ANGEL ESQUIRE
BY EDGAR WALLACE
____
CHAPTER IV—(Continued)
Kathleen Kent was something more
than pretty, something less than beau
tiful. An oval face with gray, stead
fast eyes, a straight nose and the nar
row upper lip of the aristocrat, her
lips were, perhaps, too full and too hu
man for your connoisseur of beauty.
She locked from face to face, and
but for her pallor she exhibited no sign
of fear.
Although she was unaware of the
fact, she had been afforded un extra
ordinary privilege. Hy the merest ac
cident, she had been ushered Into the
presence of the "Borough Lot.” Not a
very heroic title for an organized band
of criminals, but, then, organized
criminals never take unto themselves
generic and high falutin’ titles Our
“Silver Hatchets” and “Red Knives”
are boy hooligans who shoot off toy
pistols. The police referred to them
vaguely as the "Borough Lot." Les
ser lights in the criminal world have
been known to boast that they were
not unconnected with that combina
tion; and when some desperate piece
of villainy startled the world, the po
lice investigating the crime started
from this point: Was it committed by
one of the Borough Lot, or was it not?
As Kathleen wus pushed into the
room by her captor, a hum of subdued
conversation ended abruptly, and she
was the focus of nine pairs of passion
less eyes that looked at her unstnil
ingly.
When she had heard the voices,
when she took her first swift glance
at the room, and had seen the type
of face that met hers, she had steeled
herself for an outburst of coarse
amusement. She feared she did not know
what she feared. Strangely enough, the
dead silence that greeted her gave her
courage, the cold stare of the men nerv
ed her. Only one of the men lost his com
posure. The tall, heavy-looking man
Who sat at one end of the room with
bowed, attentive head listening to a
little clean-shaven man with side
whiskers, who looked for all the world
like an old-fashioned Jockey, started
with a muttered oath.
"Upstairs!" he roared and said some
thing rapidly in a foreign tongue that
sent the man who held the girl's arm
staggering back with a blanched face.
“I—I,” he stammered appealingly, "I
didn't understand."
The tall man, his face flushed with
rage, pointed to the door, and hastily
opening the door, her captor half drag
ged the bewildered girl to the darkness
of the landing.
•'This way,-’ he muttered, the she
could feel hlB hand trembling as he
•tumbled up yet another flight of
•lairs, never once relinquishing his
held of her. "Don’t you scream nor
nothing, or you'll get Into trouble. You
«ee what happened to me for takln' you
Into the wrong room. Oh, he’s a devil
Is Connor—Smith, I mean. Smith’s his
name, d'ye hear?” He shok her arm
roughly. Evidently the man was be- ,
•lde himself with terror. What dread- !
ful think the tall man had said, Kath- !
leen could only Judge. She herself waB ,
half dead with fright. The sinister
faces of these men, the mystery of
this assembly In the shuttered room, j
, her abduction, all combined to add
terror to her position,
Hor conductor unlocked a door and
pushed her In. This had evidently been |
prepared for her reception, for a table
had heen laid, and food and drink stood
ready.
The door was closed behind her, and
‘g bolt was slipped. Like the chamber
below, all daylight was kept out by a
• curtain. Her first thoughts were of es- i
cape. She waited till the footsteps on I
the rickety stairs had died away, then
crossed the room swiftly. The drop !
from the window could not be very far;
•he would risk It. She drew aside the
curtain. Where the window should
have been was a sheet of steel plate.
It was screwed to the Joists. Some
body had anticipated her resolve to es
£pe by the window. In chalk, written
an Illiterate hand, was the sen
tence:—
"You wont be hert If your senserblo.
We want to know some questions
and then well let you go. Don’t make
* fuss or it will be bad for you.
Keep quite and tell us these questions
, and well let you go.
