Willmar tribune. [volume], March 17, 1909, Image 7

About Willmar tribune. [volume] (Willmar, Minn.) 1895-1931

Image provided by: Minnesota Historical Society; Saint Paul, MN

                
«M pi
ARLTON CLARKE and 1
were in New York—I knew
not why—at the time Col.
James Watson Drcxlau, an
immensely wealthy New
Yorker, was fouTul stabbed
to death in his heme His
daughter and Ranleie-h Haicamp were
the hibt upon the scene of the murder.
W became connected with the case
thtoimh mj acquaintance with Col
lins, iuend of my jouth and one of
the best repoitcis in Manhattan.
Claike and 1 weie d'scussing the
Midlife mWoij which had grown out
of the ci°^
knock on the door put an end to
mn comcisation. It was Collins, to
whom I lnul iven a quiet tip to stay
with us thicugh the case.
\noihcu knock followed almost im
m'thatch, and I admitted Ranleigh
Haicamp, whose face showed the first
snnlo I had seen him give when he
Ielated the ease with which he had
eluded Clancj's shadows.
Wo die\v our chairs up to the table
fiom which the maid had removed the
lut^ktast t-a and Harcamp's face
fuam saddened as the conversation
'i.ined to the one great topic, the trag
tch ot the night.
Nov, Mr Harcamp," began Clarke,
'I want on to tell us exactly what
happened last night."
I cannot," said Harcamp, between
sot teeth.
Then I will have to tell you. Sit
dov Mr Harcamp."
Ha camp had risen with an angry
rcstme, but he sank into his chair
a-ain, lascinated under the battery of
Claike piercing eyes.
hen you and Miss Drexlau re
turned fiom the theater," continued
Claike, "Mr. Drexlau met you and a
violent scene occurred. Is that right?"
Yea, I suppose Fogarty has told
jou
Miss Drexlau, at her father's orders,
finally went to her room in tears."
"I see by the papers Fogarty was
eavesdiopping," commented Harcamp.
Then you and Mr. Drexlau cooled
down He suggested that you go into
the billiard room and amuse yourself
while he smoked a cigar, and maybe
jou would both see things in a dif
ferent lis ht. You became interested
in practicing some difficult masse
shot and stayed for some time."
"How in the name of heaven do you
know all that?"
"Veiy simple. Balls carefully
placed in line along the side rail, tip
of cue badly damaged, your fingers
covered with chalk. You were just
about to attempt the shot after repeat
ed failures when you heard Mr. Drex
lau fall You rushed into the hall
and saw fleeing up the stairs—"
Harcamp rose with clenched fists
and white face. "Stop you lie! No
man on God's earth knows whom 1
saw."
"Ha, I thought I was right. You
saw Miss Diexlau"
Harcamp groaned and buried his
face in his hands. "She didn't do it.
She didn't do it. O' why didn't I
confess to it and save her?"
Claike went over and laid a hand
on his shoulder "Now, brace up,
Faicamp," he said. "It may not be
as bad as jou think. There is one
th»ng that may sa\e her."
Tell me, for God's sake!" moaned
Ilaic amp
rl
he blue Bokhara," answered
ClPike
Just then a messenger arrived with
a telegiam It was for Clarke and he
toie it open fe\eiishly. As he read his
face bioke into a smile of triumph.
'At last I can act," he cried. "Quick.
Mr Collins, call a cab You know the
neaiest stands. Mr. Harcamp, we
will save her."
Collins was soon at the door with a
carriage Clarke gave the driver his
dnections, and we all got in.
"Wheie are we bound for?" I
asked
"We are in pursuit ot the blue Bok
hara," was all that Clarke would vouch
safe
Wc drew up before a large store in
Broadway devoted exclusively to orien
tal nigs, and hurried in.
D.d you ever see a Blue Bokhara?"
asked Claike of the proprietor.
