will of his
own.....” An awkward couple cannonaded heavily against her.... “Ouch!”

“Are you hurt?” questioned Barnard in alarm, as Janet came to an abrupt
stop.

“I think that man has lamed me for life,” she groaned. “His heel came
down on my instep.”

“The cow; he needs a ten-acre lot to dance in!” Barnard scowled at the
receding couple. “Hadn’t you better sit down, Janet?”

“Where?” and she glanced despairingly about.

“Come this way,” pointing to the tea-room, and Janet limped after him
to the window recess behind the palms, and settled herself comfortably
on the wide cushioned window-seat. “You must be very tired, my
dearest,” glancing solicitously at her. “The penalty for being the
belle of the ball.”

“You shouldn’t thrust honors upon me,” she laughed.

“There’s nothing too good for you,” he whispered. “No wonder men adore
you; you little darling”--she moved uneasily as his arm slipped around
her waist. “Why won’t you let me speak to your father?”

“Not yet,” she stammered. “A little more time, Chichester----”

Barnard did not conceal his chagrin and disappointment. “So that
you may receive attentions from other men?” he asked, his jealousy
instantly aflame.

“You wrong me,” Janet drew herself away with gentle dignity. “You,
least of all, have no cause for jealousy. Only, Chichester, I must know
my own mind before our engagement is announced.”

“Have it your own way; I am wax in your hands,” he said fondly.

“Hark! there goes the music,” Janet studied her dance card. “It must be
an extra.”

“Good, we’ll sit it out together,” and he took her hand.

“To think tomorrow is Christmas,” said Janet dreamily, a few minutes
later. “Or is it midnight now?” Barnard pulled out his watch, and her
attention was focused on the handsome seal that hung from the gold fob.
“Let me see it, Chichester?”

He seemed not to hear her request. “Only eleven!” he exclaimed. “It
must be later. I believe my watch has stopped. Can you hear any
ticking?” raising it to her ear.

[Illustration: “She was about to call her by name, when Janet quietly
took up a diamond sunburst.”]

Upstairs in Mrs. Walbridge’s sumptuously furnished bedroom Marjorie
rested on the lounge in an alcove. Only one electric light over
the dressing-table was turned on, and the semi-darkness of the large
room proved a welcome refuge from the glare and heat downstairs, and
the deadly faintness which had almost overcome Marjorie, gradually
disappeared. An occasional shiver shook her, and she groped about and
pulled up the eiderdown quilt which lay folded at the foot of the
lounge. Through the half-shut door strains of music came faintly,
preventing her from dozing off, and she turned restlessly on her
pillow. Suddenly conscious that her left hand was tightly clenched,
she loosened her cramped fingers, and discovered that she still held
Barnard’s signet ring concealed in her rumpled handkerchief.

At that moment the hall door was pushed gently open, and a young girl
came into the room. Without glancing into the shadows about her, she
moved directly to the dressing-table and stood arranging her hair. As
she halted under the full rays of the light, Marjorie recognized Janet.
She was about to call her by name, when Janet quietly took up a diamond
sunburst from the jewel-box on the dressing-table, and deliberately
pinned it under the folds of lace on her bodice, then glided from the
room as noiselessly as she had entered.

Petrified with astonishment Marjorie, hardly able to believe the
evidence of her senses, remained on the lounge for one long minute;
then collecting her wits, she flung the eiderdown quilt to the floor,
slipped Barnard’s ring inside her bodice, and stole from the room. She
found Janet standing on the outskirts of the large circle of guests
surrounding a Santa Claus, who was distributing gifts from his sack and
a beautifully decorated tree which had been carried into the center of
the ballroom.

“See, Marjorie,” exclaimed Janet, turning at her touch. “Doesn’t the
little man make an adorable Santa?”

“Who is he?” Marjorie wedged herself a little closer to Janet’s side.

“I don’t know; some professional probably. What’s he giving to Captain
Nichols?” peering intently down the room.

Quickly Marjorie seized her opportunity. Her fingers deftly felt among
the laces on Janet’s gown, unfastened the sunburst, and, concealing the
diamond pin in her handkerchief, she fled swiftly upstairs again. On
turning the knob of Mrs. Walbridge’s bedroom door she found it locked,
and startled, leaned trembling against the panels. How was she to
replace the sunburst in the jewel-box if she could not gain admission
to the room?

“My pin, please,” said a cold voice from behind her, and wheeling, she
confronted Mrs. Walbridge. Mechanically Marjorie displayed the sunburst.

“How----?” her voice died in her throat.

“I came up to inquire how you were; found my jewel-box standing open,
the sunburst missing, you gone----” Mrs. Walbridge shrugged her
ponderous shoulders. “I locked my door to prevent a recurrence of----”
she broke off on meeting Marjorie’s uncomprehending stare, and her
harsh voice softened. “My affection for your aunt, Madame Yvonett,
seals my lips, but I shall not receive you again--good-night.”

Taking the sunburst from Marjorie’s nerveless hand, she secured it in
her gown and returned to her guests, while slowly her meaning thrust
itself on the bewildered, frightened girl. Marjorie watched Mrs.
Walbridge in dumb agony; then made a hasty step forward as the older
woman reached the head of the staircase. But a thought stayed her: if
she told the truth she would expose Janet.

Mrs. Walbridge had disappeared inside the ballroom when Marjorie,
clinging tightly to the bannisters for support, made her slow way down
the staircase. She paused an instant on the bottom landing. From the
ballroom came a burst of laughter and round after round of applause,
and Santa Claus, his empty sack slung across his shoulders, and his
cheeks redder than ever, bounded into the square hall. Before dashing
out of the front door, which a footman held open, he turned on his gay
pursuers, and raising his voice above the clamor, called:

“‘A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!’”




CHAPTER X

IN THE COLD, GRAY DAWN


CHICHESTER BARNARD slipped off his evening coat and put on his
smoking-jacket, and pausing in front of his chiffonier, gazed hungrily
at a photograph of Marjorie Langdon leaning against his shaving-glass.
The edges were cut evenly, and to the most casual eye it was obvious
that the picture had been taken from a large silver frame from whose
center smiled a speaking likeness of Janet Fordyce. Barnard picked up
Marjorie’s photograph and studied it long and intently, and gradually
the features assumed a life-like outline and the eyes a natural fire,
so completely did her personality vitalize the inanimate photograph
under his rapt attention. With a shudder he dropped it face downward.

“Ah! Madge, my darling,” he murmured sadly. “Janet may occupy the
silver frame, but not my heart. I am tempted, sorely tempted, but
dollars and sense go together.”

Catching up a box of cigarettes, he switched off the electric light,
and entering his sitting-room, made his way to the fireplace where
fresh logs were burning merrily on the hearth. He pulled up a Morris
chair and warmed his hands at the blaze; then settled back and stared
at his surroundings.

Barnard had inherited the Georgetown property on the death of his
aunts, and, not having the means to keep up the fine old mansion, and
finding it impossible to rent as a residence, he had had the building
remodeled and made into an apartment house. He kept one of the bachelor
apartments, comprising sitting-room, bedroom, and bath, for his own
use. The two rooms were large and airy, and the handsome antique
furniture, also an inheritance with the house, did not look amiss in
their familiar setting.

Chichester Barnard was the last of a long line of distinguished
ancestors, and from his earliest youth pride of family had been drilled
into him, and the often repeated refrain, “A Barnard can do no wrong,”
became a fetish with him. He was as familiar with family tradition
as he was ignorant of true democracy, but soon after attaining his
majority he was forced to realize that past glory did not pay grocers’
bills, and that his blue blood was not a useful commodity except in
drawing-rooms. The pricking of his inflated family pride brought in its
train a false value of money. With money what could he not accomplish?
What not buy? And the acquisition of money became his lode-star.

By arduous work and much self-denial Barnard was winning a deserved
reputation in his profession, but his impetuous temperament chafed
at the slowness with which he accumulated money. He was constantly
seeking unscrupulous get-rich-quick schemes and other short cuts to
wealth, but with heart-breaking regularity they came to nothing. He had
met Marjorie Langdon two years before and had fallen madly in love with
her, had persuaded her to engage herself to him, and with a caution
which he inwardly despised, had made her promise not to tell Madame
Yvonett of their mutual attachment. He felt that if the engagement was
once announced he would be irrevocably bound to marry her; he longed
to marry her, but--he would not wed her while he was a poor man. He
despised poverty as before he had despised low birth.

Exaggerated reports of Janet Fordyce’s reputed wealth, which she was
to inherit on coming of age, reached Barnard and aroused his cupidity.
In the past his affection for Marjorie had barred that all too
frequently traveled road to “Easy Street,” a marriage for money; but
he met Janet at a time when his finances were low, and the idea was
not so distasteful as formerly; particularly when the girl, beside her
wealth, had charm, youth, and a lovable disposition. But Barnard, like
many another man, was tempted to play with fire. The more inevitable
appeared his break with Marjorie, the more passionately he loved her,
and only the lure of wealth kept him steadfast in his purpose.

Barnard was trying to pierce the future as he sat in his sitting-room,
the cold, gray dawn creeping through the window blinds, and he smoked
innumerable cigarettes with nervous rapidity. His roving eyes
restlessly examining each familiar piece of furniture, finally lighted
on the huge antique sofa near by. Instead of having legs, the base
of the sofa was a carved sphinx, a sadly battered sphinx, whose two
breasts had been cut off because Barnard’s spinster aunts had deemed
them immodest!

Just as Barnard lighted another cigarette, a man, lying on the sofa,
rolled over and viewed him in stupid wonder.

“Feeling better, Cooper?” inquired Barnard politely.

“How’d I get here?” asked Joe, ignoring the other’s question. “And
where am I, anyhow?”

“These are my diggings, and I brought you over here because you were so
hopelessly pickled I judged your sister had better be spared a glimpse
of you.”

Slowly memory of the night returned to Joe’s befuddled brain, and he
sat bolt upright.

“Washington isn’t so slow,” he volunteered, after due reflection.

“There are plenty of people to help you go to the devil, here as
elsewhere,” retorted Barnard. “Better pull up, Cooper, it doesn’t pay.”

“Nothing pays,” Joe growled disconsolately. “D--mn it, man, I don’t
want to listen to a temperance lecture,” and he rose a trifle
unsteadily.

“Sit down, Cooper,” Barnard scanned him contemptuously, and Joe sulkily
resumed his seat. “I’ve said my say.”

“Lot’s of snobs here,” commented Joe, after nursing his grievances
in silence for some time. “Take Duncan Fordyce, for instance; turned
me down this evening when I asked to be introduced to a girl he was
dancing with. I’ll get even with him, never fear.”

Barnard ran an appraising eye over his companion, and a mental picture
of Duncan brought a smile to his lips. “Don’t try any hanky-panky
business with Fordyce,” he advised. “He might knock you into the other
world.”

“I’m not such a fool as to try physical force; but there are other ways
of getting even,” Joe frowned, then winked. “I know a thing or two
about the Fordyce family.”

Barnard blew ring after ring of smoke into the air and watched it
evaporate with idle attention.

“Go carefully, Cooper,” he cautioned. “Damages for slander are heavy.”

“It’s no slander, but gospel truth,” affirmed Joe. “I had it straight
from mother’s friend, Mrs. Watson, who was companion to Mrs. Fordyce
before they went abroad, and I know it’s true by the way Duncan Fordyce
acted when he heard me allude to the kink in his family,” and in a few
words he described the scene in the Turkish Bath.

“That explains Fordyce’s lack of cordiality at Captain Nichol’s
quarters after the drill,” commented Barnard. “If I were you, Cooper,
I’d steer clear of arousing his wrath.”

“He can’t injure me,” Joe swaggered with the courage induced by
overindulgence. “And you’ve been mighty white this evening; it’s only
right I should tip you off.”

“Keep your confidences to yourself,” Barnard rose and kicked the fire
into a brighter blaze. “The matter does not concern me.”

“Doesn’t it, eh? Well, if I was planning to marry a girl, an’ I heard
her family were dotty----” he stopped and shrank back as Barnard swung
on him.

“What do you mean by your damnable insinuation?” he demanded, his eyes
flashing with indignation.

“’Tisn’t a ’sinuation; it’s--it’s gospel truth I’m telling you,”
stuttered Joe, retreating to the farther end of the sofa. “Take your
hand off my collar. Anybody in San Francisco’ll tell you the Fordyces
are all crazy.”

“You’ve said too much, and too little,” Barnard slowly returned to
his chair. “Go ahead and make good your statement, if you can,”
significantly. “And I warn you if I catch you lying, I won’t leave it
to Duncan Fordyce to finish you off.”

“Nice way to talk to a friend who wants to do you a good turn,” whined
Joe. “You can prove what I say by writing to Mrs. Watson at Santa
Barbara. She says whenever any member of the Fordyce family dies
the physicians have to cauterize them--what do you make of that?”
triumphantly.

“Only a precautionary measure to test death,” said Barnard calmly. “I
suppose the Fordyces have a dread of being buried alive.”

“That applies to their mental condition----” Barnard shook his head
in utter disbelief, and Joe continued heatedly. “I tell you they are
unbalanced; why the old lady, Mrs. Fordyce----”

“Is a hunchback, yes,” admitted Barnard. “She was injured in a railroad
accident--that has nothing to do with mental trouble.”

“I’ve been told that injury to the spine does often affect the brain,”
Joe stuck obstinately to his contention. “Anyway Mrs. Fordyce developed
a mighty funny craze about dirt.”

“Dirt?” Barnard’s attention was fully aroused. “Do you mean she has
mysophobia?”

“Maybe that’s the word; what does it mean exactly?”

“Mysophobia? A morbid fear of contamination--of soiling one’s hands by
touching anything....”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Joe. “Mrs. Fordyce has a bad case of it. Mrs.
Watson said she insisted on washing her plates, knives, and forks
before eating; and she gave up traveling because of the dirt and dust
which nearly drove her mad, and just shut herself up.”

“Poor soul!” ejaculated Barnard compassionately. “She must be in
perpetual torment.”

“She’s tormented other people as well,” said Joe. “She grew so that
she wouldn’t touch money; and once she gave away a soiled dollar bill
to a beggar to get rid of it, then nearly had brain fever because she
imagined she had passed on some disease to innocent people. I believe
Calderon Fordyce spent a hundred just to trace that one dollar bill to
have it returned to the United States Treasury and redeemed, before
his wife got over the worrying about her sinfulness in passing along
dirty money. I wish she’d get rid of some of it in my direction.”

“Dirt to dirt,” Barnard’s sneering tone was lost on Joe, who was busy
searching his empty pockets. “There is nothing discreditable to the
Fordyces in what you have told me, Cooper; quite to the contrary. And
while Mrs. Fordyce suffers from a curious mania, possibly superinduced
by her accident, she is not mentally unbalanced, and most certainly her
condition will not be inherited by her children. Janet told me she and
Duncan were born before the accident.”

“They may not inherit that particular craze,” acknowledged Joe. “But
I tell you, man, there is insanity in the family. There is some story
about Janet; I don’t know exactly what it is, but Pauline can tell you.
She heard it from a schoolmate of Janet’s----”

“And she heard it from someone else, and so on, and so on--bosh! utter
bosh!” Barnard brought down his clenched fist on the table with a force
that made the glasses ring. “If I hear you repeating this rot I’ll make
Washington too hot to hold you,” and cowed by his blazing wrath, Joe
mumbled a hasty promise.

       *       *       *       *       *

Across Rock Creek the city lights were paling, and the cold gray dawn
found Marjorie still crouching before the dying embers of a grate
fire, where she had thrown herself on entering her bedroom some hours
before. Slowly, very slowly her numbed senses grasped the significance
of the occurrences of the night. Janet Fordyce was a kleptomaniac, and
she, Marjorie Langdon, was branded a thief--caught with the goods! She
shuddered in horror, and rubbed one cold hand over the other. Surely
her God was a just God? Why was she picked out to be the victim of
circumstance? First, Admiral Lawrence had believed her guilty of theft,
and now Mrs. Walbridge had practically ordered her from her house as a
thief. Of the theft of the codicil she could give no explanation, but
she could at least clear herself of the charge of stealing the diamond
sunburst by denouncing Janet.

Ah, but could she? Her dazed wits invariably returned to that point in
her reasoning; was she not in honor bound to shield Janet? Mrs. Fordyce
had taken her word in the face of her discharge from Admiral Lawrence’s
employ. Since being with Janet she had met with every courtesy and
kindness, and Mrs. Fordyce had gone out of her way to make her feel at
home. No, a thousand times no, she could never betray Janet.

Her decision reached, a feeling of relief swept over her, to be checked
the next moment by the realization that even if she did denounce Janet
she would not be believed. She was poor, she needed money, she had the
opportunity, and she stole; so would read the verdict. Janet had but to
ask, and a dozen diamond sunbursts, if need be, would be purchased to
gratify her whim. She did not need to steal.

Marjorie rose slowly to her feet and stretched her stiff muscles,
switched on the light, and then commenced to undress, but she gave
little thought to what she was doing, her entire attention being taken
up in trying to recall what she knew of kleptomania. She remembered
being told that it was a mental derangement, an irresistible propensity
to steal, and that the kleptomaniac cared nothing for the objects
stolen as soon as the impulse to steal was gratified. Her father had
once told her of a friend who would eat no food that was not stolen,
and his servants (fortunately he was wealthy) had to secrete food
about the house and permit him to steal it before he would satisfy his
hunger. She had also read somewhere of a kleptomaniac so obsessed by
his craze that he stole the crucifix from his confessor.

Merry, charming Janet to be the victim of such mental disorder!
Marjorie wrung her hands in agony. Was there no way to help the child?
If the news ever leaked out it would kill her delicate mother.

Marjorie, pleading her indisposition, had left Janet at the dance under
Duncan’s care, and a sympathetic footman having engaged a cab for her,
she had returned at once to the Fordyce residence. Some hours later
Janet had rapped at her door and asked how she was, and satisfied with
Marjorie’s answer, had gone straight to her room without entering, to
Marjorie’s intense relief; she would have broken down if she had faced
her then.

Marjorie was about to get into bed when she spied a note addressed to
her lying on top of a neat package on her bedstead. Sitting down on the
edge of the bed, she tore open the envelope and listlessly read the
few written lines; then, startled, read them a second and third time.
The note was from her clergyman informing her that the contents of the
accompanying package had been found the Sunday before in the Fordyce
pew, and he thought it best to send them to her that she might return
the property to the rightful owner.

The note slipped unheeded to the floor, and with trembling fingers
she tore open the bundle, and out fell a dozen or more handsome silk
and lace doilies. Not one was alike, and a cry of horror broke from
Marjorie, as, picking them up, she recognized them as belonging to
hostesses with whom she and Janet had recently lunched and dined.




CHAPTER XI

GREAT EXPECTATIONS


  LAWRENCE. On Monday, December 24, Margaret A., beloved wife of Stephen
  Lawrence, Rear Admiral, U. S. N., aged sixty-two years. Funeral
  from her late residence on Wednesday at two o’clock. Interment at
  Arlington. Kindly omit flowers.

Chichester Barnard stared at the printed notice in the death column,
then let the newspaper slip from his fingers to the floor. On looking
up he caught the direct gaze of Duncan Fordyce, who had entered
the smoking-room some time before, and was observing his changing
countenance with some secret astonishment.

“Hello, Fordyce,” Barnard pulled himself together. “Sorry I didn’t see
you before, but this confounded paper gave me a shock.”

“No bad news I hope?” inquired Duncan, placing a stamp on the letter he
took from his pocket.

“Just read the notice of my aunt’s death,” and as Duncan murmured some
conventional condolences, he added, “Aunt Margaret was very decent to
me, but since her second marriage, I’ve seen very little of her. She
was really only my aunt by courtesy; her first husband having been my
uncle, Dimintry Barnard. Admiral Lawrence wasn’t adverse to picking up
a rich widow; I reckon he’ll inherit a pot of money now. How is your
sister today?”

“Rather tired after the Walbridge dance,” Duncan yawned, then laughed.
“Washington hours are too much for me. I don’t see how the men here go
out to entertainments and do their work.”

“They try it for a couple of years, and then give up society, at
least the dancing end of it. Has Miss Langdon recovered from her
indisposition of last night?”

“She was down bright and early this morning,” replied Duncan
indifferently. “She appeared to be all right and in good spirits.”

“That’s fine. By the way, she will be sorry to hear of Mrs. Lawrence’s
death; she was the Admiral’s secretary for several years.”

“Indeed,” Duncan yawned again. “Is Admiral Lawrence still on the active
list?”

“Oh, no, he retired five or six years ago. Where are you going?” as
Duncan rose.

“Haven’t decided; think I’ll stroll around the Speedway.”

“Wait a moment and I’ll go with you,” volunteered Barnard, and Duncan
halted uncertainly. “I must write a line to Admiral Lawrence and ask
if there’s anything I can do; it won’t take me long.” He was as good
as his word, and after dispatching the hastily scrawled note by a
messenger, he and Duncan left the Metropolitan Club and turned down
Seventeenth Street.

It was the first time that Duncan had had more than five minutes
conversation alone with Barnard since their meeting, and he found him a
far more agreeable companion than he had anticipated. Barnard, when he
chose, was a brilliant talker, and his comments on the world in general
and Washington in particular elicited amused chuckles from Duncan as
they strolled along the picturesque driveway which skirts the Potomac
River. But strive as he would, he could not drag Duncan out of his
shell; every time he skillfully led the conversation to the Fordyces
and their plans for the future, Duncan retired into his habitual
reserve. Returning up Eleventh Street, Barnard paused at the corner of
Pennsylvania Avenue.

“You know Madame Yvonett, Miss Langdon’s aunt, do you not?” he asked.

“No, I was not at home when she called on my mother.”

“Then you have missed meeting one of the most charming characters in
this city,” exclaimed Barnard vigorously. “Come with me now and we’ll
stop in and wish the dear old lady merry Christmas.”

But Duncan held back. “I am afraid I....”

“Oh, come along; we need only stay a moment. Your calling will gratify
Madame Yvonett. I overheard her asking Miss Langdon to bring you to see
her.”

Duncan’s indecision vanished. “Very well,” he said, and the two men
continued their walk up the Avenue to Thirteenth Street. They found
the small house gay with Christmas wreaths, and a stiff and starched
Minerva ushered them into Madame Yvonett’s presence. Duncan’s eyes
brightened in keen appreciation as he bowed low before the stately
Quakeress. In fichu and cap, tied with a dainty bow under her chin, and
her soft gray silk, she looked the embodiment of beautiful old age.

“I am pleased to meet thee, Friend Fordyce,” she said, giving him her
hand. “Thy sister, Janet, has spoken of thee most often.”

“I wanted to come before,” Duncan drew up a chair near her, “but a
great deal of my time has been taken up with business.”

“Business!” echoed Barnard, genuinely surprised. “I took you for a
gentleman of elegant leisure, didn’t you, Marjorie?”

“Didn’t I what?” inquired Marjorie, entering from the dining-room where
she had been putting the finishing touches to the tea-table.

“Did you know our friend here,” waving his hand toward Duncan, “is a
hardy son of toil?”

Marjorie laughed. “Janet told me, Mr. Fordyce, that you have
explored....”

“I have ambled about a bit,” admitted Duncan hastily. “But I am not an
explorer, only a lawyer.”

“Indeed? I had no idea of it!” answered Marjorie. “Aunt Yvonett, the
eggnog is ready.”

“Will thee come, friend, and drink a kindly glass with me?” asked the
Quakeress, laying her hand on Duncan’s arm.

“Gladly,” and he led her into the dining-room, and to her high-back
chair. Barnard detained Marjorie as she was about to follow her aunt.

“Have you no word of greeting for me?” he pleaded, lowering his voice.

“Hush!” she cautioned. “Why did you bring Mr. Fordyce here?”

Barnard glanced at her flushed cheeks in some surprise. “We were
walking together, and I suddenly hungered for a sight of you. I then
recollected having heard you say that you were coming here to be with
your aunt this afternoon, so I suggested dropping in.”

“Tell me, Chichester, is that chattel mortgage all arranged?” she asked
in an urgent whisper.

He nodded affirmatively, and her heart bounded with relief. “I’ll
bring you the papers; stay, on second thought you had better come
to the office.” He saw the shadow that crossed her face, and added
reproachfully, “Am I so hateful to you?”

“That’s a debatable question,” she parried, avoiding his glance. By an
effort he checked a bitter retort as she pulled back the portière, and,
his face resuming its customary smiling mask, he followed her into the
dining-room.

They found Madame Yvonett deep in conversation with Duncan.

“Thee sees we have friends in common,” she announced, filling two
glasses with the frothy beverage before her. “Help thyself to the
sandwiches, Friend Barnard.” In spite of Chichester Barnard’s many
attempts to ingratiate himself with the Quakeress, she had never
dropped the formal address with him, although she had known his
relatives for many years. “Where is thy Cousin Rebekah, Marjorie?”

“I ’specs dat’s Miss Becky at de do’ now,” volunteered Minerva,
emerging from the pantry as the bell sounded. “She done said she’d be
back drickly.”

“Ask her to come right in here,” called Madame Yvonett. “Ah, Becky,”
seeing the spinster appear in the doorway. “Thee must be cold, come and
have a glass of eggnog.”

But Miss Rebekah declined the offer with some asperity; she considered
eggnog the “devil’s brew,” and, but that a certain fear of Madame
Yvonett’s displeasure restrained her, would then and there have
delivered a forceful homily on strong drink. She had met Chichester
Barnard on previous visits, and was a staunch admirer of the handsome
lawyer, whose resemblance to her hero, Byron, made a strong appeal to
her latent sentimentality. He greeted her warmly, and after Duncan was
introduced, placed a chair for her next his own.

“Where has thee been, Becky?” asked Madame Yvonett, turning back from
giving directions to Minerva to bring the spinster a cup of weak tea.

“I ran over to ask Admiral Lawrence if there was anything I could do
for him,” explained Miss Rebekah. “Margaret Lawrence was my cousin,
and being her only relative in Washington I thought it was the least I
could do.”

“Was she not related to thee, Friend Barnard?” inquired Madame Yvonett,
turning to him.

“I was only her nephew by marriage, but she was a good friend to me.”
The regret in his voice and manner rang true, even to Marjorie’s
watchful ears. “Mrs. Lawrence was a noble woman, and will be missed by
many.”

“She was very, very good to me,” a lump rose in Marjorie’s throat, and
she hastily cleared her voice. “Did you learn any particulars of her
death, Cousin Becky?”

“Yes, I saw the nurse.” Miss Rebekah was in her element. She enjoyed
nothing so much as the sound of her own voice, and particularly reveled
in funereal topics; she attended her relatives’ obsequies both near and
far, and the more harrowing the circumstances surrounding their deaths,
the more her soul thrilled in morbid enjoyment. “The nurse--what’s her
name, Marjorie?”

“Do you mean Kathryn Allen?”

“Yes, that’s she; such a pretty girl,” she interpolated. “Well, Nurse
Allen told me that Cousin Margaret did not suffer toward the last; in
fact, that during the past six weeks she never regained consciousness.”

“Never regained consciousness,” repeated Barnard slowly. “What a
blessed relief.”

“Yes, wasn’t it,” went on Miss Rebekah, addressing him directly. “I
knew you would understand. Poor Cousin Margaret was in torment until
she became delirious and later lapsed into a comatose condition. I saw
Admiral Lawrence for a few minutes; he inquired particularly for you,
Marjorie, and desired to know where you could be found quickly.”

“Oh!” A faint, very faint inflection of fear in the monosyllable caught
Duncan’s quick ear, and he darted a keen look at Marjorie, but she was
crumbling the end of her sandwich between her fingers, and he learned
nothing from her blank expression.

“I suppose he wanted to get you to answer notes, and attend to things
generally,” continued Miss Rebekah, pouring out a cup of tea from
the pot Minerva set before her. “I told the Admiral where you were,
Marjorie, and how kind Mrs. Fordyce has been to you. I went quite into
details,” she smiled at Duncan. “I even mentioned some of the things
Marjorie told me about you....”

“Cousin Becky,” Marjorie looked as angry as she felt. “You certainly
are an----” catching her aunt’s warning look, she held back the words
“unmitigated nuisance” with which she had intended finishing her
sentence.

“Well, my dear, I went into particulars because it took the Admiral’s
mind away from his sorrow,” continued Miss Rebekah, her air of
self-congratulation upon her tact causing Duncan to smile covertly.
“And he was very interested in hearing all about your good fortune,
Marjorie, and said he was sorry Mrs. Fordyce hadn’t written him to ask
about you----” Marjorie set down her eggnog glass with a thud, she had
drunk the delicious concoction at a gulp, and was grateful for the
warmth which stole through her chilled body.

“How is thy good mother?” asked Madame Yvonett, addressing Duncan.
“I hoped that she would come in this afternoon and help me keep
the Yuletide; thee sees, this is the only day I indulge in such
dissipation,” touching the punch bowl.

“If mother went anywhere, I know she would come to you, Madame
Yvonett; but she insists on being a recluse.” Barnard, conversing with
Miss Rebekah, gave part of his attention to Duncan’s remarks. Joe
Calhoun-Cooper’s confidences were fresh in his memory. “I wish you
could induce mother to see more of her friends.”

“It is not good for any of us to live within ourselves,” acknowledged
the gentle Quakeress. “A little natural diversion fits us for the ills
of life. But thy mother lives so for others, she is never alone.”

“You are right,” answered Duncan heartily. “But of late years I have
been so little with my family, I perhaps notice mother’s withdrawal
more than my father and sister.”

“I wonder what has become of Janet,” chimed in Marjorie, looking with
some uneasiness at Duncan. “She said she would join me here at five
o’clock.”

“I left her reading in the library.” Duncan looked at his watch. “It is
after six.”

“So late!” Barnard rose in some haste. “I am afraid I shall have to
leave as I am dining with friends at Chevy Chase, and I have barely
time to dress and get there. Madame Yvonett, it is always such a
pleasure to see you; I hope you will let me come again soon.”

“Thee is very welcome,” responded Madame Yvonett kindly, and with a
quick word of farewell to the others, Barnard took his departure.

As the front door banged shut, Marjorie lifted her furs and coat from
the chair where she had thrown them. “I really must go,” she said, and
kissing her aunt affectionately, she whispered low, “don’t let Cousin
Becky torment the life out of you.”

“Tut, child, she is one of my diversions,” whispered back Madame
Yvonett placidly. “Never take Becky seriously, nor any other troubles,”
glancing anxiously at the dark circles under Marjorie’s eyes. “God
guard thee in His Holy care,” she murmured, and held Marjorie close,
then pushed her gently from her. “Thee must not tarry. Friend Fordyce,”
as Duncan advanced to bid her good-night, “thy coming has given me much
pleasure....”

“May I come again?”

“Thee may indeed,” with a cordiality that matched his eagerness.
“Give this sprig of mistletoe,” breaking off a piece from the small
branch suspended from the newel post, “to thy mother with the season’s
greetings.”

“Thank you,” Duncan pocketed the tiny sprig with care, and shaking
hands with Miss Rebekah, who hovered in the background, he returned to
Marjorie’s side. “Shall we walk or ride?” he asked, as the door closed
behind them.

“Have we time to walk?”

“Plenty,” and with a strange, shy reluctance Marjorie accompanied
him across Franklin Square and up Fourteenth Street to Massachusetts
Avenue. “Where did you get your seven-league boots?” he asked, breaking
the prolonged silence.

“One has to have them to keep up with you,” she retorted.

“I beg your pardon,” slacking his pace. “I did not realize----” he
again relapsed into silence, and Marjorie’s thoughts flew swiftly to
Janet and the problems which confronted her.

After the discovery of the doilies she had spent the early hours of the
morning trying to devise some plan to assist Janet; at all hazards the
girl must be protected against her curious craze, but how--how? Madame
Yvonett was the only one she could confide in, and she had gone there
early that afternoon hoping to see her aunt alone, but old friends had
called, and the time had passed without giving her an opportunity to
ask her advice. A whisper of kleptomania, and Janet’s fair name would
be bandied from door to door in scandal-loving Washington.

“Have you spent all your life in this city?” asked Duncan, with such
abruptness that Marjorie started perceptibly.

“Yes--no,” she stammered, the question taking her by surprise. “I used
to go every summer to our New England home, but Aunt Yvonett prefers
returning to Philadelphia whenever I--I--have a vacation.” She did not
add that lack of funds had made them all the year residents of the
National Capital, but Duncan guessed the reason underlying her slight
hesitancy. Was there no way to win her confidence?

“How long were you Admiral Lawrence’s secretary?”

“Over two years,” shortly; then a sudden thought struck her. “Do you
know Admiral Lawrence?” and the darkness hid her loss of color.

“I met him when he was with the Pacific fleet, and before his promotion
to rear-admiral. He has the reputation of being a fine type of an
American naval officer.”

“Have you met him recently?”

“I? No. Take care of that curb.” She stumbled somewhat and he assisted
her across the street. “My father entertained the officers of the fleet
whenever they came to San Francisco, but I doubt if Admiral Lawrence
will remember me. I only saw him when home on my college vacations.”

Marjorie heaved a sigh of relief; she dreaded his hearing of Admiral
Lawrence’s charge against her, for she feared his condemnation. In
their daily intercourse she had gradually realized that the silent,
reserved man had high ideals and exacted a high standard in his
friends. His altered manner of the past week had hurt as well as
piqued her; until then she had taken his companionship and good
opinion as a matter of course. Duncan was some eight years Janet’s
senior, and his silent watchfulness had contributed to Marjorie’s
success as a chaperon. He had insisted that his sister show her every
consideration, and that her advice should be followed in all social
matters. She could ill afford to lose such a friend.

“It was very kind of you to call on Aunt Yvonett,” she said, changing
the subject abruptly.

“I had intended to go before this,” replied Duncan courteously. “Mother
and Janet have spoken so frequently of Madame Yvonett that I have been
very anxious to meet her.”

