The mystery of the twin rubies

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Chapter One HIS FIRST BUTLER

MR. JEREMIAH BRONSON, of the firm of Bronson and Bartlett, real-estate brokers, opened a copy of the New York Herald upon the desk in front of him and ran a thin, nervous finger down the column of “ help wanted ” ads. until he found the one he sought. He nodded his satisfaction, and was just engaged in refolding the paper when he heard the heavy footfall of his partner approaching from the next room.

“Good morning, Jerry! ” said Mr. Bartlett.

“ Good morning.”

It was really three o'clock of a warm afternoon in June, but as it chanced to be the first time the two had met that day they, automatically, used their customary greeting.

Bartlett dropped into a chair beside his partner’s desk with more decision than grace — he ran to fat — and gave a sigh of relief as he drew a handkerchief and mopped his red, good-natured face. He had one of those curious-shaped heads that are almost pointed on top, thereafter slanting down — and outward until they finish in broad jowls, and the same architectural scheme was carried out on a larger scale by the next division of his body. His shoulders were by no means broad, so that his sides were obliged to run out at an amazing angle in order to encompass his magnificent girth. As he sat there, his short, plump legs scarcely reaching the floor, it was easy to see why his friends and business associates good-humoredly referred to him among themselves as “ The Bartlett Pear.”

“ The Murdock deal is closed, Jerry,” he announced, and added after a slight pause, “ They put up a noble struggle, but eventually gave in at our figure.”

Bronson swung around in his chair, beaming approval.

“ Thanks to your hard work and good judgment, Henry,” he exclaimed cordially. “ I congratulate [2]

you on your success — and myself on having such an excellent partner! ”

“Tut, tut, Jerry! ” responded Bartlett, getting a little redder. He noticed the newspaper that lay on the other’s desk, and quickly jumped to a less embarrassing subject. “ By the way, what’s the news? I have not had a minute to look at a paper.”

“ Nor have I. When you came in, I was just looking to see that the Herald had not forgotten to run an advertisement of mine for a — for a servant.”

“ Huh ! ” Bartlett betrayed amusement. “ I know that’s the main occupation of you poor suburbanites. Which is it now — cook or house-maid? ”

“Er — neither. We’re looking for a butler.”

“Oh, excuse me/” The Bartlett Pear regarded his partner with some admiration. “ By gracious, Jerry, you are going it strong! Is this the effect of prosperity upon yourself, or is it the effect of the Claredale atmosphere upon Mrs. Bronson? ”

“ It’s mostly Mary,” admitted Bronson a little sadly. “ Not that I don’t agree with her, of course,” he continued hastily. “ Most of the Claredale crowd live as they consider that Claredale folks should [3]

live, and have butlers, so as long as we’re going to live there we might as well fall into line.”

“ I see. . . . Are they a pretty nice bunch? ”

“Why — I don’t know.” Bronson was mildly surprised, and showed it “ I suppose so, but I haven’t really given much thought to it. The English are the best, I expect, though the Japs have always appealed to me as being quick and intelligent— ”

“Excuse me, Jerry. I wasn’t asking you about butlers ; I sought your opinon of those society stars to whom you have just irreverently referred as the ‘ Claredale crowd.’ ”

“ Oh.” Mr. Bronson smiled faintly, and caressed the top of a head that was becoming gray in some spots and distinctly bald in others. “ I find them very nice — very nice indeed. Our welcome to Claredale has been most — hospitable. Mary is looking forward to a delightful summer of being entertained— and entertaining. Hence the butler.”

“ Mmm. Well, it will be a fresh experience for you,” he ruminated. “ I suppose a man’s first butler must be like his first silk hat, or, as it was said of Caesar’s wife — above suspicion.”

“ I dare say,” returned Bronson without enthusiasm. “ I remember I hated mine.”

Bartlett chuckled, and rose from his chair.

“ By the by, Jerry,” he said more crisply. “ You have the letters in the Graham matter; if you’ll give them to me I’ll skip around to the old boy’s office.”

