CHAPTER XVIII – NOT AT HOME?
“Marjorie, have you seen Lucy Warner?” Jerry Macy stepped inside the candy booth, her plump face alive with concern. “It’s half past eight and she’s not here. The girls in her booth are wondering what has happened to her.”
“Why, no, I haven’t.” Marjorie’s features mirrored Jerry’s anxious look. “I know she had some work to do for Miss Archer this afternoon. She told me so. She said, too, it was her turn at the nursery.”
“That’s so.” Jerry looked thoughtful. “I was to go there, too, but I was so busy I asked Irma to appoint a substitute. I don’t know who went in my place. I’d better see Irma and find out. Whichever Lookout took my turn may know what’s keeping Lucy away.” Bustling off in search of Irma, Jerry accosted her with: “Who subbed for me to-day at the nursery?”
“Mignon La Salle,” returned Irma placidly.
“What!” ejaculated Jerry. As the revue was in progress she cautiously lowered her tone as she continued: “For goodness sake, Irma, why in the world did you send Mignon? No wonder Lucy hasn’t put in an appearance!”
“What are you talking about, Jeremiah, and why should I not have sent Mignon? Lucy is too sensible a girl to allow Mignon’s airs to annoy her, if that’s what you are thinking of. Besides, Mignon was really nice about saying she’d go,” defended Irma in a mildly injured tone.
“I don’t doubt it,” was Jerry’s satirical retort. “Don’t mind me, Irma. I’m not blaming you for it. It’s just one of those beautiful ‘vicissitudes’ that are always bound to jump up and hit a person in the face. Just like that!” Jerry made a comic gesture of despair and beat a hasty course toward the candy booth.
“Well, I found out,” she groaned. “It was our dear Mignon. You can guess the rest. Irma certainly did things up properly, that time. She didn’t know what you and I know, or she wouldn’t have done it.”
“Mignon!” Marjorie’s brown eyes held a startled light. “Jerry, do you suppose after all the warnings I’ve given Lucy that – ”
“It looks suspicious,” interrupted Jerry. “I should think, though, that a bright girl like Lucy Warner could easily see through Mignon. I guess I’ll wait until the revue is over and then interview her ladyship. I may find out a few things.”
“I wish you would,” A worried note had crept into Marjorie’s voice. “I hope Mignon hasn’t hurt Lucy’s feelings again. Poor Lucy! She has been so happy these last three days. Perhaps nothing like that has happened. Maybe she was too tired to come here to-night. She has had a busy day.”
“Let’s hope that’s the reason.” Jerry’s reply did not convey a marked degree of hopefulness. She was more than half convinced that Mignon was responsible for Lucy’s non-appearance at the Campfire.
The military maneuvers at last concluded, Jerry kept a lynx eye on the lemonade stand until she saw Mignon take up her position there. Marching boldly over to it, the stout girl addressed her with an abrupt: “Thank you for substituting for me at the nursery this afternoon. I understand Lucy Warner was with you. Did she say anything to you about not being able to come here to-night?” She stared hard at Mignon as she made this inquiry.
“Not a word.” Mignon shook her head, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. She was well aware of Lucy’s absence. In fact she had confidently expected it. True, Lucy had not said that she would remain away from the Campfire. Still, Mignon had every reason to believe that she would. She also realized the necessity for concealing that which she knew. Lucy would never betray her. She had no inclination to betray herself.
“That’s queer.” Jerry stared harder than ever at Mignon. “What time did she leave the nursery?”
“Six o’clock,” came the ready information, “We left the nursery together. She walked part way home with me. I can’t recall that she even mentioned the Campfire. She is such a peculiar girl. She does more scowling than talking. I find it very hard to talk to her. We have so little in common.” Mignon looked politely regretful as she delivered these glib remarks.
“I guess that’s so.” Jerry’s dry agreement brought an ominous flash to Mignon’s black eyes. She wondered what was going on behind her inquisitor’s stolid features.
“Then you don’t know why Lucy isn’t here tonight?” Jerry drove home her pertinent question with an energy that caused the angry red to mount to Mignon’s cheeks.
“Why do you persist in asking me again what I have already answered?” she evaded pettishly. “I am not Lucy Warner’s keeper. I have enough to do to attend strictly to my own affairs without bothering myself about her.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. I quite agree with you.” Turning on her heel Jerry set off toward the candy booth, her heavy brows drawn together in a ferocious scowl.
