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' GEORGE I BiR M~CUTCIIWNO LLUSTRmAONS ~RAY WALTERS ,,' DO AD M* * *, SYNOPSIS. -9 n the New York home of James Brood, i son, Frederic, receives a wireless ,m him. Frederic tells Lydia Des mnd, his fiancee, that the message an unces his father's marriage, and orders rs. Desmond, the housekeeper and (dlae mother, to prepare the house for i immediate home-coming. Brood and s bride arrive. She wins Frederic's ilk g at first meeting. Brood shows dislike id veiled hostility to his son. Lydia and rs. Brood met in the jade-room, where ydia works as Brood's secretary. Mrs. rood is startled by the appearance &t anjab, Brood's Hindu servant. She lakes changes In the household and gains er husband's consent to send Mrs. Des iond and Lydia away. She fascinates 'rederic. She begins to fear Itanjab in is uncanny appearances and disappear nees, and Frederic, remembering his ather's East Indian stories and firm be lef in magic, fears unknown evil. Ran ab performs feats of magic for Dlawes end Riggs. Frederic's father, jealous, un ustly orders his son from the dinner table is drunk. Brood tells the story of Ran lab's life to his guests. "lie killed a wom in" who was unfaithful to him. Yvonne plays with Frederic's infatuation for her. Her husband warns her that the thing must not go on. Sihe tells him that he still loves his dead wife, whom he drove from his home. through her, Yvonne. Yvonne plays with Brood, Frederic and Lydia as with figures on a chess board. Brood, madly jealous, tells Lydia that Frederic is not his son, and that he has brought him up to kill his happiness at the prope r time with this knowledge. Frederic takes Lydia home through a heavy storm and spends the night at her mother's house. His wavering allegiance to her is strengthened by a day spent with her. Yvonne, over the phone rouses Frederic's infatuation for her again. Lydia goes to beg Brood not to tell Frederic of is unhappy parentage, but is turned from her purpose. CHAPTER XIlI-Continued. Lydia resolved to take the plunge. Now was the time to speak plainly to this woman of the thing that was hurt ing her almost beyond the limits of endurance. Her voice was rather high pitched. She had the fear that she would not be able to control it. "I should be blind not to have ob served the cruel position in which you are placing Frederic. Is it surprising that your husband has eyes as well as IT What must be his thoughts, Mrs. Brood?" She expected an outburst, a torrent of indignation, an angry storm of words, and was therefore unprepared for the piteous, hunted expression that came swiftly into the lovely eyes, bent so appealingly upon her own, which were cold and accusing. Here was a new phase to this extraordinary crea after all, and Lydia despised a coward. The look of scorn deepened in her eyes, and out from her heart rushed all that was soft and tender in her nature, leaving it barren of all com passion. "I do not want to hurt Frederic," murmured Yvonne. "I-I am sorry If-" "You are hurting him dreadfully," said Lydia, suddenly choking up with emotion. "He is not-not in love with me," declared Yvonne. "No," said the girl, regaining con trol of herself, "he is not in love with you. That is the whole trouble. He is in love with me. But-can't you see ?" "You are a wise young woman to know men so well," said the other enigmatically. "I have never believed in St. Anthony." "Nor I," said Lydia, and was sur prised at herself. "Do you consider me to be a bad roman, Lydia?" Her lips trembled. There was a suspicious quiver to her chin. "No, I do not," pronounced the girl flatly. "If I could only think that of iou t would explain everything and I should know just how to treat you. But I do not think it of you." With a long, deep sigh, Yvonne crept closer and laid her head against Lyd ta's shoulder. The girl's body stif fened, her brow grew dark with an noyance. "I am afraid you do not understand, Mrs. Brood. The fact still remains that you have not considered Fred eric's peace of mind." "Nor yours," murmured the other, abjectly. "Nor mine," confessed Lydia, after a moment. "I did ait know that you and Fred erio were in love with each other until I had been here for some time," Mrs. Brood explained, suddenly fretful. "What kind of a woman are your'?" burst from Lydia's indignant soul, "Have you no conception of the finer, nobler-" Yvonne deliberately put' her hand over the girl's lips, checking the fierce outburst She smiled rather plain tively as Lydia tried to jerk her head to one side in order to continue her reckless indictment. "You shall not say it, Lydia. I am not all that yaou think I am. No, no, a thousad times no. God pity me, 1 am more accursed than yeou may think with the finer and nobler instinct It it were not so, do you think I should be where I amr now?