WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS
TRAMP, tramp, back and forth, back and forth, went the restless
footsteps. Would she never tire? Would she never stop? Alfred Clark
bent lower until his eye was on a level with the keyhole of the closed
library door. Suddenly the gong over the front door rang loudly. With
a smothered exclamation, Clark glided quickly across the wide hall and
entered the private office just as Wilkins came out of the dining-room.
“Good afternoon, Wilkins. Can I see Miss Beatrice?” Peggy’s fresh young
voice sounded cheerily in Wilkins’ ears. During the last week he had
had a surfeit of horrors and unmitigated gloom.
“Yes, Miss Margaret, she is expecting you. Will you please walk into
the drawing-room, and I will tell her you have come.”
Peggy had only time to straighten one refractory curl which would trail
down on her forehead. It had been the cause of much mental anguish
in childish days because everyone dinned into her ears, “There was a
little girl, and she had a little curl.” Consequently she always took
care to tuck that particular lock carefully out of sight. As she turned
from the mirror, Beatrice came in through the communicating doors
leading to the library.
“My dearest, how good it is to see you again,” exclaimed Peggy, giving
her a warm kiss and hug.
“It is, indeed,” and Beatrice’s sad face brightened, as she
affectionately returned the embrace.
“I have been here several times since the funeral, Beatrice.”
“I know, dear, and it did my heart good to know you were thinking of
me. I feel so alone, so utterly alone.” Beatrice stopped to control
her voice, and Peggy, with loving sympathy, threw her arm about her
shoulders.
They made a charming foil sitting side by side on the divan, one so
dark in her stately beauty, the other so fair and winsome, their faces
seen first in shadow then in light as the fickle wood fire flickered to
and fro on the wide hearth.
“There, I did not intend to allude to the terrible happenings. Since
the funeral, which was private, I have tried not to let my mind dwell
on the tragedy. Otherwise I think I should go mad. I cannot, cannot
speak of it even to you, dearest.” Her hands twitched spasmodically,
and she bit her lips to hide their trembling. Regaining her composure
by a desperate effort, she signed to Wilkins to move the tea table
nearer the fire. “Two lumps and lemon, Peggy?”
“Yes, please, and very weak.”
“It was dear of you to come out in this snow storm.”
“Puf! I don’t care that for a storm.” Peggy snapped her fingers
derisively. “I had been in all day and was longing for fresh air when
you telephoned me. And the walk up here did me no end of good. I
always eat too much at Granny’s lunches.”
“Tell me who were there?”
“Oh! just the Topic Club. One of the members gave out at the eleventh
hour, and Granny asked me to take her place.”
“It must have been interesting,” ejaculated Beatrice.
The Topic Club, composed of eleven witty women, was a time-honored
institution in the Capital. It met once a month at the different
members’ houses. Each hostess was always allowed to ask one of her
friends to make the twelfth guest, an invitation eagerly sought for.
The topic to be discussed was written on the back of the place cards.
“What was the topic this time, Peggy?”
“‘What does a woman remember longest?’ May I have some more hot water,
my tea is a little too strong?”
“And what answer did they find for it?” asked Beatrice, taking up the
hot water kettle as Peggy held out her cup.
“Why, they decided that no woman ever forgets ‘the man who has once
loved her.’ My gracious, Beatrice, look out!” as a few drops of boiling
water went splashing over her fingers.
“Oh, Peggy, did I scald you?”
“Not very much,” groaned Peggy, putting her injured finger in her
mouth, that human receptacle for all things--good and bad.
“I am so sorry, dear. Tell me, did you hear anything exciting at
luncheon?”
“Nothing in particular.” Peggy could not tell her that the chief topic
at the table had been the Trevor murder, so she rattled on: “People say
that divorce proceedings are pending in the Van Auken family. You know
their home is called ‘the house of a thousand scandals.’ But the latest
news is that Martha Underhill’s engagement to Bobby Crane has been
broken off.”
“Why?” asked Beatrice, her curiosity excited.
“Well, they quarreled about Donald Gordon--” Beatrice’s convulsive
start brought Peggy up short. As usual her thoughtless tongue had
gotten her into hot water. To hesitate would be but to make a bad
matter worse, so she went bravely on: “Bobby is desperately jealous,
and simply hates to have Martha even look at any other man. So he
was simply raging when she told him she intended dancing the last
Bachelors’ with Mr. Gordon, who is an old friend of hers. Bobby was
very nasty about it. Yesterday when we were all walking up Connecticut
Avenue from St. John’s, Martha remarked how mortified she had been at
being left without a partner during the first part of the cotillion.
“‘Serves you jolly well right,’ snapped Bobby. ‘That’s what comes of
dancing with a murderer!’”
“Oh, the coward!” exclaimed Beatrice. “The coward!”
“That’s what we all thought, and I left Martha telling Bobby what she
thought of him. Result--the broken engagement. As to Mr. Gordon, we all
believe in his innocence,” declared Peggy, stoutly.
“It is not the first time a Court of Justice has blundered,” agreed
Beatrice, wearily, and she brushed her soft hair off her hot forehead.
“The idea of suspecting Mr. Gordon,” went on Peggy, heatedly. “He is so
chivalrous; so tender in his manner to all women! What matter if he is
a bit of a flirt--”
Beatrice moved uneasily in her chair.
“How is Mrs. Macallister?” she asked abruptly.
“Very well, and enjoying herself immensely at present. She is having
an out and out row with the Commissioners of the District. Major Stone
applied to them for permission to cut an entrance to the alley through
Granny’s rose garden. My, she was mad!” and Peggy smiled broadly at the
recollection.