Bronson immediately delved into the mass of accumulated papers that littered his desk — a desk that no one of a dozen generations of stenographers had ever been able to keep in order, for the senior partner antedated the business era that thrives and flourishes upon elaborate filing-systems. He paid the penalty now as he ran through pile after pile of documents, and finally began pulling out drawers.

“ Got it ! ” announced the Bartlett Pear triumphantly from across the room. He had detected the missing letters on top of the office safe. He held them up to view, shaking his head in mock sadness, but with the fine twinkle of amusement in his eyes that so often brightened his face and atoned for its habitual heaviness. “ Take my word for it, Jerry; your carelessness is going to get you into [5]

serious trouble one of these days — if you aren’t careful! ”

“ Pshaw ! ” Bronson’s hand strayed to his head again, as it always did when he was embarrassed. “ I see there’s no help for it, Henry. ‘ Efficiency ’ is the watchword of business to-day. I shall have to get one of those new-fangled automatic filing cabinets that give three clicks, walk across the room, and hand you just the paper you’ve whistled for.”

They both smiled at this flight of fancy, and with a cheerful word of farewell Bartlett took his ponderous way from his partner’s office to his own.

Left to himself, the head of the firm conscientiously restored his desk from its present state of chaos to the earlier state of chaos that it had enjoyed prior to the disturbing search for the Graham letters. That done, he bethought himself of a more congenial pastime.

He strolled over to the window, through which the afternoon sun was streaming brilliantly, fumbled in his pocket and drew forth a flat, oval box such as jewelers use. He opened it tenderly, then waved it gently to and fro so that the jewels within might catch the full brightness of the sunlight. He [6]

smiled lovingly at the crimson flames that darted from the facets of each ruby.

A tap at the door interrupted the fire-worshipper. He snapped the lid upon his flashing treasures, restored the case to his pocket, and called out a summons to enter.

The door opened slightly, a shock of red hair appeared in the aperture, and the piping voice of the office-boy made pronouncement.

“ Some’un to see you, sir. About a advertisement, he says.”

“ Show him in.”

There was no hint of perturbation in the sharp command. In this, one of the crises of his life, Jeremiah Bronson was perfect master of himself and his emotions; he merely flirted one hand to his necktie to make sure that it was straight, while the other shot to his head to see that the third wisp of hair — counting up from his forehead — was faithfully performing its appointed duty of concealing a particularly chilly piece of scalp. Then he was ready to interview his first butler.

The office-boy reappeared, followed by a tall, well-built man of perhaps thirty-five years, neatly [7]

dressed in a suit of some dark gray material, a carefully knotted, navy blue four-in-hand, a stiff collar, a quiet pair of socks, and well-polished black shoes. Mr. Bronson, from the corner of his eye, drew a swift impression of a subdued, respectful manner.

“Mr. Peters, sir! ” The office boy vanished.

Jerry Bronson, with ostentatious difficulty, recalled his rapt attention from the two-year-old business communication that had come first to hand.

“ Oh — yes. You have come to see me — ? ”

“ About your advertisement in this morning’s Herald, sir.” The man’s voice was pleasant and well-modulated.

“Exactly. Of course, you noted that I want a man only for the summer months? ”

“ Yes, sir. That would suit me very nicely, sir. My present employer is leaving for California, and he has asked me to come back to him when he returns in the fall.

“ Who is he? ”

“ Mr. Reginald McKittrick. A writer, sir.”

“He is willing, I presume, to recommend you? I should expect, of course, to know that.”

Peters silently produced an envelope from some hidden recess in the dark gray suit and handed it over with a slight bow. Bronson read the enclosed note at a glance, for it was brief and clear. It highly recommended the bearer, John Peters, as an honest and faithful servant who had been in the writer’s employ for five years, and it was signed, “ Reginald McKittrick.”

The broker looked up. “This seems quite satisfactory,” he said. “ What wages do you want? ”

“ One hundred dollars a month, sir.”

Mr. Bronson experienced the same agreeable sensation to which he thrilled when he scented a bargain in real estate. He had expected to pay at least a hundred and fifty, and he concealed his feelings with some trouble.