--crlaging here like a beaten child? No, you cannot undbrstand-you. never will under _stand I shall say no more. It is 'ende I swear on my soul that'I did not know you were Frederic's sweetheart. I did not know-" "But yeou knew almost immediately after you came here," exclaimed .Lrdla, harshly. "It l not myself 1 am thinking of, Mrs. Brood, but of Frederic. Why have you done this abominable thing to him? Why?" "I-I did not realize what it would mean to him," said the other, desper ately. "I-I did not count all the cost. But, -dearest Lydia, it will come out all right again, I promise you. I have made a horrible, horrible mistake. I can say no more. Now, let me lie here with my head upon your breast. I want to feel the beating of your pure, honest heart-the heart that I have hurt. I can tell by its throbs whether it will ever soften toward me. Do not say anything now-let us be still." It would be difficult to describe the feelings of Lydia Desmond as she sat there with the despised though to be adored head pillowed upon her breast, where it now rested in a sort of confi dent repose, as if there was safety in the very strength of the young girl's disapproval. Yvonne had twisted her lithe' body on the chaise longue so that she half-faced Lydia. Her free arm, from which the loose sleeve had fallen, leaving it bare to the shoulder, was about the girl's neck. For a long time Lydia stared straight before her, seeing nothing, positively dumb with wonder and ac knowledging a sense of dismay over her own disposition to submit to this extraordinary situation. She was ask ing herself why she did not cast the woman away, why she .lacked the power to resent by deed as well as by thought. Life-marvelous, adorable life rested there on her breast. This woman had hurt her-had hur` her wantonly-and yet there came steal ing over her, subtly, the conviction that she could never hurt her in re turn. She could never bring herself to the point of hurting this wondrous, living, breathing, throbbing creature 9 who pleaded, not only with her lips B and eyes, but with the gentle heart I" beats that rose and fell in her throat. After a long time, in which there was conflict, she suddenly pressed her warm lips to Yvonne's. Then in an a abrupt revulsion of feeling her arms t fell away from the warm, sweet body t and almost roughly she pushed Yvonne away from her. "I-I didn't mean to do that!" she gasped. 'the other smiled, but it was a sad. plaintive effort on her part. "I knew d that you would," she repeated. Lydia sprang to her feet, her face r suddenly flaming with embarrassment. "I must see Mr. Brood. I stopped in to tell him that-" she began, trying to cover her confusion, but Yvonne in terrupted. "I know that you could not help it, I my dear," she said. Then, after a pause: "You will let me know what my husband has to say about it?" "T6-say about it?" "About your decision to marry Fred eric in spite of his ohiections." Lydia felt a little shiver race over her as she looked toward the door. "You will help us?" she said, trem ulously, turning to Yvonne. Again she saw the drawn, pained look about the dark eyes and was startled. "You can do more with him than I," was the response. CHAPTER XIV. 8ensations. Lydia stopped for a moment in the hall, after closing the door behind her, to pull herself together for the ordeal that was still to come. She was trembling; a weakness had assailed her. She had left Yvonne's presence In a dazed, unsettled condition of mind. There was a lapse of some kind that she could neither account for nor describe even to herself. The black velvet coat that formed a part of her trig suit, hung limply in her hand, dragging along the floor as she moved with hesitating steps in the direction of James Brood's study. A sickening estimate of her own strength of pur pose confronted her. She was sud-I denly afraid of the man who had always been her friend. Somehow she felt that he would turn upon her 1 and rend her, tbhise man who had al-' ways been so gentle and considerate- I and who had killed things! Ranjab appeared at the head of the stairs. She waited for his dignal to ascend, somehow feeling that Brood a had sent him forth to summon her. Her hand sought the stair rail and gripped it tightly. Her lips parted in a stiff smile. Now she knew that she was turning coward, that she longed to put of the meeting until tomow' ' row--tomorrow! The