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THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 17. 1887
THE PARADISE LOST;
, oe,
Graf Serden’s Bride.
Translated from the German of M. von Reithenbath for the “Sunny South”
By ■». IT. H ARBEIT,
Translator afVie “Black Hose,’' 11 Brother and Sister,’’ “Parallel Lines,” Etc., Etc.
CHAPTER IX.
The long whistle of the locomotive announc
ed that the north-bound fast train was drawing
near the imperial city on the blue Danube.
“At last!” cried Serden moving to the win
dow of the coach. “At last! There is the
bridge, there is the Kahienberg—we are in
Vienna! It has been long enough, certainly !’V
Hastily looking to his luggage he pressed
the hackney-coachman a gulden “extra” into
his hand to accelerate his speed.
Finally the cab stopped before the house of
his mother-in-law.
"Is the Graflin Serden at borne?” he asked
the footman who opened the door.
“At your service, sir; but the Frau Graffin
receives no visitors.”
“No matter, take me to her!”
“That is impossible, your ladyship, the Frau
Graffin, is sick.”
“Foolishness, I do not mean the i rau Graf
fin Neysletten. I know she is unwell, I mean
the Frau Graffin Serden—'.he young Graffin—”
“Beg pardon, your lordship, the young
Graffin is also sick, our old Frau,Graffin is
somewhat better again, thank God!”
“She sick—Irma? I am the Graf Serden,
show me immediately to my wife!”
But that was not so easily accomplished as
Serden thought. Irma’s elder sister who was
unmarried and resided with her mother en
tered the salon.
Comtesse Isabella received her brother-in-
law with a sorrowful countenance.
“You came yourself—what will you say?
that we ought to have communicated with
you?” she said, meeting him.
“Irma is sick—since when—what ails her?”
he asks greatly agitated, going towards the
door.
“Oh, no, you cannot go to her, it would ex
cite her too much. She was sick when she
reached us, but would not allow us to notify
you of it. In spite of her request I wrote you
yesterday evening—you did not of course re
ceive the letter.”
“But for Heaven’s sake what is the matter
with her?”
“We are at a loss to know ourselves yet.
She arrived feverish, her condition since has de
teriorated; the physician fears a nervous fever.
He thinkB it was caused from over excitement
at the sudden news of mamma’s illness—the
journey—the loss of sleep, or, perhaps, the
contraction of cold.”
Serden stood before her for an instant as if
benumbed. He shivered as with ague; then
he said with a soft voice as one who is fearful
of waking a sleeping person:
“Let me go to her, I must see her.”
“The doctor has strictly enjoined us not to
allow the slightest thing to come in contact
with her that would excite her.”
“The doctor, where is he? What is his
name? I will bring him, he shall take me to
her himself,” cried he with suddenly awaken
ed energy.
“It is bis hour; we are looking for him
every moment. You would not find him at
his home now.’’
“Well, I will wait for him,” the Graf said
with a sigh of resignation.
“Yep, that is advisable; come, I will take
you to the room adjoining hers. It is her old
school-girl writing-room, and is exactly as she
left it when she was married. You shall ap
propriate it while you are with us, it is the
best arrangement we can make just now;
everything is in such a state of confusion.
Serden followed his sister-in-law. They en
tered a single-windowed carpeted room sep
arated by a heavy portiere from the room oc
cupied by his wife.
Comtesse Isabella pressed her finger on her
lips to signify that he must not betray his
presence by a single word. She drew back
the curtain noiselessly, and pointed to a large
screen in Irma’s room There then lay Irma,
he said in a mental aside. With noisless foot
steps the form of a dun emerged from behind
thsetCwaw ippf^*eWl-*A»,»p!>rUczce > - -
Serden ahnddered. His glance rested anx
iously on the screen, behind which he was
forbidden to step, while the two ladies con
ferred in subdued tones together. Then the
nun disappeared in the sick room and the
portiere fell behind her.
“Sister Angela says that Irma is sleeping.
I must go out now to await the doctor,” said
Comtesse Isabella, leaving her brother-in-law
by himself.
He stood at the writing table near the win
dow. Here had Irma sat when a girl; with
ered flowers stood in a vase and dropped their
crisp, crumbling fragments on the table; pret
ty bisc statuettes stood near them. Serden
had never been in the room before; he had
met his wife in Italy and the wedding had
taken place at the country place belonging to
her family.
