3-D
The House That Stood Back By a. c. Andrews
THE BEE: OMAHA. SUNDAY. AUGUST 28. 1021.
1
J.
Tun silence of the dining room had not been
broken tlnco tho entrance of the parlor
maid and the coffee. With his tad on his
i .'jiiee, happy, absorbed, the house's master, Far
A rant, the novelist, wrote hard at a last chapter
would Jn due season, wax deservedly enthusi
astic. Barraclough, lying back in his chair, was
half way through a third clgaret. On the wall,
Immediately facing him, hung a calendar of
the kind known as "block." The date it showed
was the 14th of May. His eyes rested upon it.
And the smile that now and then twisted his
was not a pleasant one.
"I conclude" he spoke without moving
"itonchide you don't, by any chance, happen
to remember the date?"
"Kh?" Inquired Far rant, half glancing up.
lie was naturally a person of brevity.
"Tho 14th of May," proceeded Barraclough
smoothly, "You had perhaps overlooked It? Or
imagined that I had? Not at all. Or that to
morrow is consequently the 15th. Otherwise, my
wedding day."
"You didn't want me to remind you, I sup
pose?" said Farrant.
"Again not at all it was quite unneces
sary," returned Barraclough levelly. He turned
in his chair, laughed. "I wonder if you also
recollect a talk we once had? Just before you
married Margaret. You suggested that, instead
of celebrating the last night of his bachelorhood
With the usual tlareup, a man who saw his
heaven opening would do better to spend it in
haying his prayers. Don't know whether you
carried out your own program "
"Yes, I did."
"Ah! Well, results have Justfled you I don't
dispute it. I was about to say that I recollect
cordially agreeing. And privately deciding
that when my time came, if it did, I would do
likewise. Which reveals me as having been a
particularly crass idiot!" He stood up with a
yawn. "To relapse upon the accepted parlance,
I am about to make a night of it."
"Don't vou" admonished Farrant of the
eloquent pen and the lneloquent tongue
y'don't yu et making a dashed ais of your
f self!"
V "The town," went on Barraclough, unhced-
)ingly, "will bo painted exceedingly red. To
;uun upon mo Wlue VYiitril Ul a. uuiica(ruuuuib
hue Is, I presume, the shortest road to the de-
v sired result? We shall see."
"I wish" growled Farrant uneasily "I wish
Margaret were here, confound you!"
Those who knew him merely well were wont
to declare that he cared for but two things, hia
u'lfn and hln work. The few who knew him
better were aware that he cared for at least a
l third thing, which was his friend. Barraclough
' laughed. '
"I have," ho said deliberately, "the highest
I respect for your wife. If she were here she
would probably enter upon expostulations which
l I should be forced to disregard. Therefore I
consider It rather fortunate that she Is called
f out of town. As she may possibly, after tonight,
decline my further acquaintance, I should like
pr to know that your hospitality for the last
X two montna nas been perhaps more epprcciatcd
" than either she or you " '
l "Rot!" Farrant rose. "The last two months!"
he said bluntly. "I wonder if you realize what
you have done for yourself in the last two
months? O, I'm not thinking of your losses at
cards and so on, though" I happen to know
they have been frightful. It's things in gen
eral. Good heaven, you don't suppose peoplo
don't know? Why, you've not so much as set
jour foot inside your chambers. Look at the
s briefs you were getting, and at your age! Why,
1 you'd the ball at our feet." He paused, watching
the smile, again far from pleasant, that twitched
the other's lps. "O, I might as well hold my
tongue, of course! But I can't see you deliberately-'
kick down your wholo career and say noth-
s"nK- Look nere, u you must go j. can
spare xne evqmng ju come w.lu juu.
. Barraclough laughed again.
L "I think not." he dissented. "Margaret ad-
I vised you riot to let me out of your Bight, I
' suppose? Yes, I see she did. Fortunately for
her and yourself you are not an exponent of
realism. Consequently you will remain where
you are. For myself, I shall get riotously, roar
ingly, ravingly drunk. What may follow is on the
knees of the gods. You will probably be called
upon to bail me out, supposing that I am bail-
iable. For the present good night."
' Farrant attempted no answer the man of
f few words knew when it was futile to use any;
V Via aii'Oir 11'ttll O fill 111 T "Rfl TTJ1 0 1 HI 1 C h . at
the door, stopped and glanced back. Then
crossed over quickly and held out his hand.
