How to Dope a Dowager

Showing that, if You Can Get By at Tea, You Can Get Away with Anything

"ONE can always tell a gentleman," announced Mrs. Burnleigh-Mapes, Aunt Maude, with an air of finality, "because—well, one always can!"

She was pouring tea for us in the shade of the wonderful old trees which almost justified the banality of her Lenox estate's name—"The Maples". Of course, we were discussing the Hawkesworth jewel robbery at Bar Harbor. The morning papers had quoted a famous detective's theory that the crime was committed by a sort of society "Raffles". The girls—especially Angela— had been fascinated by the idea of a "gentleman-burglar"; and a rather intricate discussion had started as to the possibility of a professional burglar being able to pass himself off on people of culture—like ourselves, for instance—as a gentleman. Which brings us back to Aunt Maude's opening remark— to which I promptly took exception.

"I'm after facts," I insisted. "You all think you could instantly spot a gentleman. How do you women tell, anyway?"

"In a thousand ways," said Angela decidedly. "He must have the fundamentals, if you know what I mean, but it's the seemingly little things that really count. In the first place, a gentleman never juggles his tea-things for ten minutes and then ends by spreading them on the grass as if he were at a picnic. He needn't be handsome—but he has a—a—look-"

"That's definite," I murmured.

"He can talk on any subject—art, literature, plays, interesting people. He—he understands one-"

"I know what Angela means," broke in Mary Withers, who is as experienced as Angela isn't, "and Mrs. Burnleigh-Mapes meant the same. We women can't be fooled; we know a gentleman instinctively!"

"Resign, old man, resign before you're fired," said Monty Gates placidly. "When they begin the Instinct versus Reason stuff, it's the cue for a sensible man to exit gracefully."

Just then Parkes, the butler, crossed the lawn with a card in his hand.

"Mr. Michael Stanways," read Aunt Maude. "Now, who-"

"Beg pardon, madam," said Parkes, "he is an English gentleman who knew Mr. Peter in France, and he says Mr. Peter invited him for the week-end. He was most upset on hearing Mr. Peter was in Canada, and wished to leave, but I suggested, madam, that if he could speak with you for a moment-"

"How exasperatingly like Peter!" exclaimed Aunt Maude. Peter was her son, I may explain. "He's always asking people up and forgetting to tell me! Dashing off to Canada, and leaving me to—" grumbling, she followed Parkes to the house.

"Michael Stanways!" repeated Angela. "Doesn't he sound like a younger son, Mary? I always wanted to meet one."

"The gardener's younger son is Michael," I suggested. "But we call him Mike."

AUNT MAUDE soon returned with Mr. Michael Stanways in tow. I must admit he was most presentable, and went through the ordeal of introductions gracefully.

"It's like a bit of home, dear Mrs. Burnleigh-Mapes," he said, "to be having tea under the trees like this. One could fancy oneself back in Devonshire."

Aunt Maude succumbed instantly. She loves to be thought British. They talked of Peter—Stanways referring to him by the name only his most intimate friends and Town Topics use—and then he devoted himself to Angela.

I suddenly realized that he was quoting George Moore to Angela—and that she recognized it! Tea over, they strolled away with Angela listening, starry-eyed, to that sophisticated artistic and literary patter she loves so.

It was the same at dinner. He simply rushed her off her feet. When I finally got hold of her at the Bristow's dance, all she could talk of was Michael Stanways.

"He's perfectly fascinating," she insisted. "He's been everywhere—he knows everyone —he's read everything-—and he is a younger son! He was with Peter in France, and when he was at the front he was gassed-"

"I think you've been, Angela," I interrupted rudely. As the evening wore on I discovered Angela was missing, and so was Stanways. Aunt Maude said Angela had a headache and Stanways had taken her home. It was pretty late when we reached the house. There wasn't a sign of either of them. I had hardly got to my room when I heard Aunt Maude shrieking. There was a rush of sleepy servants and terrified guests, and Aunt Maude was discovered in a state of collapse, while her room looked as if a cyclone had struck it. Though my aunt is large, she can't possibly wear all the famous Burnleigh-Mapes jewels at once, and tonight she had worn her diamonds—leaving the emeralds and pearls in the wall-safe, which now stood open—and empty!

Suddenly a thought struck me. Where was Angela? I dashed down the hall to her door, and, my pounding upon it meeting no response, I burst it open and entered. There lay Angela, sound asleep through all the racket and confusion—sound asleep because she had been drugged!

IT was three weeks before Angela would see me—she was ill from shock, of course, but it was mostly hurt pride. Then she told me that she had had a slight headache, and Stanways persuaded her to go home, where they could talk quietly. Parkes admitted them. All the servants, except Aunt Maude's maid, had gone to bed. They talked a moment—the Hawkesworth robbery was mentioned and Stanways turned the conversation to Aunt Maude's wonderful jewels. Unwittingly Angela gave him information as to the room, position of the safe, etc. Stanways said he was thirsty and rang for Parkes to bring them something. He manipulated the glasses and decanter himself, and it was then he doped Angela, for after her first sip she began to feel queer, and stupidly sleepy. Stanways suggested he call Aunt Maude's maid to help her. This got the maid out of Aunt Maude's room, and when she finished with Angela she went downstairs to wait, so Stanways got away.

"But," Angela wailed. "How could he only pretend to know so much—to be so interesting and attractive—so gentlemanly?"

"The detectives found he had been employed at the Racquet Club," I explained, "where he got all his intimate dope. As for the impression of culture he gave, he trained himself for it systematically. You know the police said when they searched his room they found file after file of Vanity Fair.

K. D.