The official chaperon

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.”

“Oh, well, take the consequences then,” replied her daughter, undutifully. “Chichester Barnard warned me Joe spends most of his time with that trained nurse, Kathryn Allen; he said he couldn’t tell me what kind of a character she is”—Pauline raised her eyebrows suggestively.

Her mother reddened angrily. “I’ll thank Mr. Barnard to mind his own business,” she snapped. “Joe is too much of a gentleman to drop Miss Allen’s acquaintance after her kindness to him. He tells me their friendship is entirely platonic.”

“Is that all?” Pauline’s sarcastic drawl was enough to exasperate a far better tempered woman than Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper. “Don’t blame me, mother dear, if you get an undesirable daughter-in-law.”

Her mother’s retort was checked by the entrance of Janet and Marjorie, and she rose somewhat flurriedly to greet them.

“So good of you to call,” she cooed. “Pauline, dear, you know Miss Langdon. Come and sit by me, Miss Janet, and tell me of all your gay doings. Joe will be so sorry to have missed you.”

“We caught a vanishing glimpse of him as we drove up to the door,” Janet loosened her furs, for the room was uncomfortably warm. “Are you going to the Charity Ball on Monday evening?”

“Yes, we have taken a box. Can’t you come with us?” added Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper hospitably.

“Thanks very much, but I believe father has secured a box also,” Janet smiled prettily upon her hostess while her hand played nervously with the silver ornaments on the tea-table. “I think it’s awfully kind of you and your daughter to be so sweet to me, a newcomer.”

Marjorie, sitting some distance from Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper and Janet, watched them anxiously, and ignored Pauline’s decidedly cool manner and curt speech. They talked on uninteresting topics for some time, and Marjorie was on the point of rising to leave when she heard Janet accept Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s offer of a cup of tea. She had neglected to warn Janet before entering that they must make their visit a short one, as their calling list that afternoon was exceedingly long. There was nothing for it but to wait until Janet had swallowed her exceedingly hot cup of tea, which the butler had just brought in, and concealing her impatience, she surrendered herself to the inevitable.

“So sorry you had to leave the Walbridge dance,” said Pauline, as conversation languished. “Miss Fordyce tells me you are subject to—eh—headaches, isn’t it?”

“Headaches of the very worst kind,” acknowledged Marjorie. Her eyes roved about the room, which she had known so well when her aunt had owned the house; even some of the furniture, many pieces of which had been sold with the house, were still in use in the drawing-room, and she had much ado to keep back a rush of tears at the recollections their presence gave her.

“I am told headaches are the bane of existence as one advances in years,” said Pauline sweetly. “Why, father!” as a tall man entered the room. “What brings you home at this hour?”

“A moment’s leisure,” he replied. “How do you do, Miss Fordyce,” shaking hands cordially with Janet, and turning toward Marjorie. There was a moment’s awkward pause, then Pauline remembered her manners.

“Miss Langdon, father.”

Representative J. Calhoun-Cooper stepped forward and held out his hand as Marjorie rose and advanced to meet him, “Miss Marjorie Langdon?” he inquired, and she wondered faintly at the concentration of his gaze.

“Yes,” she answered, and her large hazel-gray eyes smiled back at him with friendly interest. How came so distinguished looking a man to have such an impossible family?

“If I am not mistaken, you are related to Madame Yvonett, are you not?” he asked, and again his keen scrutiny swept over her.

“She is my great-aunt.”

“I gathered that was the relationship; please give her my kind remembrances and say that I hope to call soon.” Calhoun-Cooper turned back to his wife. “Miss Langdon is a great-granddaughter of Hugh Pemberton, who gave my father his start in life,” he explained. “You must show every hospitality to Miss Langdon, mother.”

Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper, divided between vexation at being called “mother” in public by her usually thoughtful husband, and bewilderment at Marjorie’s suddenly increased importance, clutched the tea-tray in despair.

“Of course, John, of course,” she stammered. “Dear Miss Langdon, will you have a cup of tea? Where is them tongs?”

Janet, catching sight of Pauline’s furious expression, almost laughed aloud. She covered her mouth with her large muff, the better to conceal her amusement. Truly, Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper’s parts of speech were flying to the four winds.

“You are very kind,” said Marjorie gently. “But I have had to give up drinking tea and coffee, Miss Cooper,” addressing Pauline directly. “Mrs. Fordyce wishes to know if you and your brother will dine with her informally on Tuesday next?”

“I don’t recall any engagement for that night,” Pauline slightly mollified, answered with more than her usual warmth; a more intimate footing with the Fordyce family counted for much in her social ambitions. “Please tell Mrs. Fordyce that Joe and I will be happy to come.”