As was sometimes the case, ho looked suddenly
almost boyishly young.
"Thanks, old man," ho said quietly, "Good
night."
warrant nouuea ana ecnoea me eouu ingin.
I Barraclough went out, in a few minutes was
strolling leisurely through the warm, dry
7 streets. Leisurely, because the night was still
young. And before the morning there were
many hours. A sudden thought, idea, presently
brought him, with a laugh, to a standstill at
a corner. An adjacent flower-girl, observantly
on the watch, accosted him. He laughed again,
waving away the white rose sho extended.
"Unsuitable, my dear," he said seriously.
"Red, if you please. The reddest thing in your
basket. A match, it possible, for for the oc
casion. Ah, yes, thanks that'll do1"
Turning away with tho offered red flower
n his buttonhole, he walked now at a pace
which told of a settled purpose. Which pur
pose took him straightway to a certain famous
sanare that is an acknowledged center of the
M , center f things. Tho house he approached
4 -was brilliantly lighted and gay with flowering
window boxes; a footman hovered, waiting, near
the great cream-and-gold motor that purred
by the curb; the doors stood open; there were
glimpses of more flowers, more footmen, an
immaculate Sutler, a fluttering French maid.
As he halted another figure appeared, a
woman's. She paused for a moment while the
maid placed a cloak on her shoulders, then ad
vanced, slowly descending the steps. The cloak
was all chiffon and lace and embroideries,
transparent and airy as a cloud; through it
there showed the curves of a -perfect figure,
the glitter of jewels on neck and arms, the
gleam of a wonderful frock; the light was
bright upon piled b'.onde hair, upon the rose
and white of a beautiful ace; she was of a
typo that, while hardly past girlhood, blooms
into a vivid and superb maturity. Barraclough
rjv a laiich. advancing. Ha thrust away the
" hovering footman, as she reached the car stood
? bareheaded with- the door held wide.
-1 "It is a fine evening," he said smiling, and
' bowed to her. She fell back with caught breath.
"O!" she gasped. "O!" and stared at him;
f, her rose overwashed with the pallor of fright.
K He repeated the smile It was very ugly,
f "A fine evening," he said again. "An even-
( ing to herald a perfect day. Tomorrow should
be all that can be desired. You think so?"
I "Why What do you How how dare
1 you " she stammered, incoherently. And with
disjointed words sprang past into the car. "Go
go away." she panted, and cowered with
scared eyes. "I I " Barraclough smiled once
more. ,, f,
"You are well content!" he suggested,
suavely. "O, I do not doubt H! The diamonds
are admirable. And the frock Paquin, I think?
Ah, yes the touch is inimitable! By the way,
my apologies I once called you worthless.
Most unjust! At the present moment you are,
incontestably, worth a great deal!"
"This this is hateful of you! I I won't
be insulted" she cried, shrinking more and
trembling. Barraclough, sweeping a bow that
in its depth touched mockery, was aware of
another figure descending the stps. a man
sompous and portly, bald and florid; knew, as
he moved away at a pace studiedly slow, that,
after a moment's hurried colloquy, he was fol
lowed. His stop and turn were so abruptly
sharp that tho other started, almost r coiled.
And, recovering, burst into speech of agitated
bluster, stuttering;
"What what's the meaning of this, sir?"
he demanded. "I I am "
"Frightened?" supplied Barraclour'h. smooth
ly, smiling.
"Indignant, sir most indignant! It it. is In
famous that you should I don't know whether
you are drunk "
"Not yet," said Barraclough, more blandly.
"It it is an outrage, sir! If if it should
occur again I warn you that I shall at
once "
"Go to the devil!" said Barraclough, very
pleasantly. His hand on the other's collar swung
him about; he laughed and walked on. In a
minute the motor passed him; lie had a glimpse
of a blonde head, of jewels on a white neck,
and opposite a face of flushed rage and pertur
bation. His sauntering stride took him out of
the square, took him through adjacent squares.
He paused presently to glance at his watch,
from it to the name of the street. Tinu was get
ting on. And near was a certain night club,
heard of because unsavorily notorious, but never
seen. At the back of his mind there had per
haps been some Idea of the night-club? This
.turning should be on the way he went down
the turning. A street of flat-faced houses, dull,
respectable, silent. And, but for himself, empty.
