IV

The next evening when he arrived at the club he found Mr. Dinwiddie

fuming.

"What do you think!" he exclaimed as he led his guest to his favorite

table in the corner. "That old rascal bluffed me! Bluffed me. Said

there was no relative of Countess Zattiany in the country that he knew

of. Looked blank as a post when I told him of the extraordinary

resemblance of that girl to Mary Ogden. Said he never heard of her.

Laughed at the idea of a sub-rosa daughter. Pretended to be angry at

such an aspersion on Mary's fair fame--was in love with her himself

like the rest of us. But he was lying and he knew that I knew he was

lying. What'll you have?"

"Anything. Go ahead. I know by the glitter of your eye that you

haven't finished."

"You're right, I haven't." He gave his order and leaned forward.

"I've done a little prospecting on my own account. Mary inherited the

old Ogden house over on Murray Hill. I happen to know that the lease

ran out last year and that it hasn't been rented since. Well, I walked

past there today, and some one is living in it. Boarding off. Windows

open. Fresh curtains. A servant receiving a parcel at the area door.

She's there, mark my words."

"Not a doubt of it. Why didn't you walk boldly up and send in your

card?"

"Hadn't the courage. Besides, that girl never heard of me. I hadn't

the ghost of an excuse."

"Why not put Mrs. Oglethorpe on the scent? She could call. Women are

always fertile in excuses."

"I can't see what pretext she could trump up. She'd be keen enough,

all right, but she hardly could tell this haughty creature with the

unmistakable stamp of the great world on her that she knows she must be

the left-handed daughter of Mary Ogden. Even Jane hasn't assurance

enough for that."

"She might assume that this young woman is a member of the Countess

Zattiany's family--daughter of a cousin or something--those

extraordinary resemblances do recur in families. . . . That indeed may

be the explanation."

"Not a bit of it. That girl is Mary's daughter."

"I'm inclined to agree with you. But it is understood that you can't

hurl it at her. Mrs. Oglethorpe, however, could invent a pretty

pretence--saw her at the theatre--struck by her likeness to her old

friend--discovered she was living in the family mansion--felt that she

must seek her out----"

"Um. That's not quite the sort of thing the New York woman does, and

you know it. True, the war has upset them as it has every one else.

They are still restless. I have met two opera singers, two actresses,

three of these juvenile editors and columnists at dinners and musical

evenings during the last month alone. I believe they'd lionize Charley

Chaplin if he'd let them, but I understand he's more exclusive than we

are. God! What is New York Society coming to?"

"You like straying outside the sacred preserves yourself occasionally."

"I do. But I'm a man. We always did stray a bit. But when I think of

the exclusiveness of only a few years ago! Why, New York Society was a

Club. The most exclusive club in the world. London Society was

Bohemia compared to it. It's the democratic flu, that's what!

Aristocracy's done for."

"I'm not so sure. The reaction may be devastating. But it's a sign of

grace that they've at last discovered sufficient intelligence to be

bored with their somewhat monotonous selves. And Mrs. Oglethorpe

always does exactly as she pleases. Better drop her a hint."

"Well, I'll try it. But while Jane may be high-handed, she has certain

rigid ideas when it comes to Society and who shall enter its gates. So

far she's made no concessions. She and a few others still keep a tight

rein. Their daughters though! And granddaughters! Jane's girls are

replicas of herself with every atom of her personality left out--but

Jim's daughter, Janet, is her grandmother over again plus modern bad

manners, bad habits, and a defiance of every known convention.

Wretched little flapper. Gad! What are we coming to!"

"Never mind Janet----"

"Why don't you suggest it to Jane? She thinks more of you than of any

one else. I doubt if you could ask her anything----"

"Not much. She'd twig at once. I've had several hints lately that she

has her eye on somebody she wants me to marry. You must do it

yourself--and you _must_!"

"Well! If she won't, Mrs. Jim might. The younger women would know

this girl like a shot if they thought there was any fun in it--then

drop her if she didn't measure up. I don't know that I care to place

her in such a position."

"I've an idea the fair unknown can take care of herself. I don't see

her picked up and dropped. Probably it would be the deuce and all to

meet her. I think my plan is best. You can rouse any woman's

curiosity, and no one has more than Mrs. Oglethorpe. That would be the

wedge. You'd meet her and then you could give her a dinner and invite

me."

"All right. I'll try it. Something must happen soon. My arteries

won't stand the strain."

V

"Madam is not at home, ma'am."

"Is she not? Then I'll wait for her."

Mrs. Oglethorpe swept by the butler and he had the sensation of chaff

scattering before a strong wind. In truth Mrs. Oglethorpe was an

impressive figure and quite two inches taller than himself. He could

only stare at her in helpless awe, the more so as he had recognized her

at once. Leadership might be extinct, but Mrs. Oglethorpe was still a

power in New York Society, with her terrible outspokenness, her

uncompromising standards, her sardonic humor, her great wealth, and her

eagle eye for subterfuge. How could a mere servant hope to oppose that

formidable will when his betters trembled at her nod?

Mrs. Oglethorpe had made her usual careful toilet. Her full long dress

of heavy-pile black velvet, almost covered with a sable cape, swept the

floor; changing skirts meant nothing to her. Like all women of the old

régime in New York, she wore her hair dressed very high and it was

surmounted by a small black hat covered with feathers, ruthlessly

exposing her large square face with its small snapping black eyes and

prominent nose. A high-boned collar of net supported what was left of

her throat. She wore no jewels, as she clung to the rigorous law of

her youth which had tabued the vulgar display of anything but pearls in

the daytime. As she was too old and yellow for pearls she compromised

on jet earrings and necklace. She carried a cane.

