The official chaperon

Kathryn Allen tore open the note with impatient fingers.

Joe might have spared himself the postscript. Kathryn did not even trouble to read it. Crumpling the note into a small ball she tossed it into the scrap basket and rising, consulted her alarm clock. The hands on the dial pointed to a quarter past three; she could go over to the hospital and register and still have ample time to enjoy a cup of tea at the Brown Tea Pot. Her valise was already packed preparatory to leaving her present case whenever her employer, a hypochondriac, decided she could dispense with her services. She had gone to her immediately after the death of Mrs. Lawrence, but the place did not suit. She did not care to nurse crotchety patients.

It was a little before five o’clock when she entered the Brown Tea Pot, and she found the cozy tea-room partly empty. To her delight she secured a table to herself near a large screen standing by the pantry door, and from that vantage point she commanded a fine view of the occupants of the room without herself being conspicuous. She had plenty of time to study her surroundings and admire the effect of the softly shaded electric lights which cast a becoming, rosy glow over the scene, before the two people for whom she was waiting, made their appearance.

It was the first glimpse Kathryn had had of Janet, and she watched her with jealous, angry eyes. She took in the becoming, chic street costume Janet was wearing, with grudging admiration. Chichester Barnard always had excellent taste in women. Kathryn had overheard Admiral Lawrence tell his wife that their clergyman, at his request, reproved Barnard for his fast life, and had asked him what he would do if confronted at the Judgment Seat by the women he had flirted with.

“I shouldn’t be ashamed of one of them,” Barnard had retorted.

Janet, barely glancing about her, selected a table across the room from where Kathryn Allen sat, and while out of ear-shot, the pretty nurse could observe them without appearing to do so. By the time Barnard had finished giving his order to their waitress, the people sitting nearest them had completed their tea and departed. Janet bit her lip with vexation; she had chosen that particular table because it had near neighbors, and above all things she wished to avoid anything like a private tête-à-tête with Barnard. Usually the Brown Tea Pot was crowded, and conversation had to be of the most trivial and impersonal character on account of the danger of being overheard. She had accepted Barnard’s invitation to have tea with him against her better judgment.

Barnard made no secret of his satisfaction at their isolated position. He never troubled to turn and glance about the room, and Kathryn Allen’s presence went unnoticed.

“Are you sure you would rather have hot chocolate than tea, Janet?” he inquired, with gentle solicitude.

“Quite sure. Mother says too much tea drinking is responsible for my nervous irritability.”

“Your mother is too harsh a critic,” he commented. “I detect no irritability on your part, only——” he paused thoughtfully.

“Yes?” she prompted, looking away from him.

“An adorable reserve,” ardently. “Why do you not let me see more of you?”

“I have already explained the reason, Chichester.”

“Your social duties?” He shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Bah! why consider such empty trifles.”

“They are not trifles, but a treadmill,” she retorted warmly. “But, Chichester, I don’t believe mother and Marjorie would approve of my meeting you so often alone, and I hate to do anything underhand.”

“You are the soul of honor.” His look caressed her, and she shivered involuntarily. “Then why not let me call every day at your house?”

“Duncan doesn’t like you,” she admitted faintly. “And he has prejudiced mother——” in her desire to avoid Barnard’s glance, she missed seeing the tawney gleam which for a second marred the beauty of his heavily lashed dark eyes.

“I can guess the reason for your brother’s dislike,” he admitted grimly. “Perhaps I can remove the cause. His interest in Miss Langdon appears mutual. Hadn’t you better warn your mother to watch those two?”

“What do you mean?” She raised startled eyes to his.

“How would you like Miss Langdon as a sister-in-law?”

Janet sat in dumfounded silence. Even the arrival of their waitress with the chocolate pot, whipped cream, and hot toasted English muffins did not arouse her. Had Barnard supplied her with the key to Duncan’s altered demeanor and Marjorie’s shy, distraite manner? Would her mother accept Marjorie as a daughter-in-law without opposition? Duncan was her idol, and Janet knew she had always planned a most ambitious future for him.

“Then the idea doesn’t appeal to you?” questioned Barnard as the waitress retired. “Well, don’t worry; Marjorie has other suitors.”

“I am given to understand that you are one of them.”