Odd, how at certain hours, parts of this vast
London, the thronged and throbbing could seem
more utterly deserted, solitary than
"It is gone! What shall I do? I have dropped,
lost it! Ah, little imbecile I am! I cannot go!
And there is nowhere else. My faith, what shall
1 do?" moaned a voice.
It spoke in French. A voice, broken, half
sobbing, bewildered, panic-stricken. And cer
tainly feminine. Barraclough, walking in the
roadway, swung round. On the pavement, in
the shadow, a dark shape stooped,, shook its
garments, searched, it seemed wildly with fresh
ejaculations of dismay and distress. He ad
vanced, hesitated, spoke.
"I beg your pardon," he began. "I " The
figure, girl or woman, started up.
"No, no!", she cried. "You must not speak
to me, monsieur. I I do not answer. Go
go on!"
"But you are in trouble have dropped
lost something?" Barraclough persitted. "i'-jur
purse, perhaps? If so "
"No, no! It does not matter. It is noth
ing, monsieur. If you please, leave me and
go on."
She had shrunk back against the railings,
putting out a defensive ungloved band; from
a bangle encircling the slender wrist a little
silver heart hung down. A small, slight thing
in shabby black, a grl who was almost a child,
16 or 17 perhaps. A delicate oval face gleaming
like a pearl against dark hair. An extraordinary
fine finish in the curve of tho cheek, in the
lines of nostril and mouth and chin. Dilated
black lashed eyes that, as the light of a near
lamp caught them, showed a mingling color of
violet and green. Barraclough lojked at all
these at the little, piteous, trembling, repelling
hand. And he moved to stand bareheaded un
der the lamp.
"Mademoiselle," he said in his difficult, slow
French, "I have a sister who is, I think, not
much older than you. It may one day chance
who can tell? that she finds herself in a
strange land, like you, in a difficulty like yours.
If that should happen I hope there may be
also a man to speak to her as I venture to
speak to you, to offer her his services as I
offer mine to you. I can say no more.
He waited. Of the face the girl's upward
gaze searched. Farrant and Margaret, his
wife, could have pointed to lines about eyes
and mouth, to a stubborn setting of jaw and
a certain recklessly hardened air as things that
had not been there two months ago. Perhaps,
seeing, she failed to read them. Perhaps saw
only a face at which women, looking once,
had usually looked again. Her scrutiny lasted
only a moment. She put out her hand with a
diffident gesture.
"I will tell you, monsieur," she said simply.
"That is well. This is your way? We will
walk on," said Barraclough. "And now I was
right? You have lost your purse?"
"Yes, monsieur. And I have no more money,
riot a sou nothing! But first, if you please, I
will explain. I came to England, seven, eight
months ago, to my brother, Charles. He had
lived here several years and taught the lan
guages, our French and Spanish end Italian
he was, O, very clever! But he wrote that he
was ill, and wanted some one to care for him;
he asked me to come. Our mother our step
mother had married again, her new husband
had also children there was no home for me,
you understand. So I was glad, very glad, to
come to Charles. I nursed him, but he did not
get better the doctor said he had Worked too
hard. In two months he died, monsieur!"
"And since?" asked Barraclough gently.
Sinco she had worked, she answered all
Charles' money had gone in his illness. She
had tried to teach, but she knew so little, had
been taught so little, and could not speak the
language. She had tried to sew, but did it "O,
so badly!" people were angry, and the pay so
very small; poignantly, unconsciously, she
sketched a picture of a frightened child, soli
tar shrinking from coming hunger "there was
no home, you understand, monsieur."
Now she had obtained a post with a South
African family returning to the cape, partly
us maid, partly as nurse. It was not what Charles
would have wished, or her father, but to live
one must work was it not so? They had
gone to the port from which the vessel sailed;
she was to follow by this night's train. Now,
on her way to the station, her luggage already
gone, she had missed her purse, had somehew
dropped it lost it Barraclough met the tragic
gesture, with a reassuring smile.
"That, at least, need not trouble you," he
said, cheerfully. "You will do me the honor,
mademoiselle, of allowing me to supply what
you need. It is too little to be worth thanks.
And yes if you desire, you shall return it
I will give you my card with my address. Then,
at some time in the future, when it is more
than easy, you can send it back to me."
Turning back, they were now in the thor
oughfare where he had halted to icok at the
name of the street. He took out his pocket
book, slipping a card into the folded notes he
handed her, watching as she carefully placed
the packet in an inner pocket of the shabby
black coat. A little lower down, posted on a
refuge, that most dependable feature of modern
London, a policeman, was standing with a
word or two of explanation he led her across.