Before she reached it, Hal intercepted her with: “Miss Browning’s going to stay for the dance. Last night Dan and Laurie and I made her promise that she would stay this evening. She’s still in the girls’ dressing room. Go and get her, Jerry. I’ll see that she has plenty of partners. All the high school fellows will feel honored to dance with her. She’s the biggest feature of the Campfire.”
Obediently betaking herself to the dressing room, Jerry discovered Veronica in the act of changing her butterfly costume for a demure but very smart pleated frock of dark blue Georgette crêpe.
“Are you surprised to know that Cinderella is going to stay for the ball?” saluted Veronica merrily. “Sorry I haven’t an evening gown on hand. This will have to do.” She fingered a fold of her blue gown. “Really, I ought to go home, but I couldn’t resist accepting the invitation to stay for a few dances.”
“I’m awfully glad you are going to stay.” Jerry reached out and caught Veronica’s hand. “I came after you to conduct you to the ball. Your gown is a perfect dear. It’s very smart. It reminds me of a French gown I saw at the beach last summer.”
“Poor servant girls can’t afford such luxuries as imported gowns,” laughed Veronica. Out of the corners of her gray eyes she cast a peculiar glance at Jerry.
Covert though it was, Jerry had not missed it. It was on her tongue to say boldly, “But are you really a poor servant girl?” However, she held her peace. She and Marjorie had agreed never to ask Veronica any personal questions. She decided that the gown had perhaps been given Veronica by Miss Archer. The latter seemed very fond of her protégé. More than once Jerry had seen the two together, apparently on the most intimate terms.
“I’m almost ready,” announced Veronica. “Wait just a minute until I bundle my dancing regalia into this suitcase. I’ll have to carry my wings home. They won’t go into the suitcase.”
Jerry watched her fixedly as she deftly disposed of her dancing effects and triumphantly snapped the suitcase shut. The cloak of mystery which enveloped this charming girl piqued Jerry. She longed to be the one to tear it away and glimpse what it so effectually covered. There seemed little chance that she would ever do so. She did not agree with Marjorie that there was probably nothing behind it. She believed that for some personal reason Veronica was merely playing a part.
“Let’s go and visit Marjorie first,” she proposed as they left the dressing room. “She will be anxious to see you. By ten o’clock the last of the stuff in the booths will be gone. The Lookouts won’t be sorry. It will give us all a chance to dance. We’ve been casting wistful glances at that nice smooth floor for three nights. Now and then we managed to steal away from the booths for a single dance.”
“This is joyful news,” beamed Marjorie, when five minutes later the two girls presented themselves in her booth. “We’ll see that you have a good time, Ronny. The candy is all gone except a few boxes. The hard-working slaves of the Campfire will soon have a chance to enjoy themselves on the dancing floor for an hour or so.”
Marjorie’s merry prediction was fulfilled within the next hour. One by one the girls’ booths were dismantled of their few remaining wares. The proceeds counted and safely disposed, the Lookouts and their senior classmates who had served with them were indeed free to visit the amusement booths, dance or enjoy themselves as fancy dictated.
Far from being neglected, Veronica Browning’s popularity grew apace. The boys of Weston High School flocked eagerly to her standard. Strangely enough she seemed familiar with the various dances of the day, and many admiring eyes followed her graceful figure as she glided over the polished floor with one or another of her willing partners. Her radiant face gave signal proof that she was enjoying herself immensely, a fact that made the sextette of girls who were closest to her, infinitely happy, too.
Mignon La Salle, however, was furiously jealous of her. Veronica’s popularity was as a thorn to her flesh. Despite the knowledge that the elaborate white and gold evening frock she wore was the most expensive gown she had ever owned, Mignon was obliged to sit out several dances. Hal, Laurie and Danny Seabrooke, on strict orders from Marjorie, had dutifully asked the French girl to dance. The majority of the Weston High boys were not so chivalrous. They did not like Mignon and steered prudently clear of her. Utterly disgruntled she left the Armory at eleven o’clock in a most unamiable frame of mind that spelled trouble for someone.
Just before midnight the Campfire ended with an old-fashioned Home Sweet Home waltz, followed by a bedlam of high school yells. The edge of youth is not easily dulled by work, particularly if that work be of a pleasant nature. The little frolic with which the Campfire ended was a most enthusiastic affair. The consensus of opinion was, that the Campfire ought to be a yearly event, and eager plans cropped up wholesale regarding what should be done at the next one. Roughly estimated, it was believed that the profits would exceed one thousand dollars. Divided equally between the Guards and the Lookouts it would go far toward solving their financial problems.