“That is not unreasonable,” he admitted. He leaned back in his chair, half-closed his eyes, and appeared lost in some abstruse calculation. He emerged to volunteer some information concerning himself. “ Um! There are five of us in the family — counting my little girl, Cicely, who is only eight and does not come to the table. Besides yourself, we keep a cook and housemaid.”

“ Will I be expected to do any outside work, sir? ”

“ Oh, no. The gardener does all that.”

“ Thank you, sir.”

“You say that Mr. McKittrick is expecting to leave for California: does that mean that you cannot come to me at once? ”

“He has tickets for to-morrow morning, sir. I think he would like me to spend the rest of the day in straightening up the apartment, but I could report to you any time the following day.”

^.Wednesday,” hazarded Jerry, and confirmed this shrewd guess by a glance at the calendar above his desk. At the same time he rose to his feet with an air of finality. “Very well, Peters. Consider yourself engaged, and take your things out to Claredale as early on Wednesday as you can manage.” He turned his back to his desk and scribbled a line or two. “ Here is my address. You can look up a convenient train for yourself.”

“ Very good, sir. I’m sure I hope you’ll be satisfied, sir.”

He was gone in an instant, shutting the door swiftly and silently behind him with a touch that Jerry hoped the office-boy might note.

The broker felt very well satisfied. The interview had been fifty per cent easier, and fifty dollars cheaper, than he had dared to hope, and as he looked back upon it, he could not help wishing that some other affairs of life might be settled half as quickly and as easily. Then his native business sense gave him a cautionary nudge.

“ Might as well check that reference,” he muttered, and reached for the telephone book.

He found McKittrick’s number without any difficulty, but his effort to get connected met with a steady response of “ don't answer ” from a curt central. He eventually gave it up, and as it was really past his time for the daily dash to the 4.50 train, he seized his hat and gloves and raced madly from the office. In a moment he was racing back twice as fast to secure his cane, an implement of social amenity that was still a novelty to him and that he was prone to forget in his more hurried moods.

Fifty minutes later he alighted from the train at Claredale and marched briskly across the station platform, inhaling deep draughts of the fresh country air and twirling the cane with the jauntiness peculiar to gentlemen of fifty-odd who are well-to- [11]

do and at peace with the world. A number of handsome automobiles were ranged against the platform, waiting upon their fortunate owners, and his attention was instantly caught by the familiar outlines of a dark blue touring-car and the still more familiar outlines of the charming young woman at its wheel.

“ Hello, Joan! This is very thoughtful of you.”

“ Hello, Cousin Jerry.” The girl opened the low door at her side and jumped lightly to the ground. “It has been so beastly hot that I thought you might appreciate a drive instead of your usual walk.”

She spoke with a faint but unmistakable English accent, an evidence of her nationality that was borne out by her fair hair, her blue eyes, and her exquisite complexion. She was exceedingly pretty, too, and made a delightful picture as she stood by the side of the blue car, her tall, slim figure arrayed in snowy white from the big floppy hat to the small canvas shoes.

“Hop in,” she said, “ — or do you want to drive? ”

Mr. Bronson preferred to hop in. She slipped into her place at the wheel, slammed the door behind her, and skilfully guided the blue car through a score of departing motors. There was an interlude of hairbreadth escapes and apologetic smiles, and then they were clear of the crowd and running smoothly along a shady boulevard.

“ This is bully! ” cried Jerry, and there was something almost boyish in the gesture with which he presently seized his stiff straw hat and tossed it into the tonneau of the car. “ Why didn’t you bring your Cousin Mary? ”

“ Bridge,” answered Joan tersely. “ At the club. With the Lathams.”

“ Oh. And why aren’t you there? ”

“ On a day like this? ” Her sweeping gesture might have been even more emphatic if she had not been compelled to keep one hand on the wheel. “ I had two sets with the Brownell boys, took a tub, and here I am.”

“ Well, I’m very glad you are! And Cicely? ”

“ At a children’s party.”

