The Red Book Magazine/Volume 32/Number 4/The Slipper

ERHAPS you have heard of him: Captain Roderick Cameron, late of the British Royal Flying Corps; a canny Scot, son of an American mother—that is to say, champagne in a lean earthen jug. A handsome, engaging beggar with a double-jointed outlook upon life—Scotch caution and American recklessness. Funny, when you think of a Scot, you always lug in the word canny. Well, Roderick was canny, whenever his Scotch blood caught up with his American.

He had come to America as an inspector of airplanes; and he as what he called jolly well hated. A “boat” had to look as spic and span as a phonograph-case. Some disgruntled superintendent once asked Cameron why the British Government didn't pack monocles on the port bows.

Cameron limped slightly, and he seemed a bit awkward with his left arm. A stream of bullets through the shoulder and another stream through his right ankle  shunted him into the human discard. He could never fly again. The eagle had to learn to walk.

There was a dash of red in his hair. And this touch of color no doubt accounts for many of his amazing adventures. Red-haired men are generally full of whimsies. Cameron was always doing the right thing at the wrong moment; and that's adventure, if you'll stop long enough to analyze it.

One night last September I ran across him in the deserted grill of the club. He was staring dreamily over a half-emptied bottle of ginger-ale, and in his strong teeth was a pipe that smelled to heaven.

“This is perfectly demned splendid!” he greeted, giving me writer's cramp forthwith.

No, we didn't talk about the war. We spent an hour recalling those happy days in England, the grouse and the salmon—the blessed days when a man's actions and his money were his own! During a lull in which we filled our pipes afresh, I saw him smile pleasurably. Then he unbuttoned his tunic and drew forth the most charming little white slipper I ever saw.

“What in thunder have you been doing now?” I demanded. “Where did you get that?”

“On the floor of one of your old bally motor vehicles. Cinderella minus! What?” He balanced the slipper on his palm speculatively. “A proud little slipper—just the sort to walk over a man's heart. I wonder!”

“For the love o' Mike, shoot it!” I cried.

“Shoot it? Oh, I see. Tell it. You Yankees still fuss me up, trying to follow. But this isn't a war-story, y' know—not directly, nothing to do with spies and all that.”

“A love-story? All the better.”

“I wonder!” he mused, returning the slipper to his pocket, where it left a noticeable bulge over his heart.

LONESOME man (Cameron began) is always inviting a tail-spin. The lonesomer he is, the more curious he is; and it's curiosity that makes these air-pockets. A chap cant get chummy with these melancholy bartenders on ginger-ale. Honestly, now!

Last night—it was after dinner. I went up to the book-stall for something to read, when a dapper little man with a smart look in his eye tapped my arm.

“Would you like a box at the Follies to-night?” he asked.

“Top-hole!” I cried, starting to dig. Cash, y' know.

“Tut-tut!” The little man took out a card and scribbled something on it, gave it to me, waved his hand and danced off.

The astonishment on the clerk's face gave me the idea that something very unusual had happened. “Do you know who that was?” he said.

“No.”

“That's the manager of the prettiest little chickens in all this broad land.”

Chickens! I didn't gather first off, y' know, what the deuce a poultryman had to do with a stageful of show-girls. The clerk evidently saw my bewilderment, for he began to explain all about chickens and broilers and squabs, and all that. I say, you Yankees! There doesn't seem to be elbow-room in the dictionary for you chaps.

I took that box-seat, of course. I don't suppose anyone can buy a seat in the front row. Family heirlooms, I should say, handed down from one generation to another. Well, when those ripping girls came out, I was lonesomer than ever. If only I had known one of 'em, or if I had known some one who knew one of 'em! I couldn't hunt up the manager, y' know, or he would have written me down a bounder. Besides, I'm no frequent Johnny. Ten minutes after the curtain went up, those girls had spotted me and were talking me over among themselves. And I not daring to pass a smile, y' know! I suddenly woke up to what had happened. The manager had been generous for two reasons, one of 'em being a little show for the girls.