Following the excitement of the past three days, the peace of Sunday descended like a welcome mantle on the tireless promoters, who were forced to the conclusion that they were a trifle tired after all. It may be said to their credit that they did not fail to attend Sunday morning services in their respective churches, and more than one silent prayer of thankfulness ascended to the God they devoutly worshipped. Marjorie in particular was moved to offer up reverent thanks, adding a humble little petition that she might be guided always to seek the right and cling to it.
On Sunday afternoon Jerry Macy appeared at the Deans shortly after dinner, proposing that she and Marjorie pay Lucy Warner a call.
“We’d better go and see Lucy ourselves,” she counseled, “and not waste any more time wondering why she was among the missing last night.”
“All right. I am willing. Captain won’t care. She and General have gone for a ride. I’ll leave word on the official bulletin board to let them know where I am bound for and when to expect me home.”
Writing a hasty note, Marjorie tucked it into a small bulletin board, hung in the hall.
It was a rather long walk to the Warrens’ unpretentious little home. As they traversed the stretch of field leading directly up to it, Marjorie was forcibly reminded of a winter day when she had floundered across that very field through the snow on the errand of mercy which had ended in Lucy Warner’s unexpected revelation. To-day the open space of ground lay brown and frozen. It looked even more desolate than when covered with snow.
“I’m thankful I don’t have to live in that house!” Jerry’s exclamation broke up her reverie. “It’s a cheerless-looking place, isn’t it?”
“That is what I thought the first time I came here,” nodded Marjorie. “I was just thinking of that day last winter when I waded through the snow to get to it. That was the day I came down with tonsillitis.”
“I remember. You were all in when you left us to come here. You never told me anything about that call.”
Marjorie smiled whimsically. She had never given anyone the details relating to that particular call. She now replied to Jerry’s remark merely with: “Oh, I took Lucy a basket of fruit, went upstairs to her room and talked with her quite a while. When I went to her house I felt rather ill. My feet were wet from plowing through the snow. While I was there I forgot about it. When I started away from her house I had to wade through the snow again and then I went home and had tonsillitis.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Jerry. “You certainly took a lot of trouble for her. She must have realized it, too, for she’s been your fervent worshipper ever since. I hope Mignon hasn’t told her a lot of things that will undo all the good you’ve done. Lucy has been a changed girl since you and she became friends.”
“I am very fond of her. She is the brightest girl I have ever known.” Marjorie spoke with admiring sincerity. The two friends had left the field behind them and were now proceeding up the straggling path that led up to the house. “I do hope she is at home.”
“Umm!” was Jerry’s sole comment. Her sharp eyes were intently scanning the front windows of the house as though seeking to discover whether its tenants were within. Arrived at the door, she peered about in search of a bell. Finding none she doubled a plump fist and rapped energetically on a weather-stained panel of the door. An instant’s silence ensued. Listening acutely neither girl heard the sound of approaching footsteps from within. Failing to elicit a response, Jerry beat a loud tattoo upon the panel.
“There’s no one at home,” sighed Marjorie disappointedly.
“Come on. We might as well go.” The command held a touch of aggressiveness. “I could wear my hand out thumping it on the door for all the good it would do.”
Sensing the aggressive note in Jerry’s voice, Marjorie attributed it to the stout girl’s natural impatience of delay.
“It’s a shame; a burning shame!” They were half way down the walk when Jerry thus delivered herself.
“Why, Jeremiah, what is it?” It had dawned upon Marjorie that something stronger than impatience had seized upon her friend.
“Marjorie, Lucy Warner is at home,” stated Jerry deliberately. “As we went up the path I saw her through a window. She flashed across the end of the room farthest away from the window and disappeared.”
“At home!” gasped Marjorie. “Then she must have seen us coming and – ”
“Beat it,” supplemented Jerry with inelegant force. “What’s the answer? Mignon, of course. We don’t need to ask Lucy about it. We know now that what we suspect is a fact. If it weren’t, Lucy would have answered my knock. What are you going to do about it?”
“I intend to see Lucy to-morrow morning and find out what the trouble is,” came Marjorie’s steady answer. “If she is angry with us, I shall know it the instant she speaks. We have no right simply to take it for granted that she is angry. We mustn’t even blame Mignon until we know positively that she actually made mischief.”
