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The elder sister, however, was plainly vexed at the mention of the beauty doctor's name at all, and she showed it. Kennedy made a mental note of the matter, but refrained from saying any more about it. "I suppose there is no objection to my seeing Doctor Haynes?" asked Kennedy, rising and changing the subject. "None whatever," returned Mrs. Blakeley.
There was one other, a lad named Blakeley from New Jersey. But he was so badly wounded, by a bayonet thrust from a German, that his death was only a question of minutes. He managed, before he passed away, to whisper a message to his loved ones at home, and this Jimmy Blaise undertook to send by letter.
What draws me to him, even at this distance, is that he seems to have little of the Puritan in him, as there is too apt to be in prosecutors who convict, and push their victims within prison doors. And he is another chapter of the story. But I don't know Blakeley; I can't describe him, I can't interpret him, and I haven't the time nor the opportunity just now to become acquainted with him.
The guns of the parked batteries gave back the light, the colours seemed silken and fine, the very sunrise gun had a sonorousness lacking to Chew's Blakeley, or to McLaughlin's six-pounders, and the bugles blowing reveille a silvery quality most remarkable. As for the smoke from the camp-fires "Lord save us!" said Harris, "I believe they're broiling partridges! Of all the dandy places!"
He hasn't begun to tell it." I would have given a lot by that time if I had not mentioned the girl. But McKnight took it up there and carried it on. "Blakeley is a regular geyser," he said. "He never spouts until he reaches the boiling point. And by that same token, although he hasn't said much about the Lady of the Wreck, I think he is crazy about her. In fact, I am sure of it.
But there were certainly no freckles on either of the girls' faces now, either. "Oh, mother," remonstrated Cynthia, "it couldn't be anything Doctor Chapelle did." "Doctor Chapelle?" repeated Kennedy. "Yes, Dr. Carl Chapelle," replied Mrs. Blakeley. "Perhaps you have heard of him. He is quite well known, has a beauty-parlor on Fifth Avenue. He " "It's ridiculous," cut in Cynthia, sharply.
Few of our men left. Captain Blakeley killed and brought below. Our mizzen down. The enemy's fire slacking again. The enemy sheering off, with the look of being sinking. The enemy sinking. We cannot help him. Most of our men are dead. All of us living are badly hurt." And there the entries came to an end.
When the dinner had progressed from salmon to roast, and the conversation had done the same thing from fish to scandal the yellow gown turned to me. "We have been awfully good, haven't we, Mr. Blakeley?" she asked. "Although I am crazy to hear, I have not said 'wreck' once. I'm sure you must feel like the survivor of Waterloo, or something of the sort."
Taking Chapelle, who by this time was in a high state of excitement over both the death and the discovery, Kennedy hurried to the Blakeley mansion, stopping only long enough to telephone to Doctor Haynes and his son. Evidently the news had spread. Cynthia Blakeley met us in the hall, half frightened, yet much relieved.
Cynthia moved over and drew her arms about the convulsed figure of her mother. "Some one else knew of this old marriage of Stuart Blakeley," proceeded Kennedy, "knew of Reba Rinehart, knew that she might die at any moment. But until she died none of the Blakeleys could be entirely sure of their fortune."
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