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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Carolyn Wells' novel 'Who Killed Caldwell??' is a gripping murder mystery set in the early 20th century New York City. The book is written in a classic detective style, with intricate plot twists and well-developed characters. The literary context of the novel reflects the popular interest in crime fiction during the period, drawing inspiration from authors like Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. Wells' attention to detail and clever narrative structure keep the reader engaged from start to finish. Using suspense and intrigue, Wells masterfully crafts a thrilling story that will keep readers guessing until the very end. As a prolific writer of mystery novels, Carolyn Wells' background in literature and poetry shines through in 'Who Killed Caldwell??' Her unique blend of wit and intelligence adds depth to the characters and the plot, making it a must-read for fans of classic detective fiction. Wells' fascination with the criminal mind and her keen observation of human nature are evident in the intricate web of clues and motives she weaves throughout the story. I highly recommend 'Who Killed Caldwell??' to anyone with a love for mystery novels and a penchant for solving intricate puzzles. Carolyn Wells' expert craftsmanship and engaging storytelling make this novel a timeless classic that continues to captivate readers today.
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Who Killed Caldwell?
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 The Letter
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Irving Caldwell, as he sat staring at a letter he had just read.
“But I can’t believe it,” he went on, again scanning the page. “Come, children, come into the library and hear my news.”
The family were at the breakfast table in the dining room; and in front of it was the library, really the living room of the family. Across the wide hall was the great drawing room, and back of it a smoking and amusement room, for there were five young people in the house.
New York City cannot today boast of many of those old double-front brownstone houses that gave dignity to the social life of the last century.
But there was one fine specimen on an uptown cross street, just off Fifth Avenue, that was still a home.
The Caldwell house was a delightful combination of the old original dwelling and modern improvements. Its large rooms, high ceilings, old-fashioned windows and heavy doors did not prevent its being air-conditioned, electric-lighted and possessed of every comfort and convenience recent invention could give.
And Irving Caldwell’s family was, in the main, a happy one. His sons, Vincent and Bruce, his daughter Marcia and her husband, Perry Gibbs, and his adopted daughter, Lorraine Crosby, made up the circle, and they all rose from the table and went with him to the library as he had asked.
Caldwell was a distinguished looking man. Tall and straight, he had always been of forceful effect, until of late years he had become a victim of a form of angina pectoris which had made it necessary for him to be careful of himself and being careful irked him sore.
At sixty, he was impressive in manner and bearing yet gentle and friendly in all his relationships.
Seated in his big armchair, he looked again at the letter, as if to reassure himself that it was so, and said: “Archer is coming home.”
Then Vincent said, in an awed tone, “Archer!”
And Bruce said, eagerly, “When?”
And Perry said, indifferently, “Really?”
And Marcia said, in a low tone, “Dear Archer,” and Lorraine just stared, wide-eyed.
“Yes,” Caldwell went on, “he will come this afternoon. This letter is just to announce his arrival. I will read it to you.
“Dear Father:
I am coming home. I wonder if you will be glad to see me. If not, I shall go right away again. But I am tired of wandering, and I want my own home and my own people. Look for me about midafternoon of January 12th. From your son, Archer.”
“I am overjoyed,” Caldwell went on. “I can scarcely take it in, as yet.”
“Take it calmly, dear,” Marcia said, warningly. “You don’t want to have an attack when he comes in.”
“No fear.” But there was a light in his eyes and a tremor in his voice that told of his intense excitement.
“Then I shall have a new brother,” Perry Gibbs smiled. “I hope to goodness he will like me. Stand up for me, you fellows.”
“I hardly remember him at all,” Bruce spoke wonderingly. “I was only eight when he went away!”
A silence fell on them all, for each was busy with memories and thoughts of this long absent son and brother.
Archer Caldwell, the oldest son of the family, was little more than a name to the other children. For a tragedy had wiped him out of existence so far as they were concerned, and for fourteen years he had neither been seen nor heard from.
It happened in 1926, on Archer’s birthday.