“Mignon is at the bottom of Lucy’s grouch. Take my word for it,” sputtered Jerry. “She has been trying to set Lucy against you ever since school began. It looks as though she’d succeeded at last. There’s just this much about it, you have stood too much from that girl. I’m going to take a hand in this affair and put Mignon where she belongs. Do you know where that is? I do. It’s outside the club.”
CHAPTER XIX – THE SIGN
It still lacked half an hour until school opened on Monday morning when an anxious-eyed little girl ran up the long stone steps to the building and steered a straight course for Miss Archer’s office. Marjorie felt that she could not settle her mind on her studies until she had held an interview with Lucy Warner and ascertained the cause of her strange behavior. She, too, had a disheartening conviction that Mignon was responsible for it. She believed, however, that she could soon disabuse Lucy of whatever false impressions she now held.
“Good morning, Lucy,” she called out cheerily as she entered the pleasant living room office. She had spied the secretary at the typewriter desk, her head bent low over her work.
Lucy made no response to the salutation, neither did she raise her head. A slow color stole into her pale cheeks, but she stubbornly riveted her eyes on the letter she was typing.
Her own color rising, Marjorie boldly approached the belligerent secretary, halting a little to one side of her. With quiet directness she said: “Lucy, what has happened? Why are you angry with me?”
Slowly raising her head, Lucy eyed Marjorie with patent scorn. “Will you kindly go away and leave me alone?” she requested icily.
“No, I will not.” Marjorie stood her ground. “I asked you a fair question; I deserve a fair answer.”
“I have nothing to say.” Lucy presented the uncommunicative appearance of a blank wall. Marjorie could not possibly know how much effort it cost Lucy to maintain this attitude. Secretly she was longing to pour forth all that Mignon had told her. Too late, she bitterly regretted her rash promise. Marjorie’s grieved look seemed too real to doubt. Away from her, Lucy could believe her guilty of treachery. Face to face, it was another matter.
Yet Mignon had given her undeniable proof of Marjorie’s duplicity. She could not overlook that. This dark recollection put her brief impulse toward softening to flight. Her own wrongs looming large before her, the many benefits she had received at Marjorie’s hands were forgotten. Overridden by blind suspicion she allowed the ignoble side of her nature to spring into play. With deliberate cruelty she now said: “Miss Dean, you are seriously interfering with my work. I have no more time to spend in useless argument.” Gathering up a sheaf of papers from her desk, she rose and stalked toward the inner office, a stiff little figure of hostility.
With a sigh, Marjorie turned and walked dejectedly off in an opposite direction. Strangely enough she felt more sorry for Lucy than for herself. Her conscience entirely clear of wrong doing, she knew that poor Lucy was in the clutch of some dire misapprehension regarding herself which Mignon La Salle had instilled into her suspicious mind. What to do next the perplexed lieutenant did not know. It was useless to go to Mignon. She would undoubtedly profess absolute ignorance of the cause of Lucy’s grievance. Jerry was still to be reckoned with. It now looked as though her captain’s prophecy regarding Mignon was about to be fulfilled. Perhaps, after all, it would be best to allow Jerry to carry out her threat of holding a special meeting of the Lookouts to decide Mignon’s fitness for further membership.
Marjorie intensely disliked the thought. Despite Mignon’s love of intrigue, she made a good treasurer. The club accounts were perfectly kept by her. She had served faithfully at the Campfire. Her father had contributed generously to the club and to the Campfire. Mignon’s forced resignation from the Lookouts would hurt him. Then, too, Lucy Warner had been warned against Mignon. Marjorie felt that Lucy herself was partially at fault. She had shown herself over-credulous and ungrateful. Mentally weighing the pros and cons of the affair, the baffled peace-seeker grew momentarily more perplexed. She had prayed earnestly on the day before to be shown the right. Now she yearned for a sign that would plainly point out to her her duty.
“Did you see her?” was Jerry’s first low-voiced question when at noon the two girls met in the senior locker room.
“Yes; but I can’t tell you about it now,” returned Marjorie soberly. “After school is over to-day I wish you and Connie to come to my house. We will talk it over then. I don’t care to have anyone else know about it besides Connie.”
“All right. That will suit me.” Jerry appeared satisfied with Marjorie’s decision. On the way home she steered prudently clear of all mention of either Mignon or Lucy, although Muriel Harding brought up the subject of the latter’s absence from the Campfire on Saturday evening. As neither she, Irma, Susan or Harriet were able to offer any information, while Marjorie and Jerry refused to commit themselves, the topic soon died a natural death.