Yes," he replied, "but we haven't
one In fact I never saw but one I
believed was genuine, and that didn't
bung very good luck to the man that
bought it, for I hear he's just been
mm dei ed."
"Yes, yes, that's the one!" said
Claike, exultantly.
"Did he get it here?"
"No, he didn't. He picked it up
from a small dealer, but there was
considerable talk about it among rug
men, and I went around to see it. I've
been many so-called blue Bokbaras,
but never one like this. It was the
softest shade of blue and of the finest
wool mixed with silk. The sheen was
perfect
"Yes, yes," interrupted Clarke "but
can jou tell me the name of the shop
that sold it?"
Certainlj it was Agnossi's, on
lower Washington street but he
hasn't anj thing like it. Let me show
you borne particularly fine Bokharas
I ha-e Just imported."
But we were gone on our way to
Agnossi's before he recovered from his
surprise, I suspect.
Agnoasi was a dark-eyed Armenian
who kept a small stock. He was
proud of having sold the most wonder
ful rug in New York, proud of having
known the murdered man and anxious
to tell all about both.
"But while it was in your hands did
you repair it?" asked Clarke, Inter
rupting his flow of description.
"Oh, no, gentlemen, it was perfect,
perfect. I have been dealing in rugs
all my life and—"
"But haven't you even a thread of
it even a strand of wool?"
1
^fWrN
Sou of the Blue Bokhara
By FRANK LOVELL NELSON
One of Carlton Clarke'sTelepatho-Deductive Solutions
"Why, no. You as* funny questions.
More funny than young man who
come here every day I got the rug
and ask the price and cry when I tell
him I sold it to Mr. Drexlau. And to
think of Mr. Drexlau so soon killed!
I like to have the pick of his rugs. It
make me rich."
"From whom did you get the rug?"
broke in Clarke.
The Armenian's eyes kindled with
suspicion. "What for you want to
know that?" he said.
'We've no time to waste," said
Clarke angrily, and he held the native
with his eyes while he made some
quick passes before his face. The Ar
menian's eyes rolled and his muscles
stiffened in the first stages of hyp
nosis. Clarke snapped his fingers and
Agnossi came out of it with a start
and a look of terror.
"Now," said Clarke, "tell me where
you got the rug or I'll put the spell on
you and leave you that way."
"Oh. I'll tell, I'll tell," said the
frightened Oriental. "I had it of Is
rael Fangbone in Pell street."
"A well-known fence," said Collins.
"If we find you've been lying I'll
come back and look into your head and
see everything you've ever done,"
warned Clarke.
"Oh, gentlemen, I tell the truth and
listen, I did repair it. Fangbone, he
cut a little piece out of it, such a little
piece. I weave it in and Mr. Drexlau
never see it at all. I think Fangbone
try to match the wool and get some
fake ones made."
"A scheme that you doubtless sug
gested," said Clarke. "Now, haven't
you that piece?"
"Oh, no, gentlemen. I gif you my
word of honor. Fangbone he have
it."
"Then to Pell street," commanded
Clarke.
"I'm afraid you'll find Fangbone a
tougher proposition than the Arme
nian," said Collins when we were once
more in the cab.
"If he is a strong character his
weak point is the more vulnerable,"
replied Clarke. "When I see him I
will know where to attack."
Fangbone in truth was a veritable
Fagin. He treated us with twisting,
truculent hands, which seemed to itch,
and his inky-black beard to bristle at
the gain that might be derived from
such a presentable set of rounders as
he took us to be.
"Somedings I can show you. shentle
mens? Some moneys you want, may
be? I haf it."
Clarke made a careful survey of his
antagonist. "Yes, Fangbone, it's
money. Twenty dollars on this," and
Clarke took a diamond ring from his
finger and laid it in the moist, out
stretched palm.
Fangbone examined it critically, but
with greedy eyes. "You haf come by
it honestly?" he asked.