“Everyone loves Aunt Yvonett,” answered Marjorie warmly. “I wish my
fairy godmother had bequeathed me her power of fascination.” Duncan
made no reply, and Marjorie ran up the short flight of steps of the
Fordyce home, and laid an impatient finger on the electric bell.

“I have my key,” remonstrated Duncan, pulling it out and opening the
front door. “I hope our long walk hasn’t tired you,” as she stepped
past him into the house.

“Not a bit,” pausing in the hall while he divested himself of his
overcoat. “I feel as fresh as a daisy.”

Duncan inspected her carefully, from her well-shod feet to her
imperiously carried head, and he was conscious of an accelerated
pulse as he caught the full witchery of her lovely eyes. He stepped
swiftly to her side, a longing to touch her, to hold her in his arms
overmastered him.

“I wonder where Janet can be,” she said, the coquetry dropping from
her, as her anxieties returned. “Do ask Perkins if she is in the house.”

Duncan drew back. “Janet? Do you think of no one but Janet?” and
without waiting for an answer he walked down the hall, but before he
left her, Marjorie had seen in Duncan’s eyes the message which every
daughter of Eve translates by instinct. With strangely fluttering
heart she sought her room and in that safe haven paused for breath.
Day-dreams were not for her; she was only his mother’s paid employee,
and ... one man had not scrupled to lie to her....

Over in Georgetown, Barnard, in immaculate evening dress, opera hat and
overcoat, paused to light another cigarette. “So Aunt Margaret never
regained consciousness,” he said aloud. “_What_ a relief!”




CHAPTER XII

A TANGLED WEB


EARLIER that same afternoon Janet had started for Madame Yvonett’s
residence intending to join Marjorie there, but as she crossed Dupont
Circle into Massachusetts Avenue, an automobile drew up alongside the
curb, and a cheery voice hailed her.

“This is luck,” exclaimed Tom Nichols, springing out of his roadster,
and clasping her hand warmly. “Where are you going Miss Janet?”

“Down to see Madame Yvonett,” Janet’s piquant face dimpled into a
smiling welcome.

“Fine! I was just on the way to her house myself; jump in and I’ll take
you there.”

“All right, thanks.” Janet climbed into the motor car, and after
arranging the rug over her lap, Tom took his seat behind the steering
wheel, and in a second more they were off. At the corner of Scott
Circle Tom slackened speed.

“Suppose we go for a spin first,” he coaxed. “It’s a glorious day for a
run in the country.”

“But I promised to meet Marjorie----”

“Well, so you can,” cutting her objection short. “If we get there by
half-past five it will be time enough; Cousin Yvonett always has a
late dinner. Besides, it’s always better to be late at a party, it
insures a warm welcome.”

“Sometimes too warm a one,” laughed Janet “What will mother say to my
going motoring with you and leaving Marjorie behind?”

“Oh, your mother won’t mind, I’m only Marjorie’s cousin,” carelessly.
“I’m sure your physician will prescribe plenty of ozone after last
night’s dance, and the air’s glorious today, do come?”

Janet wavered. She was pretty certain her mother would not approve,
but--it was a perfect winter’s day, clear and bracing; she was tired of
a stuffy house, and then--and then she admired and liked Tom Nichols.
Her warm blood pulsed a trifle faster, then ebbed more slowly. Was it
disloyal to Chichester Barnard to crave the presence of another man?
She put the thought from her with frowning impatience.

“I can go a little distance,” she conceded.

“Bully for you!” and the glance he turned on her held more than
admiration. “Will you be warm enough?”

“Oh, plenty,” Janet pulled the collar of her fur coat up about her
ears, and snuggled back in her seat, the heavy laprobe drawn tightly in
place.

“These side doors keep out the drafts,” as he spoke Tom swung his car
around the circle and continued down the avenue. “How would you like to
go out to Bladensburg and see the battlefield?”

“Isn’t that too far?”

“No; it’s only about five miles from here, we’ll do it in no time,”
and not waiting for an answer, Tom accelerated the motor, and they
shot past several carriages and automobiles. In a short time he swung
the car into H Street. That thoroughfare being comparatively free of
traffic, he turned to his silent companion. “Why did Marjorie leave the
dance so early last night?”

“She had a bad sick headache, poor dear,” with careless compassion. “I
don’t think Marjorie’s very strong.”

“She isn’t exactly robust, but I wouldn’t call her delicate,” replied
Tom. “How is she today?”

“Apparently all right again,” Janet filled her lungs with delicious
cold air. “Mother says Marjorie has too much on her mind; perhaps that
is the reason she is so distrait lately.”

“It must be that, usually she is the cheeriest soul imaginable,” Tom
sounded his siren as he cut across an intersecting street. “I’m afraid
Marjorie sees too much of----” he stopped, and his face clouded. His
code of honor prevented him from running down a possible rival behind
his back; and rumor had it that Janet was captivated by Barnard’s
handsome face and charm of manner, nor could he hurt her by speaking of
Barnard’s past infatuation for Marjorie. It would not be playing fair
to Marjorie; he could not make trouble between the two girls. In his
heart he vowed Barnard should not win Janet. “Marjorie has seen too
much of hard times,” he amended. “Financial difficulties play hob with
a person’s physical and mental condition.”

“Mental condition,” repeated Janet thoughtfully. “I wonder if that
accounts for----take care----oh, why will children play in the
streets?” as Tom swerved the car just in time to avoid running over a
little pickaninny.

“Sorry I frightened you,” he said contritely, turning the car into the
Bladensburg Pike. “Have you ever been out this way?”

“No. Where did you say we are going?”

“Bladensburg; it’s a quaint old-fashioned little town and of historic
interest because the Battle of Bladensburg was fought there in 1814....”

“When the British defeated our troops and captured Washington?”

“Correct. I’m glad to see, Miss Janet, you know American history. Not
long ago I was asked to meet some _nouveaux riches_ at dinner, and an
American girl, who is now an English countess, broke into a discussion
about Gettysburg to ask in a soft drawl: ‘Gettysburg? What _is_
Gettysburg?’”

They had left the city’s unattractive outskirts behind, and were
passing through more open country, and Janet, delighted and
light-hearted, sat silently watching the landscape with ever-increasing
interest.

“There’s Bladensburg,” Tom pointed to the church spires and roofs
of houses showing plainly among the leafless trees. “These houses,”
motioning to his right, “are some of them very old, the estates having
been owned by prominent colonials.”

“Where’s the battlefield?”

“Right here,” indicating the road they were on. “The fighting began
beyond the further bridge spanning the eastern branch of the Potomac,
and our troops fell back through the village and down this turnpike,
the British in hot pursuit.”

Janet’s active imagination instantly conjured up a vision of the
fighting, flying men, and the quiet sleepy Maryland village became
transformed to her; she could almost hear the rattle of muskets, hoarse
commands, and the roar of cannon, so vivid was the illusion.

Tom brought his car to a standstill at the side of the road near a
short bridge, and pointed to a dip in the rolling meadow through which
a creek meandered in long and graceful curves.

“The famous dueling ground of Bladensburg,” he explained. “It was
there that Commodore Stephen Decatur, the ‘Bayard of the Seas,’ met
his brother officer, James Barron, and fell mortally wounded by him.
I believe in those days trees masked the gully from sight; anyway our
fiery statesmen of the past came out to this ‘field of honor’ to get
satisfaction from their enemies and traducers.”

“What excitement would ensue if they did it now!” Janet thrilled at the
thought.

“Congressmen of today belong to the ancient and honorable order of
ink-slingers,” answered Tom. “This dueling ground never saw an opera
bouffe affair. Men here fought to kill, and generally succeeded in
their object.”

“Isn’t the Calvert Mansion somewhere in this neighborhood?”

“Yes, at Riverdale. It’s the Lord Baltimore Club now. We’ll run up
there and you can see it,” starting the motor as he spoke.

“I think we ought to be getting back,” said Janet regretfully.

“There’s plenty of time,” eagerly. “Riverdale’s only a little over a
mile away; we’ll be there before you know it.”

Tom kept the car down to reasonable speed while passing through
Bladensburg, then opened the throttle, and they sped down the State
road like an arrow shot from a bow. Suddenly above the whistling of the
wind past his ears and the low hum of his straining engine, Tom heard
an authoritative hail and discovered a rope stretched across the road
some distance ahead, and two constables on guard. Looking backward he
dimly made out, through the dust, a motor cyclist following them, and
realizing he was in a trap, he brought his car to second speed.

“Stop your engine,” commanded the constable, catching up with him.

Tom thought quickly. Had he been alone, he would have tried to get
away, but Janet’s presence prevented any attempt at evading the law.

“What’s the trouble, constable?” he demanded.

The man laughed. “Speeding and joy-riding are the charges.”

“Oh, come. I wasn’t breaking the regulations....”

“Tell that to the J. P.” At that moment the second constable reached
them, and sprang on the running-board on Janet’s side of the car.
“Start her up again, and come into Hyattsville,” directed the motor
cyclist, and making the best of a bad job, Tom sulkily obeyed the
order. Janet, her eyes wide with excitement, sat quietly by his side.
Pretending to tuck the laprobe more securely about her, he whispered in
her ear:

“If they ask who you are, don’t give your real name.”

“I understand,” she muttered, and remained passive until the car,
passing the lowered rope, reached its destination, escorted by the two
constables. They bade Tom and Janet accompany them into the presence of
the Justice of the Peace. Mr. Lenox, the gray-haired justice, heard the
evidence against them in ominous silence.

“What is your name, miss?” he inquired sternly.

“Marjorie Langdon,” answered Janet readily, and Tom gave her an
approving glance.

“Your residence?” Janet told him, and the Justice turned to Tom.

“Name?” he snapped.

“Thomas Langdon Nichols, Captain --th Field Artillery, stationed at
Fort Myer, Va.”

“Any relation of Miss Langdon?”

“Her cousin,” steadily.

The Justice laid down his pen. “Fifty dollars,” he announced, holding
out his hand.

“Fifty dollars fine!” fumed Tom. “That’s perfectly ridiculous.”

“Nothing of the sort,” retorted the Justice. “I recognize you, young
man; this is the third time you’ve been arrested speeding on the State
Road....”

“I haven’t; you’re mixing me up with someone else....”

“That game won’t work,” the Justice shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously. “Your name’s entered on the records; you’ve been warned
and fined for small sums, already. This joy-riding has got to stop.”

“I don’t joy-ride,” thundered Tom, catching Janet’s amused smile. “I
admit I’ve made good time on several business trips to Baltimore....”

“Very thoughtful of you,” commented the Justice ironically. “Fifty
dollars, please.”

“Dash it all! I haven’t that amount with me,” pulling out his wallet
he counted the bank notes in it. “Here’s eighteen dollars,” he laid
the money on the desk, and searched his pockets carefully, finally
producing some small change. “This makes twenty-one fifty,” stacking
the silver in a neat pile on top of the bank notes. “You’ll have to
take that, and let me bring back the rest tomorrow.”

“Fifty dollars or jail!” and the Justice sat back and regarded the
raging officer with provoking calmness.

“Will you take a check for the balance?” demanded Tom, as soon as he
could control his speech.

“Depends on your bank.”

Without replying, Tom went slowly through his pockets, but he had left
his check-book on his desk at his quarters, and his search was a waste
of time. “Let me have a blank check on the American Security and Trust
Company?” he pleaded.

“Haven’t one,” answered the Justice curtly, and forestalled further
requests by adding, “Haven’t a check on any bank but a Baltimore trust
company; guess you can’t draw on that, young man.”

Tom bit his lip savagely. “Can I use that telephone?” he asked, nodding
toward the instrument.

“Sure, if you’ll pay the tolls.”

Tom seized the desk instrument and put in a call for Fort Myer, but it
was some minutes before he got his connection, only to learn that the
officers he wished to speak to were absent from their quarters. With a
smothered oath he hung up the receiver and scowled at the Justice.

“Will you permit this young lady,” placing his hand on Janet’s arm, “to
return to Washington?”

“No.”

“Don’t be so damned pig-headed!” stormed Tom. “I’ll stay here until I
can get hold of the necessary money. Miss Langdon’s presence is not
required.”

“I’m the best judge of that; and see here, mind how you address me; I
won’t stand being sworn at.”

Tom moved closer to Janet, and lowered his voice. “I’m afraid it will
be some time before I can get money here from Fort Myer,” he whispered.
“Hadn’t I better call up your brother?”

“Mercy, no; please don’t think of it!” protested Janet, her eyes
opening in fright. “Duncan is so stern, he would never approve or
understand my motoring alone with you. We must get back without letting
him know anything about all this”--waving her hand toward the Justice
who, “clothed in a little brief authority,” was thoroughly enjoying
the situation. His predecessor had been severely criticized for his
lax handling of the speeders who frequented the state road between
Baltimore and Washington, and he was determined to establish a record
for distributing impartial justice on one and all. The fact that one of
the breakers of the speed law before him was an officer of the United
States Army and the other a very pretty young girl did not in the least
influence him to be lenient.

One of the constables had remained in the room, and had been an
interested listener to all that transpired. Janet’s distressed
expression finally won him over to her side.

“Say, Captain,” he began, “Ain’t you got a watch you can put up, and
redeem later?”

Tom shook his head despondently as his fingers sought his watch pocket
“It’s at Galt’s getting repaired,” he replied.

Janet’s hopes, which had risen at the friendly constable’s suggestion,
sank like lead; then an idea occurred to her, and she stepped up to the
desk.

“Won’t you accept this as collateral?” she asked, slipping a gold
bracelet over her wrist and handing it to the Justice. “Captain Nichols
will bring you the twenty-eight dollars and fifty cents tomorrow, and
get it back.”

Without answering, the Justice stooped and attentively examined the
handsome bauble in his hand. The bracelet, of curious design, was
studded with diamonds and emeralds, and the Justice, who had some
knowledge of precious stones, was impressed by its value. He turned the
matter carefully over in his mind before announcing his decision, and
the minutes seemed endless to Janet and Tom, who were burning to get
away.

“I’ll keep it,” the Justice stated finally, laying the bracelet
carefully on the table and sweeping Tom’s money into his cash box; then
he laid the bracelet in the box, and snapped the lid shut. He paused
to make an entry in his ledger, then turned back to Tom. “Let this be
a lesson to you,” he said severely. “You’re an officer of Uncle Sam’s,
and you of all people ought to help preserve the Government’s laws.
This state road is not a race course. Good evening.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” called Tom from the doorway, and he and Janet
lost little time in getting under way once again. The short afternoon
had come to a close, and Janet’s alarm grew as they motored slowly out
into the darkness.

“What shall I say to the family?” she murmured.

“Let me tell them the truth,” advised Tom. “It was all my fault, I’ll
take the blame.”

“Father will probably forbid my seeing you any more,” answered Janet,
dolefully.

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Tom blankly; he felt as if the earth had
dropped from him. “But I must see you, I--I--can’t get on without
seeing you----”

“Can’t you?” a little hope crept into her voice. “I--I--should miss you
awfully....”

“Would you?” Tom’s strong voice was husky. “I feel like a brute to have
gotten you into this scrape; I must get you out of it----”

“Please do,” she pleaded, and stirred Tom’s brain to quicker action.

“Suppose we go straight to Madame Yvonett’s, spend a few minutes there;
then if Marjorie hasn’t waited for you, we’ll go right to your house,
and explain that we went down the streets Marjorie didn’t return
on--and so missed her.”

“That sounds a trifle involved,” Janet knitted her brows in anxious
thought. “However, I think it will do, and no one need ever know.”

“I’ll never tell,” promised Tom soothingly. “By Jove! it was clever of
you to give Marjorie’s name to the J. P.; I’ll get back your bracelet
tomorrow and no one will be the wiser.”

“You are such a comfort,” sighed Janet; impulsively Tom laid his right
hand tenderly on hers. “I--I--always enjoy myself when with you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour after Tom and Janet’s departure another “speeder” was brought
before Mr. Lenox, Justice of the Peace for Hyattsville. But the tall,
well-groomed, middle-aged man who faced him, unlike Tom wasted no time
in disputing the fine imposed.

“Can you change a twenty dollar bill?” he inquired, drawing out a
well-filled wallet. “This is the first time I’ve motored down from
Baltimore, and I’m sorry my chauffeur broke the speed laws. Hope of a
Christmas dinner at home is my excuse.”

“Can’t blame you much,” acknowledged the Justice, his sternness thawed
by the other’s geniality. “Let’s see if I have change,” opening his
cash box, and dumping its contents on the desk. The stranger picked up
Janet’s bracelet as it rolled toward him, and glanced idly at it; then
his attention was arrested by the unusual design, and he examined it
minutely, even to the tiny initials and date engraved on the inside.
“Here’s your change, sir,” added the Justice.

“Thanks,” the stranger pocketed the money without counting it. “Pretty
bracelet you have here,” handing it back to Lenox as he spoke. “Very
unusual in appearance; would you mind telling me where you got it?”

“No, why should I? A girl, riding with her beau, left it here in lieu
of a fine for speeding. She, or rather her escort, Captain Nichols,
will redeem it tomorrow.”

“I see,” the stranger stared in deep astonishment at the Justice. “If
it isn’t breaking a confidence, can you give me the young woman’s name?”

“Sure,” the Justice rapidly ran his finger down the open ledger. “Miss
Marjorie Langdon, 910 Thirteenth Street, Washington.”

“Miss Marjorie Langdon,” repeated the stranger; then roused himself.
“Much obliged, sir, good evening.” And he hastily left the room and
entered his limousine. “Home, François,” he directed; then as the
lights of Hyattsville disappeared in the distance, he confided his
reflections to the flower-filled glass vase. “What in the devil’s name
was Miss Marjorie Langdon doing with my daughter’s bracelet in her
possession?”




CHAPTER XIII

DUNCAN’S DILEMMA


PAULINE CALHOUN-COOPER laid down her embroidery with a resigned sigh as
her brother, after striding moodily up and down the drawing-room, made
a sudden dash for the door.

“Where are you going, Joe?” she called.

“Out----” and the front door banged shut behind him.

Pauline’s lips curved in an irritating smile. “Your ‘poy Joe’ gets more
impossible every day, mother. I think father had better be told----”

“No you don’t, young lady,” Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper spoke with unwonted
authority. “I won’t permit any further interference.”

“Oh, well, take the consequences then,” replied her daughter,
undutifully. “Chichester Barnard warned me Joe spends most of his
time with that trained nurse, Kathryn Allen; he said he couldn’t tell
_me_ what kind of a character she is”--Pauline raised her eyebrows
suggestively.

Her mother reddened angrily. “I’ll thank Mr. Barnard to mind his own
business,” she snapped. “Joe is too much of a gentleman to drop Miss
Allen’s acquaintance after her kindness to him. He tells me their
friendship is entirely platonic.”

“Is that all?” Pauline’s sarcastic drawl was enough to exasperate a far
better tempered woman than Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper. “Don’t blame me, mother
dear, if you get an undesirable daughter-in-law.”

Her mother’s retort was checked by the entrance of Janet and Marjorie,
and she rose somewhat flurriedly to greet them.

“So good of you to call,” she cooed. “Pauline, dear, you know Miss
Langdon. Come and sit by me, Miss Janet, and tell me of all your gay
doings. Joe will be so sorry to have missed you.”

“We caught a vanishing glimpse of him as we drove up to the door,”
Janet loosened her furs, for the room was uncomfortably warm. “Are you
going to the Charity Ball on Monday evening?”

“Yes, we have taken a box. Can’t you come with us?” added Mrs.
Calhoun-Cooper hospitably.

“Thanks very much, but I believe father has secured a box also,” Janet
smiled prettily upon her hostess while her hand played nervously with
the silver ornaments on the tea-table. “I think it’s awfully kind of
you and your daughter to be so sweet to me, a newcomer.”

Marjorie, sitting some distance from Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper and Janet,
watched them anxiously, and ignored Pauline’s decidedly cool manner
and curt speech. They talked on uninteresting topics for some time,
and Marjorie was on the point of rising to leave when she heard Janet
accept Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s offer of a cup of tea. She had neglected
to warn Janet before entering that they must make their visit a short
one, as their calling list that afternoon was exceedingly long.
There was nothing for it but to wait until Janet had swallowed her
exceedingly hot cup of tea, which the butler had just brought in, and
concealing her impatience, she surrendered herself to the inevitable.

“So sorry you had to leave the Walbridge dance,” said Pauline, as
conversation languished. “Miss Fordyce tells me you are subject
to--eh--headaches, isn’t it?”

“Headaches of the very worst kind,” acknowledged Marjorie. Her eyes
roved about the room, which she had known so well when her aunt had
owned the house; even some of the furniture, many pieces of which had
been sold with the house, were still in use in the drawing-room, and
she had much ado to keep back a rush of tears at the recollections
their presence gave her.

“I am told headaches are the bane of existence as one advances in
years,” said Pauline sweetly. “Why, father!” as a tall man entered the
room. “What brings you home at this hour?”

“A moment’s leisure,” he replied. “How do you do, Miss Fordyce,”
shaking hands cordially with Janet, and turning toward Marjorie. There
was a moment’s awkward pause, then Pauline remembered her manners.

“Miss Langdon, father.”

Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper stepped forward and held out his hand
as Marjorie rose and advanced to meet him, “Miss Marjorie Langdon?” he
inquired, and she wondered faintly at the concentration of his gaze.

“Yes,” she answered, and her large hazel-gray eyes smiled back at him
with friendly interest. How came so distinguished looking a man to have
such an impossible family?

“If I am not mistaken, you are related to Madame Yvonett, are you not?”
he asked, and again his keen scrutiny swept over her.

“She is my great-aunt.”

“I gathered that was the relationship; please give her my kind
remembrances and say that I hope to call soon.” Calhoun-Cooper turned
back to his wife. “Miss Langdon is a great-granddaughter of Hugh
Pemberton, who gave my father his start in life,” he explained. “You
must show every hospitality to Miss Langdon, mother.”

Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper, divided between vexation at being called “mother”
in public by her usually thoughtful husband, and bewilderment at
Marjorie’s suddenly increased importance, clutched the tea-tray in
despair.

“Of course, John, of course,” she stammered. “Dear Miss Langdon, will
you have a cup of tea? Where is them tongs?”

Janet, catching sight of Pauline’s furious expression, almost laughed
aloud. She covered her mouth with her large muff, the better to conceal
her amusement. Truly, Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s parts of speech were
flying to the four winds.

“You are very kind,” said Marjorie gently. “But I have had to give up
drinking tea and coffee, Miss Cooper,” addressing Pauline directly.
“Mrs. Fordyce wishes to know if you and your brother will dine with her
informally on Tuesday next?”

“I don’t recall any engagement for that night,” Pauline slightly
mollified, answered with more than her usual warmth; a more intimate
footing with the Fordyce family counted for much in her social
ambitions. “Please tell Mrs. Fordyce that Joe and I will be happy to
come.”

“That is very nice,” smiled Marjorie. “Mrs. Fordyce has sent you a
formal invitation which you will receive this evening, but she asked me
to speak of the matter as the time is short. Come, Janet, I am afraid
we must go. Good-bye, so glad we found you.”

Calhoun-Cooper accompanied the two girls to their limousine. “Don’t
forget my message to your aunt, Miss Langdon,” he said, as he closed
the door of the machine.

“Where next?” inquired Janet, as Marjorie consulted her list.

“I think we had better leave cards at the White House,” she said, and
Janet, picking up the speaking tube, gave the order, and the big car
started down Sixteenth Street.

“Have you seen Captain Nichols lately, Marjorie?” asked Janet, breaking
the brief pause.

“No, he hasn’t been near me.” Marjorie studied Janet’s flushed face
with keen attention. Could it be possible that the young débutante was
falling in love with Tom? Had she lost interest in Chichester Barnard?
With all her heart Marjorie hoped such was the case. Janet was too
charming a girl to be taken in by the wiles of a fortune hunter. To
Marjorie’s relief, she had seen nothing of Chichester Barnard since
meeting him at her aunt’s on Christmas Day, nor had he called recently
at the Fordyces. It was not like him to be easily discouraged, he was
of the persevering kind, and Marjorie marveled at his absence. Were
Janet and he meeting clandestinely? The thought sent a cold shiver down
her back. Abruptly she turned to Janet.

“Were you walking with Chichester Barnard yesterday?” she inquired.

“No,” replied Janet shortly, and again lapsed into silence.

Janet’s thoughts at the moment were centered on Tom Nichols, as they
had been all too frequently of late, considering she regarded herself
secretly engaged to Chichester Barnard. Though absent, the latter’s
daily notes, received surreptitiously, were a constant reminder of
her pledge to him. Barnard’s charm of manner and conversation always
left her breathless, carried away by the fervor of his pleading, but
she turned restive under the exotic, extravagant phrases which cloaked
his passionate intentness on paper. She longed for Tom’s breezy
wholesomeness and merry smile.

On their return from Bladensburg she and Tom had faithfully carried out
their prearranged program, and no question had been raised, so far as
Janet knew, as to where she had spent the early afternoon on Christmas.
But what was giving Janet more concern than she had known in many
years was the fact that she had neither seen nor heard from Tom since
that afternoon, and that she had never received back the diamond and
emerald bracelet which she had left with the Justice of the Peace at
Hyattsville. And Tom had promised to get it for her the very next day!

“Did mother invite Captain Nichols to our dinner next week?” she asked.

“She put his name on the list, but I didn’t get the invitation written
before we came out; however, I’ll call him up tonight, and ask him
verbally and send him a reminder card later.”

“There’s Duncan!” exclaimed Janet, catching a glimpse of her brother
as the car turned the corner into H Street. “I hope he won’t forget to
order the violets he promised me.”

Spying them at the same moment Duncan raised his hat, and laughingly
declining Janet’s frantic gesture to join them, he continued on his way
to the Metropolitan Club. But at Seventeenth Street Tom Nichols drew
his roadster up in front of the curb, and leaned forward to speak to
him.

“Jump in and come over to the Army and Navy Club with me,” he said, and
Duncan, time hanging heavy on his hands, accepted the invitation with
alacrity. “I intended calling up your house, Fordyce, to ask if your
sister is home.”

“She’s out calling; I just saw her and Miss Langdon in the limousine.”

“Do you think she can see me this evening?” Tom swung his car into I
Street.

“I’m afraid not, we are all dining at the British Embassy. Will you be
there?”

“Not invited,” replied Tom shortly. He parked the roadster near the
entrance to the club, and led Duncan into one of the smoking-rooms.
Duncan found him singularly morose, and regarded the usually jovial
young officer in some perplexity; then he concluded that Janet and Tom
must have had a squabble of some sort and that the latter was trying to
make up the quarrel.

Tom, in fact, was exceedingly disturbed. He had just returned from
Hyattsville, where he had redeemed Janet’s bracelet. His duties at Fort
Myer had prevented his going there during the past two days, and he had
not dared to ask a brother officer to go in his place, fearing news
of the arrest for speeding might leak out, with other details. He had
hoped to find Janet at home that afternoon and return the bracelet. He
had tried several times to talk to her on the telephone, but each time
the Fordyce servants had told him Janet was either out or engaged. He
would have confided the whole affair to Marjorie except for his promise
to Janet.

“Can you go to the Charity Ball with us?” asked Duncan.

“Why yes, I’d like to very much,” answered Tom, awaking to the fact
that he had not spoken for some moments.

“Good, don’t trouble to get a ticket, and I think you had better dine
with us first----”

“Excuse me, Captain, but you are wanted on the telephone,” interrupted
a club attendant.

“I’ll be right back, Fordyce,” Tom sprang precipitously to his feet;
perhaps Janet had called him up. “Wait for me,” and he disappeared
after the attendant.

An older man sitting by a window some distance away glanced up at
hearing the name “Fordyce,” and scanned Duncan intently, then rose and
slowly approached him.

“I beg your pardon, but are you not Duncan Fordyce?” he asked.

Duncan looked at him attentively for a second, then stepped forward.

“How do you do, Admiral Lawrence,” he said, extending his hand.

The Admiral’s haggard face lighted with a pleased smile. “So you
remember me, Duncan; it’s some years since we met,” a sigh accompanied
the words. “How is your dear mother?”

“Very well, thank you. Won’t you sit down, sir?” pulling forward a
chair.

“Please thank your mother for her kind note of sympathy; I intended
answering it----” the Admiral broke off abruptly and cleared his
throat. “Tell me of yourself, Duncan, since we last met.”

“There’s nothing very much to recount, Admiral; I graduated from Yale,
then from the Harvard Law School; traveled a bit in China and South
America, and on my return joined a law firm in San Francisco. I am East
on a short visit.”

“Sorry to have been so long,” said Tom, appearing behind the Admiral,
whom he already knew. “Much obliged to you, sir, for taking care of
Fordyce in my absence.”

“Duncan and I are old friends,” Admiral Lawrence stepped back. “I won’t
interrupt you two any longer.”

“Don’t run away, Admiral,” protested Tom, “it’s I who must be leaving.
Hope you’ll forgive me, Fordyce, but they’ve telephoned me to return
to Myer at once. Please tell Miss Janet I’ll be in tomorrow.” He
hesitated; should he give the bracelet to Duncan? No. Janet had
particularly charged him not to let any inkling of her motor ride reach
her brother’s ears, and Duncan would naturally ask him how he came to
have his sister’s bracelet in his possession. “Ask her if she will
telephone me what hour will be most convenient for her to see me,” he
added hurriedly.

“I will,” promised Duncan, turning back to say good-bye to Admiral
Lawrence.

“Can you spare me a few minutes now, Duncan?” the latter asked
anxiously.

“Certainly, sir; my time is at your disposal.”

Admiral Lawrence surveyed the room in silence; then led the way to the
farther end, where two chairs stood by themselves.

“Sit down, Duncan,” he said, dragging his seat nearer the window.
“We’re out of ear-shot over here, and I’ve something important to
say to you,” he stopped, and Duncan waited respectfully for him to
continue. “I called up your house yesterday, and your butler told me
your father was out of town.”

“He went over to Philadelphia on business; we are expecting him back
tomorrow or next day.”

“I may not be in town when he returns; therefore I must speak to you,”
the Admiral paused, “about a very delicate matter....”

“Yes,” put in Duncan encouragingly, as his companion again paused.

“Marjorie Langdon is in your mother’s employ, is she not?”

“Yes.” But Duncan’s slight start was not observed by the Admiral, who
continued his questions.

“As companion to your sister?”

“Yes,” replied Duncan for the third time.

The Admiral turned in his chair and made sure that no one was in their
vicinity, then leaned toward Duncan. “Marjorie Langdon was my secretary
for the past two years; on November first, I discharged her because I
found she was a thief.”

For a second Duncan was blind to his surroundings. But Admiral Lawrence
read nothing of his mental suffering in his expressionless face.
Marjorie then was really a thief! Marjorie, his ideal in womanhood!
His strong hands clenched themselves so tightly over the arms of his
chair that the knuckles shone white. He had succeeded in conquering
the suspicions he had harbored against Marjorie after the mysterious
disappearance of his father’s forty dollars. Marjorie, if guilty of
the theft of the money, would never have mentioned the exact sum, one
hundred and fifty dollars, when she handed him the bank notes to give
his father. She _must_ have been innocent, he had reasoned, with dogged
determination. Now another man thought her a thief!

“I would not have disclosed her true character had I not heard that
Marjorie was with your sister continually,” said the Admiral slowly.
“It is not proper that a young girl should be subjected to such
contaminating influences.”

“One moment,” Duncan held up his hand protestingly. “You have made
a serious charge, Admiral, against Miss Langdon; can you prove your
statements?”

The Admiral whitened with anger. “I am not in the habit of lying,” he
retorted stiffly.

“Nor am I accusing you of lying,” calmly. “But in my father’s absence
you have come to me, as the acting head of my house, to warn me against
one of my father’s employees. I am within my rights, sir, in demanding
your proofs that Miss Langdon is a ----” Duncan choked over the word
thief--“is not a proper associate for my sister.”

“Perhaps you are right,” admitted the Admiral, his anger cooling.
“I presume you have met my wife’s nephew by marriage, Chichester
Barnard----”

“I have.”

“My wife, who has always been wealthy in her own right, promised her
first husband, Dimintry Barnard, that she would leave one hundred
thousand dollars to his nephew, Chichester, whom he had legally
adopted, and in making her will some years ago, she carried out her
promise. Just before her last illness, she quarreled with Chichester
over some unfortunate investments he had made for her, and incensed by
his manner, declared she would revoke her bequest to him.

“On the last day of October my wife, then a very sick woman, sent for
our lawyer, Charles Alvord, and bade him draw up a codicil revoking
Chichester’s bequest. Alvord took his notes into my library, and
without my knowledge, had Marjorie Langdon typewrite the codicil,”
Duncan drew a long slow breath but said nothing, and the Admiral
continued: “He also had her make a carbon copy of the codicil, thinking
if the first was ruined in my wife’s effort to sign it, he would have
the other at hand to substitute. But my wife signed the original copy,
and I instructed Marjorie to put it in my safe. The next morning, on
opening my safe, I found the unsigned copy of the codicil, and not the
signed one.”

“And you believe----?” questioned Duncan.

“That Marjorie Langdon deliberately destroyed the signed codicil and
placed the unsigned one in my safe, hoping the substitution would not
be noticed until after my wife’s death.”

“The last is supposition only,” commented Duncan.

“Not so fast,” retorted Admiral Lawrence. “Marjorie was the only one
outside our family and the lawyer who knew of the signing of the
codicil; it was given to her to place in the safe. She only, beside
myself, knew the combination of the safe, and Alvord, the fool, left
the unsigned copy of the codicil lying loose on my desk, ready to her
hand.”

“And Marjorie Langdon’s motive in destroying the signed codicil?”

“Her infatuation for Chichester Barnard.” The blunt answer shook even
Duncan’s iron self-control, and he looked hastily away, lest the
Admiral read his expression. “Marjorie was the last person to leave my
library that night; I was the first to go there the next morning, and
the codicil was gone.”

“In other words,” said Duncan slowly, “you contend that Marjorie had
the motive and the opportunity to steal that codicil,” Lawrence nodded
affirmatively. “What did she hope to accomplish?”

