Murders in, Volume 2 by Elizabeth Daly Page B

we had great fun over some of the types at that wedding. Do you know him, Mr. Gamadge?”
    â€œHardly at all.”
    â€œHe was a lovely child, and now he is really beautiful. I hope Clara Dawson is not going to neglect him. I hope she appreciates him properly.”
    â€œAngela Morton won’t like supporting them both,” said her mother. “I had an idea she wanted Clara for Dick. In that case, they could very well have lived on their Vauregard legacies, put together. I wonder how poor old Imbrie Vauregard is getting on, by the way—he must be ninety. We haven’t seen anything of him for ages. How long ago was it, Posy, that he gave that tea party, or coffee party, and left you out?”
    â€œPerfect ages. He only likes very young girls, you know.”
    Considering Miss Dykinck’s own expressed preferences, Gamadge thought that this remark might have been made with less acerbity. He said: “I give parties myself, once in a while. I hope I shall be able to persuade you into coming, some afternoon.”
    â€œWho chaperones for you?” inquired Mrs. Dykinck.
    â€œI wish you would, Mrs. Dykinck!”
    â€œNonsense. I am thankful to say that my chaperoning days are over.”
    â€œMiss Vauregard might take on this party.”
    â€œShe would do quite well. Robina Vauregard has a good deal of sense, I always thought.”
    â€œOld Mr. Vauregard told me, in connection with this book I think of writing, that an ancestor of yours was a great friend of his grandparents. I hoped you might have letters.”
    â€œSo that’s what you came to find! Cornelia Dykinck was my great-aunt.” Mrs. Dykinck’s white, ringed hand stretched out towards the rosewood box. “We are not a letter-saving family, I am sorry to say, especially of recent years; but there are some—”
    A bell jangled in the depths of the house. Mrs. and Miss Dykinck became alert, and waited in silence until the ancient parlormaid appeared panting in the doorway.
    â€œMiss Rose’s hair tonic.” She advanced, a white package in her hand, and placed it within the outstretched fingers of the old lady. Mrs. Dykinck examined it from all angles, and then gave it to her daughter.
    â€œPut it in my room, Anna,” said Miss Dykinck. Anna retired, and Mrs. Dykinck opened the rosewood box.
    â€œThese are the only old letters we have,” she said. “I went over the bundles this morning, and my daughter says that there is nothing you ought not to see.”
    â€œIn your part of the book,” said Gamadge, “I shan’t be dealing with any period after 1840.”
    â€œThen you may borrow these two packets. We expect you to be most discreet, Mr. Gamadge; nothing must be published, or even alluded to, without our express permission.”
    â€œI shouldn’t think of it,” said Gamadge, taking the letters, and wondering whether he wouldn’t have to write the confounded thing, after all.
    â€œI thought you might care to use some of these.” Mrs. Dykinck, evidently rather eager and fluttered, produced a small heap of daguerreotypes from the box, their cases in the usual state of disrepair. Gamadge opened one, and gazed mournfully at the vanishing and ghostly countenance of the Dykinck within. He said they might prove valuable.
    â€œYou may not be aware that my daughter Rose is the last of the Dykincks; she is not sure whether she would care to have her picture in your book; historically, it might be of interest.”
    â€œI hope I may have a photograph?”
    â€œThere’s rather a good one,” said Miss Dykinck, “but it’s rather old.”
    â€œSend it to me, if you will.” Gamadge, who had been feeling more and more of a brute, comforted himself by reflecting that the Dykincks seemed inclined to purchase immortality rather cheap. “By the way,” he continued, “old Mr. Vauregard spoke of two little presentation