You know how I hate to be in the limelight. I began to get demned fussy, looked about the orchestra, y' know, making believe I was hunting for some one. The aisle seat nearest me in the front row was vacant. I wondered if I could obtain that seat. Where I was was devilish embarrassing. In time I had to look back at the stage, trying deuced hard to appear blasé and making a rotten job of it. Suddenly I noticed the show-girl at my end. I say, old dear, but I got a shock. No, no—I didn't know her; but dash it, I'd have given ten years' pay for the privilege. Stunning! Rather small, black-haired and black-eyed—a Persian peach of a lassie, a real beauty! A fine face, for the make-up didn't spoil it.

Y' know how you pick out some one on the stage and follow through? Well, I began to watch her, for she was the only girl who didn't watch me. Presently I noticed that she moved about, danced, sang, laughed, with the most patent mechanicalness. She was a mannikin [sic]. Once I caught her face in repose and was struck by the suppressed tragedy of it. She went through her frivol as if suffering from shell-shock. She began to get on my nerves, which are still jumpy, y' know. I switched and tried to get interested in the black-face comedian.

The next time I looked at that girl, I leaned forward. By Jove, she had come to life suddenly, and she was smiling rapturously at that erstwhile vacant aisle seat. The tardy Johnny had arrived. He was in khaki.

I also noticed that the whole atmosphere on the stage had subtly undergone a change—among those girls, anyhow. They no longer watched the conductor; their glances were divided between the girl and that chap in khaki. When I got a fair look at him, my word, I withdrew the “Johnny.” He was about the handsomest boy I ever laid eyes on.

I saw by his sleeve that he was an officer in the aviation; so that put me on his side. You've had to live clean, y' know, to ride the air in a cranky bus. The lucky young beggar! He was going over, and I'm left behind with the human junk. Having crawled over No Man's Land a few times before I went into the R. F. C., my sense of observation has been greatly improved. I got the hang of the affair at once. The black-eyed beauty was mad over him, and he was about to sail for France, with about five chances in a hundred of ever coming back. Ah, I know that game—rather!

Between acts I scrutinized him. He sat perfectly rigid in his seat, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He never turned his head, but stared straight at the curtain—one spot on it. Young—no more than twenty-three; a profile I'm more or less familiar with. I'll explain. Familiar, because I never saw it that it did not belong to a reckless, devil-may-care spirit—proud and hawky. Do you gather?

Honestly, now, I began to see an undercurrent of real tragedy in this young chap's stony attitude. On his way to France with but five chances in a hundred of ever coming out; and the black-eyed beauty fluttering about with a mad gayety no theatrical manager could have bought, her great eyes sending magic flashes across the lights, and that boy sitting there like a snow-image. But I could see. Not once did he take his eyes off her. He was literally eating her up. Fact!

The slipper? Oh, I'm jogging along toward that. Suddenly I happened to notice a bruise under the chap's right eye. Knuckles—a fine left-hand jab, if ever I saw one. However, he never paid it the slightest attention; and it was fresh. A shindy, somewhere, and it had delayed him.

When the curtain went down on the finale, I saw our aviator chap spring to his feet and plow up the aisle. He was in such a hurry that he was downright rude. Soon his beautiful hawky profile vanished, and I came back to earth.

I say, what a rummy old top it is! Fancy me stumbling upon that slipper! A little white slipper, no bigger than my hand, light as thistledown—a proud and patriotic little slipper. But did I stumble on it? I rather fancy was positively led to it. Fact! I say, how the deuce do you roll those rotten “makings,” as you Yankees call 'em? I've wasted two cannisters since Tuesday week trying to learn. Well, never mind. Where was I? Oh, yes—the slipper, a love of a slipper! Man alive, there's a lot of juice in the old orange yet.

I followed the crowd to the street, disgruntled. It was all I could do to resist going around to the stage entrance to watch the meeting. But I couldn't do that, y' know. Demned impertinence.

“Taxicab, sir?”

Honestly, now, the chap looked up into my faces so wistfully and pleadingly that I wondered why he hadn't tapped me for a shilling to buy bread for wife and eleven starving children. But as I was wanting a taxi, I nodded and followed him to the curb. I was determined to go to some restaurant where there'd be plenty of pretty women and a lot of of tum-ti-tum music. I can't step yet in these demned hotel rooms. I still can't help waiting for the whiz-bangs.

