CHAPTER IX—Continued —11— “If,” I went on, “you’ll let me keep my amateur standing. I’ll be very glad to escort your niece. Otherwise, as I told you. I’m busy.” “ ‘Pride goeth before destruc tion,’ ” Miss Agatha informed me. “Why don't you finish it?” I asked. “ ‘And a haughty spirit before a fall.’ ” She stared at me for a long mo ment. Then she nodded. "Yes,” she told me, “I suppose you’re right. Will you be here at eight, David?” “With pleasure,” I said and, gath ering up my copy, went back to the workroom. If Lyon had not opened the door of his apartment as I left Miss Aga tha’s, I should have forgotten him entirely. “Hello,” said he. “I’d just about given you up and was on my way out for a paper. Come in.” His flat was bright with lights but it had a feeling of emptiness. He explained as he took my hat and coat that lone and Everett had gone for a walk. “He’s a lazy dog,” Lyon said eas ily; “takes no exercise, whatever, and of course when there’s a strain, it simply pulls him all apart. Here we are.” He had led me into the living room and pointed to the trophy above the mantelpiece. I admired it and with an effort kept from looking behind the couch where the black bearded body had lain. Lyon ran through his collection with the engaging pride of a child, taking down sabers, claymores, ra piers, thrusting them upon me to swing and balance while he chat ted of their history and where and how he acquired them. It was pleas ant to see a middle-aged man so openly gleeful. "Here,” he said at last, his leath ery face glowing, "are my best be loveds,” and opened a long rose wood box. From chamois casing, he drew one forth, an epee de combat, and handed it to me tenderly. It was a beautiful weapon, a little longer than the French dueling sword—a full yard I judged from the etched steel shell of the guard to the button of waxed thread that blunted the point, yet sweetly balanced and easy to my hand. "Like it?” Lyon asked artlessly. “Very much,” I told him. "It would be a joy to use.” He looked wistfully about the room. ' "I don’t suppose,” he mused, "that we could. I say! Let’s shove the sofa aside and try. Oh come,” he urged as I hesitated. “Here are masks”—he lifted them from the wall—"and we shan’t need gloves. Indulge an old man whose fencing days are over, Mallory. Just for a minute or so. It will be all I can stand, I assure you.” He had stripped off his jacket as he talked. His enthusiasm and the pleading of the sword in my hand impelled me to follow him. We thrust the sofa against the wall, put on our masks, and faced each other. “En garde,” he cried in an odd voice. His blade darted for my throat. Instinct alone prompted my parry. He caught my thrust on his guard and the shell uttered a high clear note. His riposte grazed my atm. The fury of his attack startled me. I shifted so that light fell upon his weapon. The button that made mine harmless was missing from his. The blunt, nail-head point had bro ken off. The new steel of the frac ture was a flickering spark before me. I cried a warning and lowered my blade. Lyon Ferriter laughed harshly and lunged. CHAPTER X Body, not mind, saved me. The reflex centers that keep half-forgot ten training helped my sword to en gage and delay his. I leaped back ward barely in time and he had me in a corner. I could retreat no far ther. Our blades bound. There was no sound but our breathing and the whisper of steel on steel. In that odd instant of delay, neither of us spoke. I knew it was useless to repeat my warning and he, em barked on his purpose, had no need for words. I parried the deadly spark of that unguarded point. As tonishment’s half-palsy had van ished. Understanding came in that split second, as lightning bares a landscape. His face was blurred by the mask but I could see purpose in the pose of his body; could feel it in the vigi lant movement of his blade along my own. I felt little fear. It was hard to recognize death in a famil iar and heretofore safe sport. Shame was uppermost in my mind, and shame sired anger. Thought of my own stupidity row eled me. By a pose of mystery, by fatuous hints to Everett and Lyon I had asked for this. I had stuck my neck out. While his brother and sister found an alibi elsewhere, Lyon would silence me so deftly that, no matter what others might suspect, he would be safe. I wondered what he thought I knew that made my murder necessary — arid then had time for no further thought. His sword had felt and tested and tapped mine. Automatically, I had Tesoonded. He feinted now to lift my guard and followed with a lunge that I barely turned. He caught my riposte. For an instant we faced each other. A strange calm held me. I had fathomed his purpose and now I understood how he would perform it. He was a trained fencer, strong er if no quicker than I. He held his w’eapon delicately in the French fashion. He could have run me through before now, if he had w’iped away his instinctive regard for my