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kS?LAPSC of &OCnWE3ST¥OFm Uy ISABEL GORDON CURTIS p7\ u fhor f “TKe Vomar\Jrom V/olverfons” Ivcsrmwsgr ellsworth young wMTm BY F.G. PPOWNF & CO- •*■ > * ■ I 'SYNOPSIS. SI TCjJworth, newspaper man. ami MB (nocn . y actor, after the gueste at ■iM 4 ?* depart, play a last hand. |Et P°* LKlo be absolute control of the IBs* ‘‘rffe loser. Wentworth wins and to keep the matter secret. HULrSnoch'a slater, becomes Intor- Knowing of his short IBSoase he actor’s ambition. He outlines of a play he has bad In mind girl urges him to go to work IB ■ft When he completes the play and to Wentworth the latter de ®| El it as the forfeit of the bond won poker game. S f CHAPTER V—Continued. ■ looch wrenched his arm free and awkwardly to hla feet. The come jHagj drew back with a startled expres sion. as If fear struggled with be 'Sm "You see,” Enoch’s lips were per- colorless, "your mental ability K pledged to me.” fm Merry stared at him, curious and ■perplexed. fK-ll Is your mental ability which I Bflalm now,” Enoch said deliberately. Andrew spoke In a coarse whisper. don’t understand." B “I demand your play!” B “You demand my play? To sell?” ■ “No; of course not” Wentworth Kderked out the words abruptly. "Why Bjdwuld I want to sell? I want to pro- Btfgce It—as mine, as one—l have writ || Merry moved toward him with an Bpgouy of terror In his eyes. “You Hrtut to take from me my one com- Bplete effort, my one ambition, my Kiweryfifing— the work which Is making Bit man of me, on which I have tolled Bkatdfiy for weeks? You would do Wthat! Do you understand—while I Bjtrote I scarcely stopped to eat or Bsleep? When I did sleep 1 dreamed of B> and—" H He stopped, too much affected to Bjknet his voice. He laid one band over ■ Uw other as If to still himself, for he Hii trembling. H Wentworth stood looking at the Bjounger man. Something cold and re- B Witless crept Into his eyes. He laid Hill hand on Merry’s arm. B “Let me talk to you, Andrew." Talk! You damned thief!” ■ fee pushed Enoch aside with quick re ■ pulsion. His face was blazing with r%Jii ■fYou Demana My Play? To Sell?” ■rath. He went tramping about thd joom in a vague, heedless, half-blinded niahion. a thought seemed to strike abruptly. He wheeled around sud- Pwly and faced the man beelde him. in the devil’s name, Enoch, ■ould you do this? Have I ever done W one cruel, disloyal act In all my (Wentworth did not answer. He re- BBsd the terror In Merry’s eyes with 10001, stubborn glance. "fHd you have this hellish plunder Mme in mind when you drew up 5* b°nd?” he asked unsteadily, did you have In mind when made me your slave?" know—exactly." Wentworth such a straightforward gaze Merry that he realized the man *** “Peaking the truth. “As I told •• that night, and I am telling the was nothing but a fancy of When you came to me with Enoch’s hand dropped on the •nuacrlpt which lay upon the table: you came with a great temptation; It •* too much for me.” /"Evidently," cried Merry. His tone ■withering In Us scorn. He seated ■*elf and his eyes turned fiercely •on Wentworth. The muscles of his gjb twitched as regularly as a pulse. i"*“0 play is mine.” Enoch seemed have grown strangely cool and Ira •ytous to contempt or anger. ’’The Is mine.” he repeated; "it Is the R* an d forfeit of my bond.” e eyes of the actor narrowed and ughed savagely. Take your, pound of flesh,” he W. "What will you do with it?" “Everything we had planned.” Enoch’s voice was calm. “Give It a big production, advertise It as a play never was advertised before, and build up your fame as an emotional actor.” "What, will you not play the con vict?” ’T! Of course not. There Is only one actor In America who can play ‘John Esterbrook.’ ” Andrew rushed across the room In a blind fury. He stretched out his hand and dealt Wentworth a stinging blow across the mouth. "That actor won’t play it. Do you understand?" Wentworth lifted his arm fiercely, then It dropped nervelessly by his side. The veins rose in his neck and forehead like taut cords. He stood staring at Merry, who strode about the room in a demoniac fury. ’’God! You’re not a man! You’re a damned. low-down, scurrilous black leg. And to think of you standing there, looking me In the face—God!” Merry raised his hand again as if to strike, then he dropped it by his side, shuddered, and dashed across the room. He picked up his hat and turned to the door. "Where are you going?” asked