“It’s a box of a place, though, isn’t it,” declared Mr. Stephen Warren,
contemptuously glancing about the library of the apartment. “A box, by
George! I think it’s a blooming shame that we have to put up with it,
Sis.”
Mr. Warren sprawled in the most comfortable chair in the room, was
looking out through the window, across the wind-swept width of Central
Park West, over the knolls and valleys of the Park itself, now bare of
foliage and sprinkled with patches of snow. There was a discontented
look on his face, and his hands were jammed deep in his trousers
pockets.
His sister, Caroline, sat opposite to him, also looking out at the
December landscape. She, too, was discontented and unhappy, though she
tried not to show it.
“Why don’t you say something,” snapped Stephen, after a moment of
silence. “_Isn’t_ it a box of a place? Now come.”
“Yes,” replied the young lady, without looking at her brother. “Yes,
Steve, I suppose it is. But you must remember that we must make the
best of it. I always wondered how people could live in apartments. Now I
suppose I shall have to find out.”
“Well, I maintain that we don’t have to. We aren’t paupers, even though
father wasn’t so well fixed as everyone thought. With management and
care, we could have stayed in the old house, I believe, and kept up
appearances, at least. What’s the use of advertising that we’re broke?”
“But, Steve, you know Mr. Graves said--”
“Oh, yes, I know. You swallowed every word Graves said, Caro, as if
he was the whole book of Proverbs. By George, _I_ don’t; I’m from
Missouri.”
Mr. Warren, being in the Sophomore class at Yale, was of the age when
one is constitutionally “from Missouri.” Probably King Solomon, at
sixty, had doubts concerning the scope and depth of his wisdom; at
eighteen he would have admitted its all-embracing infallibility without
a blush.
“I tell you,” continued Stephen, “there’s no sense in it, Sis. You and I
know plenty of people whose incomes are no larger than ours. Do they
‘economize,’ as Graves is continually preaching? They do not, publicly
at least. They may save a bit, here and there, but they do it where it
doesn’t show and nobody knows. Take the Blaisdells, for instance. When
the Sodality Bank went up, and old Blaisdell died, everybody said the
family was down and out. They must have lost millions. But did _they_
move into ‘apartments’ and put up a placard, ‘Home of the Dead-Brokes.
Walk in and Sympathize?’ I guess they didn’t! They went into mourning,
of course, and that let them out of entertaining and all that, but they
stayed where they were and kept up the bluff. That’s the thing that
counts in this world--keeping up the bluff.”
“Yes, but everyone knows they are--bluffing, as you call it.”
“What of it? They don’t really know, they only suspect. And I met Jim
Blaisdell yesterday and he shook my hand, after I had held it in front
of his eyes where he couldn’t help seeing it, and had the nerve to tell
me he hoped things weren’t as bad with us as he had heard.”
“I never liked the Blaisdells,” declared Caroline, indignantly.
“Neither did I. Neither do most people. But Jim is just as much in the
swim as he ever was, and he’s got his governor’s place on the board of
directors at the bank, now that it’s reorganized, and an office down
town, and he’s hand and glove with Von Blarcom and all the rest.
They think he’s a promising, plucky young man. They’ll help his bluff
through. And are his mother and sister dropped by the people in their
set? I haven’t noticed it.”
“Well, Mrs. Corcoran Dunn told me that everyone was talking about
the Blaisdells and wondering how long they could keep it up. And the
newspapers have been printing all sorts of things, and hinting that
young Mr. Blaisdell’s appointment as director, after his father wrecked
the bank, was a scandal. At least, we haven’t _that_ to bear up under.
Father was honest, if he wasn’t rich.”
“Who cares for the newspapers? They’re all run by demagogues hunting
sensations. What makes me feel the worst about all this is that Stock
Exchange seat of father’s. If I were only of age, so that I could go
down there on the floor, I tell you it wouldn’t be long before you and I
were back where we belong, Sis. But, no, I’m a kid, so Graves thinks, in
charge of a guardian--a _guardian_, by gad!”
He snorted, in manly indignation. Caroline, her pretty face troubled,
rose and walked slowly across the room. It was a large room, in spite of
the fact that it was one of a suite in an apartment hotel, and furnished
richly. A. Rodgers Warren spent his money with taste, and spent it
freely while he lived. The furniture, the paintings, and bric-a-brac
were of the very best, chosen with care, here and abroad.
