eee” Te ACOUSED WIFE” “arate > ~~ & - —— — — ~ — ——___ - 2 | et ~ —— Entered According to Act of Congress, in the year 1908, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter ee je I a eS eS ee a Fo ns EN rn Vol. 63. : at ee ee Be New York, March 21, Three Doliars Per Year. Two Copies Five Dollars. CASTLE-BUILDING. perhaps it is natural that Mrs. Ferrol should not £= like me, should be jealous of me; but homé has ceased to be home, and I have determined to go BY A. J. H. DUGANNE, p away. . You are not to worry about me, I am with t Ro friend, and presently I shall write H H t t ully, dear old father. I am going to earn my We wandered down the deep ravine Me : mae pres Me ile own living, and taste the sweets of independence.” § z f ; H | ; ate : “She speaks of a married friend; could it pos- Whin sunset fires were redly glowing, : ; eae « , nag na aibly be Olive?’ said Mr. Ferrol presently. ‘And ay : i 2 : ; : ‘ J ; haope si where can she have gone? The idea of a child And alf the vale with purple sheen : : ; sr ie : like that talking of earning her own living and And golden smokes was overflowing; 3 oo 4 a a stl being independent !”’ : " : ; ; i 4 Me a Ht 3, - For a moment his voice faltered and broke; The mountain slopes were still ablaze, F- ‘ ; i ep er ee Garth stared out of the window. eee ea ; Bite ; = ; i a Haan Sth. Z “If it had been six. months ago, I might have The tree-tops burned like waving ; ) ; ; i i ; thought she had some foolish notion of going on torches, “ s j X: the stage.”’ 3 4 = / ; Y F 4 HEL The door opened, and a woman appeared on And rainbow rays of rosy haze ‘ itt aT i 4 5 itl 4 br ee whom Dennis recognized as the ; ee : ta ae : ° 1 : j lady he had seen alight from the automobile. Were flushing all the woodland . ff As her eyes fell on the visitor, she would have porches. " . i Hit j i withdrawn. : “Don’t go, Zoe; come in, my dear,’’ Mr. Ferrol 2 ; ae a ee = 7 Hs iy 3 rit : i said. ‘This is Mr. Dennis Garth. You don’t Bey ond we saw the sunset skies, t i > : Hse Rescrrauetioe know my wife, I believe, Garth. I may tell my Pe tall ‘ { a s tea Wit wife ~your news, of course? Zoe, Olivye—Lad With gates, and walls, and_ turrets ; “oy 4 ; Hig Hy Trent, that is—has disappeared from home saat builded, : ; Me Beat Here f as Celia has done.’ Pe s as sia ae | i ae Dennis saw Mrs. Ferrol’s lips harden a little Embattled piles that seemed to rise, ; j ; i! : tPr»rt at the mention of Celia’s name, as he bowed and ee Tae ae pec : ; ! cf touched her extended hand. tera ler, W gio é : ge eg mt Tier after tier, with glory gilded : 5 : i " ii Lis at “I have known Lady Trent so long, and as Oh, look, my love! what mansions % . , = : i AA her friends are anxious, [——”’ bright! : Vaan 4 “Why did her husband not come?” asked Mrs. ent! } : ‘fe’ Ferrol. . Peat ; Sa ate : cee rE >] imself changing color. y h and erand ez ng Garth felt himsel nging . How rich and grand each climbi 1g : i ] : “There were reasons which I am not at liberty story ! to explain,’ he said. “I am, in a way, acting béok up, my love! Pll build to night ; ys his behalf—I am a neighbor and a very old 5 , Mm! : Cc - . i ; } riend of Lady Trent; and I came here hoping Rp Rac rah ae = aeey t s f that Miss Ferrol could perhaps throw some light For you and me, a House of Glory! at eae’ ernie heave” 3 ; . i “I am afraid we cannot help you at all, Mr. So, hand in hand, we rested still, : \\ Garth. My husband has no doubt told you of ; ! - an VY Celia’s mad freak?’’ she said, her lips hard and And upward looked through sunset “p ' ; [ d ) : = = , compressed. Perhaps the two have run awa splendor ; : == = +1} AY together: |’: e ‘ - : S ; = é = a : \ “I was very sorry to hear it; I only hope they So, heart in heart, in loving thrill, ee LT. FP RN are together. It makes one very anxious, natural- ie : a Ee Fy ‘ ‘ z ; , . ly,” Dennis rejoined, feeling how commonplace Grew mute beneath the glamour Gp LS ; qh tt) f and useless the words sounded. ‘‘Just now ender i Gae v trouble’seems to be singling out my friends. As tender, S x I left my hotel not long ago I heard the n ; : : . 7 } >it zy: ote 3 ong ag é 1eWws And thus we built, with painted mist, : waa that a man I know was knocked down in: the See, ee ; ; : ‘eS street and badly injured, and is lying in the Our castles grand, from floor to =. hospital between life and death. Poor Du- coping ; : “ie chesne—— . = pete , = ; as } Mrs. Ferrol’s suddenly excited tones breke in Until the last low sunbeam kissed 3 sharply upon his words. The a= stink tol sentria = : ‘ 4 seer “What name. did you say?” ie Bay TRV hare, Git wcte “US groping: = , oe 7 9 The change that had come oyer her was. ex- - traordinary. She was trembling from head to h me, my love! the darkness falls : as ese foot. : : Ah me, m} = F Set ey ae ° ; ff Fh fof fd “Armand Duchesne,” said Garth. He was puze Full soon to shroud our brightest CS Ly . : zled by Mrs. Ferrol’s manter. Why had the men- traniniGn > 3h / : tion of the name excited her so strangely? “Mr. areaming ; OD z z > Duchesne was knocked down by a dray this afe- d golden roofs and crystal walls = - =i ternoon somewhere near Earl’s Court——” And golc : pty : ; es , . f : Dennis Garth’s words broke off abruptly. Are based too oft on cloudy seeming; = : ; : g, E35 P27 i} 3 Mrs. Ferrol had swayed unsteadily, then fell, i i inting, But, hand in. hand, and heart with fa g heart, 2 4 ote ee CHAPTER XXVII. We twain abide the twilight hoary, —s S— And wait until the shadows part _ 7 Dennis Garth went away from Sloane Street That hide from us our House of Glory. a rotten part mine is—quite different from what it was when played in town.” with new perplexities in his mind. Could Celia : - Ferrol’s strange disappearance be connected in any way with Olive’s? He was puzzled, too, by the agitation Mrs. Ferrol had shown at his men- It seemed certain that the man must be hiding She had come to London; Trent’s own words|tion of the accident to his acquaintance, Du- somewhere in the room. had told him that. Had she come to the Ferrols? | chesne. : “Ruddock, watch the outer door; he’s some-}He knew that her greatest friend in town was | Had Ailwyn Trent fallen into the hands of the where here, and he may try to make a dash for!Celia Ferrol; he had met Celia and her father} police yet? The feeling of suspense took ‘Garth liberty,” cried Detmold. once, He must go to their house and make in-}to his chambers in Meta Square again, as he Dennis Garth had lingered in the outer room, ;quiries. It was no time for reticence. He must} returned to his hotel. It was a relief to find shrinking back from the discovery that, from the]|not lose an unnecessary moment in finding out| the plain-clothes man still on guard outside the ominous report of the revolver, he had feared |where Olive was. door; evidently no arrest had been made as yet. awaited them; but the sound of Detmold’s angry, Dennis remembered that Mr. Ferrol lived some-| The man recognized him as the tenant of the impatient voice from the inner room reassured | where near Sloane Square station; at the hotel|rooms. In reply to Garth’s question he shook him. ne oe eer o time to — the de-jhe would be able to find out the exact address. | his pee Op ‘ ‘ ~4 aa > y - 9 tective climbing by the aid of a chair through the}He was anxious to deposit in safe-keeping the} ‘‘There hasn’t been a sound from inside,” he Bway SIDNEY QYVAR VY Ick, trap-door in the ceiling of the farther room.|large sum of money he had about him, the pro-| said. ‘‘With all respect to Mr. Detmold, I don’t 2 i 3 ee ; J. There was a loft under the Slates. ceeds of the check he had cashed for Ailwyn| believe the man we want is on the premises now, Author of ‘‘In Name Only,’ “‘Leffert s Dilemma,’ ‘‘The Knave of Diamonds Be For a moment Dennis Garth held his breath.|Trent, since it was evident he could not give it| nor near ’em. He was there a minute or two be- Y mn s , He expected to hear the sounds of a capture.|to its owner. | fore the door was burst open, we know that, and **A Perilous Tryst,’ ete. There seemed absolutely no other place where At the Bourbon Hotel he had the money de-/| he couldn’t have jumped from the window; and 6 the fugitive could hide. All the cupboards had {posited in the safe, and, after ascertaining from | the rooms have been searched from end to end. been searched. Then, looking very hot and angry,}the directory where the Ferrols lived, he hurried/|It’s a miracle—but it’s my impression he’s got Detmold appeared again, and let himself down |out again and told a porter to call a hansom. |}clear away. Perhaps on board a passing air- ; 3 through the trap. The loft, where the water- “A bit of startling news has just come, sir—lIj ship!” the man added humorously. (“A CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE” was commenced in No, 15, Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.) tank stood, was empty. The small skylight wasj|don’t know whether you’ve heard it,’ said the Dennis went inside; the plain-clothes man, as not constructed to open; it was conclusively clear} porter to Dennis as the cab came up; it was a|though acting upon orders, took care not to let oat al ea not haye made his way to the] piece of news eoncerning one of the guests staying | Garth out of ae sight. Dennis struck a match pe 5 a : : : roof from the loft. at the Bourbon, that, to judge by the expression | and lit a candle. CHAPTER XXV.— (Continued. ) ot eon ote “De, eae on the lower floors, who Detmold tapped the paneling of the walls; then|it left on his face, startled Garth, as he drove to The rooms were in the disordered state in which Dennis Garth. jumped out of the hansom and hake Startled by t e report, ies _ | at last he turned to Garth, utterly at fault. Sloane Street thinking over what he had just| they had been left; the chair was still standing entered. the building again. After cashing fhe ti ba that ominous sound, there was no ques- “I suppose you can’t throw any light on where | heard. where Detmold had climbed by its means into check at the bank he had hurried back to his | tion on waiting for a locksmith; the detective he is hiding, Mr. Garth?” he said, in the tones of As the hansom entered Sloane Street, he saw an|the loft where the cistern stood. And then a rooms, knowing that Trent would be in a fever of aden gore SS0r again and again. At last the} one who believed that Dennis could have ex- automobile draw up outside the door of the housej| sudden fact caught his attention—something was suspense. : ; ‘ Bae work about the lock Shitaterey. The door | plained the mystery instantly had he chosen.|to which his errand was taking him; he caught a| missing from its proper place, something was He was running up the last flight of Stairs aa oe fhe detective rushed in, followed by | True, Ailwyn Trent had disappeared in a ghostly, momentary glimpse of the face of a lady who had | missing from the room. when the first inkling~that their plans were not |t io 5 ; ; mysterious fashion, but the explanation must be} just alighted and was walking up the steps to- In a flash there came upon Dennis Garth the so- to proceed too smoothly came to him. Round the a eee eee of any tragedy in the outer | matter of fact enough if one only had the clue—j|ward the door, followed by some one who was | lution of the mystery that had baffled Detmold and bend of the staircase a face looked down and a} Toom; the door that communicated with the other | anq who was more likely to have the clue than | evidently her maid. himself, and he understood clearly now how voice greeted him: __.,, | Rooms was shut and locked on the inner side. the tenant of these chambers? “I know that these} A minute later Garth had jumped out of the|Ailwyn Trent had eluded the police—the fugitive “My turn now, Mr. Garth—we can cry quits! A aes or two's delay, and the second door | o]d houses often have queer hiding-places eS hansom. He went up the steps and rang the bell.