Enoch sternly. “I’m going straight to—hell.” He lifted his gloves from the table. Beside them lay the manuscript of his play. He stretched out his hand and turned hie eyes on the other man. watching him as a thief might, who fears being caught in an act of rob bery. “Take it," cried Enoch. “I have a copy of It, a copy In my own hand writing.” Merry stood fingering the pages. “What do you propose to do with your—swag?” "Call it by a decent name. It be longs to me. Money does not count with me In this transaction. You may take all the royalties. I want nothing but the authorship of the play." "Nothing but the authorship—” Merry’s glance was a malediction. He dropped the pages and tossed his hat upon his head. Wentworth watched him curiously. The outer shell of the man had changed. His clothes, Im maculate an hour ago, looked dishev eled. A lock of fair hair strayed down over his forehead, his linen had a bat tered appearance, the white hyacinths drooped from his buttonhole like blos soms which had been touched by frost. He stood for a moment with the door knob in his hand staring at Went worth, who'returned his gaze with a cold, ruthless scrutiny. Merry’s eyes (ell before them. It was the first pal pable concession to Enoch's stronger will. "Good-by." he said with an unsteady laugh. He closed the door behind him. Wentworth turned to the table, lifted the manuscript and stood glancing through the closely scrawled pages. Then he crossed the room, dropped it upon the red coals, leaned bis head upon the mantel, and watched until each gray ash became a filmy atom of dust. CHAPTER VI. Stepping Out—Downhill. "Jason, this is nobody I know.” Wentworth sat staring at a card his man laid before him. He knitted his brows querulously. "Make him under stand that I'm engaged." "He’s terrible masterful, Marse Enoch,” said the darky apologetically; "he’s boun’ he’ll see yo’. He’s a gen tleman all right. I don’ believe I kin git rid ob him easy.” "Tell him I can spare ten minutes.” Jason ushered the visitor Into Went worth’s library. He was a tall, distin guished man, with a fine, highbred (ace. His manners were exceedingly gracious, yet simple. “I don’t believe, Mr. Oswald, I’ve met you before," said Enoch. "You haven’t.” Grant Oswald smiled cordially. "Your man tells me you have exactly ten minutes to spare. I’ll go straight to business. I’m an Englishman. I have been In New York for three weeks. I want to In vest money In something along the theatrical line." “Oh.” Enoch looked up sharply. "Andrew Merry mentioned you.” "Yes, I spoke to Merry one night on the elevated. He’s one of your few American actors whom I admire. If a play could be found that fitted him— he spoke of having one—l’m willing to venture a hundred thousand dollars on Its production.” "A hundred thousand! That would be a production worth while!” “But —remember —only If the play appeals to me. I’ve been studying theatrical business since I was a youngster. I never threw money away on it.” "If you can stay I will read you the play now.” "Mj ten minutes are up.” The Eng lishman smiled. “This work can wait. Excuse me a minute." Wentworth lifted a heap of clippings and copy which littered his table. Then he walked to the safe and knelt before it. He had Just opened the door and laid his hand upon the manu script when the door opened and Dor cas ran in. Jason followed, carrying EAST MISSISSIPPI TIMES. STARKVILLE. MISS. a suit case. For a minute Wentworth forgot the vleltor In hie Inner room. "Bleße my heart. I'm glad to have you back,” he cried. "Never In all my life have I eeen you look so well." She held him at arm’s length and gazed at him critcally. "I wish 1 could say as much for you, - Enoch. You look decidedly seedy. I’ve got to stay right here. I’m the only one who can manage you.” ”1 beg your pardon. Dorcas, I've a guest here.” Her brother led her to the inner room and introduced his caller to her. "Mr. Oswald and 1 were having a business talk, Dorry—not exactly busi ness either. You may etay It you wish and hear a play, I was Just go ing to read to him. If he likes it he will star Andrew Merry In it.” "Oh!” A glow of anticipation shone in the girl's eyes. She laid her coat and hat on th’e window seat and dropped into a low chair beside her brother. Once or twice she patted him affectionately on the shoulder. The Englishman watched her. There was vivid admiration in hie eyes, but Dorcas did not see it. Her only