What had they to ask, or she to
answer? She knew of nothing that she
could Inform them upon. Who were
these men detaining her? During the
(text hours she asked herself these
questions over and over again. She
grew faint with hunger and thirst, but
the viands spread upon the table she
did not touch. The mystery of her cap
ture bewildered her. Of what value
was she to these men? All the time
the murmur of voices In the room be
low was continuous. Once or twice she
beard a voice raised In anger. Once
a door slammed, and somebody wont
clattering down the stairs. There was
a doorkeeper, she could hear him speak
with the outgoer.
Did she but know It, the question
that perplexed her was an equal mat
ter of perplexity with others in the
bouse that evening.
The notorlus men upon whom she had
looked, all innocent of their claim to
notoriety, were themselves puzzled.
Bat Sands, the man who looked so
111—he had the unhealthy appearance of
one who had Just come through a long
sickness—was an Inquirer. Vennls—no
body knew his Christian name—was
another, and they wore two men whose
Inquires were not to be put off.
Vennls turned Ills dull fish eyes upon
big Connor, and spoke with delibera
tion.
"Connor, what’s this girl business?
Are we In It?
Connor knew hjs men too well to
temporize.
"You’re In It, if It’s worth anything,”
he said slowly.
Bat’s close-cropped red head was
thrust forward.
"Is there money In It?” he demand
ed.
Connor nodded his head.
"Much?”
Connor drew a deep breath. If the
truth be told, that the “Lot” should
share, was the last thing he had In
tended. But for the blundering of his
agent, they would have remained In
Ignorance of the girl’s presence In the
house. But the very suspicion of dis
loyalty was dangerous. He knew his
men and they knew him. There was
not a man there who would hesitate to
destroy him at the merest hint of
treachery. Candor was the best and
safest course.
“It’s pretty hard to give you any
Idea what I’ve got the girl here for,
but there’s a million In it,” he began.
He knew they believed him. He
did not expect to be disbelieved. Crim
inals of the class these men repre
sented flew high. They were out of
the ruck of petty, boasting sneak
thieves who lied to one another, know
ing they lied, and knowing that their
hearers knew they lied.
Only the strained, Intent look on their
faces gave any Indication of how the
news had been received.
“It’s old Reale's money,” he contin
ued; "he’s left the lot to four of us.
Massey's dead, so that makes throe.”
i There was no need to explain who
: was Reals, who Massey. A week ago
Massey had himself sat In that room
and discussed with Connor the cryptic
verse that played so strange a part in
the old man's will. He had been In
a way, an honorary member of the
"Borough Lot."
1 Connor continued. He spoke slowly,
waiting for inspiration. A judicious lie
might save the situation. But no in
spiration came, and he found his re
luctant tongue speaking the truth.
! “The money is stored in one safe.
Oh, It’s no use looking like that, Tony,
you might Just as well try to crack
the Bank of England as that crib. Yes,
he converted every cent of a million
and three-quarters Into hard, solid cash
—bank notes and gold. This he put
Into his damned safe, and locked. And
he has left by the terms of his will a
key.
Connor was a man who did not find
speaking an easy matter. Every word
came slowly and hesitatingly, as
though the speaker of the story were
loath to part with It.
"The key Is here," he said slowly.
There was a rustle of eager antici
pation as he dipped his hand In his
waistcoat pocket. When he withdrew
his lingers, they contained only a slip
of paper carefully folded.
I "The lock of the safe is one of
Reale's Inventions; it opens to no key
save this." He shook the paper before
them, then lapsed Into silence.
I "Well,” broke in B^t Impatiently,
"why don’t you open the safe? And
what has the girl to do with it?”
"She also has a key, or will have
tomorrow. And Jimmy—”
I A laugh interrupted him. "Curt
Goyle had been an attentive listener
till Jimmy’s name was mentioned, then
his harsh, mirthless laugh broke the
tense silence.
"Oh, Lord James is in It, is he? I'm
one that's for ruling Jimmy out.” He
got up on his feet and stretched him
self, keepig his eye fixed on Connor.
"If you want to know why, I'll tell ye.
Jimmy’s a bit too finicking for my
| taste, too fond of the police for my
taste. If we’re in this, Jimmy’s out
; of it," and a mutter of approval broke
from the men.
c onnor s mind was working quickly.