“Oh, dear!” sighed the girl. “I do hope Mr. Graves will be well enough
to call to-day. He expected to. Except for the telephone message telling
us that that _man_ at Denboro--”
“Our dear Uncle Elisha,” put in Stephen, with sarcasm. “Uncle ‘’Lish!’
Heavens! what a name!”
“Hush! He can’t help his name. And father’s was worse yet--Abijah! Think
of it!”
“I don’t want to think of it. Neither did the governor; that’s why
he dropped it, I suppose. Just what did Graves say? Give me his exact
words.”
“His partner, Mr. Kuhn, telephoned. He said that Mr. Graves had a bad
cold, having been wet through in a dreadful storm down there in the
country. The doctor forbade his leaving the house for a day or two, but
he would call on Tuesday--to-day--if he was sufficiently recovered. And
Mr. Kuhn said that everything was satisfactory. This Captain Warren--a
ship captain, I suppose he is--would, in all probability, refuse to
accept the guardianship and the rest of it--”
“Refuse? I should think so. I’m just as certain father was insane when
he made that will as I am that I’m alive. If I thought he wasn’t, I’d
never forgive him.”
“Hush, Steve. You promised me you wouldn’t speak in that way.”
“Well, all right, I won’t. But, Caro, he _must_ have been insane. If he
wasn’t, do you suppose he would have put us and the estate in the care
of a Down-East jay? It’s inconceivable! It’s ridiculous! Think of it.
Suppose this uncle of ours had accepted. Suppose he had come to town
here and any of our friends had met him. ‘This is our guardian, Captain
Warren, of Punkin Centre.’ ‘Please to meet ye,’ says Uncle ‘Lish. ‘How’s
taters?’ Horrors! Say, Caro, you haven’t told anyone, Malcolm or his
mother, or anyone, have you?”
“Of course not, Steve. You know I wouldn’t.”
“Well, don’t. They needn’t know it, now or at any other time. Graves
will probably get himself appointed, and he’s respectable if he is an
old fogy. We’ll worry along till I’m twenty-one, and then--well, then
I’ll handle our business myself.”
Evidently there was no question in his mind as to his ability to handle
this or any business, no matter how involved. He rose from his chair and
yawned.
“It’s deadly dull,” he complained. “You don’t need me, do you, Caro? I
believe I’ll go out for a while. That is, unless you really care.”
His sister hesitated before replying. When she spoke, there was
disappointment in her tone.
“Why, Steve,” she said, “I did hope you might be here when Mr. Graves
came. He will wish to speak of important matters, and it seems to me
that both of us should hear what he has to say.”
Young Warren, who had started for the door, stopped and kicked
impatiently at the corners of the rug.
“Oh, _well_!” he observed, “if you want me of course I’ll stay. But why
doesn’t old Graves come, if he is coming. Maybe he’s under the weather
yet,” he added, hopefully. “Perhaps he isn’t coming at all to-day. I
believe I’ll call up Kuhn on the ‘phone and find out.”
He was on his way to the telephone when the doorbell buzzed.
“Gad! there he is now,” he exclaimed. “Now I suppose I’ll have to stay.
We’ll hear about dear Uncle ‘Lish, won’t we? Oh, joy!”
But the staid butler, when he entered the library, did not announce the
lawyer’s name.
“Mrs. Corcoran Dunn and Mr. Malcolm,” he said. “Will you see them, Miss
Caroline?”
The young lady’s face lit up.
“Certainly, Edwards,” she said. “Show them--Oh, Mrs. Dunn, I’m so glad
to see you! It was _ever_ so good of you to come. And Malcolm.”
Mrs. M. Corcoran Dunn was tall and, in South Denboro, would have been
called “fleshy,” in spite of her own and the dressmaker’s efforts to
conceal the fact. She was elaborately gowned and furred, and something
about her creaked when she walked. She rushed into the room, at the
butler’s heels, and, greeting Caroline with outstretched hands, kissed
her effusively on the cheek.
“My dear child,” she cried, “how could I stay away? We have spoken of
you and Stephen _so_ often this morning. We know how lonely you must be,
and Malcolm and I decided we _must_ run in on you after lunch. Didn’t
we, Malcolm?”
Mr. Malcolm Corcoran Dunn, her son, was a blond young man, with a rather
indolent manner.
“Sure, Mater!” he said, calmly. “How d’ye do, Caroline? ‘Lo, Steve!”
The quartette shook hands. Mrs. Dunn sank creakingly into a chair and
gazed about the room. Malcolm strolled to the window and looked out.
