THE OFFICIAL CHAPERON
THE OFFICIAL CHAPERON
“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;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?”
“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 ofthe 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 MissLangdon’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 glanceseeking 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.