"Of course. You'll be safe enough
anyway. It's easily worth two hun
dred and I may never redeem it."
"Not reteem id?" said Fangbone in
surprise.
"No, I wouldn't wear it again. It's
kisheff. I had it of this man Drexlau
who was killed last night, and I just
heard he had a blue Bokhara rug that
was kisheff and it killed him."
"You say the blue Bokhara is a
kisheff? Wrho dell you dat?"
"Thaida told me
Clarke whispered it impressively.
Fangbone's eyes opened in wonder.
"Thaida dell you? You know Thai
da, an' she say dere is a kisheff on the
blue Bokhara?"
"Yes, Thaida says It was the blue
Bokhara that killed Drexlau. She says
every thread of it is kisheff, cursed by
Adonai and haunted by the 72 spirits
of the great Solomon. She says the
only way to escape a violent death is
to part with the object to the first man
you meet. If you can't sell it give it
away. We've just come from Thaida."
A look of fear stole over Fangbone's
forbidding countenance and his eyes
wandered involuntarily toward a
drawer back of the counter in front of
which we were standing.
"Here, dake id, dake id, qvick!" he
said, thrusting the ring at Clarke. "I
will haf nodding to do vid id. Thaida
she know. She is wise in de black
magic as in de white. Tank Gott I
vind id oudt in time."
As soon as we were beyond the line
of vision from the interior Clarke
stopped and accosted a typical Pell
street hobo. "Here, my man," he said,
"want to make a half a dollar? Well]
wander into Fangbone's, take what
ever he gives you, bring it to me and
yo'i get your money." The hobo hur
ried off and Clarke's scheme began to
dawn upon me. In a few minutes he
was back. "Here's wat de sheeny
give me. Now, where's de mazuma?"
Clarke handed him the money and
in return the man placed in Clarke's
hand a square inch of the blue Bok
hara!
"Superstition, his ruling passion, and
a powerful name in the Ghetto," quiet
ly remarked Clarke. "Now the solu
tion is in our grasp."
We did not inquire whither we were
going as we whirled through dark, for
bidding streets, but even with my lim
ited knowledge of the metropolis I
knew it was still the Ghetto.
We stopped before one of those old
fashioned New York houses, once the
home of fashion and yet to be found in
the lower East side. Clarke sent up
his card and we were admitted to a
drawing room furnished in a quiet
magnificence that contrasted strangely
with the squalor and degradation all
about.
The silken portieres parted and
there stood before us the most beauti
ful woman it has ever been by lot to
see. Her black costume, rather plain
ly cut, yet fitting like a glove her
raven hair, and her big lustrous black
eyes formed a perfect contrast to her
marble forehead her cheeks of olive
white, surcharged with the pink of
health, and her full red smiling lips,
through which showed teeth that
seemed to glisten and radiate their
whiteness. The nose was pure Gre
cian, noble, yet delicate. A diamond
sunburst, her only jewelry, blazed at
the white throat. Lovely women I
have seen of many nations, but never
loveliness like this.
Clarke started up and took a step
toward her. Their eyes met.
"Thaida!"
"Carlton!"
"You had my wires?"
"Not until I got home this morning.
I've been away. And you mine?"
"It has brought me and my friends.
Let them be your friends, Thaida!"
"They are well recommended," she
said as she took the hand of each and
heard our names. I believe every
man's blood tingled as he touched that
queenly hand. I know mine did.
"Thaida, we have need of you,"
then continued Clarke. "I heard that
since we met you have become skilled
in psychometry."
"It is true that the 'souls of things'
have voices for me unheard by ordin
ary mortals. The new science of
Prof. Denton is not unknown to me.
Is the affair urgent?"
"It is urgent."
"Then prepare me."
Thaida seated herself and Clarke
gazed steadily into her eyes for a few
moments. Her muscles became tense,
her face pallid and her eyes glassy,
ani then they closed in what appeared
to be the sleep of nature. Clarke took
the square of blue Bokhara from his
pocket and pressed it against her fore
head.