I got into the cab. The driver didn't bother to ask me where I wanted to go, but started off for all the world as if the end of the war depended upon his getting somewhere on a given minute. Nearly dislocated my bally shoulder. I looked the cab over, and it struck me as rather luxurious for a public vehicle. There was some withered violets in a glass vase, and a nice woolly steamer-rug. I was reaching for the speaking-tube, when I saw something white on the floor. I stooped. It was the slipper. I began to feel cosy at once, I was that infernally lonesome.

I pressed the button to the door-light and looked the slipper over. I got a faint whiff of benzine and violet sachet. Been to the cleaner's. Ripping little patriot. And inside the slipper was the lady's name and address. On my word of honor! Let you see? Well, rather not!

I'm an idiot, of course. Never denied it. Who but a bally idiot would have ordered the chauffeur to proceed at once to the address in that slipper? Wanted an adventure, and here it was. Remember, I was lonesome. Maybe she'd be pretty. No old woman ever wore such a slipper. I forgot it was near midnight.

We turned into a side-street and went off in a westerly direction. By and by I saw the River. We stopped before a fine Mansion with a grille at the side and a bit of lawn. I understood. The slipper belonged to a princess of some reigning American house. Imagine it, old thing!

I got out, tingling. I could see no lights in the windows. All gone to bed. But I was filled with the sense of mischief. Rather! Wake 'em up, y' know, and hand 'em the slipper. As I started for the door, the chauffeur laid his hand on my arm.

“Thank you, sir.”

“What?” For I hadn't paid him yet.

“Yes sir. I picked you out because you were an officer and a gentleman.”

“Well, I'll be—” But I didn't finish.

“I left the slipper there, hoping you'd do just as you did, sir. I was going to drive you here anyhow. But if you found the slipper, it would be better than explaining. Besides. I can't explain; and I can't go in. I've given my word. To-morrow I'll be getting another job for my part in this game. But I gave my word. And I love them both, sir. It wont do any good to ring the bell. No one will answer. But you'll find the third window open, sir. Thank you.”

He then went back to his seat—dashed back—and sailed away, leaving me on the curb, stymied. I stared at the slipper, at the blank windows, at the vanishing cab. I was half a mind to toss the slipper over the grille and go on; but dem it, I just couldn't. Something was wrong inside the house. But how the deuce was I to get over that grille, with all those motors shooting past? Some one would see me and report to the police. Why didn't I report to the police? Oh, rot! You have to go through with some things, y' know. But if I was caught, I'd be in a bally pickle, with the Embassy on top of me. Fine situation—my word!

I made a running jump, scrambled over the spear-heads—nervous energy, I suspect—and dropped on the lawn inside. I found the third window open, and I crawled into the house, feeling as many scoundrels as a cat has lives.

I stood perfectly still for a few moments, listening intently. I thought I heard something, but wasn't sure.

The street light, coming in obliquely, gave me a dim outline of the room. All the furniture was under sheets. I lighted a taper. The room was a magnificent library. I caught a glint of metal at one side of the fireplace, and my spine wrinkled. A wall-safe door stood wide open. I saw it all clearly. I had been neatly gulled. Trapped! The Bobbies would be along before I could get out. I was in the rankest sort of a funk, and was making a bee-line for the window, when I heard a sound. It was a low moan. I struck another taper and stepped gingerly toward the lounge which faced the fireplace. I leaned over the back and looked down. Ever paralyzed? I mean, when you suddenly lose all sense of time and place and action? I had this happen to me once before; hence the crooked shoulder and the funky ankle. What I gazed upon would have paralyzed any duffer not ninety-nine years old!

First off, I saw the most extraordinary blue eyes, burning with fierceness; and they looked up into mine with absolute fearlessness. A young woman, dainty as a Fragonard or a Watteau, and swathed up like a mummy in one of the furniture sheets! Only her head was free. But there was a heavy silk handkerchief over her mouth. I was knocked galley west!

