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DESTROYING ANGEL By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE CHAPTER XVII—Continued. —20— At six that evening, returning to his rooms to dress, Whitaker found an other note waiting for him, In a hand writing that his heart recognized with a sensation of wretched apprehension. He comprehended Its contents with difficulty, half blinded by a swimming mist of foreboding. My Dear: I And my strength unequal to the strain of seeing you tonight. In deed. I am so worn out and nerve-racked that I have had to consult my physician. He orders me Immediately to a sanato rium, to rest for a week or two. Don't worry about me. I shan't fall to let you know as soon as I feel strong enough to see you. Forgive me. I love you dearly. MARY. The paper slipped from Whitaker's trembling hand and fluttered unheed ed to the floor. He sprang to the tele phone and presently had the Waldorf on the wire ; It was true, he learned : Mrs. Whitaker had registered at the hotel In the morning, and had left at four in the afternoon. He was refused Information as to whether she had left a forwarding address for her mall. He wrote her immediately, and per haps not altogether wisely, under stress of distraction, sending the let ter by special delivery in care of the hotel. It was returned him In due course of time, embellished with a pen ciled memorandum to the effect that Mrs. Whitaker hud left no address. He communicated at once with Em ber, promptly enlisting his willing services. But after several days of earnest Investigation the detective confessed himself baffled. "If you ask me," he commented at the conclusion of his report, "the an swer is she means to be let alone until she's quite ready to see you again." Whitaker raged. "She—she loved me there on the island. She couldn't change so quickly, bring herself to treat me so cruelly, unless some in fernal Influence had been brought to 1 bear upon her." "It's possible, but I—" "Oh, I don't mean that foolishness about her love being a man's death warrant. That may have something to do with It, but—but—I conquered that once. . . . No ; somebody has got hold of her, worked on her sym pathies, maligned me . . ." "Do you object to telling me whom you have In mind?" "The man you suspect as well as I— the one man to whom her allegiance means everything—the man you named to me the night we met for the first time, as the one who'd profit the most by keeping her from leaving the stage 1" "Well, if It's Mux, you'll know In time." 6 "I'll know before long. As soon as he gets back In town—" "So you've been after him?" "Why not? But he's out on the Pa cific coast ; or so they tell me at the theater. Expected back about the middle of July—they say in his office." "Then that lets him out." "But It's a lie." "Well—?" "I've Just remembered : Max was at the FIske place, urging her to return, the night before you caught Drum mond at the bungalow. I saw them, walking up and down In front of the cottage, arguing earnestly: I could tell by her bearing she was refusing whatever he proposed. But I didn't know her then, and naturally I never connected Max with the fellow I saw, disguised In a motoring coat and cap. Neither of 'em had any place In my thoughts that night." Ember uttered a thoughtful "Oh?" adding: "There may be something in what you say—suspect, that Is. If I agree to keep an eye on him, will you promise to give me a free hand?" "Meaning—?" "Keep out of Max's way: don't risk a wrangle with him." "Oh—go ahead—to blazes—as far as you like. "Thanks, Ember dryly wound up the conference ; "but these passing flirtations with your present-day tem per leave me with no hunkering for greater warmth." . . . Days ran stolidly on Into weeks, and these into a month. Nothing happened. ( Max did not return ; the whispered mor played wildfire in theatrical cir cles that the eccentric manager had encountered financial difficulties Insu perable. The billboards flanking the entrance to the Theatre Mux contin ued to display posters announcing the reopening early In September with musical comedy by Tynan Dodd; but the comedy was not even in rehearsal by September 15. Ember went darkly about his vari ous businesses, taciturn—even a trace more than ever reserved In his com munication with Whitaker—preoccu pied, but constant In his endeavor to enhearten the desponding husband. Mary Whitaker made no sign. Now and then Whitaker would lose patience and write to her. He received not a line of acknowledgment Sometimes, fretted to a frenzy, he sought out Ember and made wild and unreasonable demands upon him. These failing of any effect other than ru the resigned retort, "I am a detective, not a miracle-monger," he would fly Into desperate, gnawing, black rages that made Ember fear for h's sanity and self-control and caused him to be haunted by that gentleman for hours— once or twice for days—until he re sumed his normal poise of a sober and civilized man. He was, however, not often aware of this sedulous esplo nage. CHAPTER XVIII. Temperamental. September waned and October dawned In grateful coolness: an exqui site month of crisp nights and enliven ing days, of mellowing sunlight and early gloamings tenderly colored. Country houses were closed and the aters reopened. Then suddenly the town blossomed overnight with huge eight-sheet posters on every available boarding, blazoning the news: JULES MAX begs to announce the return of SARA LAW In a new Comedy entitled "Faith" by JULES MAX Theater MAX—Friday October 15th But Whitaker had the Information before he saw the broadsides In the streets. The morning paper propped up on his breakfast table contained the Illuminating note tinder the cap tion, "News of Plays and Players;" Jules Max bas sprung another ai.cl per haps his greatest surprise on the theater going public of this city. The astute manager has been out of town for two months secretly rehearsing the new com edy entitled "Faith," of which he Is the author and In which Sara Law will re turn finally to the stage. Additional In terest attaches to this announcement In view of the fact that Miss Law has au thorized the publication of her Intention never again to retire from the stage. The opening performance of "Faith" will take place at the Theater Max to morrow evening, Friday, October 15. Whitaker glanced up incredulously at the date line of the sheet. Short notice, Indeed: the date was Thursday, ' /: ' 36 n m I I 1 i 1 / l| He . . . Turned and Saw His Wife. October 14. Max had planned his game and had played his cards cun ningly, in withholding this announce ment until the last moment. After a pause Whitaker rose and be gan to walk the length of the room, hands In his pockets, head bowed In thought. Search as he would, he could dis cover no rankling Indignation, nothing but some self-contempt, that he had allowed himself to be so carried away by Infatuation for an Ignoble woman, and a cynic humor that made It pos sible for him to derive a certain satis faction from contemplating the com pleteness of this final revelation of herself. Returning to the breakfast table, he took up the paper, turned to the shipping news, and ran his eye down the list of scheduled sailings: nothing for Friday; his pick of half a dozen boats listed to sail Saturday. The telephone enabled him to make a hasty reservation on the biggest and fastest of them all. He had just concluded that business and was waiting with his hand on the receiver to call up Ember and nounce his departure, when the door bell Interrupted. Expecting the waiter to remove the breakfast things, he went to the door, threw it open, and turned back Instantly to the telephone. As his fingers closed around the celver a second time, he looked round and saw his wife. . . . His hand fell to his side. Otherwise he did not move. But his glance was that of one incuriously comprehending the existence of a stranger. The woman met it fairly and fear lessly, with her head high and her Ups touched with a trace of her shadowy, illegible smile, walking, very prettily and perfectly. After a moment she Inclined her head slightly. "The hallboys said you were busy on the telephone. I insist ed on coming directly up. I wish very much to see you for a few moments. Do yon mind?" "By no means," he said, a little stiffly but quite calmly. "If you will be good enough to come In—" He stood against the wall to let her pass. "I had to come this morning," she explained, turning. "This afternoon we have a rehearsal. . . ." an re She was dressed for bowed an acknowledgment. Seated, she subj«»cted He "Won't you sit down?" "Thank you. f him to a quick, open arming In Its naive honesty. "Hugh . . . aren't you a bit thln ner?" "1 believe so." He had a match for that Impertinence; "But you, I see, have come off without a blemish." "I am very well," she admitted, un perturbed. Her glance embraced the room. "You're very comfortable here." "I have been." "I hope that doesn't mean Fm In the way." "To the contrary; but I sail day after tomorrow for Australia." "Oh? That's very sudden, isn't It? You don't seem to have done any pack ing. Or perhaps you mean to come back before a great while?" "I shan't come back, ever." "Must I believe you made up your mind this morning?" "I have only Just read the announce ment of your opening tomorrow night." "Then ... I am driving you out of the country?" Her look was Impersonal and curl appraisal, dl» OU8. His shoulders moved negligently, "Not to rant about lt," he replied: "I find I am not needed here." "Oh, dear !" Her lips formed a fu gitive, petulant moue: "And It's my fault?" "There's no use mincing matters, Is there? I am not heartbroken, and If I am bitterly disappointed I don't care to—in fact, I lack the ability to drama tize It." "You are taking It well, Hugh?" said she, critical. Expressionless, he waited an instant before inquiring pointedly: "Well?" Deliberately laying aside her light muff, her scarf and handbttg, she rose: equality of poise was impossible If he would persist in standing. She moved a little nearer. "Hugh," she said In a voice of sin cerity, "I'm awfully sorry—truly I am I" He made no reply ; waited. "Perhaps I'm wrong," she went on, "but I think most women would have spared themselves this meeting—" "Themselves and the man," he In terjected dryly. "Don't be cross, Hugh. ... I had to come. I had to explain myself. I wanted you to understand. Hugh, I—" She was twisting her hands together with a manner denoting great mental strain. Of a sudden she checked and dropped them, limp and open by her sides. You see," she said with the apologetic smile, "I'm trying not to act." "Oh." he said in a tone of dawning comprehension—"so that's it l" "I'm afraid so, Hugh. . . . I'm dreadfully sorry for you—poor boy I— but I'm afraid that's the trouble with me, and it can never be helped. I was born with a ta;eut for acting; life has made me an actress. Hugh . . , I've found out something." appealed