thought was of the happiness In store for Merry. Wentworth laid the pages of manu script on the table and cleared his throat. Oswald sat ready to bestow a business-like attention upon the read ing. When Enoch lifted the first page his visitor asked: "May I know who wrote the play?” ”1 did," answered Wentworth quietly. “Ah!” said the Englishman. He noticed the startled look on Dorcas’ face. It escaped her brother, who sat turned half way from her. Wentworth began to read. He was an excellent reader; his enunciation was slow and distinct. The story quickly unfolded itself in strong, vivid language. Grant Oswald, who was an ardent student of dramatic literature, fell immediately under its spell and listened with intent quiet. The minds of both men Were so vitally concentrated upon the drama that they were scarcely conscious of a movement when Dorcas crept from her low chair to the window seat. She lay back against a pillow, gathered the folds of a silky portiere around her, and stared down at the square. She heard her brother’s voice In fragments. Those fragments were always the words of the girl, Cordelia, or of the father fallen to pitiful estate. She clasped her bands together with such a grip that it numbed her Angers.. A strange pain and a horrible suspicion were seeping through her body and burning In her veins. Outwardly she was inert. Suddenly she was awake again, wide awake, tingling with life and emotion, listening to her brother's vibrant voice. The day of release had come for John Esterbrook. He stood with halting, tremulous steps, fearful at the sight of the world he had left twenty years before, hiding his eyes from Ite tumult. Then Cordelia ran to meet him—young, hopeful, loving and eager. Dorcas forgot the horror and doubt which had swept her down for a mo ment, she was thinking of nothing but the play. It was greater, more human, than she had dreamed of that day when Andrew and she walked home over the beach at Juniper Point. Her eyes grew wet with pity, then she smiled happily as life ceased to be a problem for Cordelia. Love had come, and the father turned to work out what was left him of a future. Enoch laid the manuscript aside. The Englishman, hearty in his con gratulations and enthusiastic, was urging the earliest possible produc tion. He offered .unlimited money and Insisted that the best company New York could produce should be engaged. The spell of the story was still upon Dorcas. She passed out, shaking hands hastily with Oswald. "Dorry,” cried her brother. She did not answer. “The play stirred her Intensely.” said Oswald. He had noticed a trace of tears on her cheeks. “Was this the first time she beard it read?” "Yes, I had never even told her of it. She has been away while —it was writ ten." “Is your sister an actress?" "No—she wants to go upon the stage,” "Let her have her way,” advised the Englishman. “Her every action shows that she possesses dramatic talent.” "It isn't my Idea of her future." "Stage life Is exactly what one chooses to make of it. Curiously enough, I have a conviction she could play Cordelia." Wentworth brushed his hand across his forehead and stared at the scat tered sheets of manuscript on the table. "Get Merry here as soon as possible. I want a consultation with both of you," suggested Oswald while he drew on his gloves. "It is now only a mat ter of time and a theater. If I may ad vise now, don’t choose anyone on this side for Mrs. Esterbrook. I know a woman who can play that part to per fection. Again let me congratulate you. It’s a great play, one of the greatest I’ve heard In years. It's bound to succeed." Wentworth bowed, but a sudden flush blazed into his face. He was not hardened enough yet to accept con gratulations for the brain product of another man. “Good-by.” said the Englishman, holding out his hand cordially. "Good-by." murmured Wentworth. He moved to the window. A carriage stood waiting In front of the bouse. He watched Oswald step Into it and drive away. Suddenly he recollected that Dorcas had not spoken a single word of praise or congratulation on the play. She was always enthusiastic and happy over every triumph that came to him. She must have thought well of the pUy. She had a full appreciation of Merry's talent* and she had Beamed to like him while they were together during the Bummer. He paused to pull himself together mentally, then he called her. She came elowly into the room, which had grown