“Good for her! Are there any other items of local interest? ”

“ N-no, I don’t think so.” Then her pretty mouth suddenly hardened. “ Oh, yes ! Sidney telephoned just before I left that he would not be home until late.”

“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Bronson.

A little silence fell upon them.

Chapter Two SOME REFERENCES

THEY kept steadily on for ten miles. The boulevard had given place to a dusty country road, and the last villas of surburbia had been supplanted by a series of weather-beaten farmhouses before Joan took advantage of a cross-road to back and turn the big car.

“ Do we pick up your Cousin Mary? ”

“ No,” answered the girl. “ She expected the Lathams to run her home — and anyway she wouldn’t be ready yet. You know what the bridge crowd is when it gets a chance to settle down to work on a really nice June day in the country.”

“ You seem to have quarreled with bridge, Joan. I thought you rather liked it.”

“I do and I don’t,” she answered non-committally.

She had few secrets from her Cousin Jerry, of [15]

whom she was very fond, and she would have been glad to tell him in considerable detail just what it was she disliked about the game as played in Claredale. But loyalty to her Cousin Mary sealed her lips.

It is not unusual for a naturally broad-minded man to have one or two pet aversions, just as nonsuperstitious people who go out of their way to defy the lightning will nevertheless balk at passing under a ladder or raising an umbrella in the house. Thus Jerry Bronson, who was in most things tolerant to a fault, but who suddenly developed the fanaticism of a reformer when it came to the subject of gambling. He was frankly rabid on the question, and prepared to exhaust all the vilifying adjectives in Rogers Thesaurus to express his opinion of a man who sacrificed wantonly to the Goddess of Chance. He shared the inconsistency of some reformers too in that he would never admit, even to himself, that his own business had in it any element of speculation. He believed, like many a better man, that his successful coups owed nothing to luck but everything to his shrewdness and prescience. A tactless young man who had once argued [16]

with him to the contrary never forgot the experience. . . .

When Jerry moved to Claredale at his wife’s behest, there soon appeared slight suggestions of storm clouds on the matrimonial horizon. It so happened that bridge amounted to a craze that summer, and Mrs. Bronson, young, attractive, socially ambitious, discovered, in about five minutes, that her way into the hearts and boudoirs of the Claredale aristocracy ran via the cozy little card-room at the country club. Arose then the question of stakes, and Jerry was consulted. True to form, he gave a passable presentation of Mt. Pelee in a fit of eruption. True to form, Mrs. Bronson wept like Niagara Falls. The flood vanquished the volcano, and Jerry consented to her playing for points, “ provided they were small.”

Joan thought of these things as she drove the car homeward, and her reflections brought a bitter little smile to her lips. Small stakes! She had a vivid recollection of a bad twenty minutes in the club when a poor hand and a wretched partner had set her back exactly one month’s pocket-money; since then she had dexterously dodged, or refused, all in- [17]

vitations to the little green tables. But Mary. . . . No, she decidedly preferred not to discuss bridge in detail with her Cousin Jerry!

It was half past six when they drove snorting into the garage, and a question to the gardener, who hastened up, made it evident that Joan had not over-estimated the fascination of the game for her cousin. No, Mrs. Bronson was not home yet.

Secretly, Jerry was not displeased with the news. It meant that his wife was enjoying herself, and that, after all, was the reason for this new home at Claredale, for the new automobile of superior horsepower, for the new cane that trailed behind him as he walked to the house, and — confound him ! — for the butler whose shadow hung over their lives. It was pleasant to think that his wife’s happiness was already justifying these material and spiritual efforts on her behalf. . . .

He was confirmed in this complacent belief some twenty minutes later. He was in his room when the deep blast of a motor horn, the crunch of heavy tires on the gravel driveway, and the sound of laughing voices told him that the mistress of the house had returned. He stole to his window and cautiously [ 18]

looked down upon the group below. There were the two Latham women, with a Miss Willoughby, who was their guest, and there was his wife, quite the most cheerful and the prettiest and youngestlooking of them all. They stood talking and laughing for a few minutes, and he noticed that Mary lingered on the porch after the car had rolled off to wave a last farewell as it curved out the gate.