“Take a little run up to your house, Lieutenant,” greeted Mrs. Dean, as Marjorie entered the living room. “It will pay you to do so.”
“‘To obey is a soldier’s first duty,’” quoted Marjorie merrily, coming to attention and saluting. She was off like a flash, her swift feet making short work of the ascent to her house. “Oh!” she breathed as she caught sight of a long florist’s box on her center table. Three times she repeated the exclamation as she glimpsed its contents. Lifting a sheaf of long-stemmed, half-opened American Beauty roses from the box, she buried her face in their spicy fragrance. As she raised them a square white envelope dropped to the floor bearing the words: “To Miss Marjorie Dean.”
Not recognizing the heavy, masculine script, she eagerly explored the envelope to ascertain who the giver might be. A faint cry of consternation escaped her as she hastily glanced at the signature before reading the note. Bundling the roses on the table, she sought the window seat and read:
“Dear Miss Marjorie:
“Will you allow me to try in some measure to express my appreciation for your kindness to my daughter, Mignon? You have more than fulfilled the request I made of you on a certain afternoon of last Spring. It is of a truth a great gratification to me to see my Mignon thus surrounded by such estimable young women as yourself and your friends. It is most pleasurable to me that you have honored her with an office in your club. I rejoice also to observe the important part she took in the Campfire. I feel that you will never regret the consideration you have so graciously shown her. If at any time you desire my services, you have but to command me. With extreme gratitude and the good wishes for your constant success,
“Most sincerely yours,“Victor La Salle.”
Marjorie stared at the note, divided between appreciation and dismay. It was a delightful note, but it was also most inopportune. In the face of it, she could not now advocate Jerry’s plan. Sudden remembrance of her petition for a sign rushed over her. It had been granted. This, then, was the sign. It had served to remind her where her duty lay. All she could do was to accept it. It would not be easy. Jerry was up in arms. It would be difficult to win her over, especially after she had been informed of Lucy’s unreasonable stand. Now it remained to Marjorie to do one of two things. She could go to Mr. La Salle and shatter his faith in her, or she could insist that Mignon must be allowed to escape punishment for her offenses against the Golden Rule. She painfully decided that for her father’s sake, Mignon should be allowed to remain in the club. Having come to this decision she soberly gathered up her roses and carried them and the letter downstairs to show both to her captain. To the latter she confided nothing of her latest problem. She had reserved the story to tell at some more fitting moment.
School over for the afternoon, the three Lookouts, who were presently to hold a private session at the Deans, strolled down the street with their chums, keeping a discreet silence regarding their intention. Muriel and Irma soon left them to take their turn at the nursery. Susan, Harriet and Veronica Browning eventually reached their parting of the ways, leaving the trio together.
“Now, Marjorie, tell us everything,” was Jerry’s instant command as they swung three abreast down the street.
Obediently Marjorie gave a faithful account of her interview with Lucy Warner. “I haven’t the least idea why Lucy is angry,” she confessed. “I don’t know whether she is cross with me, or with the Lookouts.”
“I can set you right about that,” declared Jerry grimly. “Mignon told Esther Lind this morning that Lucy told her that she intended to have nothing more to do with you. That eliminates the rest of us. You’re it, Marjorie. Now you see what sort of girl Mignon is. When I asked her why Lucy wasn’t at the Campfire on Saturday night she pretended to be very innocent. It seems that she can’t keep her troubles to herself. She has to tell someone. After she told she asked Esther to promise that she wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Esther wouldn’t promise. She came straight to me with it. She thinks, as I do, that we ought to ask Mignon to resign from the club.”
“Haven’t you the least idea why Lucy is down on you, Marjorie?” was Constance’s thoughtful question.
“No.” Marjorie shook a despondent head. “I’ve never said or done anything to hurt her feelings.”
“The club meets on Thursday night at my house,” announced Jerry briskly. “What I propose to do is to call an informal meeting there to-morrow night, minus Mignon. We can state our grievances and have Irma set them down on paper. Then she can read them out. If everyone approves of them, we’ll have Irma copy them and write a letter to Mignon asking for her resignation. We’ll sign the letter, enclose the list of grievances and mail it to her. That’s really the best way to do. It will save a lot of fuss.”
“I think that would be most cruel and unkind, Jerry,” Marjorie burst forth in shocked criticism.