Hindu came down the stairs. , quickly, noiselessly. "The master say to come tomorrow, tomorrow as usual," he said, as he paused above her on the steps. "It-it must be today," she said, dog. gedly, even as the thrill of rollef shot through her. "Tomorrow," said the man. His eyes i were kindly inquiring. "Sahib say you * are to rest" There was a pause. "To a morrow will not be too late." ' She started. Had he read the thought E that was in her mind? "Thank you, Ranjah," she said, after i a moment of indecision. "I will come tomorrow." Then she slunk downstairs and out of the house, convinced that she had failed Frederic in his hour of great est need, that tomorrow would be too late. Frederic did not come in for dinner until after his father and Yvonne had gone from the house. He did not in quire for them, but instructed Jones to say to the old gentlemen that he would be pleased to dine with them if they could allow him the time to "change." He also told Jones to open a single bottle of champagne and to place three glasses. Later on Frederic made his an nouncement to the old men. In the fever of an excitement that caused him to forget that Lydia might be en titled to some voice in the matter, he deliberately committed her to the proj ect that had become a fixed thing in his mind the instant he set foot in the house and found it empty-oh, so empty! Jones' practiced hand shook slightly as he poured the wine. The old men drank rather noisily. They, too, were excited. Mr. Riggs smacked his lips and squinted at the chandelier as if trying to decide upon the vintage, but in reality doing his best to keep from coughing up the wine that had gone the wrong way in a moment of pro found paralysis. "The best news I've heard since Ju das died," said Mr. Dawes, manfully. "Fill 'em up again, Jones. I want to r propose the health of Mrs. Brood." "t The future Mrs. Brood," hissed Mr. Riggs, wheezily, glaring at his com rade. "Ass!" "I'm not married yet, Mr. Dawes," exclaimed Frederic, grinning. "Makes no difference," said Mr. Dawes, stoutly. "Far as I'm concerned, you are. We'll be the first to drink r to Lydia Brood! The first to call her 3 by that name, gentlemen. God bless her!" "God bless her!" shouted Mr. Riggs. "God bless her!" echoed Frederic. and they drained their glasses to a Lydia Brood. "Jones, open another bottle," com r manded Mr. Dawes, loftily. Frederic shook his head and two 1 faces fell. Right bravely, however, the old men maintained a joyous interest f in the occasion. The young man turned moody, thoughtful; the unwont ed exhilaration died as suddenly as it had come into existence. A shadow crossed his vision and he followed it with his thoughts. A sense of utter loneliness came over him with a swift r ness that sickened, nauseated him. The food was flat to his taste; he could not eat. Self-commiseration stifled him. He suddenly realized that he had never been so lonely, so unhap in all his life as lhe w maent. , His thoughts were of his father. vast, inexplicable longing possedsed his soul-a longing for the affection of this man who was never tender, who stood afar off and was lonely, too. He could not understand this astounding I change of feeling. He had never felt just this way before. There had been - times-and many-when his heart was sore with longing, but they were of other days, childhood days. Tonight She could not crush out the thought of Lydia Stopped for a Moment in the Hall. how ineffably happy, how peaceful life would be if his father were to lay his hands upon his shoulders and say, "My son, I love you-I love you dearly." There would be no more lonely days; all that was bitter in his life would be swept away in the twinkling of an eye; the world would be full of Joy for himn and for Lydia. When he entered the house that evening he was full of resentment toward hl-frther, and sullen with the remains of an ugly rage. And now to be actually cravingt the affection of the man who humbled him, even in the presence of servantal It was aunbe lievable. He gorld not understand himself. A wondertful, compelli ten derness filled his heart. He longed to throw himself at his father's feet and soave his pardon for the bharsh, venge ful thoughts he had spent upon him in those black hours. He haungered for a word of kindness or of under. standing on which he could feed his starving spouL He wanted his father's love. He wanted, more than anything else in the world,'to love his father. Lydia slipped out of his mind. Yvronne was set aside in this imetorali moment. He had not thought of them a except in their relation to a completed I1 