“To have Chichester Barnard inherit the hundred thousand dollars,” the
Admiral rose heavily to his feet. “The other codicil remained unsigned,
for my wife never regained her faculties before her death, having been
first delirious and then unconscious until death mercifully released
her.”

“So Mr. Barnard will inherit the one hundred thousand dollars?”

The Admiral paused. “Not without a legal fight. Get rid of Marjorie,
Duncan, before the scandal is aired.”

“You mean you are going to charge Miss Langdon with the theft of the
codicil?”

“I do. She thwarted my wife in her last conscious act, and by God, she
shall pay for it!”

Duncan rose to his feet. “Kindly notify me, Admiral, of whatever
steps you propose taking,” he said, accompanying the older man to the
entrance of the club-house.

“Certainly, Duncan, certainly.” The Admiral walked to the curb with
him. “I realize you will want to know in time to prevent your family
from becoming involved in the scandal.”

“You mistake my meaning, sir; I desire to know what legal steps you
contemplate taking, because I propose to defend Miss Langdon in the
courts. Good evening,” and lifting his hat, Duncan turned on his heel.

How far he walked or where he walked he could never afterwards tell,
but he finally became conscious that the park policeman in Lafayette
Square was regarding him with open suspicion.

“Where am I?” he asked, turning in bewilderment to the stalwart
guardian of the peace.

“Sure, I don’t wonder ye ask; ye’ve chased yourself around Jackson’s
statue until ye’ve given me the blind staggers. What ails ye, sir?”

“Nothing,” Duncan pulled himself together and finally got his bearings.
“Where can I find a taxi?”

“At the Shoreham, that way,” waving his arm, and Duncan walked in the
direction indicated.

He was about to cross H Street and enter the hotel when Small’s window
display across Fifteenth Street caught his attention, and he remembered
promising to send Janet a bunch of violets to wear to the British
Embassy. Entering the florist’s shop, he hastily gave his directions;
then paused, and selected a beautiful corsage bouquet of single violets.

“I’ll take this also,” he said. “Send it to Miss Marjorie Langdon, care
of Mr. Calderon Fordyce, same address as the other; and--eh--give me a
blank card,” discovering he had none of his visiting cards with him.
Taking the blank card which the attentive clerk brought him, he wrote:
“With best wishes,” and signed his initials. Before placing the card in
an envelope, he studied the message and his bold, distinctive writing
in some doubt.

“Lord!” he muttered. “Will she take the ‘D. F.’ for Duncan
Fordyce--or--damn fool.”




CHAPTER XIV

THE PHILANDERER


“SO it’s off with the old love?”

“My dear Kathryn, it was never on,” Barnard looked squarely at the
pretty nurse facing him, a faint trace of distress visible in his
polished manner. “When I called to see my aunt, Mrs. Lawrence, I always
showed you the civility and attention which I accord to any woman; that
you chose to attach a deeper meaning----” he shrugged his shoulders. “I
very deeply regret the--misunderstanding.”

Kathryn Allen’s gaze shifted from his face to the desk, and she saw the
ornaments dimly through blinding tears.

“You repudiate----?” she asked huskily.

“Everything you claim--yes.”

“Then your presents, your photograph....”

“Meant nothing,” with smiling effrontery, “except _pour passer le
temps_.”

In the stillness the click, click of a typewriter in the adjoining
office was distinctly audible. Barnard, with an impatient frown at the
wall dock, turned back to the silent woman. He abhorred a scene, and
Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper had an engagement with him shortly;
it would never do for him to find Kathryn Allen in that office. The
pause lengthened, then the woman rose shakily to her feet, and meeting
Barnard’s look of solicitude, a bitter laugh broke from her.

“You have shown me a new side,” she said, controlling herself with
difficulty. “You are not usually neglectful of your own interests,
Chichester; hadn’t you better cultivate your memory?” and before he
could answer, she slipped from the room and was gone.

Reaching the sidewalk Kathryn walked aimlessly up F Street until her
wandering attention was caught by a tall clock in front of a jeweler’s
shop, whose hands registered three o’clock, and she paused instantly.

“Mercy,” she muttered. “I’ve forgotten Joe!” and turning about she made
her way to Harvey’s restaurant. Joe Calhoun-Cooper, lurking in the
doorway, watched her approach with eagerness.

“At last!” he exclaimed. “I thought you had forgotten to come.”

“Not a bit of it,” following him to the ladies’ dining-room. “Mrs.
Wallace was not so well, and I was detained. Nurses can’t be choosers,
you know.”

“Why don’t you give up this drudgery?” asked Joe heatedly. “Marry me,
my darling----” sinking his voice.

“Marry you?” repeated Kathryn drearily, then her face brightened into a
quick warm smile. “Well, why not?”

“Do you mean it?” Joe was on his feet, his eyes alight.

“Sit down, you foolish boy,” and Joe, a trifle abashed by the waiter’s
stare, sank down into his seat.

“What will you have, Kathryn?” he inquired, taking up the menu card.

“Some hot roasted oysters and plenty of pepperine sauce; no, no wine,”
as he turned to the wine list. “You know I don’t approve of that, Joe.”

“Just a cocktail,” he pleaded. “It’s bitter cold outside.” But Kathryn
shook her head.

“Don’t tempt me, Joe;” she settled back in her seat and looked about
the restaurant. At that hour the room was empty and she heaved a sigh
of relief; she was not anxious to encounter any friend who might chance
to come in. She shivered slightly, half overcome by a tormenting
memory. “I will take some coffee,” she added hastily.

Joe finished giving his order, and then turned his attention fully
on his companion. She looked extremely pretty and young in her
conventional tailored-suit and stylish hat under which her red hair
curled tantalizingly. Her good looks and engaging manner had captivated
Joe when she attended him at Garfield Hospital the year before, he
having preceded his family to Washington, and developed typhoid fever
soon after his arrival.

“Why did you telephone that you had to see me, Joe?” asked Kathryn,
breaking the silence.

“It’s nearly a week since our last walk together,” he answered
moodily. “I began to think you were avoiding me.”

“Nonsense; I told you I’ve been extra busy....”

“But a nurse always has her regular hours off,” he broke in.

“During which I’ve been making up lost sleep,” she retorted. “Joe,
dear, don’t quarrel with me----” her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t
bear it.”

“My dearest,” he patted the slender hand resting on the table with
tender fingers. “I’ll eat dirt, sooner than make you unhappy.”

“Try the oysters, instead,” she advised, with a half hysterical laugh,
as the waiter placed the tempting dishes before them. The presence of
the waiter, who stood behind Joe’s chair shucking the roasted oysters
in rapid succession, prevented further private conversation, to Joe’s
great annoyance. He wanted Kathryn to himself, and her half-bantering,
half-tender manner but added fuel to the flame of his passion.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggested, rising and pushing back his
chair. While playing with her hot coffee and oysters, of which she was
usually inordinately fond, Kathryn had done some rapid thinking, and
having decided on her course of action, she was quite willing to leave,
and in a few minutes more they were strolling up Pennsylvania Avenue.

“What time do you have to return?” inquired Joe, stopping before the
Raleigh.

“Not until six o’clock.”

“Good!” Joe beckoned to one of the hackmen standing in front of the
hotel, and as the brougham drew up before them, he wrenched open the
door and before Kathryn had quite decided, she was half pushed into the
vehicle. “Go to the Mall,” shouted Joe, springing in after her.

“Well, upon my word!” she ejaculated, considerably startled.
“Joe--Joe--what’s come over you?”

Joe did not answer the question directly, but the passion in his eyes
brought a hot wave of color to her cheeks; the carriage was rapidly
traversing an unfrequented street, and he was not to be denied. His
arms crept around her, and despite her vehement protests, he rained
kisses upon her lips until the fire consuming him communicated itself
to her, and she gave back kiss for kiss with an ardor which matched his
own.

“Joe, you must behave!” she stammered, withdrawing as far from him as
the narrow confines of the carriage permitted. “Suppose we are seen?
What would your family say?”

“They will have to know some time,” he protested. “Beside, we are not
likely to meet any of our friends in this part of the town.”

“I am not so sure of that,” she glanced uneasily out of the window. “We
must be getting back, Joe; tell the driver to go up side streets until
he reaches Seventeenth and S Streets.”

“Will you marry me?” demanded Joe, ignoring her request. “Will you, my
darling?”

“I’ll give you my answer----”

“Yes?” eagerly, as she paused.

“When we reach Seventeenth and S Streets,” and her alluring smile set
his pulses racing. Opening the door he gave his directions to the
driver, then settled back beside her.

“Why do you want to tantalize me?” he asked reproachfully.

“It’s good for you,” shrugging her shoulders. “You are spoiled
at home. By the way, do you propose telling your family of our
engagement--providing I accept you?” archly.

“In my own good time,” sulkily. “If they know too soon....”

“They’ll send you away from my baleful influence.” A mocking smile
lighted her eyes and lips. Joe winced, the remark was too near the
truth to be pleasant.

“It’s no thanks to your friend, Mrs. Hemmingway, that father doesn’t
know now,” he grumbled.

“What do you mean?” in startled surprise.

“I found a letter from her in father’s mail last Monday,” he pulled out
a much soiled envelope. “Your letters used to come under cover of her
address, so I recognized her writing, and guessing something devilish
was up, hooked it before father came home.”

“I see,” said Kathryn slowly. “And what did my amiable landlady say in
her letter to your father?”

“I don’t know,” handing her the unopened envelope. “I waited to give it
to you to read; I would have told you of it sooner, but you would not
see me.”

“Could not see you,” she corrected gently; then without further words
opened and read the letter. A sharp intake of her breath attracted
Joe’s attention, and he turned from the window in time to see her
tearing the letter into infinitesimal pieces, her face white with fury.

“The cat!” she exclaimed. “The vile, treacherous cat! And after I’ve
been so good to her. Thank heaven you caught the letter, Joe; it was
clever of you, my dearest.”

“Luck was with me,” admitted Joe frankly, pleased, however, at the
implied compliment. “I never trusted Mrs. Hemmingway; you remember I
warned you against her.”

“Yes, yes, so you did. Oh, Joe, the things she said about you in this
letter!” opening the carriage door and tossing out the scraps of paper.
“They make my blood boil.”

“My blessed darling,” as she snuggled up against his shoulder, “if I
only had enough money, I’d carry you off tonight.”

“Remember I haven’t yet given you my answer,” teasingly.

“I’d marry you without it,” sturdily. “Lord! if I only had the luck of
some people--Chichester Barnard, for instance.”

Kathryn’s body stiffened and every drop of blood deserted her face.
“What about Chichester Barnard?” she asked in barely more than a
whisper.

“Didn’t you read in this morning’s paper that Mrs. Lawrence’s will
had been offered for probate, and that she bequeathed him a hundred
thousand dollars?”

“I had no chance to look at the papers,” she answered dully. Immersed
in his own prospective happiness he failed to observe the anguish which
dimmed her eyes. Suddenly she roused herself. “So Mr. Barnard is a
wealthy man; well, merit usually wins in the end.” The covert sneer was
lost on her companion.

“Barnard’s a good chap,” he said tolerantly. “He deserves his luck.”

“I presume now he will marry Marjorie Langdon.”

“Marry Marjorie Langdon?” Joe’s hearty burst of laughter covered the
quiver in Kathryn’s voice. “Lord bless you, he’s trying for higher
game.”

“Who do you mean?” the question shot from her.

“Janet Fordyce; and do you know,” lowering his voice confidentially,
“Christmas Eve I got rather fuddled and was such a fool as to warn
Barnard not to marry into that family.”

“Were you thanked for your pains?” and the sneer in her downcast eyes
was not pleasant.

“Hardly; in fact, Barnard threatened to wring my neck if I ever alluded
to the Fordyce peculiarities in public.”

“Tell me some other time,” she coaxed. “I think, however, that Mr.
Barnard is to be congratulated if he marries any woman but Marjorie
Langdon.”

“I rather like Marjorie.”

“Do you?” she laughed mirthlessly. “Well, I hate her.” There was no
mistaking her envenomed tone, and Joe’s sleepy eyes opened to twice
their usual size.

“Why?” in profound astonishment.

“Because of the humiliation I have suffered at her hands; she never
lost an opportunity ‘to put me in my place’ when we were both at the
Lawrences’, she as secretary and I as nurse.”

“You surprise me; but come to think of it, Pauline holds about the same
view of Miss Langdon that you do; thinks she’s too supercilious for a
paid companion.”

“Is that so? Then your sister and I agree already.”

“A happy omen for the future,” exclaimed Joe, then his face darkened.
“If Marjorie Langdon has been nasty to you, my darling, I’ll cut her
acquaintance.”

The look she gave him was ample reward. “Ah, Joe,” she said, a trifle
sadly, “I fear your loyalty will be taxed to the breaking point if you
marry a poor, nameless nobody like me.”

“Never!” he vowed with lover-like ardor. “And, dearest, within a few
years, by the terms of my grandfather’s will, I shall inherit eight
thousand a year.”

“What!” Her surprise was genuine; Joe had never before spoken of his
prospective inheritance.

“I didn’t know about it myself until Christmas,” went on Joe. “We can
be married tomorrow if you say so; I’ll get mother to advance me some
money, and father will come across when he once meets you.”

“And your sister?”

“Oh, Pauline can go hang. Who cares for her opinion?” contemptuously.

“I do, for one,” calmly meeting his perplexed stare. “I most earnestly
desire her friendship.”

“You don’t know Pauline,” dryly, remembering his treatment at his
sister’s hands. “I don’t think she will add to our joy of living.”

“Perhaps not, but she may be useful to me,” quietly. “Oh, Joe, you
don’t know what it means to a bride to sever her husband from his
family. Please God, you’ll never have that to reproach me with.”

“I was only thinking of you, dearest,” put in Joe, much touched.
“Between you and me, Pauline is an awful tartar.” At that moment their
carriage turned the corner into S Street and drew up at the curb.

“Your answer, dearest?” Joe’s assurance had departed, and the hand he
laid on Kathryn shook. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” he had to bend down to catch the whispered word.

“Soon?” he urged, his voice triumphant with joy.

“Yes,” and the kindly darkness hid the kiss with which they sealed
their betrothal.




CHAPTER XV

IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING


KATHRYN ALLEN tore open the note with impatient fingers.

  MY DARLING, [she read],

  Pauline tells me Janet Fordyce and Chichester Barnard frequently take
  tea at the Brown Tea Pot. I don’t know why you asked me to find out,
  but, sweetheart, your word is law to your devoted

                                                  JOE.

  P. S. How the hours drag! I only live when with you.

Joe might have spared himself the postscript. Kathryn did not even
trouble to read it. Crumpling the note into a small ball she tossed
it into the scrap basket and rising, consulted her alarm clock. The
hands on the dial pointed to a quarter past three; she could go over
to the hospital and register and still have ample time to enjoy a cup
of tea at the Brown Tea Pot. Her valise was already packed preparatory
to leaving her present case whenever her employer, a hypochondriac,
decided she could dispense with her services. She had gone to her
immediately after the death of Mrs. Lawrence, but the place did not
suit. She did not care to nurse crotchety patients.

It was a little before five o’clock when she entered the Brown Tea
Pot, and she found the cozy tea-room partly empty. To her delight she
secured a table to herself near a large screen standing by the pantry
door, and from that vantage point she commanded a fine view of the
occupants of the room without herself being conspicuous. She had plenty
of time to study her surroundings and admire the effect of the softly
shaded electric lights which cast a becoming, rosy glow over the scene,
before the two people for whom she was waiting, made their appearance.

It was the first glimpse Kathryn had had of Janet, and she watched her
with jealous, angry eyes. She took in the becoming, chic street costume
Janet was wearing, with grudging admiration. Chichester Barnard always
had excellent taste in women. Kathryn had overheard Admiral Lawrence
tell his wife that their clergyman, at his request, reproved Barnard
for his fast life, and had asked him what he would do if confronted at
the Judgment Seat by the women he had flirted with.

“I shouldn’t be ashamed of one of them,” Barnard had retorted.

Janet, barely glancing about her, selected a table across the room from
where Kathryn Allen sat, and while out of ear-shot, the pretty nurse
could observe them without appearing to do so. By the time Barnard
had finished giving his order to their waitress, the people sitting
nearest them had completed their tea and departed. Janet bit her lip
with vexation; she had chosen that particular table because it had
near neighbors, and above all things she wished to avoid anything like
a private _tête-à-tête_ with Barnard. Usually the Brown Tea Pot was
crowded, and conversation had to be of the most trivial and impersonal
character on account of the danger of being overheard. She had accepted
Barnard’s invitation to have tea with him against her better judgment.

Barnard made no secret of his satisfaction at their isolated position.
He never troubled to turn and glance about the room, and Kathryn
Allen’s presence went unnoticed.

“Are you sure you would rather have hot chocolate than tea, Janet?” he
inquired, with gentle solicitude.

“Quite sure. Mother says too much tea drinking is responsible for my
nervous irritability.”

“Your mother is too harsh a critic,” he commented. “I detect no
irritability on your part, only----” he paused thoughtfully.

“Yes?” she prompted, looking away from him.

“An adorable reserve,” ardently. “Why do you not let me see more of
you?”

“I have already explained the reason, Chichester.”

“Your social duties?” He shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Bah! why
consider such empty trifles.”

“They are not trifles, but a treadmill,” she retorted warmly. “But,
Chichester, I don’t believe mother and Marjorie would approve of my
meeting you so often alone, and I hate to do anything underhand.”

“You are the soul of honor.” His look caressed her, and she shivered
involuntarily. “Then why not let me call every day at your house?”

“Duncan doesn’t like you,” she admitted faintly. “And he has prejudiced
mother----” in her desire to avoid Barnard’s glance, she missed seeing
the tawney gleam which for a second marred the beauty of his heavily
lashed dark eyes.

“I can guess the reason for your brother’s dislike,” he admitted
grimly. “Perhaps I can remove the cause. His interest in Miss Langdon
appears mutual. Hadn’t you better warn your mother to watch those two?”

“What do you mean?” She raised startled eyes to his.

“How would you like Miss Langdon as a sister-in-law?”

Janet sat in dumfounded silence. Even the arrival of their waitress
with the chocolate pot, whipped cream, and hot toasted English muffins
did not arouse her. Had Barnard supplied her with the key to Duncan’s
altered demeanor and Marjorie’s shy, distraite manner? Would her mother
accept Marjorie as a daughter-in-law without opposition? Duncan was her
idol, and Janet knew she had always planned a most ambitious future for
him.

“Then the idea doesn’t appeal to you?” questioned Barnard as the
waitress retired. “Well, don’t worry; Marjorie has other suitors.”

“I am given to understand that you are one of them.”

“By some kind friend, I suppose?” But Barnard’s laugh was not as
sincere and hearty as he tried to make it. “Did Pauline Calhoun-Cooper
also mention that Tom Nichols is one of Marjorie’s suitors?” The spoon
Janet held rattled against the side of her cup. “Ah, I thought not,”
added Barnard, smiling quietly to himself. “Did the gallant captain
never confide to you his admiration for his beautiful cousin?”

But Janet was game, notwithstanding her secret anguish. Barnard had
indeed opened her eyes, but not in the way he had intended. Quickly she
rallied her wits to her aid; she must not let her keen-eyed companion
realize the new influence which was dominating her. Ah, love was
two-edged; too late, she had divined the gold from the dross.

“Captain Nichols has made no secret of his affection for Marjorie,” she
retorted coolly. “Why do you seek to prejudice me against him?”

“Because I do not approve of your friendship.”

“Nonsense; it’s purely platonic.”

“There is no such thing between a man and a maid.” Barnard’s tone
stirred Janet’s hot anger, but she controlled herself admirably. “You
show your youth by advocating such views.”

“Do you mean to be insulting?”

“Put such an idea instantly out of your mind.” There was stern command
in his eyes and voice, and Janet shrank back, frightened by the storm
she had provoked. “I should never think of insulting you, I love
you too deeply,” his tones vibrated with feeling. “I respect you too
highly--but I am jealous, bitterly jealous. I, and I alone, must rule
your heart and mind. ‘Thou shalt have no other god but me’!”

“Don’t blaspheme!” She cringed back in her chair, and covered her ears
with her shaking fingers. “Chichester, Chichester, I have given you no
cause for jealousy.”

“Perhaps not intentionally,” he admitted, more quietly. “But for my
comfort, you see too much of Tom Nichols.”

“You are entirely mistaken. I haven’t seen him for some time.”

“How about your motor ride with him on Christmas Day?” She colored in
spite of herself.

“How did you hear of it?” she demanded.

“News travels fast when a man boasts....”

“I don’t believe it,” she broke in vehemently. “Tom Nichols isn’t that
sort. He would keep his word to me to say nothing about it.”

“Ah, then your intimacy has reached the stage of mutual secrets!”
Barnard’s brow darkened. “Now, once for all this _platonic
friendship_,” with biting sarcasm, “must stop. As your fiancé, I forbid
you to have anything further to do with him.”

“And suppose I refuse?” Janet drew her furs about her, and flung back
her head defiantly. Her blood was up.

“You will do nothing so foolish.”

“I shall, too.” Janet’s eyes blazed back into his. “And I want you to
understand that our engagement is broken.”

Barnard’s smile was his only answer as he contemplated her, and despite
the warmth of the room and her furs, Janet felt a chill strike to her
heart, and the pupils of her eyes distended with fear as Barnard bent
toward her across the table.

“Pauline Calhoun-Cooper has missed her bracelet,” he said quietly.

Janet crimsoned; then turned deathly pale. Fearing she would faint,
Barnard raised his tea-spoon and struck his empty goblet until the
glass vibrated loudly. While waiting for the waitress, he again
addressed his silent companion.

“Do you still wish our engagement broken?”

“No,” faintly.

“You will drop Tom Nichols?” Getting no answer, he repeated his
question with more insistence.

“Yes,” she promised; but the monosyllable was even fainter and more
reluctant than the first.

“Good!” Barnard smiled sunnily upon her; his anger and jealousy a thing
of the past. “I know you will keep faith with me, my darling,” then he
added in a different tone, as their waitress appeared. “Will you please
bring us some more ice water.”

“I--I--must go,” Janet clutched her bag and gloves in desperate haste.
She felt that she should scream if she remained in the room a moment
longer. She was shivering from head to foot.

“No, no, it’s still early,” remonstrated Barnard. “You haven’t
finished your muffin.” But Janet shook her head.

“I must go,” she reiterated; and Barnard, a past-master in knowing when
to concede a point, rose to his feet. As they made their way to the
door, they passed Judge and Mrs. Walbridge, and the latter stopped them.

“I never saw two people so interested in each other,” she declared
breezily; then added with elephantine playfulness, “Of course, Mr.
Barnard was only telling you, Miss Fordyce, about his law cases.”

“Of course,” answered Barnard, the twinkle in his eyes belying his
serious expression. “I was just mentioning to Miss Fordyce that crime
knows no sex.”

Five minutes later Kathryn Allen, back in her far corner of the room,
paid for her tea and scones and went hurriedly out of the shop. She had
never taken her eyes from the two people she had gone there to watch,
and bitterly she regretted that she was not a lip-reader. One thought
was uppermost in her mind. What hold had Chichester Barnard over Janet
Fordyce?




CHAPTER XVI

A TUG OF WAR


REPRESENTATIVE J. CALHOUN-COOPER laid down his pen and regarded his
wife in some surprise. “Are you going to church, Augusta?”

“No, I attended the morning services.” She ensconced herself in a chair
near him. “Pauline told me that you wish to see me.”

“Quite right; but I had no idea you were going out,” Calhoun-Cooper
hesitated. “However, I will not keep you long. Can you tell me who are
Joe’s associates in Washington?”

His wife stirred uneasily. “Do you mean men or girls?”

“Both.”

“Pauline’s friends and mine are his associates,” with an abruptness
equal to his own.

“Are you quite sure, Augusta?” She changed color under the peculiar
emphasis of his voice.

“Quite; Joe has been most exemplary in his behavior,” she saw a further
question trembling on his lips and forestalled it. “You are never fair
to Joe; you take everyone’s word against his. Joe has the making of a
splendid man if you didn’t hector him so continuously. Give the boy a
chance.”

“I have spent years doing it,” Calhoun-Cooper sighed. “Unfortunately
Augusta, what you term a ‘chance’ and I term an ‘opportunity’ are not
synonymous.”

“Your ‘opportunity’ spells work, I presume,” and his wife frowned. “You
never recollect Joe’s delicate lungs.”

“Delicate fiddlesticks!” interrupted her exasperated husband. “Too much
smoking....”

“There you go again,” the ready tears filled Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s
eyes. “Believing tales because you want to....”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Then you must be fairer in your treatment of Joe,” protested his wife.
“Joe takes after my family, and instead of inheriting your robust
health, has our constitutional delicacy.”

Calhoun-Cooper glanced with some grimness mixed with amusement, at
his wife’s large frame and substantial weight. “Too bad the tendency
in your family, when it skipped your generation, didn’t crop out in
Pauline,” he commented slowly. “I would like a detailed answer to my
question, Augusta. Who are Joe’s particular associates?”

“Let me see; Duncan Fordyce and his sister, the Warren girls, Jimmie
Painter, and Carroll Logan”--she paused reflectively.

“Ever hear of a Miss Kathryn Allen?” asked her husband.

“Kathryn Allen? Wasn’t she Joe’s nurse at Garfield....”

“So I have heard,” dryly. “I am told the friendship between them
has--increased.”

“Is Pauline your informant?” demanded his wife, but he pretended not to
hear, and she continued hurriedly, “Whatever you hear in that quarter
is exaggerated nonsense. Far from spending his time with women, Joe is
usually with Chichester Barnard and his other men friends.”

“I haven’t seen Captain Nichols here lately,” Calhoun-Cooper tore a
fragment of a letter into long pieces and tossed them into the scrap
basket. “Do you know why he has stopped coming to see us?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” answered his wife candidly. “Unless
Pauline has--has not encouraged his attentions.”

“I did not know----” he broke off abruptly. “Tell me, Augusta, have you
been supplying Joe with money lately?”

“I? Oh, dear no,” but her eyes fell before his, and his face grew
graver. “What made you think such a thing?”

“It has happened before,” dryly. “I shall be exceedingly displeased
if you are giving Joe money. I cut down his allowance with very good
reason.”

“I believe you actually begrudge Joe money,” she put in passionately.
“For shame, as wealthy as you are----”

“It is not a matter of wealth, but of principle,” sternly. “Under
the plea of his supposed constitutional lung weakness you have
over-indulged Joe. It’s greatly my fault,” as his wife’s sobs
increased. “I gave too much time to my business and trusted to
incompetent tutors. Joe has two more years to toe the mark, and in
that time his character must be formed, otherwise he will go to the
bad utterly. I hope you have never disobeyed my injunction against
informing him of his prospective inheritance by the terms of my
father’s will?”

“Do you take me for a fool?” she asked sharply, and changed the
subject. “I must say, John, your father was very remiss not to leave
a like amount to Pauline, she bitterly resents Joe’s getting all that
money.”

“So you have told Pauline?” Her husband’s eyes kindled in wrath. “Well,
upon my word! Will you never learn discretion?”

Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper promptly took refuge behind more tears, a bulwark
which usually never failed her; but her husband was too indignant to
pay heed to her emotion, and continued sternly: “I trust you informed
Pauline that I would amply provide for her?” renewed sobbing was his
only reply. “I have told you before, Augusta, that I do not approve
of the partiality you show Joe; it is most unfair to Pauline, and
causes constant dissension and unhappiness. It must stop.”

“I’m sure I grant Pauline’s every wish,” exclaimed his wife, much
aggrieved. “She has her own way, and plenty of clothes, jewels----”

“Speaking of jewels,” broke in Calhoun-Cooper. “What has become of the
emerald and diamond bracelet, which formerly belonged to my mother,
the one I gave Pauline on her coming out? I haven’t seen her wear it
lately?”

His wife gulped back a sob, and wiped her eyes with a damp
handkerchief. She also had missed the bracelet, and she had last seen
it in Joe’s hand, Pauline having carelessly left it on her mother’s
dressing table the night of their large dinner dance. Joe had admitted
its beauty just before he went downstairs to assist his sister in
welcoming their guests.

“I--I--it’s at Galt’s being mended,” she stuttered; giving her husband
the same excuse for its disappearance which she had made to Pauline. “I
discovered some of the stones were loose.”

Calhoun-Cooper contemplated her rapidly crimsoning face with misgiving.
“Did you take the bracelet to Galt’s?”

“Of course. I’ll stop in and get it tomorrow,” she rose precipitously.
“How time flies! It’s after three; I have barely time to get to the
informal musicale Mrs. Fordyce is giving at four o’clock.”

“Do you and Pauline see much of Marjorie Langdon?”

“Not more than we can help,” snapped his wife, her temper getting the
upper hand. “Neither Pauline nor I trust her----”

“Trust her? Exactly what do you mean by that term?”

Startled by the curtness of his tone, Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper stopped on
her way to the door. “We feel that Marjorie Langdon is jealous of
Pauline’s friendship with Janet Fordyce, and is prejudicing her against
us. I’ll tell you more about our suspicion later, John; I must hurry
now. Oh, dear, I don’t believe I’m presentable!” getting a glimpse of
her tear-stained face in the mirror, and turning she hastened from the
room.

Calhoun-Cooper remained for some time at his desk; then, after
consulting the telephone book, he rose, and giving a few directions
to the butler, left the house and made his way to Madame Yvonett’s
residence.

Earlier in the afternoon Tom Nichols had left Fort Myer intending to
call on Janet. Since his interview with Duncan two days before, he had
received no message from Janet. In very desperation he had placed the
bracelet in a box containing a bunch of violets and left it with the
Fordyce butler the previous afternoon. Perkins had solemnly promised
to give the box to Janet on her return, and with a lighter heart, Tom
had returned to Fort Myer, fully expecting that Janet would call him
up on the telephone. But she never did so. While deeply wounded by her
silence, his longing to see her had finally conquered, and he motored
to Washington that Sunday afternoon intent on demanding an explanation.

On approaching the Fordyce residence he noticed a number of motors and
carriages driving up to the door, and thinking some entertainment was
going on, he promptly turned his car about and made for his cousin’s
house in Thirteenth Street. Madame Yvonett would probably be able to
give him news of Janet. On his arrival, to his great disgust, he found
the Quakeress with a room full of callers, and it was fully an hour
before they departed and he had her to himself.

“Draw up thy chair, Thomas,” directed Madame Yvonett. “Where has thee
been keeping thyself since Christmas?”

“Mostly at Myer. I’ve called you up on the telephone, Cousin Yvonett,
several times to ask how you were.”

“So Rebekah has told me, and I appreciate the trouble thee has taken.
Will thee let me refill thy cup?”

“No more, thank you,” setting down his empty teacup. “How is Marjorie?”

“Very busy just now; thee sees the season is in full swing, and she has
little opportunity to come in, but I talk with her every day on the
telephone.”

“Have you seen Janet Fordyce recently,” with elaborate carelessness,
helping himself to a pretzel.

“She was here but yesterday, and inquired particularly----” Madame
Yvonett stopped speaking as Minerva pulled back the hall portière and
Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper walked into the room.

“I fear you do not recall me, Madame Yvonett,” he said, as the
Quakeress rose. “I am John Cooper, and I had the pleasure of calling
upon you and your husband with my father years ago in Paris.”

“Thee does my memory an injustice, Friend Cooper,” exclaimed Madame
Yvonett cordially. “I have a very agreeable recollection of thy father
and thyself. But I admit thee has changed somewhat in appearance since
those days. Does thee know my cousin, Thomas Nichols?”

“Oh, yes, the Captain and I are old acquaintances,” shaking hands with
Tom as he spoke. “What has become of you lately? My wife and Pauline
tell me you have not been near them.”

“My duties at Myer have increased recently; courts-martial, and all
that,” answered Tom, slightly embarrassed by the direct question.
He had heard nothing further of his lost coin, and more than
ever convinced that Joe had stolen it, he had kept away from the
Calhoun-Coopers, disliking to accept their hospitality under the
circumstances. “I hope your wife and daughter are both well,” he added
hastily.

“Very well, thanks.” Calhoun-Cooper sat down near Madame Yvonett, and
declining the cup of tea offered him, began speaking of Paris, and the
Quakeress, enchanted at the allusion to the city and life she had loved
so well, recounted amusing experiences of her sojourn in the French
capital.

Tom took but little part in the conversation, and fidgeted uneasily.
He was determined to find out from Madame Yvonett all that she could
tell him about Janet, and waited with increasing impatience for
Calhoun-Cooper to take his departure. But he found out-sitting the
Representative a harder tax on his nervous system than he had bargained
for.

“Thee brings back happy memories,” said Madame Yvonett, with a
half-sigh. “Must thee go?” as Calhoun-Cooper stood up, “I have enjoyed
thy visit, friend; and if thee has an idle hour thee must come again.”

“I will,” promised Calhoun-Cooper, shaking hands warmly; then turning
to the expectant Tom, he asked; “Walk uptown with me, Nichols, I am
anxious to have a word with you.”

Tom’s face fell, and he was about to explain that he was obliged to
return almost immediately to Fort Myer when Madame Yvonett answered for
him.

“Go with Friend Cooper, Thomas,” she said, “and return and have supper
with me.”

“Thanks, Cousin Yvonett, I will. I only hesitated, sir,” addressing
Calhoun-Cooper, “because I am not walking; but I’ll be very happy to
take you home in my car.”

It was the Representative’s turn to hesitate. “Suppose you leave me at
the club instead,” he said finally. “Good night, Madame Yvonett.”

“Good night, friend,” the Quakeress accompanied the two men to her
front door. “Do not forget thee must come again soon.”

“I certainly will,” and raising his hat, Calhoun-Cooper stepped into
the motor. He watched Madame Yvonett until she closed the door.
“A gentlewoman of the old school, Nichols,” he commented softly.
“Cultured, brilliant, kindly----”

“She is that and then some,” exclaimed Tom enthusiastically. “Cousin
Yvonett is a brick.”

