Part 16 (1/2)

”Well! well, Mrs. Graham, I suppose you are on your way to our shack.

Won't you give me the pleasure of riding with you?”

Hat in hand, black eyes dancing in malicious glee, I saw standing before me, Harry Underwood, of all people!

At that instant Jack came rus.h.i.+ng out of the restaurant and up to the taxi.

”It's no use, Margaret. They can't find them anywhere.”

”Jack, I want you to meet Mr. Underwood, a friend of my husband's,” I said hastily, hoping to save the situation. ”Mr. Underwood, my cousin, Mr. Bickett.”

The two men shook hands perfunctorily.

”Glad to meet you, Mr. Bickett,” Harry Underwood said, in his effusive manner. ”Have you lost anything valuable? Can I help in any way?”

”Nothing of any consequence,” I interrupted desperately.

”Oh, yes, I see, nothing of any consequence,” he replied meaningly.

His eyes were fixed upon my ungloved left hand, which showed only too plainly the absence of my rings.

”But don't worry,” he continued. ”Your Uncle Dudley is first cousin to an oyster. Wish you luck. So long,” and lifting his hat he strolled on up the avenue.

Jack was consulting his note-book. I heard him give the address of my apartment to the driver. ”Drive slowly,” he added.

”Who was that man?” he demanded sternly. ”He is no one you ought to know.”

”I know, Jack,” I said faintly. ”I dislike him, I even dread him, but he and his wife are old friends of d.i.c.ky's and I cannot avoid meeting him.”

”He will make trouble for you some day,” Jack returned. ”I don't like him, but there is nothing I can do to help you. I've messed things enough now.”

”What shall I do, Jack?” I wailed. All my vaunted self-reliance was gone. I felt like the most helpless perfect clinging vine in the world.

”We're going straight to your home to see your husband,” he said.

”You will introduce me to him and then leave us. I shall explain everything to him.”

”Oh, Jack,” I said terrified, ”he has such an uncertain temper, and, besides, he isn't at home. He was to take dinner at the Underwoods at 2 o'clock.”

”Well, we must go there, then,” returned Jack. ”Put on your gloves, then the absence of the rings won't be noticed until I have a chance to explain about them.”

I picked up the gloves and unfolded them. Something glittering rolled out of them and dropped into my lap.

”Oh, Jack, my rings!” I fairly shrieked. Then for the first time in my life I became hysterical, laughing and sobbing uncontrollably.

That night I told d.i.c.ky the whole story--not one word did I keep back from him--and when I came to the loss of my rings and the meeting with Harry Underwood, there developed a scene that I cannot even now bring myself to put down on paper. But at last d.i.c.ky managed to control himself enough to ask what I had told Harry Underwood.

”I told him that my rings had not been lost, that my gloves were too tight and that I had removed them to put on my gloves.”