An American Nabob. A Rema.rko.ble Story of Love, Gold and Adventure. By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦< Copyright, by Stbkht & SHiiu, New York. CHATTER .MIf.—(Continued.) “If one falls the other takes all, binding himself to carry out those small favors that are on the list. Senor Jack, my brave friend, everything is yours. I brought you power, now riches beyond the maddest dream of any human being on earth. Your fu ture lies before you. In good time, when it pleases you. return again to London, there to punish and reward. But, amigo, sometimes when perhaps surrounded by happy scenes, let mem ory carry you to the lonely grave of your comrade in arms far away under southern skies, and drop a tear to Barrajo, who met a soldier's fate." Jack was affected almost to tears, so that he could only squeeze the hand he held in his. The presence of the Dread Rider upon the White Horse is always sombre, and never more so than when by violence he snatches the life of a sturdy soldier upon the field of battle. "One last request, Senor Jack. Prom ise that you will some day send a force of men hither to remove my poor bones to the consecrated ground of San Jose cemetery. It will give me satisfaction in the last minutes of my life.” “I swear it,” declared Jack stoutly. The general pressed his hand. He was growing fainter; his eyes assumed a far-away stare; again his mind wandered to earlier scenes in his tempestuous life, and he gave orders to his army; called upon the enemy lo surrender, uttered endearing phrases to some lovely woman, whose face haunted him at this the closing hour of his career; and then addressed wait ing spirits, whom he seemed to see hovering near. Who dares to say it was only imagination? Then came the death rattle, the rigor that stiff ened his stout frame, and all was over. As Overton knelt there above all that was mortal of his genial old friend, mentally renewing the vow he had taken with the general, it seemed qs though the scroll of time were un rolled, and once again he looked back to the hour of his awful humiliation and despair, when the woman he loved betrayed him for gold, and gave her self for life into the keeping of his rival, whose foot had pressed the lad der of fame and fortune. "It is Destiny," he said solemnly. “T pleaded with high Heaven to grant this one request. The wonderful op portunity has come, and now—to my work!" BOOK THREE. The Madera Monte Crista. CIIAPTEK XIV. The Marquis of Montezuma. It was lovely June, anil London shel lered at least a million and a half of visitors within her gates, for the great est jublilee the world has ever known wa9 in progress, to celebrate the end ing of sixty years' reign on the part of the beloved sovereign, Victoria. Among the millions who gazed upon the marvelous spectacle, none occu pied a more commanding position than a gentleman of distinguished appear ance, who seemed to control several of the best windows in the second floor of a famous hotel in front of which the procession moved. His manner seemed cold and re pressed, as though his heart were not in this scene. Indeed, at times he ap peared gloomy, as might a man bowed down with heavy cares. Among those who speculated with regard to the identity of this mysteri ous guest of the fashionable hotel were a couple of gentlemen seated at the window of an office further down the street. One of these was no other than Cap tain Maurice Livermore, the famous traveler. His companion was a club man, who pretended to do a little busi ness for the looks of the thing, which accounted for the office in the Strand. “Come, tell me who that fellow over yonder may be? He seems to lord it like a prince of the blood. From what part of the world does he hail?” ask ed the captain. “Some weeks ago.” said his com panion, "he burst in upon London like a com jt, and in two days the talk of the town was nothing but Don Juan de Overton, or. as some have called him, the Marquis of Montezuma. "His wealth is affirmed to be with out limit, and in this day that is an assertion which can be said of few men; but Don Juan spends money like water, and his extravagances have cast, poor Barney Barnato quite in the shade, while even Dumas' Monte Crlsto is hardly in the swim. “It has even been given on strong authority that he lias h personal for tune of over twenty million pounds sterling.” The captain raised his hands to ex press surprise. “Jove! Have you met the Marquis?" “Well, l have had that pleasure,” complacently. ‘‘Then some day when the oppor tunity arises, make me acquainted with this remarkable Spanish-American na bob, this modern Croesus, whose touch is gold, like that of mythical Midas.” “Willingly. Von like to study man. and in him you will find a puzzle worthy of your metal.” “Well, find a chance to bring me Into touch with this American nabob. I never saw an American—yes, there was one, but he hardly counts—with whom I was not able to get upon fa miliar and intimate terms on short notice. Somehow they seem to like me. I notice >'ou have a marine glass on the wall among those yacht prizes and burgees. Would you mind hand ing it over? I would like to have a closer survey of this man. Why. bles3 my soul, the windows are empty, nor can 1 see any sign of him in the apart ment. Your marquis has made a move at last, Langford.” When (he marquis left the hotel ho was gradually pushing along, when among the slow moving vehicles he noticed a hansom containing two ladies, one of them young, the other | middle-aged. The marquis stood thorp, unmindful of the good-natured shoves of the crowd, seeing nothing but the charm ing countenance of the younger lady. “At last!” were the only words that came from between his white teeth, as the vehicle passed on. Then, with a cynical smile upon his face he once more joined the onward surge of the crowd. Half an hour later he shook himself free from the rolling billows, and en tered a narrow court, by means of which he was enabled to reach a street leading to the poorer regions. Suddenly