Stephen followed and stood beside him.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Dunn, addressing Caroline, “how are you getting on?
How are your nerves? Is all the dreadful ‘settling’ over?”
“Very nearly, thank goodness.”
“That’s a mercy. I should certainly have been here yesterday to help you
in superintending and arranging and so on, but I was suffering from one
of my ‘hearts,’ and you know what _they_ are.”
Everyone who knew Mrs. Corcoran Dunn was acquainted with her “hearts.”
The attacks came, so she was accustomed to explain, from an impaired
valve, and “some day”--she usually completed the sentence with upturned
eyes and a resigned upward wave of the hand.
Her son turned from the window.
“I say, Mother,” he explained, wearily, “I do wish you wouldn’t speak of
your vital organs in the plural. Anyone would imagine you were a sort
of freak, like the two-headed boy at the circus. It’s positively
distressing.”
Stephen laughed. He admired young Dunn immensely. Mrs. Dunn sighed.
“Don’t, Malcolm, dear,” she pleaded. “You sound so unfeeling. One not
acquainted with your real kindness of heart--”
“Oh, drop it,” interrupted Malcolm. “Let’s omit the heart interest.
This isn’t a clinic. I say, Steve, how do you like the new flat? It is a
flat, isn’t it?”
Stephen turned red. His sister colored and bit her lip. Mrs. Dunn
hastened to the rescue.
“Horrors!” she exclaimed. “Malcolm, you really are insufferable. Flat!
Caroline, dear, you mustn’t mind him. He will have his joke. Malcolm,
apologize.”
The command was sharp, and her son obeyed it.
“Beg your pardon, Steve,” he said. “Yours, too, Caroline. I was only
joking. There’s a little beast of a bookkeeper down at the office who
is forever talking of his ‘nice flat in the Bronx.’ It’s a standing
guy, you know. So far as I can see, these are pretty snug quarters. And
attractively arranged, too. Your taste, Caroline, I’m betting.”
Miss Warren, slightly mollified, bowed assent.
“I thought so,” continued Malcolm. “No one but you would have known
exactly the right spot for everything. Show us through, won’t you?”
But Mrs. Dunn had other plans.
“Not now, Malcolm,” she put in. “Caroline is tired out, I’m sure. A
little fresh air will do her good. I was going to suggest that you and
she and Stephen go for a short ride. Yes, really you must, my dear,” she
added, turning to the girl beside her. “Our car is at the door, it’s not
at all a bad afternoon, and the outing will be just what you need.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dunn,” said Caroline, gratefully. “I should like to.
Indeed, I should. But we have been expecting a business call from Mr.
Graves, father’s lawyer, and--”
“Oh, come on, Sis!” interrupted Stephen. “I’m dying to get out of this
jail. Let old Graves wait, if he comes. We won’t be long; and, besides,
it’s not certain that he is coming to-day. Come on!”
“I’m afraid I ought not, Steve. Mr. Graves may come, and--and it seems
too bad to trouble our friends--”
“It’s not trouble, it’s pleasure,” urged Mrs. Dunn. “Malcolm will be
delighted. It was his idea. Wasn’t it?” turning to her son.
“Oh, yes! certainly,” replied the young gentleman. “Hope you’ll come,
Caroline. And you, of course, Steve. The blessed machine’s been off its
feed for a week or more, but Peter says he thinks it’s all right again.
We’ll give it a try-out on the Drive. Hope we have better luck than my
last,” with a laugh. “They nabbed us for speeding, and I had to promise
to be a good boy or to be fined. Said we were hitting it at fifty an
hour. We _were_ going some, that’s a fact. Ha! ha!”
“But he won’t be reckless when you’re with him, Caroline,” put in his
mother. “You will go? That’s so nice! As for Mr. Graves, I’ll explain
if he comes. Oh, no! _I’m_ not going! I shall remain here in this
comfortable chair and rest until you return. It’s exactly what my
physician orders, and for once I’m going to obey him. My heart, you
know, my poor heart--”
She waved her hand and raised her eyes. Miss Warren expostulated, but to
no purpose. Mrs. Corcoran Dunn would _not_ go, but the others must. So,
at last, they did. When Caroline and her brother had gone for their
wraps, Mrs. Dunn laid a hand on her son’s arm.
“Now mind,” she whispered, “see if you can find out anything during the
ride. Something more explicit about the size of their estate and who the
guardian is to be. There are all sorts of stories, you know, and we
_must_ learn the truth very soon. Don’t appear curious, but merely
friendly. You understand?”