Calhoun-Cooper smiled. “Hardly the expression I should have selected,
but perhaps it covers my meaning.” He said no more until the car drew
up before his club. “Come in with me, Nichols, I am anxious to have an
uninterrupted talk with you. I will detain you but a few minutes.”

Barely waiting for Tom’s assent, he strode into the club and led the
way to a small unoccupied room and carefully closed the door. Tom
took the chair pushed toward him, and waited with some uneasiness for
his companion to explain why he wished to see him. He wondered if
Calhoun-Cooper had heard of some of Joe’s Washington escapades, and if
he was to be catechised on the subject.

“Miss Marjorie Langdon is your cousin, is she not?” asked
Calhoun-Cooper, breaking the silence.

“Yes; my second cousin, to be exact.”

“Can you tell me where she procured the emerald and diamond bracelet
which she pledged with the Justice of the Peace at Hyattsville...?”

“Can I what?” exclaimed Tom, in profound astonishment.

Calhoun-Cooper repeated the question.

“May I ask what earthly business it is of yours?” demanded Tom.

“The bracelet happens to belong to my daughter, Pauline,” was the calm
reply.

Hardly able to believe his ears, Tom sat back in his chair and glared
at Calhoun-Cooper.

“I was motoring down from Baltimore Christmas afternoon, and was
arrested for speeding just after your release,” continued the
Representative, receiving no response from his dumfounded companion.
“While paying my fine I saw and recognized Pauline’s bracelet lying
on the desk before the Justice of the Peace. He informed me it had
been left there by Miss Marjorie Langdon.” Tom’s convulsive start was
not lost on Calhoun-Cooper. “Will you kindly tell me how your cousin
obtained possession of my daughter’s bracelet?”

Tom stared stupidly at his questioner. “You’re cra--crazy,” he
stuttered. “My cou--cousin left her--left her own bracelet with the
Justice.”

“She did no such thing,” shortly. “I examined the bracelet carefully;
it belonged to my mother before I gave it to my daughter, and her
initials, my father’s, and the date of the wedding are engraved on the
inside of the bracelet. There was no possibility of my being mistaken.
Did you redeem the bracelet?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it?” holding out his hand.

“I can’t; I’ve returned it....”

“In that case,” slowly, “suppose we ask Miss Langdon for it.”

Tom squirmed in his seat. Ask Marjorie? Then indeed the fat would be in
the fire, and his promise to Janet to keep her presence at Hyattsville
a profound secret would be broken. Marjorie would undoubtedly declare
she had not been with him at Hyattsville.

“You must be mistaken about the bracelet, sir,” he protested
vehemently. “Call up and ask your daughter if she hasn’t her own.”

“I asked her this morning, and she informed me it was not in her
possession.”

Tom turned white. What the devil was the man driving at? It _must_ be
Janet’s bracelet; she would have been wearing none but her own that
afternoon. A wealthy girl did not deck herself out in other people’s
jewelry.

“I intended seeing you before this, Nichols,” continued Calhoun-Cooper,
after an appreciable pause. “But I have been exceedingly busy for the
past four days, and have had no opportunity to take up the matter of
the bracelet until today. I not only prize the piece of jewelry for its
association and money value, but I am determined to find out _how_ that
bracelet got out of my daughter’s possession.”

“What did your bracelet look like?”

Quickly Calhoun-Cooper told him, and Tom’s heart sank; it was an
accurate description of the one Janet had pledged with the Justice and
he had later redeemed.

“Do you recognize it?” demanded the Representative, and Tom nodded a
reluctant assent.

“They sound the same,” he acknowledged cautiously. “But stranger
coincidences have been known. Perhaps your daughter was also motoring
on the Bladensburg Pike that afternoon.”

“Don’t be a fool!” retorted Calhoun-Cooper roughly. “That bracelet was
stolen....”

“D--mn you!” Tom sprang for the other’s throat.

“Take your hands off me!” thundered Calhoun-Cooper, struggling to free
himself.

“I’ll make you eat those words first,” and Tom’s grasp tightened.

“I didn’t say your cousin stole the bracelet,” panted the other. “Have
a little sense.”

Slowly Tom released him, and the Representative straightened his
rumpled collar and tie.

“Suppose you explain exactly what you are driving at,” said Tom,
resuming his seat.

Calhoun-Cooper did not reply at once. “I went to Madame Yvonett’s
intending to question her....”

“Good Lord!” broke in Tom.

“But on seeing that dear old Quakeress I couldn’t do it,” admitted
Calhoun-Cooper. “I’m a great believer in caste, Nichols; no niece of
Madame Yvonett’s will go wrong. Ask Marjorie Langdon to tell you the
truth about that bracelet, and I will believe every word she says.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Tom, at a loss for a longer answer.

“I will let you speak to Miss Langdon; she’ll probably confide the
whole matter to you,” added Calhoun-Cooper, rising, and Tom followed
his example. “But remember, if I don’t get that bracelet back in two
days with an adequate explanation, I’ll go to Miss Langdon myself, and
if necessary--to the police.”

“That threat is not necessary,” exclaimed Tom, his anger rising. “And
speaking of making criminal investigations, sir; hadn’t you better
watch a member of your own family?”

Calhoun-Cooper recoiled, and before he could recover from the emotion
that mastered him, Tom was out of the club and into his roadster. As
the car shot away into the darkness, Tom laid his head wearily on the
steering wheel.

“In God’s name,” he mumbled, “how can I question the girl I adore as to
how a piece of jewelry came into her possession?”




CHAPTER XVII

OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN


MRS. FORDYCE awoke from her nap to discover Janet earnestly regarding
her from the depths of a big tufted arm-chair.

“Bless me, Cutie!” she ejaculated. “Have I been asleep?”

“You certainly have,” admitted Janet laughing. It was not often her
mother called her by the familiar, schoolgirl nickname. “And snoring,
too.”

“Janet!”

“Well, just a little snore,” hastily, noting her mother’s offended
expression. “I wouldn’t have disturbed you, mumsie, dear, if I hadn’t
thought Marjorie was here with you. I am sorry my entrance awoke you.”

“I have no business to be sleeping at this hour.” Mrs. Fordyce shook
herself more fully awake and glanced at the clock. “Are you not
lunching with the Thayers today?”

“Not going there until Saturday,” shortly. “Thank goodness I’m having a
little rest today.”

“Are you tired, dear?”

“Somewhat,” reluctantly.

“Then perhaps you had better give up going to the dance tonight----?”

“Miss the Charity Ball? Well, I guess not. Why, mumsie, they say that’s
the greatest fun ever.”

“I was only thinking of your health; you and Marjorie have both gone
out rather strenuously this past week, and Marjorie is showing the
strain also.”

“Then let her stay at home,” calmly. “I’m quite capable of taking care
of myself; and, mumsie, people are laughing at me for being tied to
Marjorie’s apron-strings.”

“What people?”

“Oh, some of the girls,” vaguely. “When you come down to it, mumsie, it
is rather annoying to have to ask advice and instruction from a girl
only a few years older than I.”

Mrs. Fordyce looked troubled. “Has Marjorie been officious in any way?”

“N--no,” reflectively. “But going to Marjorie for advice and seeing
her presiding in your place isn’t agreeable to me. I miss you, mumsie,
dear.”

“My baby girl!” Mrs. Fordyce crossed the room and gave her daughter a
loving kiss and hug. “And I miss you; but, dearest, it is impossible
for me to take part in the gay world, and I made this arrangement with
Marjorie as the best way to further your interests and pleasure. Duncan
tells me she is extremely popular and....”

“Oh, Duncan!” Janet shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “Duncan will
tell you anything to keep Marjorie here--he’s crazy about her.”

“What!” Mrs. Fordyce dropped back in her chair and gazed with
astonished eyes at Janet.

“Haven’t you noticed his infatuation?”

“Noticed it? Of course I haven’t,” with some sternness. “What
meddlesome Mattie has been hinting such a thing?”

“My two eyes,” tartly. “Hadn’t you better be using yours, mumsie?”

“That will do; I will not permit impertinence.”

“Well, if you will leave me under Marjorie’s influence....”

“I have yet to see one act or word on Marjorie Langdon’s part which you
might not copy with impunity,” declared Mrs. Fordyce with decision.
“And I have been thrown with her even more than you. No, it is someone
else who is responsible for your sudden--flippancy,” hesitating for a
word. A knock sounded on the boudoir door, and she called out: “Come
in. Well, Perkins, what it is?” as the butler appeared in the doorway.

“Miss Calhoun-Cooper wishes to see Miss Janet a moment,” he replied.

“Sit still, Janet,” directed Mrs. Fordyce, as her daughter made a
motion to rise. “Ask Miss Calhoun-Cooper to come up here, Perkins.”

“I thought you didn’t like Pauline?” said Janet in surprise, as the
butler retreated down the hall to the elevator.

“You have just convinced me that I am leaving you too much with others,
Janet,” dryly. “Hereafter I shall take pains to see more of your
friends. Good morning,” as Pauline entered the room. “You are very
good to come upstairs.”

“The idea of putting it that way, dear Mrs. Fordyce.” Pauline shook
hands effusively with her, and kissed Janet warmly. “Please don’t let
me disturb you; I only stopped to ask if Janet would care to go with me
to see Kellar, the magician, on Friday afternoon.”

“Of course I will,” exclaimed Janet, heartily. “Thanks so much; I dote
on Kellar.”

“Then you have seen him before?”

“Yes, a number of years ago. He’s sure to have some new tricks by this
time; I had no idea he was coming to Washington.”

“Kellar is only giving this one matinée performance. Do you think your
brother would care to go?”

“I’m sure he would; I’ll ask him,” rising hurriedly.

“Duncan is out just now,” put in Mrs. Fordyce. “He telephoned he would
lunch at the club.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as he comes in,” promised Janet, dropping
down on the sofa beside Pauline.

“You are very good to invite my girl and boy,” said Mrs. Fordyce. “I
thank you for giving them so much pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” insisted Pauline, lending undue emphasis to the
hackneyed phrase. “I regret I was only able to get four seats together,
Janet, and therefore cannot ask Miss Langdon to accompany us. Captain
Nichols has already promised to make the fourth in our small party.”

“We have not seen much of Captain Nichols lately,” commented Mrs.
Fordyce.

“Nor we,” answered Pauline. “I met him just as I was leaving the
theater this morning, and asked him then and there, to my relief, for
it is almost impossible to get him on the telephone. He tells me his
quarters are not connected with the post ’phone, and he has to go to
the officers’ club to get and send messages.”

“What keeps him so busy?” Janet examined Pauline’s jewel-studded gold
mesh bag with open admiration.

“When I taxed him with not calling, he said his official duties had
kept him tied to Fort Myer. That excuse covers his not visiting
us”--with an affected laugh, “but of course, there’s another reason for
his not calling here....”

“And pray, what is that?” demanded Mrs. Fordyce, eyeing her daughter’s
flushed countenance intently.

“A lover’s quarrel with--Marjorie Langdon.” Pauline pronounced the name
with much impressiveness. If she heard Janet’s sudden, sharply drawn
breath, she gave no sign.

“Captain Nichols and Marjorie!” exclaimed Mrs. Fordyce in bewilderment.
“You surprise me. I never knew he was attentive to _her_.”

“I suppose his relationship covers his attentions to the casual
observer,” went on Pauline thoughtfully. “How nearly related are they?”

“I believe he is Marjorie’s second cousin,” answered Janet in a voice
she strove to make indifferent.

“So there’s no bar to their marriage; except I believe, Miss Langdon
does not fancy love in a cottage.”

“You do Marjorie an injustice,” announced Mrs. Fordyce quietly. “If her
affections were really engaged, I don’t think she would hesitate to
make any sacrifice.”

“I hope your good opinion of her is justified.” Pauline flushed at the
rebuke, which Mrs. Fordyce’s manner more than her words, conveyed.
“Miss Langdon has gained a reputation for mercenary selfishness.”

“Poverty is apt to teach one the value of money,” replied Mrs. Fordyce.
“Still, that is different from being staring and stark mad; and I for
one shall give Marjorie the benefit of the doubt. Every cent of money
she has, she lavishes on her aunt, Madame Yvonett; that does not look
to me like ‘mercenary selfishness.’”

“Miss Langdon is fortunate to have you for a friend,” Pauline rose.
“And I am afraid she needs them, poor girl; people are not always
prepossessed in her favor.” Her voice expressed deep commiseration,
and Mrs. Fordyce felt inclined to box her ears. Accustomed to being
accorded every deference by her family, and protected by her seclusion
from contact with the free and easy manner of the younger generation
to their elders, she deeply resented Pauline’s flouting address
and flippant style. Pauline, busy adjusting her furs, missed the
disapproving look cast in her direction, and turning to Janet, asked:
“Will I see you at the ball tonight?”

“Yes, we expect to go.” Some of the enthusiasm of the morning had gone
from the fresh young voice, and again Mrs. Fordyce covertly studied her
daughter. What had come over Janet?

“Your box is next ours,” continued Pauline, lingering near the sofa.
“Mrs. Walbridge is on our other side. Mother always insists on finding
out who our neighbors will be before purchasing tickets for charitable
entertainments.”

“As a health precaution?” inquired Mrs. Fordyce. “Or is it a question
of social prestige?”

“Both,” acknowledged Pauline quickly. “So many things are catching
these days, we don’t like to come in contact with--dirt.” And her
meaning smile deepened as she saw Mrs. Fordyce flinch; she had scored
at last. “We all have our idiosyncrasies, dear Mrs. Fordyce; good-bye.
Don’t trouble to come downstairs with me, Janet, I can find my way out
alone.”

“Of course I’m coming with you.” Janet followed her friend out of the
room, leaving her mother sitting in her chair in a brown study. She was
aroused almost immediately by Janet’s re-entrance.

“What an odious creature!” she shivered. “Upon my word, Janet, what’s
the world coming to? Are there no ladies any more?”

“Now don’t be old-fashioned,” Janet threw herself down pettishly on
the sofa. “Can you give me some money, mumsie?”

“What has become of your father’s Christmas check?”

“Spent,” laconically. “I can’t help it, mumsie; money just evaporates
in this old town. I just want to buy a--a--new bracelet,” glancing down
deprecatingly at her bare wrist.

“You have a careless hand, Janet,” said her mother reprovingly.
“However, I cannot have you want for anything. Will a check for fifty
dollars do?”

“Oh, yes; thank you, darling,” beaming gratefully upon her mother. “But
instead of a check, could you give me----” she stopped as some one
rapped on the door. In response to Mrs. Fordyce’s bidding, Marjorie
stepped into the room.

“Am I late?” she asked, laying a bundle of papers on the table beside
Mrs. Fordyce.

“Twenty-five minutes ahead of luncheon,” answered Janet shortly.

“What have you here, Marjorie?” Mrs. Fordyce put her hand on the papers.

“Receipted bills,” Marjorie drew up her chair and sorted the papers
carefully.

“The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker,” quoted Mrs.
Fordyce, busily inspecting Marjorie. She saw her through new eyes, the
eyes of a mother judging a possible daughter-in-law. Suddenly, she
pressed her fingers against her eyes; the lids were wet with tears.

“If I were you, I would stop dealing with Jackson,” announced Marjorie,
finding the particular bill she was searching for. “He calmly sent
in an unitemized account, calling for seventy-five dollars, and when
I insisted on going over his books, we found he had overcharged you
eighteen dollars. I gave him the check Mr. Fordyce had made out for the
larger sum on condition that he refund me the eighteen dollars. Here it
is,” tumbling the money out on the table.

“You won’t be popular with the cook, Marjorie, if you have interfered
with her rake-off,” snapped Janet. “What’s a few dollars to father?”

“Janet!” Mrs. Fordyce spoke in a tone that Marjorie had never heard
before, and her daughter on but one other occasion. “You forget
yourself strangely this morning; apologize at once to Marjorie for your
unnecessary remark.”

“I meant no offense to Marjorie,” protested Janet. “I merely intended
to say it was silly of her to interfere after things have been bought
and paid for.”

“Your explanation strikes me as being worse than the offense,” Mrs.
Fordyce was thoroughly aroused, and not heeding Marjorie’s attempt to
restore peace, added, “I am grateful to Marjorie for saving me from
a swindler; apparently you think because the amount is small that I
should submit to being robbed. Let me tell you, Janet, that no one is
so rich that he can stand being fleeced, and any woman who knowingly
permits graft in her kitchen is worse than a fool. Never let me hear
you again advocate condoning knavery.”

Janet bowed before the storm. “I won’t, mother,” meekly. “Indeed,
Marjorie, I did not mean to insult you in any way.”

“I am sure you didn’t,” answered Marjorie, more puzzled than hurt by
Janet’s peculiar manner; they had been from their first meeting sworn
allies and good comrades. “Please think no more about it, dear.”

“What dirty money!” Mrs. Fordyce withdrew her hand from the table
hastily. “Do take it away.”

“With pleasure,” laughed Janet, recovering somewhat her usually sunny
disposition, and she was about to gather up the soiled bank notes when
her mother stopped her.

“No, you must not touch them,” she declared, and Marjorie opened her
eyes at her vehemence. “I will have Calderon send them to the Treasury
to be redeemed.”

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said Perkins from behind the half-open door.
“Captain Nichols is at the telephone and wishes to speak to----”

“Me, Perkins?” and Janet sprang to her feet.

“No, Miss Janet, he asked for Miss Langdon.”

“Won’t you take the message for me, Janet?” inquired Marjorie, laying a
paper-weight over the receipted bills.

“No, certainly not,” and Janet disappeared from the room.

“Pay no attention to her whims,” advised Mrs. Fordyce kindly. “I’ll go
over the accounts with you later; don’t keep Captain Nichols waiting.”

Marjorie found Tom exceedingly curt on the telephone, and she hung up
the receiver a few seconds later, wondering what under the sun induced
everyone to become so ill-tempered all of a sudden. As she walked
through the dining-room after leaving the pantry, where she had gone to
answer the telephone in preference to disturbing Mr. Calderon Fordyce
in his library, she encountered Janet pouring out a glass of ice water.

“What did your cousin want?” she asked.

“He said he would be unable to dine here tonight....”

“Does he think we run a hotel,” Janet was pale with anger, “that he
breaks our invitations at will? How dare he treat us so cavalierly!”

“Stop!” Marjorie’s authoritative voice, though low-pitched, brought the
furious girl to her senses. “Captain Nichols intends no disrespect to
your family or to you; in fact, he highly appreciates your kindness and
hospitality.”

“Then why doesn’t he come here?”

“He told me to tell you that he had received an invitation to dine at
the White House, and therefore had to cancel his engagement here, to
his great regret. He will join us later at the Charity Ball.”

“I see,” Janet’s face altered. “I understand now, please say
nothing....”

“Certainly not,” and Marjorie, seeing that Janet obviously desired to
be alone, made her way thoughtfully to her room.

Once there she lost no time in getting out her calling costume
preparatory to a hurried toilet after luncheon. On reaching up for her
hat which she kept on the top shelf in her closet, she knocked down a
cherished florist’s box and out tumbled a withered bunch of violets.
With an exclamation of annoyance, she stooped to pick up the petals
and dried leaves, and her fingers closed over cold metal. Considerably
startled, Marjorie retreated to the window and examined what she held
in her hand. It was a beautiful emerald and diamond bracelet which was
carefully secured about the short stems of the bouquet.

Marjorie gazed at it in complete bewilderment; then going over to the
closet, she picked up the box and its cover. It bore the florist’s name
from whom Duncan had sent her a corsage bouquet some days before; but
certainly when she wore the violets and afterward put them away for
safe keeping no bracelet had encircled the stems.

More and more startled Marjorie returned to the window, and inspected
the bracelet with minute care. The unique design seemed oddly familiar.
With great difficulty she finally deciphered the initials on the
inside: “S. P.”--“J. C. C.”--“Jan. 14, 1844.”

“‘S. P.--J. C. C.’” she repeated thoughtfully. “J. C. C.--where have I
heard--Heavens! J. Calhoun-Cooper--of course, I’ve seen Pauline wear
the bracelet. How did it get here?” She looked at the beautiful bauble
with increasing horror, as her ever-present fear supplied an answer to
her question.

“God help Janet if Pauline ever finds out who took her bracelet,” she
groaned. “She will meet no mercy there.”




CHAPTER XVIII

LIGHT-FINGERED GENTRY


TOM NICHOLS passed down the long line of the receiving party at the
Charity Ball and paused near the north end of the New Willard ballroom
and looked about him. The floor was thronged with dancers, and from
where he stood it was impossible to make out the occupants of the boxes
which lined the length of the room on both sides. He waited for some
minutes, hoping that at the end of the dance he would be able to walk
about the floor, but the music was continuous, the Marine Band breaking
into a fox trot when the Engineer Band at the opposite end of the room,
ceased playing. He shouldered his way through the waiting men, and
dodging between the dancers, he walked down the room as best he could,
and reaching the center spied Marjorie and Janet sitting in their box
with several friends. In a few seconds he joined them.

“Better late than never, Tom,” exclaimed Marjorie gaily. “You’re a
sight for sair e’en. Janet dear, here is Captain Nichols.”

“Oh, how are you,” Janet paused long enough in her conversation with
Baron von Valkenberg to take Tom’s hand, then deliberately turned her
back on him.

Tom’s lips were compressed in a hard line as he bowed to Mrs.
Calhoun-Cooper, who was occupying an adjoining seat in the next box,
and leaning across the brass railing which divided them, he conversed
for a short time with her. A movement in his own box caused him to turn
back, and he discovered Janet on the point of leaving. He stepped in
front of her deliberately.

“My dance, Miss Janet,” he announced. A quick denial sprang to her
lips, only to be checked by the quiet confidence of his manner. Tom
encountered von Valkenberg’s astonished stare over her shoulder, and
addressed him directly. “Sorry, Baron, to disappoint you, but Miss
Janet promised me this dance some time ago; come,” and with care he
assisted Janet down the few steps leading to the floor.

So congested was the dancing that after circling the room once Tom
stopped his partner near the entrance to the small ballroom and led her
inside it.

“Suppose we sit over there,” he said pointing to some chairs at the
farther corner of the room. “There is no pleasure in dancing with such
a mob on the floor.”

“It’s much cooler here,” volunteered Janet, a few minutes later,
breaking a pause which threatened to become awkward.

“Yes,” absently.

Janet glanced askance at Tom. She had longed to see him, and now
that he was by her side, she was tongue-tied. She knew that every
instant spent in Tom’s society would arouse Barnard’s jealous rage, but
forbidden fruit was sweet.

“Why did you boast of our motor trip to Hyattsville?” she blurted out.

“I, boast of it? I never mentioned it to a soul!” If she had exploded a
firecracker before Tom, he could not have been more astounded. “I swear
I never told anyone,” he added, with vigor, and her aching heart was
comforted.

“I believe you,” she answered, with such trust kindling her shy regard
that Tom hitched his chair closer to her side.

“Did you really think I had betrayed your precious confidence in me?”
Janet shook her head.

“I couldn’t, just couldn’t, believe it,” she admitted.

“You darling!” Tom’s hand sought hers. “Who dared to say I boasted of
such a thing?”

“As long as you didn’t do it, the rest doesn’t matter,” declared Janet,
with true feminine logic, and changed the subject abruptly. “Was it fun
at the White House?”

“I’d have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t wanted to be elsewhere,” admitted
Tom truthfully. “An invitation to the White House is final--to an army
or navy officer; I couldn’t decline it, no previous engagement plea
goes. I hope you understand....”

“Oh, quite,” Janet was nervously playing with her fan. “But there have
been other times when you might have co--when the White House wouldn’t
have interfered with your coming to--to--see me.”

“Only your wish kept me away.”

“My wish?” Startled, Janet faced toward him.

“Certainly; how else was I to construe your silence?”

“My silence!” indignantly. “Did you want me to cry from the house-tops
that I wished to see you?”

“Such an extreme measure was not necessary,” retorted Tom stiffly. “An
answer to my message would have been sufficient.”

“I never received any message from you.”

“What! Why, I told your brother to ask you to telephone when I could
call and see you?”

“He never told me--only mentioned you were to dine with us tonight----”

“That’s the limit!” Tom banged his sword-hilt with his fist. “Not
getting any reply from you I jumped to the conclusion you were tired of
seeing me.”

“For a soldier you’re mighty easily discouraged,” taunted Janet, her
spirits rising as the misgivings and doubts of the past few days gave
way before Tom’s explanations.

“Never again,” vowed Tom. “Next time I’ll storm the citadel. But joking
aside,” dropping his bantering tone. “I did try to see you; called
several times, telephoned--but you were always out. I finally decided
it was intentional; thought you wanted to drop me.”

“How could you be so unjust!” Janet’s reproachful look caused Tom’s
heart to beat more rapidly under his blue uniform. “I am always loyal
to my friends. You won’t back out of dining with us tomorrow night?”

“What a way to put it?” Tom made a slight grimace. “Of course, I’m
coming, and I’ll count the hours until then.”

“The day after Christmas I waited in for you the whole afternoon and
evening, and you never came,” continued Janet plaintively.

“I couldn’t get away from Myer that afternoon, and had to wait until
Friday before going to Hyattsville to redeem your bracelet. By the way
that bracelet is very beautiful,” lowering his voice. “The emeralds and
diamonds are exceptionally fine, and the workmanship exquisite.”

“I am so glad your taste coincides with mine,” said Janet, with a quick
coquettish glance upward. “I couldn’t bear to lose the bracelet; it is
so unique.”

Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Have you ever seen another bracelet
like it?” he questioned at length. A keen glance accompanied the words,
but Janet was watching the distant dancers, and her expression conveyed
nothing to him.

“N--no, I don’t believe I have,” she replied slowly, and Tom’s heart
sank. “It’s unusual appearance is one of its beauties to me. Have you
my bracelet with you?”

“Have I?” in profound astonishment. “No,” then seeing her disappointed
look, he asked sharply, “Why should you expect me to have your
bracelet?”

“Who else would have it?” her eyes opening wider. “Didn’t you redeem it
for me?”

“Of course I did, but I left it at your house on Saturday.”

“Left it at my house?” she half rose, then sank back again in her
chair. “I have never received it.”

“What! Didn’t you find it in the box of violets?”

“Violets? I never received any violets from you.”

“You didn’t?” Tom’s bewilderment was so pronounced that Janet took
fright.

“D--do you think the florist stole the bracelet?” she demanded
breathlessly.

“No, he couldn’t have. I bought the violets at Small’s, took them with
me in my motor, and on a side street opened the box and slipped the
bracelet over the stems, where you couldn’t fail to see it. I left the
box at your house myself.”

Janet looked at him queerly. “Ah, indeed; and with which member of the
household did you leave it?”

“I gave it to Perkins, and he promised to deliver it to you immediately
on your return.”

“He never gave it to me.”

Tom rose. “I’ll go straight up to your house and ask him for it.”

“No, no.” She laid a restraining hand on his sword-hilt. “He is
probably in bed by now; mother’s so thoughtful for her servants, she
lets them retire early when I’m out with Duncan; he always has his
latchkey. I’ll ask Perkins first thing in the morning.”

“And will you let me know the results?” Tom resumed his seat. “I shall
be on tenter-hooks until I know the bracelet is safely in your hands. I
feel responsible, you know; if it’s lost....”

“Nonsense,” noting his worried air. “Bracelets have disappeared before;
don’t take it to heart.”

“Can you tell me which jewelry shop it came from----?”

It was some moments before she replied. “It was an antique.”

Tom’s heart grew heavy again. At every question he ran into a blank
wall. How was he ever to disprove Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper’s
absurd statement unless he had something tangible to work on. The
bracelet was surely bewitched by some evil genius.

“An antique? That’s hard luck,” he answered finally. “If it is really
lost through my carelessness in trusting a servant, I shall want to
replace it....”

“You mustn’t think of such a thing,” vehemently.

“Oh, but I insist. You draw the design and I’ll have it made.”

“I shouldn’t think of letting you go to all that expense,” protested
Janet.

“To think I made you lose an ornament you value!” groaned Tom. “I, who
would move heaven and earth to spare you the slightest....” but Janet
never waited for him to complete the sentence; she had caught sight of
Chichester Barnard standing in the doorway talking to Mrs. Walbridge.
His back was turned to them; it was just possible that he had not seen
that she was with Tom. She sprang to her feet.

“Do forgive me,” she whispered hurriedly. “Marjorie has just waved to
me; I must go. Please don’t follow me.” And before the startled officer
could even get to his feet she had darted across the floor and out of
the room, and brought up breathless beside Mrs. Walbridge.

“No sign of late hours in these rosy cheeks,” commented the latter,
touching Janet’s scarlet face with her gloved finger. “She needs no
beauty sleep.”

“Indeed, no,” agreed Barnard. “But I’m going to be selfish enough to
ask Miss Janet to sit out a dance with me,” laying his hand with an air
of possession on her arm which enlightened sentimental Mrs. Walbridge.

“Run along,” she directed, interrupting Janet’s hasty protests. “I was
young once myself. Don’t bother to wait for me. My husband will get me
some fruit punch.”

Reluctantly Janet walked toward her box, Barnard in close attendance.
In her desire not to have him see her with Tom, she had given him
an opening for a quiet chat with her alone--unless Marjorie was in
their box. But Marjorie, attended by Baron von Valkenberg, had gone
“visiting” in a neighboring box, and Duncan was dancing with Pauline
Calhoun-Cooper. Janet prayed that Barnard was in a pleasant mood;
she had grown to dread his uncertain temper. He could be so charming
when he wanted to. Her heart was fluttering like a caged bird as she
preceded Barnard into the empty box; she dared not offend him, and she
dreaded more scenes.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” she began.

“For what?”

“On your inheritance.”

“Oh, that!” Barnard spoke as if it were a mere bagatelle. “I may be a
long time getting it; settling an estate is tedious work. Aunt Margaret
was angelic to remember me in her will, and I am doubly grateful,
because, when I receive the inheritance I can lavish it all on you, my
darling,” bending toward her, but a loud burst of laughter from the
Calhoun-Cooper box caused him to look in that direction. Janet moved
her chair imperceptibly nearer the brass railing and away from his side.

“On second’s thought I don’t believe I’ll let you spend any of your
inheritance on me,” she remarked thoughtfully, as he turned back to
her. The pupils of his eyes contracted, and Janet was conscious of a
feeling akin to repulsion.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“I’m not good enough for you, Chichester,” she stammered. “You
should marry a woman of brilliant mental attainments--a woman of the
world--I’m only an unformed schoolgirl.”

“You have too modest an opinion of yourself,” he protested with
passionate ardor. “It’s your freshness, your originality which I
adore. My bonnie lassie and her susceptible heart!” His voice and eyes
caressed her, and a warmer color suffused her cheeks. “I’m not half
good enough for you, but such as I am, I am your slave always.”

“Always!” she echoed, and Barnard leaned forward to look more closely
at her, but she avoided his direct gaze, and concentrated her attention
on the dancers on the floor beneath them.

All Washington apparently was present to aid the pet charity for which
the ball was annually given, and men and women in every condition
of life were enjoying the entertainment. High government officials,
diplomats, leaders of the ultra-smart set, and members of the resident
circle vied with each other to make the ball a success. Janet scanned
the opposite boxes in which sat beautifully gowned women, whose superb
jewels glittered in the rays of the hundreds of electric lights.

“My darling!” She jumped nervously, and held up a protesting hand.

“Hush!” she cautioned. “Don’t forget Mrs. J. Calhoun-Cooper is sitting
near us, and she may overhear....”

“Why doesn’t she go away,” muttered Barnard disgustedly. “Lately, I
seldom have you to myself. If I was of a suspicious nature, I might
think it was intentional”--Janet squirmed in her chair, and after
contemplating her a moment in smiling satisfaction, Barnard again
inspected Mrs. J. Calhoun-Cooper. “She looks like an Indian begum.”

“Don’t be so unkind in your criticism,” with an effort Janet summoned a
careless smile. “Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s gown is a creation.”

“Hum! the modiste has left most of the surface to be covered by
jewels--cold comfort tonight. Don’t you want your scarf over your
shoulders?”

“No, thank you; I am still warm from dancing.” Janet’s eyes again
sought the throng below her. “I wonder where Marjorie is--and Duncan.
Oh, look, who is the pretty woman dancing with Joe Calhoun-Cooper?”

Barnard glanced in the direction she indicated, and his eyebrows rose
suggestively. “No one you are likely to know, lady bird. How fearfully
they dance.”

“She is graceful,” declared Janet. “But Joe--nothing could make him so.”

“Women take to the new-fangled dances better than the men,” grumbled
Barnard. “Give me the old-fashioned waltz and two-step every time. Even
the music has deteriorated; no melody any more. Listen to that,” as the
Marine Band burst into a popular tune, “nothing to be heard but the big
drum, it drowns every other instrument--hark!”

“But I don’t want to hear it,” she objected. “Let us talk instead.”

“That is just what we can’t do--the big drum sounds distinct and clear;
listen--!”

[Illustration: “Barnard again inspected Mrs. J. Calhoun-Cooper. ‘She
looks like an Indian begum.’”]

Mrs. J. Calhoun-Cooper’s ever busy eyes had also noted the pretty woman
with whom Joe was dancing, and a displeased frown marked her forehead.
She was about to send one of her guests after Joe with a message
that she desired his presence, when she observed Marjorie Langdon
approaching. Joe and his pretty partner stopped dancing near the
latter, and Marjorie, recognizing Kathryn Allen, stepped forward and
held out her hand, but no sign of recognition lighted the nurse’s face,
and after inspecting Marjorie with marked insolence she cut her dead.
Mrs. J. Calhoun-Cooper, an interested spectator of the little drama,
thrilled with satisfaction as she caught the hot resentment that flamed
in Marjorie’s face. Controlling herself, Marjorie stepped back out of
the crowd and came face to face with Duncan Fordyce.

“I don’t know where you’ve been keeping yourself,” he said, “but I
searched both ballrooms and haven’t found a sign of you until now.”