He hurried down to meet her in the front hall.

“ Evening, dear! Been having a good time? ”

“ Oh — fair.” She unpinned her hat slowly and laid it, together with her parasol, on a near-by chair. She was a slight, dark-haired woman, piquantly pretty, ten years younger than her husband, and for the moment, in the subdued light of the hall, ten years younger than that.

“ How did the game go? ”

“ Tiresomely. I had that awful Willoughby girl for a partner and she did her worst to ruin me.”

“Lose much?”

“ Oh, no. Just a trifle.”

Jerry gulped, but he was no Indian giver.

“ The luck of the game,” he observed airily. “ Part of the luck is the cards you draw, and part, [19]

your partner. The best reason for not playing bridge is the partner you get.”

“ Perhaps. . . .”

“ By the way, Mary, I engaged a butler this afternoon.”

“ Did you? ”

“ He seems a very decent sort of man. He’s due here the day after to-morrow — and now that I think of it, I must call up his present employer after dinner just to make sure that his references are in order. Will you remind me in case I forget? ”

“ All right, dear.”

He looked at her keenly, surprised that she did not show more interest in an affair that he had thought close to her heart.

“ What’s the matter, Mary? ” he asked. “ You seem a bit quiet.”

“ There’s nothing wrong with me, Jerry.” She flashed him a quick smile. “ Tired — and a little headachy perhaps.” She picked up her hat and parasol and was moving toward the stairway when he checked her.

“ Come into the library before you go up. Don’t let yourself give way like that. Wait and look. I [20]

have something to show you that may do your headache good.”

She followed him obediently, and, when he had switched on the electric light, he handed her the jeweller’s case that he had kept in his pocket. She took it with a little exclamation of pleasure.

“ Oh, Jerry! What’s in it? ”

“ Open it and see.”

She pressed the catch, and gave a soft cry of delight when the lid flew back and disclosed a handsome bracelet of rubies.

“Jerry! How darling! ” She slipped the jewels over her hand and caught the clasp about her wrist. “You are a dear — and a great deal too good for me.” She drew closer to him, put her arm through his, rested her head on his shoulder — and, for an instant, ten years were lifted from them both.

“ How’s the headache? ” he asked presently.

“ Gone ! ” She laughed up at him, then held out her arm and admired her new present. “ I’m going to keep it on, Jerry. The Stowells are coming in this evening after dinner — and I just want to show it off! ”

“ Of course! ” He smiled indulgently. “ Just as you wish, my dear, but be careful of it, and don’t forget to give it to me before you go to bed.”

“ I won’t forget,” she promised promptly, but something of the gaiety had gone from her voice, and a little of the sparkle from her eyes. “ Well, I suppose it’s time to get ready for dinner.” She glanced at the clock that stood on his desk. “ Is Sidney home yet? ”

The tone of the monosyllable caught her attention.

“ Isn’t he coming? ”

“ No. He ’phoned to Joan that he would be late getting out.”

“ Oh ! I do hope — ” She knitted her smooth brows and left the sentence unfinished. “ Do you suppose — ? ”

“ Certainly I suppose,” interrupted Jerry a little irritably. “ I am afraid that Sidney is getting in with a pretty fast crowd, and he seems to prefer their haunts to our home.”

“ And after all you’ve done for him! ”

“ I know.” His eyes grew thoughtful. “ Funny, isn’t it? You’d think he’d show a little more appre- [22]

ciation, considering that we’ve given him a home since he was a child. He knows that we’re both devoted to him — that we’d do anything we could for him, and if those things don’t mean anything to him there’s nothing more we can do. He’s twenty-three years old, and able to choose his own way of living.”

“ I wish he were more like Joan,” reflected Mrs. Bronson.

“ Oh — Joan is an unmigitated blessing!”

“ It’s a pity that Sidney doesn’t take more interest in her,” continued his wife musingly.

“ I’m devoutly thankful for her sake that he doesn’t! ” declared her husband, with as close an approach to savagery as his nature permitted.

“ Jerry ! Look at the time ! ” Mrs., Bronson ended the conversation by hurrying off to her room, and she had barely descended again when dinner was announced.