"Do you see, Thaida?"
"I see," came the rich, subdued
voice.
"What see you?"
"I see a richly appointed drawing
room. Oriental rugs cover the floor.
Over the fireplace is a picture of
Washington. A white pilastered arch
way leads into a library and that opens
into a conservatory. Three persons
are there. One is an old man, one a
young man and one a woman, young,
slender and black of hair. They seem
to be disputing and the old man is
greatly excited. At last he points to
the door and his daughter—yes it is
his daughter—goes out in tears, with
one last supplicating look at the men.
There they part, not all in anger, as
the father seems to weaken at the
sight of hie daughter's tears. The
young man goes out through the li
brary and the aged man lights a cigar
and walks the drawing room with
bowed head, his hands behind his
back.
"He halts In his walk and listens.
He slips across the room on tiptoe,
tears open the portiere at the hall
door and drags out a little old man.
He Is a servant. The master of the
house upbraids the cringing menial
and then points to the door. The little
old man goes out. The tall man re
sumes his restless walk, blowing
rings of smoke and now and then
glancing at his watch and from that
to the door. He expects some one. At
last he stops. He listens. He hears a
step. He goes out into the hall to the
front door and flings it open. A dark
muffled form enters."
"Mark well this man, Thaida. What
is he like?"
"He is dark, very dark. He is
emaciated. His face is drawn with
suffering. His clothes are in rags, yet
his bearing is proud and noble. They
pass into the drawing room. The dark
man is pleading with clasped hands.
The old man laughs scornfully. The
dark figure offers hiw something. It
is money. The old man again repulses
him and points toward the door. The
dark man still pleads with many pas
sionate gestures toward a blue rug of
surpassing beauty on the floor. At
last the old man advances and raises
his hand as If to strike. There is a
quick blow and a flash of steel. The
old man reels and falls, clutching at
his breast. The dark man seizes the
rug and is gone into the night."
"Now the rug, Thaida, the rug. Fol
low it. Trace it back to the making.
What see you?"
"I see a little hut in Bokhara beside
the Samarkand gate. I know the spot
well. Within the door a loom is
placed and there, day by day, a maiden
weaves upon a rug. She is beautiful
as the night, and as she weaves a
youth watches her and strokes the
inky braids of her hair while their
eyes speak the tale of love that is old
as this old world, yet ever new.
"Day by day the maiden weaves,
and as she weaves her fair body
wastes by degrees so small that her
lover sees not the change. At last the
final knot is tied and the weft thrown
through the warp for the last time, and
with a sigh and a look of love the
weaver falls into his outstretched
arms.
"She has woven her soul into the
blue Bokhara.
"The youth wanders, the rug always
with him, for it is his bride. He comes
to this city. He is in want he is
starving. When near to death he
pawns the rug that he may live. Then
the change comes. He finds work, he
makes money. He tries to redeem the
rug, but the man to whom he pawned
it is a villain. He has learned the
value of the rug and will not give it
up but for a great price. The youth
struggles and saves and denies him
self everything until at last he has
the sum. At last he is able to buy the
rug, only to find that it is sold to—
yes, it is to the man who was slais.
The youth seek3 him out and, by the
ruse that he has smuggled rugs for
sale, gains entrance at midnight."
"Where is he now? Look well
Thaida."
"He is near."
"The street can you read it?"
"It li Washington street, in the Ar
menian quarter."
"The number?"
"Two hundred and sixty-eight."
'The name?"
"I cannot tell. Wait, he writes. He
signs. 'Kareton Boyajian.' He faints
You must hasten if you see him."
"The floor?"
"It is the garret. I am weary, Carl
ton make haste."
"Enough, Thaida. Wake."
The eyes opened and smiled.
"Have I helped?" she asked.