He could do without Jimmy, he could
not dispense with the help of the
"Lot.” He was Just a little afraid of
Jimmy. The man was a type of crim
inal he could not understand. If ho
was a rival claimant for Reale’s mil
lions, the gang would "out” Jimmy; so
much the better. Massey's removal
had limited the legatees to three.
Jimmy out of the way would narrow
the chance of his losing the money still
further; and the other legatee was
In the room upstairs. Goyle’s declara
tion had set loose the tongues of the
men, and he could hear no voice that
spoke for Jimmy. And then a dozen
voices demanded the rest of the story
and amid a dead silence Connor told
the story of the will and the puzzle
verse, the Bolving of which meant a
fortune to every man.
"And the girl has got to stand In and
take her share. She’s too dangerous to
be let loose. There’s nigh on two mil
lions at stake and I’m taking no risks.
She shall remain here till the word Is
found. We’re not going to see her
carry the money off under our very
noses."
“And Jimmy?" Goyle asked.
Conner fingered a lapel of his coat
nervously. He knew what answer the
gang had already framed to the ques
tion Goyle put. He knew he would be
asked to acquiesce In the blackest piece
of treachery that had ever disfigured
his evil life; but he knew, too, that
Jimmy was hated by the men who
formed this strange fraternity. Jimmy
worked alone; he shared neither risk
nor reward. His cold cynicism was
above their heads. They too feared
him.
Connor cleared his throat.
"Perhaps If we reasoned—"
Goyle and Bat exchanged swift
glances.
“Ask him to come and talk It over
tonight,” said Goyle carelessly.
• • •
“Connor Is a long time gone.”
Sands turned his unhealthy face to
the company as ho spoke.
Three hours had passed since Connor
had left the gang In search for Jimmy.
“Hc|‘ll be back soon," said Goyle con
fidently- He looked over the assembly
of men. "Any of you fellers who don’t
want to be In this business can go."
Then he added significantly. “We're
going to settle with Jimmy."
Nobody moved; no man shuddered at
the dreadful suggestion his words con
veyed.
"A million an’ three-quarters—it's
worth hanging for!" he said callously.
He walked to a tall, narrow cupboard
that ran up the side of the fireplace
and pulled open the door. There was
room for a man to stand inside. The
scrutiny of the interior gave him some
satisfaction.
this is wnere some one stood’ —he
looked meaningly at Bat Sands—"when
he koshed Ike Steen—Ike with the po
lice money in his pocket and ready to
sell every man jack of you.”
“Who's in the next house?” a voice
asked suddenly.
Goyle laughed. He was the virtual
landlord so far as the hiring of the
house was concerned. He closed the
cupboard door.
"Not counting old George, it’s
empty," he said. “Listen!”
In the deep silence there came the
faint murmur of a voice through the
thin walls.
"Talkin’ to himself,” said Goyle with
a grin; “lies daft, and he’s as good
as a watchman for us, for he scares
away the children and women who
would come prying about here. He’s—”
They heard the front door shut quick
ly and tire voices of two men in the
passage below.
I Goyle sprang to his feet, an evil look
! on his face.
“That’s Jimmy,” he whispered hur
riedly.
As the feet sounded on the stairs he
• walked to where his coat hung and
took something from his pocket, then,
almost as the newcomers entered the
room, he slipped into the cupboard and
drew the door close after him.
Jimmy, entering the room in Con
nor’s wake, felt the chill of his recep
tion. He felt, too, some indefinable
sensation of danger. There was an
ominous quiet. Bat Sands was polite,
even servile. Jimmy noticed that, and
his every sense became alert. Bat
thrust forward a chair and placed It
with Its back toward the cupboard.
“Sit down, Jimmy,” he said with
forced heartiness. "We want a bit ot
a talk."
Jimmy sat down.
"I also want a bit of a talk,” he said
calmly. “There's a young lady in this
house, brought here against her will
You’ve got to let her go.”