“Sure, Mater,” was the careless answer. “I’ll pump.”
The two departed, leaving their lady visitor ensconced in the
comfortable chair. She remained in it for perhaps five minutes. Then she
rose and sauntered about the room. She drifted into the drawing-room,
returning a moment later and sauntering casually toward the open desk by
the fireplace. There were papers and letters scattered about this desk,
and these she turned over, glancing toward the door to be sure no one
was coming. The letters were, for the most part, messages of sympathy
from friends of the Warren family. Hearing an approaching step, she
hastily returned to the chair.
Edwards, the butler, entered the library and replenished the fire. Mrs.
Dunn languidly accosted him.
“Ah--er--Edwards,” she said, “you are--er--growing familiar with your
new home?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Edwards, politely.
“It must seem--er--small compared to the other.”
“Smaller; yes, ma’am.”
“But very snug and comfortable.”
“Yes, ma ‘am.”
“It is fortunate that Miss Warren and her brother have the aid of such
a--an old servant of the family.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Is Miss Caroline managing her own affairs?”
“Apparently so. Yes, ma’am.”
“I presume, however, a guardian has been appointed? With an estate such
as the late Mr. Warren _must_ have left, some responsible person would
be, of course, necessary.”
She paused. Edwards, having arranged the logs to his liking, brushed the
dust from his hands.
“I don’t know, ma’am, I’m sure,” he said. “Neither Miss Caroline nor Mr.
Stephen have spoken with me concerning the family affairs.”
Mrs. Corcoran Dunn straightened, with hauteur.
“I think that was the doorbell,” she remarked, a trifle sharply. “If it
should be Mr. Graves, the attorney, you may show him into the library
here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Edwards once more, and departed.
The lady visitor heard voices in the passage. She listened, but could
hear nothing understandable. Evidently the butler was having an argument
with someone. It could not be Graves.
Edwards reappeared, looking troubled.
“It’s a--a gentleman to see Miss Caroline,” he said. “He won’t give his
name, ma’am, but says she’s expecting him.”
“Expecting him?”
“Yes, ma’am. I told him she was out, but he said he was intending
to stay a while anyway, and would wait. I asked his business, but he
wouldn’t tell it.”
“That’s odd.” Mrs. Dunn was slightly interested. “A tradesman, perhaps;
or an agent of the landlord.”
“No-o, ma’am. I don’t think he’s either of them, ma’am.”
“What sort of a person is he, Edwards?”
The butler’s face twitched for an instant with a troubled smile. Then it
resumed its customary respectful calm.
“I hardly know, ma’am. He’s an oddish man. He--I think he’s from the
country.”
From behind him came a quiet chuckle.
“You’re right, Commodore,” said a man’s voice; “I’m from the country.
You guessed it.”
Edwards jumped, startled out of his respectable wits. Mrs. Dunn rose
indignantly from her chair.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said the intruder, appearing in the doorway.
“You mustn’t think I’m forcin’ my way where I ain’t wanted. But it
seemed to take so long to make the Admiral here understand that I was
goin’ to wait until Caroline came back that I thought I’d save time and
breath by provin’ it to him. I didn’t know there was any company. Excuse
me, ma’am, I won’t bother you. I’ll just come to anchor out here in the
entry. Don’t mind me.”
He bowed politely, picked up the large suit-case, plainly bran-new,
which he had momentarily placed on the rug at his feet, and, with it
in one hand and a big soft felt hat in the other, stepped back into the
hall out of sight. The astonished Mrs. Dunn and the paralyzed Edwards
heard a chair crack as if a heavy weight had descended upon it.
Evidently he had “come to anchor.”
The lady was the first to recover the power of speech.
“Why!” she exclaimed, in an alarmed whisper. “Why! I never heard of
such brazen impertinence in my life. He must be insane. He is a lunatic,
isn’t he, Edwards?”
The butler shook his head. “I--I don’t know, ma’am,” he stammered.
“I believe he is.” Mrs. Dunn’s presence of mind was returning, and with
it her courage. Her florid cheeks flamed a more vivid red, and her eyes
snapped. “But whether he is or not, he sha’n’t bulldoze me.”
She strode majestically to the door. The visitor was seated in the hall,
calmly reading a newspaper. Hat and suit-case were on the floor beside
him.
“What do you mean by this?” demanded the lady. “Who are you? If you have
any business here, state it at once.”
