The transcriber has created this cover image and places it in the Public Domain.

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

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.”

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.

“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.”