The young lady did not speak English; she
wanted to take a certain train from a certan
station; would he whistle a taxi, see her safely
into it, make the driver fully understand where
he was to go? he asked. The constable ac
cepted the charge and its appropriate accom
paniment with a cheerful alacrity. Barraclough
bowed gravely over a little cold hand from
whose slender wrist the silver heart hung down
and turned away. Glancing back when he had
gone some CO yards, he saw the childish figure
standing beside the sturdy form in blue and
knew from the turn of the head that the violet
green eyes watched him. Involuntarily the last
words of her fervent thanks came to his tongue.
"She .will never forget! And le bon Dieu
will bless me!" he said, half aloud. "Humph!
I am not past praying for, it seems! What
a child to be alone! I don't think I ever saw
quite so exquisite a little face!" He laughefi
suddenly, cynically. "Bah a most Inappro
priate interlude! Now, which way do we go?
Down here?"
The turning whose corner lie had reached
must run about parallel with the other, would
suit his purpose equally. Pausing to light ft
cigaret, his thoughts went back to Farrant,
who would probably work himself into a deuce
of a stew before morning? A brick, Farrant,
straight, clean, honest. But every reason to
be, married to a woman who adored him and
whom he adored, who would stick to him
through thick and thin. A man might well
run straight, make good, with that incentive
something to do it for! . . . Suppose he
chucked up this rot after all, it was rot!
went back no, hanged it he would! He went
down the turning. As badly lighted as the other,
as deserted as the other. On the opposite side,
area railings of what were most likely the
backs of offices. On the side he walked, some
empty shops a block of evident warehouses
a patch of uneven flagstones standing back,
beyond it. a flat faced house more warehouses
Barraclough, stopping, swung about.
"Hallo!" he ejaculated loudly.
Tho lights had flared up with the rapidity
of a lightning flash. Had flared up, at the
moment that he passed it, in tho lower win
dows o- the house that stood back. Flared up
behind blinds of a most unusual color, a deep
and vivid purple. And at the same instant had
come the cry. A cry there was no mistaking,
for only from a woman's throat could burst
that shrilly quavered moan of anguish and
fear. It shivered into silence. And rose again
piercingly into a wild shriek of terror, while,
shadowed on one of the purple blinds, Barra
clough caught the man's outline the arm
swung upward menacingly, the clenched hand
grasping the knife and shouted as he dashed
across the uneven flags to the door. The door
yielded as he touched it, was open he dashed
in. He dashed in and the lights went out.
Something caught his foot; in black darkness
he stumbled heavily to his knees. Hands were
upon him in tho darkness, sinewy, powerful;
something damp, sweet savored, sickly, was
pressed hard over his nostrils and mouth. The
darkness spread to his brain, flooding the world.
And out of it, far off, came laughter.
Barraclough, opening his eyes, found them
stabbed by vivid light. Closing them, he slow
ly put up a hand to his forehead and felt it
wet, was conscious of a sensation in his nos
trils of something pungent and stinging. He
opened his eyes again. Facing him as he lay
he was lying a fall of drapery, of curtains.
Heavy curtains, almost but not quite meeting.
Purple curtains? Y'es, purple. A hideous color,
purple. A hateful color. Turning his eyes, they
took in a. patch of purple rug, part of a pur
ple chair, a corner there was a rustle at his
head; some one was standing before him, was
looking down as he looked up.
"Permit me," said a voice, courteously,
gently. "Dr. Casimer La Rue."
Barraclough found himself repeating the
name. It was oddly difficult to do this. It
had been oddly difficult to raise his head, to
turn his eyes. And he looked at Dr. Casimer
La Rue. A black clad figure. Tail, lean to
gauntness. Remarkable in breadth of shoul
der, depth of chest, length of arm. Immensely
powerful, probably. White hair, rolled back
from a broad forehead; white mustache and
beard. A distinctly handsome face; intensely
blue eyes. An expression quite extraordinarily
serene, benign, .benevolent. Yes. Yes. But stand
ing so he blotted out the curtains. The purple
curtains. The purple memory stirred, strug
gled Barraclough strove to lift his head.
"The woman!" he exclaimed.
"The woman ?"
"Who was here. I heard her scream."
"Pardon me no. Y'ou heard no woman.