dark. "Dorry,” said Wentworth slowly, "do you know you have not said yet that you like—my play?” "Your play?" “Why, Dorry?" The girl spoke In an unsteady voice. “I don't believe. Enoch, that Andrew Merry told you of a long talk we had nt Juniper Point. You remember you left me alone with him when you were called to Boston. We sat on the rocks one afternoon and he told me his plot tor this play-bo had been thinking It out for years and years. Why.” the girl shook her head Impatiently, "why, Enoch, he had labored on it so long that some of the speeches were writ ten. In his mind. Sometimes he put the story Into the very words you resaad!"n and!" During a few minutes Enoch Went worth fought the battle of his life. It was the struggle between good and evil, which every human being har bors to a greater or lesser degree, in one soul, In one body. Wentworth sighed. The battle had passed and evil had won. It was prepared to carry him through the most dangerous “Then He Must Be Found!” moment. With It came fresh valor, and not only the power to sin further, but a mysterious weakening of the moral tissues which made It possible for him to sin coolly and remoAe lessly. He turned on the light and with cool composure faced his sister. He met her gray eyes without a quiver. They asked a question which could not be evaded. “I hate to tell you, Dorcas," there was a tone of reluctance In Went worth’s voice, "but Merry is down again, down In the gutter." The girl Jumped to her feet. "I don't believe It!" she cried. "Besides, If be were, what has that to do with his play?” Enoch did not answer. Instead he asked a question. "Dorcas, do you care for —do you love—Andrew Mer ry?" A flush blazed Into the girl’s face. In spite of the telltale color her brother believed her. "Yes, I care for Andrew Merry— very much. I do not love him.’’ Enoch gazed at her wistfully. He knew, as she did not, how easy It Is to cross the bridge from mere friend ship to love. "Why did you ask me that?” "I wanted to find out how much It would hurt If I told you the truth. Merry is not worth your love, he Is not even worth your friendship.” "It is not true!" There was indig nant protest In the woman’s voice. “I know better, so do you. Only this does not explain about his play, for It is his play.” "You remember he left Juniper Point suddenly?" "Yes.’’ She raised her head with an eager gesture. “He went away to write this play.” She pointed to the manuscript which lay on the table. "Yes," said Enoch slowly. “He be gan bravely enough. Then—he went under, as he had done so many times In his life.” “What was it?" cried the girl. “Drink or gambling?" Enoch lay back in his chair. He began to marvel at how easily he could lie, because a He had never come readily to him before. “Drink and gambling-—and every thing.” Her brother shrugged his shoulders as If in disgust. “Of course he stopped writing. A man could not write In his condition. He sent for me. I stayed by him night and day and—wrote. You see—l wrote It.” He lifted a written sheet from, the loose pfle of manuscript. “Perhaps—but It Is not your play.” Dorcas ebook her head with obstinate Incredulity. ”1 told him so. I suggested we make It a collaborated play." “It la not even a collaborated play, Enoch. Why, every situation, the plot, oven the very words, are his." "He wants me to father It.” "He must have changed since he said good-by to me. He was on fire then with hope and ambition." "He has changed,” acceded Enoch gravely. It was a relief to make one truthful statement. "Is be to play ‘John Esterbrook* when It Is produced?" ’’No other actor can. Merry has the entire conception of It now.” “Where Is ha?" "I don’t know,” "1 thought you promised Mr. Oswald to have him here and get things start ed for an early production?" ”1 did. 1 am hoping to find Merry at one of his haunts. He must he found and put on his feet. There’s a tremendous lot nt stake. Dorry," ho turned to her appealingly, "won’t you help mo?" "I’ll help you," Dorcas spoke elowly, “If you can assure me of one thing." "What?" ’’That there is no wrong to be done." "There 1s no wrong to bo done. Merry will have the opportunity of his life. If he can only ho made to sec it that way." “And there Is no wrong to be right ed?" "There is no wrong to be righted." "Then he must be found. When he is found," the girl spoke decisively, "he must appear before the world as the author of his play." “He won’t do it." answered Went