CHAPTER XII. THE ECHO OF A LAUGH

Colonel McIntyre tramped the deserted dining room in exasperation.

Nine o'clock and the twins had not come to breakfast, nor was there any

evidence that Mrs. Brewster intended taking that meal downstairs.

“Will you wait any longer, sir?” inquired Grimes, who hovered

solicitously in the background. “I'm afraid, sir, your eggs will be

over-done.”

“Bring them along,” directed McIntyre, and flung himself into his chair

at the foot of the table. He had been seated but a few minutes when

Barbara appeared and dutifully presented her cheek to be kissed, then

she tripped lightly to Helen's place opposite her father, and pressed

the electric bell for Grimes.

“Coffee, please,” she said as that worthy appeared, and busied herself

in arranging the cups and saucers. “Helen is taking her breakfast

upstairs,” she explained to her father.

“How about Mrs. Brewster?”

“Still asleep.” Barbara poured out her father's coffee with careful

attention to detail. “I peeked into her room a moment ago and she looked

so 'comfy' I hadn't the heart to awaken her. You must have been very

late at the club last night.”

“We got home a little after one o'clock.”

McIntyre helped himself to poached eggs and bacon. “What did you do last

night?”

“Went to bed early,” answered Barbara with brevity. “Helen wasn't

feeling well.”

McIntyre's handsome face showed concern as he glanced across the table.

“Have you sent for Dr. Stone?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Helen--I--we”--Barbara stumbled in her speech. “We have taken an

aversion to Dr. Stone.”

McIntyre set down his coffee cup with unwonted force, thereby spilling

some of its contents.

“What!” he exclaimed in complete astonishment, and regarded her fixedly

for a moment. His tolerant manner, which he frequently assumed toward

Barbara, grew stern. “Dr. Stone is my personal friend, as well as our

family physician--”

“And a cousin of Margaret Brewster,” put in Barbara mildly.

“Well, what of it?” trenchantly, aware that he had colored at mention of

the widow's name. “Nothing,” Barbara's eyes opened innocently. “I only

recalled the fact of his relationship as you enumerated his virtues.”

Colonel McIntyre transferred his regard from her to the butler. “You

need not wait, Grimes.” He remained silent until the servant was safely

in the pantry, and then addressed his daughter. “None of your tricks,

Barbara,” he cautioned. “If Helen is ill enough to require medical

attention, Dr. Stone is to be sent for, regardless of your sudden

dislike to him, for which, by the way, you have given no cause.”

“Haven't I?” Barbara folded her napkin with neat exactness. “It's--it's

intangible.”

“Pooh!” McIntyre gave a short laugh, as he pushed back his chair. “I'm

going to see Helen. And Barbara,” stopping on his way to the door,

“don't be a fool.”

Barbara rubbed the tiny mole under the lobe of her ear, a trick she had

when absent-minded or in deep thought. “Helen,” she announced, unaware

that she spoke loud, “shall have a physician, but it won't be--why,

Grimes,” awakening to the servant's noiseless return. “You can take the

breakfast dishes. Did Miss Helen eat anything?”

“Not very much, miss.” Grimes shook a troubled head. “But she done

better than at dinner last night, so she's picking up, and don't you be

worried over her,” with emphasis, as he sidled nearer. “Tell me, miss,

is the colonel courtin' Mrs. Brewster?”

“Ask him,” she suggested and smiled at the consternation which spread

over the butler's face.

“Me, miss!” he exclaimed in horror. “It would be as much as my place

is worth; the colonel's that quick-tempered. Why, miss, just because I

tidied up his desk and put his papers to rights he flew into a terrible

passion.”

“When was that?”

“Early this morning, miss; and he so upset Thomas, miss, that he gave

notice.”

“Oh, that's too bad.” Barbara liked the second man. “Perhaps father will

reconsider and persuade him to stay.”

The butler looked unconvinced. “It was about the police dogs,” he

confided to her. “Thomas told him that Miss Helen wanted them brought

back, and the colonel swore at him--'twas more than Thomas could stand

and he ups and goes.” Barbara halted half way to the door. “Did Thomas

get the dogs?”

“You wait and see, miss.” Grimes was guilty of a most undignified wink.

“Thomas ain't forgiven himself for not being here Monday night, miss;

though it wouldn't a done him any good; he wouldn't a heard Mr. Turnbull

climbing in or his arrest, away upstairs in the servants' quarters.”

“Grimes,” Barbara retracted her footsteps and placed her lips very close

to the old servant's ear.

“When I came in on Tuesday morning I found the door to the attic

stairway standing partly open...

“Did you now, miss?” The two regarded each other warily. “And what hour

may that have been?”

The butler cocked his ear for her answer--he was sometimes a little

hard of hearing; but he waited in vain, Barbara had disappeared inside

the library.

Colonel McIntyre had not gone at once to see his daughter Helen, as

Barbara had supposed from his remark, instead he went down the staircase

and into the reception room on the ground floor. It was generally used

as a smoking room and lounge, but when entertaining was done, cloaks

and wraps were left there. McIntyre looked over the prettily upholstered

furniture, then strolled to the window and carefully inspected the lock;

it appeared in perfect order as he tested it. Pushing the catch back as

far as it would go, he raised the window--the sash moved upward without

a sound, and he leaned out and looked up and down the path which ran the

depth of the house to the kitchen door and servants' entrance. There was

an iron gate separating the path from the sidewalk, always kept locked

at night, and McIntyre had thought that sufficient protection and had

not put an iron grille in the window.