The room was strange to him and the low
ered curtain between him and Irma, who he
could not realize was sick, because he had
never seen her so, increased his inquietude.
Who could prevent him from throwing the
curtain aside and going to her, he mused; tut
then if the surprise were really to make her
worse? what if her condition were indeed
critical? He shook his head, no that was out
of the question. They would care for her
tenderly, she would soon be restored to health;
he could not conceive of it being otherwise.
Mechanically his hand glided over one of
the ornaments on th i wriiing table. There
were little figures with dates engraved on
them, “favors in the dances,” he ruminated,
also some faded photographs, a group of
young girls, among whom was Irma, and some
well known actors and artists.
Serden reproached himself for having al
ways spoken to his wife of the present and
never alluding to the past. If she did look like
a girl of seventeen she was nevertheless twen
ty-two years of age when they- were married.
There might have been many alterations in
the past six years. He had never looked at it
that way before, and it struck him all at once
with an unpleasant sensation, that be had not
been in her thoughts when she had used the
little room during her school days, for that
was before she had meet him. “Who could
have been most in her mind then?” he won
dered. He took in his band a paper-weight
that stood near the flower-vase and turned it
over; a name was engraved in the marble base.
He held it in the light and read: “Walter
Weiringen.”
There it was again—the name of the author
of the portentious novel, then of all places,
among the relics of Irma’s girlhood.. He was
still holding it in his hand, when Comtesse Is
abella came in with the physician.
He greeted the Graf hurriedly, requesting
him in business-like tones to wait until he
could ascertain the condition of the Grafin.
Again Serden was left alone still retaining
the stone paper-weight in his hand. The mo
ments seemed to grow into dragging hours as
he impatiently waited. After a while the cur
tain stirred; he replaced the stone upon the
table and gazed anxiously into the face of the
old family physician.
“Is she still asleep?” he asked, almost
choked with suspense.
The physician answered with a negative
shake of the head : “It is not sleep, Graf, and
if you wish to see her it wont injure her now,
your wife is not fully conscious.”
“My God! Doctor is it so serious—is my
wife in danger? I beg you to answer without
restraint!”
“You must not lose hope,” said the physi
cian kindly, “but it is as I feared, a nervous
fever.”
Serden closed his lips tightly together and
followed the doctor to Irma’s bedside. There
she lay among the snowy pillows with cheeks
inflamed with fever and gleaming eyes wide
open. But they were gazing into space, and
passed over the faces around her without show
ing the slightest indication of recognition.
As Serden drew near she shuddered a little
and murmured a few disconnected, unintelli
gible words, but her expressionless features
did not lighten in the slightest as he bent over
her.
He sank into a chair near the bed and held
the hot, throbbing, emaciated hand in his.
She drew it from his clasp and turned away;
Serden felt that moment as if she were to him
- t forever, and a heavy pain shot through
reast as if his very heart had broken with
eight of sorrow upon him.
later, as he was leaving the sick room and
shook hands with Serden.
But it was only a woeful smile that passed
over the Graf’s face at the good news, and his
voice sounded feeble as he expressed his grat
itude to the physician. The doctor looked at
him scrutinizingly and shook his head :
“You have worn yourself completely out,
Graf,” said he, “you look fatigued and broken
down. Go at once to sleep and rest yourself
up, or you will be on the sick list yourself
next.”
Serden tried to smile delusively, and did not
reply.
When the doctor was gone, he sat in the
little writing room racking his brain over a
resolution which was hard for him to make,
but which, after deliberate reflection, he had
concluded must be made.
Irma was sleeping for the first time since
her illness—breathing deeply and quietly.
Comtesse Isabella meved softly between her
convalescent mother and sick sister and threw,
now and then, an inquiring look at her broth
er-in-law who sat then so still and depressed
in spirits, as if he had not comprehended the
cheering words the doctor had spoken.
At last she ventured to approach him and
laid her hand gently upon his shoulder.
“I believe you would like to ask me some
thing, Karl? Irma must not be disturbed for a
long time yet, and cannot therefore answer,
but I can, and I feel that I ought to do so.
We have, while standing together at Irma’s
bed, heard many strange words which she has
uttered during her temporary aberration of
mind. I know that the name which has so
often passed her lips was heard by you, be
sides I have remarked how often you have had
the papier-weight in your hand bearing the
same.”
Serden sprang up in intense agitation.