Mr. Dinwiddie to his surprise had found no difficulty in persuading her

to investigate the mysteries of the Ogden mansion, for she had leapt at

once to the conclusion that the friend of her youth was in some way

menaced by this presumptuous stranger of the fantastic resemblance.

There had been a time when, while indignantly repudiating the stories

so prevalent for many years after Mary Ogden's marriage to Count

Zattiany, she had secretly believed and condoned them; not only because

she had loved her devotedly and known something of her heavy

disillusionment, but because the wild secret life the exalted Countess

Zattiany was believed to be leading fed her own suppressed longings for

romance and adventure. With the passage of years, which had taken

their toll of Mary's beauty and fascination, and brought complete

disillusionment to herself, she had almost forgotten that old phase;

moreover, it was many years since she had visited Europe and

correspondence between the two friends, once so intimate, had almost

ceased before the war. During that long interval she had heard nothing

of her except that she was running a hospital in Buda Pesth, but

shortly after the close of the war she had been distressed to learn

from a member of one of the various commissions to Vienna that Countess

Zattiany was ill in a sanitarium. She had written at once, but

received no reply. Now she feared that some adventuress had taken

advantage of a superficial resemblance--she dismissed Mr. Dinwiddie's

protestations of the exactness of that resemblance as the maunderings

of a weakened memory playing about among the ghosts of its youth--to

scheme for the Ogden fortune. When told that Judge Trent was evidently

shielding the woman her suspicions were redoubled. She had

consistently hated Judge Trent for fifty years.

If, on the other hand, the creature were really Mary's daughter--and

could prove it--well, she would make up her mind what course to take

when she met her.

"I'll wait in the library," she announced, and moved majestically down

the hall. Then at a sound she paused and glanced toward the stair

which rose on the left, opposite the library. A woman was descending,

a woman only an inch or two shorter than herself and no less stately,

with ashen blonde hair coiled low on her graceful neck and wearing a

loose gown of pale green crepe with a silver girdle.

"My God!" exclaimed Mrs. Oglethorpe in a loud imperious voice, as if

commanding the Almighty to leap from his throne and fly to her

assistance. Then she leaned heavily on her cane.

The lady came quickly down the stairs and made a peremptory signal to

the butler. As he disappeared she walked forward more slowly and

paused within a few feet of her agitated guest. Her eyebrows were

slightly raised, her face impassive. Not even those sharp old eyes

staring at her guessed that she had been completely taken by surprise

and was inwardly quaking.

Mrs. Oglethorpe could not speak for a moment. The years had dropped

from her. She was once more a young woman come to spend the day with

her favorite friend . . . or to attend a reception in the stately

formal house on Murray Hill . . . high rooms filled with women wearing

tight basques, bustles, full sweeping skirts, small hats or bonnets

perched on puffs and braids. . . . Mary, the most radiant and

beautiful and enchanting girl in the world, coming forward with hands

outstretched, while her more formal mother frowned a little at her

enthusiasm . . . or were they both risen to haunt the old house?

But confusion could reign for only a few seconds in Mrs. Oglethorpe's

indomitable soul. She drew herself up to her imposing height, and her

voice was harsher than usual as she addressed the vision that had

confounded her.

"Pardon me. Your likeness to my old friend, Countess Zattiany,

startled me. Who are you, may I ask?"

"Does it really matter?" And once more Mrs. Oglethorpe started,

although the accent was foreign.

"Yes, it does matter," she said grimly. "That is what I have come to

find out."

"Oh!" Again there was a slight lift of the eyebrows. "I had always

heard that Americans were unconventional, but hardly that they carried

their independence of the conventions so far as to invade the house of

a stranger."

"I'll not be put off. Are you Mary Zattiany's daughter?"

For a second there was an expression of broad amusement on the

beautiful cold face opposite, but it passed with a slight shrug of the

shoulders. "No," she said evenly.

"Then who are you?"

"I do not choose to say--at present." Her tone was as arrogant as her

interlocutor's and Mrs. Oglethorpe bristled.

"What does Trent mean by lying about your presence in this house?"

"Judge Trent respects my wishes."

"Your wishes! You've made a fool of him. But I am Countess Zattiany's

oldest friend, and if she has been imposed upon, if she has come to any

harm, if you are after her fortune by pretending on the strength of

your singular likeness to be her heir, I shall know how to put a stop

to it in spite of Judge Trent. I suppose you have never heard of me.

My name is Oglethorpe."

"I have heard of Mrs. Oglethorpe--from Countess Zattiany. But she

failed to prepare me for your excessively bad manners."

"Manners be damned. I use what manners I choose and I've never done

anything else. I repeat to you that Countess Zattiany was the most

intimate friend of my youth and for many years after. If she has no

one to protect her interests in this country, I shall protect them

myself. Don't you suppose I am well aware that if you were in her

confidence she would have sent you direct to me? It is the first thing

she would have thought of. If you are not an impostor and an

adventuress present your credentials and I will ask your pardon."

"Judge Trent has my credentials. Now, if you will excuse me----"

"I will not excuse you. I will get to the depth of all this mystery.

I abominate mystery. It is vulgar and stupid. You will tell me who

you are, or I will set the newspapers on your track. They'll soon

ferret it out. I've only to say the word."

"Ah!" The lady seemed to falter for a moment. She looked

speculatively at the indignant old face opposite, then made a vague

little gesture toward her hair, and dropped her eyes. "No," she said

softly. "Don't--please." She raised her eyes once more and looked

straight into Mrs. Oglethorpe's. The two women stood staring at each

other for several seconds. Mrs. Oglethorpe's eyes blinked, her jaw

fell. Then she drew herself up in her most impressive manner.

"Good day," she said. "Your pardon for the intrusion," and although

her voice had trembled, she swept majestically down the hall. The

unwilling hostess touched a bell and a footman opened the door.