“I haven’t been dancing,” she sighed rather wearily. “Mrs. Burns asked
me to sit in her box for a while; I am on my way back to Janet now to
arrange about going down to supper.”

“Let us have one dance first,” pleaded Duncan, and taking silence for
consent, he slipped his arm about her waist and they threaded a way
through the other dancers.

Pushing unpleasant thoughts to one side, Marjorie surrendered herself
wholly to the pleasure of the moment. The pressure of Duncan’s strong
arm gave her a sense of protection which soothed her jagged nerves
unutterably, and she danced almost without being conscious of the
people around her. Duncan’s gaze sought her face so persistently that
they had several narrow escapes from bad collisions. They were turning
a corner near the entrance to the small ballroom when they caromed
violently into a man who was striving to make his way down the room,
and shot him against the side of one of the boxes.

“I beg your pardon,” apologized Duncan and Marjorie in concert, and the
stranger, recovering his equilibrium, stared fixedly at Duncan.

“Nice way to treat old friends,” he began, but got no further.

“Paul Potter! by all that’s glorious!” shouted Duncan, seizing his hand
and wringing it hard. “Where did you drop from?”

“New York, stopping with Judge and Mrs. Walbridge. I tried to telephone
you”----he stopped out of breath.

“Miss Langdon, let me present Dr. Paul Potter, of San Francisco,” broke
in Duncan, and Marjorie found herself looking into the most piercing
eyes she had ever seen in human head, as her hand was taken in a firm
clasp.

“Very glad to meet you, Miss Langdon,” said the physician cordially.
“I’m sorry to have interrupted your dance.”

“We were on the point of stopping----” she began.

“Not so that I could notice it,” and Dr. Potter’s eyes twinkled.

“I am afraid we were exceeding the speed limit,” acknowledged Duncan.
“Come over to our box, Paul, and sit with us.”

“I can’t, old man, I must be getting back to Mrs. Walbridge; she is
anxious to go down to supper.”

“Perhaps we can get a table together. Come on, I’ll ask Mrs. Walbridge,
her box is near ours.”

Marjorie accompanied the two men to the steps leading to the boxes,
but on approaching the one occupied by Mrs. Walbridge she turned and
addressed Duncan.

“I won’t wait for you,” she said, “but will join Janet at once.”

“Very well, I’ll be along in a minute,” and Marjorie hastened down the
narrow aisle alone.

Janet and Chichester Barnard were still sitting as close as the chairs
permitted in the corner of the box, their heads almost touching as they
whispered together, and Marjorie’s eyes narrowed as she took in the
tableau. She had watched Janet dancing with Tom with a contented mind,
and the last she had seen of Barnard he was dancing attendance on Mrs.
Walbridge.

“Well, good people, thinking of supper?” she inquired, and noticed with
an odd sensation Janet’s flushed face and embarrassed manner as she
turned to meet her.

“Our thoughts are not so material,” protested Barnard easily.

“N--no?” and the faint irony of her tone was not lost on Barnard’s
keen susceptibilities.

“Who was the little man walking down the room with you and Duncan,
Marjorie?” questioned Janet hurriedly. “His face looked familiar.”

“Dr. Potter, of San Francisco.”

“Of course; how stupid of me not to recognize him, he once attended
mother,” in a hurried aside as her brother and Tom entered the box.

“Going down to supper?” asked Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper, attracted by her
neighbors’ preparations for leaving.

“Yes,” replied Marjorie shortly.

“Then suppose we join forces,” ignoring the lack of cordiality in
Marjorie’s manner. “Kindly hand me my scarf.” Her overbearing tone
brought the carmine to Marjorie’s cheeks, and a hot retort was on
her lips when, thinking better of it, she mastered her indignation.
Stooping she picked up the gold and silver Coronation scarf which had
fallen inside their box, and laid it across Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s bare
expanse of shoulder.

“All ready?” questioned Duncan, inspecting his small party. “Then come
on.”

Once in the crowded dining-room on the ground floor of the New Willard,
Marjorie thanked a kindly Providence which ordained that the tables
were too small to accommodate the Calhoun-Cooper party and her own,
and she saw them depart to another quarter of the room with inward
joy. Barnard, silently resenting that he was the fifth spoke in the
wheel, left them, and joined another group of friends, and Duncan,
contemplating his sister and Tom already deep in conversation, gave his
undivided attention to Marjorie. They were none of them conscious of
the tardiness of the service, or the flight of time, and Tom gave voice
to genuine regret as they finally rose from the table and made their
way to the lift.

“Why do good times have to end?” he grumbled. “I don’t know when I have
enjoyed myself so much.”

“It has been fun,” agreed Janet softly, secretly longing to linger
beside the distinguished-looking young officer. “Shall we see you at
dinner tomorrow?”

“You bet!” he whispered, with emphasis.

“Go ahead, Janet,” Duncan’s strong arm propelled his sister forward.
“Don’t you see the lift is waiting?”

As Marjorie and Tom started to follow them some new arrivals pushed
rudely between, and an instant later, the packed elevator shot upward.

“Never mind, we’ll catch the next one,” said Tom consolingly, as
he darted to the second shaft. “It’s coming down now.” They waited
impatiently for the passengers in the elevator to step out in the
square hall, then entered and found they had the lift to themselves.
The elevator boy was about to release the lever, when the starter
tapped on the glass partition, and throwing open the door, permitted
Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper to step inside.

“Good evening, sir,” said Marjorie cordially.

“Oh, how do you do,” replied Calhoun-Cooper, somewhat taken aback on
recognizing his companions. He barely nodded to Tom, whose greeting was
equally curt; and Marjorie, becoming aware of the apparently strained
relations between the two men, broke the awkward silence.

“I am afraid you are too late to see the ball at its height,” she said.

“I couldn’t get here any earlier,” answered Calhoun-Cooper. “Have you
seen my wife and daughter this evening?”

“Yes; they finished supper before we did, and have already gone back to
the ballroom.”

Calhoun-Cooper, who had been watching Marjorie with peculiar
intentness, wheeled on Tom.

“My congratulations, Captain,” he said sardonically. “You executed my
commission with commendable quickness.”

“I don’t catch your meaning, sir,” retorted Tom frigidly.

“The bracelet was returned to me this evening. My thanks to you--both,”
and bowing he turned to the door as the boy brought the lift to a stop.

Under the shock of his words Tom and Marjorie stood stock still, eying
one another in complete bewilderment, while one question raced through
the brains of both: what did the other know of the lost bracelet?

“All out,” exclaimed the elevator boy insistently, as he rolled
back the door, and Marjorie, recovering herself first, followed
Calhoun-Cooper into the reception hall out of which opened the large
ballroom and cloak-rooms.

Just as Calhoun-Cooper started for the ballroom, Pauline crossed the
threshold, and seeing her father, stopped short.

“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, making no effort to lower her penetrating
voice. “Mother’s pearl necklace has been stolen from her.”




CHAPTER XIX

FALSE WITNESS


MARJORIE handed the menu back to the chef, gave him the completed
marketing list, added a few instructions, and made her way to the
boudoir. There was no buoyancy in her step, and she looked wretchedly
ill as she crossed the threshold into the sunlit room. If Mrs. Fordyce
had not been deeply immersed in her own condition, she could hardly
have failed to observe the deep circles under Marjorie’s eyes, and the
hectic flush in each white cheek. Her sleepless night had left its
telltale mark.

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Fordyce?” asked Marjorie, walking over to
the couch on which the older woman was lying propped up with pillows.

“Better, thank you; if this old heart of mine only stops palpitating
I will be up and about again in no time. Sit down by me, dear,” and
Marjorie took a chair by the couch.

“Don’t you think I had better call off the dinner tonight?” she said.

“No, indeed,” with emphasis. “These heart attacks are not serious.”
Marjorie, perceiving the blueness of her lips and her gray pallor,
thought differently, and her heart ached for her gentle benefactress.
She longed to take Mrs. Fordyce into her confidence, to tell her all
her doubts and fears; but how could she tell the story of the thefts
implicating Janet to the mother who adored her? “Janet has set her
heart on having this dinner, and I cannot disappoint the child,” went
on Mrs. Fordyce.

“But I don’t think Janet will enjoy entertaining while you are ill,”
said Marjorie.

“Tut! Just an indisposition; don’t alarm the child,” sharply.

“I wouldn’t think of doing it,” protested Marjorie. “I only feared the
sound of the guests’ voices might disturb you.”

“Not a bit of it; this house is soundproof,” smiled Mrs. Fordyce.
“There was a time when I reveled in dinners and dances; now I have to
take my fun by proxy--don’t begrudge me the crumbs.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fordyce!” Marjorie’s shocked voice brought another smile to
her companion’s lips.

“There, there, dearie,” she patted Marjorie’s hand affectionately.
“Don’t worry about a worn-out shell. Calderon has sent for a trained
nurse; not that I need one, but the idea seemed to give him some
comfort.”

“And of course you agreed.”

“Naturally; when you are married, my dear, you will soon discover that
matrimony is made up of mutual concessions; that is, if you wish to
stay married to the same man. Tell me, is there any truth in the report
of your engagement....” Marjorie’s fingers tightened on the hand she
was holding, then slowly loosened.... “to Captain Nichols?”

“Tom!” Her surprise was so pronounced that Mrs. Fordyce smiled to
herself. “Why, he’s just like an elder brother.”

“Ah, then you are heart-whole and fancy free?” But Marjorie treated
the sentence as a remark and not as a question, and Mrs. Fordyce
continued pleasantly. “Enough of intimate affairs today. Will you go
through the morning mail and use your judgment about the answers to the
invitations?”

Marjorie picked up the pile of letters on the table and rose.

“Are you----?” she stumbled in her speech, and Mrs. Fordyce eyed
her in some surprise. “Are you quite satisfied with me?” and under
her lingerie waist her heart pounded painfully as she awaited Mrs.
Fordyce’s answer which was somewhat long in coming.

“Absolutely satisfied,” acknowledged Mrs. Fordyce, and the smile
accompanying the words almost broke down Marjorie’s composure.
Stooping, she kissed her warmly, and when she looked up some of the
brightness had returned to her face. “I have absolute confidence in
you,” added Mrs. Fordyce quietly. “Run along now, dear, and come back
when you have finished answering the letters.”

Lighter at heart Marjorie hastened to the library, but on opening
the door, she discovered Mr. Calderon Fordyce busy at his desk, and
without disturbing him, she slipped back into the hall and sought the
drawing-room. Going over to the boule cabinet, which she on several
occasions had used in an emergency, she proceeded to open and sort Mrs.
Fordyce’s correspondence, frequently making entries and looking up
dates in an engagement book which she had brought with her. The last
letter was in a handwriting which she recognized, and wondering why
Mrs. Arnold should send a second invitation to the same person in the
same mail, she tore open the envelope.

  DEAR MRS. FORDYCE, [she read],

  I am just sending a formal invitation to your daughter to our dinner
  dance at the Country Club, and I do hope that she can come. I will see
  that Miss Fordyce is properly chaperoned. Miss Langdon’s presence will
  not be necessary....

Marjorie dropped the letter and stared vacantly before her. Five days
previously Mrs. Arnold had gushingly invited her to the dinner dance,
telling her that a written invitation would be sent to her shortly, and
begging her not to forget the engagement. What did the sudden change of
front portend? “Miss Langdon”--heretofore Mrs. Arnold, a leader in the
young married set, had always addressed her as “Marjorie.”

Putting the letter back in its envelope, Marjorie commenced an answer
to a luncheon invitation, and completing it, hurriedly folded the
notepaper, only to discover that the back sheet was partially written
on. With an exclamation of annoyance, she caught it up and ran her
eyes over the clear back-hand, her mind subconsciously taking in the
meaning of the written words:

  DEAR CAPTAIN NICHOLS:

  I am sending this by special delivery, as I want you to get it without
  fail [heavily underscored]. Perkins tells me he had to go out and gave
  your violets to Annie, the chamber maid. Annie says she placed the
  box in the dressing-room as it was cooler there and she thought the
  flowers would keep better. She knows nothing more of the matter, did
  not tell me of the flowers because she thought they would be found by
  me or Marjorie Langdon....

A bad blot finished the sentence, and explained why the sheet had been
discarded.

Marjorie sat stunned, too confused, at first to puzzle out the
significance of the unfinished note, which was in Janet’s unmistakable
handwriting. Then she rose, stumbled over to the broad sofa, and
curling up in one corner, pillowed her head on her arms, and gave
herself up to elucidating the enigma;--but the more she thought the
more nonplussed she became.

Janet’s note indicated that Tom Nichols had sent her violets which
apparently she had never received; she hinted that Marjorie might have
found them--but the only violets which she, Marjorie had received
had come from Janet’s brother, Duncan, the afternoon of the British
Embassy dinner. Touched by the attention, and stirred by a deeper
emotion than she had ever felt before, she had carefully preserved
Duncan’s withered bouquet in her closet. Astounded by the discovery
of the emerald and diamond bracelet in her flower box; utterly unable
to explain how it got there, she had, in her desire to protect Janet
and silence any investigation which the loss of the bracelet might
start, returned it anonymously to Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper. In
the light of Janet’s note, had she inadvertently, not looking at the
contents of Small’s box, put away in her closet Janet’s violets, and
the maid, finding only Duncan’s withered bouquet in the dressing-room,
thrown it away? It seemed the only explanation. But Representative J.
Calhoun-Cooper’s remarks in the lift at the ball indicated that he was
aware the bracelet had come from her, Marjorie, and that _Tom knew
of its loss_. Could it be that Tom had discovered that Janet was a
kleptomaniac?

The mere idea brought Marjorie up all standing; only to sink back
again with a groan, appalled at the possibility. Honest Tom, with his
high standards of rectitude, in love with a girl whose perception of
the laws governing _meum_ and _tuum_ was so blunted, spelled tragedy.
Marjorie dismissed the thought with a shudder, and her mind reverted to
another puzzling phase of the situation: Calhoun-Cooper, by speech, and
Tom, by look, had implied she was responsible for the loss and return
of the bracelet. Who had....

“For once I’ve caught you napping!” teased a voice, and Marjorie jerked
herself erect, to find Chichester Barnard standing looking down at her.

The laughter in his eyes gave way to concern at sight of her face. “My
darling, what is it?” he questioned, alarmed.

“Nothing”--then seeing his disbelief, she added, “Nothing that would
interest you....”

“But everything that concerns you, interests me,” he protested. “What
is troubling you?”

“A matter of no moment,” speaking more briskly. “What brought you here
this morning?”

“To be quite frank I called to see Janet Fordyce,” he replied
brusquely, nettled by her manner.

“I prefer you when you are candid....”

“Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me?”

“Is that so difficult a thing to do?” insolently.

“If you mean I swallow every----” Barnard stopped, controlling his
aroused anger with difficulty. “Come, come,” he said more mildly. “It
is a waste of time for us to bandy words.” He held out his hands with
the charming smile which had won many a friend for him. “Let’s kiss
and--forget.”

Marjorie made no move to take his extended hand. “Who let you in?” she
asked.

“The footman.” Barnard paced rapidly up and down before the
chimney-piece, then seated himself by Marjorie’s side. “Don’t treat
me as an outsider,” he pleaded. “I have always your best interests at
heart; let me share your worries as well as your pleasures. I’ll do
anything in the world for you, Madge, anything”--and his voice shook
with the strength of his passion.

Marjorie hesitated; her distrust controlling her impulse to confide
her perplexities to the man who, only six short weeks before, had
absorbed her mind and, as she thought, her heart.

“You are very kind,” she began formally. The conventional words
somewhat chilled Barnard’s ardor, but his offended expression went
unnoticed as Marjorie again hesitated. “What did Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper
say to you about the loss of her necklace?” she asked finally.

Barnard smiled wryly. “It would be easier to tell you what she left
unsaid--she only exhausted her vocabulary as we reached her house, and
even then Pauline had to caution her to be quiet before the servants.”

“An impossible woman!”

“With a still more impossible family,” impatiently. “Did you notice
Joe’s manner to his mother when she called him into her box at the ball
last night?”

“No; but did you see who was with him?”

“Did I,” with eloquent emphasis. “Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper apparently took
stock of Kathryn Allen, to her disadvantage. She was not asked to enter
their box.”

“The Calhoun-Coopers have social aspirations, don’t forget that....”

“They won’t let us forget it,” shrugging his shoulders, “but I rather
like Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper.”

“I did, until last night”--the bitterness in her voice caught Barnard’s
attention, but before he could question her, she rose and stepping
over to the desk, picked up Janet’s unfinished letter to Tom Nichols
and deliberately tore it into tiny pieces. “If you will excuse me,
I’ll find out what is keeping Janet,” and gathering up Mrs. Fordyce’s
letters and engagement book she made for the door, where she paused.
“Have you any idea what steps Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper intends taking to
recover her pearl necklace?”

“Telegraphed for Pinkerton’s men I believe; Madge, don’t go....” but
she glided from the room before he could stop her, and with a muttered
exclamation he reseated himself. A few minutes later the footman
appeared in the doorway.

“Miss Langdon wishes me to tell you, sir, that Miss Janet is out
motoring with her brother,” he announced.

Barnard, who had started up at the servant’s entrance, coolly resumed
his seat. “I will wait until Miss Janet returns,” he said.

“Very good, sir,” and Henderson retired.

Barnard was about at the end of his patience when Janet entered the
room.

“I am sorry to be late,” she apologized hurriedly. “Duncan’s new
motor-car just came this morning, and he asked me to go for a run in
it. I expected to be back before you got here,” tossing off her furs
and coat as she spoke.

“Let me help you,” and with quick, deft fingers Barnard assisted her to
remove her heavy veil. “What a becoming hat!”

“Do you think so?” dimpling with pleasure. “Marjorie selected it; she
has awfully good taste. Has she been here?” in some anxiety.

“I came to see you, lady bird, and not to talk about another girl,”
Barnard glanced hastily about the room. “Come over and sit in that bow
window, and nobody will disturb us.”

“Very well,” and crossing the room, Janet settled herself in an
arm-chair. She was sick of fighting against the inevitable, and such
Chichester Barnard now appeared to her. Try as she did, she could not
avoid him. His omnipresence tormented her. She had gone out with Duncan
purposely, hoping to miss his visit. On learning that he was awaiting
her return, she had sent in hot haste for Marjorie only to be told
that her chaperon had stepped out on an errand for her mother. She had
stood outside the drawing-room portières for fully three minutes before
finding courage to enter. If only Barnard would not make love to her!

“Aren’t you a wee bit sleepy after last night?” she asked as he joined
her in the bow window.

“The prospect of seeing you this morning has kept me wide awake,”
tenderly. “You treated me shamefully at the ball, giving so many dances
to other men.”

“You deserted me at supper,” in quick defence. “We only stayed a
little longer after that; Marjorie developed one of her headaches--my
goodness”--catching sight of a limousine turning into the driveway
leading to their porte-cochère. “Who’s calling here at this hour?”

“I believe it’s the Calhoun-Coopers,” Barnard peered cautiously out of
the window. “It looks like their car. The theft of their pearls has
murdered sleep.” He stepped back and scanned Janet mockingly. “Will you
face the music?”

She put out her hand as if to ward off a blow, and rising hurriedly,
darted out into the hall and stopped the footman on his way to the
front door.

“Not at home, Henderson,” she directed. “And Mrs. Fordyce is not
feeling well enough to see anyone.”

“Very good, Miss Janet.”

Janet turned with lagging footsteps back to the drawing-room, one hand
pressed to her side to still the pounding of her heart. Barnard, a look
of deep concern on his handsome face, met her at the threshold.

“My precious darling!” he murmured, but with trembling hands she pushed
him violently from her as he attempted to kiss her.

“No, no!” she implored, and staggered over to the grand piano.

“How long must I serve!” demanded Barnard, his voice shaking with
emotion as he followed her. “Janet, will you never listen to the
dictates of your heart?”

“If I did----!” Janet’s agonized gaze left his face and traveled
downward to the keyboard of the piano. Suppose she told him too much?
She must keep a guard upon her tongue--

“Play for me, Chichester,” she pleaded.

Barnard, no mean musician, struck several chords and stopped. “I am
afraid the piano wants tuning.”

“Oh, the man must have left without finishing his work,” she exclaimed.

“Probably went to get his lunch; here are his tuning-fork and kit.”
Barnard picked up the instruments. “Only two or three notes are below
pitch, perhaps I can put them right.”

“Do try,” she begged, and Barnard obediently struck the tuning-fork.

Janet’s belief that her “not at home” message would send Mrs. J.
Calhoun-Cooper away, was not well founded. Henderson’s information
caused that determined matron to hesitate for a second only, then she
inquired for Mr. Calderon Fordyce.

“Ask him if he will see me for a few moments on a matter of
importance,” she added, detecting the footman’s embarrassment.

“Wouldn’t Miss Langdon do?” he ventured.

“Certainly not,” and somewhat overawed by her air of authority, he
showed her and Pauline into the reception-room and went to tell his
master of their presence.

“Asked for me personally, Henderson?” questioned Calderon Fordyce,
examining the visiting-cards attentively.

“Yes, sir; Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper declared Miss Langdon would not do; that
she had to see you on a matter of importance, sir.”

“Has Mr. Duncan returned?”

“No, sir.”

Fordyce cast a regretful look at the letter he was engaged in writing
when interrupted, and rose. “Did you show the ladies into the
drawing-room?”

“No, sir; they’re in the reception-room,” Henderson followed his master
out into the hall. “If you please, sir,” he began deferentially. “Don’t
take the ladies into the drawing-room, sir; Miss Janet is there with a
caller, and I don’t think she wishes to be disturbed, sir.”

“Very well,” and hastening his footsteps, Fordyce went directly to the
reception-room. Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper returned his greeting with such
impressiveness that his eyes twinkled. “Please pardon me for keeping
you waiting,” he began, after shaking hands with Pauline.

“We had not meant to disturb you,” chimed in Pauline, “but your footman
said Mrs. Fordyce was indisposed.”

“And our errand is really very important,” interrupted Mrs.
Calhoun-Cooper, “otherwise we would not have insisted on seeing you.”

Calderon Fordyce looked at his guests in some perplexity, but their
serious manner impressed him, and he said slowly, “In that case we had
better adjourn to my library; we can have no privacy in this room. Will
you come this way?”

It was the first time Mrs. J. Calhoun-Cooper had been in the library,
and she surveyed the handsomely furnished room with some envy. Calderon
Fordyce’s “Now, madame,” brought her back to her errand.

“Possibly Janet told you of the disappearance of my pearl necklace at
the ball last night?”

“My son spoke to me about it. Have you taken any steps to recover the
necklace?”

“My husband has placed the matter in the hands of detectives,” Mrs.
Calhoun-Cooper cleared her throat. “The necklace is really very
valuable, the pearls being graduated in size and of wonderful luster.
It took my husband years to collect them----” her voice gave out.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” said Fordyce gravely. “Have you no
clue by which the thief might be traced?”

“We have,” answered Pauline quickly. “And that brings us here.”

“I don’t take your meaning,” Calderon Fordyce’s heavy eyebrows met in
an unmistakable frown.

“We are convinced that mother’s necklace was stolen by Miss Marjorie
Langdon.”

Fordyce’s eyes opened wide. “Preposterous nonsense!” he jerked out with
more force than elegance.

“I am sorry to contradict you,” Pauline’s thin lips closed obstinately.
“There is no doubt but that she is guilty.”

“You are really in earnest?”

“Absolutely. We came here this morning to warn your wife, Mr. Fordyce,
and not being able to see her, decided that it was our duty to tell you
of Miss Langdon’s dishonesty.”

“Thank you,” dryly. Fordyce regarded his visitors in incredulous
silence for some seconds, then excusing himself, stepped past them
into the hall. Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper exchanged an uneasy glance with her
daughter, but had not opportunity to voice her thoughts, for Calderon
Fordyce re-entered the room almost immediately, followed by Marjorie,
whom he met returning from her shopping expedition.

“As your statements were not made in confidence, Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper,”
he said, “I must ask you to repeat them before Miss Langdon.”

Marjorie, having received no inkling as to why her presence was desired
in the library, gazed from one to the other in bewilderment and growing
dread.

Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper flushed and her eyes flashed angrily. “I shall have
no hesitancy in repeating my charges”--Marjorie’s start was not lost on
the others. “Miss Langdon, I demand that you instantly return my pearl
necklace which you stole from me last night at the ball.”

“You’re mad!” burst out Marjorie. “I haven’t your necklace.”

“Lies won’t do, my girl!” Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s native coarseness
was gaining the upper hand under the pressure of excitement and rage
which almost mastered her. “I felt you fumbling with the clasp of the
necklace.”

“Indeed? And why didn’t you speak of it at the time?”

“Because my attention was distracted, and when I turned back to speak
to you, you had vanished.”

“With the necklace,” added Pauline.

“Not so fast!” Marjorie’s indignation almost choked her utterance,
and she stopped to regain control of her voice. “The robbery took
place while I was still at the supper-table, ten stories beneath the
ballroom.”

“The necklace disappeared earlier in the evening,” explained Mrs.
Calhoun-Cooper, “for I missed it on my return to the ballroom
immediately after supper.”

“You have only your word to support such a statement,” retorted
Marjorie swiftly. “I deny your charge absolutely. Oh, Mr. Fordyce,”
turning appealingly to him, “do have faith in my word.”

“Of course I will,” his hearty assurance brought tears of relief to
Marjorie’s eyes. “Miss Marjorie, during the evening, did you see anyone
enter Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s box who might be the real thief?”

Marjorie’s eyes never wavered before her questioner’s gaze. “I am
afraid I can give you no information or clue which will help in tracing
the robber,” she said slowly.

“Too bad,” Fordyce shook his head. “I think, Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper,
you had better wait and see what the detectives can do to trace your
necklace.”

“Do you mean to say, Mr. Fordyce, that you do not believe me when I
state that Miss Langdon stole my necklace?”

“I do, madame; unless you can get someone to substantiate your
statement.”

“Ask her, she knows,” burst out Pauline, pointing to a shadowy figure
standing near the half-open door. With one accord they turned in that
direction, and faced by the four pairs of eyes, Janet came reluctantly
forward.

Marjorie turned sick as her thoughts raced to the delicate, kindly
mother upstairs and the upright, idolizing father--how would they bear
the disclosure of Janet’s kleptomania? The moment she dreaded had come
at last.

“Well, Janet,” her father’s curt voice cut the silence. “What do you
know of the disappearance of Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s pearl necklace?”

Janet’s eyes rested for a moment on Marjorie, then traveled back to her
father.

“I saw Marjorie steal the necklace,” she said quietly.

Marjorie’s low cry of horror was drowned in Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s
triumphant shout.

“There, what did I tell you?” she demanded.

“Be quiet!” Calderon Fordyce’s face had grown very grave. “Janet, are
you telling the absolute truth?” Never had he spoken in that tone
before to her, and Janet whitened.

“Yes, father.”

“How did Miss Marjorie steal the necklace?” The question cost him an
effort.

“Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper requested her to replace her scarf about her
shoulders,” Janet spoke more and more slowly and with growing
reluctance. “When Marjorie lowered her hand, I saw the end of the pearl
necklace hanging from it.”

“And you said nothing?”

“No, father.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t absolutely certain--I’ve kept quiet since, because I could
not bear to betray Marjorie.”

Calderon Fordyce broke the tense silence.

“Miss Marjorie, can you deny my daughter’s statement?”

Marjorie was ghastly as she straightened up and faced her accusers;
Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper and Pauline openly triumphant, Calderon Fordyce,
stern, unbending; and Janet, pitying. Janet’s features were strangely
like and unlike Duncan’s, and the elusive likeness haunted Marjorie.

Twice she strove to speak.

“Oh, what’s the use?” she cried, and laughing hysterically, fled from
the room.




CHAPTER XX

WATCHFUL WAITING


“CAN I see Dr. Potter?” inquired Duncan, handing his visiting-card to
Mrs. Walbridge’s butler.

“Mr. Fordyce, sir?” interrogatively, and Duncan nodded assent. “The
Doctor is waiting for you, sir. Please step this way”--but before they
reached the drawing-room, Paul Potter appeared in the hall.

“Very glad to see you, Duncan,” he said warmly. “Nobody’s home but
myself, so come into the Judge’s den; we can talk undisturbed there.”

“I was detained in reaching here. I wanted particularly to see you
alone. I had to drop Janet at home first; she went out with me to try
my new roadster,” explained Duncan, following Potter into the cozy room
which Judge Walbridge used as his sanctum sanctorum. “Mother wishes to
know if you will dine informally with us tonight; only a few friends
are coming in.”

“I shall be delighted to. It happens that Judge and Mrs. Walbridge are
dining out, an engagement they made before I came, so I shall not upset
any of their plans,” replied Potter. “Come over here to the light and
let me get a good look at you,” indicating a seat by the window. “Um, a
clear bill of health”--inspecting him carefully.

“Only older than when you saw me last,” smiled Duncan, “and wiser.”

“Perhaps,” dryly, noting the unusual lines about Duncan’s eyes and
mouth. “And does wisdom bring happiness?”

“Don’t know,” with unusual abruptness. “It’s good to see you again,
Paul; where have you been since I left you in South America?”

“Knocking about the world. The wanderlust is ruining me, Duncan; I
cannot make up my mind to seriously sit down in San Francisco and
resume my practice.”

“As you are called in consultation by other physicians in every State
of the Union, I’m not worrying about your financial condition,”
retorted Duncan, examining the famous alienist carefully in his turn.
“I’m much more concerned over your health--how are you these days?”

“Splendid, never felt better.” Six years before Paul Potter had
suffered a severe nervous breakdown from overwork, and he had
accompanied Duncan on a trip to China, where the latter went to attend
to some business for his father, who was one of the largest importers
from that country. Potter was some fifteen years Duncan’s senior, but
they were congenial in their tastes, and after a year’s sojourn in
China had, on their return, traveled together in other countries. “Are
you still as confirmed a bachelor as ever, Duncan? Or is there a ‘not
impossible she’ in the background?”

“Still a bachelor,” admitted Duncan. “I am doubly glad to have you in
Washington now on my mother’s account.”

“I was just going to ask for her,” and Potter’s manner became serious.
“How is she?”

“In many respects much better, but she is far from strong.”

“I am sorry indeed to hear that,” in quick sympathy. “Is she still
troubled with mysophobia?”

“To a limited degree.” Duncan accepted the cigar offered him, and
settled back in his chair. “Mother no longer insists on washing her own
knives and forks, and takes her meals with us if no company is present;
but she still has her dread of soiled money.”

“That also may wear off in time,” said the physician reflectively. “Is
her general health good?”

“Except for valvular weakness of the heart. Poor little mother!” Duncan
paused and cleared his throat. “Curious she should have developed such
a morbid fear of contact with dirt.”

“You must remember the human mind is a wonderful piece of mechanism, so
delicately adjusted that the slightest jar throws it out of gear. That
frightful railroad accident, in which your mother was half killed, was
chiefly responsible for her mental condition afterwards. I am delighted
to hear that she is improving.”

“Mother insists on leading the life of a hermit, hardly sees anyone
outside the family. Do you think it is good for her to be so much
alone?”

“It is not good for anyone to shun their fellowmen,” responded Potter
decidedly. “Keep your mother interested in present-day matters. I
should think your pretty sister could manage that.”

“Mother turned Janet over to an official chaperon.”

“Hard on your sister,” commented Potter sympathetically. “And not wise
for your mother; having shifted her responsibilities, she’ll feel at
liberty to indulge her morbid tendencies.”

“Exactly.” Duncan puffed nervously at his cigar. “Mother did not pick
out the usual type of chaperon for Janet, so your sympathies for my
sister are wasted.”

“Good. Janet has changed very little; as I remember she was a pretty
schoolgirl, now she is an exquisitely pretty débutante.”

“She has inherited her good looks from mother. What do you think of
Miss Langdon? She was with me when I met you last night,” he added, to
complete the identification.

“A beautiful girl; I’m not surprised you walked over the rest of us
mortals when dancing with her.”

Duncan fidgeted in his chair. “I’m hard hit in that quarter,” he
admitted slowly.

“She’s lucky,” commented Potter tersely. “Are congratulations in
order?” He regretted the question as he saw Duncan wince.

“Unfortunately for me, no.” Duncan had turned a shade paler under
the strain of the emotion he was striving to suppress. “I would
never have mentioned this topic had it not been for extraordinary
circumstances”--he stopped and looked carefully about the room. Seeing
the hall door was closed, and there was apparently no danger of being
overheard, he continued, “Will you please treat what I am about to say
as confidential?”

“Of course, my dear fellow,” deeply interested, Potter laid down his
cigar and moved his chair nearer.

“Miss Langdon has been with Janet as, you might say, resident
chaperon....”

“Isn’t she very young for such a responsible position?”

“Mother did not think so. Miss Langdon is really more of a companion
for Janet; knows the right people to introduce to her----”

“I see, a ‘guide, philosopher, and friend,’ idea....”

“Yes,” slowly. “Miss Langdon has been with Janet since the first week
in November. During that time she has conducted herself as a woman of
refinement and good breeding would; she has done everything possible
to see that Janet has a good time. Mother swears by her--says she
cannot get on without her,” he paused, considering his words with care.
“My intercourse with Miss Langdon has been of the most conventional
character; in her eyes I am simply Janet’s elder brother....”

“Well, where is the fly in the ointment?” inquired Potter. “Other
suitors?”

“As many as she wants,” quietly. “It is not they who are troubling me.”

“No?” in a tone of some unbelief. “Well, what then?”

Duncan spoke with an apparent effort. “Some extraordinary robberies
have taken place recently....” A low whistle escaped Potter.

“In your house and since Miss Langdon’s arrival?” he asked.

“Yes; and--and--in another house before she came to us....”

“I see--the trail of the serpent....”

“Don’t make comments until I have finished,” retorted Duncan, ruffled
by Potter’s manner.

“I beg your pardon,” good-naturedly. “Go ahead.”

But it was some moments before Duncan complied with the request.

“I have come to you with my problem,” he began finally, “because I have
an idea it may be in your province.”

“Ah. Under what heading?”

“Kleptomania.”