“That is very nice,” smiled Marjorie. “Mrs. Fordyce has sent you a formal invitation which you will receive this evening, but she asked me to speak of the matter as the time is short. Come, Janet, I am afraid we must go. Good-bye, so glad we found you.”

Calhoun-Cooper accompanied the two girls to their limousine. “Don’t forget my message to your aunt, Miss Langdon,” he said, as he closed the door of the machine.

“Where next?” inquired Janet, as Marjorie consulted her list.

“I think we had better leave cards at the White House,” she said, and Janet, picking up the speaking tube, gave the order, and the big car started down Sixteenth Street.

“Have you seen Captain Nichols lately, Marjorie?” asked Janet, breaking the brief pause.

“No, he hasn’t been near me.” Marjorie studied Janet’s flushed face with keen attention. Could it be possible that the young débutante was falling in love with Tom? Had she lost interest in Chichester Barnard? With all her heart Marjorie hoped such was the case. Janet was too charming a girl to be taken in by the wiles of a fortune hunter. To Marjorie’s relief, she had seen nothing of Chichester Barnard since meeting him at her aunt’s on Christmas Day, nor had he called recently at the Fordyces. It was not like him to be easily discouraged, he was of the persevering kind, and Marjorie marveled at his absence. Were Janet and he meeting clandestinely? The thought sent a cold shiver down her back. Abruptly she turned to Janet.

“Were you walking with Chichester Barnard yesterday?” she inquired.

“No,” replied Janet shortly, and again lapsed into silence.

Janet’s thoughts at the moment were centered on Tom Nichols, as they had been all too frequently of late, considering she regarded herself secretly engaged to Chichester Barnard. Though absent, the latter’s daily notes, received surreptitiously, were a constant reminder of her pledge to him. Barnard’s charm of manner and conversation always left her breathless, carried away by the fervor of his pleading, but she turned restive under the exotic, extravagant phrases which cloaked his passionate intentness on paper. She longed for Tom’s breezy wholesomeness and merry smile.

On their return from Bladensburg she and Tom had faithfully carried out their prearranged program, and no question had been raised, so far as Janet knew, as to where she had spent the early afternoon on Christmas. But what was giving Janet more concern than she had known in many years was the fact that she had neither seen nor heard from Tom since that afternoon, and that she had never received back the diamond and emerald bracelet which she had left with the Justice of the Peace at Hyattsville. And Tom had promised to get it for her the very next day!

“Did mother invite Captain Nichols to our dinner next week?” she asked.

“She put his name on the list, but I didn’t get the invitation written before we came out; however, I’ll call him up tonight, and ask him verbally and send him a reminder card later.”

“There’s Duncan!” exclaimed Janet, catching a glimpse of her brother as the car turned the corner into H Street. “I hope he won’t forget to order the violets he promised me.”

Spying them at the same moment Duncan raised his hat, and laughingly declining Janet’s frantic gesture to join them, he continued on his way to the Metropolitan Club. But at Seventeenth Street Tom Nichols drew his roadster up in front of the curb, and leaned forward to speak to him.

“Jump in and come over to the Army and Navy Club with me,” he said, and Duncan, time hanging heavy on his hands, accepted the invitation with alacrity. “I intended calling up your house, Fordyce, to ask if your sister is home.”

“She’s out calling; I just saw her and Miss Langdon in the limousine.”

“Do you think she can see me this evening?” Tom swung his car into I Street.

“I’m afraid not, we are all dining at the British Embassy. Will you be there?”

“Not invited,” replied Tom shortly. He parked the roadster near the entrance to the club, and led Duncan into one of the smoking-rooms. Duncan found him singularly morose, and regarded the usually jovial young officer in some perplexity; then he concluded that Janet and Tom must have had a squabble of some sort and that the latter was trying to make up the quarrel.

Tom, in fact, was exceedingly disturbed. He had just returned from Hyattsville, where he had redeemed Janet’s bracelet. His duties at Fort Myer had prevented his going there during the past two days, and he had not dared to ask a brother officer to go in his place, fearing news of the arrest for speeding might leak out, with other details. He had hoped to find Janet at home that afternoon and return the bracelet. He had tried several times to talk to her on the telephone, but each time the Fordyce servants had told him Janet was either out or engaged. He would have confided the whole affair to Marjorie except for his promise to Janet.

“Can you go to the Charity Ball with us?” asked Duncan.

“Why yes, I’d like to very much,” answered Tom, awaking to the fact that he had not spoken for some moments.