| who prebably by this time was far away from It was Detmold, the detective. aa ae Opened in a similar way to the first. “Quite candidly, Mr. Detmold,’ said Garth, “I “Is Miss Ferrol at home?” he asked the man| these rooms in Meta Square, which Mr. Detmold, Blank consternation filled Garth at the sight o? Detmold darted through. There was amaze-|am as completely mystified as you. If there are|servant who opened the door. He felt that it|the detective, was having so carefully watched! this utterly ,unlooked-for intruder. Trent was | Ment written on his face. Where could Ailwyn| any secret hiding-places in these rooms, I am|would be preferable to make inquiries of Celia trapped ! Trent have vanished? ‘ ne unaware of them.” than of her father. Standing behind the complacent Detmold was The three rooms that comprised Garth’s cham- Detmold looked at him doubtfully. It struck him that, the seryant’s manner was The theatrical ‘special’? train, which had been the little grotesque figure in the frock coat and | bers were empty! : “Well, now that I have discovered Sir Ailwyn|odd, as he put the question. The man seemed/ crawling exasperatingly throughout that Sunday derby hat whom Garth had seen at the Bourbon. Trent and ‘George Ailwyn’ are one and the same/to hesitate; then he said: journey, and which had been twice held up at “You see; Mr. Garth, after leaving you, I sent ; . ask person, I am not going to let him slip through ‘‘Miss Ferrol is not at home, sir. But if you} miserable, dreary junctions for periods of forty- to the London office of your father’s business CHAPTER XXVI. my hands. ‘There’s a warrant out for the arrest | wish to see Mr. Ferrol——” eight and fifty-five minutes respectively, waiting and found out where your rooms were. I had a ALARMED BY A NAME.’ of ‘George Ailwyn,’ and, sooner or later, I shall “Yes, I will see Mr. Ferrol.” to be joined to another “special” with another suspicion—and I have justified my suspicion. F ; eis have him>but I’m in no great hurry, so I shall He gave his name to the servant, who showed | theatrical ‘‘crowd,” put on a feeble spurt, and Through the letter-slit of your door I saw Sir Detmoid’s usually impassive face was for once] just have that outer door watched—he’ll have to|him into the drawing-room. Presently Mr. Ferrol|came breathlessly into Brentholme Station with Ailwyn Trent—and so did Mr. Vowles here, who| betrayed into an expression of bewildered cha-|come out of his hiding-place soon.” And Det-|came into the room. the air of a train that had accomplished the identifies him positively as the ‘George Ailwyn grin. The thing seemed utterly incredible; in all| mold laughed grimly. He was on his mettle. “If “How are you, Mr. Garth. I remember I once} journey from London to this drab Midland indus- for whose arrest I have a warrant. The game’s| three of the rooms there was not the slightest | he’s flesh and blood he’ll have to come through | had the pleasure of meeting you at Major Kern-|trial town in record-racing time. up, Mr. Garth.” ; ; trace of the man whom scarcely a quarter of an|that outer door, and we shall have him the mo-|ham’s, I understand you wished to see my daugh- It was about five o’clock in the evening of @ Garth stood utterly dismayed, speechless. What|.hour before Detmold had seen through the letter- | ment he shows his nose!” ter?” said Mr. Ferrol. raw, drizzling day. was he to do? For that matter, what could he] slit in the outer room. One of the plain-clothes men had been left “Tt is about Olive—Lady Trent, that is,’’ Dennis The train-call had been for eleven that morn- do? : = x The window of the third room which overlooked | posted outside the door that was the one means|began awkwardly. “The fact is, her friends are|ing, and the traveling company that was to open “He is in there now,” went on Detmold, be-| the back of the tall building stood open. Close|of egress from the suite of rooms, when at last very anxious. She—she has disappeared from}at Brentholme on the following night in ‘the cause I haven’t left this door, and the caretaker| by the window, on the carpet, lay a revolver,| Dennis Garth left Meta Square that afternoon to| home,” he blurted out at last. The truth had to] greatest and latest London success,” “‘A Woman’s tells me there is absolutely no other way out| doubtless the revolver the report of which had|return to his hotel. Dennis had told Detmold the | be told. Peril,” arrived at the end of the tedious journey, of these rooms. We have him nicely caged. |startled the group outside the locked door. But|truth when he said that he was in the dark as to ‘Disappeared?’ cried Mr. Ferrol. which an ordinary week-day express would have You'll only get into trouble if you resist the;there were no signs of a tragedy. Detmold|the manner of Trent’s disappearance. It was as Garth nodded. The situation was intolerably| covered in less than three hours, feeling jaded, police, Mr. Garth, and do. no good; that’s a/ crossed quickly to the window and thrust his head | utterly inexplicable to. him as to the detective. difficult. His lips. were sealed as to the cause] and with their tempers decidedly ragged at the friendly tip. I have a couple‘of men waiting be- | out. “How on earth did he manage it? To vanish] that had driven Olive to take this step, of course; | edges, as they alighted on the wind-swept, drafty low. Now I want your key. ‘There was no balcony outside where a fugitive | completely almost in a moment!’’ Dennis said to] but he felt that he must say something to defend | platform from the carriages labeled: “Which I can t give you. might crouch; it would have been nothing short} himself. ‘I only wish I could be sure that he had|her from any hasty judgment of blame. “MR. HERBERT BURGOYNE’S COMPANY.” Why not? pares of madness for a man, even one as desperately | succeeded in getting clear away.” ‘You are an old friend of hers, Mr. Ferrol; I SURO Gane Meares 4 " “For the simplest of reasons; it is on the other | situated as Ailwyn Trent, to have attempted to There was a_ troubled look in Garth’s face.|can accordingly speak more freely to you—I “Refreshment-room closed, of course—and no side of that door.” drop to the ground unless he meditated suicide. | Resourceful as Trent had shown himself, he did|wouldn’t say what I am going to say to any one] taverns open till six! Oh, England, my own !— “Ts! that a fact?” The window was at the top of a four-story house; j|not feel very sanguine about the outcome. Det-/else. It has not been a happy marriage—I am/|of all the rotten license laws!” growled the light Garth shrugged his shoulders. such a drop would inevitably have meant fatal|mold’s professional pride was piqued; he was on|not at liberty to say more—and Olive has left her| comedian, “having to go and look for lodgings, “Believe it or not, as you like. There was n0/ injuries, if not instantaneous death, on the flagged |his mettle. Ailwyn Trent’s arrest would be fol-|husband. I have seen Ailwyn Trent to-day. I| with not even a toddy to stand between one and need for me to take it when [ last went out.. It | yard below. lowed by his trial on the charge of the murder] had hoped that she might have come to you——”’ | starvation!” hasn’t been in my possession since I handed it The dusk of the afternoon was closing in, and|of his first wife; the fact would come out that ‘No; this is the first I have heard of it. But Perhaps Celia Ferrol was the only one of the to the gentleman inside there. : in the failing light it was too dim to see down] Trent had a wife living at the time he was making |I wonder if her disappearance has any connection | whole company who looked moderately cheerful Detmold looked hard at him for a moment. clearly. From an open window somewhere in the }|arrangements for his marriage with Olive; gossip | with ‘Celia’s——” He checked the words ab-|among the little dejected group on the platform; “Well, we have knocked; he won’t open. The|basement the sound of a woman’s laugh floated | would fasten on Olive’s name. ruptly. but then Celia was stage-struck, and the glamour door will have to be forced. _ Remember, Mr. | up to Detmold; it strengthened his conviction that For Trent himself Dennis had no feelings of He saw Garth’s look of surprise, then he said: |of the footlights was strong on her, and made Garth, it is a charge of murder he is wanted |the solution of the mystery of Trent’s disappear-| pity to waste; to-day’s disclosures had revealed “T think I must take you into my confidence, |even this dull, dingy, manufacturing-town, with Se RES ; ; E ance was not to be found down there; the crash|him in his true colors—had stripped bare his|Mr. Garth; we may be able to help each other.|its hideous, towering chimneys and factories of His words broke off abruptly like the snapping |of a fall must inevitably have caused attention | guilty cowardice toward the man he had allowed/I am in great distress of mind. The fact is my | which they had caught a blurred glimpse as the of a fiddle-string. : below. However, he sent one of the plain-clothes|to suffer in his place. Only the stigma of his!| daughter Celia has run away from home, too.” }train approached the station, a place of supreme From the other side of the locked door had/men down to investigate. guilt would throw its shadow over his wife; it was Garth looked at him, startled. |interest. It was here that her stage career—she rung out the sharp report of a shot. : No waste-pipes ran down the wall within yards | for Olive’s sake: Dennis prayed that Ailwyn Trent “T have no hint or clue as to where she has| always thought of it by the word career—was to The three men started back in dismay. Alof the window, nor were there any neighboring |might escape justice. gone. She left this letter behind her.’ commence; there was an excitement in the startled cry broke from Dennis Garth. The de-| outbuildings; Detmold’s swift upward glance Had Olive discovered the ugly truth, and was Mr. Ferrol took a letter from his pocket. Itj|thought that she had taken the definite plunge; tective blew a whistle shrilly, then flung himself| showed him that-the stone ere of the roof|that why she had teft the husband who had so| was a farewell note in which Celia told her father| and the only cloud upon her horizon was the against the door, shoulder foremost. was far out of reach. even if the man who hadj|deeply wronged her? Where had she gone? The|that she had found it impossible to continue liv-| thought of the anxiety that she knew her im- It was a strong oak door, and it merely groaned | so inexplicably vanished had stood on the broad|uncertainty tortured him. Dennis knew only too|ing under the same roof as her stepmother, | pulsive step must have inflicted on her father, for under the impact, and withstood the shock, guard- | stone window-ledge. It took the detective scarcely | well the dangers that are never far away from|and that, in consequence, she had decided to| whom she had the strongest affection. Poor old ing its secret. é ; a moment to decide that, in whatever way his |friendless women; and, after taking this desperate | leave home. | father, she had told him in her letter not to Two plain-clothes men came rushing up in re-| quarry had eluded him, it was not by way of the|step, she might hide from all her friends. He “T couldn’t help it, father,” part of the letter | worry or be anxious—hbut she knew that he would sponse to the summons, followed by one or two | window. must find her. ran; ‘“‘you don’t know how unhappy I have been: | be anxious. TIIE GLITTER OF THE FOOTLIGHTS. % “ * * * “ * - Celia had “But home was no longer home. I hope father will realize now that my stepmother drove me to taking this step,’ she told herself defiantly half a dozen times, as if to justify her action. As soon as she had made a hit in the profession she had adopted—the hit so confidently predicted by Mr. Herbert Burgoyne—she would write and ge tell him of the career she had entered upon. Olive Trent stood by her side on the drafty platform, feeling none of Celia’s sparkling ex- hilaration. Owing to circumstances and to Celia, Olive had been drawn into her friend’s escapade. .She was not in the least degree stage-struck; it had seemed an unexpected way of escape from the life with her husband which had become unendurable, and on an impulse she had allowed Celia to use her ‘‘influence with Mr. Burgoyne,’ in a spirit of sheer recklessness. But already she was begin- ning to doubt if she had been wise. Mr. Herbert. Burgoyne came hurrying up to them in his most impressive. manner. “Here we are at last, Miss Fairlie,” he cried— : adopted “Fairlie’’ as her professional name. “Sunday traveling is a little tiresome till you become used to it, ef course; but you’ve taken your first journey to triumphs awaiting you in the greatest of all the arts! I am just going to try to find you a cab.” ; It would not have seemed as if there were any great demand for cabs at Brentholme on Sunday night; one cab had crawled into the deserted station-yard as though it had got there more by accident than intention. Miss Lewisham, the leading lady, with the wis- dom of long experience that had told her cabs would be scarce, had lost no time in ascertaining that there was only one, and in hailing it with her umbrella, She was easily the first in the field, and it was a relief to know that whoever else was going to get wet, she, at least, would not, “Pardon me, Miss Lewisham, but that cab is en- gaged. I arranged for it to meet this train,” broke in Mr. Herbert Burgoyne’s voice blandly, as the leading lady was giving instructions to a porter about her luggage. ‘‘Come along, Miss _Fairlie,”» he added, turning to Celia and Olive. “Here is the cab I ordered for you.” Miss Lewisham turned purple with suppressed fury. She realized perfectly well that this was a fiction, to coyer a shameless, barefaced piracy of her rights in the solitary cab. But Burgoyne was her manager, and she knew that protest would be as unavailing-as impolitic.. “How kind of you, Mr. Burgoyne,” cried Celia, quite imposed upon by his brazen assertion. ‘‘But there’s plenty of room in the cab for a third— won’t you take a seat with us, Miss Lewisham?” she added quickly, sorry for the leading lady’s dis- appointment. For an instant Miss Lewisham’s chagrined pride struggled with her desire to reach her rooms in comfortable dryness; then she said stiffly: - oe thank you. I-prefer to pay for my own cabs.”’ : And with her head in the air, Miss Lewisham walked back to the little dejected group on the platform of unshaven men in great overcoats and .golfing-caps and women in long ulsters, who were ‘thinking reluctantly about facing the drizzle of the raw night; one or two had written for rooms in advance, but the majority had the prospect before them of a cheerless tramp in search of lodgings, and were making inquiries of the porter respecting theatrical apartments, “Society. amateurs!” said Miss Lewisham bit- terly to the company in general; “‘wouldn’t find Burgoyne fussing about cabs if they really be- longed to the profession. Probably paid to he allowed to act!’