Potter elevated his eyebrows. “It is a recognized mental derangement,”
he conceded.

“Curable?”

“Doubtful.” Potter forebore to look at Duncan; instinctively he knew
the hope his friend was pinning on him and his advice. “Has Miss
Langdon ever had scarlet fever?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“A severe attack sometimes leaves the brain in a weakened condition and
a convalescent patient might become afflicted with an uncontrollable
propensity to pilfer shining objects. If such an impulse is not checked
at the outset by medical treatment it may gradually develop in a
monomania for thieving,” answered Potter. “Do you believe Miss Langdon
is a kleptomaniac?”

“I do--it is the only grounds on which I can explain her conduct.”

“Suppose you give me some of the details of the robberies for which you
think Miss Langdon is responsible,” suggested the physician.

Quickly and tersely Duncan described the loss of his father’s forty
dollars, which had first aroused his suspicions of Marjorie’s honesty;
then related all that Admiral Lawrence had confided to him about the
stolen codicil. “And to cap the climax,” he concluded, “comes the theft
of Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s pearl necklace at the ball last night.”

After he ceased speaking, Potter, who had listened to his account with
absorbed attention, rose and slowly paced the room in deep thought.

“Have you any direct proof that Miss Langdon is implicated in the loss
of the necklace?” he asked, resuming his seat.

“No, none; only an intolerable fear----” Duncan’s voice shook.

“I understand.” Potter tugged at the lobe of his right ear until it
crimsoned. “Is Miss Langdon poor?”

“Naturally,” dryly. “Otherwise she would hardly be earning her own
living.”

“Very poor,” insistently.

“I don’t know about that,” answered Duncan doubtfully. “She dresses
extremely well....”

“That signifies nothing; the clothes may have been given her by wealthy
friends. Has Miss Langdon any relatives dependent upon her?”

“Yes, a great-aunt; a lovely old Quakeress. Why do you ask?”

“A woman will steal for another when she would not steal for
herself....”

“Sentiment would not influence a kleptomaniac.”

“The mantel of kleptomania, like charity, covers a multitude of
sins,” retorted Potter. “Let me explain,” he added, as Duncan’s color
rose. “Kleptomaniacs are usually found among the wealthy class; their
pleasure is derived from the _act_ of stealing, not in the thing
stolen. For instance, a man, possessing a handsome gold watch-chain,
will steal a dozen chains, but once the desire to steal is gratified,
he never cares to sell or wear the stolen chains; he may even return
them to their rightful owners. Now, back of every robbery you cite
against Miss Langdon, lies personal gain--the acquisition of forty
dollars....”

“A small sum for which to ruin oneself,” protested Duncan, fighting
stubbornly against his own doubts as well as Potter’s arguments.

“The size of the sum is only relative, according to the need for the
money. In your eyes forty dollars seems trivial; but perhaps Miss
Langdon may have considered the money worth the risk she took.”

“She could have gone to mother,” burst in Duncan.

“Miss Langdon may have feared a refusal. Suppose we take up the lost
codicil....”

“Marjorie Langdon did not benefit by its disappearance.”

“No, but a friend stands to do so--a man with whom, according to
Admiral Lawrence, Miss Langdon was infatuated. The inheritance of one
hundred thousand dollars would permit them to marry....”

“Supposing she really is in love with him?”

“Have you reason to doubt it?”

Duncan did not answer immediately. “I cannot believe Marjorie is the
type of girl to commit theft, or to center her affections on a man who
is not worthy of her.”

“Do you know anything against him?”

“N--no; but Mrs. Lawrence found it necessary to disinherit Barnard.”

“Did the Admiral give you the reason for his wife’s act?”

“She said she was angry at some investments made for her by Barnard
which had turned out disastrously.”

“A lack of business sense is nothing against a man’s moral character.”

“That’s true,” acknowledged Duncan. “I admit I’m prejudiced against
Barnard.”

“Do you see much of him?”

“Quite a good deal; he comes frequently to the house, ostensibly to see
Janet, but I suspect in reality to be near Marjorie Langdon.”

“You don’t think he’s playing off the two girls against each other?”

“He had better not,” Duncan’s teeth came together with a snap. “No,
Janet’s whole thoughts seem to be turned to Captain Nichols; she
accepts Barnard’s attentions, that is all.”

“And how does Miss Langdon look on Barnard’s attentions to Janet?”

“Her manner gives me no inkling of what she thinks.”

“She must be a good actress,” commented Potter. “No woman, who
commits a criminal act for a lover, will stand tamely by and see
that lover devote himself to another woman unless she has marvelous
self-control....”

“Or no real affection for the supposed lover,” put in Duncan. “At
dinner tonight you can study them for yourself; both Miss Langdon and
Chichester Barnard will be there.”

“Good.” Potter rose and placed his hand affectionately on Duncan’s
shoulder. “I judge more by what you have left unsaid, Duncan, of how
you feel about the girl. I would to heaven I could help you!”

“Thanks,” Duncan’s tone was a trifle husky. “I’m afraid there’s nothing
anyone can do for me. I must ‘dree my weird.’ But,” his clenched
fist came down with a resounding whack on the broad ledge of his
Morris-chair arm. “I firmly believe that if Marjorie did steal the
codicil, the money, and the pearl necklace, she did it unknowingly, in
response to a craze to steal which she could not govern.”

“Perhaps you are right. It may be, Duncan, if Miss Langdon submits to a
medical examination....”

“I’ll ask mother to seat you next to Miss Langdon at dinner,” Duncan
stood up. “Perhaps then you can decide what is best to be done. Come
over early, Paul, I want you to see mother before the other guests
arrive.”

“I will.” Potter accompanied Duncan to the closed door and before
opening it, added earnestly, “I have not meant to be unfeeling, Duncan,
in my efforts to differentiate between stealing as a criminal act, and
stealing as an insane impulse.”

“That’s all right, Paul,” hastily. “I came to you for advice, and I
know you will help me if you can. Please remember me to Judge and Mrs.
Walbridge,” and speaking on other subjects, the two friends made their
way to the front door, and Duncan started homeward.

As Duncan motored slowly up Massachusetts Avenue he recognized a
familiar figure coming toward him, and making a wide turning, faced
his car in the direction Marjorie was going and quickly caught up with
her. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she had no idea of his
presence until he called her by name. As his voice reached her, she
started so violently that her hand-bag slipped from her fingers to the
pavement, but before she could stoop to pick it up he was by her side.

“Are you on your way to a luncheon?” he asked, straightening up and
placing the bag in her extended hand. “Great heavens! What is the
matter?” getting a full look at her tragic face. “Has anything happened
to your aunt?”

“No. Oh, no,” she replied hurriedly. “You startled me, coming up so
quietly.”

Duncan took her hand in his with an air of quiet authority. “Tell me,
what is really the matter?”

Marjorie steeled herself against the tender solicitude in his voice and
gesture. What use to tell him of the scene in his father’s library?
He also would take Janet’s word against hers. He would believe her
a thief. In the silent watches of the past anxious nights, she had
awakened to the realization that she had come to love Duncan with an
adoration which passes understanding. It was her precious secret; he
must never guess it. Her past affection for Chichester Barnard had been
the shadow instead of the substance. Her endurance was almost at the
breaking point; she could not face the loss of Duncan’s friendship, at
least not then; nor see admiration change to contempt, and liking sink
to loathing. With a muttered prayer for strength, she raised her eyes
to Duncan’s.

“If you must know the truth,” she said, “I’m suffering from a
toothache--not a bit romantic, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” sympathetically. “But I know from experience there’s no
pain like it. If you are on your way to the dentist, can’t I take you
there?”

“He couldn’t see me until four o’clock this afternoon,” lying with
trembling lips. “I am going to Aunt Yvonett’s to rest quietly until
then.”

“Let me drive you there,” pointing persuasively toward his roadster.
Marjorie could think of no adequate excuse; after all it would be the
quickest and easiest way to reach the shelter of her aunt’s house.

“If it isn’t taking you out of your way----?”

“Of course it isn’t,” heartily. “Mind that step,” and in a second
more he was seated beside her, and the powerful car moved off down
Massachusetts Avenue. “How do you like my new model?” patting the side
of the motor. “I had an old one in San Francisco.”

“The car moves very smoothly,” with well simulated interest. “Is she
speedy?”

“Is she? You should have seen me trying her out on the Conduit Road
this morning; I brought Janet home in record time.”

“Worse luck,” she groaned, below her breath.

“What did you say?” But she pretended not to hear, and he continued, “I
want to ask you to be very nice to a friend of mine tonight who will
sit next you at dinner.”

She moved restlessly. “Who is the man?”

“Dr. Paul Potter. I introduced him to you last night. Haven’t you heard
of him before?”

“I believe your sister said he attended your mother when she was ill.”

“He was called in consultation. I thought you might have heard of
Potter, he’s a famous brain specialist. We traveled together in the
East; he’s deeply interested in that land of mysticism and occultism.
You’ll find him an interesting talker.”

“Probably I will.” Marjorie’s fingers twitched spasmodically over her
hand-bag. Her frayed nerves were giving way. “Would you mind stopping
at the Portland Drug Store? I think I can get some--some iodine.”

“Does your tooth pain you very much?” asked Duncan, turning the car
into wide Vermont Avenue and stopping before the drug store which
occupied the ground floor of one end of the large triangular apartment
house. “Can’t I run in and get it for you?”

“No, no, sit still.” Her imperative tone stopped him as he was about to
arise. “The druggist can perhaps advise me what to do, I had better ask
him myself--I--I shan’t be long.”

“I’ll wait, never fear,” laughed Duncan, settling back in his seat. He
watched with grave solicitude the tall, graceful girl walk up the long
approach through the parking and enter the drug store.

The minutes passed and Duncan finally waxed impatient. Glancing at his
watch, he found he had been waiting nearly twenty minutes. A thought
occurred to him; suppose Marjorie had fainted from pain and exhaustion?
She had looked on the point of a breakdown when she left him. With a
bound he was out of the car and into the drug store. One glance around
the shop showed him the place was empty except for a clerk.

“Where’s the young lady who came in here a short time ago to buy some
iodine?” he demanded.

“Hasn’t any one bought iodine,” protested the clerk. “Do you mean the
young lady who came in about twenty minutes ago and walked through the
store and out into Fourteenth Street?” pointing to the door opposite
the one Duncan was holding partly open as he gazed in consternation and
bewilderment at the clerk.




CHAPTER XXI

THE STORM CENTER


MADAME YVONETT, knitting industriously as she sat in the bow window of
her small parlor, watched a smart victoria drive up to the curb and
stop before her door. There was no one in the carriage, and thinking
the coachman had made a mistake in the number of the house, she was
about to ring for Minerva when that dusky maid-of-all-work appeared in
the doorway, dressed in hat and coat.

“’Scuse me, madam,” she said respectfully. “Hab Miss Rebekah come in?”

“Not yet,” Minerva’s face fell; she had received strict orders from
Marjorie never to leave Madame Yvonett alone in the house. “I am
expecting her to return at any moment. Does thee wish to go out?”

“Yass’m; Miss Rebekah done tole me she’d be back by three, so’s I could
go to George Henry’s funeral at fo’ o’clock.”

Madame Yvonett glanced at the clock; the hands pointed to twenty
minutes past three. “Don’t wait any longer,” she directed kindly. “I
will watch for Miss Rebekah and let her in when she comes.”

Minerva wavered between desire and her sense of responsibility.

“I done locked de kitchen do’, an’ all de winders in de basement,” she
volunteered hopefully. “Miss Rebekah kain’t be much longer.”

“Thee must not wait,” and Madame Yvonett’s tone of decision removed
Minerva’s doubts. “I have the telephone if I require aid. On thy way
out, Minerva, tell the coachman he is stopping at the wrong house.”

“No, madam, he ain’t,” protested Minerva hastily. “George Henry
b’longed ter my burial sassiety, an’ dey sent a kerrage ter take me ter
de funeral.”

“A victoria, Minerva?” Madame Yvonett’s astonishment keyed her voice to
a higher pitch.

“Yass’m.” Minerva’s smile of satisfaction showed every tooth in her
head. “De burial committee axed me what I done want, an’ I tole dem
I wished one ob dem ‘lay backs.’ I’se allus hoped ter ride in one
like white folks; ye see, poverty ain’t no disgrace, but it’s mighty
onconvenient. I’ll be hyar in time ter get supper, madam.” And she
departed hastily, fearing Madame Yvonett might change her mind and
insist on her staying until Miss Rebekah Graves returned.

Madame Yvonett chuckled softly to herself as she watched Minerva enter
the victoria and drive off in state. The victoria, with its triumphant
occupant, had hardly turned into K Street, before Madame Yvonett
descried Miss Rebekah Graves trudging across Franklin Park, intent on
taking the shortest cut home. The Quakeress was at the front door to
meet her when she reached the steps.

“Do not trouble to go to thy room to remove thy wraps, Becky,” she
said. “Take them off here, and come into the parlor, it is the warmest
room in the house. Thee must be cold,” eyeing the pinched lips and red
nose of the spinster with much sympathy.

Miss Rebekah sniffed as she inspected the narrow confines of the small
hall, and compromised the matter by walking into the dining-room and
leaving her hat and coat there. On entering the parlor she found Madame
Yvonett had resumed her knitting, and she paused a moment to smooth
back several gray locks in the severe style which she affected to dress
her hair.

“Did thee find affairs satisfactory at the Home?” questioned Madame
Yvonett.

“I did not,” seating herself near Madame Yvonett. “Two girls whom the
matron rescued, have returned to their wicked ways.”

“If thee made virtue less detestable, Becky, thee would have more true
converts.”

“You are entirely too lax in your views,” retorted Miss Rebekah,
nettled by her cousin’s criticism. “I warned you years ago that evil
would come if you indulged Marjorie too much.”

“Thee did thy best to warn me, Becky,” admitted the Quakeress, taking
no pains to conceal her amusement. “I give thee credit for plain
speaking.”

“I fear your reward will be less.” Miss Rebekah’s temper had been
sorely tried by the long ride in the cold wind, and like many another
she ached to vent her ill-humor on some one. “Marjorie has fallen from
the path of rectitude and honor.”

“Rebekah!” Madame’s steel knitting needles were not as bright as the
flash in her eyes as she regarded the irate spinster. “Take heed to
what thee says; my patience is small this afternoon.”

“I mean exactly what I say. Did Marjorie tell you she was discharged by
Admiral Lawrence?”

The Quakeress laid down her needles. “No.”

“Ah, I thought she would not dare.”

“Explain thyself, Rebekah.”

“I met Admiral Lawrence this morning; he asked me to acquaint you with
the fact that he discharged Marjorie for stealing”--Madame Yvonett’s
hand sought her heart as if to still its sudden throb, and her face
went gray--“for stealing a codicil to his wife’s will in which Mrs.
Lawrence disinherited Chichester Barnard,” finished Miss Rebekah, her
small triumph blinding her to the agony she had inflicted on her aged
kinswoman. Had not Marjorie’s “going wrong” fulfilled her prophecy?
She had always been jealous of Madame Yvonett’s affection for her
greatniece, and had treasured each careless action and thoughtless
word Marjorie had been guilty of to her, the better to nurse her spite
against the young girl. But Admiral Lawrence, in asking her to break
the news of the codicil’s loss, his suspicions, and proposed legal
action to Madame Yvonett, had placed a double-edged sword in her hand.
Ever ready to believe evil of her fellowmen and women, the spinster
never doubted that Madame Yvonett would instantly credit Admiral
Lawrence’s charge against Marjorie.

“Thee is mad; quite mad!” gasped the Quakeress, as soon as she
recovered her breath. “I am surprised thee dares to come to me with
such lies!”

“Lies? Do you doubt Admiral Lawrence’s word?” Miss Rebekah’s eyes were
round with wonder.

“Of course I doubt it. Does thee think for one moment I would
believe ill of my Marjorie?” Her fine voice trembled with passionate
intentness. “Thee is madder than I first supposed, Rebekah.” The
spinster quailed before her scorn. “Answer the front door, the bell has
been ringing for some moments; then thee can go to thy room and pack
thy trunk.”

Confused by the way her news had been received, the spinster backed
hastily out of the room, tears streaming down her face. But Madame
Yvonett did not weep; the wound her cousin had inflicted was too deep
to be healed so easily. With tightly compressed lips and flashing
eyes she sat straight in her high back chair, listening to a spirited
argument that was taking place in the hall. Suddenly the portières
parted and a handsome young woman, dressed in the extreme of fashion,
stepped into the room, followed by the protesting spinster.

“Are you Madame Yvonett?” she inquired of the Quakeress. “I am Miss
Calhoun-Cooper. I called to see your niece, Marjorie Langdon. This
person”--indicating Miss Rebekah with a rude tilt of her head,
“informs me she is not here.” The spinster’s face was a study as she
glared at Pauline.

“Thee has been told the truth,” answered the Quakeress, inspecting her
visitor with interest. “My niece is not here.”

“Ah, it’s as I suspected; she’s made a quick get-away!” exclaimed
Pauline.

“Thy manners leave much to be desired, and thy speech more so,” replied
Madame Yvonett with gentle dignity. “If thee will express thyself
in correct English, I may be able to understand thee and answer thy
remark.”

“Indeed?” sneered Pauline, her desire to hurt stirred by the merited
rebuke. “Then, in plain English--your niece is a thief, and she has run
away with my mother’s pearl necklace.”

Madame Yvonett sat immovable under the blow; not by the flicker of an
eyelash did she show the agony she was enduring. Miss Rebekah, quite
unaware that she had left the front door wide open, stood enthralled,
watching the scene.

“Thee has made a statement which I can both understand and refute,”
said Madame Yvonett slowly. “My niece would never stoop to such
dishonorable actions as thee accuses her of----”

“She will have a chance to clear herself of the charge in a criminal
court, _if_ she can,” broke in Pauline with brutal frankness. “My
mother and I are quite determined to push the matter to the end.”

“Thy determination is as nothing compared to mine,” retorted Madame
Yvonett. “Marjorie’s innocence will be proved, and those who have
traduced her shall suffer.”

“Threats don’t bother me,” Pauline shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.
“Janet Fordyce saw Marjorie Langdon steal the necklace from
mother”--Madame Yvonett swayed backward; then by a supreme effort,
recovered from the deadly faintness which threatened to overcome her.
“The Fordyces acknowledge her guilt, and have turned her out of their
house.”

“The more shame to them.” The Quakeress rose abruptly to her feet, her
eyes blazing with pent-up wrath. “I care not who accuses my niece--she
is innocent of all wrong-doing; and so I will contend with my feeble
strength and wit before the world”--in spite of every effort, she
was trembling from head to foot. “My feet are already turned toward
Eternity, but God will spare me to right so monstrous an injustice
against an upright, honorable girl, whose only crime is poverty.”

Pauline’s unpleasant laugh was checked by the sudden entrance of a tall
man who brushed her unceremoniously to one side.

“Madame Yvonett,” said Duncan clearly. “I share your faith in
Marjorie----” A low cry burst from the Quakeress, and tears, which no
jeer of Pauline’s had been able to call forth, rushed to her eyes.
Blindly she caught Duncan’s strong hand and held it close in her
trembling fingers. “Marjorie was not turned out of my father’s house,
but left of her own accord,” continued Duncan. “Why this young lady
should maliciously distort facts”--Pauline changed color as she met his
contemptuous gaze--“she alone can explain.”

“You are very unjust,” protested Pauline. “I was but quoting Janet; I
did not realize your sister’s word was--unreliable.”

But the gibe passed unnoticed except by Paul Potter, who had entered
a few minutes before with Duncan, and remained standing in the hall.
On their arrival they had found the front door wide open, and had been
unintentional listeners to Pauline’s charges against Marjorie; the
girl’s penetrating voice having carried each word to them with absolute
distinctness.

“I hoped, Madame Yvonett, that this misunderstanding in which your
niece is involved, would not reach your ears,” said Duncan. “I am sure
if Miss Calhoun-Cooper pauses to reflect, she will say nothing further
on the subject to anyone.”

Pauline had indeed been thinking rapidly. It was one thing to brow-beat
Madame Yvonett, quite another to antagonize so influential a family as
the Fordyces. Her social ambitions might easily be nipped in the bud if
Duncan pursued his quixotic course and persuaded his parents to drop
the Calhoun-Coopers from their acquaintance. Quickly she decided to
modify her tone.

“Of course I will not mention the matter to outsiders,” she said. “But
mother and I will listen to no compromise unless the pearl necklace is
given back.”

“Thee must go elsewhere for thy pearls,” declared Madame Yvonett
undauntedly. Tom’s account of the loss of his coin flashed into her
mind. “Why does thee not question thy brother about the pearls?”

“What need?” but Pauline’s fingers clenched in her muff as she
put the contemptuous question. “Miss Fordyce’s testimony is most
convincing--she saw Miss Langdon steal the necklace.”

“One moment,” interrupted Duncan. “My mother, Miss Calhoun-Cooper, will
make good your loss, if necessary; but first,” his voice deepened--“I
shall take steps to clear Miss Langdon of this preposterous charge, and
bring the real thief to book.”

Madame Yvonett’s expressive look thanked him; then she faced Pauline.

“Thee came uninvited to my house; thee has shown me more discourtesy
than I have ever met with before--considering the source I am hardly
surprised.” Pauline shrank back as she met the beautiful, scornful
eyes. “Thee has dared to besmirk my niece’s character; for that I will
never forgive thee. Thee may go.”

“Oh, very well,” and tossing her head, Pauline left the room and house,
banging the front door shut with a violence that shook windowpanes and
pictures.

There was a moment’s silence; then Madame Yvonett turned back to
Duncan. “How can I ever thank thee?” she murmured brokenly.

“By letting me see Miss Langdon,” taking her out-stretched hand.

“But Marjorie is not here--I have not seen her since yesterday.”

Duncan gazed incredulously at her, then a worried expression crossed
his face. “Do you mean she has not been here at all today?”

“Yes.”

“But she told me when I met her she was coming straight here,” he
protested. “She left me, for some unknown reason, at the Portland Drug
Store and, I supposed, returned here.”

“At what hour was that?” demanded Madame Yvonett, growing a shade paler.

“About twenty minutes past one.”

“Did she have any clothes with her?”

“No, she only carried a hand-bag. Janet told me before I left the house
that her things were still in her room.”

“Did Marjorie seem distraught?” Madame Yvonett moistened her dry lips,
a new terror tugging at her heart-strings.

“No, only nervous.” The answer was reassuring, but Duncan’s manner was
not, and with a low moan of anguish Madame Yvonett sank unconscious to
the ground.

Paul Potter sprang to Duncan’s assistance, and the two men, under Miss
Rebekah’s frightened guidance, carried Madame Yvonett to her room. Once
there the skilled physician took entire charge, and to Duncan’s immense
relief, the Quakeress soon revived under his treatment. Potter followed
Duncan as he tiptoed out into the upper hall.

“Don’t wait around any longer,” he whispered. “I’ll stay here with
Madame Yvonett until her regular physician arrives and the trained
nurse you sent for. Do you still wish me to dine with you tonight?”

“Of course; don’t fail me,” in some alarm. “I must have a long talk
with you. Janet refuses to call off her dinner tonight, and father
backs her up. Mother’s not strong enough today to be dragged into the
discussion, or I would soon put an end to the affair. Look here, Paul,”
drawing out a well-filled wallet and thrusting a handful of bills into
his friend’s hand. “See that Madame Yvonett wants for nothing.”

“I will,” promised Potter, and disappeared inside the sick-room.

Miss Rebekah was sitting disconsolately in the lower hall as Duncan
made his way to the front door.

“How is Madame Yvonett?” she asked eagerly.

“She has regained consciousness and is resting quietly”--the spinster’s
face lighted with relief. “You can trust absolutely to Dr. Potter,”
added Duncan. “He will remain until Madame Yvonett’s family physician
arrives.”

“Thank you, thank you both,” stammered Miss Rebekah incoherently. “What
should I have done without you!”

“That’s all right,” replied Duncan soothingly. “Will you do me a very
great kindness, Miss Graves?”

“Surely.”

“Then telephone me the instant Miss Langdon returns. My number
is”--drawing out his visiting-card and writing the figures upon it.
“You won’t forget?”

“No, indeed,” and Miss Rebekah sped upstairs as Duncan opened the front
door.

Barely glancing at the children and nurses in the park, he strode
through Franklin Square and along K Street absorbed in dismal
reflections. After discovering Marjorie’s disappearance from the
drug store that morning, he had returned at once to his home deeply
puzzled by her behavior. On his arrival his father had called him into
the library and recounted the charge made against Marjorie by the
Calhoun-Coopers, Janet’s damning testimony, and Marjorie’s flight. He
had listened in stony silence, refusing to make any comment, and after
luncheon had retired to his room. Harassed by conflicting theories, he
finally rebelled against submitting longer to discouraging idleness,
and seizing the telephone, had sent an urgent message to Paul Potter to
meet him at the Metropolitan Club and go with him to Madame Yvonett’s.
He felt an overwhelming desire to see Marjorie, to make her face the
issue squarely and refute, if she could, the damning evidence against
her. Anything was better than the uncertainty he was undergoing.

Duncan stopped dead in his tracks. Should he go to the police and
report Marjorie’s disappearance? Pshaw! he was a fool; the girl could
have come to no harm in broad daylight in peaceful Washington. She
was probably sitting in some hotel, or walking the streets trying to
make up her mind to go home and tell Madame Yvonett that she had been
accused of being a thief. Surely any girl might be excused for putting
off breaking such a piece of news to a delicate old lady? And yet,
would it not be natural for her to rush to a near and dearly-loved
relative for consolation and advice? Duncan shook his head in deep
bewilderment. Flight was usually tacit admission of guilt. He was so
deep in thought that he never observed an older man approaching down
the street who, on seeing him, quickened his footsteps.

“Well, Duncan,” and Admiral Lawrence paused in front of him. “So you
received my note.”

“Note?” Duncan shook his head. “No, sir, I’ve had no note from you.”

“Oh, I thought you were on your way to see me in answer to it,” replied
the Admiral thoughtfully. “I have filed suit to break the will.”

“You are very unwise, sir,” Duncan’s eyes expressed his indignation.

“That remains to be seen. Do you still propose to defend Miss Langdon?”

“I do,” with quiet finality. “Who is residuary legatee?”

“I am.”

“Then you benefit by the signing of that codicil?”

“Certainly; what then?”

“Chichester Barnard can easily retaliate by charging you with using
undue influence in persuading his aunt to revoke her bequest to him.”
The Admiral choked with wrath. “One hundred thousand dollars--um!--men
have done much to gain that sum. How do I know you haven’t trumped up
this codicil charge against Marjorie Langdon as a means to break the
will?”

“D--mn my soul!” stormed the Admiral, getting back his breath. “D’ye
think I’m a dirty blackguard? My lawyer, Alvord, who drew up the
codicil on October 31, is waiting to see me; come on in and interview
him now.”

“Where do you live?”

“In that house on the corner.” As Duncan’s gaze swept over the
unpretentious red-brick, stone-trimmed residence, his eyes encountered
those of a darky butler who was anxiously regarding them from the open
doorway. The chords of memory were touched, and a mental picture rose
before Duncan’s eyes. Abruptly he swung back to the Admiral.

“You say the codicil was drawn and signed on October 31; when did you
first discover its loss?”

“The morning of November first....”

“Let us go in and see Alvord,” interrupted Duncan, a strange light in
his eyes. Without further words the Admiral led the way to the English
basement house.

“Mr. Alvord’s been awaitin’ mos’ an hour, suh,” explained the butler,
assisting them off with their overcoats. “He axed me ter watch out an’
ax yo’ ter hurry, ’cause he’s awful busy.”

“Very well, Sam; where is Mr. Alvord?”

“In de lib’ry, suh.”

“This way, Duncan,” and the Admiral piloted his guest to the pleasant
room where Marjorie had spent so many hours. An elderly man rose on
their entrance. “Sorry to have kept you, Alvord,” apologized the
Admiral. “This is Mr. Duncan Fordyce. Kindly tell him in detail of the
signing of the codicil to my wife’s will.”

Alvord glanced in some astonishment at his client; then followed his
request, and Duncan listened with close attention as he described
having Marjorie typewrite the codicil, making two copies, and the
signing of the original copy by Mrs. Lawrence.

“Admiral Lawrence requested me to leave the signed codicil here, and
instructed Miss Langdon to place it in the safe,” he ended. “I gave her
the paper....”

“Could you take your solemn oath that you gave her the _signed_ copy?”

“I am willing to swear that to the best of my recollection I gave her
the signed codicil....”

“That’s an equivocation,” challenged Duncan promptly.

“Well, what difference does it make? Only the unsigned codicil turned
up next morning. I left a codicil, signed or unsigned, on this
desk--she could have stolen it a deal easier from the desk.”

“Exactly where did you place the paper?” questioned Duncan.

“On this side of the desk nearest the window,” Alvord indicated the
spot with his hand.

“You dare not swear that you handed Miss Langdon the signed codicil
because you _fear_ you gave her the unsigned one,” taunted Duncan.
“Wait,” as the harassed lawyer started to interrupt him. “You did
hand Miss Langdon the unsigned copy, however, which was found in the
safe--therefore her responsibility in the matter ends.”

“Hold hard,” broke in the Admiral heatedly. “As Alvord says, Marjorie
could have stolen the signed codicil off the desk; she was the last
person to leave this room that evening, and I the first to enter in the
morning--and the codicil was not on the desk.”

“You were not the _first_ person to enter this room that morning,”
contradicted Duncan. “Ask your butler to step here a moment.”

The Admiral hesitated, but Duncan’s earnest manner solved his doubt,
and he rang for his servant.

“Come in, Sam,” he directed as the butler rapped on the door.

“Sam,” began Duncan slowly. “Why have you never told Admiral Lawrence
that you knocked a valuable paper off his desk with your feather duster
and out of the open window?”

“Fo’ Gawd! boss, how’d yo’ know ’bout dat?” Sam turned ashy.

“I was passing the house and saw the paper sail through the window into
the gutter where the water carried it down the sewer. This was the
morning of my arrival in Washington, Admiral--November first.”

The Admiral stared speechlessly at Duncan, then wheeled on his
frightened servant. “Why did you never tell me of this?”

“’Cause yo’ never axed me ’bout de paper; ef yo’ had I’d a telled yer,”
protested Sam. “When yo’ didn’t say nuffin’ I thought de paper wasn’t
no ’count.”

“Go downstairs, you rascal!” thundered the Admiral, and Sam, glad to
escape, disappeared from the room. “Well, Alvord, what d’ye think?”

The lawyer tugged at his mustache. “What is your theory, Mr. Fordyce?”
he asked, passing on the Admiral’s question.

“That you gave the unsigned codicil to Miss Langdon who, following
instructions, placed it in the safe where the Admiral found it the next
morning. Sam knocked the signed paper into the gutter, and it went down
the sewer.”

“Could you make out any writing on the paper as it fell, Mr. Fordyce?”

“Unfortunately, no; the paper resembled an ordinary letter size
typewriting sheet, folded three times. It spread open and fell writing
down.”

“The codicil was written on ordinary typewriting paper such as you
describe,” admitted Alvord. “It was the only kind Miss Langdon had
here. Still, that’s slim proof to back your theory, Mr. Fordyce.”

“But it will hold,” Duncan’s elation could be read in his animated
expression and excited manner. “I’m willing to face any court, and I’ll
win my case....”

“And that scamp, Chichester Barnard, will win his hundred thousand
after all,” groaned the Admiral.




CHAPTER XXII

“TOUJOURS SANS TACHE”


ON leaving Duncan sitting in his roadster before the apartment house,
Marjorie had every intention of slipping into the Portland through the
drug store. Once safely inside the building she would take refuge in a
friend’s apartment and there fight out her problems alone. The desire
to confide in Duncan, to beg his assistance was overmastering. She
dared not trust herself longer in his presence. In her doubt and agony,
and longing for his sympathy, she might betray her passionate love for
him. A touch of his hand ... one look from his dear eyes.... Marjorie
resolutely kept her face turned toward her goal. Duncan’s affection
for his sister was deep and abiding ... he would never believe evil of
Janet.

Marjorie strangled a sob as she stumbled into the drug store, and for a
second she struggled gamely for composure, but the close atmosphere of
the room combined with her overstrung state, upset her completely. She
stepped appealingly toward the clerk to ask him for a glass of water,
but he was busy with some drugs and did not observe her half-fainting
condition. Swinging dizzily about, she made blindly for the door,
her one instinct to get away from Duncan. With her last remaining
strength she pulled open the heavy door and stepped outside. The cold
fresh air revived her somewhat, but her confusion of mind was added
to by discovering she was standing in busy Fourteenth Street instead
of the quiet lobby of the apartment-hotel. She had walked out of the
wrong door. Before she could retrace her footsteps, Chichester Barnard
stepped to her side.

“What good fairy sent you here?” he exclaimed gaily. “I was just going
back to my office.” His smile was very winning, but Marjorie was too
spent to attempt reply. Her silence claimed his attention, and his
startled eyes swept her livid face in consternation. “Good Heavens!
Marjorie, what are you doing in the street in this condition?” he
turned and hailed a livery carriage from which a passenger had just
alighted. “Engaged?” he inquired of the negro driver.

“No, suh.”

“Jump in, Marjorie,” but she hung back, striving to articulate, then
the world turned black, and she hung limp upon his arm.

Some hours later Marjorie stirred, sat more erect, and rubbed her
eyes and forehead vigorously. The shadows of the late afternoon were
lengthening, and she had some difficulty in focusing the objects about
her, and eyed her unfamiliar surroundings in complete mystification.

“Feeling better, Marjorie?” asked Barnard’s voice from the depths of an
easy chair across the room from her, and he rose and switched on the
electric lamp.

“Where--where--am I?” she demanded. Not pausing for an answer she
picked up a tumbler of cold water standing on a table at her elbow, and
drank thirstily. Her throat felt parched and dry.

“In my rooms,” replied Barnard easily. The tumbler slipped and broke on
the polished floor, as Marjorie faced him.

