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1 The Roupell Mystery Q r a n v 1 I 1 e A u * t y n B y CHAPTER XIX.— (Continued .> it is quite likely that she would us any clew to the whereabouts of wh0 was almost a eon to her. Be ■ides. I thought you ^sald you couldn t -„j Madame La Seur. had some difficulty at first; but I had one of my men on the track for m3t two days. He now reporte her ^residing * Belleville. I shall move that neighborhood to-oight, and In the . five one bave at into « investigations. comm«" 06 m5r meantime I want you match Monsieur Chabot and report what deluded friend the prefect of is taking." they parted, Cassagne to his lodg to continue to jteps our police So âssume such a dress as with the humble quarters of where ho proposed to pursue logs to harmonize his investigations, D'Auburon to Ms club, where he had an appointment with M. Jules Chabot, and in whose company he would presently repair to the drawing of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de rooms Valair. At about half past eight the next even ing anyone who had taken the trouble to look might have seen enter the Rue Banquiere by its western end, a man pressed in rough garments, who looked well-to-do workman, with his heavy and lime-bespattered corduroys. He no collar on his check cotton shirt, but around his throat was loosely tied a t ei pocket handkerchief. A bag contain few tools was slung over his shoul like a «hoes wore lug a der Presently he stopped, ostensibly to pur chase some fruit, which a hawker in one o( the barrows in the middle of the street was vociferously offering for sale. As he stood there chatting in a friendly way with the peddler, however, his gaze in scene before him tetlity fixed upon a unique even among the curious phases of life to be encountered lu the Rue Ban qulere. in a shop which in point of size was double at least that of either of its ad joining neighbors, a crowd of the very poorest of Belleville had gathered. There must have been thirty or forty men, wom and children inside the doors, at the very least, and as many more waiting out side on the pavement. Over this shop swung a sign-board, on ID both sides of which was painted the figure of a man-cook, in a white cap and apron, Industriously carving an unnaturally red round beef ; and underneath, apparently unharmed by the steam and the gravy, for It was plainly to be read, was the democratic legend, "I carve for the peo île" Inside the shop a gentleman similarly habited, but a trifle less corpulent and dignified than his counterfeit presentment on the sign, was at that moment actually engaged in the very occupation which the legend advertised. He was engaged in carving for the people. In place, however, of operating upon a round of beef, he was engaged in slic Ing, with great rapidity, n meat pudding. This pudding Itself, apart from the hun gry crowd waiting to devour it, was an object worth looking at. It was at least five feet long and as thick as a ship's cable. As the cook out off a slice, a stout woman of about fifty-five years of age would seize it, wrap it up in a piece of newspaper, and hand it to someone in the crowd, not letting go of the appetiz lug morsel, however, until she had re ceived in exchange therefor two coins in copper, a great heap of which lay in a drawer beside her. The workman at the huckster's barrow finished his apple and bought another. The intent gaze which he kept fixed upon the cook shop at length attracted the at teulion of the vender 'You seem to be amused," he said. "Have you never seen a pudding cut be fore?" "Not such a pudding as that," replied tke man with the bag. "It's quite a sight, «in't it? Why, there's another." 'That's nothing. They'll keep that thing up for an hour yet. Old Mother Merchant's puddings have a reputation, I tell you. In the Hue Banquiere." 'The shop, then, belongs to Madame Merchant, who, I suppose. Is that old lady?" "Yes, and not only the shop, but the house as well. She has not been cutting puddings all these She's years for nothing, a pretty good-hearted woman, though, and nobody begrudges her her money. In the winter time she lets me •ell hot pies right in front of her shop here, though it's against her own trade." The glare of the petroleum lamps flick ered up less brightly. The night crept on apace. The fierce glare of the street changed to a dingy twilight. It was as If the footlights had been turned half-way down in some realistic melodrama. The crowd melted away at last. Only the stub end of one of the pud remained on the greasy counter. The drawer was piled full of coins. A fetched woman, gaunt with famine, was the only customer left She was bargain "g for a bone with which to make soup. Her two starving children, clinging to a tattere< * £° wu . eyed with wistful looks the remnant of the pudding ; but it was * beyond their mother's means. workm an took up his bag, and tedding good-night to the huckster, cross M over into the shop. hn' > an< ^ a l >ron w as resting from his la ts- The workman called to him and he came up to the counter. A. slice of pudding," said the work nan. The man in the lie' ■nan In the cap and apron cut it "'s no more paper," he said. 8 no more paper," he l *° ***''• to take it in your bands. u ' 8 »early cold now, anyway. Why didn't jou come in when it was hot*/ giand then, I tell you." The wretched mites clinging to the tat tered skirts of their mother, moved re luctantly toward the door. The woman liad secured her bone. Soup in the imme diate future was of course