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

[Pg 1]

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; [Pg 2]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?”

[Pg 3]

“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 [Pg 4]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 [Pg 5]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 [Pg 6]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.

[Pg 7]

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 [Pg 8]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 [Pg 9]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 [Pg 10]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 [Pg 11]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?”

[Pg 12]

“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 [Pg 13]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.

[Pg 14]

“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 [Pg 15]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 [Pg 16]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.”