The man glanced at her, over his spectacles, rose and stood looking down
at her. His expression was pleasant, and he was remarkably cool.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, gravely. “I’ll be glad to tell you who I am,
if you’d like to have me. I’d have done it before, but I thought there
weren’t any use troublin’ you with my affairs. But, just a minute--”
he hesitated--“I haven’t made any mistake, have I? I understood your
steward--the feller with the brass buttons, to say that Abijah Warren’s
children lived here. That’s so, ain’t it? If not, then I _am_ mistaken.”
Mrs. Dunn regarded him with indignation. “You are,” she said coldly.
“The family of the late Mr. Rodgers Warren lives here. I presume the
slight resemblance in names misled you. Edwards, show the gentleman
out.”
“Just one moment more, ma’am. It was Rodgers Warren’s children I was
lookin’ for. A. Rodgers Warren he called himself, didn’t he? Yes. Well,
the A stood for Abijah; that was his Christian name. And he left
two children, Caroline and Stephen? Good! I thought for a jiffy I’d
blundered in where I had no business, but it’s all right. You see,
ma’am, I’m their uncle from South Denboro, Massachusetts. My name is
Elisha Warren.”
Mrs. Dunn gasped. Edwards, peering over her shoulder, breathed heavily.
“You are--their _uncle_?” repeated the lady.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m ‘Bije’s brother. Oh, don’t worry. It’s all right. And
don’t fret yourself about me, either. I’ll set right down out here
and read my paper and wait till Caroline or Stephen get home. They’re
expectin’ me. Mr. Graves, the lawyer, told ‘em I was comin’.”
He calmly seated himself and adjusted his spectacles. Mrs. Dunn stared
at him, then at Edwards. After an instant’s indecision, she stepped
back into the library and walked to the window. She beckoned, with an
agitated finger, to the butler, who joined her.
“Edwards,” she whispered, “did you hear what he said?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Edwards, wide-eyed and wondering.
“Is it true?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Did Mr. Warren have a brother?”
“I didn’t know that he had, ma’am.”
“Do you--do you think it likely that he would have a brother like--like
_that_?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Was Miss Caroline expecting him?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. She--”
“Oh, you don’t know anything! You’re impossible. Go away!”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Edwards thankfully; and went. Mrs. Corcoran Dunn
stood for some minutes by the window, thinking, or trying to think a way
to the truth in this astounding development. Of course the man _might_
be a lunatic who had gained his information concerning the Warren family
from the papers; but he did not look like a lunatic. On the other hand,
he certainly did not look as one would have expected a brother of
Rodgers Warren’s to look. Oddest of all, if he was such a brother, why
had neither Caroline or Stephen mentioned his existence? According to
his story, Graves, the Warren lawyer, had warned the children of his
coming. Caroline had been very reticent concerning her father’s will,
the amount of his estate, and the like. And Mrs. Dunn had repeatedly,
though discreetly, endeavored to find out these important details.
Neither hints nor questions had resulted satisfactorily. Was it possible
that this was the reason, this country uncle? If so--well, if so, here
was a Heaven-sent opportunity for a little genteel and perfectly safe
detective work. Mrs. Dunn creakingly crossed the room and spoke.
“Mr. Warren,” she said, “I feel guilty in keeping you out there. Won’t
you come into the library?”
“Why, thank you, ma’am, I’m all right. Don’t you trouble about me. Go
right on with your readin’ or sewin’ or knittin’ or whatever you was
doin’ and--”
“I was not reading,” replied Mrs. Dunn, with a slight shudder. “Come in,
please. I wish you to.”
Captain Elisha folded his paper and put it in his pocket. Entering the
library, he stood quietly waiting.
“Won’t you sit down?” asked his impromptu hostess, trying hard to be
gracious.
“Thank you,” said the captain. He sank into an armchair and looked
curiously about him.
“So you are the late Mr. Warren’s brother?” asked the lady, making her
first lead in the game.
“Yes, ma’am. His older brother. ‘Bije was ten year younger’n I am,
Mrs.--er--”
“Dunn. I am an old friend of the family.”
“That’s good. I’m glad to hear they’ve got friends. When you’re in
sickness or trouble or sorrer, friendship counts for consider’ble. How
are the young folks--Caroline and Stephen--pretty smart, hey?”
“_Smart_? Why, they are intelligent, naturally. I--”
“No, no. I mean are they pretty well?”
