“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
“The jury find,” answered the foreman, “that Mrs. Hélène de Beaupré Trevor came to her death on the night of Wednesday, February 3rd, 19—, in the City of Washington, District of Columbia, from a wound inflicted by Lieutenant-Commander Donald Gordon.”
CHAPTER VII
WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS
Tramp, tramp, back and forth, back and forth, went the restless footsteps. Would she never tire? Would she never stop? Alfred Clark bent lower until his eye was on a level with the keyhole of the closed library door. Suddenly the gong over the front door rang loudly. With a smothered exclamation, Clark glided quickly across the wide hall and entered the private office just as Wilkins came out of the dining-room.
“Good afternoon, Wilkins. Can I see Miss Beatrice?” Peggy’s fresh young voice sounded cheerily in Wilkins’ ears. During the last week he had had a surfeit of horrors and unmitigated gloom.
“Yes, Miss Margaret, she is expecting you. Will you please walk into the drawing-room, and I will tell her you have come.”
Peggy had only time to straighten one refractory curl which would trail down on her forehead. It had been the cause of much mental anguish in childish days because everyone dinned into her ears, “There was a little girl, and she had a little curl.” Consequently she always took care to tuck that particular lock carefully out of sight. As she turned from the mirror, Beatrice came in through the communicating doors leading to the library.
“My dearest, how good it is to see you again,” exclaimed Peggy, giving her a warm kiss and hug.
“It is, indeed,” and Beatrice’s sad face brightened, as she affectionately returned the embrace.
“I have been here several times since the funeral, Beatrice.”