Judith had not inherited her mother’s fondness for being waited upon and therefore she had never employed a personal maid. After her interview with Polly she went immediately to her bedroom and it required but a brief time to put away her coat and scarf. In removing the latter from around her neck, its delicate mesh caught in the diamond horseshoe pin, her only ornament, which she wore in the front of her evening dress. In striving to free the scarf she discovered to her dismay that one of the diamonds was missing from the horseshoe.
The pin had been her husband’s wedding gift. Throwing down the scarf, Judith bent anxiously and peered at the carpet, but it was difficult to see so small an object against its soft coloring. Dropping to her knees, she felt about until her fingers touched a hard substance. A look at it disclosed the missing diamond, and with an exclamation of pleasure and relief Judith rose, folded the stone in a piece of tissue paper and placed it with the diamond pin in her jewelry box. In doing so she caught sight of a gold locket safely ensconced in the bottom of the box under several bracelets and chains. Judith considered the locket gravely, then closed and locked the jewelry box just as her name was called in the boudoir. With heightened color, she hastened across the bedroom and joined her husband.
“I did not hear you enter, Joe,” she exclaimed as he held out both hands to her. “How does it happen that you returned so early? I thought you planned to run in and see Dr. McLane about that troublesome cough of yours?”
“Oh, that can wait until morning,” lightly. “I came back to be with you.” He placed a morris chair for her before the hearth, where a coal fire burned fitfully, and perched himself on the chair’s broad mahogany arm. “I haven’t seen you alone to-day.” His voice was tinged with reproach.
Judith slipped a hand inside his. “I did not mean to neglect you,” she said. “But Mother and certain business matters claimed a lot of attention. Why,”—turning her head as it rested against the cushion of the high-backed chair—“why did you volunteer to dine with Father at the club and not come with us to Rauscher’s?”
“It was your mother’s plan, not mine.” Richard laughed softly. “My first impressions of your mother have radically changed.”
“In what way?”
“I thought her all fuss and feathers, but underneath it she has a will of iron.” Richards’ smile grew rueful. “Does your father ever oppose her wishes?”
It was Judith’s turn to smile. “Not if he can help it,” she admitted. “Father is something of a diplomat as far as Mother is concerned. Perhaps you have noticed it.”
“Yes.” Richards stared into the fire; he had become grave. “Somehow, dearest, I do not believe your father likes me. Oh, he’s been polite enough,”—as she was about to speak—“but there is something in his manner,—well,”—with another rueful smile—“it couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be termed cordial at any time, and lately”—he hesitated—“the dislike is more apparent.”