"You have made all clear. But we
must act now. To-morrow I will re
turn and tell you all. And, oh, Thaida,
that I may then persuade you to tt*m
up this sordid life, this preying upoa
the Ignorance and fear of the Ghetto."
"You see the results—luxury,
wealth, alj that we longed for In the
old days. But come to-morrow."
The final act of the drama was
brief. We communicated with the In
spector and he met us on the way to
the Washington street number in
Clarke's possession. This proved to
be a rickety tenement. Under the
guidance of the Inspector, we entered
boldly and mounted five dingy flights
to the garret. A knock at the one
door brought no response and we
pushed in as it was unlocked.
There, on a miserable bed of straw,
his wasted body wrapped in the blu»
Bokhara, lay a young Turkoman. By
the sickly light of one guttering can
dle it was plain that we were none too
soon, as the finger of death already
was upon his forehead.
Claike stepped to him and, gently
raising his head, poured brandy down
his throat. His eyes roved until they
lighted upon the uniform and star of
the inspector.
"You have come for me," he said
weakly. "You are too late. I am
going to join my love."
The last words ended in a gurgle
and he was dead in Clarke's arms.
Starvation and want had done their
work.
"And if any further evidence is
needed, Inspector, here it is," said Col
lins, as he picked from the straw a
blood-stained stiletto.
The blue Bokhara is on our floor
now and Clarke thinks that time and
use will restore its wonderful luster.
We saw Miss Drexlau once more be
fore leaving New York, when she
came with Ranleigh Harcamp to ex
press her thanks to Clarke. She was
in deep mourning, but even under her
burden of grief radiant with her new
found love.
"Had I only been a moment sooner
I might have saved him," she told us.
"I was ready for bed when I thought
of a box of candy I had left in the
hall. I threw on a loose house gown
and started down after it. On the way
down I heard papa fall, but I thought
it was a noise in the street. Then I
heard Mr. Harcamp coming from the
billiard room and I flew back. Do you
know, Ranleigh, I thought—but only
for a moment—"
Clarke went alone that afternoon to
make his promised call on Thaida.
When he returned he was humming a
little tune, a frivolous little tune for
Clarke.
"Do you know, old chap," he said,
"I begin to think this trip to New
York will not prove altogether a fail
ure."
"Then it was Thaida that brought
us to New York?"
"Yes, Sexton, it was Thaida," and a
pang of jealousy, jealousy of them
both, shot through me.
(Copyright, 1909, by W. G. Chapman.)
(Copyright in Great Britain.)
Timely Word to the Wealthy.
The wealthy and the noble, when
they expend large sums in decorating
their houses with the rare and costly
efforts of genius, with busts from the
chisel of a Canova, and with cartoons
from the pencil of a Raphael, are to
be commended, they do not stand
still there, but go on to bestow some
pains and cost, that the master him
self be not inferior to the mansion,
and that the owner be not tUe only
thing that is little, amidst evervthlni
else that is great—Colto*.
~m,* M^., gHhnMA, tikmm ,,ri-.
't iri*"*'
ZllA WDDIXTON
a*r*KHr no? mr ttumttnrr co
IZAUSTRAIZD BY
JUT WAITERS
SYNOPSIS.
