“And how is Mignon La Salle doing?” questioned Mrs. Dean. “I haven’t heard you mention her, either. I must say I am very glad that you and she are not likely to be thrown together again. Poor little Mary made a bad mistake last year. It is wonderful that things ever worked out as well as they did.” Mrs. Dean’s face grew stern as she recalled the tangle in which Mary’s obstinacy had involved her daughter.
“Oh, Mignon has found a friend in Rowena Farnham. They go together all the time. Jerry says they will soon fall out. I am sure they are welcome to chum together, if they choose.” Marjorie shrugged her shoulders as though desirous of dismissing both girls from her thoughts.
“Jerry is quite likely to be a true prophet,” commented Mrs. Dean. “She is a very wise girl, but decidedly slangy. I cannot understand why a girl brought up in her surroundings should be so thoroughly addicted to slang.”
“She’s trying awfully hard not to use it.” Recalling Jerry’s recent efforts to speak more elegant English, Marjorie laughed outright. “She’s so funny, Captain. If any other girl I know used slang as she does, I wouldn’t like it. But Jerry! Well, she’s different. Next to Connie and Mary I love her best of all my friends. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“She is a very fine girl, in spite of her brusque ways,” praised Mrs. Dean. “General is fond of her, too.” She added this little tribute lest Marjorie might feel that she had been unduly critical. She understood the fact that Marjorie’s friends were sacred to her and on that account rarely found fault with them. Marjorie could be trusted to choose her associates wisely. Those to whom her sympathies went out usually proved themselves worthy of her regard. Motherly anxiety alone had prompted Mrs. Dean to draw her daughter out with a view toward learning the cause of Marjorie’s recent air of wistful preoccupation. Daily it had become more noticeable. If a repetition of last year’s sorrows threatened her only child, Mrs. Dean did not propose to be kept in the dark until it became well-nigh impossible to adjust matters.
Secretly Marjorie was aware of this anxiety on her mother’s part. She felt that she ought to show her Captain the sinister letters she had received, yet she was loath to do so. Her mother’s inquiry concerning Mignon had caused her to reflect uneasily that now if ever was the moment for unburdening her mind. “Captain,” she began, “you know that something is bothering me, don’t you?”
“Yes. I have been hoping you would tell me.” Mrs. Dean laid an encouraging hand on the drooping, brown head against her knee.
“Wait a minute.” Imbued with a desperate energy, Marjorie sprang to her feet and ran from the room. She soon returned, the disturbing letters clutched tightly in one hand. “I wish you to read these,” she said. Tendering them to her mother, she drew up a chair opposite Mrs. Dean and sat down.
Silence hung over the cheerful room while Mrs. Dean acquainted herself with the cause of Marjorie’s perturbation. Contempt filled her voice as she finally said: “A most despicable bit of work, Lieutenant. The writer had good reason to withhold her true name. So this explains the solemn face you have been wearing of late. I wouldn’t take it very deeply to heart, my dear. Whoever wrote these letters must possess a most cowardly nature.”
“That’s just what I think,” nodded Marjorie. “You see it really started with the letter Miss Archer received. You know, the one about the algebra problem. The only person I can really suspect of writing any of them is Mignon. But she’s not this sort of coward. Besides, I don’t believe she’d write just this kind of letter. What sort of person do you think would, Captain?”