The Golden Slipper | Page 3

two years before, into a coterie of five, called
The Inseparables. They lunched together, rode together, visited together.
So close was the bond and their mutual dependence so evident, that it
came to be the custom to invite the whole five whenever the size of the
function warranted it. In fact, it was far from an uncommon occurrence
to see them grouped at receptions or following one another down the
aisles of churches or through the mazes of the dance at balls or
assemblies. And no one demurred at this, for they were all handsome
and attractive girls, till it began to be noticed that, coincident with their

presence, some article of value was found missing from the
dressing-room or from the tables where wedding gifts were displayed.
Nothing was safe where they went, and though, in the course of time,
each article found its way back to its owner in a manner as mysterious
as its previous abstraction, the scandal grew and, whether with good
reason or bad, finally settled about the person of Miss Driscoll, who
was the showiest, least pecuniarily tempted, and most dignified in
manner and speech of them all.
Some instances had been given by way of further enlightenment. This
is one: A theatre party was in progress. There were twelve in the party,
five of whom were the Inseparables. In the course of the last act,
another lady--in fact, their chaperon--missed her handkerchief, an
almost priceless bit of lace. Positive that she had brought it with her
into the box, she caused a careful search, but without the least success.
Recalling certain whispers she had heard, she noted which of the five
girls were with her in the box. They were Miss Driscoll, Miss Hughson,
Miss Yates, and Miss Benedict. Miss West sat in the box adjoining.
A fortnight later this handkerchief reappeared--and where? Among the
cushions of a yellow satin couch in her own drawing-room. The
Inseparables had just made their call and the three who had sat on the
couch were Miss Driscoll, Miss Hughson, and Miss Benedict.
The next instance seemed to point still more insistently toward the lady
already named. Miss Yates had an expensive present to buy, and the
whole five Inseparables went in an imposing group to Tiffany's. A tray
of rings was set before them. All examined and eagerly fingered the
stock out of which Miss Yates presently chose a finely set emerald. She
was leading her friends away when the clerk suddenly whispered in her
ear, "I miss one of the rings." Dismayed beyond speech, she turned and
consulted the faces of her four companions who stared back at her with
immovable serenity. But one of them was paler than usual, and this
lady (it was Miss Driscoll) held her hands in her muff and did not offer
to take them out. Miss Yates, whose father had completed a big "deal"
the week before, wheeled round upon the clerk. "Charge it! charge it at
its full value," said she. "I buy both the rings."

And in three weeks the purloined ring came back to her, in a box of
violets with no name attached.
The third instance was a recent one, and had come to Mr. Driscoll's
ears directly from the lady suffering the loss. She was a woman of
uncompromising integrity, who felt it her duty to make known to this
gentleman the following facts: She had just left a studio reception, and
was standing at the curb waiting for a taxicab to draw up, when a small
boy--a street arab--darted toward her from the other side of the street,
and thrusting into her hand something small and hard, cried
breathlessly as he slipped away, "It's yours, ma'am; you dropped it."
Astonished, for she had not been conscious of any loss, she looked
down at her treasure trove and found it to be a small medallion which
she sometimes wore on a chain at her belt. But she had not worn it that
day, nor any day for weeks. Then she remembered. She had worn it a
month before to a similar reception at this same studio. A number of
young girls bad stood about her admiring it-- she remembered well who
they were; the Inseparables, of course, and to please them she had
slipped it from its chain. Then something had happened,--something
which diverted her attention entirely,--and she had gone home without
the medallion; had, in fact, forgotten it, only to recall its loss now.
Placing it in her bag, she looked hastily about her. A crowd was at her
back; nothing to be distinguished there. But in front, on the opposite
side of the street, stood a club-house, and in one of its windows she
perceived a solitary figure looking out. It was that of