“How dare you bring me here? Have you no regard for my reputation?”
He changed color at her tone and words, but curbed his own temper
admirably.

“In bringing you here I forgot everyone but the person for whom _you_
show the greatest consideration--Madame Yvonett,” he replied gently,
and a low cry escaped her. “How could I take you to your home looking
more dead than alive? The shock might have killed your aunt.”

“I had not thought of that,” she conceded. “I have a dim recollection
of driving on and on.”

“So we did. I put you in the cab intending to go at once to your
home; then a glimpse of your face convinced me that while you looked
frightfully ill, you were really only suffering from collapse. I told
the coachman to drive up and down the back streets, forced you to drink
a little whiskey which I had in my flask, and that, and the cold wind,
gradually brought you around. These rooms of mine are on the ground
floor, and I slipped you in here unnoticed.”

Marjorie studied him covertly as the events of the morning slowly
recurred to her. Had he been in the Fordyce house when Janet testified
before the Calhoun-Coopers and Mr. Fordyce that she had seen her steal
the pearl necklace?

“Why did you not take me back to the Fordyces?” she asked.

“That occurred to me,” admitted Barnard, “but to be quite frank I
thought that your arriving there with me in the condition you were in
would cause adverse criticism. The same consideration deterred me from
taking you to a hospital.”

“I see,” slowly. “Perhaps you acted for the best, but----”

“I may not have been wise,” he broke in, “but I was greatly alarmed. I
at first feared that you were dead as you lay there in the carriage. At
the thought my whole world crumbled to dust,” his voice vibrated with
emotion. “I never realized how much you were to me until I thought I
had lost you....” he faltered and broke down, moved beyond himself by
his passion. He dropped on his knee beside her--“Best beloved!”

She shrank back under his touch. “Don’t, don’t Chichester,” she
implored. “I am not strong enough for more scenes,” and hysterical
sobs wracked her from head to foot. Barnard stood up and watched her
in growing concern until she regained some semblance of self-control.
“It’s a relief to cry,” she stammered.

“My own sweetheart,” he murmured fondly. “Would to heaven I could bear
your sorrows for you. Won’t you tell me what is troubling you?”

Marjorie paused; would Barnard take her word against Janet’s? Her loyal
trust in him had made her at first slow to believe he was seriously
courting Janet, but once convinced of his double dealing, indignation
and contempt had supplanted all warmer feeling for him. Barnard still
kept up the pretense of his affection for her, but was it likely he
would take her part against Janet? She rose and moved unsteadily
across the room that she might get a better look at him, and study his
expression.

“Sit, here, Marjorie,” Barnard patted the sofa invitingly, but she
declined, and he stepped to her side. “How often have I pictured you
here,” he said softly, glancing about the comfortable room. “Little
girl, I long for you always.”

“Don’t Chichester,” she threw out her hand beseechingly. “Drop this
sham--be honest with me....”

“You doubt me?” in hurt surprise. “You, my darling, for whom I would
sacrifice so much to win!”

“All that is past....”

“It is not,” he broke in vehemently. “I have learned my lesson this
afternoon; I shall never give you up, never.” He spoke as if making an
unalterable vow with himself, and she watched him uneasily. “Give me
a little encouragement, take back your harsh words,” he whispered and
with a movement so swift that she could not avoid it, he slipped his
arm about her waist. Swayed by his physical charm, she permitted him
to draw her closer, but before his lips touched hers, Duncan’s face
leaped out of the shadows of memory, and she pushed Barnard from her.

“Stop!” In her endeavor to render her voice steady, she made it hard.
“I am in no mood for love scenes, Chichester.”

A gleam of fury lighted Barnard’s eyes as he seized her arm.

“Has Duncan Fordyce come between us?” he demanded. “Answer!”

“Have you lost your senses?” Her cold fury matched his blazing wrath.
“I took you for a gentleman; no gentleman browbeats a woman!”

“Will you answer my question?” paying no attention to her gibe.

“What if I say yes?” Marjorie had seldom looked so beautiful; cheeks
pink and eyes bright with feverish excitement. Tall and slim and
graceful, she faced the jealous man with undaunted spirit.

“If I thought you meant it----?” Barnard’s husky whisper barely reached
her ears, but his look of agony smote her, angry as she was.

“Are you the only one who can--flirt?” she asked, half drawn by his
personal magnetism, and half repelled by his manner.

“Is that all?” eagerly. “Are you merely trying to tease me? Oh, it
_must_ be that”--answering his own impetuous question in his anxiety to
trample down his doubts. “A girl must love a man when she steals for
him.”

Marjorie stood frozen; every vestige of color stricken from her face.
“Explain your meaning.” The words were little more than a whisper.

“You destroyed the signed codicil in which Aunt Margaret Lawrence
revoked her bequest to me....”

“Chichester!” Her voice was poignant with outraged feeling. “You dare
to think me a thief!”

“No, no, my darling, only a loyal woman--a woman who has the courage of
her affections--how I love you, Marjorie!” His voice lingered on her
name.

“How you insult me, you mean!” With a violent wrench Marjorie tore
herself free from his grasp, and turning, gathered up her belongings.
“Let me pass,” as he planted himself in front of her.

“Where to?”

“That is no longer your business.”

“Suppose I won’t let you go?”

Marjorie flinched; it was a new Barnard confronting her. Gone was the
suave courtly lover, and in his place stood the primeval man, his baser
passions roused. And she had once believed she cared for him. The
thought stung.

“Drop this melodrama, Chichester,” she said cuttingly. “Your conduct
has effectually killed whatever affection or respect I had for you.”

“You are wrong; I have been too patient with your whims and fancies.
Hereafter I take what I want.” Barnard laughed recklessly. “Women do
not usually refuse me; they like masters.”

“Do not class me with your associates,” she answered with scornful
emphasis. “If you come any nearer me, Chichester, I shall scream for
help.”

“And your reputation will be ruined if you are found here with me,”
mockingly. “Think it over.” She remained silent. “Is it worth the risk?”

“Risk? I am not hesitating on that score,” proudly.

“I forgot your family motto, ‘_Toujours sans tache_’,” he taunted.

“And no bar sinister,” she said, glancing significantly at the
coat-of-arms hanging above the mantel. Barnard winced, she had touched
the vulnerable point in his family history; a history of which he was
inordinately proud except for that single blemish. He threw out his
hands imploringly.

“Think, my darling, before it is too late; can you afford to break with
me?”

“I fail to understand you,” she retorted hotly. “Our so-called
engagement was at an end days ago; I have repeatedly returned your
ring....”

“I decline to accept your refusal,” with forced calmness, and his
expression altered. “Marjorie, I have been mad! Forget all that I have
said; remember only that I love you and you alone. Take back my ring,
my darling.”

“No, never!” she shrank away as he offered it to her. “I _will_ go!”

Barnard stepped instantly aside. “I implore your forgiveness,” he
pleaded desperately. “I deserve all the harsh things you said of me,
dear; but you have never truly loved”--Marjorie’s face changed, ever
so slightly, and she avoided his gaze--“you have never loved,” he
repeated stubbornly, “never known what it is to be tempted. Give me a
chance to win back your good opinion; it is all that I ask--now.”

“It is useless;” Marjorie walked over to the door leading to the outer
hall, and from that safe haven, turned and faced him. “I never wish to
see you again,” she announced with passionate fervor, and opening the
door, dashed into the hall.

Barnard started to follow her, then thinking better of it, returned
to his seat on the sofa and gazed blankly about the room. It seemed
strangely empty without Marjorie, and cursing his lack of self-control
and temper which had frightened her away, he picked up a letter lying
on the table which had escaped his earlier notice. It proved to be
a curt note from Alvord and Alvord informing him that Rear Admiral
Lawrence had brought suit to break his wife’s will. For a long time
Barnard sat inarticulate with rage; two stumbling blocks were in his
way to winning Marjorie for his wife; one, of his own making, and the
other, a law contest. With settled determination to win both he picked
up the evening paper and began to read it.

Once in the street Marjorie set out in the direction of Washington but
she was so unutterably exhausted by all that she had gone through,
that her footsteps lagged and her progress was slow. She was not very
familiar with Georgetown, but had a general idea of the direction she
should take, and keeping an outlook for a passing cab, she staggered
rather than walked along, her heart filled with bitter and hopeless
anguish. She had kept the faith and had been loyal to her benefactress,
but when the guilt of others had been fastened upon her shoulders not
one friend had believed in her innocence. She had still to face Madame
Yvonett. She shivered involuntarily, paused, walked on, paused again,
then turned and staggered off in the direction of the Potomac River.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE HEARING EAR


JANET, coming swiftly along the hall toward her mother’s bedroom, met a
white-capped nurse advancing toward her.

“How is mother?” she demanded.

“Resting more easily now, Miss Fordyce; the medicine gave her almost
immediate relief.”

“Thank heaven!” Janet moved forward a few steps intending to enter her
mother’s bedroom, but the nurse detained her.

“I beg your pardon; your brother and Dr. Potter are with Mrs. Fordyce
just now. Seeing so many together might overexcite her. Could you not
come in a little later?”

“I suppose so,” but Janet looked troubled. “You are sure she is better,
nurse?”

“Yes, indeed,” with a reassuring smile.

“Then please ask my brother and Dr. Potter to stop in the Chinese room
when they leave mother. I would like to talk to them privately before
our guests arrive for dinner.”

“I will tell them,” promised the nurse, and turned to go.

“Just a moment,” Janet gazed perplexedly at the pretty woman standing
just under the hall light. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

“I don’t think so, Miss Fordyce,” Kathryn Allen’s smile was most
engaging. “I am sure I should not have forgotten.” And the subtle
admiration of Janet’s good looks and pretty gown conveyed by her
intonation, caused the young girl to flush warmly. “Do not distress
yourself on your mother’s account; Dr. Potter and Dr. McLane both
declare her attack comes from overexertion. Rest and absolute quiet are
all that she needs to effect a complete recovery.”

“Oh, thank you, nurse,” and Janet, much relieved, ran down the
staircase.

A disagreeable smile spoiled Kathryn Allen’s good looks as she watched
Janet disappear from view; then with an impatient sigh, she continued
her interrupted trip down the hall toward the bedroom which had been
assigned to her. As she reached the elevator shaft the door opened and
a man stepped out into the hall.

“You, Joe!” Though startled out of her usual calm, Kathryn was careful
to keep her voice lowered. “What are you doing here? How dare you take
such a risk?”

“The risk is small,” he answered cautiously. “I pushed the wrong button
and never discovered my mistake until the lift stopped at this floor,”
a satisfied smile completed the short explanation. “I had to see you,
Kathryn. Why did you come here?”

“I gave up my other case yesterday, as you know,” tartly. “I can’t
afford to be idle. At the hospital I found Dr. McLane’s call for a
nurse to take a light case, and came here. Money is money, dear boy.”
She did not think it necessary to add that she had considered the
opportunity of becoming an inmate of the Fordyce household a God-given
chance.

“You should have consulted me first,” fumed Joe, displeased at the
lightness of her manner. “I only found out by chance from McLane that
you were here. Have you seen the evening paper?”

The urgency of his tone impressed her. From above came the sound of
advancing footsteps.

“Quick, this way,” she muttered, and pulled him into the deep shadows
afforded by a bow window and its curtains.

Downstairs in the Chinese room Janet waited for her brother and Paul
Potter with ever growing impatience. The thick soft carpet deadened
the sound of her restless trampling back and forth. She could not keep
still. She fingered the rich oriental hangings, scanned the valuable
jade and carved ivory ornaments in the glass cabinets; then turned her
attention to the collection of Chinese armor occupying its allotted
space, and traced with curious fingers the beautiful handiwork on
the scabbards and daggers and carefully inspected the naked blades
themselves. The atmosphere of the room was heavy with the incense of
the East. Mrs. Fordyce had selected the room as her own private sanctum
in preference to the larger library, and spent all her evenings there
in the absence of Janet and Duncan. Her fondness for things oriental
had been indulged by her husband, who had spent a small fortune
collecting costly furniture, curios, paintings, and silks from China to
gratify her whim.

Tired of contemplating the armor Janet stepped over to the inlaid
teakwood desk, and seating herself before it, idly opened one of the
numerous magazines which her mother had left there. Suddenly her
attention was arrested by a photograph of Tom Nichols, and she turned
eagerly to the printed page, to find that the article was descriptive
of Fort Myer and other army posts. She took a second look at Tom’s
picture. It was a good likeness. Janet’s eyes grew very tender, and
impulsively she stooped and kissed the picture. She jerked herself
erect as the hall door opened, and a hot blush dyed her cheeks, but
the question on her lips remained unspoken. Marjorie Langdon was
confronting her.

Shutting the door softly behind her, Marjorie advanced into the room
and quietly seated herself opposite Janet. The contrast between the
two girls was noticeable in the extreme. Janet made a dainty picture
of fresh young beauty in her perfectly fitting, expensive low-neck
evening dress, while Marjorie, her white crêpe de chine waist and
walking skirt covered by a heavy driving coat and minus her hat, looked
spent and weary. She had aged in the last few tortured hours, and the
hands she rested on the flat-top desk were trembling from fatigue and
nervousness.

“You?” Janet’s agitation was perceptible in her voice and manner.
“What--what do you want? What are you doing here?”

“I came, Janet, hoping that you had thought better of your
extraordinary behavior to me this morning,” answered Marjorie looking
quietly at her, but Janet did not flinch before her direct gaze.

“Don’t make things harder for me, Marjorie,” she said sadly. “I was--we
all were--very fond of you; why did you abuse our trust? Mother would
gladly have helped you out of any pressing money difficulties.”

Marjorie’s incredulous stare deepened suddenly into horror.

“Janet! Janet!” she gasped. “Does your moral obliquity blind you to all
sense of honor?”

Janet stiffened and her manner hardened. “You forget yourself.”

Marjorie’s hardly tried self-control snapped, and leaning back in her
chair she gave way to wild laughter which ended in sobs. Janet regarded
her in increasing alarm.

“Go! Go at once!” she ordered.

The sharp command restored Marjorie to some semblance of composure.
“No, I shall not go,” she said more quietly. “You are right, Janet, I
have forgotten myself--to an absurd extent; but I’ll do so no longer.
Your father shall learn the truth tonight.”

“He will turn you out of the house as a common adventuress.”

Marjorie leaned across the desk and contemplated Janet in silence.

“Janet,” she began at length. “I have never shown you anything but
kindness; I have tried in every way to see that you had a good time
and were enjoying yourself. In Heaven’s name, what has aroused your
animosity? Why should you hound me in this manner?”

“I’m not hounding you,” protested Janet, tears springing to her eyes.
“I have tried very hard to blind myself to your--your----”

“My what?” a dangerous light in her eyes.

But Janet dodged the question. “You must go,” she said, her words
tumbling over each other in her haste. “My guests will arrive here in
a few minutes. Pauline must not find you here--there will be another
scene----” Janet fairly wrung her hands--“People will talk so.”

“Quite right, they will,” but the significant emphasis passed
completely over Janet’s head. “I have no objection to confronting
Pauline again, and particularly do I wish to see Tom Nichols.”

“Ah, indeed; and what do you wish to see him about?”

“I desire his advice,” calmly. “I started to go to Fort Myer this
afternoon and got as far as the Aqueduct Bridge in Georgetown when I
recollected he was to dine here----”

“And so decided to come here yourself,” Janet laughed recklessly. “Your
motives are not so pure as you would lead me to suppose.”

“Stop!” Marjorie’s imperious tone made even the jealous girl pause. “I
think you have taken leave of your senses.”

“You are welcome to your opinion,” retorted Janet defiantly. “But I
insist on your leaving this house. Do you wish to be turned out again?”

“I have never been turned out.” Marjorie was struggling to keep her
temper within bounds. “I left this house of my own accord this morning.
My clothes are still here, and here I shall remain until I am dismissed
by your mother.”

Janet’s eyes were dark with passion. “You dare to stay on as my
chaperon?”

“Yes. Your behavior to me tonight has made me reconsider my quixotic
effort to shield you; from now on I shall strive to clear myself of
your lying testimony against me.”

“You leave me but one alternative....”

“And that is----?” as Janet paused.

“To have the servants put you out of the house.”

“Janet!” Marjorie gazed at the young girl in stupefaction, and the
latter’s eyes wavered and fell as she caught the keen reproach and
pain which Marjorie’s face betrayed. For a second she battled with her
better self.

“I will give you just three minutes to leave this room and house of
your own accord,” she said clearly. “At the end of that time I shall
ring for the servants.” And she picked up the hammer belonging to the
beautiful Chinese gong which her mother used to summon her maid.

In the stillness the ticking of the dock on the desk was plainly
audible. Slowly, very slowly Marjorie rose and walked with deliberation
over to the door opening on the private staircase which led to Mrs.
Fordyce’s suite of rooms on the floor above. Janet followed her
movements with distended eyes; then the chamois-covered hammer in her
hand rose and fell, stroke on stroke, until the room vibrated with the
mellow tones of the Chinese gong.

Out in the wide hall a man, partly concealed by the heavy portières,
jumped nervously back from the keyhole of the door as the sound of the
gong reached him, and turning, scuddled down the hall just as Dr. Paul
Potter came down the broad winding staircase. The latter paused as the
clear bell-like vibrations of the gong drifted to his ears, bringing
with them a note of urgency and appeal which he was quick to answer.

Locating the sound, he made for the Chinese room and rapped sharply
on the panels of the closed door. He waited an appreciable instant,
then, receiving no response, turned the knob and walked into the room.
As he crossed the threshold his foot struck a small object and sent
it spinning ahead of him. His eyes followed the bright silver, and
he was about to advance and pick up the pencil when, looking up, he
spied Janet sitting in front of the desk. Her attitude arrested his
attention. Crossing the intervening space at a bound, he felt her
pulse and heart; then stepped back, and his keen gaze swept the room.
Convinced that they were alone, he again bent over her and laid his
hand lightly on her bare neck.

“Feeling better?” he inquired some moments later.

“Yes,” Janet shivered and pulled her scarf up about her shoulders. “The
incense here always makes me feel deadly faint. I don’t see how mother
stands it.”

“It is trying; suppose I open the window,” moving toward it.

“Please don’t,” she shivered again. “I am quite cold enough already.
I would like a glass of water,” pointing to a carafe and tumblers
standing on a small table near the window. Potter quickly got it for
her and watched the warm color return gradually into her pale cheeks.
“That tastes so good. You kept me waiting an awfully long time, Doctor.”

“I am sorry; your father and I were reminiscing. I thought Duncan was
here with you.”

“Duncan here?” He wondered at the alarm in her tone. “No, he hasn’t
been near me. How is mother?”

“Very much improved.”

“I am so glad,” in a relieved voice. “I felt such a pig to have the
dinner tonight, but mother positively refused to let me call it off.
Father said it was better to humor her.”

“He’s quite right; your mother must not be excited by discussions or
dissensions.”

“We never have them,” she laughed saucily. “We are a united family
ruled by mother.”

“I have a great regard for Mrs. Fordyce,” replied Potter gravely, not
liking her flippant tone.

“Have you just come from her room?”

“No, your father and I were talking in the boudoir.”

“Did you see----” a knock on the hall door interrupted her. “Come in.”

“Miss Swann is in the drawing-room, Miss Janet,” announced the footman.

“Gracious! I must run,” Janet gathered up her scarf, fan, and
handkerchief. “If you see Duncan, Doctor, please ask him to hurry,” and
she departed.

As the door closed behind her Potter walked over and picked up the
silver pencil. He was still examining it when Duncan entered the room.

“Where’s Janet?” he demanded.

“Gone into the drawing-room,” Potter slipped the silver pencil inside
his white waistcoat pocket. “Whom do the initials ‘J. C. C.’ stand for?”

“‘J. C. C.’,” echoed Duncan reflectively. “Let me see. Oh, I guess J.
Calhoun-Cooper.”

“A friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance,” shortly. “His sister was at Madame Yvonett’s this
afternoon.”

“Oh!” Potter’s fingers sought the lobe of his right ear. “I believe you
said they were dining here tonight.”

“Yes. I asked Janet to recall their invitations, but she refused to do
so.”

“Quite right; unless you wish to declare war on them.”

“I’m willing to do it,” Duncan scowled savagely. “The way Pauline dared
to address Madame Yvonett made my blood boil. Janet promised to see
that I did not sit next to her. Joe, Pauline’s brother, made a mistake
in the dinner hour and arrived here some time ago; he sent word to me
by Henderson not to hurry, he’d wait in the billiard-room. The poor
fool must be tired of knocking the balls about by himself.”

Potter looked irresolutely at Duncan, but before he could make up his
mind to a definite course, the telephone bell in the library across the
hall rang insistently, and with a hasty word of excuse Duncan dashed to
answer it. Picking up the evening paper from the chair where Janet had
dropped it, Potter read it hurriedly while awaiting Duncan’s return.

“Come on in the drawing-room, Paul,” called the latter from the doorway
a few minutes later. “Janet has sent a hurry call for us,” and as he
joined him the physician saw the butler’s broad back disappearing in
the distance.

“Any news from Madame Yvonett?” he asked, as they started for the
ballroom.

“Miss Graves has just telephoned no word has been received from
Marjorie,” Duncan looked as anxious as he felt. “I wish to heaven she
was here.”

“So do I; not only on your account, Duncan, but to settle one point
once for all,” the physician paused doubtfully.

“What are you driving at?” growled Duncan.

“Your father has just told me that he has purchased the famous
Maharajah ruby, and now has it in his possession....”

“Yes, he bought it to give to mother on their wedding anniversary
tomorrow; goodness knows why she hates ostentatious display in jewels
as in everything else.”

“Has your father spoken of his intention to buy the ruby?”

“No.”

“Um!” A dry smile twisted Potter’s lips. “The jeweler who conducted the
sale must have talked. The evening paper gives a full account of your
father’s valuable purchase, and a description of the ruby. Now, if only
Miss Langdon were here we would soon find out how disinterested are her
thieving propensities.”

“I have a great mind to punch your head!” said Duncan furiously.
“Heaven only knows where the poor girl is tonight; and you stand there
and dare insinuate---- Oh, come into the drawing-room and meet----” his
voice died in his throat.

Standing receiving the guests, looking extremely beautiful in her
low-cut evening dress, was Marjorie Langdon.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE KINGDOM OF THE BLIND


MARJORIE saw them at the same instant and for a second faltered, then
stepped quietly forward to meet them.

“Good evening,” she said. “Janet, here are the truants. I think you are
to take me out to dinner, Dr. Potter,” and the hand she placed on the
physician’s arm was steady.

Duncan, collecting his scattered wits, offered his arm to the pretty
girl Janet had assigned to him, and followed the others out to the
dining-room. Judging from appearances his father and Janet had accepted
Marjorie’s return without audible comment. Janet, confused by the
rapid trend of events, had quickly decided to let well enough alone.
She feared to precipitate a disastrous scene if she asked Marjorie to
withdraw. Her father, a complete man of the world, had quickly made up
his mind to accept the situation, and postponed questioning Marjorie as
to her disappearance and return until after the dinner was over.

Inwardly cursing his luck that he was not seated next to Marjorie so
that he could question her and tell her of his discovery as to how the
Lawrence codicil was lost, Duncan took the chair next his companion
with an ill grace. There was some confusion in seating the guests,
owing to Janet’s having changed her father’s accustomed seat at the end
to one side of the long table. Paul Potter seized the opportunity to
draw his host to one side.

“Has Janet had any return of----” he lowered his voice discreetly----“of
the old trouble about which you consulted me when she was at
boarding-school?”

Fordyce started. “Not to my knowledge,” he whispered. “What do you....”
But Potter had slipped into his chair between Janet and Marjorie, and
cogitating deeply, Fordyce made his way to his own place.

Leisurely unfolding his napkin, Potter looked with interest about the
table.

“Take pity on a stranger, Miss Langdon, and tell me the names of my
fellow guests,” he said. “I came into the drawing-room too late to meet
them.”

“Captain Nichols is on Janet’s right; next to him is Miss Pauline
Calhoun-Cooper; the girl on Mr. Calderon Fordyce’s right is Miss
Swann, of Baltimore. Isn’t she pretty?” added Marjorie. “The others
are Miss Marsh, Miss Dodge, and my neighbor here, Mr. Calhoun-Cooper,”
indicating Joe with a motion of her hand.

“You have skipped the man sitting opposite you,” prompted Potter. The
table, a recent purchase of Mr. Fordyce’s who never tired of haunting
antique shops, was wide enough to permit two seats being placed side
by side at either end, and as Marjorie’s eyes traveled down the long
expanse of damask and its load of silver and glass she encountered
Barnard’s fixed stare. She acknowledged his low bow with a slight
inclination of her head, and turned again to Potter.

“Chichester Barnard,” she said briefly. “Have you met Mr.
Calhoun-Cooper, Dr. Potter,” she added as Joe, catching his name,
wheeled toward her and through several courses the two men talked with
her.

Janet absorbed Tom Nichols’ attention to the exclusion of others, and
Pauline Calhoun-Cooper, who also had much to occupy her thoughts,
gave up trying to make conversation with Mr. Calderon Fordyce and sat
back in her chair and watched Marjorie. She had heard through Janet
of Marjorie’s departure that morning, and Madame Yvonett’s statement
that her niece had not returned home had convinced Pauline that, as she
vulgarly put it, Marjorie had made a “quick get-away.” She was at a
loss to understand why the Fordyces championed Marjorie’s cause. That
they did so, she never doubted; Marjorie’s very presence indicated that
fact. On discovering Marjorie in the drawing-room, Pauline, considering
it a personal affront that a girl whom she charged with being an
ordinary thief should be an honored guest under the same roof with
her, had confided to Joe that she was leaving immediately and he was
to accompany her. But Joe, for once obdurate to his sister’s commands
and entreaties, roughly refused to budge, and inwardly furious, she
had made the best of the awkward situation and remained also. With
exemplary patience she bided her time.

Janet’s feverishly gay chatter gave Tom Nichols little opportunity to
broach a serious topic. He was deeply puzzled and perturbed over the
loss and return of the bracelet to the Calhoun-Coopers, and the theft
of Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s pearl necklace had added to his bewilderment.
He had spent the past twenty-four hours trying to unravel the mystery.
While Janet had not said in so many words, that the bracelet was
hers, her manner had clearly indicated that fact. Representative J.
Calhoun-Cooper claimed the bracelet as his, and it had been returned
to him. Janet’s special delivery note hinted broadly that Marjorie
had received the bracelet after he left it at her house. And yet
how did Marjorie know Janet was wearing a bracelet which belonged
to J. Calhoun-Cooper, and why did she return it anonymously to the
Representative without first mentioning her intentions to Janet? Tom
shrank from the answer which reason dictated.

“Why so solemn?” challenged Janet, not getting an immediate answer to
her former question. All through the dinner she had carefully refrained
from glancing in Barnard’s direction. Under the stimulus of Tom’s
presence, she had cast prudence to the winds.

“Solemn? Far from it; a nonsense rhyme is bothering me to death. I
wonder if you can tell me where it came from,” and he quoted hurriedly:

  “‘I gave her one, they gave him two
    You gave us three or more.
  They all returned from him to you
    Though they were mine before.’”

“Alice In Wonderland!” Janet clapped her hands and laughed in open
amusement. “To think of an artillery officer being ‘up’ in nursery
rhymes.”

“So that’s where the lines are from! My niece and nephew are
responsible for my knowledge of Lewis Carroll’s masterpiece.”

“Do you remember the next verse?” asked Janet. “It goes:

  “‘If I or she should chance to be
    Involved in this affair,
  I trust to you to set me free
    Exactly as we were.’”

Tom had a retentive memory. Was Janet intentionally misquoting? Did
she mean him to take the nonsense rhyme seriously? He glanced sharply
at her, but her head was partly turned as she helped herself to the
_vol-au-vent_. He waited for her full attention before answering.

“It sounds like the unutterable tread of unsearchable circumstances,”
he said.

It was Janet’s turn to be mystified. “I don’t at all understand what
you mean,” she admitted plaintively, wrinkling her pretty forehead in
wonder. “I don’t even know you are really my friend....”

“Janet, don’t for a moment doubt me,” Tom lowered his voice so that it
reached her ear alone. “I am yours, heart and soul.”

Her eyes fell before his, unable to bear the worship which kindled his
plain features almost into beauty, and the carmine mounted her cheeks.

“You’ll never believe anything people may say against me?” she pleaded.

“Never,” with reassuring vehemence.

“Will you promise to stand by me----?”

“Always; through thick and thin.”

“Then, Tom, save me from myself,” and a little cold hand slipped into
his under cover of the table.

Tom was white under his tan. He was in deadly earnest, but was Janet
equally so? His clasp tightened on her hand until her ring cut into the
tender flesh.

“Tell me, Janet,” and the very repression of his voice showed the
tension he was laboring under. “Is there a chance for me?”

“You are very blind, dear,” and the love-light in her eyes was
unmistakable.

Paul Potter scanned Janet and Tom quizzically for a second, then turned
back to Marjorie.

“It’s no use,” he said. “I’ve tried repeatedly to break into their
conversation; but it’s a close corporation. Behold, you still have me
on your hands.”

“That is no hardship but good fortune,” Marjorie spoke with
truthfulness. Joe was not particularly interesting at any time; and
feeling as she did that night, anything which interrupted a tête-à-tête
with a member of the Calhoun-Cooper family was in the nature of a
relief. She had held a three-cornered conversation with Potter and Joe
most of the evening, and Joe, usually unobserving, had not failed to
note the physician’s intent gaze and finally turning restive under the
ceaseless espionage, was glad to present his back to his right-hand
neighbors and talk to his dinner partner, Miss Dodge.

“Tell me more of your adventures when you accompanied Duncan Fordyce to
China, Doctor,” continued Marjorie, after a short pause.

“I’m afraid I’ve already related all the exciting incidents of our
trip. If you want thrilling romance ask Mr. Fordyce to tell you the
story of the Maharajah’s ruby which he intends giving to his wife on
their wedding anniversary tomorrow. Has he already shown it to you?”

“No.”

“That’s so, he only purchased the ruby today. I believe I’m letting
out state secrets,” Potter laughed ruefully. “Don’t betray me, even to
Janet.”

“I promise not to, but....”

“Are you and Marjorie speaking of the ruby?” questioned Janet. Pauline
had finally interrupted her conversation with Tom by claiming the
latter’s undivided attention, and Janet had overheard Potter’s remarks.
“That’s no secret, Doctor; it is in the evening papers. I teased father
to show it to me just before you came in”--Marjorie’s heart sank like
lead with forebodings of more trouble. “It’s the most beautiful stone
I’ve ever seen,” went on Janet enthusiastically. “A real pigeon-blood
ruby. I could hardly put it down.”

Marjorie lost Potter’s reply; her attention being centered on Perkins.
The butler was bending over and speaking confidentially to Mr. Calderon
Fordyce. As the whispered colloquy progressed Calderon Fordyce’s face
grew set and stern. With a quiet word of apology to the two girls
sitting on either side of him, he pushed back his chair and left the
room.

“Do you suppose Mrs. Fordyce is worse, Doctor?” questioned Marjorie.

Potter looked troubled as he beckoned to Perkins. “Does Mr. Fordyce
wish me to go to his wife?” he inquired, as the butler stopped behind
him.

“No, sir. Mr. Fordyce has gone to answer a telephone message, sir.
Champagne, Miss Langdon?” and before she could stop him, he had
refilled her glass.

“Have you seen Mrs. Fordyce, Doctor?” asked Marjorie, as Perkins passed
on.

“Yes, just before dinner. She seemed immensely improved.”

“Do you think I could see her later?” She tried hard to suppress all
anxious longing, but it crept into her voice, and Potter examined her
white face with keen intentness.

“I don’t think it would be wise,” and Marjorie’s sensitive nerves
quivered under the peculiar intonation of his voice. Were they all in
league to keep her from confiding her troubles to Mrs. Fordyce, her one
friend?

To Duncan Fordyce the dinner was interminable. Fortunately the
very young girls who had fallen to his share were so taken up with
talking of their affairs that his part in the conversation sank to
monosyllables, to his great relief. He was not in the mood to make
small talk. His father had motioned to him to keep his seat when he
rose on receiving Perkins’ message, and much against his will he had
done so. He did not like his father’s expression; it betokened bad
news. His thoughts instantly sped to his mother, but Perkins’ hurried
whisper relieved that anxiety, and he was just starting to enjoy his
untasted salad when, happening to look down the table, he caught
Marjorie’s eyes. Their expression of dumb despair stirred him out of
himself.

His impulse was to go to her at once, but cooler counsel prevailed.
Such a course would instantly draw attention to Marjorie; he would
not mind, but she might seriously resent being made conspicuous. With
inward fervor he consigned the cook who invented long menus to a
warm climate; the table had to be cleared and the ices served before
he would be free to go to Marjorie. He glanced at his neighbors:
Miss Marsh was holding an animated three-cornered conversation with
Chichester Barnard and Miss Swann, and Miss Dodge, on his left, was
deeply engrossed with Joe Calhoun-Cooper. He was the only person at
the table not busily talking. Taking up his place card and drawing
out a gold pencil, he wrote a few lines under cover of the table, and
beckoning to Perkins, slipped the card inside his hand with a whispered
direction.

A second later Marjorie’s elbow was gently jogged by Perkins and a card
was placed in her lap unseen by her neighbors. Surprised and somewhat
alarmed, she waited until Potter and Janet were engaged in a warm
argument; then glanced down, and under the shelter of her napkin read
the few words written in Duncan’s distinctive writing on the back of
his place card:

  MARJORIE:

  I love you. Will you marry me? Answer yes, by raising your champagne
  glass.

                                                  DUNCAN.

Janet turned back again to Tom, and Potter, left to himself, addressed
several remarks to Marjorie. Not getting any reply, he looked at her
in surprise and discovered her eye-lashes were wet with tears. Before
he could think of anything to say or do, she glanced up, her face
transfigured.