The Caldwells were at their summer home in Fairfield County, Connecticut, and as Archer had been promised a rifle on reaching his fourteenth year, the gift was forthcoming. There was a rifle range near by, but before going there Irving Caldwell taught his son as to loading and firing the gun.
They were out in a field, and were shooting at a mark.
A neighbor, passing by, paused to look on, and another man joined the group. Caldwell was called away, for a moment, and bidding the lad do nothing till his return, the father hastened away.
The stranger who had joined them took the gun up and examined it, and suddenly turning to the neighbor, one Morton, shot him in the head.
Morton fell, and the man who shot him turned to Archer and said:
“Run, run for your life! You shot him. If you are caught here you will be hanged! Run! and never come back. It is death for you if you do!”
Archer doubted no word of this, and the murderer, brandishing the rifle at him, declared he would shoot him too, unless he disappeared forever.
Frightened almost out of his senses, and believing what he was told, the boy had run as fast as he could, taking no heed where he went. Seeing a trolley car headed for Bridgeport he jumped aboard and went on.
Reaching Bridgeport, and having no thought but to get away, he bought a railroad ticket to New York and went there by train. He had some birthday money in his pocket, and by the time he reached the city he had made up his mind.
He knew the docks and piers, and he went straight to where he knew a freight ship would be leaving for Africa. Cleverly, he managed to get on board unseen, and after they were well out to sea he went to the cook, said he was a stowaway and asked to work his way.
His engaging manners, combined with the fact that it was most inconvenient to turn around and take him ashore, gained his point for him, and he worked his way easily enough and landed at Capetown.
Fourteen years had passed, with no news of him whatever, and now Irving Caldwell had received a surprising and very welcome letter.
The letter had been mailed the day before, in New York City, so that gave no information as to where he had lived or what he had done in his long absence. While the others talked busily, the father sat in a deep revery, thinking about the boy he had lost.
And now the boy was coming home.
Boy he would not be, after all these years, but a man of twenty-eight, and—a stranger, oh, surely a stranger!
Where had he lived these fourteen years? What had he done? What sort of man had he become?
The father had come to look upon his son as dead, for it seemed to him nothing else could explain the long silence.
Archer’s mother had tried bravely to face the tragedy, but had succumbed to her grief and had died within two years.
Time and a busy life had made Caldwell accustomed to the burden, and he bore it more easily as the years went by.
But now, the sudden revelation that Archer was alive and was coming home was a shock that might well have proved dangerous to his weak heart, but it seemingly proved beneficial, for instead of wondering or showing signs of apprehension about Archer or about his arrival he was placidly happy in the memory of his childhood days and ways.
“Do you remember the day he fell in the river?” he said. “You were with us, Vincent, we were in a rowboat, fishing.”
But Vincent didn’t remember and didn’t try to.
“A queer thing,” he said, “Archer coming along like this. If he’s alive and well, why hasn’t he made it known before?”
“Lots of answers to that,” Marcia told him. “I wonder what he will look like. He was a beautiful boy.”
“No two of you look alike,” her father said, “but your mother thought Archer the best looking of you all.”
“That’s only because he was the first one,” declared Bruce. “Of course, Marcia is the prettiest, unless we count in Lorraine.”
“Lorraine was Archer’s sweetheart,” Vincent looked at the girl with an air of ownership; “now she’s mine, aren’t you, Lorry?”
“I am not. I’ve never seen the man I wanted to be sweetheart to.”
“Fie, fie,” Perry Gibbs frowned at her; “did you never learn you must not use a preposition to end a sentence with? I say, I’ll bet Archer has been right here in New York all the time.”
“Never!” said Bruce. “He went West, most likely, and has by now a wife and a couple of children. Maybe he’ll bring them with him. If they want a home, Dad, will you take them all in here?”
“Of course; though it may mean turning out some of you present incumbents. But you’ve had your turn.”
“Oho! A usurper, eh?”
“No, Bruce; the king comes into his own.”
Seeing a stormy look in Vincent’s eyes, Marcia said, in her decisive way, “Now, Father, no favoritism. Archer is the prodigal son. He has been lost and is found, we will all welcome him, but he is no better than the rest of us and has no special claim to your affection.”