The angry mutter of protest that hr
had expected did not come, rather was
his dictum received In complete si
lece. This was bad, and he lookec
round for the danger. Then he missed
a face.
"Where is our friend Goyle, our dear
landlord?" he asked with pleasant
irony.
"He hasn't been here today," Bat
hastened to say.
Jimmy looked at Connor standing by
the door biting his nails, and Connor
avoided his eye.
“Ah!” Jimmy’s unconcern was per
fectly simulated.
"Jimmy wants us to send the girl
back." Connor was speaking hurried
ly. “lie thinks there'll be trouble, and
his friend the 'tec thinks there will be
trouble, too.”
Jimmy heard the artfully-worded in
dictment unmoved. Again he noticed,
with some concern, that what was tan
tamount to a charge of treachery was
received without a word.
"It isn’t what others think, it is what
I think, Connor," he said dryly. “The
girl has got to go back. I want Reale’s
money as much as you, but I have a
fancy to play fair this Journey."
“Oh, you have, have you," sneered
Connor. He had seen the cupboard
door behind Jimmy move ever so
slightly.
Jimmy sat with his legs crossed on
the chair that had been placed for
him. The light overcoat he had worn
over his evening dress lay across his
knees. Connor knew the moment was
at hand, and concentrated his efforts
to keep his former comrade’s attentions
engaged. Ho had guessed the meaning
of Goyle’s absence from the room and
the moving cupboard door. In his pres
ent position Jimmy was helpless.
Connor had been nervous to a point
of incoherence on the way to the
house. Now his voice rose to a strid
ent pitch.
“You’re too clever, Jimmy," he said,
"and there are too many 'musts’ about
you to please us. We say that the girl
has got to stay, and by — we mean
it!”
Jimmy’s wits were at work. The
danger was very close at hand, he
felt that. He must change his tactics.
He had depended too implicitly upon
Connor’s fear of him, and had reckoned
without the “Borough Lot.” From
which of these men did danger threat
en? He took their faces in in one
comprehensive glance. He knew them
—he had their black histories at his
finger tips. Then he saw a coat hang
ing on the wall at the farther end of
the room. He recognized the garment
instantly. It was Goyle’s. Where was
the owner? He temporized.
"I haven’t the slightest desire to up
set anybody’s plans,” he drawled, and
started drawing on a white glove, as
though about to depart. "I am willing
to hear your views, but I would point
out that I have an equal interest in the
young lady, Connor.”
He gazed reflectively into the palm
of his gloved hand as if admiring the
fit. There was something so peculiar
in this apparently innocent action, that
Connor started forward with an oath.
“Quick, Goyle!” he shouted; but
Jimmy was out of his chair and was
standing with his back against the
cupboard, and in Jimmy’s ungloved
hand was an ugly black weapon that
was all butt and barrel.
He waved them back, and they
shrank away from him.
“Let me see you all,” he commanded,
"none of your getting behind one an
other. I want to see what you are
doing. Get away from that coat of
yours. Bat, or I'll put a bullet In your
stomach.”
He had braced himself against the
door in anticipation of the thrust of
the man, but it seemed as though the
prisoner inside had accepted the situa
tion. for he made no sign.
"So you are all wondering how
I knew about the cupboard,” he
Jeered. He held up the gloved
hand, and In the palm something flash
ed back the light of the lamp.
Connor knew. The tiny mirror sewn
In the palm of the sharper's glove was
recognized equipment.
"Now, gentlemen,” said Jimmy with
a mocking laugh. "I must insist on hav
ing my way. Connor, you will please
bring to me the lady you abducted this
afternoon."
Connor hesitated; then he intercept
ed a glance from Bat Sands, and sul
lenly withdrew from the room.
Jimmy did not speak till Connor had
returned ushering in the white faced
girl. He saw that she looked faint and
ill, and motioned one of the men to
place a chair for her. What she saw
amidst that forbidding group was a
young man with a little Vandyke beard,
who looked at her with grave, thought
ful eyes. He was a gentleman, she
could see that, and her heart leapt
within her as she realized that the
presence of this man In the fasionably
cut clothes and the most unfashionable
pistol meant deliverance from this hor
rible place.