Listen,'' said Dr. La Rue. .
At the curtains he parted them, reaching a
hand through the opening. The movement
showed vaguely a dark room, faintly sketched
in the darkness a square window masked by
a blind. The room must lie to the front. For,
shadowed upon the blind the purple blind
of such a window he had seen there was a
click. And the moan, the terrible, shrill
quaver of anguish and fear, made its shudder
ing outcry. The doctor moved back. Barra
clough met his smile, his gesture.
"A phonograph!" he exclaimed.
"Exactly a phonograph. You find it real
istic? Ah, even in her most trivial moments
science is wonderful! But we will not, I think,
have the scream. It is attended, necessarily,
with more or less risk. Though, at this hour,
with very little, very practically none. Also
realistic, was it not? And, combined with
this!"
His turn, his darting arm, were lightning
cwift And the caught up knife quivered in
his clenched hand with the gesture of the
shadow on the blind! Barraclough struggled;
memory, complete, flooding, rushed upon him.
The sudden darkness his stumble in the dark
ness the suffocating pressure that had stifled
his senses the laugh the laugh that came
now told everything. Mad! The man was mad!
And, painted aa though upon running water.
IT 1 .1' I
came a vision of the street, its empty shops
and warehouses, its silence, desertion!
"I am bound!" cried Barraclough.
lie had struggled again, desperately, fu
tilcly. His head was upon a cushion. He could
raise it from the neck. His right arm was free.
Nothing else was free. From Ihros to feet,
crossing, recrossing, went broad, white
bandages, securing him to the bench it seemed
a bench upon which he lay. They were no
where painful, nowhere tight, but they held
him as helplessly as a caught bird in a closed
hand. The other moved to the side of the
bench.
"You are bound yes," he assented. "But
not, I trust, uncomfortably. Before explaining
I desire to fully explain may I suggest that
but for ourselves tho house la empty? As for
passersby I should so much regret I have
waited so long! but should there Ah, no
you will not call!"
From the street, muffled but audible, had
come the sound of feet, voices, laughter Bar
raclough's lips had parted for a cry. And in a
flash the knife point was above his heart. The
sounds were close, were passing, were dwindling,
were
"I should so much regret yet. . . .
But you will not call, I think?" repeated Dr.
La Rue.
"I shall not call," said Barraclough.
lie met the pleading eyes, the kindly eyes,
the mad eyes, and felt that he looked into the
eyes of death. Death that might be postponed
for probable minutes, for possible hours, but,
without a miracle, inevitable decith. Without a
miracle . . . The doctor laid down the
knife. He drew forward a chair, seating him
self, and bent his whole head with a smile.
"I thnnk you," he said gently, "l'ou lie
without discomfort, I hope? Good. And now
my explanation. Is it necessary to enter into
the details of my little trap ingenious, I think?
'or into what followed your entry? No you
are intelligent a3 satisfactory in that respect
as in youth and physique. All, in fact, that
I desire 1 am most fortunate! You understand
that I watched at the window? I do so al
ways. It is long since the first lime, long since
all was ready. Weeks? Months? I do not know
I do not count. But I have patience much
patience. They who serve Science must possess
that first of all, as they must follow her beck
oning through all and in spite of all. I waited.
Men passed I let them pass they were not
worthy. You came, and the honor falls to
you the honor which you will share with me,
Casimer La Rue! Share deservedly, since, un
derstanding, you must rejoice at an opportunity
so glorious. For to you it falls to prove the
power of my drug!"
"Of your drug?" repeated Barraclough.
His eyes were upon tho purple curtains, the
curtains that hid the dark room. His brain
was clear ho knew his brain was clear. But
at tho moment when the noise from the street
was loudest, at the moment when the knife
had been held above his heart, there had
seemed to come a sound from beyond them a
sound like a desperately caught breath. And
now? Did they move? An inch? Less than an
inch? As if touched by a furtive hand. But
still move? . . .
The doctor was pouring out a -torrent of
words. Of his drug. Tho drug was his life
work. The drug wras the most gigantic con
tribution to science which the century could
show. Which any century could show. The
drug would render the now impossible the
commonplaces of every day, would open won
uers in the future of which no man had dared
to dream. There were no bounds or limits
to the vast, the marvelous potentialities of the
drug. Throughout the ages the world's once
martyred peoples would, acclaiming it, acclaim
also the name of Casimer La Rue! . .
