Chapter 2

The car had stopped at a Georgian house of red brick, with white-painted
and carved doors and windows whose beauty, as Tony expressed it, “put
out your eye.” The front of the house faced on a narrow street, but the
rear door looked out over a garden surrounded by a box hedge, and it was
at the gate of this garden that the car had stopped.

Above the gate hung a placard. On it in huge black letters was
proclaimed:

TO BE SOLD AT AUCTION
ALL THE CONTENTS OF THIS HOUSE
KNOWN AS THE KENT-OLIPHANT HOUSE
RARE FURNITURE AND SILVER NOT
HITHERTO OFFERED
SALE BEGINS AT TEN O’CLOCK

“There, Midget, isn’t that reason enough for bringing you down?”

“More than reason.” Mrs. Bleecker’s face wore a look of ecstasy. She had
two important concerns in life—her son and her collection of antiques.
And she knew something of the Kent-Oliphant house, its inaccessibility
to would-be purchasers, the value of its contents. She asked with
eagerness, “How does it happen they are selling?”

“The father is ill. He has been sent to Colorado, and his wife has gone
with him. They had to have money for the trip. I understand the house is
mortgaged to the limit, so there was nothing to do but raise money on
the old things.”

Mrs. Bleecker’s eyes were darting from one group to another. “There are
a lot of dealers. You were a dear, Tony, to have me down.” Her fingers
rested lightly on the gold braid of his sleeve. “I wouldn’t have missed
it for worlds.”

People were already beginning to gather in the garden—all kinds of
people: bargain hunters from the big cities, who knew what they wanted;
motorists, staying over out of curiosity to see others buy; neighbors in
the old town, stiff with indignation at a Fate which permitted such
things to be—the neighbors who had for two generations resented the
withdrawal of the Oliphants from the social life of the town, but who
were none the less loyal to old associations and to old traditions.

There were, too, the dealers, keen, alert, knowing that here were
treasures almost beyond price. “I’ve had my eye on this house for
years,” one of them was telling another, “but I never really hoped that
the moment would come when I’d get a chance at it. There’s an Adams
fire-screen that’s worth its weight in gold, and a pair of Empire pieces
that would make your mouth water. They’re the kind of people who would
starve before they’d sell, but they’ve had to come to it.”

The auctioneer was at hand. Several pieces of furniture had been brought
out and set in the garden, other and smaller articles were still in the
house, and the auctioneer’s men were showing them. Tony’s party
attracted much attention—the tall young officer in his lieutenant’s
uniform, the small mother in coat and close helmet of orchid cloth, the
silvery girl who shone in the morning sun.

“There’s Michael McMillan,” Marty said, suddenly. “I might have known
he’d be here.”

She went toward a table on which a slender, dark man sat swinging a
foot. He turned at the sound of his name and got down.

“Marty, my dear girl, where did you come from?”

“Baltimore, with Mrs. Bleecker. We ran over from New York last night. Do
you know Jane Bleecker? Well, come on and meet her.”

Presenting him, Marty said, “He’s a fiend for old things, Jane. You and
he will probably be deadly enemies before you get through with the
bidding.”

“I’m sure you’ll remember that satisfying slogan ‘ladies first,’ Mr.
McMillan.” Mrs. Bleecker’s manner was appealing. She was a hard little
person, but she had a melting way at certain moments.

But this time the appeal fell on barren ground. “I have absolutely no
gallantry,” McMillan stated, “where my hobby is concerned. I have marked
three things on my list. I intend to have them, unless you get them over
my dead body.”

“Three things? What are they?”

He flashed an amused glance at her. “If you knew, you’d be prepared.
Perhaps you won’t want them, so why borrow trouble?”

He left them to speak to one of the auctioneer’s men, and as Mrs.
Bleecker moved toward the house, she asked Marty, “Who is he?”

“He is,” Marty explained, “the famous editor of a famous magazine. Young
at that. In his early thirties. His wife died several years ago. They
were not happy. I think she was a cold little cat. Since then he has had
very little to do with women. He’d be lionized if he’d let himself be.
But he keeps to himself and spends his spare time at sales like this. He
is always in the hunt for old silver, and he has a lot of it. I met him
on a Mediterranean cruise. And we got to be rather good friends.”

Mrs. Bleecker turned a little and took another look: “Rich?”

“He hasn’t millions, if that’s what you mean. He’s not a bloated
plutocrat like you, Jane.”

“I’m not a bloated anything, Marty. And I’m not afraid of your
McMillans.” She went on, smiling, “Let’s go into the house, Tony. And do
get me a list.”

As they entered the drawing-room, they saw that it had been stripped of
hangings and that its rugs were rolled up. The things that were to be
sold were set about the floor, or laid out on tables. On the mantelpiece
was a pair of silver candlesticks, somewhat ornate, but delightful with
their rose-garlands and cupids, their floating ribbons.

Mrs. Bleecker at once went toward them. “Look those candlesticks up on
the list, Tony,” she said, “I want them.”

At the sound of her voice, a girl who was the only other occupant of the
room, turned her head slightly and listened. She evidently belonged to
the house, for she wore no hat. Her hair thus revealed had copper lights
in it and was wound about her head so that it made a close and burnished
cap. Her skin was milk-white against the almond green of a shabby
slip-on sweater.

Tony, studying the list, said, “They were a gift from Lafayette to a
certain Peter Kent.”

“Who was Peter Kent?”

From the other side of the room the girl spoke: “He was my
great-great-grandfather on my grandmother’s side.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Bleecker lifted her lorgnette, “are you one of the family?”

“I am Virginia Oliphant.”

“I’d like to hear more about the candlesticks. Do you mind telling me?”

“Not at all.”

She crossed the room and joined them, standing next to Marty Van Duyne,
and Anthony, seeing her thus, was suddenly aware that her vivid beauty
dulled Marty’s silver shine as the light of the sun dulls the moon.

So this was Virginia Oliphant. Anthony had heard of her. Who hadn’t in
Annapolis? Men did not call on her. Midshipmen, officers, civilians,
they were all shut out. She had, indeed, become a sort of legend in the
town, like the sleeping princess in the fairy tale—someone to wonder
about, a mystery maiden.