“Very well, indeed, considering the shock of their recent bereavement.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. And they’ve moved, too. Movin’s an awful job. They
say three movin’s are as bad as a fire, but I cal’late I’d rather burn
up a set of carpets than _pull_ ‘em up, ‘specially if they was insured.
‘Tain’t half so much strain on your religion. I remember the last time
we took up our carpets at home, Abbie--she’s my second cousin, keepin’
house for me--said if gettin’ down on my knees has that effect on me
she’d never ask me to go to prayer-meetin’ again. Ho! ho!”
He chuckled. Mrs. Dunn elevated her nose and looked out of the window.
Then she led another small trump.
“You say that Miss Caroline and her brother expect you,” she said. “You
surprise me. Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m sure. When Mr. Graves came down to see me, last
week ‘twas, I told him to say I’d be up pretty soon to look the ground
over. This is a pretty fine place the young folks have got here,” he
added, gazing admiringly at the paintings and bookcases.
“Yes,” assented the lady, condescendingly. “For an apartment it is
really quite livable.”
“Livable!” Captain Elisha’s astonishment got the better of his
politeness for the moment. “Um! Yes, I should say a body _might_ manage
to worry along in it. Was the place where they used to live any finer
than this?”
“Certainly!”
“You don’t tell me! No wonder they talked about economi--Humph!”
“What were you about to say, Mr. Warren?”
“Oh, nothin’, nothin’! Talkin’ to myself is a habit I’ve got. Abbie--my
second cousin; I guess I told you about her--says it’s a sure sign that
a person’s rich or out of his head, one or t’other. I ain’t rich, so--”
He chuckled once more.
“Mr. Graves came to see you at your home, did he?”
“Yes, ma’am. At South Denboro. And he certainly did have a rough
passage. Ho! ho! Probably you heard about it, bein’ so friendly with the
family.”
“Ahem! Doubtless he would have mentioned it, but he has been ill.”
“Sho! I’m sorry to hear that. I was afraid he’d catch cold.”
“Yes. I hope Mr. Graves’s errand was successful?”
“Well, sort of so-so.”
“Yes. He came to see you in connection with your brother’s estate--some
legacy, perhaps?”
She did not look at the captain when she asked this question. Therefore,
she did not notice the glance which he gave her. When he answered, it
was in the same deliberate, provokingly deliberate, manner.
“Um-hm. Somethin’ of that kind, Mrs. Dunn. I can’t help thinkin’,” he
went on, “how nice it is that Caroline and Steve have such a good friend
as you to help ‘em. Your husband and ‘Bije was chums, I s’pose?”
“No, not exactly. The friendship was on my side of the family.”
“So? Want to know! Your husband dead, ma’am?”
Mrs. Dunn changed the subject. Her husband, Mr. Corcoran Dunn--once Mike
Dunn, contractor and Tammany politician--was buried in Calvary Cemetery.
She mourned him, after a fashion, but she preferred not to talk about
him.
“Yes,” she answered shortly. “It--it looks as if it might snow, doesn’t
it?”
“I shouldn’t wonder. Have you any children, ma’am?”
“One--a son.” The widow’s tone was frigid.
“So? He must be a comfort to you. I s’pose likely he’s a friend of my
nephew and niece, too.”
“Certainly.”
“That’s good. Young folks ought to have young friends. You live in this
neighborhood, ma’am?”
The lady did not answer. She gazed haughtily at the trees in the Park.
Captain Elisha rubbed a smile from his lips with his hand and remained
silent. The tall clock ticked loud.
There came the sound of laughter from the passage outside. The hall
door opened. A moment later, Caroline, followed by her brother and young
Dunn, entered the library.
The girl’s cheeks were rosy from the cold wind. Her hair, beneath the
fur auto cap, had blown in brown, rippled disorder across her forehead.
She was smiling.
“Oh, Mrs. Dunn!” she cried. “I’m so glad I accepted
your--Malcolm’s--invitation. We had a glorious ride! I--”
She stopped short. Captain Warren had risen from his chair and was
facing her. Mrs. Dunn also rose.
“Caroline,” she said, nervously, “this”--pausing on the word--“gentleman
is here to see you. He says he is--”
The captain interrupted her. Stepping forward he seized his niece’s
hands in his. “Well, well!” he exclaimed admiringly. “‘Bije’s girl, that
I ain’t seen since you was a little mite of a baby! Caroline, I’m your
Uncle Elisha.”
“Good _Lord_!” groaned Stephen Warren.