I know. You look as if you thought I was making this up as I went along. You'll have to take Rod Cameron's word for it.

I understood that chauffeur now—at least a part of him. He had picked me out to rescue the young lady. But why the deuce hadn't he rescued her himself?

The room went dark. My match had gone out. I struck another and blundered about, searching for the light-switch. I found it and turned the key. Bang! they went on—lights along the molding, lights in the reading-lamps, lights in the chandelier, fair blinding. I rushed over to the lounge and liberated the girl.

HE wasn't very lively at first. She rubbed her arms, took a few steps gingerly and then steadied herself with a chair-top. Then she turned and critically inspected me. Critically is the word, dash it! I might have been an unusual advertisement on a hoarding.

“Who are you and how did you get in?” she demanded. Her voice was level and unexcited. Imagine, old top! She didn't clasp her lily-white hands and say: “Oh, thank you, Mr. Hero; you have saved me!” No. She wanted facts.

“My name is Cameron,” I said with what dignity I had left. “I came to return a slipper I found.”

“Oh! But I heard no bell.”

“I came in by the window.”

“You—what?”

“Yes. Somehow I rather fancied things were a bit off here, y' know; so I topped the grille, opened that window and came in. In fact, I rather suspect your chauffeur brought me here on purpose.” It's the only way: carry it off with a good face.

“Rollins! I see. A bit conscience-stricken, I imagine, over this night's work. No matter! You are welcome. You have the air of a gentleman.”

I bowed. My brain was about as workable as so much rice and curry. She stared at me hard; and my word, but she had an eye.

“You are an Englishman!”

“I have that honor.”

More scrutiny! I was like a bug on a pin. Understand me, her voice was calm, but Lord love you, there were a pair of volcanoes behind her eyes.

“I see you carry two crosses, if I read that strip of ribbon correctly—the V. C. and the French Cross of War.”

I bowed again. There wasn't anything for me to say, y' know. My nerves were beginning to jump. I was waiting for that demmed door-bell to ring. The Bobbies, y' know.

Presently her gaze left me, traveled along the wall and stopped at the wall-safe. Her slender body quivered. She ran with a limp (due to the lack of one slipper) to the safe and explored it. Evidently she did not find what she sought, for she whirled with a gesture which would have excited Nazimova's envy. Demned little spitfire!

“I have been betrayed!” she said; and there was a human note in her voice, a break that hinted of tears. Brown hair, skin like Roman gold, out-doorsy sort. Oh, yes—deuced kissable, if you want to press the point.

Well, after this flare-up, she wilted, leaned against the wall with her forehead on her arm. She appeared so forlorn that I wanted dreadfully to console her. But I stood where I was, silent. By and by she broke away from the wall and turned toward me—with a smile! Bowled me over. Wasn't ready for it, y' know.

“I am in trouble.” she said. “Will you help me?”

“Command me,” I said, without a quiver of an eyelash. Dear Lord knew what she had in store for me.

“Wait here, then—Captain?”

“Captain Cameron, absolutely at your service, Miss Sheldon.”

“Sheldon? How did you learn my name?”

“It was written in your slipper.”

“But I might be one of the maids.”

I laughed; and dash it, she seemed rather pleased.

“I am glad Rollins came to you. I'll take the slipper.”

“As you Americans say, findings is keepings.”

“What? You refuse to return it?”

“Habit! I'm souvenir mad—helmets and buckles with Gott mit uns on 'em, and German cheeses, which are good, and all that.”

“I see.” She eyed me oddly. Those wonder eyes of hers bored me through and through; and curiously, I thought what a poor, futile job it would be to come home late, tipsy, to a wife like this and tell her you'd been sitting up with a sick friend. Mind you, bodily she was a Watteau; but there was the fire of paladins in her heart.. “Very well!” she said. “We'll discuss the slipper later. Just now I am in a tremendous hurry. I am going upstairs for shoes. Please wait here. You may smoke.”

A moment later I heard her in the hall telephoning. Her tones were crisp. She was laying down a verbal barrage of some sort.