——which is, above all things, the depth of degradation to the mind of a professional actress. “A liar, too, Burgoyne is—-he never ordered that cab ¥’ Meanwhile, Mr. Burgoyne put Celia and™ her companion into the cab with much impressment— little realizing that the latter, known to him as Miss Hurst, was the wife of his financial backer. He had instructed his acting manager to get rooms for them in advance, anxious to spare Celia “any disillusioning discomfort at the outset. well everything was working for his scheme! bird was already fluttering into the snare. “Theater call at eleven to-morrow,” he smiling, as he shut the door. The cab rattled through rain-washed streets of that depressing unloyeliness peculiar to industrial towns. Celia’s eyes sparkled. Under a gas-lamp she caught a glimpse of the long, narrow, red theater-bills. Her name—nher stage name, that is —would be in the cast there; and there was a thrill in the thought. To-morrow night she would face the footlights, a full-fledged actress! At last the rooms were reached. The landlady greeted them in a friendly fashion as the cab- man brought their satchels into the narrow pas- sage. 5 “Well, my dears, you are not sorry to Bet in, I’m sure, such a night as it is. I’ve got a nice fire; and something hot fer your tea—Mr. Christie was particular when he wrote that I was to get in something tasty’——Mr. Christie was acting man- ager—‘“‘and, knowing how. partial the profession is to roast pork, I got as nice a little bit of loin as you ever tasted. Now, will you have tea or bottled stout? Maybe, you prefer the bottled stout for supper?”’ At last the landlady drifted away, still versing; Celia turned to Olive. “TIsn’t it lovely?” she cried, surveying the Bo- hemian apartment in delight. ‘I really begin to feel I am a professional at last. dt was very kind of Mr. Burgoyne to make room for you in his company at the last moment, wasn’t it?” She walked round the room, finding everything interesting—the glass lusters, the invariable wax- en flowers under shades, thé innumerable signed theatrical photographs. It appeared that the land- lady herself had been in the profession; stuck about the room were many smirking photographs of her- self in tights; she had been in the chorus, and once—it was a proud memory that she never failed to communicate to her lodgers—she had eyen played “second boy” in pantomime, years ago before she became stout and married a stage carpenter. The second pantomime boy of years ago put her red, good-natured face in at the door again to say that she had taken a can of hot water to their bedroom, and added that tea would be ready in ten minutes. “So look gharp, my dears.” Already the pork was proclaiming itself through the whole atmosphere of the house. Celia laughed. ; “Roast pork for teal Isn’t the idea quaintly de- licious? Do you know, Olive, I almost wish we had ordered that bottled stout instead of tea!” she cried gaily—‘‘to drink luck to our career!” In point of cubic measurement the bedroom seemed to suggest that the builder had been unable to make up his mind whether it should be a cup- board or a room, ‘and had finally struck a com- promise between the two; the old-fashioned four- poster bed seemed to occupy most of the available space. But it was very clean, and the muslin curtains were spotless—perhaps that was why the landlady manifested a disinclination for fresh air. Celia had not been three seconds in the room before the window was fiung open. Then the girl ‘stood surveying the apartment in critical amuse- ment. “How are we going to contrive to dress at the same time, Olive?’? she cried, with her gay, in- fectious laugh; “it’s size reminds one of the com- panies one has read of playing in Corn §Ex- changes in the rural towns where several of the company have dress in a corn-bin for the ‘show’! Oh, Olf€e, I wonder if I shall ever be- come a famous acress and look back and think of this queer, po little room, with the framed funeral-cards on the wall. What a lot of people who are dead our landlady seems to have known, doesn’t she? According to all the theatrical stories I have ever read, one always calls one’s landlady ‘ma’—and ours will no doubt expect it of us! I suppose it will be quite easy after a little practise !”’ Celia’s buoyant spirits were infectious, and Olive smiled back at the winsome, laughing face. She was glad of the relief of her friend’s gay nonsense; it took her out of Her own thoughts, which were heavy and sad enough. Ever since the definite plunge had been made, Olive had been hcunted-by doubts as to the wis- dom of the step they had taken—less on her own account than on Celia’s. At the beginning she had tried to dissuade her friend: from running away from home to go on the stage, but Celia had only laughed at her remonstrances, Celia be- ing far too impetuous and self-willed to be de- terred by any arguments, and the glamour of the footlights too strong. As for herself, Olive felt that the case was utterly different. It had been impossible to stay any longer under her husband’s roof, knowing what she knew now of Ailwyn. She had not been able to go to her father, for Major Kernham was abroad. Olive had written to him-on the eve of her flight. F “T have gone, never to return,’ she had told Ailwyn Trent in that farewell note she had left for him. “Nothing you could say, no considera- tion you could urge, would have any power to alter my decision. It was a horrible mistake from ct first, our marriage—and this is the only way out, As she had felt when she wrote those words, so Olive felt- still; the only way out of that horrible tangle had been to leave him as she had left him. How could she remain with her husband, knowing that only the circumstances of his first wife’s murder a few days before her wedding had made their marriage 2 marriage at all? She looied back with horror on all the long weeks that she had lived in the same house with this coward, who would have let. Dennis suffer—his wife, and yet not his wife! - Olive wondered what steps Ailwyn would take to find and follow her. Perhaps, after that scene The said con- at the railway-station, when she had at last told' air of triumph. How | ‘there’s one thing—if you don’t him that she knew his guilty secret bound up with that tmurdered woman who was his wife, he would make no attempt to follow her, she thought. But, in any case, she would never return back to him; nothing would make her return. The day before her flight from the Manor House she had written to Celia, telling her friend that she was coming to London, saying that she would meet Celia at her club instead of Mr. Ferrol’s house. At their meeting she had told Celia little —only that she had made an unhappy marriage, and had left her husband. Then Celia had confided her news; that she was going out with Mr. Herbert Burgoyne’s -company that was to open in a town in the Mildands on the following Monday; that she had been attending rehearsals for a fortnight of the play Burgoyne was to take on the road, at a small private the- ater in Bayswater, without the knowledge of her people; and that, since she knew her father would not allow her to go on the stage, she was taking the law into her own hands. ; On hearing Olive’s news, she had instantly sug- gested that if Mr. Burgoyne could and would find @ vacancy in his company, how delightful it would be if Olive would accompany her. Olive had assented at last. She had made no plans. Probably her action in leaving her hus- band would cause a coolness, if not the ostracism, of her friends. Why not accompany Celia, since Celia Was not to be turned aside from her project? She made one stipulation. “You must not give my real name, even in con- fidence, to Mr. Burgoyne,”’ And Burgoyne, concealing his reluctance, had made a vacancy, solely to please Celia—Celia, who, at twenty-one, would come into a great deal of money—Celia, whom he meant to make his wife. “Tt would, indeed, be hard to refuse you any- thing, Miss Frrol,”’ he had said, lowering his yoice, and in his most affable manner. Accordingly a minor part, which was to have been “‘doubled’”’ by another member of the com- pany, was at the last moment allotted to Olive, after an interview in which she was introduced to the actor as Miss Hurst. The part was so unimportant that the imminence of the opening night, precluding the possibility of much re- hearsal, was no cbstacle. The salary was as trifling as the part; but Olive had some money of her own. And-she was glad to be with Celia, not only for the sake of Celia’s society, but because she felt that in a profession full of danger and temptation to an inexperienced, stage-struck girl, she would be able to exert a protecting influence over her more impulsive friend. Olive had been by no means prepessessed by Mr. Herbert Burgoyne. She and Celia had stayed in rooms in London until Sunday, when they traveled to Brentholme, where the tour was to open. It had been a rather anxious moment at the railway-station, and Celia had been nervous until the train drew out of the station, fearing lest her father might have dis- covered her movements and come to interrupt her plans at the last moment. But now they were at Brentholme, and Celia feit that it would be dif- ficult to trace them. a They removed the dust of the\long journey, and returned to the sitting-room, where the landlady brought in the tea and the roast pork with an a state of suppressed excitement and Celia was in when the next morning after breakfast she Olive left their lodgings te go to rehearsal, The theater itself was_a disappointment, when at last they found it, hidden away in a back street .as though heartily ashamed of itself. It was an old theater, built in the days when com- fort,. behind the scenes, at any rate, was re- garded as a thing not- worth considering; and since the days of its past glories, when Kemble and other theatrical luminaries had appeared there, a modern ‘“‘opera-house’ had sprung into existence, imposing, and the facade a blaze of light at night, in the main street, to cold-shoulder its venerable rival ifto utter insignificance. Bur- goyne, in-arranging his tour, had only been able to secure dates at second-rate theaters. On the pavement outside the dingy, blistered door, whereon were painted in what had once heen white letters the words “Stage entrance,’ two or three of the company were standing talking as Celia and Olive approached. of the door came a breath of moldy, oppressive atmosphere, and the low comedian gave a gulp with an exaggerated play of features. “Shade of Rimmel!” he ejaculated, having. a reputation for facetiousness to live up to. “But succumb on the spot, after the first mouthful or two, you get used to it; but it’s an acquired taste at best!” : The stage was a place of dust and drafts, dimly lighted; the auditorium was a cavernous place of gloom. In the wings members of the company stood in little groups, shivering in overcoats. Gradually dispirited units of the orchestra trickled in; the orchestra in a country theater invariably wears a combined expression of par-~ ticular malignancy at the Monday morning re- hearsal of the week’s touring company, when they have to run through the music and get the “or- chestra cues.” The baggageman, to whom fell most of the work of the nominal stage-manager, who, playing heavy lead, had little time for these technical duties, was wrestling with the local stage-hands over the scena plot and the gas plot. Presently Burgoyne, in a heavy fur coat, came bustling upon the stage, full of conscious im- portance. “Weel all right about to-night, my—er—WMiss Fairlie?” was his greeting to Celia. The in- variable “my dear” of the profession had nearly slipped out. ; She nodded and laughed. “However nervous I may feel, I won’t acknowl- edge it!’ she told him. Burgoyne was worried, and his worry showed itself in his nervous irritability during rehearsal. He had fault to find with every one except Celia and Olive—as Miss Lewisham, the leading lady, observed with jealous resentment; she had not for- gotten ‘Miss Fairlie’ for having quite innocently usurped her rights in the cab on the night be- fore. , Burgoyne had got five hundred pounds out of Ailwyn Trent; but, unfortunately for him, when it became known he was taking a company out, he had been brought up against a judgment sum- mons for liabilities connected with a former the- atrical venture, a few days before the tour started, and the settling of the affair had dipped deeply into what was left of the five hundred, He had promptly written to Trent, applying for a further sum. Trent could afford it—would have to afford it; Burgoyne had hinted in his letter at unpleasant consequences should the man whose secret he knew refuse. The letter had remained unanswered. Then -Burgoyne had _ wired - per- emptorily; still no reply. And the actor, who had spent almost his last available sovereign in pay- ing the fares of his company and scenery to the opening town, felt very worried indeed. “But he'll have to cough up—I know too much about him!” the actor-manager told himself vi- ciously. “If he becomes unmanageable, f shall become unmanageable, too. If I could only run up to Yorkshire to see him.” But, unfortunately, he was prevented from do- ing so by the exigencies of the “‘show,”’ and none of the dates arranged for the tour would take him sufficiently near to Trent’s place to enable him to run over for a personal interview and to get back in time to act at night. The play had been something of a success at a minor London theater, and’ had subsequently toured the country in the larger towns before Burgoyne had secured the second rights. The play had undergone a good deal of alteration at Bur- goyne’s hands. “Just look what a rotten part mine is—dquite different from what it was when played in town,” Miss Lewisham grumbled bitterly, addressing the actor who usually personated the heavy villain. “All my good lines Burgoyne has either cut out— afraid, I suppose, of my getting too much ap- plause while he’s on in my scenes—or he’s roped them into his own part. Just like these conceited actor-managers; wants all the fat for himself! $n who’s Burgoyne? And when it comes to act- ng ” “Oh, rats! It never does come to acting with Burgoyne, my dear. He smirks at the girls in the parquette, and thinks that’s acting!’’ rejoined the low comedian, Burgoyne was not popular with his company. ‘‘He’s queered some of my best points, too. It’s his own fault if the tour’s a rotten frost. As originally played the piece was right—Heaven knows what it’ll be like now—and with Burgoyne trying to play lead!” A Burgoyne’s inordinate vanity had prompted him to make alterations in the play that would have turned the author’s hair gray—-alterations that, in some cases, amounted to violent surgical opera- tions. If another character had a_ particularly good line to speak, Burgoyne had contrived to transfer it to his own part, with the sublimest disregard of its ineongruity. No matter if it made the scene ridiculous, the curtain of each act must be brought down on Mr. Burgoyne as the central figure of the picture. The rehearsal proceeded. It had been insuf- ficiently rehearsed in town, and most of the com- pany were far from word-perfect. Burgoyne worked himself up into a state of irritable im- patience. Then he made the mistake of. having a verbal spat with the master carpenter, who had resented an exasperated admonition to ‘‘hurry up” over ‘a matter of the built-up set. of the second act. Burgoyne, who could bully ‘the members of his company with impunity, found that his com- paratively mild’ remark to the stage-hand had brought a hornets’ nest about his ears. It was a humiliating moment for the actor- manager. But most of the company, who secretly were much of that way of thinking, listene@ with rap- ture to these amenities. TO BE CONTINUED. With the opening | A BIRTHDAY GREETING FROM WISHING LAND. BY ROBERT L. STEVENSON. Dear Lady, tapping at your door, Some little verses stand, And beg on this auspicious day To come and kiss your hand. Their syllables all counted right, Their rhymés each in its place. Like birthday children at the door, They wait to see your. face. Rise, lady, rise and let them in, Fresh from the fairy shore. They bring you things you wish to have, Each in its pinafore. For they have been in Wishing Land, This morning in the dew, And all your dearestawishes bring— All granted—home to you. What these may be they would not tell And could not if they would; They take the packets sealed to you As trusty servants should. But there is one that looked like love, And one that smelt like health, And one that had a jingling seund— I fancy might be wealth. Ah! well, they are but wishes But, lady dear, for you, I know that all you wish is kind— .I pray it all comes true. still, eh + 6 ee When Knayes Fall Out. - 2 By NICHOLAS CARTER, Author of “The Old Detective's Pupii,” “Sealed. Orders,” “Lady Velvet,” “The American Marquis,” “The Price of «a Secret,’ ete. (WHEN KNAVES FALL Our” was commenced in No. 16. Back numbers can be obtaiued of all newsdealers,) CHAPTER XVIII. THE END OF DUKE FOLEY. There was serious occasion for Nick Carter’s startling move. The gaze of the detective had briefiy left the face of the yeggman. Impelled bye the existing dangers, his eyes had been turned with a search- ing glance toward the slope of a wooded hill sev- eral hundred yards away, yet on the same side of the valley. The slight swaying of a bush amid the distant shrubbery, a sudden bright gleam of light from the same spot, as if a beam of sunlight had been reflected from polished metal—the sight of these had caused Nick to move as if pricked with a knife. He was not an instant too ston, however. Aghast with surprise, Duke Foley had hardly been jerked from the ledge when, with a sharp ping and a dull thud, a rifle-bullet went flat against a rock directly back of where the yegz- man had been seated. Then, slower than the bullet, came the report of the distant weapon. A tiny cloud of white smoke was risng the shrubbery on the opposite hillside. peinted to it, after jerking his companion the boulder on which he had been sitting. “Lie low!’ he cried sharply. ‘One of the gang has sighted us. He may fire again.” “If he aims as true as he did that from Nick behind time—— Branigan, you picked me out of range in the nick | Foley’s voice had an unusual quaver. would have gone clean through ef time.” “That bullet me.”’ “A miss is smiling oddly. “You saved 1 ; “As you re ile ago, Foley, such little services.ct Tesi ee The yeggman did not repiy for a moment. His lips were twitching. His eyes were glowing strangely. Presently whe said, with outward in- difference : “You’re right, Branigan. Pals should do much for one another. How did you happen sight the curs?’’ “T saw a bush moving and the gleam of a weapon in the sunlight. I’d been thinking we were taking long chances by sitting out there in the open. If i’m not mistaken, we shall be treated to——— Ah, there he goes again. Just as I expected.” A passing bullet sang its deadly song directly overhead. The thud of another was heard against the boulder. The distant reports followed close upon one another, and went echoing down th valley. Then came a fusillade from the opposite hillside, and a leaden shower hurled against the rocks and among the shrubs—near the crouching men. ‘Lie low!’ repeated Nick. “Let them waste their powder. They are still after us, Foley, as you predicted.” “The whole gang, pal, by the sound,” “Evidently. We may be able to when they let up, and get 2 movements.”’ The firing ceased even while Nick was speaking, and both men ventured to peer from under a corner of the boulder. Amid the shrubbery and scrub-oaks on the distant hill, veiled with a film of gray smoke, stood half a dozen men, Hal Hooper, Wingate, Packard, and the Skelton broth- ers, and with them the brawny figure of Jim Raw- ley, who evidently had decided to cast his Ict with the gang, or that his piace in Jersey City had become too warm for him. All of these men were ed with rifies-and revolvers, and were booted for riding, and Foley grimly remarked upon beholding them: “The whole infernal bunch, pal, as I thought.” “That’s right.” “Phey’ve got their rifles and trappings from Cluney’s, where they left them before going down to the city to do the job I mentioned.” Nick knew very well to what job he referred, yet it afforded him much satisfaction to see that the yeggman was steadily becoming more com- muniecative and confidential. . For there was still much to be learned, as well as done. “They have probably left their horses in the road below,’’ added Foley, while he watched the distant group. ‘‘They must have sighted us while on a still hunt for our concealment. It was nearly dark before we shook them off last night. Hooper must have felt sure of dropping me, or he’d not have let fly at that range.” “They know we are here, that’s certain,” marked Nick. “You bet they know it, Branigan. They’ll pick up our trail here, too, and hang to it like a hun- ery mongrel to a butcher’s bone. We can’t put up a fight, pal, with only these pop-guns on our hips. Those curs would pick us off from a dis- tance and—-——” “We'll not wait for that,’ Nick interrupted. “Hardly.” “We'll give them .the slip ‘Hooper later—providing I can lending you a hand.” Foley glanced quickly at him, but the face of the detective wore only its stérn, hangdog ex- pression, with no sign of undue curiosity. “You wait !’’ muttered the yeggman significantly. “T’ll make it plain enough to you, after. what you just did. I feel sure I can trust you, pal, and that you’ll do what I wish .in this affair, even if you are a crook and-———’’ “Look out!’ Nick again interrupted. “They are getting a move on, Foley. We must light out, and make tracks through yonder ravine.”’ “Don’t let them get a bead on you. MHooper’s a dead shot.” The yeggman anxiety. Such solicitude brought a faint smile to the corners of Nick’s mouth. He wondered how Foley would feel, if informed of his identity. “T have an eye on them,” he replied. ‘Keep the boulder between us and them and come this way. Look lively, too, for they are’ separating with a view to getting in range of us.’ Hooper and his companions had vanished among the scrub-oaks, but Nick could determine by the movement of the low branches here and there the course each was taking, and he rightly guessed their design. He saw, too, that. within a few moments he and Foley would become an easy mark for pne of their rifles, unless they made a speedy move. Creeping back from the boulder, closely followed by his companion, Nick darted behind a jutting portion of the ledge, sheltered by which they could safely descend the eastern slope of the hill and reach the ravine he had mentioned. Nick lingered only for a moment to peer around the break of the ledge, remarking quickly: “They got a glimpse of us, Foley, and know that we’re off again. They have broken cover and are running this way.” “J hear ’em,’’ snarled the yeggman. as good as a mile,” quoth Nick, > as to line on their Te- and try to land see anything in spoke with a rare display of sight them | The yells of the distant men were faintly borne to their ears on the morning air, and though flight from such ruffians was foreign to Nick Car- ter’s inclination and habit, the exigencies of the ease left -him no aiternative. Until he had ac- quired the information he had started out to ob- tain, he was determined to consistently play the erafty game he had begun more than a week before. “We'll show them our heels again,’ “This way, Foley, and leg worth,.”’ “Cut loose! I’m with you, pal.’’ Before they had covered fifty yards, however, Foley’s facé wore an expression the detective had never before seen there. With a sudden sharp cry he shouted, in accents of appeal: “To the right, Branigan, to the right! _ Let me lead the way, pal. I know this country better than you.” Nick yielded. He detected in the man’s voice far more than was said in words. It had lost the cold, hard, metallic ring which had once served, despite changed atiire and cultured bearing, to establish his identity as the midnight yeggman. Down the eastern slope of the hill, plunging with the: power of a moose through bushes and brushwood, beating aside the low branches of the scrub with mighty strokes and the abandon of madness, from the face of the hill to the sharper declivity leading into- the ravine, bounding down the rough and rocky ‘way without a thought of life and limb, following the shadowy defile for half a mile or more without once glancing back, he said. it for all you are then clambering up the opposite side and striking | through the woods again, shaping a course that led to a lower country, and took them foot-paths and obscure, narrow roads, the finding of which plainly corroborated his last assertion— | thus Duke Foley led the way until nearly five males had been covered, without speaking, with- out pausing, panting hard at times, with muscles strained and arteries throbbing with hot blood, yet with a face that all the while wore the look of a man sustained and impelled by some desire that lent him superhuman power and endurance. Nick Carter remembered that mad race for many a day. Only a man of his iron will, his mighty strength, well trained and in perfect con- dition, could have stood the prolonged, unbroken strain. But Nick, never blind to an opportunity, would not check this yeggman nor interfere with him while he was in his present frame of mind. It was in a glade in the heart of the woods that Foley finally halted. He stopped abruptly, wheeling sharply around, and laughed hoarsely upon seeing that Nick evinced no sign cf weak- ness, despite that both were breathing hard and drenched with perspiration. “You’re all right, Branigan,’’ he declared ap- provingly. ‘“‘Your staying qualities are as good as mine. I reckon we've shaken off those curs for the present, eh?’’ “Well, I should place Nick dryly answered, mop} “They'll trail us, n with assurance, “I ing that. my money that way,” = his brow. ” Foley : : added, have gocd reasons for can get the best of them.’’ He faltered on the i: the-stronger, with his ha darkly determined. Nick pretended to expect nothing unusual. “Get the best of them, eh?’ he replied. ‘‘Well, we’ve got it to do, Foley. We haven’t done it yet, that’s a cinch.” The yeggman strode nearer to him. The sun- light, filtered down through the leafy branches overhead, fell upon his face and revealed its in- creasing paleness. He was trembling visibly, not under the reaction following his recent exertions, but under a stress of feeling he now made no effort to hide. ‘T’ll telt you how we can do it,” he cried, with his gaze riveted on the detective’s face. ‘I am going to trust you, Branigan, as I have trusted no Man on earth before—save one!” “Save one?’ echoed Nick, quick to note the intense agitation. clause, only to finish ds clenched and his eyes other’s “That one deceived me, ruined me, made me what I am,” Foley bitterly continued. “But I’m going to try it once more.. i’m going to trust you, Branigan, for something tells me that I may safely do so. I don’t know why, I don’t know why, man; but here, here, Branigan’—and the yeggman beat his heaving breast with terrible blows—“T feel that you’re a man who will keep his word, who will not betray the trust even of a yegsman,” “JT reckon you can safely bank on that, Foley, Nick said simply. “As you did in the beginning, Branigan, I want you to do now. You must give me your word that you’ll not betray the secret I confide. More than that, too, I want your word that you will do what I require in this affair with® the Hooper gang. You shall be well paid, I promise that. “y cP) You shall have, for your part of the work “Cut that out,. Foley,’ Nick interrupted. know you'll do the square thing by me.” “Tt will, Branigan, on my word.’’ “And I give you my word in return, Foley, that I will do the right thing,’ Nick warmly declared, with covert significance. ‘‘The right thing, Foley, never doubt that.” The yeggman came a step nearer, hand heavily on the detective’s shoulder, while he raised the other high above his head. Only a man taking a solemn oath could have looked as he then looked. ‘ you don’t, Branigan,” he said, with terrible feeling, “if you betray the secret I confide, if you do less than I require in this Hooper aftair—so help me God, Branigan, the treachery shall cost you your life! -For I am staking on your word something dearer to me than life—it has been dearer to me than honor! Remember these words, Branigan, for God knows I mean them! If you betray me——’’ “T’]l not betray you, Foley,’ said Nick, inter- rupting with suppressed fervor. “I will do, as I have said—the right thing!” “That settles it, Branigan! Between you me, then, here’ is—the end of Duke Foley!” The yeggman drew back a step. With a sweep of his hand he tore off the wig he wore, releasing the wavy locks of reddish hue, a single hair from which still reposed in the detective’s note-book. The sinister expression, the drawn lips, the set nervés and muscles that lent him so sullen and fierce a look—all relaxed in an instant, and there stood facing the detective the quasi-reporter who had confronted him in the Henderson man- sion on the morning after the murder. placing one and CHAPTER XIX. THE LOST PARADISH. Nick Carter displayed consistent surprise at the change in his companion, much more than he felt, in fact. “Well, I’ll be hanged !”’ back. “J never dreamt Foley.’’ “Foley no more,” cried the name, Branigan, is Nat Foster. call me.’’ “Nat Foster, “That’s it.’’ SAR 2. NEW YORK, MARCH 21, 1908, Terms to Mail Subscribers; (POSTAGE FREE.) &_ months: .. .. >.<. 7602. copies...» .4.. $6.00 4 months .........$1.00/4 copies.........10.00 Be VOGT 22 Show os oes S.QOlS COMlOS. o 00s cas. 20.00 TO CLUB RAISERS.—Upon request we will send sample copies to aid you in obtaining sub- scribers. 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Nicholas Carter A Red-Letter Day (Seria]) ....... Charles T. Manners Love and Money (Serial)....Marie Connor Leighton The Earl’s Bride (Serial)....Mrs. Schuyler Meserole A Tangled Web (Serial)............ Amelia F. Stetson SATO oa gc aes a es Fee Lizzie Hunt Who Shall Wear the Coronet?............-.... : : Emma Garrison Jones the Dandy Captain: >. :..30.2..2s Lieut. Murray PRUNES REMROIN 2 SOs ila wc oe uh win Francis A. Durivage The Ups and Downs of Life.-....- .«.Emerson Bennett ERO EOWOS Of V02 oe hs os se ,»Michael Corday BOVG. OG VITBpAMeRG = tote one aces. Sooo ce What the Coroner Wanted.............. Max Adeler Why de Ran Away us Harkley Harker THe Pignity Of baporicc: co 3< wc -Kate Thorn Josh Billings’ Philosophy..... Rtas wien Josh Billings Pleasant Paragraphs..............Charles W. Foster Wo0neRoxs = 2. se ieee Mrs. Helen Wood Items of Interest, Correspondence, ete. POEMS. “In God We Trust,” by Adelaide H. Reed. “My Four Windows,” by H. L. Frisbie. “A Birthday Greeting from Wishing Land,” by Robert L. Stevenson. “Castle-building,” by A. J. H. Duganne. A POWERFUL STORY. A romance of far more than average merit, and possessing the essential of heart in- terest, to a high degree, bears the expressive title of ; THE ACCUSED WIFE By CARRIE CONKLIN, Author of “Hearts and Diamonds,” “Love and Warfare,” “The Steward’s Trust,” ‘Helena’s Redemption,” etc. From the opening chapter the reader’s in- terest is aroused, and held throughout the constantly varying scenes of this artistically constructed romance. Just after the leading personages are presented, and some of their characteristics outlined and contrasted, a tableau of startling interest, involving A DEED OF MYSTERY, is dramatically pictured, The finger of sus- picion points to the person most likely to be benefited by the removal of the victim of the tragedy, and that person becomes the ac- cused wife, It will be noted with delight that the ex- perienced author evinces a thorough mastery of dramatic construction, for events of logical sequence, yet entirely unanticipated, ‘are constantly occurring, holding the reader en- thralled from the initial chapter until the denouement, Carrie ConxkLin’s masterpiece, ‘Tue Ac- cusED WIFE,” will be commenced next week. We earnestly request our patrons to recom- mend this work to their acquaintances, that they too may be charmed by the perusal of a first-class story. : ——_—_—$~4 +9 __—_ A WOMAN’S SECRET. We occasionally meet a woman whose old age is as beautiful as the bloom of youth. We won- der how it has come about—what her secret is. Here are a few of the reasons: She knew how to forget disagreeable things. ._ She kept her nerves well in hand and inflicted them on no one. She mastered the art of saying pleasant things. She did not expect too much from her friends. She made whatever work came to her congenial. She retained her illusions and did not believe all the world wicked and unkind. She relieved the miserable and with the sorrowful. : She never forgot that kind words and a smile cost nothing, but are priceless treasures to the discouraged, She did unto others as she would be done by, and now that old age has come to her and there is a halo of white hair about her head she is loved and considered. That is the secret of a long life and a happy one. sympathized and he fulfils his mission just as certainly as the MY FOUR WINDOWS, BY H. L. My soul-house hath four windows, whence I look out and. see wonderful for me; The forest in its glory, the sunshine flecked with @hade; The bird-songs and the flowers his -hand divine hath made. The werld-pictures my Father paints Through sight and hearing windows, such wonders I. behold, : And every time I look out, new wonders still un- fold. Hope’s window, like a mirror, refiects the silent | stars, - And helps my soul mount higher, beyond the sun- set bars. FRISBIE, Of all, the one most sightly is Faith’s that looks away Over the mists and shadows, to bright and fade- less day: Unlimited by mountains, nor kept by valley waits, : I see, through Faith’s wide casement, gold and pearly gates. heav’'n’s I thank God for these win@ews, and for the sounds and sights That fill my soul with rapture, and ever-new de- lights. Through Hope’s. all bright with sunshine, rose- hued all things I sees Through Faith’s F sight the promise my Father makes to me. c Why He Ran Away. By Harkley Harker. “Tom has run away!’ exclaimed a boy of my circle of young friends, as he rushed up to me on the avenue. Tom was another of my boy friends. Though I am no longer a very young man, I have quite a group of boy friends in our neighbor- hood. In fact, I never, I believe, had any trouble with any boy. “Yes,” pursued my informant, his handsome “eyes flashing and his bright, pure face all aglow, Episcopal | “we found Tom’s books behind the church, over the fence! And Tom told us this morning he was going to steal a ride on a freighi- car and go to Albany! Said he was _not going to be bossed and locked up in the cellar by his father any more.” ; That was his father’s way of trying to curb Tom. It is to me unthinkable that things should ever get to such a pass between my boy and me that I would have to make him a prisoner. I have heard of such things, shutting a boy or girl in a room, tying their feet, taking away their clothing, and such like absurdities. Parents who think they Lave to do that kind of thing did not begin early-enough to master the child. > ‘‘Break- ing a boy’s spirit’’ is another too-late-in-the-day effort. Such things drive boys and girls from home. The result often lasting anger. The conquest. that is gained is slavery, and no one willingly submits to enslavement. I got the boys of our set around me, and we talked over Tom’s folly. How he would be dirty, hungry, cold, and wet. How he would soon be without clothing that was fit to wear on the street, and would have to either beg or go to work among strangers. How he would be deceived and vic- timized by the vagabond crew whom he met in freight-cars and low lodging-houses. Tom carried @ watch, but [’H warrant he will not bring “it home, nor a gold ring that he got at Christmas. He is Hable to contagious diseases and infectious touches of unspeakable kinds. Nice time poor Tom will have. And his return a disgrace, his good name tarnished, and his escapade the subject of ridcule by all decent boys. A soiled lad. A runaway. A fool. His parents distressed meanwhile, especially his tender-hearted mother, who, whatever the father’s blunders, holds Tom close.to her very soul. A wise father chains his boy by other kinds of chains than those that fasten the cellar door. He begins early to gain his boy’s confidence. He gets at companionship with him, and yet throws over him the nameless restraint of a father’s dig- nity. A father can play with a boy; in fact, he must. But a father will not play at bad games, nor lower himself in the choice of resorts which he seeks with his boy. The chain of dependence is natural. The lad wants money; father gives it, but he gives it graciously, and not with a growl. If it is proper to refuse, that is done with kindly explanations, so that no irritation is left be- hind. Scolding is not a chain. Bawling and rough-mouthed reproof is not a profitable chain. Profanity to a child is worse than a horsewhip a is .be begun as soon as the boy can walk. thousandfold. A chain of respect; of loving fear to offend—these hold. A father who is not re- his boys. If a“ boy hard work in his father Ss sympathy for | 2 in s father, he feels sympathy tor | walk in the woods. Lo} his command and direction of the household. run away from an _ industrious, hard-working father’s rule would seem treason to a decent lad. He would rather stand by, obey, and try to help suca a father. All this kind of dealing needs to Then you have him. The control of a child is the old fable over again—the man who lifts a calf daily was said to be able in the end to lift it when grown to be_an ox, and not realize it. No boy ever ran away~ from home without a cause. Some one has hurt that boy. It may have been the writer of some vile story. It may have been a big boy at school. A bad neighbor, a harsh and careless employer, has often driven a bright boy from home, nor cared that he did it. Alas! sometimes mother is sick, poor soul! She is not sweet-tempered. A scolding woman is hard to bear. Boys ought not te take it upon them- selves to judge their mothers, to be sure. They may better try to realize the weariness or illness or trouble which has soured her once sweet spirit. It is heroic to defend a woman and to. bear all things cheerfully for ber sake; especially mother’s sake. Yet mother might also, possibly, pardon me in saying that an acrid tongue is exasperating to a boy. Sometimes a sister makes home unpleas- ant to a lad—God forgive her! Depend upon it, boys do not.run off without some one’s fault as well as their own. The bad influence of a runaway on a_ horse; every one knows. You cannot get half-price for him after that. No one ever forgets it. The horse himself never forgets it. It is in his bones, after that, to run away again. I hear people say excusing things. He was-only a boy then. Yet the harm is done. The fearful memory is there. A little irritation will arise, and off he will go again. Who get over it? Very few. If this line falls under the eye of any boy who is thinking about an escapade, let him hold on. If he wants to g0, go openly, tell everybody, pay all his debts, act in the daylight and go.“.Do not sneak off. Then you will not have to sneak back if you wish to return. You can change your mind and walk back as openly as you walked away. The wisest man changes his mind. Boys, resolve never to leave a town in such a way that you cannot return with your head up and walk its streets with open face. Never leave a shop or store or factory where you have been employed so that you ca@ot call again any time, with _the air of a gentleman. Never leave 32 boarding-house, a lodgment of any kind, in any that looks in the least like running away. To run away is always the sign of weakness, and never should be practised except as the last resort to save a defeated army from capture. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. | Thoze who hav the least knolledge are allwuss the most reddy to impart it. It iz easy enuff to find a man that will en- dorse yure paper, but to find a companyun for everyday life iz one ov the most diffikult jobs I kno oy. Fashion haz dun more to make men and wim- me polite towards each other than any other one thing. Mankind are so artifishall that even when they are lame they kan’t limp natral. I luv the old maids. Tho they don’t bear fruit they are the evergreens ov kreashun. I am a firm believer in ghosts, and I would-giv 14 hundred dollars to see one. He who aims at perfekshun will prebably miss the mark, but he who aims at nothing iz sure to hit it every time. The most unkomfortably akting person I ever saw was @ bak-woods man with a nu suit ov store clothes .on. Trusting in Providence iz a good general rule, but I knu a church once that had rather trust in Providence than buy a litening-rod, and one day ae knokt that church higher than a boy’s ite. The man who iz allwuss anxious to bak up hiz opinyuns with a ten-dollar bet, haz more kon- fidence in his munny than he haz in his state- ments. A suspishus Man makes more blunders than a kredulus one duz. Thare is more people- who than from judgment. akt from impulse _If we should hav all our wishes gratified, we should miss a large share ov hapness that right- fully belongs to us. é _ When I argy with a phool I allwuss agree with — This iz the only way I kno ov~-to beat im. Don’t hav enny sekrets unless yu kan keep them -yureself. Men will sumtimes find themselfs placed in sutch aukward posishuns in this life that the only safety iz to defend themselfs, right or wrong. Yu mite az well put a thing off forever az put it off until to-morrow; and yet perhaps thare iz more things done too quick than too late. I never _knu a man yet who waz allwuss watching his helth to die enny whare near as soon az he expekted to. It isn’t branes that the world lacks; it iz to kno-how to use what they hav got; that’s what’s the matter. Silence may be the effekt ov grate wisdum, or none at all, but it iz safe either way. If a man claims a good deal he will git sum- ees and if he claims nothing he will git that, 00. Thare iz a grate deal ov honesty in this world that wants more watching than the devil duz. The only way to be positively saf@ iz to be humble. The Dignity of Labor. By Kate Thorn. “No, I was never made to do housework!” said a friend of ours the other day, and she looked ruefully at her hands, which bore the stains of work, and she sighed, and drew down the corners of her mouth, and wore a heart-broken air gen- erally. She was a large, well-developed woman, with hands which a No. 7 glove would be tight on, and we havyen’t a doubt that she could bear more hardships than the small servant who had ‘just packed her trunk, and gone back to the old coun- try, wid Patrick, for a bit of a vacation.” Everybody who has ever done it knows that housework is not all poetry and moonlight. There is very little romance in scrubbing the grease off of smutty kettles and saucepans; and the mopping of floors cannot be profitably done in white muslin wrappers, with the ribbons streaming out, and golden curls waving in the breeze. ‘There is very little that is soul-inspiring in frying doughnuts, or stewing onions, and yet it seems to be ordained that all these disagreeable things should be done. And somebody must do them. We confess to having no patience for the man or woman who feels above honest labor, when it comes in the way of duty. We have a profound contempt for the woman who scorns to wash dishes, and cook her husband’s dinner, when it is her place to do it. There is a dignity about labor, no matter how menial it may be, when it is done in a willing spirit, which no true soul can fail to admire. All necessary labor is honorable. Be- causé a man shoveis coal, he is not to be looked upon as 4 nonentity. Somebody must shovel coal, statesman or philosopher fulfils his. You look upon the mighty steam-engine which drives the ponderous machinery in some extensive manufac- tory, and you admire the steady revolutions of the immense fly-wheel, and the regular motion of the powerful piston-rod, but if some little, insignificant part of the whole—some bit of machinery which you entirely overlook—were to give out, the whole system would come to a standstill. So in the scheme of creation. “There must be hewers of wood and drawers of water,” and shall their labor be less honorable than that of those who enjoy the fruits of their hewing and drawing? And shall any of us say that God does not know what is best when he gives us disagreeable tasks to perform? We do not want eyerybody to do housework. We would not transform all women into kitchen drudges. Whatever a woman finds more profitable for her energies, let her do it. very one has an inclination for something, or ought to have. But let no woman think*herself degraded by the performance of honest and necessary work. Some of the noblest women who have ever lived have done their own. housework, and felt that it was an honor to them to see to the welfare and com- fort of those they loved. And, according to our idea of things, there is a great deal more of true dignity in seeing that the beefsteak is cooked fit to eat, and the bread is not rendered unfit for the stomachs of our husbands and ehildren, than there is in sitting in the parlor embroidering dogs with green noses which are a travesty on common sense, as well as the ridiculous product of nature- fakers. The most beautiful hands we have ever seen were the hands which had grown hard and brown in loving toil for others—the hands which had smoothed cares from the brows of the sorrowful, and plucked thorns from the pathway of feet which had grown weary in the life-struggle. And so we believe that whatever work comes to us, we should do it in the cheerful and willing spirit which is due the Creator from the creature. We should never feel degraded By labor; we should sees frugality, economy and | when ia chunie = sie | : jing that time to whom could he turn over never look down upon the laborer, for all work is dignity, and all duties done rightly help to make up the loyal truth and worth of character; and character will go with us out of this life into the life hereafter. : —-- —tp-2-@ oe THE POWER OF LOVE. BY MICHAEL CORDAY. Paula and Maurice were sitting at the little table in their summer-house in a French village, very much in love with each other. He had the thin and clear features of the young Napoleon, while she was strong, buxom, and tall. She was twenty, he twenty-five years old, and it was just three weeks since they had been married. Maurice was a painter. He had a small for- tune of his own, so that he, without any too great suspense, could wait for his pictures winning for him the great success that he expected. meantime, he enjoyed life, and immediately after the wedding the couple started on an automobile trip to the Pyrenees, traveling just- as they pleased, rushing through parts of the country at breakneck speed, and stopping wherever ithe scenery pleased them. This morning they had stopped in a little village far -from the usual route of travelers. They had taken rooms at the | hotel, and the landlord} who saw that they were | apt to pay well, had served a delicious breakfast | : BL Q | for them. spected among his neighbors is not respected by | and the in arm, It was seven o’clock, sun was turned pale, so pale that Maurice insisted upon taking her in his arms and “carrying her up to their room, where he sat looking at her as she was lying on the couch. He was in despair at the unmistakable of illness and pain in his young wife’s face, which he could not account for until a sudden thought struck him—-she had been poisoned. He saw once more before him the plate of mushrooms, which the landlord had been so proud of, and which he called a present from the spirits of the forest. Now he felt himself the same symptoms and the same pain. There was no doubt they had both been poisoned. The poor landlord ran from one to the other wringing his hands in despair. Vhat should he do? There was not a doctor to be° had within twenty-five miles. He wanted to drive for him as fast as he could run, for Mau- rice was not longer able to steer his automobile. He wanted to bring the doctor back, but he could not possibly be back for several hours, and dur- his patients? None of them knew any more than he did himself what to do,to counteract the poison. Suddenly he had a happy thought. “ft am going to send for M. de Pierlas; he must surely know what to do.’’ M. de Pierlas was a who had returned to his the remainder of his life. he had learned many things, and it was usual for the peasants to ask him for advice. As soon as the landlord sent for him he came. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, with a kindly face, and long white beard, and a very loud voice. He saw immediately the symptoms of .poisoning, and whispered to the landlord that he did not think that there was much chance of saving the couple. He ransacked his memory for a remedy. He had often seen cases of this kind, but he had no antidotes at hand, and it seemed as if nothing could be done until the doctor came. He could think of nothing else but milk, and milk in great quantities, he said, must be given to them. * * * ne te * * He himself ran out into the kitchen, seized a large pot from the shelf and rushed out, down the street. He almost despaired getting any. He knew that the peasants as a rule had no milk, and that the only supply came from a milk-wagon which passed through the village at six o’clock. From door to door he ran; in getting a little here and a little there, he at last succeeded in getting together about three liters. Holding the big pot with two hands he rushed back to the inn, his mind busy with one thought —he had just about enough milk to save one per- son, and how should he be able to tell the other? Still undecided, he entered the cold room, was illuminated only by the light of a single candle. The two patients were still lying on the couches evidently suffering great pain. Al- ready, while standing in the door he said, show- ing the pgt: ‘‘This is all that I have been able to get. ~ will be no use to divide it between you, for the half of it will not do any good to either of you, while if I give one of you all, there is a chance of saving one life. You must not hes- itate. It is hard, but cannot be helped. Make up your minds as quickly as you can; but while you are doing it I will make a last attempt to get a little more milk.” He knew that there was no possible hope of getting any more. It was simply an excuse for getting out of the room. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Maurice lifted himself from the couch and said: “Hurry! hurry! drink it, Paula!’ Pale and motionless she lay there. She shook her head, and muttered almost inaudibly, ‘‘No— ou.”’ . Gathering all his strength, Maurice stood up and went over to his young wife. ‘“‘But I tell you it is out of the question, JI will not drink it. You know that I am far stronger than you are. I can wait for the return of M. Pierlas, or even for the arrival of the doctor, without run- ning any risk. I beg you to drink it.”’ With trembling hands he filled the glass and handed it to Paula. She softly pushed it back. “No, no; I assure you, darling, I also can wait. J felt the effects earlier, but I am just as strong as you are. Really, I do not feel as did, so please drink, Maurice.’’ He knelt down at her side. ‘You only say so to make me drink it. But it will do no good. You must hurry. Every second is costly. I beg you once more, drink quick, drink it all.’”’ She lifted herself up on her elbow and in a dead struggle still found strength, and said: “I do not need it, I assure you, and I tell you that if one of us. must remain alive, it must be you, for you have a task in life, you must work and become famous. I do not count, I am nothing. What difference does it make whether I live or die?’’ Full of despair, he cried: “Oh, my God! What a waste of words, while the time flies and every moment’s delay is dangerous. Paula, dear- est Paula, drink quick, that I may know that you are safe, that I may be quite sure—for you can- not believe that I should accept your offer.” “You ask that I shall accept yours.” He groaned. “Yes. I ask you to do it because you must not suffer, and because your pain gives me more suffering than my own. Take pity on me, Paula, for it will soon be too late.” “But what are you thinking of, Maurice? How could I live without you, if you had bought my life by sacrificing your own? Do you not see how terrible that would be for me?” Suddenly, -as if a new idea had taken hold of him, he sat up. “Ves, you are right; I did not think of that. I did not look that far. I wanted to save you because I love you more than I love my own life; more than I love my soul. I did not think of the life which awaits the one who is saved. It is true, neither of us can accept the sacrifice.” “T am glad you see that I am right. It is far better that we both die. Come to me, and don’t leaye me. Closer. Still closer. Give me your hand. What does it matter if we die together?” And for hours they were lying close together, suffering the most terrible pain, while the glass which contained the milk which might have saved one of them stood untouched on the table. Suddenly in the distance a noise was heard, and a little later a carriage drawn by two horses, white -with foam, drove into the yard. Then somebody came up the stairs. It was the doctor, who hurried to the side of the patients. He ex- amined them closely, gave his orders, and then said with a smile: ‘‘There is still time; I will save them both.” M. de Pierlas came into the room at this moment. He looked at the milk and saw_that it had not been touched. He whispered a few words in the ear of the doctor, and both of them agreed, although they were both old, they had never seen a greater example of true love. signs retired naval officer, birthplace to spend During his travels ah Oo FOUR IMPORTANT DONT’S. If you desire to be admired, don’t contradict people rudely, even if you are sure you are right. Don’t be inquisitive about the affairs of even your most intimate friend. Don’t underrate anything because you do not happen to possess it. Don’t believe that everybody elso in the world is happier than you are. ; are awards made in accordance ; Queathed his fortune of about $9,000,000 In the! quite | which } bad as [Ij HELPFUL TALKS WITH OUB BEADERS, Correspondents must sign name and address, not for publication, but because we refuse to answer anonymous communications. All let- ters are presumed to be co.fidential, and are 80 treated, J. W. CONNELL, N. Y. City.—The Nobel Prizes with the will of scientist and in- in 1896. He be- to the founding of a fund the interest of which should be yearly distributed in five equal shares to those who had mostly contributed to the good of hu- manity. “One prize goes to the person who in the domain of physics has made the most impor- tant discovery or invention; one to the person who has made the most important chemical dis- covery or invention; one to the person who has made the most important discovery in the domain of medicine or physiology; one to the person who in literature has provided the most excellent work Alfred B. Nobel, the Swedish ventor of dynamite, who died 'of an idealistic tendency ; and one to the person down | returned from .a/} Suddenly Paula felt ill and | who has worked .most or best for the fraterniza- tion of nations, and the abolition or reduction of standing armies, and the propagation of peace congresses.” In 1906 President Roosevelt won the peace prize for his efforts in effecting peace be- tween Russia and Japan. ~The value of each prize averages about $40,000. AJAX, Englewood, N. J.