Three girls Elizabeth, Gabrielle and
Ehse—started for Canada to spend the
summer there On board steamer thev
ere frightened by an appai ently dement
ed stranger, who, finding a bag belonging
to one of them, took enjoyment in sciu
timaing a photo of the ttio. Ehse slwed
her stateroom with a Mis Graham, also
bound foi Canada The voting women on
a sightseeing tour met Mis Giaham,
anxiously aw utmg her husband, ho had
a mania for sailing Thev were ntio
ducod to Lori W.lfiid and L,adv Edith
cottage by the oce^n v\as lented by
the tno for the surrme. Elizabeth
learned that a friend of her fathers wai
to rail. Tflo men called, one of them
beirtg the que-n-atfng sti.uigtr on the
•"'^"•me' The girls weie "rot at hone,"
Mit discovered by the eaids left that one
of the men was Elizabeth's fathers
friend. The men pro\ed to be John
Blal-e and Goruon Bennett The paitv
was told of the search foi smugglers in
the vicinity of the cottage El s^ visited
Mrs. Graham to find that her life was
not the happiest. She learned that the
Grahams and Lady Edith weie acquaint
ed A wisp of vellow hair from Mi Gia
ham's pocket fell into the hands ot Ehse
Mrs Graham's hair was black During
a storm the young women heard a crash
in the basement of the cottage and a mo
ment later Mary Anne, their woman ser\
ant, entered, her arm bleedin? To as
sure them there was no danger, Mai/
Anne descended to the basement alone
and quieted their foars. Ladv Edith told
the girls of a robberv of jewels at the
hotel Fearing for the safety of her own
gems, she left them in a safe at the cot
tage Mr Gordon Bennett was propeiH
introduced, explained his queer actions,
returned the lost bag and told of mysteri
ous doings of a ear before connected
with the cottpge Exploring the cellar,
one of the girls found a sphinx cuff-but
ton, the exact counterpart of which both
Gordon Beniett and Lady Edith weie
found to possess, also Elise, alone, ex
plored the cellar, overheaiing a conver
sation there between Mary Anne and a
man.
CHAPTER VIII—Continued.
There was silence for a minute, and
then the man spoke again.
"I tell you there's no use talking
any mere. I've begun the thing, and
I'm going through with it."
"But the danger, Willy, the dan
ger!"
"I'm used to danger,"
"Aye, worse luck, that you are! And
me like to breake me 'eart wi' thinkin'
of you o' nights."
"Then don't think."
"Ah, 'ow can I 'elp it? Me that
carried you in me arms when you was
a little babby!"
"Well, now, will you do what I ask,
or won't you?"
"Don't ask it of me, Willy—don't
now."
"I do ask it."
I forgot all honorable scruples
against eavesdropping, and listened
with all my ears. I can only add in
self-defense that I believe any one
else in my place would have done the
same.
He muttered something I could not
hear, however, and Mary Anne gave a
stilled sob.
"Oh, you didn't use to be so 'ard!"
she exclaimed. "It's she 'as changed
you. It's 'er fault—with 'er soft 'ands
and 'er 'ard, crool 'eart."
"Don't you say anything against
Nell. I won't have it."
"Oh, it's alius Nell nowadays. And
what does she care what 'appens to
you, so long as she's safe 'erself? If
only you'd took to the fishing trade,
Willy, and lived respectable 'ow 'appy
we might 'ave been, and Sarah Cush
ley ready to marry you if you'd said
the woid."
"Sarah Cushley indeed!"
"It's the books—that's what done it.
Many's the time I've been sorry I ever
let you go to school. Many's the time
I've wished I'd listened to yer uncle
when 'e wanted to take you on 'is
sloop afore the mast. Fur 'e said good
'ard work, with a rope's end now and
then, would make a man o' you. But
you'd a look o' yer father, and you
'ad 'is fine ways—"
He interrupted her with an unpleas
ant laugh.
"Fine ways, indeed! That's all he
ever gave his son. Don't blame me
for anything, mother—look nearer
home. I'm not saying it was all your
fault. You thought you were mar
ried."
"God knows I did, Willy!"
"You brought me into the world, and
found you were deceived, like many
another fool of a girl—and serves
them right, too, for thinking a gentle
man would marry them."
"Oh, my boy!"
There was real tragedy in the excla
mation, and I found myself wiping
*way a tear, but the man's voice wa3
as cold as ever.
"So I started life under a handicap
—a thoroughbred mongrel, made up of
the worst of you and the worst of him.
And I turned out a bad lot, didn't I?
But whose fault was it?"
"Mine, Willy, mine."