“Good, don’t trouble to get a ticket, and I think you had better dine with us first——”

“Excuse me, Captain, but you are wanted on the telephone,” interrupted a club attendant.

“I’ll be right back, Fordyce,” Tom sprang precipitously to his feet; perhaps Janet had called him up. “Wait for me,” and he disappeared after the attendant.

An older man sitting by a window some distance away glanced up at hearing the name “Fordyce,” and scanned Duncan intently, then rose and slowly approached him.

“I beg your pardon, but are you not Duncan Fordyce?” he asked.

Duncan looked at him attentively for a second, then stepped forward.

“How do you do, Admiral Lawrence,” he said, extending his hand.

The Admiral’s haggard face lighted with a pleased smile. “So you remember me, Duncan; it’s some years since we met,” a sigh accompanied the words. “How is your dear mother?”

“Very well, thank you. Won’t you sit down, sir?” pulling forward a chair.

“Please thank your mother for her kind note of sympathy; I intended answering it——” the Admiral broke off abruptly and cleared his throat. “Tell me of yourself, Duncan, since we last met.”

“There’s nothing very much to recount, Admiral; I graduated from Yale, then from the Harvard Law School; traveled a bit in China and South America, and on my return joined a law firm in San Francisco. I am East on a short visit.”

“Sorry to have been so long,” said Tom, appearing behind the Admiral, whom he already knew. “Much obliged to you, sir, for taking care of Fordyce in my absence.”

“Duncan and I are old friends,” Admiral Lawrence stepped back. “I won’t interrupt you two any longer.”

“Don’t run away, Admiral,” protested Tom, “it’s I who must be leaving. Hope you’ll forgive me, Fordyce, but they’ve telephoned me to return to Myer at once. Please tell Miss Janet I’ll be in tomorrow.” He hesitated; should he give the bracelet to Duncan? No. Janet had particularly charged him not to let any inkling of her motor ride reach her brother’s ears, and Duncan would naturally ask him how he came to have his sister’s bracelet in his possession. “Ask her if she will telephone me what hour will be most convenient for her to see me,” he added hurriedly.

“I will,” promised Duncan, turning back to say good-bye to Admiral Lawrence.

“Can you spare me a few minutes now, Duncan?” the latter asked anxiously.

“Certainly, sir; my time is at your disposal.”

Admiral Lawrence surveyed the room in silence; then led the way to the farther end, where two chairs stood by themselves.

“Sit down, Duncan,” he said, dragging his seat nearer the window. “We’re out of ear-shot over here, and I’ve something important to say to you,” he stopped, and Duncan waited respectfully for him to continue. “I called up your house yesterday, and your butler told me your father was out of town.”

“He went over to Philadelphia on business; we are expecting him back tomorrow or next day.”

“I may not be in town when he returns; therefore I must speak to you,” the Admiral paused, “about a very delicate matter....”

“Yes,” put in Duncan encouragingly, as his companion again paused.

“Marjorie Langdon is in your mother’s employ, is she not?”

“Yes.” But Duncan’s slight start was not observed by the Admiral, who continued his questions.

“As companion to your sister?”

“Yes,” replied Duncan for the third time.

The Admiral turned in his chair and made sure that no one was in their vicinity, then leaned toward Duncan. “Marjorie Langdon was my secretary for the past two years; on November first, I discharged her because I found she was a thief.”

For a second Duncan was blind to his surroundings. But Admiral Lawrence read nothing of his mental suffering in his expressionless face. Marjorie then was really a thief! Marjorie, his ideal in womanhood! His strong hands clenched themselves so tightly over the arms of his chair that the knuckles shone white. He had succeeded in conquering the suspicions he had harbored against Marjorie after the mysterious disappearance of his father’s forty dollars. Marjorie, if guilty of the theft of the money, would never have mentioned the exact sum, one hundred and fifty dollars, when she handed him the bank notes to give his father. She must have been innocent, he had reasoned, with dogged determination. Now another man thought her a thief!

“I would not have disclosed her true character had I not heard that Marjorie was with your sister continually,” said the Admiral slowly. “It is not proper that a young girl should be subjected to such contaminating influences.”

“One moment,” Duncan held up his hand protestingly. “You have made a serious charge, Admiral, against Miss Langdon; can you prove your statements?”

The Admiral whitened with anger. “I am not in the habit of lying,” he retorted stiffly.

“Nor am I accusing you of lying,” calmly. “But in my father’s absence you have come to me, as the acting head of my house, to warn me against one of my father’s employees. I am within my rights, sir, in demanding your proofs that Miss Langdon is a ——” Duncan choked over the word thief—“is not a proper associate for my sister.”