state of happiness for his father. In t, distinctly he recognized them as essen tial1 Ay, he was lowly. The house was o as bleak as the stippts of Siberia lice C longed for companionship, friendship, ti kindness--and suddenly in the midst s of it all he leaped to his feet. s "I'm going out, gentlemen," he ex claimed, breaking in upon an unappre- . elated tale that Mr. Itiggs was relat- o ing at sonme length and with consider- c able fierceness in view of the fact that 1 Mr. Dawes had pulled him up rather s sharply once or twice in a matter of t inaccuracies, "Excuse me, please." He left them gaping with astonish meat and daslhed out into fithe hall for his coat and hat. Even then he had no definite notion as to what his next move would be, save that he was going out-some\where, anywhere, he did not care. Somehow, as he rushed down the front steps with the cool night air blowing in his face, there surged un within him a strong, overpowering sense of filial duty. It was his duty to make the first advances. It was for him to pave the way to peace and hap piness. Something vague but disturb ing tormented him with the fear that his father faced a grave peril and that his own place was beside him and not against him, as he had been in all these illy directed years. He could not put it away from him, this thought that his father was in danger-in dan ger of something that was not phys ical, something from which, with all his valor, he had no adequate form of defense. At the corner he paused, checked by an irresistible impulse to look back ward at the house he had just left. To his surprise there was a light in the drawing-room windows facing the street. The shades in one of 'them i had been thrown wide open and a stream of light flared out across the I sidewalk, Framed in this oblong square of light stood the figure of a man. Slowly, I as if drawn by a force he could not i resist, the young man retraced his steps until he stood directly in front of the window. A questioning smile was on his lips. He was looking up into Ranjab's shadowy, unsmiling face, dimly visible in the glow froip the I distant street lamp. For a long time they stared at each other, no sign of recognition passing between them. The Hindu's face was as rigid, as emotion less as itf carved out of stone; his eyes were unwavering. Frederic could see them, even in the shadows. He hid the queer feeling that, though the ln gave no sign, he had something wanted to say to him, that he was ually calling to him to come back i the house. 1th.elt man. outside took lting steps toward the door. , his gaze still fixed on the face in the;window. Then he broke the spell. It *as a notion on his part, he argued. If he had been wanted his father's servant would have beckoned to him. He would not have stood there like a graven image, starihig out into the night. Having convinced himself of this, Frederic wheeled and swung off up the street once more, walking rap idly, as one who is pursued. Turning, he waved his hand it the man in the window. He received no response. Farther off he looked back once more. The Hindu still was there. Long after he was out of sight, of the house he cast frequent glances over his shoul der as if still expecting to see the lighted window and its occupant. As he made his way to Droadway, somewhat hazily bent on following that thoroughfare to the district where the night glittered and the stars were shamed, he began turning over in his mind a queer notion that had just sug gested itself to him, filtering through the maze of uncertainty in which he had been floundering. It occurred to him that he had been mawkishly sen timental in respect to his father. His attitude had not changed-he was serl ously impressed by the feelings that had mastered him-but he found him self ridiculing the idea that his father stood in peril of any description. And suddenly, out of no particular trend of thought, groped the sly, persistent sus picion that he had not been altogether responsible for the sensations of an hour ago. Some outside influence had molded his emotions for him, some cunning brain had been doing his thinking for him. Then came the sharp recollection of that motionless, commanding figure in the lighted window, and his own puzzling behavior on the sidewalk out side. He recalled his impression that someone had called out to him just before he turned to look up at the window. It was all quite preposterous, he kept on saying over and over again to himself, and yet he could not shake off the uncanny feeling. Earlier in the evening, without warn ing, without the slightest encourage ment on