utterly harmless sword. But he could not—or w'ould not The zest of con test had him. Eventually he would kill me, foully if necessary, but first he would match his skill against mine, seeking a fair opening through which to drive his point Steel’s sibilance broke now and then in the high thin chime of blade upon resonant shell guard, an inno cent, mocking sound. I fought care fully, knowing that my first mis take would be my last and, in the fascination of contest, he tolerated me. Defense would not serve me. He could at any minute catch my harm less blade in his free hand and drive his own point home. My sole, frag ile chance lay in a trick. It could be attempted only once. It must be tried before the already aching mus cles of my sword arm grew weary. The blades engaged and parted with clicks and brief sharp sigh ings. The shell guards rang bright ly. We moved against each other, “Whatever is on your mind will have to be unloaded while I shave.” cat-footed, sharp-witted, tight-bod ied. And I felt myself tiring. I forced all myself into desperate assault. My purpose needed the deft ness of long practice, which I lacked. Strength it demanded too, and I doubted if I had enough, but it was my only chance. The apparent wildness of my at tack pleased Lyon. He must have seen in it the flurry before the end, and so he contented himself merely with parrying my weapon, wait ing until my vain fury should flag. I thought I heard him chuckle as he turned aside my thrust. And then, for a flash, his blade was where I wanted it. I threw my life into the trick d’Armhaillac had taught me. My sword whipped about his in clumsy imitation of the French man’s deadly cutover. I heard him gasp. I saw the epee half torn from his hand. He was quick in recovering, but I was swifter. I leaped forward to pass him and, in the leap, brought my own weapon down like a whip across the knuckles of his sword hand. He grunted. Behind me, I heard the ringing clatter of the dropped epee. I reached the table and tore off the mask with my left hand. My right gripped the ornate hilt of a sixteenth-century Italian rapier. With the long blade ready, I whirled. Lyon had made no effort to re trieve his fallen sword. He had tak en off his mask and was sucking with a slight frown the hand I had struck. His calm was more shock ing than fury. It saved his life for, at the instant, I should have run him through right gladly. Lyon looked up from his injury with a rueful smile and his words made me feel that I had reached in dark ness for a step that was not there. “Effective,” he said quietly, “though perhaps not quite ortho dox.” He seemed for the first time to see the long sword in my hand and lifted his eyebrows. He was still breathing fast but was quite unruf fled. I wondered, for a wild in stant, which one of us was mad. His dignity, the normal furnishings of the room, mocked my recent ter ror. Yet I kept the rapier ready. “Entirely unorthodox,” I agreed, striving to match his self-possession, “but necessary. And now that we’ve —enlightened each other, I'll be go ing.” His bewilderment, as I backed toward the door, gathering up my outer clothing, made me feel silly. “I don’t understand,” said Lyon slowly. “Neither,” I told him, “do I.” With the table between him and me and the door behind me, I let go of the rapier and laying aside overcoat and hat, thrust myself into my jacket. I kept my eyes on him. His expression was so perfectly as tonished that it quickened a doubt. This made me angry at myself and I snapped: "You can stop registering purity of heart. Look at your epee.” He stared at the weapon on the floor before him. glanced at me in something like fright and, bending, picked it up. He reached out his left hand and tried the broken point with his thumb. "My God!” he said at last "Exactly,” 1 answered. Color quickened his tanned face. He looked from me to the weapon and back again. "It's—it’s—why—” he babbled and then burst out: “Good Lord, Mal lory, I might have killed you." I admired his acting—if acting it were—and was ashamed of myself for even questioning its fraudulence. I said: "That was my impression, too.” "You thought,” he groped, “you thought that I would—I never looked. The button must have snapped—it must be about. Ah!” He bent down on his side of the table and rose with the little blob of waxed thread in his hand. It wab bled on his trembling palm. "It snapped off,” he said in a hushed voice. "It must have when I tried the steel.” The memory of the weapon, flung ceilingward by its own resilience, shook my belief. Lyon rocked it further now by asking in mixed in dignation and reproach: “Why didn’t you tell me, man? Am I not in enough trouble without —that?” He swore proficiently. I asked: “Are you deaf, by any chance? Or maybe it’s just a bad memory. I did tell you. Perhaps I should have stopped to write.” Lyon looked at me a long min ute. His question was simple and dazing as a punch in the jaw. “Didn’t you know that I was deaf?” I pulled myself together and jeered: “Congratulations on a fast recov ery.” He shook his head. “My boy, I can read lips, but I’m quite deaf.” The smile vanished from his lean face and dim horror succeeded it. “I heard you call,” he said. His voice shook a little. “I couldn’t tell what you were saying. Your face was masked. I thought—” He broke off savagely and shrugged. .