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
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 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 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 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?”
“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 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.
“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 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 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.”
He rose in silence and went swiftly through the contents of the
typewriter desk. “Everything is correct,” he acknowledged, noting with
inward approval the neat and orderly arrangement of his correspondence.
“Then I will leave; my hat and coat are downstairs,” and with a formal
bow Marjorie turned toward the door.
“One moment;” the Admiral stepped back to his own desk. “You forget
your check; I have made it out for one month in advance, in lieu of
notice.”
Mechanically Marjorie’s fingers closed over the slip of paper extended
to her; then she drew her slender, graceful figure erect.
“I am a girl, alone in the world,” she said clearly. “I have had to
take your insults today, but thank God, I can refuse to take your
money.”
The torn check fell in a tiny shower at the Admiral’s feet as the hall
door banged to behind her vanishing figure.
The seconds had slipped into minutes before the Admiral moved; then he
dropped into his desk chair.
“What does she see in Chichester?” he muttered. “What is there about
that scoundrel which attracts women? Where’s that photograph?”
But his search was unavailing; the photograph had disappeared.