“Miss Kent,” he said kindly.
She nodded, she could not trust her
self to speak. The experience of the
past few hours had almost reduced her
to a state of collapse.
(Continued Next Week.)
f-f. i-ujlp
A DIFFERENCE
Mrs. Holdtlte—My husband was very
angry when I asked him for a new fur
, coat.
1 Mrs. Nokoyne—My husband was dlffer
i ent. When I asked him for a new coat
i he never said a word,
j Mrs. Holdtlte—S'lno; and did you gel
I the coat?
Mrs. Nokoyne—No.
My Pictures.
Some one gave me a picture—
A little glimpse of the sea.
Cliff and surf and a gull a-wlng—
I smell the salt and I feel the swing;
How it comes back to me!
Rhythm of wave, and gleam of sand,
And a white sail rounding the point of
land.
Some one gave me a picture—
A bit of country lane,
Tangle of flower and fern and vines
Under the shade of the purple pines;
Oh. to he there again!
There, where the ground-thrush hides her
nest.
1 And the wild red strawberries ripen best.
So. pain-bound and helpless,
I I lie and dream all day:
I Qod Is good and the world Is wide.
Sun and sea and the dancing tide.
And a fair ship In the bay!
These are mine, and the skies of June,
Sing, my heart, to the thrush's tune!
—Sleribah Abbot, in the Outlook.
8ucces®.
Two ships sail over the harbor bar.
With the flush of the morning breeze.
And both are bound for a haven, far
O’er the shimmering summer seas.
With sails all set, fair wind and tide,
They steer for the open main;
But little they reck of the billows wide.
E’er they anchor safe again.
There is one, perchance, e’er the summer
is done,
That reaches the port afar.
She hears the sound of the welcoming
gun
As she crosses the harbor bar,
The haven she reaches. Success, ’tis said,
Is the end of a perilous trip;
Perchance e’en the bravest and best are
dead,
Who sailed in the fortunate ship.
The other, bereft of shroud and sail,
At the mercy of wind and tide.
Is swept by the might of the pitiless gale
‘Neath the billows dark and wide.
But 'tis only the one in the harbor there
That receiveth the meed of praise;
The other sailed when the morn was fair,
And was lost in the stormy ways.
And so to men who have won renown
In the weary battle of life.
There cometh at last the victor’s crown,
Not to him who fell in the strife.
For the world recks not of those who fail,
Nor cares what their trials are;
Only praises the ship that with swelling
sail,
Comes in o’er the harbor bar.
—Marshall S. Cornwall.
DR. DENE’S DiViNITY.
By Edith Dunaway.
(Copyright, 1905, by W. R. Hearst.)
Dr. Dene was a young man who by
tnuch over study and superflous cram
ming had managed to scrape through
his many exams, gain his degree, and
yet be one of the simplest men that
ever ate bread and butter.
He had a good practice in a fashion
able London suburb, and although too
shy a man—apart from his profession
al character—ever to make many
friends, especially among the fair sex,
still he was universally admired for
skill and Integrity, and laughed at as
well, because of his extreme gullibility.
Instead of growing better in this re
spect as he grew older, the doctor sud
denly became rapidly worse.
More dreamy, more absent minded,
more eccentric every day.
Truth to tell, Theodore Dene had fal
len in love.
To a serious, single-minded, shy man,
such as he, this was a fearful calam
ity.
His divinity, too, was the veriest
shrimp of a thing. Wasp-waisted,
high-heeled, always fashionably
dressed. The very sort of a girl that
a medical man, who hadn't quite for
gotten all hi* anatomy, would tell you
was a disgrace to civilization.
She passed his house frequently,
generally once a day; and looking up
at his surgery window one morning—
her big eyes had caught him peeping
behind the blind—had made a conquest
of him then and there.