he paused before a house, a shabby looking affair, where a dirty little paper in the windows announced that apartments were to be let. Some Quixotic notion seemed to possess him, for he gave a quick look up and down the street, laughed a little harshly, as though in judgment upon his contemplated action, and then boldly sounded his knuckles upon tho door. A frowsy woman opened it. “You have rooms for hire, madam?” asked the marquis, in the best of Eng lish. She was rather appalled at the ap pearance of such a “howling swell,” as she was inclined to consider a fashion ably dressed gentleman, and very humbly answered that it was true, though surely none to suit, his lord ship. "I am not so certain of that,” he replied quickly, “for I am looking to find a sky parlor for a friend of mine, a painter, who will furnish it at his convenience.” The woman’s face grew brighter. If it was an attic the gentleman was looking for. she did have one va cant; it had even been occupied for a season by an artist, who was pleased to say the light was exceptionally good. bhe led the way to the attic and the marquis followed. From object to object he glanced, and upon the yawning aperture, yclept a fireplace, his gaze seemed to linger longest. With a calm voice he inquired the price of the attic, and upon being told immediately paid three months’ rent in advance. Then he seemed desirous of being rid of her presence, and expressed a desire to be left alone for half an hour. So the woman went below to relate fairy stories of the Prince Bountiful whom she had unwittingly entertained, and boast of the new artist lodger who was to occupy one of the attic rooms. And the stranger in Ixindon stood there in that upper chamber, motion less, evidently overcome by memories that crowded upon his mind. As he stood, musing on the strange and remarkable vicissitudes of for tune, he heard a footstep dragging wearily up the stairs, and thinking it was the landlady, he did not move. Then a door was closed, and he heard a key turn in the lock. Some person had entered the adjoin ing room, probably a counterpart of the one he occupied. Yes, there could be no doubt about it since he now caught voices. Unconsciously the inarquife listened. Evidently something had given him a great shock, for his attitude betrayed this, as he stood there, with one hand half raised, his head bent sideways, and evidently intent upon hearing what was said beyond the thin parti tion, while to himself he was mutter ing: “Marvelous, indeed—the hand of fate. After two weeks of searching ! through half of London, and now to discover her by chance—to occupy the adjoining room. Ah! this is kind, in deed; but one of the many favors with which 1 have been blessed by an indul gent fortune.” As he listened, he discovered to his dismay that there was a sound of low weeping in the next room. He heard a window lowered, which struck him as singular, as the air was very close on this balmy Jubilee day. “Is there no escape, dearest?” said a voice that seemed half muffled by the bed clothes, and yet one knew instinct ively that it belonged to an aged wo man. "None, whatever, Aunty. We have endured everything that mortal can on earth. There is nothing left for us but this one resort,” came in a low, quavering voice that somehow caused intense emotion to pass over the mar quis' face, possibly because the speaker was a woman and in trouble. "Then God forgive us!” said the cracked voice, very reverently. “Hush, Aunty, dear; say no more, have keyed myself up to the desperate or you will unnerve me Just when I pitch. Happiness was never meant for me; doomed to always sup with pov erty. Kiss me again, Aunty, boon I will come and lie at your side, where your arms can enfold me; dearest arms that have so many times crushed tne to a loving heart.” The marquis was strongly shaken— for a man whoso untold millions were the wonder ami marvel of Lombard street, to be thus brought face to face with the direst poverty, was a rude shock. Suddenly he became aware of the fact that some noxious gas came to his attention. He sniffed at the charged air suspiciously, and decided on the In stant that it was the fumes of smold ering charcoal. Then the dreadful sig nificance of what he had heard, the prayer for pity a *4 forgiveness, the gradually dying murmur of voices— good heavens! It meant the desperate, poverty-stricken wretch's last fling at outrageous fortune, the sole relief l om gnawing hunger ana corroding care—• it meant suicide—while he lingered and planned those whom he would have helped might have crossed the grim divide that (•••^•>ered the shadowy land of death! CIJATTKIt XV, The Turning of the Tide. Whatever may have been the mys tery of his past life, the marquis dem onstrated the fact beyond all perad venture that he was a man of action, able to meet an emergency as it arose and overwhelm it One leap and l»o .vas outside the door of his attic room—another took him to that of the adjacent chamber, from whence had come the murmur of voices. He tried to open this, but was baf fled—then he remembered, having heard the key turned in the lock after the entrance of the dejected miniature painter. He threw his full weight forward, in such a manner that the impact was something tremendous. There was a crash, and the door flew back. Into the chamber darted the mar quis, holding his breath, for the deadly fumes of the wretched little charcoal stove were almost suffocating. His first move was to throw up the window, thus allowing a current of pure air, at least as good as this sec tion of London could boast, to sweep through the chamber, a draught being formed by the open door. Next he picked up the pitcher of water standing on the box anti dash ing It over the smoldering charcoal, effectually wound up its miserable part of the tragedy. To the bed he hastened. The women lay there wan and mo tionless—indeed, his first thought was that he had come to the rescue too late, and that death had already claimed his victims. Picking up the younger