excellent ; but here was meat pudding being eaten under their Very eyes. stay a while. Perhaps the workman would have dropped It was They would have liked to some. "You are right," said the man with the bog. "These puddings are better hot. Here, little girl, I've—I've lost my ap petite." "Give it to me, an. "I will divide it fairly." "No, let the children have that, plied the man with the bag. "Out an other slice for madame." The woman burst into tears. Even the man with the cap and apron was affected ; but it was at the generosity of the man with the bag. It was getting late. The Rue Ban quiere was becoming deserted. The huck sters outside had covered up their wares and were beginning to take their depart cried the gaunt wom re ure. The man with the bag, however, still loitered in the cook shop. He had made a few purchases, and had chatted pleas antly with the man in the cap and apron on the latest local sensation, a raiding which had resulted in the death of two officers. "Not but what it serves them right," remarked the man with the bag. "Why don't these swells of the police let Belle ville folks alone?" "And they must have known the kind of place into which they were going." added madame, speaking for the first time. The man with the bag applauded her sentiments. Of course they did. Madame was a woman of good sense. If madame had her way, perhaps* she would have the police let the people of Belleville alone altogether, and never come near them. Madame was emphatic that she would, "for some of the worst of them were her best customers," she remarked, laughing. "I am In the door and window busi ness," replied the man with the bag, sig nificantly. "I thought you were not in a straight line when I first saw you," said the cook. "Your hands ain't rough enough, and you look altogether too fat. Workmen don't live as you've lived." "Oh ! they feed us well enough where I've just come from," replied the work man ; and he kept his eyes steadily fixed on madam's face. "I've just spent five years in the prisons of Toulon—why, what's the matter, madame? You never had anyone there, did you—no friend of yours?" But madame was deadly white, and clutching spasmodically at the greasy counter. "It is nothing," she gasped at length. "It is the heat—it is—I am not well. Monsieur will call again. I hope he will be a good customer. We have many like him." "And I'm all right, you know," said the man with the bag. "The police can't touch me, for I've served my time." He slung his bag over his shoulder, picked up his parcels, and wishing the pair good night, passed out on to the nearly deserted street, with the hang-dog look of a man who had been hunted often, and dreaded to be hunted again, trudged on to the top of the Rue Ban quiere, and gained a broader thorough fare. Immediately around the corner there was a cab in waiting. The man with the bag entered it. and raising the trap door in the roof, said to the sleepy driver : "Home!" And as he rattled along on the pavement, he said to himself : "Men dotti was right. The woman is undoubt edly Madame La Seur. Of course she would change her name when she mar ried again, He How she blanched when I spoke of Toulon. And another thing I'm of : she never bought that house and sure lot she owns by cutting up puddings in She must be watched and Belleville, followed night and day." CHAPTER XX. "The woman you want went in there !" It was Mendotti, one of Cassagne's men, who spoke to his employer, as both stood in the deep shadow of a tree, whose fur thest branches spread over the narrow street and beyond a high brick wall op posite. • "She went in there, not twenty minutes repeated Mendotti, pointing with his finger to a wooden door, which was let into the wall. "I at once sent you a I have ' not moved from here She's in there yet, I message. except to do that. . M don't know whose house it is.' "But I do. It is the residence of Col bert-Remplin, the rich banker of the Place de 1'Opera. That door leads into his garden. Tell me how she got in. Did she have a key'?' admitted her." "No, a woman "What kind of a woman was she? She looked as "An elderly woman, though she might be a housekeeper, or an I crept up near enough servant, to hear her say. 'My m.stress is busy now, but she will see you In a few min Go into the summer house. j thought deeply for a minute At last he said : "Ran around in front of the house and what is going on. The house is wel The Colbert-Remplins are not who entertain much : but there to-night. Do 1 utes Cassagne or two. Fee lit up. people must be something on vbe sound of music? V hoover not hear !■ rt* meet the woman," continued the de tective, "is to meet her in the summet house. Oh, to be able to scale that wail, and get into those grounds !" Looking around him his quick eye feil upon tl,e tree immediately over theii heads, along the branches of which ht 1 thought he might possibly work his way and so drop into the garden. The night was tolerably dark. But few people were passing in that fashion ible quarter. After a moment's hesita tion he determined to attempt it. Aftei first instructing Mendolti to await his re turn, he then climbed upon his assistant'! shoulders, and was just able to reach the lower limb of the cedar. "I am all right, commenced to work his way very cau tiously along one of the branches. It l>eut tremendously with his weight ; but he put up his hand and drew down an upper bough. Thus distributing the bur den, he managed to pass the wall, and he whispered, and he continued to creep along the branches