A ROMANCE OF GREAT MERIT, By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS, Entered According to Act of Congress, in the year 1904, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. G Vol. 59. OFFICE. 238 William St.. New York New York, July 16, 1904. “The End Crowns Atl,” GRAPHIC, VIGOROUS, EXCITING, BEGINS NEXT WEEK. Entered at the Post Office, New York. as Second Class Matter. Three Dollars Per Year. Two Copies Five Dollars. ere No. 40 OUR BABY. BY FANNY CROSBY. You have never seen our baby, Never felt our Dotty’s kiss From her pretty lips of coral, Or your heart would thrill with bliss. You may think your own a treasure, And the sweetest of your flowers, Though she may be all you paint her She’s not half so sweet as ours. No, you never saw our baby, And her laugh you never heard; She is winsome, she is playful, Ever cooing like a bird; And her brow is like the snowflakes, Rosy dimples in her cheek; And her blue eyes, bright as diamonds, How they sparkle when we speak! Would you like to see our baby? She is growing every day; Every moment she beguiles us With some tender, winning way. And we know the angels guard her, And their constant watch they keep; And perhaps their gentle whisper Makes her smile when fast asleep. Would you like to see our baby? Like a lily she is fair. Would you twine your arms around her? Would you kneel with us in prayer, That the God of love and mercy Would protect her for our sake? For if aught betide our darling I believe our hearts would break. Oh, you should have seen our baby Only just an hour ago, Dancing in our arms so brightly, And her face was all aglow, While her little chubby fingers Tried to catch a sportive ray, As it darted through thé window And as quickly ran away. Did you say God bless our baby? How we thank you for the word! And the best and purest feelings In our bosoms you have stirred. Did you say God keep our baby? We'll remember you for this; And our Dotty, wlien she sees you, Will reward you with a kiss. witty vet ; os Tr bbe 2 ¢ Ai & Ato ue gig Sh im oy \ al “‘Madame honors me with her company in the garden.’’ A LESSON IN LOVE By BERTHA M. CLAY, Author of ‘‘ A Witch of the Woods,’’ ‘‘ His Wife’s Judgment,’’ ‘‘ Dora Thorne,’’ ** The Lost Lady of Haddon,’’ ‘*A Woman's Temptation,’’ etc., ete. (‘A Lesson In LOVE” was commenced in No. 34, CHAPTER XxX. THE CAPTIVE FOILED. Albany Delmar went back to his own rooms below,—arrested for the time,\at the very moment of.complete victory; but only for 4 brief time, he believed; it might be hours, possibly a few days, and even the thought or prospect of hours’ delay half maddened him, for every hour, still more every, day’s delay in this marriage, would make it more and more difficult to prevent that delay of date getting wind. He had laid his plans so fatally close and well, that, as he had told Jesuita truly, it was even at this hour too late for her to leave him with honor. The world already believed her to be his wife, for those letters had been written in literally good faith, and certainty of her immediate sur- render before so terrible a sword of Damocles as the utter loss of fair name—save honor itself—the worst a woman can fear. In the face of that future his helpless captive could not resist the inevitable marriage to which he thereby forced her compliance. So absolutely- had he, naturally, reckoned on this, that no suggestion even of an hour’s delay had crossed Albany, when onee his entire mastery of the situation was a proved fact to her, fully realized. Yet at that very conviction she had met him by fierce resistance, refusal to be forced to wed him; the one terror that could at once have brought his prisoner to his feet, he was not, could never be base enough to even threaten; there the evil demon that-gripped his soul fell short and weak in its grasp, before the better nature it could not crush out of all life, for all the dark conflict; there was the one flaw in the panoply of evil, the one bright spot on the dimmed shield of the honor. He did not for a moment, now, think or believe that Jesuita would, or could, hold out against him, on the one hand, and her young life a wreck on the other. The mere idea was absurd, folly, impos- sible; her will, her proud spirit, wounded, out- raged though it was, he admitted, must sink, yield quickly, before the powers that held her, of force and love, and of the shame and blank misery that Tay beyond. Why not, then, yield to the inevitable at once, while her name was still untouched by scandal? Why hold out till perhaps, even as his wife, the world should sneer and shrug its shoulders, cast- ing the shadow, at least, of shame? His wife! Delmar set his teeth, thought. “She maddens me by this futile resistance,’’ he man’s wild at the Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.) said, with white lips. ‘‘It is too late now, even if I would yield, and, by Heaven, I will not. I will keep my word to the letter. She shall live here till her will and spirit break in my hands, and she gives in. I will hold her till then for her own sake; save my darling against herself from a fate I never meant her to suffer. Does she yet realize the fate she is choosing, or thinks she would prefer, to my life’s devotion? She cannot realize all that is likely to ensue were she to leave me now—to face the world, the hard, cruel world! The repute of a very Joseph could not shelter her. And mine!’’ he laughed, in bitter irony, ‘tis none so saintly but that some would even credit me with trampling on all honor before a strong tempta- tion.”’ Ah, but had he not gone terribly near that al- ready, in his pitiable abandonment to the slavery of his own ungoverned passions, and unyielding will? And what of the beautiful captive who, at her saptor’s mercy, still dared and defied his power? Where he had left her with that last impulsive kiss, Jesuita lay still, exhausted, worn with the eruel conflict and agony gone through in that hour, quivering yet, shaken to the soul by that culminat- ing minute of unspeakable terror, and the wild tears that had followed its relief. She knew at once that she was safe with him, could trust to his honor, and in that absolute assurance lay her strength to resist an attempt to force her into this marriage ; so lawless, planned and carried out with such utter recklessness of everything but his own desire gained, built so deliberately on the absolute wreck of her name for life, counting too securely as usual, on conquest, and that nd woman could brave such a terrible alternative. An attempt so desperate and ruthless, that the girl’s haughtiest indignation and passion of fierce resentment was roused to a point of almost maddening resistance, be the cost what it would, that spared honor itself! “He dares to think he will force me to be his wife by such means!” she said, with flashing eyes. “Dares to speak of—to believe I love him still! If—if I did, if this heart had one throb for him I would never, never be forced to be his by his au- dacious scheme! Oh! Albany! Albany!” she sud- denly covered her face. “I never dreamed you would be so bad—so cruel to me! Oh! to call this love; this dross, this wild, cruel passion, that only craves for possession. Oh! it drives me to madness that I ever fancied I saw it, cared for it, felt such utter fapture when he took me by surprise that night. But, Heaven! he shall find now that one woman will not be conquered by his passion or ruthless will, or by the miserable betrayal of her own heart. He has wronged me from the first; twice played a false part; got me into his hands so that escape or rescue impossible—ay! adds insult, to injury by forcibly taking me to his arms when he will; and I will never forget nor forgive the bitter shame he has and will crush my life with! Oh! Albany! Albany! how could you? How couid you? Ve is Better to kill me at once! Again that bitter cry of the young heart he was breaking with the agony of cruelest disappoint- ment, and a lifelong shame. She realized now what she must face in refusing Delmar’s name, with such unbroken ‘‘no surren- der’’; knew that he was right when he said those letters had already made it too late for her. to re- turn to the world with honor, save as his wife! *“T would not be forced into it even if I loved him a thousand times,’”’ she said, springing to her feet—then suddenly stopped, as one possible chance of rescue flashed across her—if she could deceive her unscrupulous and dangerously keen lover by a feigned submission; bid him send for the priest— all else she knew he had ready—special license, the ring, and only needed the priest to bind; then |——then, at least, she could appeal to him to make known her position, to get her rescued. And yet, poor girl, all the time she felt that the attempt would prove futile, that Delmar was too astute and daring to have left such a move either unforeseen or unguarded. “But I will try,’’ Jesuita whispered, leaning wearily back, with locked hands against her breast; “and he will come back this afternoon’’—she shiv- ered—‘“‘or, if that fails, perhaps I could escape from the grounds, if he will let me walk in them? Let me!” she laughed bitterly now.as she rose and went to the wide, open window. ‘Yes, I am his prisoner, and this prison at a dizzy height. Ha! who is that?’’ She stared round nervously ; Elizabeth, with the dinner. “IT hope you'll try and eat a bit, ma’am,”’ said, kindly. ‘You look dreadful white and *‘Not much wonder if I do, is it?” said Revelle, curtly. ‘‘Your master or his man may have told you their own tale, but I was brought here by force, against my own will.’’ “IT know, ma’am; but you see, the tall, foreign gentleman only wants to marry you, ma’am, and he is rich and handsome.,’’ The whole remark was so exquisite in solatory advice and coarse obliviousness, that it caught Jesuita’s sense of ironical humor. So low a platform as this was below even contempt. She bit her lip and turned away till the woman had gone. Jesuita forced herself to eat; she must keep up strength, but when nearly an hour after dinner had passed, she grew restless with suppressed ex- citement. Was he not coming back to-day? Bah!—with a gleam of haughty triumph—he could not» keep away for long, and what cared he that she hated his presence and—and himself? She had flurtg open the sitting-room door, for the glorious sunshine of August blazed in, and the room was warm and close even without the soft southern breeze fanning through it; and now she heard that oaken door in the gallery—her prison door—unlocked and relocked—a light step, and the tall figure of her jailer was in the room. His mood seemed to have changed from the overwhelming tempest of the morning, to a of cool dominance, as set and unyielding as He paused by the table, his handsome dark eyes meetings hers with a curious, half-questioning gaze through its admiration. “The second day is gliding by,’’ Delmar said, quietly, in those soft tones that would so vibrate on the girl’s heart, though that very fact, in her self-scorn for it, strengthened her resolve. “Will you let another sun set and rise and find you still with me—unwed?”’ The blood swept to that beautiful face, then back. She made a step toward him, and stopped, catching the quick-drawn breath. ‘“‘Albany, I have tried to meet——to face the—the hopeless, cruel shame, the miserable disgrace you have compassed about me, unless———Ah! Heaven! I cannot! Send for the priest—Albany, send for the priest !’”’ she said, with an eager excitement that was no acting. Delmar’s gaze had never left her face, feasting on her beauty, perhaps. Give that up, possibly even now, to a rival!—never! but though his blood leaped like fire at her mere words, he did not move, only said slowly: “Do you mean that, Jesuita? to send to Olgarth for the here.’’ “Yes, yes; for pity’s sake, send at once!”’ Now the man moved forward, and put his two hands on her shoulders, his eyes looking down but it was only she ill!” Mrs. its con- wild, level flint. Do you want me rector? _ All else is into hers, with a searching intensity that shook her—there was more than suspicion in it—almost menace, was it? ‘Tf,’ he said, in a deep, measured way, “I once bring the priest here to wed us, you Will have to go through with it, you know.” A tremor went through her—Albany felt it; she said, with a hard, desperate defiance: “T know it—you are the victor.” “Not quite yet. Look out to sea,’’ abruptly to the window and pointed blue waters; ‘‘do you see that little to leeward ?’’ “That sail—yes; I have vessel has scarcely moved.’’ “She is hove to till I signal her; she is my yacht, the Regina,’ said Delmar, slowly, watching the young face at his side, one hand still on her shoulder. Jesuita gave him a swift, startled glance. ‘“Why—what—you cannot mean »* she gan, in a kind of terror. Up into his eyes, over the curved lips, crept that wicked smile he had sometimes, when the evil spirit temporarily controlled the man’s finer parts. “T mean,” he said; coolly, “that you did not deceive me for a minute—that the attempt were worse than useless. Bah! do you think you could outwit me so easily by appealing to the priest? Do you know what I would do—why that yacht is there ?”’ She had expected to fail—yet now a sudden dizziness made her sway ever so little; she felt Albany’s arm instantly about her waist, and that she was leaning against him with heaving bosom and labored breath, silent, quivering, with a crush- ing sense of helplessness and desolation. “Not a hair of the old man’s head should be hurt,” said Delmar, ‘“‘but I should simply let Gustave detain him here till late, while I sent up a signal to the Regina to stand in and send a boat ashore for me—and you—for a trip to sea—beyond all possibility of a rescue or escape. Now, if I send for the priest, will you give me the precious right to call you wife?’’ “Never! never!’’ she said, between her teeth, starting from him; ‘‘you may keep me here for weeks, as you said you would, but you shall never force me to be your wife !’’ “We shall see that, sweetheart, in a week or two,’’ Delmar said, with a half laugh, and that evil flash of passion in his eyes. Was the man in his worst, most reckless mood this afternoon? ‘‘You maddened me with your beauty and jealous fear of your wedding a rival in pique’’—she started at that—“‘‘you drive me to despair with your pitiless refusal of my wild prayer for some hope of par- don—of some little belief in more than mere pas- sion! If you had given me one grain of hope to live on I should never have done all the wrong I have; but it’s all too late now—the thing is done, and, by Heaven! I’ll carry it through, and protect you against yourself! You don’t—you cannot fully realize the fate you talk of choosing rather than accept a husband whose whole life, I swear, shall atone the past, deeply though he has sinned. You will think better of your words later—only each day makes it harder to guard against whispers of a—tardy marriage, shall I say?—when we re- appear.”’ “We never shall, velle, with bitter irony. ‘‘You need not fear that your spotlessly honorable name will suffer in my wearing borne by a wife who dared not leave her captor.’’ Delmar’s pain. “You but he drew her toward the white speck it all the seen day; be- as you mean,” said Mrs. Re- as cheek flushed with hot shame and there,” he said, of. I shall and my untarnished, wrong me is you I am thinking defend my wife’s honor some honor left still your taunt!’’ Ay! she knew that, else where and on what rested the very trust that gave her the power to resist? Through all the tempest. of just scorn and passion, she felt the injustice of that sting, and was touched. “Worgive me,’ she said, with quivering lips; ‘‘the taunt was unjust—-I never meant so much as—as that !’’ Albany caught her hand and pressed his lips to its hoarsely; ‘‘it know how to own. I have Jesuita, despite “I know it, yet it stung so sharply from your dear lips,’’ he whispered, and turned away to- ward the open door, passed out, and the prisoner heard the oak door shut and locked. But Delmar still believed the victory must be his in the end. “She must—she will surrender at last,” he said, setting his teeth. ‘“I’ll let her taste utter loneli- ness for some days. Ah, my darling, you make me cruel! You may force me to insist on an early surrender !” CHAPTER BY THE SEA XXI. WALL. We all know that two parallel to infinity, will never meet; and, metaphorically, this mathematical axiom seemed likely to almost repeat itself in the two lines of will laid down by Albany Delmar and Jesuita Revelle. They were very evenly matched, in all equally unbending, reso- lute purpose; each had a will as proud, as strong, as indomitable as the other—his reckless and un- scrupulous how it swept down opposition, and therefore more dangerous. And these two wills were now set in deadly opposition. No compro- mise. was possible, or dreamed of; one must, in the end, be vanquished, and one be conqueror! Which was it to be? The man’s will was intensified by a deep, all- mastering,. but mad passion, which yet had the golden grains of richest, purest love inclosed within its core, and by the horror of suffering its object to fling herself on the world, to be branded as his victim. The woman’s will was intensified by the very instinct that revolts against unjustifiable force, and the bitter wrong done her that must now irremediably brand her with shame, and make shipwreck of her life; wrongs so deep that they crushed down hers with their weight—killed, she thought then, the tender germs of love that had struck root—ay! and deeply—in spite of all that stood against the hand that planted them. By that terrible weapon, then, of direst shame, he held her in his power—a weapon that might well appall her, and compel instead surrender, as her captor had reckoned, in natural certainty; for not one in a thousand would have braved it. But it was the man’s only weapon—to his honor that it was so; and if—if this woman were daring enough to strike it from his hand, and face the world’s black