“By some kind friend, I suppose?” But Barnard’s laugh was not as sincere and hearty as he tried to make it. “Did Pauline Calhoun-Cooper also mention that Tom Nichols is one of Marjorie’s suitors?” The spoon Janet held rattled against the side of her cup. “Ah, I thought not,” added Barnard, smiling quietly to himself. “Did the gallant captain never confide to you his admiration for his beautiful cousin?”

But Janet was game, notwithstanding her secret anguish. Barnard had indeed opened her eyes, but not in the way he had intended. Quickly she rallied her wits to her aid; she must not let her keen-eyed companion realize the new influence which was dominating her. Ah, love was two-edged; too late, she had divined the gold from the dross.

“Captain Nichols has made no secret of his affection for Marjorie,” she retorted coolly. “Why do you seek to prejudice me against him?”

“Because I do not approve of your friendship.”

“Nonsense; it’s purely platonic.”

“There is no such thing between a man and a maid.” Barnard’s tone stirred Janet’s hot anger, but she controlled herself admirably. “You show your youth by advocating such views.”

“Do you mean to be insulting?”

“Put such an idea instantly out of your mind.” There was stern command in his eyes and voice, and Janet shrank back, frightened by the storm she had provoked. “I should never think of insulting you, I love you too deeply,” his tones vibrated with feeling. “I respect you too highly—but I am jealous, bitterly jealous. I, and I alone, must rule your heart and mind. ‘Thou shalt have no other god but me’!”

“Don’t blaspheme!” She cringed back in her chair, and covered her ears with her shaking fingers. “Chichester, Chichester, I have given you no cause for jealousy.”

“Perhaps not intentionally,” he admitted, more quietly. “But for my comfort, you see too much of Tom Nichols.”

“You are entirely mistaken. I haven’t seen him for some time.”

“How about your motor ride with him on Christmas Day?” She colored in spite of herself.

“How did you hear of it?” she demanded.

“News travels fast when a man boasts....”

“I don’t believe it,” she broke in vehemently. “Tom Nichols isn’t that sort. He would keep his word to me to say nothing about it.”

“Ah, then your intimacy has reached the stage of mutual secrets!” Barnard’s brow darkened. “Now, once for all this platonic friendship,” with biting sarcasm, “must stop. As your fiancé, I forbid you to have anything further to do with him.”

“And suppose I refuse?” Janet drew her furs about her, and flung back her head defiantly. Her blood was up.

“You will do nothing so foolish.”

“I shall, too.” Janet’s eyes blazed back into his. “And I want you to understand that our engagement is broken.”

Barnard’s smile was his only answer as he contemplated her, and despite the warmth of the room and her furs, Janet felt a chill strike to her heart, and the pupils of her eyes distended with fear as Barnard bent toward her across the table.

“Pauline Calhoun-Cooper has missed her bracelet,” he said quietly.

Janet crimsoned; then turned deathly pale. Fearing she would faint, Barnard raised his tea-spoon and struck his empty goblet until the glass vibrated loudly. While waiting for the waitress, he again addressed his silent companion.

“Do you still wish our engagement broken?”

“No,” faintly.

“You will drop Tom Nichols?” Getting no answer, he repeated his question with more insistence.

“Yes,” she promised; but the monosyllable was even fainter and more reluctant than the first.

“Good!” Barnard smiled sunnily upon her; his anger and jealousy a thing of the past. “I know you will keep faith with me, my darling,” then he added in a different tone, as their waitress appeared. “Will you please bring us some more ice water.”

“I—I—must go,” Janet clutched her bag and gloves in desperate haste. She felt that she should scream if she remained in the room a moment longer. She was shivering from head to foot.

“No, no, it’s still early,” remonstrated Barnard. “You haven’t finished your muffin.” But Janet shook her head.

“I must go,” she reiterated; and Barnard, a past-master in knowing when to concede a point, rose to his feet. As they made their way to the door, they passed Judge and Mrs. Walbridge, and the latter stopped them.

“I never saw two people so interested in each other,” she declared breezily; then added with elephantine playfulness, “Of course, Mr. Barnard was only telling you, Miss Fordyce, about his law cases.”

“Of course,” answered Barnard, the twinkle in his eyes belying his serious expression. “I was just mentioning to Miss Fordyce that crime knows no sex.”

Five minutes later Kathryn Allen, back in her far corner of the room, paid for her tea and scones and went hurriedly out of the shop. She had never taken her eyes from the two people she had gone there to watch, and bitterly she regretted that she was not a lip-reader. One thought was uppermost in her mind. What hold had Chichester Barnard over Janet Fordyce?