There was but one drawback, one stumbling
block he was not sure of, had been unable
to ascertain with precision the force and man
ner of its action 'upon the heart Animals were
useless for experiment the drug was for man,
was The curtains Had moved, were parted;
from beyond, divined rather than seen, was
flung a frantic gesture of warning! Barraclough
dragged his eyes away if the other turned,
saw Hope, wild hope, held his voice to steadi
ness. am to take your drug?" he asked,
"You are to drink it yes?" said Dr. La Hue.
Checked In his rhapsody, it was after u
pause that he answered, and rose to his feet,
his back was still toward tho curtaliiB. Tho
curtains parted again, parted more Barra
clough saw, A miracle? Tho French girl! Her
little figure in tho shabby black, desperate ter
or and horror painted upon her face and In
her dilated eyes, passionate encouragement in
tho movement of the childish hand from whoso
wrist the little silver heart hung down so, for
a breath's length she was visible before the
purplo curtains fell soundlessly together and
the other spoke again.
"You will drink," he repeated. "You find
that you arc able to lift your hoed, observe
that your arm is at liberty? With intention.
It is my desire that you- should drink freely.
To the success which must henceforth be so
magnificent, to tho sacrillco that id so lnflnl
tesimally small ! You understand? You will
drink. And you will sleep."
"I shall sleep," repeated Barraclough, and
felt ' his forehead, cold. "I shall sleep. You
will observe until I wake? Afterward ?"
"Thero is no afterward," said Dr. La Hue.
Barraclough kept his eyes upon him. But
he knew that tho curtains had moved again,
that the little face peered fearfully through.
How came the child there? Being 'there, why
did she not go? Fetch help? Could she go?
Who could answer for what might hold her
helpless in this frightful hoiwo. And if her
nerve failed her for a moment
"There is no afterwards," said Dr. La Hue.
"l'ou will sleep. You will wake. For a time
you will suffer. Probably acutely. I think. 1
fear, acutely. Thea will come the end. And
I shall have seen, shall have made iny tests
have grasped the knowledge I lack! Beside
which nothing mutters. You agree?"
The eariaint had
moved, were parttd.
Barraclough dragged
hit eyet away if th
other turned, taw
" am to take your
drug?" he asked.
He wailed for the assent. Barraclough
gave the assent. His ears were straining.
Absolute silence in the street. A night
policeman within hearing? The . forlornest
of hopes, but not impossible. He was to
drink. When the drink was brought glass
and contents should be dashed in tho mad
man's face; all tho force that was in him
go out in one desperate cry. . . The doc
tor had moved to a cabinet against the op
posite wall, taken out a glass and put it down
on a little stand with a marble top, was, from
a carefully stoppered phial, pouring some tiny
tablets into his hand. The drug, he explained,
was easily dissolved in wine, was colorless,
odorless, tasteless. He dropped the tablets in
to the glass and turned back to the cabinet.
Between the parted curtain Barraclough met
the girl's eyes. She gave a look wildly, earnest
and eager, at the unconscious figure, made a
gesture towards the stand, the glass, another
gesture The gesture of drinking? Of raising
a glass and drinking? . . The doctor was
filling the glass. Barraclough watched the red
shine of the wine his brain groped, wondering,
struggling The doctor was putting down the
bottle
"You will drink with me, doctor?" asked
Barraclough, dry-lipped.
"With you? Y'ou wish it? Request it?
Then, most certainly," said Dr. La Rue very
courteously, smiling.
He brought out a second glass. He filled
the second glass. The two stood at opposite
ends of the stand. He took up the drugged
glass. Barraclough made a movement with
his free hand.
"My name!" he cried. "My name that is
to be remembered, to be immortal writh yours!
Y'ou do not know it."
"It is true I had forgotten. A thousand
pardons! If you will give it to me "
"No. I will write it. I can do so easily
if you will bring pen and paper, hold them.
In the future it may have some value."
"Value? You are too modest. It will be
a treasure, a treasure to posterity! In a mo
ment," said the doctor.
He put down tho drugged glass. In the
same spot? Carefully in the same spot. He
approached the bench. He drew out a pocket
book, a stylo pen. Between the inch-parted
curtains Barraclough caught a swift little nod.