verdict rather than be forced by its terrors to accept his terms, his power was gone, he was the -vyanquished, she the victor. He knew that. But the ‘if’? Albany laughed, still in his haughty self-confidence, and matchless audacity of assumed, if delayed, conquest. “My beautiful, untamed panther,” glowing eyes; “‘I love thee all the struggle that dares to match its mine; but it must have its limit. and still no sign—not tamed yet! I hunger for the sight of that dear face—thirst for the taste of those sweet lips, and to feel her heart throb against mine. I will have it, too; I cannot keep away longer; this. solitude is intolerable without her— a living death; and I am getting restive, my pa- tience exhausted; and she—oh, Jesuita, you must yearn for some voice, some face, if even mine, whom you think you hate.” Ah, there he was right; there at least he knew his power too well, though, as in all else, he relied on it too securely, refusing to recognize the coun- terfoils. He had the lesson of love to learn yet, and it might prove to be a bitter one! It was a beautiful afternoon, and Delmar went, upstairs, quietly unlocked the prison door, and stole oftly along the gallery to the sitting room, the door of which he saw was open., He paused outside, unseen, unheard, and watched the inmate with wild, beating heart, that yearned so for her. She was pacing to and fro in a desperate, rest- less way, like a beautiful caged panther; the slen- der hands locking and unlocking, the exquisite face pale as death, wan, and the violet eyes full of a straining, unutterable pain. Then she. stopped as she passed by the window, and stood gazing out with a hopeless misery in the very atti- tude of the girlish figure that smote the man stand- ing there, unseen. Why, oh why, would she not take freedom, have happiness now, instead of later? Why still so wound herself and him? He noiselessly @rossed the floor, was close—she turned sharply, with a startled—‘‘Albany!” But in that minute, even as she shrank back, he had her in his arms, his passionate kisses on her soft mouth. “My darling! I have thirsted for this draught so long! Oh, forgive! I must have it, if but for a moment—a lover’s right!” So, for a moment, he held her, strained to his heart, feeling the wildly indignant beat of hers, then released her. She had neither yielded nor re- sisted, but simply submitted to superior strength; and when he loosed her, she moved back a step, with a deep-drdwn, painful breath, and then the white lips his had just closely covered, gave a stab that struck deep: “No, not a lover’s; but a captor’s right of strength against weakness. My physical resist- ance is useless. I must submit in passive endur- ance, since you will not even spare me the shame of one kiss.’’ “No, no! Oh, Jesuita, forgive me this once— this once, in pity!’’ Delmar threw himself at her feet, catching blindly at her hand, bowing his face on it in utter shame. ‘It was the wild impulse of my very heart’s yearning to hold you to me again, after all these long days, of its hunger; but I— lines, continued he said, with more for the strength with Five long days, His voice faltered, broke, he could only cling to that slender hand, feeling, dizzily, that it lay in his hold, not withdrawn, not shrinking, and then Jesuita’s soft, low tones, a little unsteady, came to his ear. “Forgiven, then. to fail, willingly.”’ “T don’t deserve such generosity,’’ Delmar said, very low, and rose up, turning away for seconds, till he could quite master the tempest within. Poor Delmar! Was not the whole passionate, un- disciplined soul ever the creature of its wild, tem- pest-tossed impulses, that drove him hither and thither, as a vessel in a gale might be, with a demon at the helm, bent on its destruction. Then he came back to the window. “T have seen you in these days,” he said, quietly, ‘looking out with such wistful longing at the sun- shine, then pacing before these windows, that I know you grow weary, restless with longing. I eannot, no, I cannot give you up and free you, except in the one way you still refuse. I have gone too far, made it too impossible, even if—but let that pass now. I have let five days elapse, and still no sign of surrender from you.’’ “And never will be,” she said, ‘‘and be, though I know to the full the fate.’’ Albany’s eyes met hers for a moment—a curious look in his, concentrated, searching, passionate; then he drooped them under the veiling lashes and said: “T think not that—not quite. I cannot believe you will be mad, so cruel to yourself. But, meanwhile, if you care to endure me at your side, will you come with me into the wilderness there —the grounds !’’ The girl looked up with an eager flash in her eyes, over the whole face. Was there in it some dim idea of seeing a chance of escape? “Take me! Oh, take me, Albany!’ she said, ex- citedly. ‘‘This close imprisonment is torture to me. It maddens me with restless desperation.” Another stab for her captor, though not meant like the other, if equally deserved. A pained flush flitted over his cheek, but he held out his hand. I will trust you, Albany, not never will alternative so 2 “My beautiful panther,’ he said, softly, caress- ively, ‘‘come, then, out of the cage.’’ “But. only with my keeper,’ she said, with irony; but put the little hand into his strong clasp. ‘‘He will not trust the panther alone, even within stone walls.”’ “We dare not. She is too bold and clever to be trusted; too precious to his-heart to be lost,” Del- mar answered, readily taking her up on her own simile. Mrs. Revelle was silent. “His heart!” Yes, perhaps; but, oh, what weight of alloy!. Truest, noblest love, such as she must have, was not cruel, like this wild love of his, this mad passion that must have possession at almost any cost. But she drew a quivering breath of relief as her prison door was left behind, and Delmar led her down those two flights of oak stairs to the dilapi- dated entrance hall. There he paused, hesitated a second, and then said, humbly, but with pleading, eager eyes bent on her: ‘Will you?