'Pon my soul, I needed a smoke. So I tried to roll one of your bally “makings” and was getting along famously, when bang went the doorbell; and I peppered the rug with tobacco. It was a violent ring, full of business. The Bobbies! Oh, I knew what would happen. If the girl wasn't Miss Sheldon, then I was in for a devil of a shindy.

Felt as though I had lost control and was making a tail-spin—faint feeling in the tummy. Of course I didn't answer the bell. I wasn't a doorman or a butler, y' know. Presently the racket ceased, and I sighed with relief. I was in the act of sitting down on the lounge, when I heard a scraping noise and a thud behind me.

“Put up your hands!”

I put them up, turning. The Bobby approached, a fat automatic in his hand; and he handled it as if he knew what it was for.

“Ha! Wall-safe stuff, huh? Fine work! Auto reported seeing you climb the grille. But you've got a gall to leave on these lights.”

“I say, have a little patience. Don't be hasty.”

“Can the chatter!” he roared back at me. “And masquerading as a British officer, too!”

“Suppose we wait until Miss Sheldon comes down?”

The Bobby laughed. “Nothing doing, Handsome-Is. The family are all out at the Long Island estate yet.”

“But I say, Miss Sheldon is upstairs, y' know!”

“Why didn't you answer my ring, then?”

“I was busy rolling a cigarette. Better be calm until Miss Sheldon comes down. Know her by sight?”

“Sure! This is my beat.”

“Tall, statuesque blonde?”

“Not in a million years! Miss Sheldon wears no peroxide in hers.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lanigan,” said a voice from the doorway.

My Bobby slowly lowered his blunderbus [sic], and I dropped my hands.

“What is the trouble?”

“Why, this man here was seen climbing over the grille, Miss Sheldon.”

“I'm glad he did. What has taken place to-night is all in the family, Mr. Lanigan.”

“But that safe!”

“Good gracious!” She ran to the safe and shut the door. “I forgot to shut it. I came into town for an old emerald ring of my mother's. Are you ready, Captain?”

“Yes, Miss Sheldon.”

Clouds? A blank wall of 'em, my word, and no compass. The safe had been robbed. But why did she try to cover it up?

IGHLY befogged, the Bobby followed us to the door. On the steps were two more minions of the law. Miss Sheldon had to explain again, and finally the trio made off.

“I say, I'll wager the beggars think we're eloping!”

She didn't reply, for she was already hastening to the curb, where a heavy roadster was rolling up. My friend the chauffeur stepped out briskly and saluted.

“Rollins, you may come for your check in the morning. How dared you?”

“I have already resigned, miss. I'm dreadfully sorry; but I gave my word to your brother.”

“And probably have helped to ruin him!” She sprang into the wheel-seat, and I slumped into the passenger. Whizz! We went off. And as Kipling says, I trusted to the luck of the British Army. “Captain,” she began, “all this mystery will be explained to you on the way out. I am perfectly capable of handling the car, but I need a witness to my protests.”

“Command me.”

“I like the way you say that.” She took a corner. “Tell me how you happened to come with Rollins.”

I told her briefly, between bumps; for we were riding on the springs. After that there was silence until we made Broadway.

“I'm afraid I shall be too late. I am trying to save my brother from the culminating folly of his life.”

“The wrong girl! I see.”

I observed by the way she was holding her head that she was pretty well fed up on the affair. Y' know how they hold their chins when they are jamming back the tears.

“Ever since we were children, I've tried to guard him. I am only two years older. He's the dearest boy in the world, but he's wild—not dissipated, but wild like an unbroken colt. Up to her death my mother had full control of the estate. Donny and I had allowances, but I was eternally adding to his out of mine. I never could refuse him. He was always broke, from lending to Tom, Dick and Harry, and never getting it back. Willful but lovable...... God forgive, but I struck him, struck him!”

I caught the wheel just in time to scrape by a pile of paving-blocks. Narrow squeak. Apparently she hadn't noticed my intervention. She made a futile dab at her eyes.