"Yes, yours. Branded from the be
ginning with the bar sinister—differ
ent from other children. Don't I re
member it all? Growing up with his
aristocratic tastes and your environ
ment *orn with the instincts of his
class, which make luxuries necessi
ties, and no money to gratify them.
And then the cold shoulder every
where—contemptuous pity from his
class, open ridicule from yours."
"I sent you away, Willy. I took the
bit of money he gave me and sent you
to the states to school, where yoy
could be a gentleman and no questions
asked. And I loved you, darlin' I al
ius loved you."
"You gave me what you could, I sup
pose. I'm not blaming you for that.
But you turned me loose with a little
learning and no money—a dangerous
combination, mother. So I went to
the bad, preferring a short life and a
merry one. Then I met Nell, and was
happy, for she loved me. Don't say
she didn't—she did, I tell you she
does."
''And so do I, my boy. Who could
love you like your mother?"
"Then, mother, do as I tell you,
without any more fuss. Come away
from this place—it gets on my nerves
—and give me something to drink, for
I was up all night, and have more
work ahead of me."
Their voices died away, and I sat for
some time longer meditating upon
fr1,v-
*i -ir-u-unnj\TLnjij-Lnji_ru
what I had heard, and, if the truth
must be told, afraid to emerge from
the cellar while the man was on the
premises. At last a sound in the
kitchen indicated that Mary Anne had
returned alone, so I went bold'y up
the outside steps and aicund to the
kitchen door.
She sat en a chair near the table,
her aprcn thiown over he: head, the
picture of desrao", and I advanced
ainetly and laid my hand upon her
shoulder, for my heait ached for the
poor soul.
"Mary Anne," I said, very gently,
"I was in the cellar just now, and
heard jou talking."
She stared at me with widely dis
tended ej es and trembling lips.
"Miss Elise!" she gasped. "You
here?"
"I didn't go with the others, because
my head ached. You have not been
honest with us, Mary Anne. We didn't
know you had a son."
She rested her head in her hands
and buist into teais.
"Oh, Miss Elise," she sobbed, "don't
look at me that way—I'm un'appy
enough without that. Yes, miss, I 'ave
a son, and if jou 'eard us talkin', you
know all about it. He took to drink,
rm&s, and was alius in trouble. And
last jear 'e got to quarreling—in
Montreal it was—and atabbed a
man. And the man up and died. So
they're after 'im tur it, and they'll 'ang
'im, miss, they'll 'ang my boy if they
ketches 'im."
She rocked to and fro a moment in
speechless misery, and then contin
ued:
"And I give 'im money, Miss Elise,
but I don't let 'im come up 'ere, ex
cept to-day 'e follered me unbe
knownst, miss, and I let 'im go in the
coal 'ole, God furgive me fur the lib
erty I took! Mostly 'e comes down
the shore in 'Is boat, and I meets 'im
quite private. But I've give 'im all
the money I 'ad, and my brother's give
him money, too, and 'e's goin' back to
the old country to live a decent life."
"Where were you when I heard you
talking?"
"In the coal 'ole at the back o' the
cellar. And I beg your parding fur
the liberty I took, but don't lay it up
agin me, miss, fur what else could a
mother do? And, Miss Elise, darlin',
you'll keep a quiet tongue in yer 'ead,
won't you, and let 'im git away? Fur
'e's shipped as a sailor and sails on
Sunday mornin'."
I said I would talk it over with the
others, but I thought if she promised
never to allow him near the house
again we would say nothing, as he
was really going to leave the country
and reform. She quite cheered up
then, and insisted on getting me a
lunch, waiting on me with a humility
RC4 alacrity I found most touching.
This vagrant son explained various lit
tle mysteries about Mary Anne which
had puzzled me a good deal, and I felt
very sorry, indeed, for the poor crea
ture with her secret trouble.