—A _ scientifie journal gives the following method for the removal of scales from a steam-boiler: For keeping a boiler clear of incrustation there is nothing so easily managed as caustic soda or potash lye. Dissolve about a quarter of a pound of the soda or lye for each horse-power of the boiler in a barrel or tub of water and connect it with the suction of the feed-water pump. Use the boiler for a day with the soda ingit. Then blow out from the boiler after the firés are drawn or banked. or when the engine stops, to the level of the lower gage-cock or bottom of water-gage, and pump up with fresh water to high-water mark. Use the boiler next day as usual, and at night after fires are drawn and the walls are cooled below the temperature of © injury to the boiler, blow out all the- water and clean out the boiler. ~ Tais may be repeated ac- cording to the condition of the boiler, once or twice a month. J. J. WARDEN, Dayton, Ohio.—The Chautauqua plan of summer education was inaugurated in_ 1874. Its originators were Lewis Miller, of Akron, Ohio, and Reverend Doctor John H. Vin- cent, subsequently a bishop. of the Methodist-Hpis- copal Church. These gentlemen, in August, 1873, selected a site for a summer school on the north- ern shore of Chautauqua Lake. Here an attract- ive city of artistic and attractive cottages has been built. There are well-equipped hotels and various buildings for public exercises, lectures, and recitations. The first assembly began on the first Tuesday in August, 1874, and lasted three weeks. Since then an assembly has been held every year. Marre B., New Orleans, La.—The “Sicilian Vespers” is the name given to an insurrection in Sicily, and the massacre of the French there, on Easter Monday, 1282, the, signal for the com- mencement of which was the first stroke of the vesper bell. Charles of Anjou, by his brutality and injustice, drove the Sicilians to desperation ; and on that evening the inhabitants:of Palermo, enraged at a gross outrage offered by a French soldier to a young Sicilian bride on her way to the church to be married, suddenly rose against their oppressors and put to the sword every person of French birth in the city, to the number of over 8,000. CARDWELL, Neal, Kan.—By legislative acts some of our States have adopted State flowers, as follows: Iowa, the wild rose; Maine, pine-cone and tassel; Michigan, apple blossom; Montana, bitter root; Nebraska, goldenrod; Oregon, grape; Vermont, red clover; Colorado, white and blue columbine; Oklahoma, mistletoe; Utah, the sego lily. School children have voted flowers for some other States, as, for instance: California, the California poppy; Idaho, syringa; Kansas, sun- flower ; Minnesota, moccasin flower; Nevada, sage- brush ; Washington, rhododendron ; Georgia, Cherokee rose; New York, goldenrod. Druceist, Aspinwall, Pa.—It is customary for the proprietor of*a new patent medicine to select as agent some well-known wholesale druggist who is to supply it to the trade, at a rate thirty, forty, or fifty per cent. below the retail price. Then the proprietor liberally advertises the medicine, and thus creates for it a demand which the whole- saler supplies, distributing the compound as re- quired among the retail druggists. G. H. B., Highland, N. Y.—According to the French system of numeration, which is generally followed in the United States, a billion is one thousand millions, and is thus expressed in figures —1,000,000,000. According to the system fol- lowed in England, a billion is one million of mil- lions, and is thus written in figures—1,000,000,- 000,000. W. HeRRINGTON, Corwin, Kan.—yYou will find the lines quoted in Burns’ song of “Green Grow the Rushes.” Here they are: Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, 0; Her ’prentice hand she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, C! K. DaHLeN, New Bedford, Mass.—It is stated that the record depth to which a submarine diver has descended is 204 feet. How long a man could withstand the enormous pressure of such a depth would depend on the individual, but it would cer- tainly be a brief time—a few minutes, probably. Few would live to reach it, most likely. T. B. OCKERSHAUSEN, Paterson, N. J.—The re- cently elected mayor of Rome, Italy, is a Jew. His name is Ernest Nathan, he was born in Eng- land of one of the oldest Jewish-families, and was educated at Oxford? For many years he has re- sided in Rome, and is very popular with the peo- ple. L. M. PETERSSEN, Nanticoke, Md.—The weight of a cubic foot of distilled water is very nearly 1,000 ounces avoirdupois; a cubic foot of silver, 10,470 ounces; a cubic foot of gold, 19,260 ounces; a cubic foot of platinum, 21,500 ounces. There- fore, gold is 1914 times heavier than water. WHARTON, Chicago, Ill.—The largest railroad- station in the United States is the Union Station . in St. Louis. The train-shed is 700 feet long and 600 feet wide, and has thirty tracks. It was built in 1895, and cost about $5,000,000. E. F. A., Dale, Okla.—Leap-year begins on the first of January, and ends on the thirty-first of December. It is incorrect to say that it begins on the twenty-ninth of February, and ends on the twenty-eighth of the following February. AJAX, Baltimore, Md.—To become familiar with parliamentary rules and usages, study ‘‘Cushing’s Parliamentary Practice.’’ Any bookseller or news- dealer. will supply it. aie “You cannot Vol. 683—No. 24 _ (“LovE anp Monxy” was commenced in No. 11. CHAPTER XLIV. EVELINE MAYNE’S INDIGNATION. — - “No—no! You do not mean it! You cannot mean it! You cannot think such a thing of me! It is not possible!” y There was passionate, horror-stricken denial in _ Eveline Mayne’s voice, even as there was horror in her eyes. As yet there was no indignation Mingling with her pain. That would come later. end only looked at him wildly, amazedly, implor- ngly. _~But Robert Cardross’ face—to her only the face of Mr. ‘‘Roberts’’—never flinched from its stern coldness. His look at her was no longer the look | of a lover, but that of a judge. “No—no!’’ she repeated desperately, brokenly. really believe that I was this man’s accomplice ; work? Knowing me as you do, loving me as you _have loved me, you cannot believe it!” She had sunk her yoice very low, although the -_ air was full of the grind and roar of machinery, and the shouting of men, and they stood apart -- from all the others in that grim and gray scene, whose confusion was already beginning to settle down again into a kind of sullen order. So low had her words been uttered that Robert Cardross - had needed all the keenness of his faculty of hear- - ing to catch them. And yet there had been a cry | |. in them—a subdued yet sharp ery of pain un- | “| -|- speakable, as from / p-the heart. one who had been stricken to Surely he must have caught that cry! Yet _ still his features never softened in the slightest, _but remained unflinchingly hard, while the con- demnation in his fearless dark eyes deepened in- - stead of lessened. -. “I eannot allow even love to make me blind,” he told her; and it seemed to her that he stood more upright than ever she had seen him stand before. “As it is, I have let it blind me too long. I have believed in you, in spite of all that - has happened here, and in spite of your declared purpose of revenging yourself upon Michael Car- dross at any cost. But facts are facts, and I cannot shut my eyes to them always; and when one of my foremen tells me that you were seen loitering about the works last night, talking sus- piciously with this workman whom we already suspected, and who has at last proved his guilt by fleeing—why, I'am bound at last to doubt you! ~ “Things have come to a pitch at which a stern investigation is inevitable. The nerves of the __workpeople have been shaken, and already this morning a whisper is running through the shops that Cardross’ establishment has a curse upon it, and that it is unsafe to work here. This is ex- actly the state of things that you wanted to bring about—that you have, in fact, been working to bring about. You know that I know this, and yet you express wonder that I doubt you at last, and believe at last that you have been steadily deceiv- ing me!” ‘ “Deceiving you—you?” Eveline Mayne had these words formed on her lips, but she did not speak them. She only stood with her hands locked together, breathing hard. In her great agitation she had not noticed one lit- tle matter which she would certainly have noticed at any other time—namely, that he had said, “My foremen.” And yet she was vaguely aware that, in spite of his workman’s clothes, he seemed far more like a master than like a workman, as his and he stood here before her, with authority in fearless ey2s, and dignity in his bearing, - power stamped all over him. : She was vaguely aware, too, that his mere presence somehow created silence and orderliness around him; that men who had appeared in the workshop shouting and_ gesticulating excitedly became calm and cool, and subdued their voices as soon as they caught sight of him. - But her suffering was too intense at this crisis for her to note these things at their proper value. She tried again to speak at this moment, but could not; and he went on: “You have not only been deceiving me, but you have been using my love for you as a means by “which to do it more thoroughly. You talk of Michael Cardross as hard and pitiless, but you are harder still yourself, and more pitiless. You are - seeking vengeance for one life which? that vengeance you take many lives, and make many wives widows and many children fatherless, and you unscrupulously sacrifice the innocent in order that you may punish the guilty. Even from your point of view it is not justice; while from the point of view of any ordinary and sane human being it is simply murder—base, wilful, cowardly, and infameus murder!” : The half-distracted girl found her voice then. Her eyes, that were so full of suffering, flashed into his in the gray, weird light of this autumn morning, that had brought calamity and terror with it. “Yes, you are right in calling it murder— murder dastardly and infamous!” she said. “But you are not right in supposing that I could be guilty of it. My vengeance against Michael ' Cardross is a bitter one, as I have told you a hundred times—too many times—but even in my moments of bitterest hate, when the thought of my dead father goaded me on most fiercely to take : quae ae my own hands, I have always played airly. * “You ought to know that, for you were present, - and you saw me fail on the one and only occasion when I had undertaken to do something that was not playing fair. You saw me come to Robert - €ardross’ private rooms to steal the plans of his _ model, and possibly the model itself, and you saw that I could not bring myself to do it. - How, then, do you suppose that I should have brought - myself to do worse?” “Do you deny that you were talking with that man last night inside the main gateway of the works?” he asked her, pressing the question closely. " _.“No”’—she met his eyes unwaveringly—‘I do not deny it. But I deny that I was his accom- - plice in his terrible design. I was with him be- - eause I had noticed him loitering about in a - -gtealthy way, and I went to him to remind him that I was practically certain of his guilt of these outrages, and that if another one occurred I should certainly hold it my duty to inform against Robert Cardross—still only Mr. ‘Roberts’ to her—smiled a slight, bitter smile at this. “How could you threaten to betray him, when you and he are the agents of the same man— namely, of Michael Cardross’ rival, Silas D. Arrow?” he asked her, with disbelief in his voice. “People do not betray their partners, Eveline Mayne. They dare not!” The blood flamed hot and crimson in her cheeks, tae had been grayish-white in the weird, gray ght. “How cruel you are to me!” she cried to him, in an almost fierce passion of reproach. “You doubt me? And yet I am telling you the truth. I have always told you the truth. A woman does not speak falsely to a man whom she loves as I ove you. I tell you again, I threatened to betray that man, and he knew that my threat was no idle one, for he came away from the works with me, and gave me his word that he would do no harm. I went away from him satisfied, bt something made me feel that he might not keep his word. “T lay awake all night in a state of terror as to what he might have done; and I rose with the dawn, and came down here to make sure that all was well. I have found my blackest fears real- ized—yes, and I have found worse even than - that, for I have seen that you can doubt me and can be pitiless to me, counting your love for me as nothing in the face of a few incriminating cir-. cumstances. Ah, for the love of Heaven—for the love of Heaven a _ She broke off, for a man had approached her _ lover, and was beginning to talk to him in a low, rave voice. Her ears caught the words, “Carry- ng away the dead,” and a shudder ran through “Roberts” speaking with him, and then turned once more ‘toward her. “T cannot remain with you any longer. No, I cannot let you come. The sight there is too ter- réble for a woman’s eyes to see—unless that wom- ‘an were a trained hospital nurse, I will see you to the gates, and then ae -. But she stopped him proudly, almost fiercely. ne gates? No! If I cannot be a 11 at least not be a hindrance. I can find my own way out. No one need come with me!” — a But his face was very resolute. “See me to the help to you, I _ “I cannot let you go through this crowd alone: not now. I shall not let you go alone!” — had spoken the word “now” with a curious that made her start. Fe mean?” she asked him -quickly. that I—I had a hand in this awful | Michael | Cardross did not wilfully take, and in achieving | nodded to the man who was LOVE AND MONE _ By MARIE CONNOR LEIGHTON, Author of ‘‘ The Peer’s Masquerade,” ‘“* Hush Money,’’ ete. Back nunyrbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.) “Why should I need protection now more than ever before?” : he His dark eyes fastened themselves upon hers with a warning significance in them. “Tt mean that the foreman may have been talk- ing,’ he answered her. “And the people’s nerves are shaken. The men here are not themselves in this hour.” She saw what he meant, and consternation came upon her, momentarily paralyzing speech, so that she could not answer him. Was it possible—was it, indeed, possible?