“Oh, the best you’ve got,” said Duncan, instantly interested; and, until it was time to dress for dinner, the two were deep in absorbed consultation.

Duncan was whistling as he went upstairs to dress, and his stepmother was apparently in high spirits.  But twenty minutes later, when he found her in the library, there was a complete change.  Her eyes were worried, her whole manner distressed, and her voice sharp.  She looked up from a telegram as he came in.

“I’ve just had a wire from an old friend in New York,” said she, “and I want you to telephone the answer for me, will you, Duncan?  I’ve not a moment to spare.  I shall have to leave for New York at the earliest possible minute.  After you’ve telephoned the wire, will you find out about the trains from South Station?  And get my ticket and reservation, will you?  Or send Paul for them—­whatever’s quickest.”

Duncan hardly recognized her.  Her hesitation was gone, her diffidence gone.  She did not even look at him as she spoke; his scowl passed entirely unnoticed.  He stood coldly disapproving.

“I don’t really see how you can go,” he began.  “Mrs. Gregory—­”

“Yes, I know!” she agreed hastily.  “I telephoned.  She hadn’t come in yet, so I had to make it a message—­simply that Mrs. Coppered couldn’t manage it tomorrow.  She’ll be very angry, of course.  Duncan, would it save any time to have Paul take this right to the telegraph station—­”

“Surely,” Duncan interrupted in turn, “you’re not going to rush off—­”

“Oh, surely—­surely—­surely—­I am!” she answered, fretted by his tone.  “Don’t tease me, dear boy!  I’ve quite enough to worry over!  I--I”—­she pushed her hair childishly off her face—­“I wish devoutly that your father was here.  He always knows in a second what’s to be done!  But—­but fly with this telegram, won’t you?” she broke off suddenly.

Duncan went.  The performance of his errand was not reassuring.  The telegram was directed to Philip Penrose, at the Colonial Theatre, and read: 

Will be with you this evening.  Depend on me.  Heartsick at news.  Margaret.

When he went upstairs again, he rapped at his stepmother’s door.  Hatted, and with a fur coat over her arm, she opened it.

“Are you taking Fanny?” said Duncan, icily.  Fanny, the maid, middle-aged, loyal, could be trusted with the honor of the Coppereds.

“Heavens, no!” said Mrs. Coppered, vigorously.

“Then I hope you will not object to my escort,” said the boy, flushing.

If he meant it for reproach, it missed its mark.  Mrs. Coppered’s surprised look became doubtful, finally changed to relief.

“Why, that’s very sweet of you, Duncan,” she said graciously, “especially as I can’t tell you what I’m going for, my dear, for it may not occur.  But I think, of all people in the world, you’re the one to go with me!”

Duncan eyed her severely.