“No, no, Marcia, of course not. Dear boy, I wonder if he has suffered privation or danger.”
“Not he!” cried Bruce, who worshiped his brother’s memory, “I bet he comes home a rich nabob.”
“All nabobs are rich. But I bet he comes home a pauper; why else would he come?” This from Vincent.
His father looked at him a little sternly, then said, with an air of calm authority, “If Archer comes home manly and honest, no matter what his finances may be, he is my eldest son.”
“Great Scott, Dad, this isn’t England! Your property isn’t entailed, is it? I have always assumed we should share and share alike, when you are through with it.”
“Your remark is not in the best of taste, Vincent, but your assumption is not far wrong.”
And then Irving Caldwell relapsed into his brown study.
“I wonder what we’d better have for dinner,” said the domestic Marcia. “Do any of you remember what Archer specially liked?”
“Don’t be silly,” Bruce told her; “don’t you think his tastes must have changed? I assure you I shouldn’t enjoy now what I loved to eat fourteen years ago.”
“Bread and milk, probably,” Lorraine smiled at him. “But old Molly will know; she remembers everyone’s tastes.”
“That’s so,” and Marcia rose to leave the room. “I’ll ask her about it. What room shall he have? His old one?”
“He can’t,” Vincent declared. “I have that now, and it’s so stuffed with my things you’d never get it cleaned out. And I don’t want to move.”
“You needn’t,” said his father. “Marcia, put Archer in the best guest room, the one across the hall from my room.”
“Oh, Dad, suppose we have important company!”
“The important company can have a lesser room, or we can shuffle things around when the time comes. And ask Molly what Archer used to like. Even if it’s a childish dish, it might please him. I seem to remember he was fond of fruit batter pudding, with two kinds of sauce.”
“Who isn’t?” exclaimed Bruce. “Tell Molly to make that, Marcia, and plenty of it!”
Marcia went away, and Bruce went on, “At least, we’ll all get our share of the fatted calf that will be continuously prepared.”
Irving Caldwell sat up straighter in his chair, and said:
“I may be wrong, but I seem to perceive an unpleasant note in some of the things you boys say. Do not make it necessary for me to mention this again.”
“It wasn’t necessary that time, Dad,” and Bruce spoke whole-heartedly. “I was only fooling, Molly will make me a fruit pudding whenever I ask her.”
“Yes, of course. All right. Lorraine, child, you are showing no enthusiasm at your brother’s return. Why?”
“I doubt he will remember me at all. And he isn’t my brother.”
“Oh, yes, he is. You are my legally adopted daughter, the boys are all your brothers.”
“Oh, then I can’t marry any of them! And I was just trying to decide which one I love most.”
“Yes, you can marry one of them,” he replied, taking her seriously. “The adoption papers provide for that.”
“Well, you are foresighted!” Lorraine said. “And you are as dear a father as they come!”
“That was my wife’s foresight. You know, your mother was her dearest friend, and Emily was a born matchmaker, and positively looked forward to seeing you marry one of her boys.”
“Yes? Well, so far, I like Bruce the best; but he’s too young to marry.”
“That’s my only fault,” Bruce asserted, “and it is one that time is bound to mend.”
“I am anxious to see our Archer,” said Perry Gibbs. “I’ve never seen him, you know, so I shall be able to form an unbiased opinion. Odd that he should send his letter from New York. If he is in the city and knows your address, why not come unannounced?”
“There’s small use in saying why or why not,” Caldwell told him, “when we know nothing of the circumstances. He will explain it all when he comes. You will be glad to see him, Perry?”
“Yes, Guv’nor, of course. You think he’ll approve of me?”
“Why not?” and the fine head sank back again on the chair cushion, and a silence fell.
Vincent rose, beckoned to Lorraine, and then left the room.
The girl followed him, and found him, as she had expected, sitting on the stairs. This was always their favorite chatting place. From childhood these two had told secrets, had quarreled and made up, on the stairs.
And now, she had a premonition of what was coming, and it was a true one.