“My brother and I, we both have violent tempers, though the sun never goes down on our anger. We never dodder over likes and dislikes. He and Rollins trapped me. I had to get to the safe before Donny. I came in from the country home, Rollins at the wheel. When he opened the door for me, he swept me up in his arms and carried me into the house, where my brother lay in waiting. I fought him, but only to save him. He is temporarily insane. I don't know how he found out the combination to the wall-safe. Don't misjudge him. He suffered for what he did. I know it. He loves me, but I cannot make him understand. He believes all women are like me—honest.”

AN alive, I wanted to cuddle her then and there! Rot! Of course I didn't touch her. I'm no bounder. I just hugged my knees and thought a lot. Any brother who'd truss up a loving sister the way I found her, was an out-and-out rotter.

I say, y' know, what demned bally fool ideas some persons get in their heads! Wills and codicils, legal twistings and camouflage, and generally overreaching. The moment you draw up a will that ultimately intends to prevent something, it becomes a sort of German treaty. Of all the utter balderdash, à la Mrs. Braddon! I wish you could have heard the girl. To her it was direct tragedy, while I could see nothing but a Drury Lane drama, saw-mills and all that.

Short-cut: the mother, who had had absolute control of the estate up to her death, left a pair of wills, one to be probated and the other—dated later—to be left in the hands of the family solicitor. The girl knew nothing about the second will until that afternoon, when she had applied to the solicitor for help, for some way to prevent her brother's making a bally idiot of himself. The mater, knowing her son tolerably well, had tried honestly to guard him by writing a lot of rigmarole on foolscap. In the probated will his million was left to the administration of the sister. Upon the boy's marriage her interest would cease and determine, as we say in England.

Now, then, in order to inherit legally, he had to be married either in the town house or in the country home. On the other hand, a protest by the sister before a witness would be sufficient to stop the marriage. I suppose that accounts for the young rotter's actions toward his sister. Stop the marriage, or bring about the boy's disinheritance—if sister wanted to be mean. The old lady, in making the second will, must have suddenly remembered how the sister was always taking brother's part and lending him her allowance.

Now, the boy had to have an old emerald ring to slip on his bride's finger. That was a condition. But where the old lady tripped up, y' know, was in the fact that she hadn't made it imperative that the daughter give it to the bride. In the second will she woke up to this lack. Ha, villain! Melodrama—what? A few simple words, all that was necessary. But whoever heard of a woman with a few simple words? All but wrecked the lives of the children she loved because she'd been reading too many romantic novels. It's a fact!

When the brother started to truss up his sister, she had tried to warn him about the second will; but he never gave her a chance. He was in a hurry.

Honestly, now—sounds like mid-Victorian piffle. In the second will, it read that if the boy married against his sister's will, he became automatically disinherited; the sister could not help him. The money would go to some hospital. And the old lady was judged sound in the mind! Lord, and here was the young fool rushing to his doom, with a scheming woman who was marrying him for his money, and he wouldn't have any! Just imagine how the sister must have been torn.

E whizzed along. There was a wonderful moon. The road was like a white ribbon. You might say that we were the spool and were winding it up, for behind us seemed to be nothing but shadows.

The plucky little soul! Sisters are always saving brothers, and brothers hating the good offices. My sister never had any trouble with me, though. I was always more or less of a dud. I never blew up over a woman. But I now began to hear ominous rumblings inside the shell. Maybe it was the moonshine; maybe it was the girl's nerve and beauty. Anyhow, I began to look at life seriously,

Well, eventually we came to a beautiful stone wall with iron gates, which were open; and we bolted in at sixty an stopped with a screech under the porte cochère. The girl jumped out; beckoning to me to follow. We made for one of the French windows and burst in without ceremony.

I say, what's that Yankee word of yours? I've got it—flabbergasted! I was absolutely and completely, y' know, There they stood, hand in hand, with a man in chin whiskers and spectacles reading from a book. Who? Why, demn it the aviator chap and the raving beauty from the Follies! Fact!

TOP!”

The ancient duffer (a village magistrate, I learned, that young Sheldon had picked up on the way out) looked astonishedly over the rim of his spectacles. The brother whirled, and his tan disappeared for a moment. But I say, I wish you could have seen those two ripping beauties stare at each other. It was equal to any first night I ever saw. Dramatic? Well, rather! Tableau, as the French say. Our ancient broke it.