worth. He rose, put on his hat, and went out. Dorcas heard the front door slam behind him, then she laid her face on the arm of tho sofa and burst Into tears. CHAPTER VII, Merry Disappears. Suddenly, as It the earth had swn! lowed him, Merry disappeared. A week passed. Grant Oswald, In a fever of enthusiasm, had begun prepa rations for a Broadway production. He turned a vast amount of responsi bility over to Wentworth, who shoul dered It thankfully. It kept at arm’s length tho possibility of dwelling much with his own thoughts: they were not, cheerful company, and he was racked by constant anxiety about Merry. There was not a single mo ment to spare when ho could go Into tho highways and byways of a great city to search, as he had searched be fore when the man was his friend. He could not delegate the task to another. He had prepared a tale for the public of Merry’s whereabouts. Oswald believed tho actor was study ing his part and stood ready to appear at a momenta’ notice, Enoch went ahead with the tremendous load of de tail that fell upon him, toiling day and night, while his mind alternated be tween terror and hope. Every day the man wns acquiring traits new to his nature. When a strange accident had tossed before him the possibility of satisfying hl dearest ambition, conscience entreat ed loudly against the theft of another man’s life-work. Every noble Instinct In Enoch made Its appeal; his honesty, his generosity, an Innate demand for fair play, the love of his sister and friend, all cried aloud to him dur ing the lonely hours of Uie night. There had been moments when ho would have gladly retraced his steps, but the die had been cast. He was like a racer who, by some treacherous ruse, had pushed aside an opponent and was close to the goal. The Intoxi cation of applause was beginning to sound In his ears and the future hold untold possibilities. It was too late to turn back; it would mean the down fall of great ambitions and bitter shame—lt might even mean crime. It seemed easier to take the chances. Occasionally Andrew’s dogged face flashed back to his memory when ho cried, “I will eee what tho can do to protect a man from theft” Enoch felt his face blanch at the thought of It. Many a man had gone down and out for a crime less knavish than this. But ho knew Andrew Merry well, and he trusted to one trait which was predominant in tho man—his queer, exaggerated Idea of honor. Day by day his conscience qulotec down, self-Confldence took the place ol wavering, and the fear of exposure seemed to recede. At last he could look the situation in tho face without flinching. The task of putting on a theatrical production began to absorb him completely. He had always longed for such a chance; be had beea storing away ideas he could now uti lize, besides he knew New York thor oughly, and he had observed for years the system of producing a play. Os wald looked on with appreciation as Enoch put bis plans into shape. He knew how uncommon was the combi nation of such talents in the sama man—the ability to write a virile play, then to stage It with practical skill and artletic feeling and originality. A remarkably strong company was en gaged. Oswald Insisted on filling even the smallest parts with people far above the level of subordinate actors. The salary list grew to stupendous figures. One morning Wentworth re monstrated against paying one hun dred dollars a week to an actor who was to play the Janitor. “Breen is a far bigger man than you need," he objected. “He has played leads to many of the blggeat stars. We need a mere bit of character work in this—he isn't on the stage half an hour. I can get a first-rate man for half that price." “Breen can make the Janitor o true to life that the audience will regret seeing him for only half an hour," Os wald rejoined. “That's the test of qualllflh When I pay a hundred dol lars I want a hundred-doilar man.” (TO EE CONTINUED.) Firemen’s Water-Jackets. In Berlin the firemen wear water Jackets with a double skin, which they arc able to fill with water from th* hose. If the space between the layers becomes overfilled the water escapes through a valve at tho top of the hel met and flows down over the fireman like a cascade, protecting hitt.