“Lorraine,” he said, without preamble, “you must be engaged to me before Archer gets home. I am afraid he will get you away from me.”
“But I am not yours.”
“Yes, you are. But you have never solemnly promised, and you must do it now.”
“Can’t. I don’t feel a bit solemn, and I am not engaged to you, or to anybody else. Sorry, Vincent, but that’s the way it is.”
“You’re just waiting to see what Archer looks like!”
“And isn’t that what we’re all waiting for?”
Then she ran away.
Chapter 2 Archer Comes Home
“Why doesn’t he come? It’s mid-afternoon. It’s three o’clock. Afternoon is from one to six, and three is half way there.”
“No, it isn’t, Bruce. Half way between one and six is half-past three. But I think afternoon begins at twelve, post meridian, you know.”
“Lorraine, you know too much. Anyway, if you begin the afternoon at twelve, three is its mid, and it’s three now.”
“He’s bound to be late, anyway,” and Vincent turned back to the magazine he was reading.
“No,” his father said, “Archer was always prompt, I remember that about him very well.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be his fault; but coming on a journey, there are always delays with trains or boats.”
“Why do you think he is coming on a journey?” Marcia asked. “His letter was posted here in the city.”
“Where do you think he’s been, Dad?” Bruce asked. “Let’s all guess.”
“Overseas, I’d say. He was forever reading books of travel or stories of adventure.”
“Maybe he’s a pirate bold, then. But if he’s already in New York, he may come in his own car.”
“He may come in rags,” put in Vincent.
“Not he!” and Marcia smiled at the idea. “Archer was very fussy about his clothes. He used to lecture me about dressing correctly.”
“And you never forgot it,” Lorraine said. “You are the best dressed woman I know.”
Marcia bridled a little. She was a careful dresser and always looked exactly right. Her fair hair was done in the very latest mode of puffs and rolls, and her light make-up was so deftly applied that it changed her pale countenance into a bright, live face.
Her powder blue house dress was smart and becoming, and she felt, complacently, that Archer must admire her appearance.
She had done all she could with her husband, but Perry was careless by nature and seemed incapable of reform. However, he looked all right, if he wouldn’t tousle his hair too much, and would sit up straight.
Lorraine’s little head knew no puffs and rolls, but was covered with soft brown ringlets, that looked to be natural curls whether they were or not. She wore a red dress, because of a dim memory that Archer liked red. Her face was charming when animated, but when she was quietly self-absorbed, as she so often was, it was not strikingly pretty.
Irving Caldwell sat in a happy daze, taking no note of time, merely waiting to see once more his long lost firstborn.
And then the bell did ring, though they did not hear it, Briggs did go through the hall and open the front door, and, as in a dream, they heard him say, “Mr. Archer,” and they looked up.
The big man stood in the hall doorway and looked at the group in the library.
His brown eyes moved from one face to another, his expression of uncertainty giving way to relief and satisfaction, then breaking into a smile of pleasure.
“It’s all right,” he said, “I didn’t know how you were going to receive me—”
Marcia went forward and laid her hand on his arm.
“Dad first,” he said, and crossed the room to the man in the chair.
Years seemed to fall from the man who rose and grasped the offered hand.
“My boy!” he cried; “my son, my Emily’s son—you are so like your mother. Welcome home, Archer, welcome home.”
His strength flagged, and he sank back into his chair. Marcia hovered round him, with a capsule of amyl nitrite ready in a handkerchief. These were always kept near by, in case of an attack of the dread angina.
“Wait, Father, wait! I must say this, first of all. I didn’t shoot Mr. Morton! That strange man that came along just then, he shot him really. He put the gun back in my hands and then he aimed it at Mr. Morton, and he pulled the trigger—I didn’t!”
“Yes, we learned that, later. He pretended you shot Morton and ran away in fear of the consequences—”
“I did do that; he told me I had killed a man and I must run for my life and never come back. I was so frightened, I ran and ran—”
“Dear boy, let’s leave all that for the moment, and just rejoice that you are back here with us. We want to hear your story, we want to know all about your life while away from us, but first, I must just revel in the blessed certainty that you are with us again. Oh, could your mother but have lived—”
“When, Father—when did she—”
“She lived for two years, and then her gentle heart could bear it no longer and she died of her grief.”