“Why should I stop? What's the matter?”

“It must not proceed. It is my will.” A quiet tone, but a lofty chin.

“And my will that it shall go on,” said the brother quite as calmly. There was a lot of metal here, on both sides. He reached for the show-girl's hand.

“Donny,” said the sister, “you will lose everything you have if you go on with this.”

“Ann,” he answered, “this part of my life is mine. This lady has done me the honor to accept my name. I am fulfilling the terms of Mother's will.”

“But I did not give you that ring. You stole it.”

“That's a hard word. Still, I have Ann. If I was rough with you, I'm sorry. But I knew the uselessness of further argument. We are both of us a bit pig-headed upon occasion. And I haven't much time.”

Stunning name, that—Ann. No nonsense about it—dyed-in-the-wool English. Always liked it.

“Donny, there was another will.”

“Another? —Proceed, Mr. Clarke. I want to be married.”

I say, I liked that. This was the stuff of aviators. What the deuce did he care about wills and codicils, with that dark beauty by his side, her black eyes burning with opal lights?

“Donny, if you marry this woman without my consent, your interest in the estate ceases automatically.”

“Ah! And you refuse your consent?”

“Absolutely!”

“That's your last word?”

“It is. I don't purpose to stand aside and see you wreck your life.”

“Ann, I have but scant two weeks. Once upon the sea, the greatest matrimonial wreck that ever was will not concern me. There is always a chance that I may not come back. You talk of money, when all I want is a little love!”

“Are you sure that you are getting it?”

“Sonia,”—the lad took the show-girl by the shoulders,—“Sonia, do you love me?”

“You know that I love you.”

“Would you miss a million?”

“Would you give it up for me?”

“I am giving it up.”

“Then I sha'n't miss it.”

ITH a laugh the young chap drew her close and kissed her. I'd have done the same thing in his shoes. And it hit me between the eyes that I hadn't kissed a woman in a deuce of a long time. I looked at Ann. After all, I really wasn't interested in anybody else. The bright spots of anger no longer glowed in her cheeks. There was a look of bewilderment in her eyes. This chorus-lady wasn't reading her lines.

“Ann, I've always tried to be a good brother; but if you stand in my way, I shall have to ride over you. That's all there is to it. A hundred times I've tried to pin you down to something definite regarding your attitude, and you have always reiterated that Sonia wanted my money. Well, she doesn't want it. Neither do I. Let us get to the root of the matter. Out with it.”

“She—she isn't worthy of you, Donny.”

“Ann, that statement needs some elaboration.”

“I tried to save you from the humiliation of this affair.”

“Humiliation? Lord, what are you doing now? You're testifying before strangers that I'm a fool who doesn't know his own mind. Ann,”—softly,—“I'm going away in a few days. The fortunes of war may not permit me to return. I should hate to go, feeling bitterness toward my lovely sister. Sonia has had to work hard all her life. I wanted to provide for her, to leave her with the material comforts she had been denied. But when you tell me she is not worthy of me, you will have to go straight into the details. I demand it.”

“Just a moment, Don,” interposed the subject of this contention. “I am the accused. I prefer to defend myself.” She faced Sister Ann. “Is it because I am a show-girl, exposing my ankles nightly, that I am not worthy of him?”

“No.”

“Exactly how am I not worthy of him? You are his sister. I would like to love you, if you would let me. No matter! You thought I wanted his money? Have I proven that I don't? Money! What makes me angry with you is that, apparently, you cannot see your brother as other women see him. I love him for what he is, not for what he has. I will marry him because he wants me. When he goes, I will return to the stage. You will have no responsibility. I am proud. I am a Pole.” And she said it as they will always say it, those Poles, with chin up. “I wrote you letters. You sent them back unopened. I tried so many times to see you. Always you denied me. I love your brother because he is a man, because he is young and handsome, because he is gay and tender and brave and because he loves me. I would have loved him had he come in rags. Look at him, and then say that any woman would bother about his money!” A superb gesture! My word, the fire of her! I did not blame the boy. And all the while, mind you, I sensed a tragedy that went far beyond this affair. It lay in her eyes; it was in the tone of her voice. “Now, exactly why am I not worthy of him? Speak!”