-ly* IF YOU’RE GROUCHY tt la likely that your liver needs stlw ring up. Wrlght'a Indian Vegetable Pills will set you right quickly. AdT. Continuing the Argument. “You prefer swords to pistols when you engage In a duel?" "Yes," replied tho Frenchman. “Swords enable you to get In more gestures." No. SIX-SIXTY-SIX This Is a prescription prepared ee penally for Malaria or Chills and Fever. Five or six doses will break any ease, and if taken then us a toulo tho fever will not return 25c.- -Adr. Possible Chance. A young man who last month re ceived bis diploma Ims been looking around successively for a position, employment and a Job. Entering an office tho other day ho asked to sue the manager, and while waiting for that gentleman to become disengaged ho said to tho office boy: “Do you suppose there Is any open ing hero for a college graduate?" "Well, dero will be," was the reply, "If do boss don't raise mo salary to free dollars a week by termorrer night.”—Boston Evening Transcript. BABY HAD SCALP TROUBLE 'Carthage, Texas. —"My little girl had some kind of breaking out on her head that came In white blisters and when tho blisters buret they formed some thing like scales. If 1 washed her head and combed tho scales off they would corns again In Just a few days. Tho trouble looked something like dandruff but was hard and scaly and when tho scales would come off all of tho hair came also and would leave tho head raw. "I had tried salves which only soft oned tho scales so I decided to uso Cutlcura Soap and Ointment. I washed her head with warm water and Cutlcura Soap and then applied tho Cutlcura Ointment and let It remain over night. I used only one box of Cutlcura Ointment and one bar of Cutlcura Soap and her head was well.** (Signed) Mrs. Luolla Higgs, Jon. 28, 1914. Cutlcura Soap and Ointment sold throughout the world. Sample of each free,with 32-p. Skin Hook. Address posh card "Cutlcura. Dept. L, Boston.”—Air. The Guarantee. William J. Burns, tho famous de tective, was talking In Now York about tho recent dropping of his name from tho honorary list of police chiefs. “It Is easy.” Mr. Hums said, "to read tho significance of that action. Its significance is evil. It relates to certain graft exposures on my part. Yes. Its significance Is as evil us tho clothier’s guarantee. "A young fellow went to a clothier to buy a pair of flannel giants. ” 'The last pair I got here shrunk.’ be said. T was caught In tho rain In them and they shrunk something ter rible. Do you guarantee that these won't shrink?" “ 'Young feller,’ said tho dealer, ‘1 guarantee them up to tho hilt. Why. every (Ire hose In New York but three has squirted on them pants.' " Unreasonable. George Bernard Hhaw Is one of the few vegetarians who have remained true to the faith, and In a recent letter to a woman, reproaching her for her fight against the aigrette when she still ate meat, Mr. Shaw said; “The lack of logic prevails every where! We call the tiger a ferocious and ravaging beast, but what would you ladles bo called If, for example, tho lamb chop had a voice?" The Drawback. ”1 see where the women abroad are offering to fight at tho front, but women w ill never make soldiers." "And why not?" "For one thing, each one would stop In a hot engagement to powder her nose.” DISAPPEARED Coffee Ails Vanish Before Postum. It seems almost too good to be true, tho way headache, nervousness. Insomnia, and many other obscure troubles vanish when coffee Is dis missed and Postum used as the regu lar table beverage. Tho reason is clear. Coffee coo tains a poisonous drug—caffeine— which causes the trouble, but Postum contains only tho food elements In choice bard wheat with a little mo lasses. A Phlla. man grew enthusiastic and wrote as follows: "Until 18 months ago 1 used coffee regularly every day and suffered from headache, bitter taste In my mouth, and Indigestion; was gloomy and irri table, had variable or absent appetite, loss of flesh, depressed In spirits, etc. “I attribute these things to coffee, because since I quit it and ba-'e drank Postum I feel better than I had for 20 years, am less susceptible to cold, have gained 20 lbs. and the symptom® have disappeared—vanished before Postum." Name given by Postara Cos., Hattie Creek, Mich. Head “The Hoad to Wellvllle,” In pkgs. Postum comes In two forms: Regular Postum —must bo wall boiled. 15c and 25c packages. Instant Postum—is a soluble pow der, A teaspoouful dissolves quickly In a cup of hot water and, with cream and sugar, makes a delicious bever age Instantly. 30c and 50c tins. Tho cost per cup of both kinds Ul about the same. "There's a Reason” for Postum. —sold by Grocers.