“Perhaps I was a coward to run away, but that man told me I would be hanged by the neck till I was dead unless I got out of this country.”
“Out of the country!” cried Bruce. “Where did you go? Oh, Dad, let him tell us that!”
“Where did you go, Archer?” and Caldwell was as eager to hear the answer as were his children.
“I ran to Bridgeport, hopped a trolley to New York. Of course, I knew all the piers—you know how I was always hanging around the ships—and I slipped aboard a freight ship going to Capetown.”
“Africa!” exclaimed Bruce.
“Yes; and so, you see, I could get no news from you or write to you for a long time. But, as Father says, let us leave my story for another time. The wanderings of Ulysses will keep.”
“You’ve been to school then,” Vincent exclaimed. “You knew nothing of Ulysses when you left here.”
“I’ve had time to get an education, as well as other things. Fourteen years seems to me like a lifetime. I say, Marcia, you’ve grown up a splendid woman. Am I wrong in deducing that gentleman beside you belongs to you?”
“I do, indeed,” the gentleman spoke for himself. “I am Perry Gibbs and your brother-in-law.”
“That’s fine! I congratulate you both. And is this my one-time sweetheart, Lorraine?”
“Yes, I’m Lorraine, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”
“Well, well, we must see about that later. And Bruce! Nearly six feet of him. How goes it, Brother?”
“Fine! Better than ever, now you’re here. When will you tell us all about Africa?”
“Why, why! People don’t tell of their travels any more, it isn’t done. But some day, you and I will take a long walk, and I’ll talk to you like a guide book.”
“Did you have adventures?”
“Nothing but. Now, that subject is dropped. Father, what happened to the man who shot Morton? Who was he?”
“He was no one we knew. He and Morton were rival candidates for some local office, and they had already quarreled furiously. Barron, his name was, and he said he only wanted to lame Morton so he could not be so active in his campaign, and he, Barron, would, be sure of the election. But the jury decided that it was murder in the first degree and I think it was. Anyway, he deserved what he got, because of his dastardly treatment of you. You see, he held out for a long time that you shot Morton by accident, but they broke him down and he finally confessed that he used you as a tool, and that he advised you to make your escape.”
“Thereby ruining my whole life, taking away my home and family and making me an outcast.”
“Why did you run away?” asked Vincent, a bit scornfully. “Why not face the music?”
“I was not very brave, perhaps, but he almost made me believe, at first, that I had fired the shot. And he frightened me out of my wits with his awful face and blazing eyes as he told me I would be hanged by the neck until I was dead, and he illustrated it, by clasping his long fingers round my throat and squeezing until I was almost dead with fright. There was no one to see, and he bade me run hard and fast and never stop till I had put a hundred miles between me and my crime. He suggested I go to Chicago, but I had my own plan and I carried it out. I am glad he paid his penalty, for I have not a forgiving spirit toward him. He ruined my life, he killed my mother, and brought sorrow to my father. You other children were too young to take it hard, and I trust you soon forgot the tragedy. And now, let us all forget it, for today, anyway, and celebrate happily the prodigal’s return.”
“Thank God for your return, my son. I have a wonky heart, but I think your coming will not aggravate it but will prove a cure for it. I have to avoid excitement, but I can’t think a happy excitement will be harmful. We will not hear tales of your adventures just now, but we are all eager for them. Were you—were you ever—er—”
“Broke?” Archer laughed. “I have starved in a dozen countries; I have begged my bread in a score of languages; I have almost died of thirst. And I have lived like a prince at palatial hotels, and have been entertained by monarchs of more than Oriental splendor.”
“Fairy tales?” asked Vincent.
“Not so, but far otherwise. Had I not led a charmed life, I had been dead a hundred times.”
“Say, Arch, will you write a book about it?” asked Bruce with shining eyes.
“Well, I’ll have to think over that. I shall want to get a job of some kind. I hope you’ll help me with that, Father.”