Kitty Coram—for that was the di
vinity’s name—was very quick to per
ceive—as Indeed, what ordinary wom
an is not?—the impression she made
on the reticent, studious man. Prom
a friend of hers—Gerald Thorncroft—
she managed to glean a great deal
at odd times about the doctor; of his
goodness, his simpleness, his clever
ness.
This Thorncroft had, indeed, stud
ied for some time at the same college
with Theodore Dene.
A man of the world, a dashing fel
low was Gerald; handsome, passing
rich, well connected, and a thorough
paced scoundrel withal.
He paid assiduous court to Kitty,
and at first she smiled on him, al
though, wondrous to relate, she kept
rim-self as straight and pure as If she
had a chaperon ever at her elbow. Self
reliant, witty, ambitious, Kitty did not
let her morals run askew.
When she heard so much about the
doctor, thought of the security of his
position, the happy home he could offer
a wife, a great disgust came over her
for Gerald Thorncroft, with his swag
ger and dash and style.
“He swears he loves me. Yet he's
never asked me to marry. If he did,
he’s drowning in debt, and would make
a brute of a husband. Oh! ff I could
only marry Dr. Dene.”
The thought grew In her mind until
she could picture nothing else.
Her head was a clever as well as a
pretty one. and this is how she set to
work:
One day, passing the doctor’s house,
she caught him watching for her at his
surgery window, which closely over
looked the road. Just as nervous and
shy was he as any silly schoolgirl
when she sees her lover In church.
Kitty, who was a first-rate actress,
let her umbrella slip out of her hand,
staggered a step or two, clutched wild
ly at the lamp post, and finally fell
very gracefully on the unimpressive
pavement.
Dr. Dene was at her side in a mo
ment. Lifting her little figure very ten
derly in his arms he bore her to his
surgery.
"She has fainted! Poor child!" he
said compassionately to his housekeep
er, who had been a witness to the
scene. Mrs. Grant tossed her head and
deluged the pretty face with cold water.
This quickly brought Kitty to, and
she went on with her acting.
She was better, much better. So
ashamed and sorry to have given so
much trouble. Thank them both very
much. She was quite ready to go now.
She had not far to walk, only to Cara
man street.
The doctor told a white lie for once
In his life, and stuck to it like a
man.
"I am passing Caraman street on a
professional visit," he said. “May I
offer to take you in my carriage?"
She refused very prettily and with
sweet hesitation.
Half surprised at his own temerity,
the doctor pressed the matter and
overruled her objections.
Mrs. Grant tossed her head again as
the little, dainty thing went lightly
down the steps on Dr Dene's arm and
th'en into Dr. Dene’s carriage.
On the way Kitty was talkative.
Told the doctor all about herself. There
was no mention of a theater In her
narrative, though, nor of anything else
connected with her real life. Just a
cleverly told, high flown little fiction of
fallen fortunes—a helpless orphan—no
one to befriend her, and so on. The
doctor was charmed with her woes, and
he would have asked her to marry
him on the spot. If he only had dared.
She made good use of the twenty
minutes' drive, you may be sure, and
when they reached Caraman street she
gave his hand ever so slight a pressure,
and said modestly:
"I will ask you to set me down at
the corner. My landlady is very strict,
and might be harsh to me if she saw
me get out of your carriage. Unfor
tunately for me, I am in her debt, and
the world is so censorious."
“How delicate! How thoughtful!"
mused Theodore afterward.
Hut she no more lived? in Caraman
street, reader, than you or I do. But
before nightfall she had secured two
top rooms in one of the highly respect
able houses there: had cut her con
nection with the theater under the plea
that she was going to America to join
some rich relatives. Had even bor
rowed ten pounds from Gerald Thorn
croft to aid her on her voyage out.
"You can pay me how and when you
like, Kitty—in coin or kisses, dear.”
"It won't be in kisses," said she, very
scornfully; and scarcely let him touch
her hand when she said “good by.”
Then Kitty was taken ill in her grant!
new lodgings, and Theodore Done at
tended her.