And a smile yes, a smile! He had interpreted
her aright had understood! With a step for
ward, an extended hand, she could reach the
stand, could shift, reverse the glasses
Barraclough took the offered stylo. The
doctor opened tho pocketbook, stooped, held it,
steadied it. Over his shoulder Barraclough's
eyes were on the curtains. On the girl's face,
the girl's hand! If it trembled, blundered, that
little frail hand! It moved steadily; the glasses
were reversed; the curtains fell together. Bar
raclough wrote his name. The doctor bent his
white head in courteous acknowledgment and
laid the book down. He crossed to tho stand
by tho curtains. He took up the undrugged
glass. He brought it over. The undrugged
glass was in Barraclough's hand. He took up
the drugged glass. He stood beside the bench
and raised it high.
"Drink!" he cried exultantly. "Drink, my
friend! Drink with me. To Science, the pale
goddess of my worship, in whose honor it is
permitted that you die!"
"To Science!" echoed Barraclough.
Ho drained the glass. And the doctor's
glass was drained. "Would ho suspect would
Ho put the glass down gently. He put the
other glass down gently. He walked the length
of the room and came back. He 'sat down,
with his kindly, benignant smile, waiting. Min
utes passed. With every muscle of his bound
body tense, Barraclough watched under low
ered lids. There lay the knife. If, before the
drug got him How long would tho drug be?
. . . The doctor's head was drooping. He
raised it, looked about him, passed a hand
over his forehead. . . . Hia eyes were glaz
ing, closing. ... Ho started up, moved a
pace, staggered down into the chair again.
. . . His body relaxed Inertly; his head fell
back. The drug held and conquered him; he
moved no more.
And the girl, peering, waiting, ran and
caught up the knife. In a minute or two Bar
raclough. free, got on his feet. To drop back
helplessly, overcome with a horrible falntness
and nausea. Ho mastered the qualm, and she
spoke her first word.
"He is mad, monsieur," she said In a break
ing, shaking voice "quite mad?"
"Quite mad, my child." He waited. "How
was It that you came?"
"It was the card, monsieur. I wished to
see your name, and between the wo little notes
found the other. I did not think it was a mis
take, no I understand. But how, if I kept it,
could I hope to repay so much? I ran attcr you.
I was almost near enough to call when I saw
you stop. H was very dark I caught my foot
and fell in the moment that I did not see
you were gone. I ran on, ran past, ran back
I was puzzled. In a moment all the window
wero lighted I saw the door was open. And '
lying before It the red flower from your coat.
1 was afraid to go in, afraid to go away
it was so strange, and I was. ruro you were
here. But presently I ventured and listened
1 could hear nothing. xTho door of the next
loom was open T crept in, There were sounds
behind the curtains I looked through he was
binding you! I think tho good Clod did not
let mo scream! What could I do, alone, so little,
so weak? And where you had left mo there
were many people. I went back to tho door.
It was shut, monsieur!"
All the terror with which she h.vl mad
the discovery was in her face and eyes.
"Monsieur, it was shut! There is no lock,
no handle nothing. And the lights went out
everywhere but here. I crept back and looked
again. He had finished and sat watching you
I waited I did not know at all what I should
do. Once he took up the knife and tried its
edge with his finger. I thought it lie went near
you then I would scream I had heard him
laugh, you understand, and knew that he waa
mad. . . . When ho sat down with his back
to tho curtains I let you see me so that you
fchould know you were not alone. It was only
when he put the drugged glass so near that I
saw I might save you if you said ho must drlnlt
too. kept his attention while I changed the
glasses. If you would but understand! You
did understand. I did it. That is all."
"All!" Barraclough eclmed. And stopped
because many words were beyond him, and
few ! "You were by the curtains. Then when
ho started the phonograph"
"Monsieur, his sleeve touched me. I almost
died with fear! Oh, if you can 6tand, let us
go! He may recover "
"No, no, he is safe. Did did you under
stand " began Barraclough involuntarily. A
violent shudder shook her.
"He is. I think, French, monsieur Whil
he watched you he talked to himself in French.
I understood.
"Forget it. Remember only that he is quit
mad. Come," said Barraclough. '
He rose on unsteady feet. In the doorway
they looked back at the unconscious figure
upon which the light was bright the picture
of a sleeping saint might have shown such a
face as that of Dr. Casimer La Rue. Beside
the heavy purple portiere that fell behind them
a thick wire appeared, running along the wall,
vanishing by the lintel of the locklcss, handle
less door. Barraclough pulled at this. Slowly,
velvet noiseless, it glided open and stood wide.