“Maybe. But, here’s the way I look at it. I feel that I owe you fourteen years board and lodging that you haven’t had. So your need of a job isn’t acute.”
“All right, I’ll take a little vacation first, renew old acquaintances and all that. I suppose my school chums have forgotten me and I fear I remember but few of them. My line is civil engineering. I took a few courses in that, and practiced it a lot here and there. But my methods may not suit American ideas.”
“You look robust, Archer, but not rugged. Are you a well man?”
“Oh, yes, Dad, but of late I have lived in India, and the climate and the jungle fever and the snakebite there do not conduce to good health.”
“Why did you stay there?” Vincent asked.
“Oh, hunting diamonds and gold and ivory and one thing and another.”
“India!” Bruce exclaimed. “Did you see the Indian Magic? Did you see the great Rope Trick?”
“Bruce, my child, when anyone asks you about the Great Indian Rope Trick, tell him, on my authority, that there is no such thing. In fact, the natives ask travelers to tell them what it is, for they never heard of it.”
“Are all the wonders of India fakes? I have a whole book about them—”
“Some day we’ll look over your book together, and I’ll explain things to you. They have doctors that pretend they do magic cures, but they are not magic, though some are wonderful.”
“Why didn’t you get one of them to cure your eyelid?” Vincent asked. “You’re really good-looking, except for that.”
“I know,” Archer said. “Do you remember that was coming on before I went away? It grew steadily worse. It doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t bother me any, but it does make me less an Adonis.”
“Couldn’t the voodoo doctors fix it?”
“No, I consulted one or two doctors in London, but the operation would have to be done by a specialist, at great expense, and I was poor then.”
“You must see someone over here,” his father said. “Some plastic surgery man, Crossley will tell us who. Now, Marcia, perhaps Archer would like to see his room, will you call Briggs?”
“I’ll call Briggs, but I’ll go up with him, too.”
“My same old room?”
“No,” Vincent answered him. “I have that room now, I hope you won’t mind changing—it’s so full of my junk and—”
“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t care what room I have.”
He walked with Marcia up the broad stairs, and she led him to the front room opposite his father’s room.
“Why, this is the best guest room!” he exclaimed; “don’t put me here, Marcia!”
“Yes, Father said to. You know the house has been done over a lot; see, you have your own bath and a dressing room, large enough for a smoking room, or whatever you choose to use it for.”
“It’s truly grand. I wonder you’ve stayed in the old house so long.”
“It’s just Dad’s determination. He’s had enormous offers, but he won’t sell. We’d all rather be in one of those big, new apartments. Dad’s room is just across the hall, you know. Our rooms are on the next floor, front, and Vincent has the other front ones. Bruce is back and so is Lorraine. The house is enormous, you know, and lots of room for everybody. There’s a servants’ house now, built in what was the kitchen garden.”
“Any of the old servants here? I suppose not, after so long.”
“Only the cook.”
“Oh, yes, old Molly. She was old when I was here, is she still on deck?”
“Yes, indeed. She’s not so awfully old, about fifty, maybe. What do you think of Lorraine?”
“I haven’t given her much thought as yet. Tell me about Father. Is it a dangerous heart trouble?”
“Oh, yes, if he has a bad attack. But he often goes a long time without any attack at all. We have to watch him closely, that’s all.”
“And you picked a good fellow for yourself, I see. Perry is a genial sort.”
“Yes, he’s all right. Dad thinks he’s lazy—and he is. You stand up for him, won’t you, Arch?”
“Sure I will. Do we dress for dinner?”
“Usually. Tonight, yes, it’s a gala for you. Have you clothes?”
“Oh, yes. English togs, they are. My last society act was in Calcutta, and they’re a swagger lot there. You can see how I look and if you say so, I’ll get some new ones. I’m glad to be home, girl! Do you think they’re all glad?”
“Who? What do you mean?”
“It may be my imagination, but I can’t seem to see very warm welcome in Vincent’s eyes.”
Marcia looked thoughtful.
“I suppose you know the reason for that, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. What is it?”