You can guess the consequence. The
very first day she went out of doors
the doctor drove her to church and
they were very quietly married.
Now you know' by this time that
Kitty was ambitious. Well, suppose
we skip over ten years and find her,
socially speaking, at the top of the
tree. Her husband is a full-blown phy
sician now—with a host of letters af
ter his name and a title ifi front of it.
Kitty had looked upon life in London
in the early part of their marriage as
decidedly dangerous and had induced
her husband to take a practice in Scot
land, where, through Mrs. Dene’s clev
er scheming, he had come under royal
notice and quickly risen in royal favor.
After ten years she considered herself
sufficiently safe to come back to Lon
don. Lady Theodore Dene, the beauti
ful wife of the well known physician,
was not likely to be connected in any
way with vanished Kity Coram. It is
wrong to tell a lady’s age, and Lady
Dene carried hers in her pocket. She
looked about twenty-five, though really
she was thirty.
You can guess what a blow it is to
her when, coming out of a Jeweler’s
in Bond street, where she had been
choosing a new setting for her dia
monds, a gentleman raises his hat,
stopping her in her w'ay to her car
riage, and addressing her in well re
membered tones.
"How do you do, Lady Dene? You’re
in danger of forgetting old friends, I
fear. Take a run with me over to the
continent tomorrow. Be at Victoria in
the afternoon. Don’t stop to consider,
come.”
(jive ine time. i,et me tnink.
“No! That’s just tvhat I don’t want
to do. If you’re not there, I’ll come
to your grand house In the evening,
and he’ll turn you over to me himself
when hes heard my tale. Aye, and be
glad to get rid of you.”
Poor Kitty. What a sleepless night
she passed. Kissing her wedding ring
with passionate pain, scalding it with
her tears, looking with loving, sorrow
ful eyes at her husband, smiling in his
sleep. Praying, planning, plotting, all
to no purpose. Any way, she saw how
certain her downfall was—how she
must lose everything, even her hus
band’s love. Her weak little word
would never hold out against Gerald’s
plausible lies.
A lie that is all a lie can be met and
fought outright.
But a lie that is half a truth is a harder
matter to fight.
Through the dark night she lay and
pondered. Poison? No! Too easily
detected.
Drowning — hanging — she went
through a list of deaths, but all were
too palpable.
W’hen morning dawned she was
white and ill.
Dene stayed with her all the day,
rested her aching head on his breast.
She clung to him tremblingly in her
despair.
There were to dine with an earl that
night; she would insist upon going.
“The excitement will do me good,” she
said.
It was past six o’clock; they had a
long drive before them. He waited,
watch in hand, at the head of his mag
nificent staircase, to conduct her down
to the carriage. Her dressing room
door opened and out she came.
Dressed like a bride almost; in pur
est ivory silk with draperies of rich
old lace. Diamonds in her hair—round
her fair throat.—clasping her beauitfui
arms and gleaming from her breast.
Her face was star-like in fts loveliness,
only so strangely pale.
“You should never wear anything but
white, sweetheart," he whispered, of
fering his arm.
She turned and kissed him gratefully.
“Go back, dear, and rsk Jane for my
wedding ring; I left it on my dressing
table,” she said.
As he passed away from her side,
she threw herself forward with wild
energy, down those many, many pol
ished oaken stairs. Down! down!
down! till she lay in a shapeless mass
on the marble pavement below.
*******
"She was plucky to the last,” said
Thorndyke to himself as he read the
many accounts of the beautiful Dady
Dene’s fatal accident, and heard of the
letters of condolence that were show
ered on the bereaved husband from the
highest quarters.
“No accident that, I know. Anyway
I won’t peach on her now. Woudn’t
the world stare, though, if I showed it
the flaw in Dr. Dene’s divinity?”
The Ghost's Little Joke.
Spiritualist—Are you in Heaven or—
or—the other place, my dear friend?
Spirit—Well, me cher-in-law is with
me.
Her idea.
Mrs. Smith—Did your husband swear
off on New Year's day?