—may I order tea for two, to be taken outside to the terrace presently ?’’ “Ah, thanks! you are so kind. Hello, Gustave!” A door at the end opened, and the courier ap- peared. “Oui, monsieur.” “Madam honors me with her company in the gar- den,’ Albany said. ‘‘Have tea ready about five, on the terrace, Gustave.”’ Gustave bowed and retired, and Delmar took his companion through a’ great bare room, which opened south on a long, wide stone terrace, wild, green with neglect; the grounds were a very wil- derness, trees untrimmed, the grass long and rank, the gravel paths overgrown with grass, the flower beds a waste of weeds and straggling skeletons of what had once been plants, a pitiable picture of wreck, so bitterly like her own future now, that a ehoking sob rose in her throat and blinding tears to her eyes. “Ruin, desolation all round, all before me,” she said, with a gasping breath; but Delmar said noth- ing then, only still led her quietly on to the much lower stone wall that bounded the grounds along the edge of the cliff. There was a bench under a tree a few feet back, but Jesuita drew away from Delmar and leaned on the wall, leoking down on the sheer declivity of the cliffs to the rocky strand far below. He stood close, with folded arms, lean- ing lightly back against the wall, watching her intently, half covertly; and so several minutes passed, her gaze, he saw, traveling each way, to the solid high gate and cut-out steps to the right, then along to the left. Suddenly the girl looked round into the man’s watchful, handsome face, into his very eyes. “You are afraid?” she said. “Of what?” How coolly he asked; how his heart burned and beat at what he had just been reading so clearly in her mind. “Of your panther’s meditated spring——desperate, fatal, over this—down, down! Ha, you shiver and turn pale!” “At the mere idea, at the awful picture, vivid imagination at once presents. But that escape was only a lightning flash of thought—not the one meditated,” said Delmar, deliberately, “though scarcely less certain to be fatal to life or freedom, my panther.” She bit her lip, and the look in her eyes just then might almost have been that of a beautiful panther foiled in a deadly spring. “What was it, then?’ she said. “You were meditating and calculating how quickly you could, were I but thirty paces away, swing yoour agile form up and over this wall onto the ledge of cliff outside it—-not three feet wide— ealculated whether you could creep along it to the outer post of that gate which you can see stuck out to the very edge of the precipice, whether you could get round it—-you learned gymnastics, I know—and reach the steps, the beach, and so, possibly secure help and rescue from me. That was the madness you were meditating, my beautiful panther—it is useless to deny it,” “JT don’t deny it; I was measuring those chances —and you were afraid—you are afraid to leave me for five minutes, because I could be over this wall then.”’ “And over the cliff in the next five seconds,” Delmar added, coming quite close, as if even now fearful. ‘I am afraid—-what man who loves you as I do would not be?—for I know the danger; you do not.”’ “I should not become giddy; head and nerve,” she said, her face, manner softened. “Jesuita! Heaven! the thought is too horrible !”’ exclaimed her lover, clasping both her hands. “It is one sheer descent, the edge overhangs—would give way—and if not, you could not get round that gatepost halfway—-you would fall, be dashed to pieces!. Oh! Heaven above!” he bent his face to her hands, he was quivering all over; “it unnerves me, my darling! Give me your word of honor never to attempt it, if even you could ever get the chance without my arresting you? Give me your word?” He lifted himself again. “You are afraid I will kill myself,’”’ Jesuita said, under her breath. ‘‘No, no! not that, unless to save honor. I am not of the coward spirit that seeks suicide as an escape from facing out even a ruined life, a broken heart.’’ Delmar reieased her hands, setting his teeth. It should never come to that! He could not, would not release her for such a living death, which she could not fully realize now—not until it were met day by day in slow torture—and then be too late—then, indeed, she would hate him for the very yielding she now so madly, so blindly claimed. He must win in the end, as he had those two races, against all rivals. Still, with face averted, he said, presently, suppressed way: “Do you remember, at Goodwood, what I said about my Dhalia winning the day—a second great Tace?—how anxious I was for her to win, how eager for your good wishes?” Jesuita started slightly; this seemed so foreign to what had just passed. “Yes, I remember,’’ she said, “but “Do you know why I was so—well, anxious?” Jesuita’s straight brows drew together; she Iooked at the averted figure with a eurious sense of vague apprehension. “You said that you had—that heavy stakes were laid on her—depended on her winning.” “It was true in every sense, but the heavy stake I meant and cared for was more than all. Do you know what?” “No; how should I?” she said, impatiently. ‘“I am in no mood to read riddles, am I? What was it?” Delmar swung round. “Yourself!” There was dead silence for a minute; in her every pulsation seemed arrested; her lover first spoke. “To me, there lay in Dhalia’s twice-won success a curious omen of mine; perhaps because, at the first; your good wishes had, in earnest, been with her. Call the feeling absurd, wildly superstitious, if you will, but, for all that, it possessed me—and does now—through and through. Dhalia won the honors, and so shall I—vyet!’’ “You build on sand!’’ she said, wth a passionate defiance desperately. breaking through the vague spell of her own conviction. ‘‘The omen you made has played you false’as the morass light!” *T think not, Jesuita. You will be my wife yet, if even it were years!” “Never! If only that, once free, your own deed would recoil on yourself! The haughty Delmar would not wed a woman branded with bitterest shame !”’ “The haughty Delmar,’ said Albany, with an in- tensity of passion that shook him, “‘would wed the woman he loves, and knows to be pure as snow, in the face. of all the shame and scorn the world could heap on her dear head, even if no honor bound him to ,reparation. The omen is no false light, Jesuita.’ She turned away, locking her two hands against her bosom with a gesture of almost despair, for the first time, but not one inch of yielding. “Tt would all be misery—misery !—regret, re- proach; silent, perhaps, but eéver-living, heart- breaking! I would never link so stained a name as mine will be—is, with any man’s! It is all too late, and you have made it so!” “Jesuita! my love! my love! No, no—never!” he caught her hands with that smothered cry. ‘‘I cannot lose you-—cannot give you up to be cast out! I have not the strength! Oh! one word to end it, and make you mine!” “Hush! hush, Albany; spare us both,” she said, hurriedly, her lips quivering. “Since you still refuse to free your captive, tet that rest te-day, at least. You try me as cruelly as you do yourself. Take me farther over this wilderness.’’ She was too deeply moved to trust herself to say more, lest she should say something his passion might mistake for yielding, ever so little. Of that there was none. Howsoever he pleaded, impassioned, tender, masterful, soft, still he moved within prison walls and chains of his making; wooed his prisoner with his “‘surrender first, free- dom with me alone,’’ behind every word, the shat- tered life of long agony. Could she forget all that? Impossible. In a little while Delmar rallied, got himself to- gether, as it were, at least for the time. It was some happiness to have her at his side, the woman he loved. “T will obey you,” he said; then, in a subdued way: “The Owlet’s Turret has, at one time, I sup- I am steady of her whole and turned aside, in a unusually THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. pose, been a good residence, and the grounds eyi- dently well cared for.’’ “Very long ago, then,” Jesuita said, with a shiver, as her glance went over the dreary waste of rank vegetation. ‘I think, Albany, please, I would rather keep this south side, along the sea wall here, or the terrace, where we face the open ex- panse of sea.”’ “Exactly where you will, dearest,’’ said Delmar, softly. The soft endearment fell so inadvertently, so straight from heart to lips, that he made no attempt to correct it, ‘The sea is always a living beauty, with a language all its own, of which we who love it so intensely can never weary. Were you ever at sea in a thunderstorm, Jesuita? I have been several times, and I think nothing could be more grandly awful.” She had seen it, she answered, and _ then, naturally, they talked, as he had meant to lead on to for safe ground, of their travels. His, of course, had been far and wide, and he could describe them in glowing language of enthusiasm and vivid imagination, and keenest observation. And so the time passed on at least in restful- ness; and after tea Albany pleaded still for its continuance, and Jesuita remained with him till quite ten o’clock. She shrank instinctively from those prison rooms, the barred door that shut out freedom. Heaven help her! this to last? How long, how long was TO BE CONTINUED, WITH LINKS OF STEEL. By. NICHOLAS CARTER, Author of “A Dead Witness,’ “The Crime of a Countess,” ’ “Sealed Orders,” ‘A Wall Street Haul," “Behind a Mask,” etc., ete. (“With Links oF STEEL” was commenced in No, 87, Back numbers can be obtained of ali newsdealers.) CHAPTER IX. NICK STRIKES A STARTLING CLEW. The mind of Nick Carter was, as he had re- marked to Chick, stirred with a flood of questions not easily or quickly answered. Who was this girl found dead in Central Park? Had she, indeed, been foully murdered? If so, by what mysterious means? "What had been the object? Who the perpetrator of the crime? Or, on the other hand, was the evidence itself misleading, and had the unfortunate girl selected that sequestered seat in the park, and there de- liberately committed suicide? Even then, by what means had the deed been accomplished? What had been the occasion? What, moreover, had become of her companion at just that time? Why had he deserted her? What signified the pin-punctured wrapping paper, and the empty jewel casket, in the dead girl’s pos- session? Had the casket contained jewels of great value? Had the girl been robbed of them, and then foully murdered in some mysterious way? Was Harry Boyden, the clerk employed by Hafferman, the last to leave the girl that fateful afternoon? Was he responsible for her death? Was robbery the incentive to the crime? Or, on the other hand, had Boyden left the girl alive and well, and was the crime the work of another? Or, finally, was there some strange and startling connection between this park murder and the rob- bery committed at Yenner’s store? Was there, be- tween the two crimes, some extraordinary hond yet to be discovered—some tie uniting the two misdeeds as if with links of steel? These were some of the conflicting questions that occurred to Nick Carter that afternoon, and in order to consider them before taking any de- cided action in the matter, Nick had kept to him- self his startling discoveries, and left Officer Fo- garty to take the customary steps in the affair. At seven o’clock that evening, while Nick and Chick were seated at dinner, and still engaged in discussing the conflicting circumstances, a message was received from “police headquarters, informing Nick that the girl had been identified, and that Harry Boyden had been found and arrested. ‘Very good,” observed Nick. ‘‘We shall now get something to work upon, I will go and ques- tion Boyden as soon as I finish my dinner.” “By all means,’ nodded Chick, “Do you know,” said Nick, “I am seriously im- pressed that there is some strange connection be- tween this girl’s death and that robbery at Ven- ner’s store. I believe that we have struck the very, clew, or are about to strike it, that we so long have been vainly seeking.” “To the Kilgore gang?” “Bxactly.” “Bead, I hope so,”’ laughed Chick, with a eri- mace. ‘“‘I am beastly tired of nosing about on a scentless trail.” Nick joined in the laugh of his invariably cheer- ful associate. “Odds blood, Nick, as they say in the play,’ added Chick. ‘‘I’d welcome any sort of stir and danger, in preference to this chasing a will-o’-the- wis ‘There’ ll be enough doing, Chick, take my word for it, as soon as we once more get on the track of Kilgore and ‘his push.’’ “Let it come, and God speed it,’’ grinned Chick. “What’s your idea, Nick?’ “This empty jewel casket, the possibility that it contained diamonds, of which the girl was robbed and then murdered, and the fact that Harry Boy- den is the clerk who brought the stolen diamonds to Venner’s store—certainly the circumstances seem to point to some strange relation between the two crimes.’’ While Nick was thus expressing his views, a rapidly driven carriage approached the residence of the famous detective, and a servant presently entered the dining room and informed Nick that a lady wished to see him. Nick glanced at her card. “Violet Page,’’ he muttered. “I know no lady named Violet Page. Is she young or old?’ “Young, sir.” “Did you admit her?” “She is in the library, sir.’’ “Very well. I will see her presently. her to wait a few momenis.’’ Nick delayed only to finish his dinner, then re- paired to the library. As he entered the attract- ively furnished room his visitor quickly arose from one of the easSy-chairs and hastened to ap- proach him. Nick beheld a young lady of exquisite beauty and modest. bearing, and though her sweet face, then very pale and distressed, struck him as one he had previously seen, he at first could not place her. “Are you Mr. Request Carter—Detective Carter?” she hurriedly inquired, in tremulous accents of appeal. Nick had a warm place in his heart for one so timid and distressed as this girl appeared, and he bowed very kindly. “Yes, Miss Page,’ said he. “‘What can I do for you? You appear to be in trouble.” “JT am in trouble—terrible trouble, sir,’’ cried the girl, with a half-choked sob. “Oh, Mr. Car- ter, I come to you in despair, a girl without friends or advisers, and who knows not whither to turn. I have been told that you have a kind heart, and that you are the one man able to solve the dreadful mystery which Nick checked her pathetic flood of words with a kindly gesture. “Calm yourself, Miss Page,’’ said he, in a sort of paternal way. “Resume your chair, please. Though I am somewhat pressed for time just now I will give you at least a few moments.”’ “Oh, thank you, sir!” “Be calm, however, in order that we may ac- complish all the more.’’ “T will, sir.” “To what mystery do you refer? occasion of your terrible distress?’ Violet Page subdued her agitation and hastened to reply. “My maid and companion, a girl named Mary Barton,” said she, ‘‘was found dead in Central Park late this afternoon. Nor is that all, Detective Carter. A very dear friend of mine, named Harry Boyden, has been arrested, under suspicion of pee killed her. Oh, sir, that could not be pos- sible!” Nick felt an immediate increase of interest. He decided that Miss Violet Page was the very person he wanted to interview, and while he did not then exhibit any knowledge of the case, he pro- ceeded to question her with his own ends in view, at the same time ringing a signal for Chick to join him, which the latter presently did. “Where do you live, Miss Page?” Nick. “J board in Forty-first Street, sir. I have no living relatives, and for about two years have employed a maid, or, I might better call her, a ecmpanion.”’ “The girl mentioned?” “Yes, sir. Her parents also are dead. The fact that we both are orphans created a bond of sym- pathy between us.”’ “Are you a person of much means, Miss Page?’’ What is the inquired “Oh, no, sir. Vol. 59—No. 40 —— I was a member of the big vaudeville troupe, which lately disbanded for the season. My stage name is Violet Marduke.” “Ah, now I remember,” remarked Nick. “I thought I had seen you before. I happened to hear you sing one evening about two weeks ago.” “TI recognized her when I entered,’’ observed Chick, who had taken a chair near by. Nick came back to business. “Why are you so confident, Miss Page, Boyden cannot have killed Mary Barton?’’ demanded, “Because, sir, Harry Boyden is a gentle, brave and honest man, and utterly incapable of com- mitting such a crime,” cried Violet, -with much feeling. * ‘Besides, sir, he can have had no possible reason for wishing her dead,” “Are you sure of that?’ “Absolutely !’’ “What are your relations with Boyden?” “We are lovers, sir,’ admitted Violet, with a tinge of red dispelling the paleness of her pretty cheeks. ‘“‘We expect to be married the coming summer,.”’ “Ah, I seé,’’ murmured Nick, thoughtfully. “How long have you been acquainted with Boy- den?” “For ten years, sir.” “Then you have been able to form quite a re- liable opinion of his character.” “Indeed, sir, I have!’ cried Violet, warmly. “Detective Carter, I know that Harry Boyden is far above any dishonorable action. I would trust him with my life.’ Of the honesty of the girl herself Nick had not a doubt. It showed: in her eyes, sounded in her voice, and was pictured in her every changing expression. Nick was inclined to feel that her opinion of Boyden was worthy of very serious consideration, despite that circumstances seemed to implicate the young man in no less than two crimes, “Ts the fact that you are engaged to Boyden generally known, Miss Page?” Nick next asked. tt is not, sir. We have said nothing about that he “Ah, that opens the way for eonjectures,” cried Nick. “Is there any person who knows of the engagement, or who suspects it, that would jeal- ously aim to injure Boyden by implicating him in a crime?” “Oh, I cannot think so, sir!’ said Violet, with a look of horror, “I certainly know of no such per- son.” “Have you been acepting the attentions of any other young man?” “No, sir,’ smiled Violet. style.” “T am glad to hear you say so, yet I really might have known it,” laughed Nick. “Thank you, Detective Carter,’ bowed the girl, blushing warmly. Then she hastened to add: “Still, I am not a prude, sir—don’t think I mean that. In my profession one is obliged to be on friendly terms with a great many persons, both men and women. At the theater, for instance, I meet many men and form many acquaintances, both agreeable and -the reverse.” “And. sometimes have the attentions of men fairly forced upon you, I imagine?’’ said Nick, -in- quiringly, with a brighter gleam lighting his earnest eyes. “Yes, sir; sometimes,’' Violet demurely admitted. Nick drew forward in his chair, and Chick saw that he had caught up the thread at that moment suggested to himself. “Miss Page,’’ said Nick, more impressively, ‘‘I now want you to answer me without the slightest reserve.”’ “TI will, Violet, look. ‘Has any man of the late vaudeville company, or one connected with the theater, endeavored to force his love upon you?”’’ “No, sir; not one.” “Or any visitor admitted to the stage?’ “Well—yes, sir;’”’ faltered Violet, quite timidly. “Since you press me thus gravely, I must admit that I have been obliged to repel the affection of a certain man. Yet, please don’t infer, sir, that he has ever been ungentlemanly. He even has done me the honor, if one can so term an undesired pro- pesal, to protest that he wished to make me his wife.”’ “What is that man’s name?’’ demanded Nick, quite bluntly. Yet both Nick and Chick already anticipated it. “Must I-tell you his name, sir?” faltered Violet. “You may do so confidentially, Miss Page.” “His name, sir, is Rufus Venner.” “One more question}; Miss Page,” cried Nick, quickly. ‘‘Was there any member of the vaude- ville company who knew of Venner’s proposal?” “T don’t think so, sir: At least I know of none.” Nick glanced at Chick and dryly remarked: “All under the surface, Chick,”’ “Not a doubt of it, Nick.” Violet looked surprised and alarmed at. this, and hastened to ask: “Oh, Mr. Carter, is there something of which I am ignorant? Or have I done wrong in any way?” 5 Nick turned to her and gravely answered: “No, Miss Page, you-have done nothing wrong —far from it! But there is considerable of which you are ignorant.” “Oh, sir, what do you mean?” “Wait just one moment, and I then may be able to tell you,’ said Nick, rising. “T have something here that I wish to show you.” He went to his library desk and took from a drawer the silver jewel casket which he had brought from Central Park. When he turned he held it in his extended i and the eyes of the girl suddenly fell upon t “That is not my sir,” bowed with a_ startled Instantly she leaped to her feet, as pale as death itself Then a scream, as of sudden, ungovernable ter- ror, rose from her lips and rang with piercing shrillness through the house, “Catch her, Chick—she’s Nick, with eyes ablaze. the trail at last!’ fainting!’ yelled “By Heaven! we’ve struck CHAPTER X. ON THE TRAIL. Nick Carter was a little perplexed. Miss Violet Page had recovered from her sud- den swoon, and although still Very pale she sat gazing calmly at the silver jewel casket, which Nick was again displaying. Somewhat to Nick’s surprise, considering the girl’s abrupt collapse upon first beholding the easket, Miss Page had just declared that she had never seen it before that evening. “You never saw it before?” exclaimed Nick, al- most incredulously. “Never until you produced it from your desk a few minutes ago,”’ reiterated Violet. ; ‘“‘Why, then, were you so overcome upon seeing £27 “JT will tell you why, Detective Carter, yet I fear that you will think me very weak and foolish to have been so seriously affected.” “No; I think not.” “JT had a terrible dream last night, sir,’’ Violet now explained. “‘I dreamed that I was alone in an enormous graveyard at midnight, with a full moon revealing the dismal surroundings, the dark tombs, the staring white headstones and the silent graves.” “Not very cheerful—certainly,”’ smiled Nick. “What followed was infinitely more terrible,”’ continued Violet, with an irrepressible shudder. “What was that?” “I dreamed that I saw a grave near which I was standing suddenly begin to open, as if a liv- ing being were pushing up the ground from within.. Then I saw a fleshless hand appear above the disturbed sods. Then a sightless human skull thrust itself forth, and presently, filing me with a terror I cannot describe, the entire skeleton emerged from the partly open grave, and arose and approached me. “A grewsome dream, indeed,” “But what of the casket?” “This of the casket, sir,” concluded Violet. ‘In the skeleton’s right hand, which was extended straiht toward me while he approoached, was a silver box—the exact likeness of the one you hold, and which you so abruptly showed me a short time ago.”’ “Ah, I see,’ nodded Nick, “In my present nervous condition, Detective Carter, the sight of the real casket, after so hor- rible a dream, was more than I could sustain. Fairly before I knew it, I had fainted.’ “A curious dream and a startling sequence,”’ said Nick. “Evidently coming events have been casting their shadows before. I am sorry to have shocked you so severely.’ “Pray don’t speak of it, Mr. Carter,’’ protested Violet. “I am now quite recovered.” “Then we will at once proceed to business again,’”’ said Nick. ‘‘Am I to infer, Miss Page, that you know nothing at all about this casket?’’ “Absolutely nothing, sir,’ declared Violet. “Have you ever heard your maid; Mary Bar- ton, speak of possessing such a jewel box?” “Never, sir.”’ “‘Nevertheless,’’ said Nick, pointedly, ‘‘this cas- ket was found beside her dead body in Central Park this afternoon,”’ A half-suppressed ery broke from Violet upon hearing this. “Oh, sir, then that must have been the package mentioned by Harry .Boyden,”’ she cried, excitedly. “What's that?’ demanded Nick. “Have you seen Boyden since his arrest?’’