his part, there had suddenly leaped into existence a warm, tender and wholly inexplicable feeling toward his father. At firat he had been amased by this unwonted, almost un natural teeling, which later on devel oped into something quite tangible in the way of an emotion, but he was be gininga to realize that the real mys terr lay outside of any self-analysis he could make. iUke a shot there flashed into his brain the startling question: Was RmaJb the solution? Wuas it Ranjab's mind and not his own that had moved him to such tender resolvest Could such a condition be possiblet Was there such a thing as mind control? An haour later Frederic approached the box omeb. of the theater mentioned by YVonne over the telephone that i morning. The play was half over and Ith. hoase was sold out, He bourhtJ a ticket of admission, however, and i4 I lined up with others who were content n to stand at the back to witness the si play. inside the theater he leaned g weakly against the railing at the back h of the auditorium and wiped his brow. c What was it that had dragged him fi there against his will, in direct oppo- h sition to his dogged determination to s shun the place? r The curtain was up, the house was c still, save for the occasional coughing of those who succumb to a habit that r can neither be helped nor explained tl There were people moving on the w stage, but Frederic had no eyes for tl them. He was seeking in the dark- fi I I er somewhere in the big, tens ti t t I e 11 a were somewhere in the big, tense The lights went up and the house f was bright. Men began scurrying up r, the aisles. He moved up to the railing it again and resumed his eager scrutiny I a of the throng. He could not find them. t At first he was conscious of disap e pointment, then he gave way to an I p absurd rage. Yvonne had misled him, s, she had deceived him-ay, she had I e lied to him. They were not in the I e audience, they had not even contem- 1 if plated coming to this theater. He had e been tricked, deliberately tricked. No 1- doubt they were seated in some other 5 place of amusement, serenely enjoying d themselves. The thought of it mad e dened him. And then, just as he was e on the point of tearing out of the g house, he saw them, and the blood is rushed to his head so violently that k he was almost blinded. He caught sight of his father far Ik down in front, and then the dark, half r- obscured head of Yvonne. He could Ln not see their faces, but there was no ll. mistaking them for anyone else. He d. only marvelled that he had not seen 's them before, even In the semidarkness. n. They now appeared to be the only ce people in the theater; he could see no ie one else. James Brood's fine, aristocratic head was turned slightly toward his wife, P who, as Frederic observed after chang Sing his position to one of better ad ie vantage, app-ently was relating some e. thing amusing to him. They undoubt . edly were enjoying themselves. Once r more the great, almost suffocating wave of tenderness for his father Sswept over him, mysteriously as be e fore and as convincing. He experi enced a sudden, inexplicable feeling Y of pity for the strong, virile man who t had never revealed the slightest symp ie tom of pity for him. The same curi re ous desire to put his hands on his is father's shoulders and tell him that g. all was well with them came over him b again. Ie involuntarily he glanced over his to shoulder, and the fear was in his heart Sthat somewhere in the shifting throng is his gaze would light upon the face of Ranjab! Long and intently his searching nr gaze went through the crowd, seeking r the remote corners and shadows of the f oyer, and a deep breath of relief escaped him when it became evident that the Hindu was not there. He had, Sin a measure, proved his own cause; in his emotions were genuinely his own and not the outgrowth of an influence for good exercised over him by the Brahmin. He began what he was pleased to Sterm a systematic analyis -of his emec re tions covering the entire evening, all tn the while regarding the couple in the orchestra chairs with a gaze unswerv st ing in its fidelity to the sensation that now controlled him-a sensation of impending peril. All at once he alunk farther back in to the shadow, a guilty flush mount ing to his cheek Yvonne had turned and was staring rather fixedly in his Sdirection. Despite the knowledge that he was quite completely concealed by Sthe intervening group of loungers, he Ssustained a distinct shock. He had Sthe uncanny feeling that she was look I ln directly into his eyes. Bhe had turned abruptly, as if some one had