“What in hell,” he stormed, “do you care what I think? Or for my apology? Or for the fact that I'll never touch sword again? You thought, you had every right to think —But why, Mallory, in heaven's name, should I want to kill you?” I didn’t know whether he were honest or not. I knew that I could serve myself best by letting him think I believed him so. “That question,” I told him, “also occurred to me.” He drew himself together with a shudder. "Well,” he said and gave a crook ed smile, "you’ve given me some thing else to think about, anyway. If the police had found a second body—I wish there were something I could do or say or offer as apology for—” “Let it go at that, I broke in. I picked up my hat and coat and left. He made no movement to follow me. I had a bare hour to change and return to the Paget apartment when I reached my lodging house. I gal loped up the stair, thrust open the door and paused, staring. “Hi, accomplice," said Jerry Cochrane, "I began to think you’d moved again.” He sat beneath the lighted wall bracket and gave a bland smile. I was not too hospitable. “Whatever," I told him, "is on your mind will have to be unloaded while I shave and dress. I’ve got a date.” “Oh-ho,” crooned Cochrane, and looked at me with fake mildness. “Something more important than your duty to your paper, for which every reporter worthy of the name would give his life blood?” “In round numbers, about a thou sand times as important—to me.” I told him where I was going while I stripped off coat, vest and shirt. He said mildly: “For a country lad, you aim high, Mister.” I let that pass. Cochrane droned: “I’ve found out something.” "So what?” I wasn’t encouraging. He blinked and beamed. "You remember the guy I told you about, who went gold hunting with Lyon Ferriter, and never came back?” The question stopped me as I turned toward the bureau for my shaving kit. I nodded. "Horstman, wasn’t it?” "The same.” Cochrane droned. "This Everett Ferriter, the broth er, does he look like a Heinie?” “Is this,” I asked, rasped by the knowledge that he hid something, "a game of twenty questions? If so, let’s postpone it. Look like a Heinie? Of course he doesn’t. He’s got a phony Oxford accent, a little waxed mustache, a faintly mauve manner and a letch for cologne. He wears a funny expression, half hau teur, half imminent sneeze. He’s no German.” (TO HE CONTINUED America’s Land ‘Warships’ Dur.ng the German blitzkrieg the tank took its place as the most deadly of military iveapons in land fighting. While America has the best tanks in the world, we haven't enough of them, al though we are industrially equipped to turn them out in gross lots. So let us give our army tanks—so many tanks that not even all the armies of the rest of the world combined ivould dare attack us. I hese photos were taken at Fort George Meade, Maryland. SINISTER SHADOW . . . Yes, it may be sinister, but we could use a lot more of these shadows on our side of the fence. This medi um-size tank is climbing a steep grade. Left: Medium tank in action in wooded terrain. Small trees are no obstacles to the juggernauts. They mow them down like grass. This one has a machine gun and a small cannon. Right: This IJ. S. tank soldier received the gash on his face during a prac tice run. Tankers wear special helmets to prevent head injuries when tossed about in the steel juggernaut. Top: This tank, armed with machine guns and small cannon, spots a “scouting plane” during maneuvers. Tanks have been found vulnerable to airplane fire in the European war. Center: Turning at high speed, this tank tossed the real estate sky high. This tank can hit bet ter than .30 miles per hour in the rough. Left: Just as the cavalryman had to look after his horse, the tank soldier must care for his steed of steel. This is washday for the tank after a run through the rough at Fort George Meade. WAR ON WEEDS EASIER IN FALL Chlorates Less Effective in Summertime. By J. C. HACKLEMAN (Crept Extension Specitlitt. Unieersitf et Illinois.) You can kill three times as much quackgrass with the same amount of chlorates by applying them in the fall instead of in the middle of the growing season. Then while the quackgrass is still groggy next spring, give it the final knockout blow. More recent work indicates that somewhat the same thing may ap ply to the control of sow thistle, leafy spurge and hoary cress. The general rule for killing weeds with chlorates is to apply the chemi cal during early November at the rate of three or four pounds for each square rod for the