until, they gradually bending with theit load, he was enabled to drop noiselessly into the garden. "I will go and wait for my lady In the center of the lawn, and I had better be quick about it," he said. Relying upon his general knowledge of the construction of a Parisian garden, M. Cassagne walked rapidly forward, struck his foot against some unforeseen obsta cle, tripped, stumbled, and the next mo ment found himself struggling in the water. He had overlooked the tact that some gardens have fountains. "Where have you come from, and what have you been doing?" was the astonish ed inquiry of Charles D'Auburon. He had been aroused from his bed at midnight by a thunderous knocking at his door, and on going to see what all the noise was about, had discovered Cas sagne, standing, the picture of misery, under the lamp on the landing. Dripping yet with the moisture which ran from all his garments ; minus his hat, and shivering like an aspen, the famous detective presented a picture well calcu lated to excite the utmost commiseration; but a gleam of triumph was in his un dimmed eye ; and he wore the air of a conqueror rather than of a man who had met with a humiliating accident. Cassagne entered into a circumstantial relation of his adventures. When he ar rived at what he facetiously termed the "frog-pond Incident," D'Auburon could not restrain his mirth, and it was so con tagious that Cassagne, though the Joks was against himself, could not refrain from joining him. The two men roared until the room shook again. When their merriment had somewhat subsided M. Cassagne took up the thread of his narra tive in this wise : "I had hardly got my head out of water, and cleared my ears and eyes, be fore I heard a door open and shut, in the back part of the house. I crept softly out of the fountain and lay extended at full length upon the grass. Straining my eyes In the direction of the house, I per ceived the figure of a woman coming to ward me. She was a woman daintily dressed in full bail costume. 1 had no difficulty in following her. She had slip ped unpcrceivcd from the ball room, and doubt believed herself to be entirely free frnm surveillance. I crept along on hands and knees and got close to her as she came around the bend in the gravel As she neared me, the moon, which my walk. had hitherto been concealed by passing clouds, shone out a little and gleamed her soft silk dress and her white In that brief moment I saw upon shoulders, and recognized her." "Who was she?" exclaimed D'Auhuron, in a tone of almost breathless intercut. "She was the woman I expected. She Madame Colbert-Remplln, the bank was er's wife." "You are joking," exclaimed D'Au burou. "Both Mendotti and yourself must have been mistaken. The light was un it was some young lady certain, you say. of the household going to meet her lover." It was "It was nothing of the kind. Madame Colbert-Remplin, going to meet Madame Méchant, nee La Seur, who has learned some secret of hers and is trading it to her own advantage." "Impossible !" "It is a tact. upon I can understand now how Madame Méchant is able to become a by selling meat pud She is a property owner dings in the Rue Banquiere. blackmailer. I myself heard money pass between them. The chink of gold pieces. It is a sound which I cannot be deceived in." D'Auburon knew the almost marvelous gift which bis friend had received from nature in the matter of hearing. No stag in the forest could catch a sound than his highly trained and slighter ex quisite organ. "You are probably correct, he said. "Were you able to glean any particulars of their secret?" "I was not. The interview was very brief, and what little conversation there carried on in a very low tone. twice did I catch was was In fact, only once or Once they spoke Madame Méchant broken sentence, louder than usual. — threatening the banker's wife; and Madame Colbert-Remplin^ was begging the other not to expose her." "She has her thoroughly in her power? asked D'Auburon. "Undoubtedly, and that her secret is connected with Philip Gra it was in some way ham, I feel convinced." "Why?" "There was one other sentence 1 heard, have no mercy for me, do not 'if you ruin my child. At least respect the feel ings of his unhappy mother.' (To be continued.) Not the Some. Merchant—I thought you told me he man of very good character. Quibble—I guess you misunderstood I said he was a man of good rep utation.—Philadelphia Presa. was a me -THE MODEM AKDROMEDA.* SD T » T > ■ ", i ■S] n KkSSS v Lv M. % ' ±' r" ff-Vj r K-'S e- -UllirifTTlir f a' 1 ' r 1 rr \.-u: V / ; I IL A This English cartoon was Inspired by the latest strategic move by the woman suffragists, who stormed the official residence of Premier Campbell Bannerman as the Cabinet members were assembling for council previous to the opening of Parliament. When policemen attempted to drag the women to the station house the demonstrants threw heavy chains over the railing of the Premier's home and fastened them with strong padlocks. The chains had to be broken with hammers before the screaming prisoners could be carried away. tke Bçrp-Y TOR b*' r TV? Exerclne for tho Bnb/. In considering the question of physi cal exercise for very small Infants, It la comfortable to remember that Na ture herself is quite capable of taking care of this matter, unless she Is stu pidly balked by the child's other and less able guardians. Any one who doubts this statement has never had the privilege of watching a tiny but healthy baby crow and kick when its restricting clothes are