“Before him?”

“Before whom if not Don? Tell him wherein I have committed wrong, why I am not worthy of him. I have had to fight for my soul. I'll admit that. But I bring it to him spotless. Since you now know that it is not his money, tell me what it is that you have against me. Either we two are going to hate each other bitterly so long as we live—or we are going to love each other. No half-measures. You are his sister and I am Sonia Kolenski. What we do we both do with all our hearts. Tell him!”

“Very well. Donny, there is another man, or was. Oh, denials are useless. I have seen him. Early, when I found that your affections were seriously concerned, I did a thing I hated myself for. I am proud, too, though I don't happen to be a Pole. I hired a detective to watch this woman. One day he took me to the stage entrance. And there I saw this woman kiss a man and give him money—after she had been with you! I was told that the man was an ex-convict. She could go from you—to that!”

HAT followed jolly well knocked me off my feet. I expected some Pinero mush, when what does this young ruffian do but begin to tear his hair! Fact!

“Oh, Lord, Lord!” He ran over to his sister and seized her by the shoulders. “Why didn't you tell me then? Why didn't you let me know you had seen him?”

“I—I didn't want to break your heart!” cried Ann.

“Well, you almost did break it. And this infernal muddle because I couldn't get you to speak! I could shake you!”

“Please! You did—once to-night!” said Ann, letting her tears go. “If I hadn't loved you, I shouldn't have bothered.”

The boy took her to his heart and kissed her forehead. “What a muddle! You poor little chicken! I say,” he broke off suddenly, apparently seeing me for the first time, “what do you mean by gallivanting around this time o' night with a British officer I never saw before?”

“I'm Captain Cameron,” I said, blushing, demn it. “I had the—er—honor of liberating your sister from the funeral shroud you'd wrapped her up in.”

The boy shouted with laughter. “Oh, this is great! Thank you, sir. Ann, the man whom you saw Sonia kiss was her brother.”

“We can't all have brothers like yours,” said Sonia, her eyes now without fire,

“Your brother?”—helplessly.

“Yes, Ann—her brother. We were helping him to his feet..... Do you love me?”

“Oh, Donny, Donny!”

“Then run over and kiss your future sister-in-law. She'll need a little attention. I hope to God, Ann, you'll never have to go through a day such as Sonia has just gone through.” He was sober enough by now.

I say, y' know, it struck me then and there that this chap would make a capital brother-in-law.

Well, the two girls moved toward each other rather doubtfully; then with a choking sob, Ann opened her arms—ripping little sport. And they both began to cry softly. Lord, but I'd have given my pay for a hole to crawl into. Of course the young beggar missed the real point of those tears. They were weeping for him. He was only in love.

Presently they parted, and the girl Sonia took out of her bosom a crumpled yellow sheet which she handed to Ann. I saw it later. It was from the War Department, and regretted to inform Sonia Kolenski that her brother, Michael Kolenski, had died at St. Mihiel, fighting gallantly for his adopted country.

T seems that the young rascal had sent all the servants adrift for the night except the housekeeper, whom we found sniveling behind the portières, where she had hidden upon our entrance. After the wedding I suggested that we run back to town for a supper; but Sister Ann crooked her finger, and I followed her docilely into the huge pantry. We found plenty of things to eat, and between us managed a fine supper. I was mixing a salad-dressing and she was slicing tomatoes, when for some reason, we both paused and looked at each other.

“I sha'n't discharge Rollins, after all.”

“Rollins?”

“The chauffeur. Perhaps you do not realize it, but your advent has made all this possible. I'd never have known otherwise; and Donny would have lost his inheritance, and I would have lost Donny.”

“Honestly, now!” I colored a bit, I suspect.

“I want that slipper, Captain.”

“Never in this world! That's my my invitation to the wedding. I say,” I blurted out, “you're ripping!”

“Good gracious—where?”

But by the quirk of her lips and the [bite] of her blue eyes I saw that she was spoofing me.