worst weeds, such as bindweed, hoary cress or perennial peppergrass and leafy spurge. Then next April or May this treat ment can be followed by a second application to prevent the weeds from regaining their vigor lost by the first j)oironing. Experil i;nts conducted by the university show that two or three pounds of chlorate applied for each square rod in early November are just as effective in killing quack grass and some other weeds as 8 or 10 pounds a square rod in the mid dle of the summer growing season. The experiments also indicate that calcium chlorate is about two-thirds to three-fourths as effective as so dium chlorate. The cost of two applications is about $80 an acre when the chlorate is used at the rate of 3V4 pounds to the square rod for each application. Chlorates are dangerous as fire hazards, but if the directions are read carefully and common sense precautions are taken in handling them this danger will be avoided. Swine Fatten Faster If They Aren’t ‘Piggish’ Believe it or not, pigs will make hogs of themselves much faster if they do not have to be “piggish.” El bow room while eating and the right kind of service help swine to make rapid gains on a smaller amount of feed than when they have to eat like "greedy pigs” to get their share of whatever grub is available. Hog-lot mannerisms of this kind are worthy of the attention of farm ers as well as of students of swine psychology, Drs. R. C. Miller and T. B. Keith, of the Pennsylvania State college agricultural experi ment station, believe, because of the feed cost involved. When pigs are fed in groups and allowed to act “natural,” they usu ally require 400 or more pounds of feed in order to gain 100 pounds in body weight, the Penn State experimenters found. In a recent test in which they were fed sep arately, however, certain pigs gained 100 pounds on as little as 229 pounds of a ration analyzing 17 per cent protein. Factors other than uninterrupted meals doubtless had a bearing on the economy of gains, Miller and Keith freely admit, but they also are of the opinion that plenty of room at the trough is important. Their tests indicate that a ration of corn, tankage, soybean oilmeal, al falfa meal and salt is about right for fattening pigs after they weigh 100 pounds if the mixture analyzes around 17 per cent protein. From weaning to 100 pounds, somewhat more protein may be necessary. Orchard Grass Ally Of Pasture Legume The very fact that it does not form sod, which formerly was re garded as a disadvantage, is causing renewed interest in or chard grass as a pasture plant. The bunchy growth of orchard grass, says E. Marion Brown of the bureau of plant industry, U. S. department of agriculture, al lows for free development of the lespedeza between the clumps of orchard grass. This favors the always desirable partnership of a grass and a legume, with the grass benefiting from the nitro gen which the legume draws from the air Thus the orchard grass lespedeza combination has one of the qualities that has made blue grass and white clover a favored partnership wherever they will grow. Orchard grass—particularly if well nourished with nitrogen stored by the lespedeza—makes a strong early growth in spring. In summer when the orchard grass is resting, lespedeza is produc tive. Grain Storage Once every two weeks isn’t too often to inspect stored grain, warns M. D. Farrar, entomologist work ing with the University of Illinois. Infested grain may be quickly rec ognized by its firm surface, musty odor, and warmth at a depth of 12 18 inches. A careful examination will show damaged kernels and oth er conditions which may be asso ciated with infested grain. Killing of grain insects can be done at a cost of less than a half cent a bushel. Transfer No. Z9105 A NEW note is attained in this captivating pansy bedroom en semble. For, besides the usual scarf, vanity and pillow slip motifs, there is a circle of pansies just right for a quilt block. Yellows or lavenders, of course, would be most suggestive of real pansies, but any pastel to har monize with your bedroom could be used. The illustration indicates the use of applique; an equally charming effect might be achieved in embroidery. • • • Briefly—from thi* one transfer. Z9109, 15c, you can make a complete group of linens for the bedroom—and a lovely matching spread. Send order to: AUNT MARTHA Box I66-W Kansas City, Mo. Enclose IS cents for each pattern desired. Pattern No. Name ...... Address .... Follow those 3 stops as pictured 1. For sore throat, from cold, dl5ojW3Baj*fr*?: pirln Tablets In %i Bias* ft water and gargle. Pain is eased very quickly. 3 V I * 2. To relievo headache, body discomfort »nd Pfe.-CTTTT.yer XIFfnn Tablet* end ^ drink a ^I.Mol water, p-\j Repeat in 2 hours. \ \ . 3. Ch«H I ture ifyou hive a 1 fever”end temper*- I ture does not go I down — call your I doctor. _I “S~$r'>2XnS’ •*"»' M ,h» tint" ***• ^&&SSk*!r "■'-I"f"i “ofc^y w4S'5° *4» &“«• MfofS*" „