McIntyre closed and locked the window, then pulling out the gilt chair

which stood in front of the desk, he sat down, selected some monogrammed

paper and penned a few lines in his characteristic though legible

writing. Picking up some red sealing wax, he lighted the small candle

in its brass holder which matched the rest of the desk ornaments, but

before heating the wax he looked for his signet ring, and frowned when

he recalled leaving it on his dresser. He hesitated a moment, then

catching sight of a silver seal lying at the back of the desk he picked

it up and moistened the initial. A few minutes later he blew out the

candle, returned the wax and seal to a pigeon hole, and carefully placed

the envelope with its well stamped letter “B” in his coat pocket, and

tramped upstairs.

Helen heard his heavy tread coming down the hall toward her room, and

scrambled back to bed. She had but time to arrange her dressing sacque

when her father walked in.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said and, stooping over, kissed her. As he

straightened up, the side of his single-breasted coat turned back and

exposed to Helen's bright eyes the end of a white envelope. “Barbara

told me you are not well,” he wheeled forward a chair and sat down by

the bed. “Hadn't I better send for Dr. Stone?”

“Oh, no,” her reply, though somewhat faint, was emphatic, and he frowned.

“Why not?” aggressively. “I trust you do not share Barbara's suddenly

developed prejudice against the good doctor.”

“I do not require a physician,” she said evasively. “I am well.”

McIntyre regarded her vexedly. He could not decide whether her flushed

cheeks were from fever or the result of exertion or excitement.

Excitement over what? He looked about the room; it reflected the taste

of its dainty owner in its furnishings, but nowhere did he find an

answer to his unspoken question, until his eye lighted on a box of rouge

under the electric lamp on her bed stand.

“Don't use that,” he said, touching the box.

“You know I detest make-up.”

“Oh, that!” She turned to see what he was talking about. “That rouge

belongs to Margaret Brewster.”

McIntyre promptly changed the conversation. “Have you had your

breakfast?” he asked.

“Yes; Grimes took the tray down some time ago.” Helen watched her

father fidget with his watch fob for several minutes, then asked with

characteristic directness. “What do you wish?”

“To see that you have proper medical attention if you are ill,” he

returned promptly. “How would a week or ten days at Atlantic City suit

you and Barbara?”

“Not at all.” Helen sat up from her reclining position on the pillows.

“You forget, father, that we have a house-guest; Margaret Brewster is

not leaving until May.”

“I had not forgotten,” curtly. “I propose that she go with us.”

A faint “Oh!” escaped Helen, otherwise she made no comment, and

McIntyre, after contemplating her for a minute, looked away.

“Either go to Atlantic City with us, Helen, or resume your normal,

everyday life,” he said shortly. “I am tired of heroics; Jimmie Turnbull

was hardly the man to inspire them.”

“Stop!” Helen's voice rang out imperiously. “I will not permit one word

said in disparagement of Jimmie, least of all from you, father. Wait,”

as he attempted to speak. “I do not know what traits of character I

may have inherited from you, but I have all mother's loyalty, and--that

loyalty belongs to Jimmie.”

McIntyre's eyes shifted under her gaze.

“I regret very much this obsession,” he said rising. “I will not attempt

to reason with you again, Helen, but”--he made no effort to lower his

voice, “the world--our world will soon know what manner of man James

Turnbull was, of that I am determined.”

“And I”--Helen faced her father proudly--“I will leave no stone unturned

to defend his memory.”

Her father wheeled about. “In doing so, see that you do not compromise

yourself,” he remarked coldly, and before the infuriated girl could

answer, he slammed the door shut and stalked downstairs.

Some half hour later he opened the door of Rochester and Kent's law

office and would have walked unceremoniously into Kent's private office

had not John Sylvester stepped forward from behind his desk in the

corner.

“Good morning, Colonel,” he said civilly. “Mr. Kent is not here. Do you

wish to leave any message?”

“Oh, good morning, Sylvester,” McIntyre's manner was brusque. “When do

you expect Mr. Kent?”

“In about twenty minutes, Colonel.” Sylvester glanced at the wall clock.

“Won't you sit down?”

McIntyre took the chair and planted it by the window. Never a very

patient man, he waited for Kent with increasing irritation, and at the

end of half an hour his temper was uppermost. “Give me something to

write with,” he demanded of Sylvester. Accepting the clerk's fountain

pen without thanks, he walked over to the center table and, drawing out

his leather wallet, took from it a visiting card and, stooping over,

wrote:

You have but thirty-six hours remaining.

McIntyre.

“See that Mr. Kent gets this card,” he directed. “No, don't put it

there,” irascibly, as the clerk laid the card on top of a pile of

letters. “Take it into Mr. Kent's office and put it on his desk.”

There was that about Colonel McIntyre which inspired complete obedience

to his wishes, and Sylvester followed his directions without further

question.

As the clerk stepped into Kent's office McIntyre saw a woman sitting

by the empty desk. She turned her head on hearing footsteps and their

glances met. A faint exclamation broke from her.

“Margaret!” McIntyre strode past Sylvester. “What are you doing here?”

Mrs. Brewster's ready laugh hid all sign of embarrassment. “Must you

know?” she asked archly. “That is hardly fair to Barbara.”

“So Barbara sent you here with a message!” Mrs. Brewster treated his

remark as a statement and not a question, and briskly changed the

subject.

“I can't wait any longer,” she pouted. “Please tell Mr. Kent that I am

sorry not to have seen him.”

“I will, madam.” Sylvester placed McIntyre's card in the center of

Kent's desk and flew to open the door for Mrs. Brewster.

As the widow stepped into the corridor she brushed by an over-dressed

woman, whose cheap finery gave clear indication of her tastes. Hardly

noticing another's presence she turned and took McIntyre's arm and

they strolled off together, her soft laugh floating back to where Mrs.

Sylvester stood talking to her husband.