“No;” he ejaculated, “never mind let it be,
I have waited until now, I can just as easily
bear it a few days longer. The time will come
when the parting word between Irma and me
will be spoken—and must, if you know all,
but I cannot talk to you about it—”
“But for mercy sake, Karl, the matter is not
so very serious as that. I was, I admit, op
posed to her keeping it from you; but Irma
could not forget that you had expressed your
self, soon after our meeting you, as having a
detestation for ladies with literary aspirations.
You said, you remember, that they were an
abomination, and that you could not admire
such a woman if she were the most beautiful
creature on earth.”
“Isabella, what in the world has all this to
do with it?”
“With it? That is exactly what you must
be told after having heard so much of Walter
WeiriDgen.”
“Walter Weiringen I”
“Yes; see how the name excites you. Irma
would probably become sick again if she
should have to confess it to you herself. So,
as you know something of it already, and I am
too firmly convinced of your love for her to
believe that you will be offended with her, I
want to explain that ‘Walter Weiringen’ is a
nom deplume under which Irma wrote a few
pieces of poetry and prose when a girl, and
under which she recently wrote a novel which
was published by a popular magazine.”
“Irma—Walter Weiringen!”
He put his hands over his eyes in a bewil
dered sort of way, as if the idea that both
should be the same were too strange to be pos
sible.
of character than one could suppose from her
childish face; that I learned for the first time
through Mr. Walter Weiringen.”
Irma’s face sank deeper into his coat.
“It is only since then,” he went on, “that
we have come to thoroughly understand each
other, and there is no use in referring to it,
but I am curious to know if my little wife has
really come to the conclusion to return no
more to Karlsburg.”
Irma raised her head, a sunny smile lighting
her features. Her eyes met his as she whis
pered:
“No, Karl, it troubled me greatly for you to
treat me so much like I were a child, and
when you began to pay so much attention to
Frau Armgard—I knew that she was only act
ing so as to worry Leopold—there were mo
ments, however, when I really pondered
whether you loved me, but ”
“Well, but.”
“It was in such moments of doubt that I
wrote “The Paradise Lost,” in which the cir
cumstances were, yes, a little like ours; the
characters in spite of a certain superficial re
semblance were, notwithstanding, different to
any one I ever knew. I allowed my heroine
to express, in the strongest and most exager
ated manner, all that trouoled me. I repre
sented things as they would have been, if
we were not—as we now are. There is much
personal experience depicted in the story, I do
not deny, but everything was pictured as be
ing so much worse than my life was, that it
had a quieting effect on me to think that it
was not so bad as that between you and me.
When I had to leave for Vienna I was very
much excited and troubled. I was also grieved
that you were not more in sympathy with me,
as I felt you ought to be, and to be frank, I
was childish enough to be angry with you
when I found you asleep in the salon. I sat
opposite to you, and in the sleep which over
powered me, it seemed that I was the heroine
of my novel and that I was leaving home to
return no more. I remember now with what
an odd, benumbed feeling, I awoke, and be
lieve that it was then that I contracted the
fever. I may sometimes in my dreams while
sick, have thought that all was over between
us, but never while awake did I lose hope en
tirely. I sometimes suspected that you loved
me even when you would not tell me.”
“You were right.”
That was all that Serden answered, but
Irma was satisfied.
Before them lay the castle of Karlsburg,
with its towers and Gothic corners, surround
ed with green fields and budding trees.
“My ‘Paradise Regained,’ ” said Serden,
pointing to it and drawing his wife lovingly
into his arms; “how happy we will now be
after having experienced how miserable we
might have been.”
“Happy! notwithstanding you abhor author
esses 1 ” jested Irma.
“Ah, with Walter Weiringen, I will be more
than content,” he rejoined laughingly. “Do
you know that in my opinion he is quite an
interesting and intellectual young man? I
will never be jealous to leave him to keep my
wife company in my absence, providing that
hereafter I know what you two have been talk
ing about. God be praised! Twice I thought
I had lost you; first through this Walter Wein-
ingen, whom I mistook for an old lover, and
then the next time when you were so sick.
Twice have I won you, now I will know how
to keep you.”
The carriage ran smoothly over the drive in
front of the castle. Under the wreathed door
way stood the servants, dressed appropriately
in honor of the occasion, with smiling, happy
faces.
[the end.]