The meal was conscientiously, but awkwardly, served by a tall, dark, young Irish girl whose rather good-looking face was marred by a sullen expression that seldom lifted its shadow from her features, and as she was in the room most of the time, conver- [23]

sation languished. It rose to animation only for a few minutes while Joan was admiring the new bracelet, and again as Mrs. Bronson, making herself neat with a napkin, took advantage of Julia Shaughnessy’s momentary absence to breathe a pious hope that the coming butler would not pass the mayonnaise in such a thrusting fashion.

“ Julia means well, but she’s a little over zealous,” agreed Jerry Bronson mildly. “ I wish Pietro would spray those rose-bushes as earnestly as Julia sprays us with food.”

Dinner over, Joan and Mrs. Bronson departed for the veranda to await the expected guests while Jerry mixed himself a Scotch highball and repaired with it to the library, where he settled down to enjoy the drink and a cigarette.

There was a telephone against one wall of the room, and an extension instrument that stood, for convenience sake, on Bronson’s desk. His eye was caught by the latter, and it reminded him that he had a duty still to perform.

“ McKittrick ! He ought to be home by now.” The telephone book quickly gave him the number he sought. He called the number, and was pres- [24]

ently answered by a quiet, polite voice that he instantly recognized as that of John Peters.

“ Oh, is Mr. McKittrick there? ”

“ I will see, sir. Who shall I say? ”

“ Mr. Bronson.”

“ Oh, yes, Mr. Bronson. I will call him at once.” Jerry crossed his right leg over his left and waited. A minute or so passed. Jerry swapped legs and continued to wait. At last a crisp, clear greeting almost startled him by its unexpectedness.

“ Hello! ”

“ Ah — is this Mr. McKittrick? ”

“ Yes. Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you? ”

“I — er — called up in regard to your butler. He came to see me this afternoon — ”

“ Oh, yes. He told me he had another position in view.”

“ He showed me a reference from you. I suppose you will not mind confirming — ”

“ Certainly. Of course, he’s a fine fellow.”

“ Honest, I suppose? ”

“ Perfectly.”

“ Sober? ”

“ Absolutely. He has never watered a drop of my whisky in the five years he has been in my service.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Jerry, and added genially, “ I have still got something of a cellar.”

“ Lucky man ! ” said McKittrick, “ A rare blessing these days! Anything else I can tell you? ”

“ No. That’s all. Thank you very much.”

“ You know I want him back in October? Mind you take good care of him!”

“ I assure you I will keep him in cotton wool — ” began the broker a little stiffly.

“ Fine. Good-bye!”

The last word was almost lost in the click of the receiver as it was snapped up at the other end. Jerry Bronson hung up his own more deliberately, as became an elderly gentleman who felt as if he had just crossed teeth with a buzz-saw.

“ Abrupt chap, that,” he thought. “ But I suppose he’s busy packing — ”

He sauntered out to the veranda as the Stowells drove up to the door.

The next two hours passed quickly enough in laughter and gossip. Then the visitors said good- [26]

night, Joan vanished in the direction of bed, and Mrs. Bronson followed her more slowly.

Jerry stepped into the library for a last cigarette, and he considered it a remarkable piece of good fortune that his first glance should happen to rest on the small safe that stood in one corner of the room. It reminded him of something, and he stepped quickly back into the hall.

“Mary!” he called. “Oh, Mary!”

She turned at the head of the stairs. “Yes, Jerry? ”

“Your bracelet, dear! You forgot to give it to me after all! ”

“Oh — how stupid of me! ”

She descended half way to meet him.

“ I'm sorry,” she smiled. Good-night, dear — and thank you! ”

Bronson returned to the library, dangling the bracelet from one finger and enjoying its beauty and brilliancy. He had an inordinate passion for rubies, and as he had been gathering them and giving them to his wife upon every possible occasion during their ten years of married life, he already had a very handsome and valuable collection. They [27]

were always kept in the library safe, which, for its size, was remarkably strong and secure, and of which only he had the combination.