Scalled out to attract her attention and in she had obeyed the sudden impulse. SA moment later her calmly impersonal aPze swept on, taking in the sections to her right and the balcony, and then went back to her husband's face. ag Frederic was many minutes in re Scovering from the effects of the queer shock he had received. He could not get it out of his head that she knew She was there, that she actually turned in answer to the call of his mind. She d had not searched for him; on the con d trary, she directed her gaze instantly t to the spot where he stood concealed. d Actuated by a certain sense of guilt, a he decided to leave the theater as soon as the curtain went up on the next act, which was to be the last. In stead of doing so, however, he lin gered to the end of the play, secure in his conscienceless espionage. It had come to him that if he miet them Ia front of the theater as they came out he could invite them to join him at supper in one of the nearby restau rants. The idea pleased him. He coddled it until it became a sensatlou. When James Brood and his wife reached the sidewalk they found him there, directly in their path, as they wedged their way to the curb to await the automobile. lie was smiling frankly, wistfully. There was an hon est gladness in his fine, boyish face and an eager light in his eyes. lie no longer had the sense of guilt in his soul, It had been a passing qualm, and he felt regenerated for having ex perienced it, eve'i so briefly. Some how it had purged his soul of the one lingering doubt as to the sincerity of his impulses. "Hello!" he said, planting himself squarely in front of them. There was a miionientary tableau. ile was vi.idly aware of the fact that Yvonne had shrunk back in alarm, and that a swift look of fear leaped into her surprised eyes. She drew c,:ser to Brood's side--or was it the jostling of the crowd that made it seem to be so? lie realized then that she had not seen him in the theater. 1ier surprise was genuine. It was not much short of consternation, a fact that he re alized with a sudden sinking of the heart. Then his eyes went quickly to his father's face. .James )Brood was re garding him i'ith a cold, significant smile, as one who understands and despises. "They told me you were here," fal tered Frederic, the words rushing hur riedly through his lips, "and I thought we might run ii somewhere and have a bite to eat. I-I want to tell you about Lydia and myself and what-" The carriage man bawled a number in his ear and Jerked open the door of a limousine that had just pulled up the the curb. Without a wt.rd, James Brood hand ed his wife into the car and then turned to the thauffeur. "Home," he said, and, without so 1 much as a glai ce at Frederic, stepped e inside. The door was slammed and the car slid out Into the maelstrom. I Yvonne had sunk back into a corner, o huddled down as if suddenly deprived r of all her strength. Frederic saw her g face as the car moved away. She was I- staring at him with wide-open, re s proachful eyes, a1 if to say: "Oh, what e have you done? What a fool you arel" d For a second or two he stood as it it petrified. Then overything went red gFor a Second or Two He Stood as V Petrified. before him, a wicked red that blinded him. He staggered as it from a blow in the face. "My God!" slipped from his stlu lips, and tears leaped to his eyes- tears of supreme mortification. Like a beaten dog he slunk away, feeling. himself pierced by the pitying gase of every mortal in the street. (TO BE CONTINUED.) S Vogue of White Paint. A clever decorator who remodeled Sthe dining room in a New England t farm house has even gone so far In her use of white paint as to finish the floors with it. The woodwork and furniture were also white, but pleant? of color was introdaced by bright Schintz-patterned paper and plain Is bright green rugs. The white dnlnlg room table was always bare, whichtob y allowed the mistress to use many at. etractvely colored dolly sets. HRe id china showed up to splendid advae t tage on this white ground, and tli d flowers from the garden seemed S, usually bright and pretty in the midst dof all this white. A country boam . near Cleveland has all its dfloors paint' Sed white, with bright green, blue sad Spurple rugs used to oarry out certain in color schemes. Of course, using white on floors is practital only when yen Sare far from the city's sr9ke or ame rtor's dust.-The Countryside Map, t ine. Happy Time. e "The cotton growers seem to be Shard hit." S"Yes. And many of them are lolp Slng for the good old days when all the t, had to worry about was the bol wa a vi"