“Only that you have put his nose out of joint. He isn’t the oldest son any more.”
And then Marcia went away to her own room, to dress.
Chapter 3 The Tattoo Mark
He sat down on the side of the bed to think over what Marcia had said.
It seemed to him foolish for Vincent to take that attitude. In America, the oldest son had no special advantage over his brothers, as he had in an English family. He had no intention of assuming older brother airs with Vincent, no wish to counsel or advise him, and no desire to criticize him. He knew nothing, as yet, of Vincent’s manner of life or of his tastes or his principles.
It was none of his business, anyway. As the oldest son, he simply claimed his rights with the others. He asked nothing more.
But it would all straighten itself out, he felt sure. And when he could have a good talk alone with their father, he would understand the situation better.
Meantime, he would do his best to win Vincent’s confidence and liking, but he would admit no cause for his resentment at his brother’s return.
He dressed and went downstairs, finding Marcia and her husband in the drawing room awaiting.
“Don’t make company of me,” he said smiling at her.
“For one night only,” she returned. “After tonight you will be just one of the family. But tonight it is a case of fatted calf.”
“All right, I’ll enjoy the fleeting moment. Perry, old son, how did you manage to snare my sister? As I remember her, she was afraid of the boys. Don’t you know, Marcia, you used to run and hide if one or two of the fellows came home with me!”
“Yes, I know; all little girls are like that. But I outgrew it, as all little girls do.”
Just then Lorraine appeared.
She wore a simple but exquisite gown of chartreuse chiffon, and she wore no ornaments. But her bright brown hair was in lovely soft ringlets and her little heart-shaped face was aglow with smiles.
“For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Archer, “now how did you happen to wear a dress like that?”
“Don’t you like it? Why, it’s my newest one! It—”
“Oh, yes, yes, I like it—I like it a lot. But look here,” he picked up a little box from the table where he had laid it, “see what I brought you from India.” He took from the box a necklace of peridots, in a light setting of delicately worked gold. The stones were just the color of her gown, and as Lorraine clasped it round her throat, it made a perfect finish for the costume.
“Beautiful!” Archer exclaimed. “How odd that it should match so perfectly.”
“Where’s mine?” Marcia asked holding out both hands.
“You’ll have to wait, honey, until I can get my boxes unpacked, then I hope to find tokens for everybody. I just chanced to have that in my dressing bag.”
The other men came in and then Briggs brought cocktails.
“See how you like these,” Marcia said to Archer. “But I suppose you have had all sorts.”
“Indeed, yes, and more, too. But an old home cocktail is the best, whatever it’s made of.”
“Yes, yes, boy; and I’ll have another, with you.”
“Now, Father,” said Marcia, warningly, “you know—”
“Yes, dear, I know, but Archer doesn’t come home every night—”
“I hope to,” Archer caught him up, “though I do stay out late sometimes.”
“Are you a society man?” Lorraine said, so earnestly that they all laughed.
“Of course,” Vincent made the answer. “You can see that from his swagger clothes.”
Archer laughed easily.
“First show me your society, Lorraine,” he said, “and then we’ll see about it.”
“Never mind the social part,” came rather plaintively from Bruce, “when are we going to hear about Archer’s adventures? I say, Arch, did you go into the jungles in India?”
“Rath-er! They are not at all nice, Buddy. Just miasma and fever—”
“And tigers?”
“Yes, and tigers.”
“All that some other time, Bruce,” said his father, and they went to dinner.
“Tonight you must be guest of honor and sit by me,” Marcia said; “tomorrow you may choose your own place.”
Marcia, a perfect hostess, sat at the head of the table and her father at the other end.
The dinner was a fine one, and the newcomer fitted into the family group as if he never had left it. The others did not insist on questioning him about his travels, except Bruce, who really couldn’t help it.
He said at last, “Look here, Bruce, I have a diary, and you may read it some time, but let up now on your catechism.”
“Oh, I say, Archer, did you keep a diary? Can I get it? Now?”
“No, Silly! It hasn’t come yet.”
“Have you a diary? I shall be glad to see that.”