“W--what did you say?” she stammered. Her eyes, alight with new-born
happiness and hope traveled past Potter to Duncan. A moment’s
hesitation; then she raised her champagne glass to him, and Duncan’s
blood coursed hotly through his veins as he pledged her in tender
silence across the table. “I did not catch what you said, Dr. Potter,”
she added softly, her eyes never leaving Duncan’s radiant face.




CHAPTER XXV

PHANTOMS OF THE NIGHT


KATHRYN ALLEN, taking care that her starched white nurse’s uniform
made no crinkling sound, bent over Mrs. Fordyce and listened to her
regular breathing. Satisfied that her patient was at last asleep, she
arranged the night-light, placed several bottles and glasses on the
bedstand, and left the room. Her rubber-soled shoes made no sound, and
she passed through the empty rooms and halls in ghostly silence. First,
she paid a lengthy visit to Marjorie’s old room, and when she emerged
into the hall her white gown was covered by a dark coat-sweater which
Mrs. Fordyce had given to Marjorie at Christmas, and the becoming white
nurse’s cap nestled in one of the pockets of the sweater. Finally,
reaching the drawing-room floor, she paused to listen to the distant
hum of voices and gay laughter coming faintly from the dining-room,
then she peeped into the ballroom. It was empty, and the drawing-room
likewise.

Convinced that the way was clear she entered the library and was about
to make herself comfortable in Mr. Fordyce’s own easy-chair, when the
sound of rapidly approaching footsteps startled her, and she darted
behind the long silken window curtains which effectually concealed her
from view.

The curtains had barely fallen back into place when the hall door
opened and Calderon Fordyce came in and walked over to the telephone.
He was in much too great a hurry to observe his surroundings closely,
and becoming absorbed in his conversation over the wire, never heard
the faint rustle of the curtains as Kathryn Allen peered out between
them into the room, drinking in every word she could overhear. She
jerked her head out of sight as Fordyce hung up the receiver.

“Well, I’m blessed!” he exclaimed aloud. “I don’t want any more scenes;
where in thunder did Janet put the evening paper?” But his search was
unavailing, and he left the library still grumbling.

Kathryn allowed several minutes to elapse before she stirred from
behind the curtains. Finally convinced that Calderon Fordyce was not
likely to return at once, she went directly to his desk, and selecting
pen and paper, scribbled rapidly:

  DEAR JOE,

  They know, and have telephoned Calderon Fordyce. Get a taxi and wait
  for me around the corner. Don’t fail.

                                                  K. A.

She reread what she had written, then drawing out a folded paper from
the same pocket which contained her nurse’s cap, she picked out a long
envelope stamped with Calderon Fordyce’s house address, and wrote above
it Marjorie Langdon’s name; then straightening out the folded paper,
enclosed it in the envelope which she sealed and addressed, and making
free with Calderon Fordyce’s stamp-book, soon had it ready for the mail.

“I think my ‘find’ will square accounts with both Marjorie Langdon
and Chichester Barnard,” she murmured, with malicious fury. “He won’t
marry me, and he shan’t marry her. God! how I--I--love him”--and the
unhappy woman bowed her head in anguish. The fact that her habit of
self-deception had magnified Barnard’s attentions to her did not soften
the realization that he cared nothing for her. It was but another
version of the moth and the flame, and pretty Kathryn, her wings
singed, turned with sore heart to Joe as her haven of refuge. But even
so she could neither forgive Barnard nor forget him.

Replacing the envelope in her pocket, she rearranged the displaced desk
ornaments, and picking up the note addressed to Joe, left the room. No
one saw her make her way into the men’s cloakroom on the ground floor,
but once there she stuck Joe’s note on the mantel in plain view and
sped into the hall. Not wishing to encounter any servant she entered
the lift and shot up to the drawing-room floor. She made certain the
way was clear before venturing down the hall to the Chinese room. Mrs.
Fordyce had sent her there earlier in the evening to get the _Evening
Star_, and she had used the private staircase to go and return. It
would be the quickest way to reach her patient undetected.

But the contents of the Chinese room fascinated her, and she lingered
on, examining with growing interest the many beautiful curios. So
absorbed was she that she never heard the opening and closing of the
hall door.

“Oh, ho, Kathryn!” said a well-known voice, and with a stifled cry she
faced about.

“Chichester!”

Barnard laughed softly as he observed her confusion. “Pretty, pretty,
Kathryn!” he mocked. “Why so far from your patient, my dear?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“My general interest in your welfare prompts the question.”

“Rot!” bitterly. “You have already shown me that you care nothing for
me.”

“Interest does not necessarily mean affection, my dear Kathryn. You are
so emotional you confuse the terms.”

“I don’t want your interest,” she replied sullenly, her resentment
rising.

“Oh, yes, you do,” with a provoking smile. “Suppose I lost interest in
you and reported your neglect of Mrs. Fordyce to her husband. Is your
reputation as a reliable nurse of no value to you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Indeed. Found a bonanza?”

“No; a man who respects me.”

Barnard laughed again. “Poor fool!”

Kathryn’s cheeks turned as red as her hair as her smoldering wrath
kindled under his look and words. “You are the pitiful fool; wasting
your love on a girl who betrays you,” she snapped, and meeting his
blank stare, added: “Marjorie Langdon has other intentions since being
thrown with Duncan Fordyce. You don’t believe me? Well, I have proof
she’s off with the old love. I found out tonight that she plans to ruin
you.”

“Bosh!” but Barnard paled. “I am in no woman’s power....”

“Then why should Marjorie Langdon write to Admiral Lawrence?” she
supplemented.

“Why shouldn’t she?” he countered.

“Put it down to a change of heart,” she taunted. “Perhaps Marjorie
wants her old secretaryship back again, perhaps conscience prompts her
to make restitution. The envelope was long, it could easily have held a
legal document ... for instance, a codicil to a will.”

“Where did you make this interesting discovery?”

“Among Marjorie’s belongings.”

“While playing hide-and-seek,” he jeered. “Well, did you leave it
there?”

“For you to steal?” The sneer cost her dearly, for Barnard’s quick wits
grasped the situation.

“No, of course you didn’t; an unscrupulous woman would not leave
capital behind. Give it to me.”

“I haven’t it”--but Barnard, paying no attention to the denial, sprang
toward her. “Stop, you hurt my arm”--struggling in his grasp. “You
brute!”

“Give me the letter!” Barnard shook her violently. For answer she sank
her teeth in his hand. “You devil!” he gasped, and she reeled backward
under his blow. As her weight fell on the unlatched door leading to
the private staircase, it opened and precipitated her into the short
passage way. In an instant Barnard was by the fallen woman’s side, but
before he could search her for the letter he supposed she had, Janet
Fordyce stepped into the Chinese room. The passage way was fortunately
dark, and she did not observe Barnard kneeling by Kathryn. With a swift
movement Barnard pushed the door to, leaving however, a crack through
which he could peer into the Chinese room.

Humming a gay tune Janet paused by the electric droplight, then sitting
down before the desk she opened the left-hand drawer and putting in her
hand felt about until her lingers found a spring which she pressed.
Instantly the panel between the two drawers, which usually looked
as solid as the rest of the desk, flew out, and Janet, bending down
slipped her hand inside the opening and pulled out a jewel-box. With
leisurely movement she opened the case and held it directly under
the lamp, and the light fell on a superb ruby set as a pendant. She
gazed at it admiringly and taking the jewel out of the case carefully
inspected the exquisite workmanship of the pendant. She fondled the
jewel for a moment, then replaced it in its case, and laid the latter
back in the secret drawer. But before closing the drawer she evidently
thought better of it and again lifted out the ruby pendant, replaced
the empty case, closed the drawer, and unhurriedly left the room.

Through the crack of the door Barnard, with eyes almost starting from
his head, watched Janet’s every movement; so intent was he that he
failed to notice Kathryn. Taking advantage of his absorption, she had
risen to her knees and was also peering into the Chinese room. As Janet
disappeared, she sprang to her feet, intending to run upstairs, but
Barnard pulled her back and stared at her in horror. She was shaking
with noiseless mirth which threatened to break out into hysterical
weeping.

“The girl’s a thief, a common thief,” she gasped faintly. “Trust you to
find it out, and use your knowledge to bend her to your will. Well, you
may make her your wife, but she loves Tom Nichols.” She blanched before
his furious expression. “I tell you, Janet Fordyce loves Tom Nichols,”
she repeated stubbornly. “I’ve just read the young fool’s diary.”

“Your inordinate curiosity will be your ruin,” said Barnard, with
ominous quietness. “Give me the paper you found in Marjorie Langdon’s
room,” folding his handkerchief around his bruised hand.

“Hush!” A murmur of voices sounded down the hall, and Kathryn seized
on the interruption. “Go in there,” she directed, “unless you wish to
be caught out here with me.” Barnard hesitated; the voices were most
certainly drawing nearer; it would be one thing to be found waiting in
the Chinese room alone, and quite a different matter to be discovered
apparently hiding in a back passage with a trained nurse. He dared
not risk another struggle with Kathryn, they most certainly would be
overheard. With a muttered oath he laid his hand on the door knob.

“You send that paper to Admiral Lawrence at your own peril,” he
whispered. “I know of certain escapades which will forfeit any man’s
respect for you--you understand. Don’t push me too far,” and jerking
open the door he stepped back into the Chinese room.

He had been there but a moment when Calderon Fordyce entered with
Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper. With a hasty word of greeting to the
latter, Barnard backed toward the hall door, eager to be gone.

“Stop a second, Barnard,” exclaimed Calhoun-Cooper. “I am glad to have
you here. Perhaps you can help me in a legal way.”

“Anything I can do, sir,” Barnard was careful to remain in the shadow
as much as possible, keeping his bandaged hand in his pocket. “I am
entirely at your service.”

“Thanks,” Calhoun-Cooper turned his attention to his host, to Barnard’s
relief. “Have you sent for Joe?”

“Yes,” replied Fordyce shortly. “Look here, Cooper, can’t you contrive
to settle this affair without a scene?”

“I’ll try. Barnard, here, will help me.” Barnard looked wonderingly
at the two men. “What is the legal age for marriage in the District,
Barnard?”

“With or without the consent of parents?”

“Without.”

Before Barnard could reply, the hall door opened and Pauline stepped
into the room.

“What’s to pay, father?” she inquired. “I saw you arrive, and overheard
the footman tell Joe to come to this room. Is mother ill?”

“No, go back to the drawing-room, Pauline, and hurry Joe in here.”

“He won’t come.” Pauline, scenting excitement, was reluctant to leave.

“Won’t he?” Calhoun-Cooper’s temper was aroused. Stepping past the
others, he jerked open the hall door just in time to see Joe dash by.
“Stop him!” he commanded. Tom Nichols, who happened to be returning
from the smoking-room, instinctively tripped up the running man, and
not until he helped him to his feet, did he recognize Joe.

“Go back into that room,” ordered Calhoun-Cooper, and Joe quailed
before the look in his eyes. “Come with us, Nichols; no, there’s no use
trying to run away again,” as Joe made a sideways motion to duck by
them.

Much astounded Tom followed the father and son into the Chinese room.
Janet, getting out of the elevator, saw the little procession, and
moved by curiosity, also entered the room. Calderon Fordyce glanced
vexedly at the increasing group around him, his request that there
should be no scene was not to be granted. Calhoun-Cooper was about to
speak when Duncan opened the hall door.

“What do you mean by running off and leaving your guests, Janet?”
he demanded. “They are saying good-bye, and Marjorie....” he stopped
abruptly as his eyes fell on the others. “Go back to the drawing-room,
dear,” and he pushed Janet through the door and closed it behind her.

“Tell me the truth, Joe,” commanded Calhoun-Cooper. “Have you taken out
a marriage license?”

“Yes,” answered Joe sullenly.

“What?” screamed Pauline. “Who are you going to marry?”

“None of your business,” retorted her brother.

“It is very much my business,” broke in Calhoun-Cooper, who had been
holding a hurried conversation with Barnard. “Considering you are not
of legal age to marry in the District without your parent’s consent.”

“We can be married in Rockville,” replied Joe heatedly. “I suppose you
read the marriage license published in the _Star_ tonight.”

“Your mother read it after dinner, and at once notified me at the
Capitol.”

“It’s rotten luck!” complained Joe bitterly. “I didn’t know they’d
publish it. Why should you withhold your consent, father? Kathryn Allen
is worthy of respect and love.”

“Kathryn Allen!” Pauline’s face turned red with mortification and rage.
“You propose marrying that girl of questionable repute? You dare to
think of bringing her into our family!”

“My family is quite as good as yours,” retorted a voice from the other
side of the room, and Kathryn Allen, who had been an interested
listener in the passageway, stepped to Joe’s side. She had discarded
Marjorie’s sweater, and straightened her dress. She looked a model
trained nurse in her simple white uniform. For a moment the others were
too astounded to speak.

“Are you Kathryn Allen?” asked Calhoun-Cooper.

“Yes,” proudly. “And your son has the honor to be engaged to me.” She
flashed a triumphant look at Pauline whose indignation prevented speech
on her part.

“Where have you been most of the evening, nurse?” questioned Calderon
Fordyce sternly. “My wife informed me, when I went to see how she was,
that you had been absent for over an hour.”

“I came downstairs to do an errand for her,” lied Kathryn. “Your wife
was asleep when I left her.”

“I do not like such conduct,” said Fordyce curtly. “I have already
telephoned to the hospital for another nurse. You may leave at once.”

Kathryn’s eyes blazed with wrath. “You--you--send me away,” she paused
to gain control of her trembling voice. “You, whose own daughter is a
thief!”

“How dare you?” Both Calderon Fordyce and Duncan moved toward the
enraged woman. No one paid the slightest attention to Marjorie and Paul
Potter who entered at that moment, and stood regarding the tableau too
surprised to speak.

“I am telling the truth,” shrieked Kathryn. “Mr. Barnard and I both
watched her take your ruby pendant.”

There was dead silence as all eyes turned to Barnard. Quickly he
decided; helped by the promise he read in Kathryn’s eyes: she would
give him the codicil if he backed up her charge against Janet. Utterly
unscrupulous himself, he never doubted that Marjorie, on impulse, had
stolen the codicil; his intense egoism making him believe her past
friendship for him had prompted the theft. With that codicil once
safely in his possession he stood to win one hundred thousand dollars.
He could depend on Kathryn’s dog-like fidelity if he showed her the
slightest affection. Janet? Well, Janet could go in the discard. He
cleared his throat nervously.

“The nurse’s story is quite true,” he acknowledged sorrowfully.

Calderon Fordyce staggered into the nearest chair, and Duncan paused
irresolute, as remembrances crowded upon him.

“We saw Miss Fordyce go over to that desk, press a spring, open the
middle part, and take out the case,” went on Kathryn vindictively,
after casting a grateful look on Barnard. He had not failed her. “She
removed the ruby pendant, replaced the case, and left the room.”

“It’s all a rotten lie!” gasped Tom. “It must be,” turning appealingly
to Marjorie. But she stood silent. She had done her loyal best, she
could do no more. The inevitable had happened.

“Did you tell your daughter that you had the pendant, Fordyce?” asked
Calhoun-Cooper, forgetting for the moment Joe’s prospective matrimonial
plans.

“Yes, I showed it to her.”

“Anyone who reads the _Star_ knew father had the ruby,” said Duncan
slowly.

“But no outsider knew where your father kept the jewel,” interrupted
Kathryn.

“Suppose you look and see if it is gone,” suggested Duncan, and
Calderon Fordyce rose and opened the secret drawer. A groan of horror
escaped him on seeing the empty case.

“Janet saw me place the case in there,” he gasped. “Her mother uses the
secret drawer for many private documents and sometimes for her jewelry.
Janet, my own dear daughter, a thief!” His agony was unconcealed.

“Do not condemn Janet so soon,” said Paul Potter quietly. “The girl was
acting under auto-suggestion.”




CHAPTER XXVI

UNCOVERED


MARJORIE and the others gazed at the physician in stupefied silence.

“I mean exactly what I said,” he went on. “The girl was hypnotized.”

“She wasn’t asleep,” protested Kathryn. “Her eyes were wide open, and
her manner was perfectly natural. She knew what she was about.”

“That is not surprising or unusual,” answered Potter. “In cases of
animal magnetism the subject is awake; has returned to what may be
called her normal state, is able to reflect, reason, and direct her
conduct; and yet under these conditions, she is influenced by the
auto-suggestion. The real thief is the person who hypnotized Janet.”

“I tell you she was alone in this room,” declared Kathryn stubbornly.

“I am not denying it,” the physician spoke with quiet force. “At
the will of the hypnotist the act of stealing may be accomplished
several hours, or even two days after the date of auto-suggestion.
Such suggestion can only be realized at the given hour, and cannot be
realized until that hour arrives.”

“All very fine,” scoffed Kathryn. “But if Janet Fordyce was a poor
girl she would be in jail by now. Do you think you’d put up such a
bluff for--Miss Langdon, for instance?”

A light broke on Duncan and he stepped toward Marjorie. “Have you known
Janet stole?”

“Yes,” she answered huskily. “I feared it was kleptomania. I first saw
her take a diamond sunburst from Mrs. Walbridge’s dressing-table on
Christmas Eve.”

“And you never told?” Both voice and gesture showed Duncan’s unbounded
admiration and love as he addressed Marjorie. “You let others think you
the thief!” His look repaid her for the suffering she had endured.

“I watched Janet,” she confessed. “And whenever I found anything in her
possession which I knew did not belong to her, I returned it to the
rightful owner.”

“How about my wife’s pearl necklace?” broke in Calhoun-Cooper. “Did
Miss Fordyce take that also?”

“I fear so,” faltered Marjorie. “But I have never seen the necklace in
her possession.”

“Have you any objection to sending for your daughter, Fordyce, and
asking her to return the necklace to me?”

Before Fordyce could reply to Calhoun-Cooper’s question, Potter
interrupted him.

“It will do little good,” he began. “Janet is herself again, and all is
forgotten; the crime, the impulse, and the instigator.”

“Do you mean to say we cannot learn the name of the fiend who has used
my daughter as a puppet to accomplish his villany?” cried Fordyce
unbelievingly.

“Not unless we hypnotize Janet anew, when her loss of memory will
return. She can then probably tell us the author of the suggestion, the
time, the place, and the manner.”

“A witness cannot be constrained to undergo hypnotism,” put in Pauline,
breaking her long silence. “It is against the law.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Potter.

“A friend, who attended Janet’s boarding-school, told me that a young
teacher, who took a number of pupils to see Keller, discovered that
Janet was susceptible to hypnotism. The magician used her as a subject
in the audience. Afterwards the teacher often demonstrated her power
over Janet. Mr. Fordyce found it out”--Calderon Fordyce drinking in
every word nodded affirmatively, “and wished to prosecute the teacher,
but her lawyer refused to permit Janet to be hypnotized so that she
might testify against her.”

“And how many people have you told that Janet was a sympathetic subject
for hypnotism?” asked Potter. Pauline made no answer. “Your brother,
for instance?” she fidgeted uncomfortably, but again refused to answer.
“Just before dinner,” continued the physician quietly, “I saw a man
running down the hall from this room; on coming in here I found Janet
in a hypnotic trance....”

“Did you recognize the man?” questioned Duncan swiftly.

“I did not; but he dropped this in his flight,” taking out the silver
pencil. “The initials engraved on it are ‘J. C. C.’”

“I know nothing about the whole business,” protested Joe vehemently. “I
thought I heard raised voices in here, and stopped to investigate....”

“Through the keyhole?” with sarcastic significance, and Joe flushed.

“If I was on the other side of the door how did I hypnotize Janet
Fordyce?” he asked, avoiding his father’s look.

Potter paid no attention to Joe’s remark, but continued to address
the others. “There is nothing which suggestion cannot accomplish with
a sensitive subject. With a suggested act are connected sentiments,
emotions, passions, voluntary action, and all the phenomena
constituting the psychology of movement. The suggestion which persists
during the waking state presents one interesting characteristic; it
appears to the subject to be spontaneous.”

“Do you mean that Janet was consciously a thief?” exclaimed Fordyce
aghast.

Potter evaded a direct reply. “The subject generally supposes it to be
a spontaneous act, and sometimes she even invents reasons to explain
her conduct,” he said. “It is owing to this former fact that it is not
necessary for the hypnotist to indicate in what way the crime is to be
committed. Hurried on by this irresistible force, the subject feels
none of the doubts and hesitations of a real criminal, but acts with a
tranquility and security which insures the success of the crime.”

“Your theory illustrates Spinoza’s remark that ‘the consciousness
of free-will is only ignorance of the cause of our acts’,” said
Calhoun-Cooper reflectively. “As my son seems to be involved in this
affair, I must ask you to examine your daughter; and the sooner the
better, for we are losing valuable time.”

“Miss Marjorie,” began Calderon Fordyce. “Tell me who Janet has been
with most frequently since coming to Washington, and who are her
confidential friends.”

“Miss Langdon comes under that heading better than anyone else,”
interpolated Pauline, and her spiteful manner made her meaning plain,
but Marjorie did not flinch under the attack. She was about to speak
when Potter answered for her.

“That is a matter of no moment,” he broke in. “If Janet voluntarily
alienated her free-will to a magnetizer, though the latter may be only
a casual acquaintance, she is at his or her mercy; and by the law of
habit and repetition the control of a subject becomes more easy and
complete.”

“But is not a long interval required in which to hypnotize a person?”
asked Pauline doubtfully.

“No. Hypnotic sleep can be produced and terminated in the time it
takes a subject to traverse a short passage from door to door, and an
auto-suggestion can be made in fifteen seconds and affected in all
places and at any hour of the day.”

Fordyce glanced at the physician appalled. “What a frightful power for
evil in unscrupulous hands. Surely Janet will be able to tell us who
has gained so fearful a hold over her.”

Potter shook his head. “A suggestion will destroy all recollection of
what occurred during hypnotism. As a rule the process which produced
the auto-suggestion leaves no trace of its symptoms, and the subject
does not remember the way it was produced, and is altogether ignorant
of the original source of the impulse she has received.”

“Are we to sit here and do nothing, Paul?” demanded Duncan hotly. The
opening of the hall door interrupted him.

“Why are you all staying in here?” asked Janet, from the doorway.
“Our other guests have left....” A stricken silence prevailed as she
advanced into the room, and she was just becoming aware of their
concentrated attention when Potter leaned forward, picked up the
chamois-covered hammer and struck the Chinese gong until the vibrations
filled the room. Thunderstruck, the others looked at him, but he only
saw Janet.

“Janet, where did you put the ruby pendant?” he asked, authoritatively.

A crash broke the tense stillness as a statuette toppled to the floor,
but the interruption came too late. Janet was deaf to her surroundings.
She was obsessed with but one idea.

“I couldn’t find your coat,” she pleaded. “I had to bring the pendant
direct to you, Chichester.”

Barnard dashed the jewel out of her extended palm and sprang for the
door. But he was too late. Tom Nichols, with murder in his heart, was
there before him, and he went down under the officer’s blow.

“Let me finish him, Duncan,” begged Tom, frantically, as the men
dragged him off Barnard. “Let me kill the dastardly hound!”

“Control yourself, Nichols,” commanded Potter sternly. “Think of Janet.”

The admonition had the desired effect, and Tom, much against his will,
permitted Marjorie to lead him away from the prostrate man.

“Is Janet in a hypnotic trance?” asked Duncan, staring at his sister.

“Yes,” replied the physician. “Barnard hypnotized her by means of
sensorial excitement. I suspected as much because earlier this evening,
I found Janet in a trance in the Chinese room, and before entering that
room I heard the sound of a gong.”

“She struck the gong herself,” gasped Marjorie.

“Unconscious self-hypnotism,” commented Potter. “Probably Barnard used
musical instruments, or perhaps the regular ticking of a clock to
magnetize her so frequently that the law of repetition had its way when
she heard the vibrations. I brought her back to her normal condition by
placing my hand to the nape of her neck. Tell me,” he walked over and
planted a hearty kick in the small of Barnard’s back. “What means did
you use to awaken Janet?”

“Breathed on her forehead and eyes,” mumbled the half-conscious man.

Quickly Potter aroused Janet. She shivered, and turned and stretched
out her hands to Tom.

“Take me away,” she said. “Oh, Tom, I asked you at dinner to protect me
from myself. I’m not well--I tell you, I’m not well,” and she shook as
with an ague.

Utterly regardless of the others’ presence, Tom gathered her in his
strong arms. “I shall always guard you, my darling,” he promised
tenderly. “No one shall come between us, and you will never be
tormented again. Come with me.”

Barnard staggered to his feet and tried to intercept the lovers. Janet
cowered back at his approach.

“Don’t let him touch me,” she pleaded piteously. “He says I’m a
kleptomaniac, and that I must steal, steal----” a shudder of repulsion
shook her. “He threatened to tell, he threatened to tell. Am I a
kleptomaniac, Tom, dear Tom, am I a kleptomaniac?” Her eyes were alight
with horror.

“No, no, my darling; you are only the dearest and best sweetheart in
the whole world”--Tom’s voice quivered, and he held her close.

“But, Tom, I did find other people’s jewelry in my possession
sometimes, and how did I get it unless I was a kleptomaniac?” Janet
raised both hands to her throbbing temples and burst into a storm of
tears.

“Go in the library with Nichols, Janet,” broke in Potter. “He will
explain away your--nightmare.” Tom nodded understandingly as he caught
the physician’s warning glare, and he gently led Janet out of the room.
Barnard tried to slide after them, but Duncan pulled him back and
closed the hall door.

“State what you have to say to us,” he ordered, “and be brief.”

“And suppose I refuse to make a statement?” replied Barnard sullenly,
nursing his bruised and bleeding face.

“You will have plenty of time to think it over in jail.”

“Ah, then you intend to prosecute?”

“Did you doubt it?” Duncan’s eyes hardened; it was only by exerting the
utmost self-restraint that he kept his hands off Barnard, so great was
his fury at the latter’s treatment of his sister.

“Have you counted the cost of publicity?” inquired Barnard, with cool
effrontery. Some of his habitual composure was returning to him.

“Whatever the cost you shall suffer the full penalty of the law.
Father, call up the nearest precinct and tell the sergeant to send here
and arrest a thief....”

“And hypnotizer,” sneered Barnard, as Calderon Fordyce stepped toward
the door.

Joe, who had divided his time looking out of the window and watching
his companions, sidled up to Kathryn, who stood next Barnard, and,
while pretending to pick up her handkerchief, whispered:

“I found your note. My taxi’s waiting outside. You slip out there the
first chance you get, and I’ll follow.”

She nodded understandingly as her eyes and Barnard’s crossed, but Joe
did not see their by-play.

“Just a moment,” called Barnard, and Calderon Fordyce paused
undecidedly. “I’ll not keep you waiting until my trial for an accurate
account of my business transactions with your daughter,” and he laughed
mockingly. “I needed money; always have needed it. Miss Pauline,”
indicating her with a flippant wave of his hand, “told me Janet was
easily hypnotized, and it gave me the idea of compelling her to steal
for me. I had her practice by picking up trifles; then came Tom
Nichol’s coin, then money and jewelry. I netted quite a tidy sum out of
our silent partnership....” He stepped back to avoid Duncan’s furious
leap toward him. Potter promptly stepped between the two men, and in
the confusion Kathryn Allen slipped from the room.

“Be quiet, Duncan,” commanded Potter. “Finish your statement, Barnard.”

“There is very little to add,” said the latter, placing the desk
carefully between himself and Duncan. “Sometimes Janet passed me the
jewelry, sometimes she lost it before she could get it to me. Your
wife’s necklace was a rich haul”--J. Calhoun-Cooper smiled wryly. “I
realized that if Janet was caught stealing, she would only be thought a
kleptomaniac. She was tractable enough until I tried to make her turn
against Tom Nichols; then she grew stubborn.”

“Hypnotic subjects often rebel against injuring those they love,”
remarked Potter thoughtfully.

“She would have obeyed me in the end,” and Barnard’s dark eyes
flamed in sudden baffled rage. “We might have gone on indefinitely,
but I grew to hate the influence you, Duncan Fordyce, exerted over
Marjorie”--Barnard’s manner betrayed genuine emotion. “I planned to get
her away from here. Miss Pauline had told me when I accompanied her
home from the Charity Ball, that she suspected Marjorie of stealing her
mother’s pearl necklace, and I suggested that she call here and charge
Marjorie with the theft, and also told her to ask Janet what she knew
of the theft. She said she would go and see Mrs. Fordyce this morning,
so I made an appointment to see Janet before Miss Pauline got here. I
saw Janet alone, and by auto-suggestion forced her to testify against
Marjorie.” A horrified gasp escaped Marjorie, and for the first time he
turned and looked fully at her. “I loathed poverty and I loved you,”
he said, and there was infinite pathos in his charmingly modulated
voice. “No other woman counted,” he stumbled in his speech, his passion
mastering him. “My punishment lies in losing you. Have you no word for
me?” stretching out his hands imploringly. But Marjorie bowed her head,
unable to speak. Potter, watching her closely, saw she was on the point
of collapse.

“Go and call the police, Duncan,” he began, then stopped speaking as
the room was plunged in darkness.

Barnard, taking his hand from the electric light switch, sprang
noiselessly out of the room and raced down the hall, Duncan at his
heels. He gained the front steps by a narrow margin, and one leap
carried him through the open door of the waiting taxi-cab. Duncan
stood watching the disappearing rear lights of the taxi-cab with mixed
emotions, then turned on his heel and re-entered the house. He met
the three older men in the hall, and they accompanied him back to the
Chinese room. Joe turned from the open window on their appearance.

“Did Kathryn go with Barnard?” he asked in a voice he strove to make
steady.

“Yes,” answered Duncan.

J. Calhoun-Cooper stepped forward at the sight of his son’s
grief-stricken face, and laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

“Come home with me, my boy,” he said, and his tone gave Joe some ray of
comfort. “I need you,” and shoulder to shoulder, father and son stepped
from the room. Without speaking to the Fordyces, Pauline followed her
father and brother out into the hall.

Potter slipped his arm inside Calderon Fordyce’s. “Let us see them off
the premises,” he suggested, and paused only long enough to carefully
close the hall door behind them.

Left by themselves Duncan walked swiftly over to Marjorie. He had not
seen her alone since his long-distance proposal at the dinner table.
At his approach Marjorie faltered and drew back, embarrassment tinging
her white cheeks a delicate pink. Desperately she controlled an impulse
to turn and fly; then as she met the yearning tenderness of his
regard she half conquered her shyness and her hand stole toward him in
pleading surrender. Intuitive knowledge guided Duncan as he laid his
cheek against her soft palm; she had been sorely tried that day, her
composure was at the breaking point.

“What have you there?” he asked gently, pointing to a long envelope
which Marjorie clutched in one nervous hand.

“I don’t know,” she steadied her voice with an effort, and handed him
the envelope. “My name is written over your house address in the upper
left-hand corner, and it is addressed to Admiral Lawrence. I found
the envelope in the pocket of my sweater which was lying on the floor
behind this door leading to your mother’s private staircase. I have no
idea how it got there.”

“We’ve had enough mysteries.” Duncan thrust an impatient finger under
the flap of the envelope and tore it open; then drew out a folded
typewritten sheet and glanced hastily over it. “Jove! it’s the signed
codicil to Mrs. Lawrence’s will. I thought I had solved that mystery.”

His surprise was reflected in Marjorie’s face. “I know nothing about
it,” she protested hotly. “I did not address this envelope to Admiral
Lawrence, nor write my name in the corner....”

“But the person who stole the codicil inscribed it for you,” exclaimed
Duncan triumphantly. “And also made free with your sweater. What else
is in the pockets?” thrusting his hand inside them. From the last one
he pulled out a piece of white linen. “Why, it’s a nurse’s cap, and the
initials ‘K. A.’ are stamped inside it----” turning the cap over in his
hand.

“Kathryn Allen!” exclaimed Marjorie. “She was Mrs. Lawrence’s nurse,
and was desperately in love with Chichester Barnard....”

“Ah, that is the key to the riddle. She stole the codicil after you
left that afternoon; it was lying conveniently to her hand on the desk
where Alvord had left it. She undoubtedly hoped that Barnard would
marry her and they would inherit Mrs. Lawrence’s legacy.”

“But why should my name be on this envelope--it looks as if I had sent
the codicil back to Admiral Lawrence.”

“That is obviously what she intended; probably hoped to involve you
in further trouble. Jove! now she’s with Barnard, she’s probably
longing to have this codicil back in her possession,” as he spoke,
Duncan thrust the codicil inside the secret drawer. “It can rest there
for tonight; in the morning I’ll take it to the Admiral, and then,
good-bye to Chichester Barnard’s inheritance. To think of his eloping
with a poor woman after all! I believe he knew or suspected she had
the codicil--what an awakening for them both when they find she left
the codicil here.” Duncan shut the drawer, and turned to his silent
companion. “Marjorie, have you nothing to say to me?”

Marjorie’s eyes fell before his ardent look. “I have so much that I do
not know where to begin. Ah, how can I thank you for your faith....”

“It was more than faith, Marjorie, it was the master hand of love.”

And as his arms closed around her, she knew, Oh, happy Marjorie, that
she had won her woman’s paradise at last.

THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

On page 13, swivil has been changed to swivel.

On page 13, amenuensis has been changed to amanuensis.

On page 24, Consin has been changed to Cousin.

On page 66, to-day has been changed to today.

On page 69, Elipse has been changed to Ellipse.

On page 95, dinner dance has been changed to dinner-dance.

On pages 136 and 139, to-morrow has been changed to tomorrow.

On page 175, insistance has been changed to insistence.

On page 175, ice-water has been changed to ice water.

On page 186, Calhourn has been changed to Calhoun.

On page 211, Valkenburg has been changed to Valkenberg.

On page 224, sun-lit has been changed to sunlit.

On page 233, armchair has been changed to arm-chair.

Illustrations occurring in the middle of a paragraph have been moved to
avoid interrupting the reader’s flow.

Other spellings, hyphenation and non-English dialogue have been retained
as typeset.