—that these workpeople could believe her guilty of this act of horror? They all knew her. Could they think that she—Eveline Mayne . The doubt seemed to choke her. thoughts, for he added quickly: “They know that _you have denounced. Michael Cardross to them, and have tried to draw them | away from his service. They know, too, that this ;man whom they have this morning found out to ibe the worker of these outrages was one of the | first of your followers. They have seen him with | you, and have known that you talked a great deal ; with him, and made a favorite of him; and if | the foreman has been talking, in spite of the hint |I gave him to hold his tongue, they will have ; drawn conclusions which, in their present mood, |might be dangerous to you. Now, if you will | Ccome——*” : } He moved a step forward, and she followed him |mechanically. He led her away from the busy shops, showing very clearly that he meant to take her out of the works by the most indirect route possible. By this method they avoided meeting many of the workmen. could it be her fancy?—that a few among those He read her way—mistrustfully, fiercely, dangerous enmity. And as they passed these men 4 man whom she loved walked closer at her side. 5 He helped her into her waiting dog-cart, and then turned away from her without a word of good-by or an instant’s softening of the stern coldness that made his handsome, strong young face as hard as marble. . He went back through the gray morning light into the great center of industry into which, for the third time, disaster and horror had come; and works seemed to engulf him in darkness as _ he moved back within the grim walls that formed the otter boundary of the great engineering establishment... 5 Eveline Mayne drove home with a face as set as the face of her lover had been. - Even when she reached Newlands Court the hour was still too early for any one except the servants to be astir. Not only her aunt, but Lord Topham and the other guests staying in the house were evidently still sleeping—or, at least, were still in their bedrooms. ; She thought scornfully of the difference be- tween Topham, indulging himself by lying late in a haxuriously comfortable bed, and a man like the workman “Roberts,” who started the day’s work with the dawn, and was to be found in the earliest gray light laboring with all his heart and soul and strength, and guiding and controlling the la- bor of others. Soe “And he—he doubts me!’ she moaned aloud, when she had gained the solitude of her bedroom. “He has turned from me sternly and coldly, believing me to be the basest of the base—to have had a hand in causing the death of those men who met their awful doom just now in that stream of molten metal!’ And, kneeling by the side of her bed, she buried her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud. “Oh, this struggle between love and vengeance, how terrible it is! How will it end? God help me! How will it end?’ - CHAPTER XLY. “MY VENGEANCE STANDS BETWEEN ws!” “You don’t look yourself this merning, Miss Mayne,’ Lord Topham remarked, when, an hour and a half later, Eveline came down to the break- fast-room. “There’s nothing wrong, I hope?” . There was genuine anxiety showing itself on his dissipated young face as he spoke. It was such an anxiety ;mnever seen him-manifest for any other human be present-now as his fellow guest at Newlands Court,, cast expressive glances at each other, which signified_that he really must be very much in love this time. But Eveline was not grateful for this anxiety. Try as she might to shut Mr. “Roberts” out of her mind, she yet could not help comparing every |} other man with him, and the other men suffered by the comparison. She compared Lord Topham’s good-looking, but world-worn, face now with his face as she had seen it in the works in the gray- comparison was not favorable to Topham. Mrs. Mayne had looked up and scrutinized her. “My dear Eveline, what has Lord Topham is quite right; dreadful—as white as a sheet, circles under your eyes. have been doing to yourself? Do you feel ill?’ The girl tried to smile. She knew that her face must very surely stand out in startling whiteness ee her broad white muslin collar and black ress. “T° am really quite well, thank~ you,” answered as lightly’ as she could. “‘If I do not look well, I suppose it is because I have had a bad night.” : “You’re too young to have bad nights,” re- marked Lord Topham, rather _ suspiciously. “There’s bound to be something very wrong if you can’t sleep.” “T suppose she’s been thinking of that work- man over at Cardross’ works in Birkdon,”’ said Mrs. Mayne, with a laugh that was neither kindly nor in good taste. ‘“‘She is really quite infatuated with him. Of course, it is only a girl’s silly, you’re looking with great, that she stakes it seriously enough at present to stay awake a few hours on account of it. Mthat so, Eveline? Or am I so unkind to speak |}to you about this delicate subject in public that you would rather not answer?” . Eveline smiled again in response to her aunt’s lightly bantering tone. No one could be really angry with a_ shallow, artificial, butterflylike creature such as Mrs. Mayne. But Eveline gave her no answer except the smile. She only sat down in the place that had been reserved for her next to Lord Topham, and tried her best to talk lightly with him and with her neighbor on the other side. “By what time do you expect your old nurse to arrive to-day, Eveline?” her aunt asked her | resently, when all the guests except Lord Top- | ham—who always hovered round as long as he fee manage to do so—had left the breakfast- | table. | “IY expect she’ll get here by the twenty-minutes- | past-two-train,’’ was the girl’s reply. ‘That will | bring ber to the house about three.’ | “TI hope she’ll prove to be a good housekeeper,” |rejoined Mrs. Mayne doubtfully. “I am _ only ;teking her on your recommendation, you know, | Eveline.” afterward | “T have no doubt about her at all,’ was the |girl’s warmly confident reply. “She is not only one of the best women in the world, but also one of the most capable.” ‘ Mrs. Mayne had summarily dismissed her house- keeper two days before, and Eveline had begged that her own former nurse, now fifty-five years old, and very poor, might have the place, In her orphaned loneliness, she had felt that the coming of this woman, who had comforted her childish sorrows, and who loved her dearly, would be a great comfort to her. And now she was waiting eagerly for the hour when she would drive to the station to meet the homely, motherly figure, and would see the dear, simple face, that was fa- miliar to her from the first remembered days of her childhood, smile upon her once again. Until that hour should come she would have liked to be alone—alone to think over her great love,, and the sorrow which it had this day brought, to her. But Lord Topham would not allow this. He insisted on her spending the morn- ing with him—or, rather, on himself spending it with her. She could, of course, have dismissed him sharply, but to do this would have been al- most cruel, considering that he had given up go- ing out shooting in order to be with her. - So she let him stay at her side, and bore as best she could with his attentions and his ar- dently hinted love. He dared not speak quite openly to her of that love as yet; but every word that he spoke, every look that he turned upon her, betrayed clearly that he was the victim of a passion for her that was amazingly deep and genuine, considering what a man of the world he was, and how heartless he was always reputed to be where women were concerned. See SSS her. the black shadow which had fallen upon Cardross”’ of her aunt’s wishes with regard to it. as the people who knew him best had} being; and one or two of them, who happened io | ness of the early hours of this morning, and the | hate him and to wish you’d never met him.” dark | What can you_possibly | passing fancy; but, all the same, I really do think | | sake. Isn’t | Cardross firm, and if I-am to be his love I must “He simply worships the very ground you tread on, Eveline,” her aunt took an opportunity to observe to her. ‘‘You’ll be a great fool if you let him go. It is a chance that doesn’t come. to a girl in a thousand. Look at his position! Look at the property and the money that will come to him some day when the old earl dies! That day can’t be very far off, for the poor old fellow has had one stroke of paralysis already. “Of course, I don’t suppose for a moment that you really think of that young, workman over at the Cardross’ works. You’re a Mayne, after all, and you couldn’t. It would be an insult to ou to think-for a moment that you could. But know how foolishly romantic girls are, and how sometimes the fact that a man has money is quite as likely to turn them against him as to incline them to him; so I warn you that if you let this man slip, you’ll be throwing away the best chance of your life!” “Miss Mayne, it isn’t true, is it, that you’ve taken a fancy to a fellow at the Cardross’ works?” Topham asked her in the course of the morning. “A beautiful, refined creature like you couldn’t really be fond of a common workman! It isn’t possible! Everything the man said and did would go against your grain!” “There is a workman there whom I admire very- greatly,’ she answered him with a quiet serious- ness that somehow lulled his suspicions instead of increasing them. “He gentleman—indeed, more refined than most gentle- men. And yet he works as very few men know how to work—works with a grand energy, a won- derful power !”’ “H’m!” retorted his lordship. ‘If you like a man to work as much as alli that, I might try my hand at a job or two, and see what I can do. I would do anything in the world to please you! This chap you are talking about seems to be a rare sort of fellow. Still, as he is only a com- mon workman, I’m not going to be jealous of him. It would have been much worse if you’d met Robert Cardross and taken a fancy to him. He’s certainly a fine fellow, and from what I can gather, he’d be just your sort—the kind of man that can combine being a genileman with being of some use in the world. He’s very handsome, too. It is quite surprising that, living as close to Birk- don as you do, you shouldn’t have met him long before now. But it is a precious good thing for {me that you haven't, for you are getting to be ; everything in the world to me, and I know that if | Robert Cardross came along I shouldn’t have a ;chance with you. Oh, I know that you imagine you hate him! But I have strong conviction that B ae —or | if you once got to know him, and saw him a few Hi st neemnee: $0 Her Sy | times, your hatred of him would vanish like mist whom they did meet looked at her in a strange | before the morning sun. : and —simost with” a | nave made you admire and respect him so much— “He must certainly be a wonderful man to you, who look upon all millionaires as upstarts oe parvenus, and usually despise them accord- ingly !”’ The luncheon-bell prevented Topham from say- ing anything more then. And after luncheon Eveline Mayne drove off at once to the railway- station, in spite of the protests of her aunt, who considered that it was a groom’s business, and not hers, to go and meet the new housekeeper—a view with which Lord Topham cordially Agreed as soon as he learned that he was not to be allowed to go to the station too. F A glow of genuine warmth came into Eveline’s sad heart when she saw the tall, motherly figure that she remembered so well alight from -the train and come toward her. ‘There was some- thing almost childlike in the way in which she greeted the sweet-faced elderly woman, kissing her on both cheeks with a gladness that told of real affection, while not less beautiful was the delight on the face of the humbler woman at be- ing thus greeted by the girl to whose motherless- ness she had been a mother. And during the drive from the station to the house she asked a score of questions as to the health and happiness of her “‘lambie.” “You are not quite happy, Miss Eveline, my dear,’’ said she, after looking very closely into the girl’s beautiful, pale face, lit with its wistful blue eyes. ‘I can see plainly that you are not quite happy. You must tell your old nurse all about it, my dear, and see if she can’t help you.” And after tea, in the housekeeper’s room, before the bell rang for dressing for dinner, the girl did tell her old nurse “all about it.” - Sitting in a low chair by the side of the elderly woman, she told her of the vengeance that she Sought for her father’s suicide, and of how her love for a man who was nothing more nor less than an upper workman at Michael Cardross’ works threatened to interfere with the carrying out of that vengeance. She told her of Lord Topham’s love for her, and And then, shyly averting her face, she told how her love for the workman at Cardross’ establishment made all other men seem as nothing to her. , The gentle-faced old nurse was astonished and very much troubled.