They passed out. On the uneven flags the faded
red flower was lying it showed vivid as a stain
of blood. All the gray street lay hushed in
the colorless chill pallor of dawn, but pals
streaks of green and saffron in the eastern
sky spoke of coming day. A constable passing
on the opposite pavement paused and stared at
the two swaying figures, staggering, holding to
each other. Barraclough, as they reached th
curb, heard his name in a tone of loud astonish
ment, found himself confronting a face he knew.
He pointed with a shaking hand.
"Over there!" he said and laughed weakly.
"The house with the purple blinds! The house '
that stands back!" And then stumbled through
a few disjointed sentences which, after his hasty
whistle for a comrade, who was as hastily dis
patched for a taxi, sent the man hurrying across
to the open door. The girl spoke faintly. She ;
was whiter than the dawn.
"He will be taken away," she said, and
shuddered "will be kept safe, monsieur?"
"He will be kept quite safe," said Barra
clough gently, and repressed his own shudder.
"Try not to think of it, my child. Can you
walk to the corner? We shall be out of sight
of the horrible place."
They walked to the corner and waited until
the taxi came. Barraclough helped her in,
gave a direction, and got in beside her. Her
eyes turned to him questioningly aj It started.
"We are going, monsieur ?" the interro
gated. "A little way into the country. To a lady
who was once a school friend of my mother.
She is good enough to say that she regards
me as a son. May I know who I shall pre
sent to her? Your name ?"
"?t is Yvonne Dugarre, monsieur."
"I think, Mademoiselle Yvonne, that w
are neither of us lit to talk any more," said
Barraclough.
So there had been silence when, as the sun
rose, they reached a large gray house stand
ing in staid old gardens among the Surrey or
chards. Into the room where they waited there
presently came hurrying a stately, black-robed
lady whose handsome, benign face was crowned
by a nun's white coif and veil, to whom, with
all formality, he presented Mademoiselle Yvonne
Dugarre. Then there followed a colloquy apart
in a great window, from which the lady, turn
ing agitated and tearful, took the girl in her
arms and kissed her before she went out. Barra
clough met the question in the violent green
eyes.
"This Is a convent, a school," he explained.
"Thero are 20 pupils, young girls like yourself.
It is arranged that you are supplied with all
that you wish for or need, as they are that
you share their studies and their lives as one of
them; are made, I hope, as happy. You accept
and will remain, my child?"
"Accept? To live here? To learn? To be
safe? Oh," she cried, flushing, paling, trem
bling; "but it is too wonderful, too good to be
real! For me, who am alone, have only my
hands to work! How shall I thank you? But
but I fear " She broke off, hesit?ting. "Y'ou
are, perhaps, very rich, monsieur?" she hazard
ed timidly.
"Very rich?" He read the meaning that
was so plain in her lifted eyes. "No; but if
I were very much poorer I should still ask leave
to do so small a service the debt, the grati
tude are mine. With your courage, your mar
velous courage, you have saved my life, which
this morning I find as precious as a. sane man
should. Though last night, when we met "
He stopped.
"Yes? Last night?" She waited.
"I was ready to fling it away, ot do worse,
as only a fool would. Y'ou wonder? Today
was to have been my wedding day."
"Today?" she cried. "Oh, but how strange!
It is also " In her quick breakofT, in her ges
ture towards him ot little, impulsive hands,
there was the sweetest compassion. "Was to
have been? Ah, but indeed I understand! She
died, monsieur?"
"Not at all," said Barraclough, smiling. "I
am without that justification of my folly,
mademoiselle. Y'ou will hear? Briefly, then.
You ask, am I rich? Compared with some,
yes. Compared with many more, contempti
bly poor. She chose to Jilt me for one of
them. Why not? With the money and all
that it means he has also given her a coro
net, brand new. And Is. I believe, barely three
years older than her father!" ,
"O!" she cried again. "And you loved
her?"
"As I was so much a fool, it would seem
so. But there was at least the excuse that
she is beautiful. Y'ou see."
She took the offered photograph. Ths
photograph of p. superb figure of royal curves,
a face that suggested a sumptuous beauty of
glowing blondncss well. But Barraclough look
ed only at the small face bent over it. with the
pearl-like purity of color, tho finished fineness
of lip and cheek and chin, tho length of black
(Turn to Face Eifbt, t'olunui Flt