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lar. Innocently Warren was involved
in a case where a man was 'killed.
He played the part of the craven and
became a wanderer and a fugitive
from justice. Within a year the real
murderer died in prison, shouldering
the entire responsibility for the crime
and completely exonerating Warren.
His parents had then sought for
him everywhere, but their quest had
proved unavailing. The news of his
death in the cyclone was the final
grief that broke their hearts. Be
reaved, broken down by sorrow and
regret, no marvel was it that they be
came cynical, isolated and uncom
panionable. One evening a neighbor came into
the home of Mr. Martin on a brief
call., In the course of conversation
he brought up the subject of the un
social neighbor, with the remark:
"Friend of mine told me that this
Stevenson objects mightily to your
burning soft coal, Martin."
"Why, is that so?" 'queried Mr.
"Yes, he says that whenever the
wind is from the north It blows the,
soot in regular flakes' against his
house. It's just been painted white,-
and it s spoiling it, Of course, you
can't help that. You're hardly able
to afford anthracite at $10 a ton?"
"Maybe not," responded Martin, se
riously, "but I can be just, even if it
costs me Something. I never thought
of it before."
When he came to look at the side
of the Stevenson house Martin saw
that the soot had, indeed.'marred and
defaced it. Especially up Under the
eaves, the clapboards were grimed
with feathers of soot Acting on a
generous impulse he hailed his neigh
bor, who just happened to be coming
into the house.
"I say, Stevenson," spoke the blunt,
honest fellow, "I've just found out
that my soft coal is hurting your
property. I shall use .coke through
the rest of winter and first holiday
I'll get a ladder and give the side of
the house a good scrubbing."
' "Whythank you--I - must say
you are thoughtful and kind yes,
thank you," and Stevenson acted as
though this unusual courtesy of a
stranger fairly overcame him.
Before the opportunity to remedy
things came about, however, some
startling events transpired. One
morning Martin came out into the
yard to find a ladder taken from his
shed standing against the side of his
neighbor's house. The window of an
upper room was open. Mr. Steven
son was under a great strain of ex
citement. He declared that the house
had been burglarized.
"Was anything taken?" asked Mr.
"Why, not much," explained his
neighbor in a bewildered sort of way.
"The room the burglar got into is the
one my poor dead son ocupied. We
have left it just as it was when he
went away. Whoever broke into the
house opened a drawer where Warren
kept a few trifling things. A watch,
a revolver and some gold cuff links
are missing, but nothing else was
"That is singular," observed Mar
tin thoughtfully, and he went up the
ladder a step or two. "Why, say, Mr.
Stevenson," he called down to his
neighbor, "here is something queer."
"What is that?" was asked.
"In getting into the window the
burglar has left some hand marks on
"Why, yes, I can see it from here,"
replied the owner of the despoiled
"Right among that troublesome
black sootof mine," continued Mar
tin rather apologetically. "And, say,
why, hello! Whoever the fellow was
he's left a clue."
"What do you mean?"
"Hand prints show that he had
three short fingers on one hand
why, sir, what is the matter?"
Quickly the speaker descended the
ladder. With a sharp cry of enlight
enment Mr. Stevenson had started
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