Mrs. Jones—Swear! You ought to
have heard him when his collar button
rolled under the bed.
f
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They do not scour, gripe or weaken. They
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They will advise to the best of their abil
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Munyon’s Cold Remedy cures a cold in
one day. Price 25c. Munyon’s Rheuma
tism Remedy relieves in a few hours and
cures in a few days. Price 25c.
Sir Humphrey Gilbert.
Southward with fleet of ice
Sailod the corsair Death;
Wild and fast blew the blast,
And the east wind was his breath.
His lordly ships of ice
Glistened in the sun:
On each side, like pennons wide,
Plashing crystal streamlets run
His sails of white sea-mist
Gripped with silver rain;
But where he passed there were cast
Leaden shadows o’er the main.
Eastward from Campobello
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
Three days or more seaward he bore.
Then, alas! the land wind failed.
Alas! the land wind failed,
And ice-cold grew the night:
And never more, on sea or shore,
Should Sir Humphrey see the light.
He sat upon the deck.
The Book was in his hand.
“Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"
He said, “by water as by land!"
In the first watch of the night,
Without a signal’s sound,
Out of the sea. mysteriously,
The fleet of Death rose all around.
The moon and the evening star
Were hanging in the shrouds;
Every mast, as it passed,
Seemed to rake the passing clouds.
They grappled with their prize,
At midnight black and cold!
As of a rock was the shock;
Heavily the ground-swell rolled.
Southward through day and dark.
They drift In close embrace,
With mist and rain, to the Spanish main}
Yet there seems no change of place.
Southward, forever southward,
They drift through dark and day;
And like a dream, in the Gulf stream
Sinking vanish all away.
—Longfellow.
She Didn’t Care.
From the Washington Star.
Mrs. Stuyvesant Pish, at a luncheon In
New York, said with good humored mock
ery of the suffragetes:
“If they keep on their outlook really will
become as naively selfish as Mrs. Dash's.
“Mr. Dash, as his young wife posed be
fore the mirror in a decollete gown from
the dearest shop in the Rue de laPalx—Mr.
Dash regarding the pretty little lady in
dulgently, said, with a sigh:
“ ‘You do look nice in that frock, dear,
but it cost o heap of money.’
“She flung her arms about his neck.
“ ‘You dear old boy,’ she cried, ‘what d«
I care for money when it’s a question o*
pleasing you?’ ’’
Choosing a Wife.
As much of beauty as preserves affection;
Of modest diffidence as claims protection;
A docile mind subservient to correction;
A temper led by reason and reflection,
And every passion kept in due subjection;
Just faults enough to keep her from per
fection;
Find this, my friend, and then make your
selection.
A peculiarity about dreams is that w*
Relieve only in those which come true.
Common sense is so called because
it is so uncommon.
A LITTLE THING
Changei the Home Feeling,
Coffee blots out the sunshine from
many a home by making the mother,
or some other member of the house
hold, dyspeptic, nervous and irritable.
There are thousands of case6 where
tho proof is absolutely undeniable.
Here Is one.
A Wis. mother writes:
"I was taught to drink coffee at an
early age, and also at an early age be
came a victim to headaches, and as I
grew to womanhood these headaches
became a part of me, as I was scarce
ly ever free from them.
“About five years ago a friend urged
me to try Postum. I made the trial
and the result was so satisfactory that
we have used it ever since.
“My husband and little daughter
were subject to bilious attacks, but
they have both been entirely free from
them since we began using Postum
instead of coffee. I no longer have
headaches and my health Is perfect.’*
If some of these nervous, tired, Irri
table women would only leave off cof
fee absolutely and try Postum they
would find a wonderful change in their
life. It would then be filled with sun
shine and happiness ratheT than weari
ness and discontent. And think what
an effect it would have on the family,
for the mood of the mother Is largely
responsible for the temper of the chil
dren.
Read “The Road to Wellville,” In
pkgs. “There's a Reason.”
Ever read the above letter? A
new one appears from time to time.
They arc genuine, true, and full of
human interest.