AN AMERICAN PENMAN
“I thank you, oh! I thank you!” he exclaim
ed, stretching out his hands to her; and a glow
of new happiness illumined his face.
“And you won’t scold her?” she questioned.
“I scold her because she, herself, is Walter
Weiringen? O, no!”
He thought of the many troubled and sleep
less hours which that name had caused; of all
his doubts and jealousy; of everything that
he had suffered; and the consciousness that it
was all cleared away by the words Isabella
nsa spokeft i*nea rrtm'WTtfe JoyonsEbSS ire
had never comprehended before. Irma re
stored to life to be his all, his own, with her
undefiled heart. The paradise of blessed love,
that seemed lost to him, was within his reach.
He drew his sister-in-law into his arms im
pulsively and pressed her hands in the excite
ment of the new-born felicity, repeating:
“Irma is Walter Weiringen? Irma herself?
“Yes, and the paper weight was a present
to her from her two favorite girl friends. She
received it just after her first poem was pub
lished. Afterwards, when you became be
trothed, she exacted a binding promise from
us all not to inform you. She also made a de
termination as a wife never to write any more,
knowing you did not approve of it. And in
her letters during the first two months of her
married life she wrote that she had no desire
to continue it, and found it easy to relinquish
writing entirely. Then for a long time she
did not mention the subject until she suddenly
informed me in one of her letters, about two
weeks since, that a novel from her pen would
shortly appear. I wrote asking if you were
aware of it, and, much to my astonishment,
she replied that you did not, and she preferred
that you be kept in ignorance regarding it.
Leopold Leinigen consummated the arrange
ments with the publisher. Through him she
received and answered all her correspondence
relating thereto.”
“I understand it all now,” said Serden.
“It was better for me to have told you. Now
you won’t be hard with her, will you?” asked
Comtesse Isabella.
“No, I am satisfied for it to be as it is,” he
returned in an elated tone of voice.
“Now don’t mention it to her until she is
fully recovered,” requested Isabella as she left
the room to go to her mother.
Serden stepped lightly into the sick room,
Irma was sleeping easily and peacefully.
He stood several moments looking tenderly
at her, his wife, that he had so nearly lost.
He thought of Walter Weiringen and smiled.
In the evening of the same day he was again
in the little writing room, and read again the
story of the Paradise Lost—this time with in
tense admiration for its skillful composition
and graceful style.
He had the torn sheet, that he had thought
was a confidential letter from Irma to some
one, in his hand. Soon he found the place in
the novel for which he was searching. There,
in the story, were the exact words written on
the torn sheet, which had caused him so much
perturbation of mind, pain at the heart and
jealousy.
It waB merely a portion of Irma’s manu
script.
A Great Detective Story.
From the Diary of Inspector Byrnes.
BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE.
[Copyrighted 1887. All rights reserved.. ]
CHAPTER X.
‘ThaDk God! The crisis is past; your wife
js saved, Graf,” said the doctor eight days
Spring sunshine lay upon the plain as Graf
Serden’s carriage bowled over the road lead
ing from the railroad station to Karlsburg, to
carry the young mistress of the castle for the
second time to the home of her husband.
She had remained in Vienna until her health
was entirely restored. Smilingly she viewed
the sun-lit fields.
“It has a different look to what it had when
I passed over this way to take the train for Vi
enna,” she said, laying her hand upon Ser
den’s arm.
“God be praised that we are not a quarter
of a year younger, and do not have to live
through the last month again,” he replied with
ieeling. A question I have wanted to ask
about that ride has been troubling me for a
long time.”
“Well,” glancing smilingly into his eyes.
He laid his arm tenderly around her and
drew her closer to him.
“You spoke so frequently, in your feverish
dreams, of your journey that morning, Irma,”
he said; “and it sounded to me as if you had
resolved not to return to Karlsburg. Do you
see, Treasure? I k-ow full well that I was
altogether at fault in my fl nation with Frau
Armgard, my feigned coldness towards you,
and my determination not to spoil you ”
“0, what a chronicle of bad deeds and
thoughts,” laughed Irma.
Serden continued earnestly: “Child, one
can always rectify a past discrepancy more
easily when he confesses it. It was foolish of
me to marry a woman whom I did not know,
simply because I was in love with her. I
ought to have tried to understand you as you
deserved to be understood.”
Irma said not a word in response. She laid
her head on his shoulder to prevent him from
observing the pleased expression in her eyes.
