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Page 3
"Well, in the first place, after being almost extravagant in his
devotion to my daughter, Doreen, he now neglects her outrageously--comes
down very seldom, writes short letters or none. Now, my daughter is not
the sort of girl that a sane man would neglect," added Doctor Wedmore,
proudly.
"Certainly not," assented the doctor, inwardly thinking that it was much
less surprising than it would have been in the case of one of his own
girls.
"In the second place, he is always harping upon the subject of Jacobs
and his peculations--an old subject, which he might well let rest. And,
in the third place, he has become moody, morose and absent-minded; and
my son, Max, who often visits him at his chambers in Lincoln's Inn, has
noticed the change even more than I, who have fewer opportunities of
seeing him."
The doctor was puffing stolidly at his pipe and looking at the fire.
"It is very difficult to form an opinion upon report only," said he.
"Frankly, I can see nothing in what you have told me about the young man
which could not be explained in other and likelier ways. He may have got
entangled, for instance, with some woman in London."
Mr. Wedmore took fire at this suggestion.
"In that case, the sooner Doreen forgets all about him the better."
"Mind, I'm only suggesting!" put in the doctor, hastily. "There may be a
dozen more reasons--"
"I shall not wait to find them out," said Mr. Wedmore, decisively. "He
and Max are coming down together this evening. My wife would have them
to help in organizing some affair they're getting up for Christmas. I'll
send him to the right-about without any more nonsense."
"But surely that is hardly--"
"Hardly what?" snapped out Mr. Wedmore, as he poked the fire viciously.
"Well, hardly fair to either of the young people. Put a few questions to
him yourself, or better still, let your wife do it. It may be only a
storm in a teacup, after all. Remember, he is the son of your old
friend. And you wouldn't like to have it on your conscience that you had
treated him harshly."
The doctor's advice was sane and sound enough, but Mr. Wedmore was not
in the mood to listen to it. That notion of an entanglement with another
woman rankled in his proud mind, and made him still less inclined to be
patient and forbearing.
"I shall give Doreen warning of what I am going to do at once," said he,
"before Horne turns up."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He was obstinate himself.
Mr. Wedmore crossed the long room to the door, and opened it sharply.
The hall was full of people and of great bales of goods, which were
piled upon the center-table and heaped up all around it.
"Doreen!" he called, sharply.
Out of the crowd there rushed a girl--such a girl! One of those radiant
creatures who explain the cult of womanhood; who make it difficult even
for sober-minded, middle-aged men and matrons to realize that this is
nothing but flesh and blood like themselves; one of those beautiful
creatures who claim worship as a right and who repay it with kindness
and brightness and sweetness and laughter.
No house was ever dull that held Doreen Wedmore.
She was a tall girl, brown-haired, brown-eyed, made to laugh and to live
in the sunshine. Nobody could resist her, and nobody ever tried to.
She sprang across the hall to her father and whirled him back into the
dining-room, and put her back against it.
"Dudley's come!" said she. "He's in the hall--among the blankets!"
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