wistfully. Ine." He nodded interestedly. "I'm just an actress, an instrument for the music of emotions. I've been trained to respond, until now I re spond without knowing it, when there's no true response here." She touched I the bosom of her frock. He said nothing. With a half sigh she moved away to the window. "Of course you despise me. I de spise myself—I mean, the self that was me before I turned from a woman into an actress. But It's the truth: I have no longer any real capacity for emotion, merely an infinite capacity for appreciation of the artistic delinea tion of emotion, true or feigned. That . . . that Is why, when you showed me you had grown to love me so, I responded so quickly. You were in love—more honestly than I had ever seen love revealed. It touched me. I I was proud to have inspired such a love. I wanted, for the time being, to have you with me always, that I might always study the wonderful, the beautiful manifestations of your love. Why, Hugh, you even managed to make me believe I was worth It—that my response was sufficient repayment for your adoration. . . ." He said nothing. She glanced fur tively at him and continued : "I meant to be sweet and faithful when 1 left that note for you on the yacht, Hugh ; I was grateful, and I meant to be generous. . . . But when I went to the Waldorf, the first person I met was Max. Of course I had to tell him what had happened. And then he threw himself upon my compassion. It seems that losing me had put him In the most terrible trouble about money. He was short, and he couldn't get the backing he needed without me, his call upon my services, by way of assurance to his backers. And I began to think. I knew I didn't love you honestly, Hugh, and that life with you would be a liv ing lie. What right had I to deceive you that way. Just to gratify my love of being loved? And especially If by doing that I ruined Max, the man to whom, next to you, 1 owed every thing? I couldn't do It But I took time to think It over—truly 1 did. I really did go to a - sanatorium, and rested there while I turned the whole matter over carefully in my mind, and at length reached my decision to stick by Max and let you go. free to win the heart of a woman worthy of you." (TO BE CONTINUED.) Her eyea 'I'm not genu Hoping for the Best A Chicago music and art critic who is suing for divorce makes the predlc- I tlon that "fifty years hence the men of this country and the world will j have to arise and band themselves to- | gefhor to maintain their own rights." We trust that they will attack no re male prime minister, blow up no rail way stations, and respect monuments and art collections.—New York Sun. I CREW OF A GERMAN SUBMARINE IN UNITED STATES PRISON CAMP •• ;. >■ fi U * i f&y* m À >. s. S -* S ■ ÉT 'ftft ■ W % SSt. X ■VJL it m# // X: •> r I H & Wi i' » WA M ft Vs m a. / . ?gnnu i aixnnti) The captured officers and crew of the German submarine U-58 are shown here just inside the first barbed-wire gate at Fort McPherson, where they will be held in the war prison camp. They were made captives when our Jackies rescued them from the sea after the destroyer Fanning sank the submarine. The officers In the group guarded by the marines are Capt. Gustav Auberger, Lieut. Otto van Rltgeu, Lieut. Frederick Mueller and Warrant Officer Henry Ropke. SHADOW OF THE CROSS" AT CAMP MACARTHUR u 'a 5 '?* S|' 1 ' v.vV • % X h ■ Tv PCr V gs-j * > » U ß f i m X ■ '■••••. ' r - Ü ■ • 1 ll . V. I* t ■ ■V« « i "Jm 5 ■: •> Æ vj : A. A «V.V . "TO •ft » m ft ■ •>' P by «stern Newspaper L'nlo In this photograph of Camp MacArthur, Waco, Tex., the "Shadow of the Cross" is • liscovered that the shadow •ecu on every tent. There crosses were caused by the was considerable excitement among the beys until one stovepipe and electric wire crossing on ttie top of each tent. PRO-GERMAN WHITE GUARDS IN FINLAND n ■ I m m. ii C jklSStr : ,}$» 4 , 'l i ", : w ■i'u <* TV X; i •'4 Ho ■ , m < ' X mm it *y. mm M ■*V : 'ft** ii ■% This photograph shows men of the pro-Gerruan, White guard of Finland with their machine guns trained down the principal street of Vasa. COMMUNION IN A TRENCH DUGOUT p 5 ? - <m M ■ ix v i rFft ft / i ft? U mm >i -x; •.... » ' M* •> a :■ / ft j fi 11 ft « * Sgv-i ft t W&DL ■ y 13 VS- vxV* K m _tuberculosis v " ^ p ft-v - ft; . ft I _ W T I p American soldiers In France partaking of the communion In u trench (logout which Is about sixty feet below the ground level IK.*. -, ' Ti ftn. ~ _ ' GETTING AID FOR POLAND äm 'x ; ) ■ ■! I 5 ■■ ft :■ ! ■ i h lift ■ > I ( f i i ■i m ip ■ ! I kmH m m ft? f m '% yi ft, I ■ ■x r.j :■ ■ Working in harmony with the Young Women's Christian association. Count ess Laura do Gozdawa Turczynowica is organizing the Polish Gray Samari tans. She Is pictured here in her uni form ns a captain In that organization. She Is also president of the Polish construction committee and author of "When the Prussians Came land." re to Po The Samaritans are all Polish women recruited in the United States to do nursing and social welfare work. When their instruction is complete«! they will go to Poland to do recon ' structlon work or to i pltnls. serve In the hos Tuberculosis Not Rampant. The alarm about the prevalence of among French soldiers ap ("ars in hat «• la 'nu unfounded, for Maj Kdward Bist, who has special charge of of tuberculosis, announces that less than 20 per cent Of the SOI I dlers discharged ns tuberculous In th. first year of the war actnniiv ft * 1 berculosis. J naa tu .