“Hush, dearie, do not cry.” Mrs. Macallister rocked her back and forth as she had been wont to do in her babyhood. “You do not have to accept Count de Morny if you do not care for him. I did not think it fair to either of you to forbid his proposal. He says he loves you devotedly, and he offers you a most distinguished name, and a splendid social position in the Old World. I know nothing against him, and I like him personally. But, Peggy, I warn you, de Morny is not a man to trifle with. He has a high temper under that debonair manner. Come, it is late; go to bed, dear, and do not worry any more. Remember, I shall not force you into any marriage. The decision must rest with you. Now, hurry and undress,” kissing her warmly. “I will come back and tuck you up in bed.”
Left alone, Peggy went thoughtfully over to her bureau. She took up a photograph in its silver frame and studied it long; the Court dress was becoming to de Morny. Then her left hand strayed toward a kodak picture, a snap shot, and she gazed down into a gay, laughing face, but the lips, which curved in a merry smile, were well shaped, and the chin determined. A strong face, and a lovable one; and the other—Peggy sighed as she put them back in their places.
Glancing at the clock she was shocked to find it long after midnight. Hastily picking up her jewelry, she pressed the spring of her secret drawer. It opened half-way, then stuck. Slipping her hand inside the small opening, she felt about to find the obstruction. A box was jammed against the top, and with impatient fingers she pulled it out breaking the side of the pasteboard in her effort to get it free. Its contents fell into the now fully opened drawer. She picked it up and examined it; then let it fall as if it scorched her fingers. It was the broken top of a hat-pin which she had given Beatrice Trevor that Christmas. She recognized it instantly because of the curious design in gold surrounding the cat’s-eye. She picked up the box. It was the identical one which Beatrice had entrusted to her care. The twine around the middle still held; only one end had been broken.
Merciful Heaven! what had she discovered? No, it could not be possible—her gentle, charming friend could not be guilty. It was too monstrous for belief. And yet, Beatrice’s intense desire to get the box out of the house, her quarrel with her stepmother—the doctor’s testimony that Mrs. Trevor had been killed by a stab from a hat-pin—all pointed to her guilt.
With trembling fingers the bewildered and over-wrought girl thrust the telltale cat’s-eye back into the box, put it securely in the drawer, dropped in her jewelry and snapped the lock. Then, for the first time in her healthy, happy life, Peggy fainted just as Mrs. Macallister re-entered the room.
CHAPTER XVI
PLAYING WITH FIRE
It was a very woe-begone Peggy who came into the drawing-room the next afternoon, and Dick looked with consternation at her pale cheeks and heavy eyelids.
“Peggy! What have you been doing with yourself?” he exclaimed, detaining her small hand in his.
“Sit down here,” patting the chair next her. Dick needed no second bidding. “I could not sleep—Granny was so upset,” she began, incoherently, “I simply had to send for you.”
“Is Mrs. Macallister ill?” he demanded.