“Perhaps you are right,” admitted the Admiral, his anger cooling. “I presume you have met my wife’s nephew by marriage, Chichester Barnard——”

“I have.”

“My wife, who has always been wealthy in her own right, promised her first husband, Dimintry Barnard, that she would leave one hundred thousand dollars to his nephew, Chichester, whom he had legally adopted, and in making her will some years ago, she carried out her promise. Just before her last illness, she quarreled with Chichester over some unfortunate investments he had made for her, and incensed by his manner, declared she would revoke her bequest to him.

“On the last day of October my wife, then a very sick woman, sent for our lawyer, Charles Alvord, and bade him draw up a codicil revoking Chichester’s bequest. Alvord took his notes into my library, and without my knowledge, had Marjorie Langdon typewrite the codicil,” Duncan drew a long slow breath but said nothing, and the Admiral continued: “He also had her make a carbon copy of the codicil, thinking if the first was ruined in my wife’s effort to sign it, he would have the other at hand to substitute. But my wife signed the original copy, and I instructed Marjorie to put it in my safe. The next morning, on opening my safe, I found the unsigned copy of the codicil, and not the signed one.”

“And you believe——?” questioned Duncan.

“That Marjorie Langdon deliberately destroyed the signed codicil and placed the unsigned one in my safe, hoping the substitution would not be noticed until after my wife’s death.”

“The last is supposition only,” commented Duncan.

“Not so fast,” retorted Admiral Lawrence. “Marjorie was the only one outside our family and the lawyer who knew of the signing of the codicil; it was given to her to place in the safe. She only, beside myself, knew the combination of the safe, and Alvord, the fool, left the unsigned copy of the codicil lying loose on my desk, ready to her hand.”

“And Marjorie Langdon’s motive in destroying the signed codicil?”

“Her infatuation for Chichester Barnard.” The blunt answer shook even Duncan’s iron self-control, and he looked hastily away, lest the Admiral read his expression. “Marjorie was the last person to leave my library that night; I was the first to go there the next morning, and the codicil was gone.”

“In other words,” said Duncan slowly, “you contend that Marjorie had the motive and the opportunity to steal that codicil,” Lawrence nodded affirmatively. “What did she hope to accomplish?”

“To have Chichester Barnard inherit the hundred thousand dollars,” the Admiral rose heavily to his feet. “The other codicil remained unsigned, for my wife never regained her faculties before her death, having been first delirious and then unconscious until death mercifully released her.”

“So Mr. Barnard will inherit the one hundred thousand dollars?”

The Admiral paused. “Not without a legal fight. Get rid of Marjorie, Duncan, before the scandal is aired.”

“You mean you are going to charge Miss Langdon with the theft of the codicil?”

“I do. She thwarted my wife in her last conscious act, and by God, she shall pay for it!”

Duncan rose to his feet. “Kindly notify me, Admiral, of whatever steps you propose taking,” he said, accompanying the older man to the entrance of the club-house.

“Certainly, Duncan, certainly.” The Admiral walked to the curb with him. “I realize you will want to know in time to prevent your family from becoming involved in the scandal.”

“You mistake my meaning, sir; I desire to know what legal steps you contemplate taking, because I propose to defend Miss Langdon in the courts. Good evening,” and lifting his hat, Duncan turned on his heel.

How far he walked or where he walked he could never afterwards tell, but he finally became conscious that the park policeman in Lafayette Square was regarding him with open suspicion.

“Where am I?” he asked, turning in bewilderment to the stalwart guardian of the peace.

“Sure, I don’t wonder ye ask; ye’ve chased yourself around Jackson’s statue until ye’ve given me the blind staggers. What ails ye, sir?”

“Nothing,” Duncan pulled himself together and finally got his bearings. “Where can I find a taxi?”

“At the Shoreham, that way,” waving his arm, and Duncan walked in the direction indicated.

He was about to cross H Street and enter the hotel when Small’s window display across Fifteenth Street caught his attention, and he remembered promising to send Janet a bunch of violets to wear to the British Embassy. Entering the florist’s shop, he hastily gave his directions; then paused, and selected a beautiful corsage bouquet of single violets.

“I’ll take this also,” he said. “Send it to Miss Marjorie Langdon, care of Mr. Calderon Fordyce, same address as the other; and—eh—give me a blank card,” discovering he had none of his visiting cards with him. Taking the blank card which the attentive clerk brought him, he wrote: “With best wishes,” and signed his initials. Before placing the card in an envelope, he studied the message and his bold, distinctive writing in some doubt.

“Lord!” he muttered. “Will she take the ‘D. F.’ for Duncan Fordyce—or—damn fool.”