Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 66: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

56 fectly delighted to spend a month with her, and her most charming family. I was hanging up the receiver, when Martha came in with a card. I took it and read the name: Raoul de Beauvais. “Who is he? I asked Martha. “He says he comes from your cousin, Mr. Herbert Callaway. He wants to see you,’ Martha answered. “Good—good gracious!” I ex- claimed. “My cousin, Herbert Calla- way—well, of all things in the world! I'll see Monsieur de Beauvais in a mo- ment.” I scrambled to my feet, fluffed my hair, stuck an extra pin in, and powdered my nose, while I tried to dig out from the back of my memory the things I remembered in connection with my cousin, Herbert Callaway. Twelve years before, after a spec- tacular year in college, where he was mixed up in everything discreditable— from the punching of a professor's nose to the smuggling of a chorus girl into one of the dormitories, and the consequent scandal of the disappear- ance of some diamond rings and things —his mother had sailed away to Europe with him. It took a while for the whirl- wind in America to settle, at least in that small and select circle connected with the name of Callaway. Nothing had been heard of Herbert Callaway or his mother from that time, except an oc- casional word from travelers who had seen them viewing the races at Auteuil, or who had seen Herbert gambling at the Casino in Monte Carlo. The news of his mother’s death reached us, and once a vague rumor that he had tried to elope with an American heiress. Then even rumor trailed off, until, now, an emissary from him suddenly ap- appeared in Caroline’s drawing-room. I think my heart missed a beat or two before I went in, and how I wished for mumsey. It’s a panicky thing to have a friend of a disreputable cousin appear in such an unexpected sort of ~ way, without even the usual courtesy of What does he want?” AINSLEE’S a preliminary note, and I wasn’t sure just how I should receive him. Monsieur Raoul de Beauvais was a tall, clean-cut, good-looking chap, rather more American than French, ex- cept for his clothes. He came to his feet as I entered, clicked his heels to- gether, and bowed in true Continental fashion, “Miss Callaway?” he inquired, with only the merest trace of an accent. “‘I bring to you a gift from your cousin, Mr. Herbert Callaway”—he extended a small, neat package—‘‘which I am most happy to deliver. When the mother of Mr. Callaway died, she requested him to send the jewel to you. Mr. Callaway wishes me to apologize for his seem- ing neglect in not so doing. Musiness brings me here, and I was most happy to be of service to Mr. Callaway, and to you. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go. My train leaves within the hour.” I took the package, just a little amazed at his brisk, businesslike man- ner, and tried to help him make his hurried exit as gracefully as possible; but when the door closed upon his de- parting, foreign-looking figure, and his elusive accent, I had that rooted-to-the- spot sort of feeling. A thousand things surged into my mind. Questions, all sorts of ques- tions. Questions I might have put to him about my cousin if he only had given me the chance. He had not told me, even, where my cousin was, so that I could thank him for the gift. ° I examined the package. There was no address on it, nothing, not even my own name. I opened it, expecting to find an old-fashioned jewel, just a little remembrance ftom my aunt. Instead, | beheld a most amazing pendant, the center of which was a huge, yellow diamond of the particular color that is so rare, consequently so valuable. I stood there holding that gorgeous bauble in a trembling palm, while my mouth inelegantly dropped open through sheer amazement. I remember glancing once at the door where Mon- sieur Raoul de Beauvais had gone out, much as if I expected him to return to C com IOOK ico