“I fail to see it in that light.” For the first time since the beginning of their friendship Jerry was distinctly out of sorts with her beloved friend. “Don’t be so babyish, Marjorie. There’s a limit to all things.”
“I think what you just proposed would certainly be the limit.” Unconsciously Marjorie answered in Jerry’s own slangy vernacular. “Let me tell you something.” Rapidly she recounted the incident of the receipt of the roses and note from Mr. La Salle. “I must admit,” she continued, “that I had intended to say to you to-night that you had better call a special meeting. I didn’t realize then how humiliating it would be for Mignon. I saw those beautiful flowers and read that nice note and I felt dreadfully ashamed. It was just as though I had already failed to keep faith with Mr. La Salle. It is terrible to fail someone who believes in one. I’ve often said that to you.”
“Of course it is. That’s why I am so disgusted with Mignon. She has failed all of us,” Jerry flashed back. “We can’t have our club spoiled just to please Mignon’s father. He makes me weary. It would be a good thing if he’d take a hand at reforming his daughter, instead of leaving the job to us.” Jerry was growing momentarily angrier with Marjorie. “You ought to stand up for yourself, instead of being so foolish as to allow Mignon to make a goose of you,” she finished rudely.
“Why, Jerry Macy!” Marjorie’s brown eyes registered sorrowful amazement.
“Don’t Jerry Macy me.” The stout girl jerked her hand roughly from Marjorie’s arm. “You make me tired, Marjorie Dean. If you can’t fight for yourself then someone else will.”
“I can fight my own battles, thank you.” Marjorie’s clear retort was freighted with injured dignity. Slow to anger, she was now thoroughly nettled.
“Girls, girls, don’t quarrel,” intervened Constance, who had thus far taken no part in the altercation. The trio had now passed inside the Deans’ gate and halted on the stone walk.
“I don’t wish to quarrel with Jerry,” asserted Marjorie coldly, “but I cannot allow her to accuse me of being cowardly. You have said, Jerry,” she eyed her explosive friend unflinchingly, “that Lucy Warner is angry with me, and not with the other girls. Very well. It is therefore Lucy’s and my affair. We should be the ones to decide what shall be done with Mignon. Personally, I prefer to drop the matter. You may go to Lucy, if you choose, and ask her her views. I doubt, though, if she will give them. As it now stands I think it would be better to bear with Mignon for her father’s sake. This is our last year in high school. Let us not darken it by trying to retaliate against Mignon.”
“I think Marjorie is right, Jerry,” declared Constance.
“Very good. Have it your own way. There will be no special meeting. Good-bye.” Jerry whirled and darted through the half open gate, slamming it behind her.
Her lips quivering ominously, Marjorie watched Jerry’s plump figure down the street. Slow tears began to roll down her rosy cheeks. Groping blindly for her handkerchief, she buried her face in it with a grieved little sob.
“Don’t cry, dear,” soothed Constance, slipping a gentle arm about the sorrowful lieutenant. “By to-morrow Jerry will be all over being mad. She is too fond of you to stay cross. Inside of half an hour she will probably be telephoning you to say she is sorry. Let’s go into the house and wait for her message. She’ll be ready to make up by the time she reaches home.”
“It’s – as – much – my – fault as hers,” quavered Marjorie. “I was cross, too. If she doesn’t ’phone me by six o’clock, I’ll call her up. It is babyish in me to cry, but I couldn’t help it. Jerry and I have always been such dear friends. I’m not going to cry any more, though. Captain will wonder what the trouble is. I’m going to tell her everything, but not until to-night after dinner. You’d better stay and help me, Connie. Perhaps Jerry will telephone before then.”
“All right, I will, thank you. I’ll telephone Aunt Susan and let her know where I am.”
On entering the house Delia met them with the information that Mrs. Dean had gone shopping but would be home by half-past six o’clock. When Constance had telephoned, they established themselves in the living room, keeping up a soft murmur of conversation. Two pairs of ears were sharply trained on the hall, however, to catch the jingling ring of the telephone.
When six o’clock rolled around without the longed-for message from Jerry, Marjorie could no longer endure the suspense. Springing from her chair, she sought the ‘phone and gave the operator the Macys’ number. “Hello,” she called in the transmitter.
“Hello,” sounded a familiar voice. It was Jerry herself who answered.
“Is that you, Jerry? This is Mar – ”
The forbidding click of the receiver cut the last word in two. Constance had not proved a successful prophet. Jerry Macy was still “cross.”