removed. This habit should be fostered by parents, as the baby will never overdo It. It Is not necessary to hang over It all the time, as so many parents do, talking and laughing and overstimulat ing the tiny brain at the same time. A few minutes of this each day will do no harm, but then self-control should be exercised, and the child left to Its own devices. It should be laid down on a soft rug or mattress, in the winter near the open fire, in the summer near an open, sunny j window, with Its clothing removed, and allowed to kick and wave and gesticu late and Indulge In Its funny mono logue as long as It will. Nature, as we said before, is then its nurse, and a wise one. Its lungs and muscles are all getting their proper exercise, its skin is being healthily ventilated, the hardening pro cess be, and the baby Is gay and happy without stimulation and excitement— also as It should be. As to the exercise part of the pro ceedlug, the looker-on might almost think that the baby had made an ex haustive study of some excellent sys tem of muscle development, so vigorous are Its movements and so suited to their design. When the time comes for the child to "find Its legs," as the old nurses say, it is quite unnecessary to aid it in the search. Its legs are in place, and have had plenty of good, free exercise; and when they are strong enough to support the little body, the baby will pull Itself up by a chair or other piece of ftirnl ture, turn with that Irresistible air of mingled conceit and rapture to see if some one is looking at it, gurgle Its satisfaction with this new state of things, and the deed Is done. From that day continual fresn pro gress will be made, at first with sup port, later In a staggering run, ending, to its great surprise, in a backward bump, and a new phase of life is begun. In spite of good advice, there are still to be found In the world foolish and adoring young parents whose baby walked and talked and thought earlier than all other babies. The result, so far as walking Is concerned, is very likely to be a well-developed case of bow-legs.—Youth's Companion. Is being softly done as It should BLD COTTON FIELDS OF PESTS. Ooud Work Accomplished by on Ok lahoma Former's Turkey Drove. N. C. McElhany, a farmer who .ives this place, has apparently solved near the problem of ridding his cotton fields of the dreaded I »oil worms, which are the forerunner of the boll weevil, and that, too. by the simplest and at the lame time most profitable process, says the Indlanola correspondent of the Fort Worth Record. Mr. McElhaney's plan is to keep a drove of turkeys In his cotton field. The bigger the cotton field the bigger the drove of turkeys and the bigger the profits. "In 1905 I raised eighteen turkeys that spent their time on a four-acre tract of land near the house -which had been planted in cotton," said Mr. Me Elhaney. "This piece of ground that year made 400 pounds of cotton to the acre more than It had ever made before. Believing that the turkeys had some thing to do with it I decided to try them again. In 1906 I raised seventy five turkeys and they ran in twelve acres of a field of twenty acres that I had planted to cotton. This was a bad year for boll worms. "The twelve acres where the turkeys stayed made a bale to the acre, or a third more than the remainder of the same field, where the turkeys were not allowed to run, showing that the boll worms and other Insects had cut down the crop one-third on the land where the turkeys had not run. In the twelve acres where they spent the season I did not see a single sign of boll worms dur ing the season. This was proof enough for me. "Any man can regulate the drove of turkeys according to the size of his cot ton field, but the bigger drove of tur keys he has the more profit there will be: The black turkey is the best for the farm. They are hardier and better rustlers, while the toms when fully grown weight twenty-five pounds, and If shipped at the right time bring from $2 to $3 on the market." Mr. McElhaney states that not only are the boll worms eaten by the turkeys but the fields are kept clean from all other Insects, and any practical farmer realizes the tremendous value of such a condition. IlelpliiK Him Oat. Mr. Lord looked so grave one even ing that his wife—-a very young one— noticed It, and asked what was the mat ter. "I suppose business is troubling you," she surmised, shrewdly, struck a snag, why don't you tell me, and perhaps I may be able to help you." After more affectionate adjuration Lord admitted that his pay-roll bother ed him. "I've made It tip as far as the work men go," ho said, "but If I pay the "If you've stenographer there won't be a penny left for Davis and me. Davis says he can't stand that ; he must have some money this month." Lord's wife was momentarily grave ; then her face brlgthened. "Why don't you give the stenog rapher a month's vacation?" she sug gested, eagerly. "Then divide what there Is with Davis. It seems to me," judicially, "that would be fair all around. The Troth. Fear Is not In the habit of speaking truth. When perfect sincerity la ex pected, perfect wisdom must be allow ed. Nor has any one who Is apt to be angry when he hears the truth any cause to wonder that he does nr t bear It.—Tacitus. All io«t. Horace—Did the college authorities reinstate young Smith after he was ex pelled? Helen—Almost. Horace—Al most ? Helen—Yes; I heard his folks say he was halfback. A widower uses his children as an excuse for marrying again, the same aa he does for going to the circus.