one in his strong arms, this resolute man of ac tion bore her to the window, and laid ills burden down where the incoming current of air would fall upon her face. Then he went back for her older companion. Her eyes were open, though she seemed to be speechless—evidently she had partially covered her head with the bed clothes and thus in a measure escaped the full result of the smoth ering sensation. Again be hurried to the side of the form at the window, bending oh, so eagerly over her, and scanning her pinched face for signs of returning animation. The flutter of an eyelid, a low sigh, a slight movement of a hand—these w’ere enough to tell him the joyful tidings, and when he had assured him self of this fact, a faint, but fervent "thank God" came from. the bearded lips of the man. (To be continued.) IRISH BURIAL PLACES. Htrong Deaire of All to He Hurled with Their Ancestor*. The Irish are very particular as tc where they will be buried. It goes without saying that they want to be interred in consecrated ground; but they also wish to be laid with their own in the ancient hallowed spot where their ancestors for many a gen eration have been put to rest. Each family has its burying-place. and whenever a member dies—unless it be beyond the seas or at some insuper able distance—he is brought to lie buried with his sires. Hence, it is that funeral processions are oftentimes seen to wend their slow way past many a wayside churchyard to some far-off burial ground, because it is there that for many and many a generation the forefathers of the deceased have laid themselves down for their last long sleep.—Rev. C. O’Mahony in Dona hoe's. Fanny Thl»sj» That Kwaiw. W. J. Arkell complains that most really funny things happen outside of the comic papers and don’t get round ed up and brought in. One morning he was at the telephone in his office, apparently having trouble of his own trying to communicate with some body : “What? Speak up! Can't understand a word! Say, give mo that all over again, please!” Then he turned to those about him and said: ‘Til bet the wires are crossed again. This telephone service is getting worse and worse.” Another fruitless effort and then a sudden light broke in upon him: "Well, that's the limit! Do you know wfiat's the matter with the wire? The fellow at the other end that’s try ing to talk to me stutters.”—New York Times KEDT'CING THE DUTY. SOME ASPECTS OF THE CUBAN SYMPATHY QUESTION. Ought We to Injure Domo^tlc Agrlml* tnro llPrauiM’ of Condition* for Which the Overprodtir i ion of Sugar Through out the World In Alone Keipoutthle • The Washington press dispatches of February 3 tell of conferences be tween President Roosevelt and mem bers of the House committee on ways and means in which the President is represented as having made some progress toward impressing upon the Congressional conferreos the necessity for consenting to some reduction of the existing rates of duty upon Cuban sugar and tobacco. To what extent this executive pressure has been or is likely to prove successful we are not at this writing advised, but it is well known that the strong protectionists of the ways and means committee have been subjected to such pressure. It is also well known that the President is so firmly convinced of the need of doing something sympathetic for the Cuban sugar and tobacco interests that he has In view the sending to Con gress of a special message on the sub ject. It is not unlikely that the Presi dent would prefer to reach in advance an understanding that would make such a message unnecessary, and at the same time remove all danger of an open rupture on the question of the Cuban tariff concessions. To ar rive at such an understanding and avoid such a rupture is on all accounts desirable. In urging the protectionists in Con gress to forgot for the time being the rightful claims of the agricultural in terests of the United States, the Presi dent is doubtless actuated by warm and honest sympathy for the distressed planters of Cuba. Is he not, however, asking protectionists to forget that if there is any honest claim on the part of Cuba against anybody, it is against the world at large and not against the United States'.’ The low price of raw sugar to-day is the result of the very large product all over the world, and not the result of any relations between Cuba and the United States. Protec tionists have a right to urge ttiat this fact be not lost sight of when the I sugars of Europe In rompctitton with his product. It la a pretty good rule to find out what Mr. Havemey r wants to do and then not do it.— Seattle Post Intelligencer. I'utarn Value. Said Governor Cummins of Iowa in his Inaugural address: “Reciprocity that takes without giv ing is an Idle dream and a contradic tion in terms, aud if its scope embraces only non-competitive products It Is of little future value in the economy of the nation." That is exactly what the Free-Trad ers think. In their estimation the free admission of non-competitive prod ucts is a. mockery and a delusion and not reciprocity at all. The only re ciprocity which suits them is the kind which lets down the bars and invites the competition of all the world, even the partial displacement of domestic labor and industry by a limited ad misslo'h of lower priced foreign com petitive products does not please them. This is only “partial reciprocity,” aud “partial reciprocity," they tel 1 us. "is (only) a step toward free trade.” Good enough as fur as it goes, but it falls far short of the thing hoped for. They agree, however, with Governor Cummins that reciprocity which "embraces only non-competi tive products is of little future value in the economy of the nation.” Future value to whom? To foreign produc ers? Yes; that is precisely what the freo trader means. Is It what Gov ernor Cummins means? Has he fig ured out the “future value" to our country of taking from foreigners an Increased quantity of articles which we can make, are making, and ought to continue to make, ourselves? I* Ho it rr«e*Tr.i