I had been so excited that I quite
forgot my own ills, and longed for the
return of the girls, that I might talk
the matter over with them. They could
not get home before six o'clock, how
ever, so I went out on the veranda to
wait for them and enjoy the salt
breeze.
To my surprise, I found Lady Edith
Campbell reclining in the hammock,
reading the morning paper. She
laughed as I exclaimed in astonish
ment, and came to meet me with a
kiss of welcome.
"You did not expect me," she said,
"and I certainly did not expect to be
here, but I woke with such a wretched
headache Chit asornlng I simply could
not go.*'
"Why, so did I."
"I know—Gabrielle told me. They
wanted to put it off again, but Wil
frid had already gone, and I knew he
would be disappointed, so I persuaded
them to go. About noon my head got
better, and my room felt so close and
stuffy I longed for your cool breeze
and lovely view, so I managed to
dress and walk up here, thinking we
might compare symptoms. I rang, but
no one came, so I appropriated the
hammock, as my walk had used me up
completely. I hope you don't mind
very much."
I hastened to assure her I was de
lighted, as I had had more than
enough cf my own society. So we had
a long, comfortable afternoon, and by
and by Mary Anne brought us tea,
with an appealing glance at me which
I interpreted as a plea for silence,
and I am glad to be able to say I kept
her secret inviolate.
"I envy you your complexion," I re
marked, as I admired the seashell
tints of my ?ue:t's face. "Now, I am
Quite pale and heavy-eyed, but you
look as frech as a drlsy, yet you have
had lust as Loind a day as I."
"It takes a great deal to make the
Campbells lose their color," she le
plied, "or rather, to make it stay
lost. I was pale enough this morning,
but as soon as the pain left me the
red returned. I am shockingly
healthy, jou know—good, stdidy old
Scotch blood."
"But Loid Wilfrid often looks very
pale."
Oh, Wilfrid is an al^n—we all tell
him so, much to his disgust and he
is far from well, poor fellow, although
I think ho is improving. Have vou
noticed that he seems blighter and
better of late?"
I made an appropriate replj', and
the conversation drifted to otner
thirgs. As we sat together in the
hammock, swaying gently to and fro,
I happened to notice that in the lace
Forgot Honorable Scruples Against Eavesdropping,
A A 4§f|.r
at her throat she wore the little gold
key which had excited my curiosity
once before.
I spoke of it, and she at once drew
it out and handed it to me, while I told
her the story of the cuff button and
its unusual design.
"And," I concluded, "your pin sui^
prised me, and so did Mr. Bennett's,
but please tell me why you were inter
ested in it."
Her sweet face grew very grave,
and she hesitated a moment before re
plying, then took the pin from me
and held it in her hand.
"Elise," she said, slowly, "this little
pin was given me by one I loved very
dearly, and whom I have lost."
"By death?"
"No, not death there are worse
things—far worse."
I thought of Mary Anne, and won*
dered if she would not indorse this
sentiment.
"I kept the little gold key," she
continued, touching it lovingly. "It
was the only thing I kept, but I could
not give it up. And he—but why
should I burden you with my trouble?
It is all past and over, and I never
refer to it."
"Some day," I hazarded, "you will
marry and be happy."
"I am happy now," she returned
"or, rather, I make myself believe it.
But I shall not marry, for I have hut
one heart, and this Is its key. I
should like to see your button some
time when it is convenient, for it was
a strange coincidence. As for Mr.
Bennett—"
"WeUr
"I was not looking at his pin, but
at his face. He is so like—so strange*
ly like—the other."
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Persuasive.
A rural manufacturer duns his sub
scribers in the following novel man
ner: "All persons knowing themselves
indebted to this concern are requested
to call and settle. All those indebted
to this concern, and not knowing it,
are requested to call and find out
Those knowing themselves to be in*
debted, and not wishing to call, are
requested to stay at one place loaf
enough for us to reach then."
per's Weekly.
T..
jtawiiiiiiiiiii^