“I don’t wonder,” exclaimed Beatrice. “Why, Peggy, it would be a
perfect shame. Mrs. Macallister’s garden is one of the beauties of
Washington.”
“It would be beastly. You see, Granny owns nearly half the square
between 19th and 20th on F Street. To prevent apartment houses going
up, she wanted to buy the whole block. But the owners, finding she
wanted the real estate, asked her an exorbitant price, which Granny
naturally refused to pay. Now, I suppose to get back at her, old Major
Stone insists that the alley, which already has two entrances, must
have a third.
“So yesterday, Granny and I went to call on Major Cochrane, the new
Engineer Commissioner, in the District Building. He didn’t know us from
Adam, and didn’t seem able to get a clear idea of our errand. Finally,
he asked Granny:
“‘Do I understand you came here to get an alley put through?’
“‘No,’ replied Granny, with her blandest smile, ‘I came to get an
ally.’ And she did, too,” laughed Peggy. “Before we left she had won
him, body and soul, over to her cause.”
“I prophesy Mrs. Macallister wins. Must you go, dear,” as Peggy started
gathering her wraps together.
“It’s getting late, and I am far, far from home; besides which, I am
dining with the Van Winkles, and afterwards going to the Charity Ball.
So I have a busy night ahead of me. But I hate to leave you, dearie,
all by yourself. Won’t you come down and visit us? We’d love to have
you. Indeed, it is not good for you to stay shut up here by yourself--”
Peggy came to a breathless pause.
There were tears in Beatrice’s eyes as she bent and kissed the soft,
rosy cheek. What it cost her to stay in that house, none would ever
know. She shook her head.
“It is like you to ask me, Peggy darling, but I cannot leave Father. He
needs me _now_.”
The slight emphasis was lost on Peggy, who was busy adjusting her furs.
With a searching glance around the dimly lighted room, Beatrice drew
a small, flat box from her dainty work bag, and going close to Peggy
whispered:
“I am surrounded by prying eyes. You, and you only, can I trust. In the
name of our long friendship, and for the sake of the old school days I
beg, I entreat you, Peggy, to take this box and keep it for me!”
“Indeed I will!” Peggy’s whisper was reassuring in its vehemence. “No
one shall ever see or know of it.” As she spoke, she thrust it in her
large muff. “Remember, Beatrice, Granny and I are always your devoted,
loyal friends. Do not hesitate to let us help you.”
Beatrice’s only answer was to fold Peggy in a passionate embrace.
Then, as the latter left the room, she threw herself on the divan, her
slender form racked with sobs.
As Peggy crossed the square hall on her way to the front door, she came
face to face with the Attorney General’s secretary. Alfred Clark, who
was putting on his overcoat, greeted her effusively.
“Oh, good afternoon,” she replied, a trifle coldly; for his obsequious
manner always grated on her.
“Can I see you home?” asked Clark, eagerly, opening the front door as
he spoke.
“You are very kind, but I am going to catch the car at the corner, and
I wouldn’t think of taking you so far out of your way.”
“On the contrary, it is right in the direction I am going,” rejoined
Clark, helping Peggy down the slippery steps. “I was so sorry not to
see you when I called last Sunday,” he continued, as they turned to
walk in the direction of Connecticut Avenue. “I thought you always
stayed at home that day?”
“I usually do; but last Sunday I went down to the station to see a
friend off, so missed all my callers. Gracious! there’s our car. Do
stop it.”
Obediently Clark ran ahead and signalled the motorman to wait until
Peggy could get there. But once inside the car they had no further
chance for conversation, for Clark, jostled by the crowd, was obliged
to stand some distance from Peggy, who had been given a seat further
up. On transferring to the G Street herdic they found they had that
antiquated vehicle entirely to themselves.
“How do you think Miss Trevor is looking?” inquired Clark, after he had
stuffed the transfers into the change box by the driver’s seat.
“She seems utterly used up, poor dear,” answered Peggy, soberly. “I am
afraid the strain is telling on her more than she will admit.”
“You are right, Miss Macallister; and something should be done about
it.” Clark spoke with so much feeling that she glanced at him with
deepened interest. “Her father is so absorbed in his grief that he
never notices his daughter’s condition.”
“It is a shame,” agreed Peggy, “and yet, not surprising. He was
perfectly devoted to Mrs. Trevor, and Senator Phillips says he is
heartbroken by her tragic death.”
“That is no excuse for neglecting the living. Mr. Trevor owes much to
his daughter’s affection.” Peggy did not see the quickly suppressed
sneer that distorted Clark’s handsome features. “Miss Trevor acts as if
she had something preying on her mind, don’t you think so?”
Peggy clutched the box secreted so carefully inside her muff in sudden
panic. What did the man’s insinuation mean?
“No,” she answered tartly. “I think her nervous, over-wrought
condition is simply due to the tragedy, and its attending mystery.”
“Mystery?” echoed Clark. “Why, all that has been cleared up by Gordon’s
arrest.”
“Indeed it has not,” indignantly declared Peggy. “I don’t for a
moment believe him guilty. I think he is the victim of circumstantial
evidence.” Her rapid speech was interrupted by their arrival at her
street corner, and she did not finish her sentence until they stood
in the vestibule of the Macallister mansion. “In the first place, Mr.
Clark,” she continued, “where would you find a motive for such a crime?”
“In Gordon’s past, Miss Macallister.” And, as Hurley opened the front
door, “Good night; thanks so much for allowing me to escort you home.”
He ran down the steps and walked rapidly up the street before the
astonished girl could frame another sentence.