•‘I had in the affair more luck than judg
ment, for I was fortunate enough to secure a
thoughtful wife, in whom there is more depth
CHAPTER XXIL
Vera turned away from him and settling her
self in her chair fixed her eyes upon the stage.
Fedovsky did not know what to make of her
words and behavior; he could not but admit
that if she had been acquainted with all the
circumstances of his residence in Dresden one
c >uld not have spoken more to the point. Not
only so, but her allusion to dangers seemed
to indicate a more comprehensive knowledge
of the situation than he possessed himself. _
«k\rt,u*<%,T -ne wao p!^-cs4jft ttgalObl the-vkuow'wh;
forgers, he had no reason to suppose that
they were aware of this fact, or were, conse
quently, plotting against him. The reference,
to be sure, might be merely to his antagonist
of that afternoon; but, again, what insanity
to imagine that Vera could know anything
about the matter. It was sufficiently incon
ceivable that the baron should have been ap
prised of it; but Vera was out of the question.
The character of Zamiel, in the drama that
was enacting, though important from an ethi
cal point of view to the piot of the piece, and
particularly useful in the tableaux and dra
matic culminations, was not marked by any
originality of conception on the dramatist’s
part, and had extremely l’ttle to say for him
self. The Satan of the spectacular stage is
generally a being whose speech smacks of the
shop and who makes up for the conventionali
ty of his objects and utterances by the vivid
ness of his costumes and the abruptness of his
appearances. So it was with the Zamiel of the
present affair. He materialized unexpectedly
and vanished in the same manner, generally
with an accompaniment of red fire; he spoke
brief apothegms in a deep bass voice, and
posed, but never walked. These limitations
of visible action were probably fortunate un
der the circumstances; they enabled the
worthy human being who had understudied
the satanic part to portray it, though at such
short notice, with comparative ease and accu
racy. No bitch had occurred in the perfor
mance so far, and there was every prospect of
a prosperous continuance.
But a juncture had now arrived toward
which the whole plot of the piece had been
tending, when a terrific struggle takes place
between the good and evil principle (incarnat
ed in the forms of the fairy queen and Zamiel
respectively) to deteimine the fate of the
lovers. The fairy queen is first on the ground
and is in the act of conducting the lovers to a
haven of peaceful security, when all of a sud
den the ground yawns at their feet, sulphu
rous flames belch forth, and in the midst of
them the mighty Zamiel shoots upward out of
the bottomless pit and defies them to proceed.
Such, at all events, are the stage directions.
Divested to the glamor of illusion, the bot
tomless pit was represented by the subterra
nean underneath the stage, and the yawning
of the earth by a trap-door arrangement. It
may also be premised for the benefit of those
uninstructed in such mysteries that the shoot
ing upward of the arch-fiend is managed by
the contrivance of a platform, which rises
swiftly on the release of a catch and forces the
performer through the open trap-door into the
air. The trap-door instantly closes beneath
him, he comes down upon it in a heroic atti
tude and the trick is done.
Now, the fairy queen had appeared as afore
said, and, holding above the lovers her pro
tecting wand, had advanced with them as far
as the center of the stage. The trap-door
obeyed its cue and opentd; but Zamiel for
some reason or other, delayed to appear. The
fairy queen waited; the lovers waited; the au
dience, including the king, waited; but it be
gan to look as if his satanic majesty had been
detained by some unavoidable engagement in
bis nether kingdom. It was very embarrass
ing, and some of the mere volatile of the spec
tators showed a disposition to titter.
Suddenly the suspense was ended, though
in an unprecedented and amazing manner.
There was a smothered cry, coming no one
knew whence, but it had a strange and start
ling sound. Upward into the air, out of the
trap door, hurtled a human figure and fell
back on the stage with a heavy jar. It moved,
it struggled to its knees, it staggered to its
feet, and stood, swaying from side to side,
ghastly, soiled, tattered, its hair and face mat
ted and smeared with blood, its eyes glaring
and blinking in the light, its features quiver
ing and contorted with terror and bewilder
ment—surely the great enemy of mankind, in
all his protean disguises, never hit upon one
so erotesque and eccentric as this.
The audience sat in stupefied silence for a
moment and then gave vent to an inarticulate
roar of astonishment and dismay. Several
women shrieked and fainted. A number of
men started to their feet; then some murder
ous idiot in the gallery yelled “Fire!” with all
his might. At that appalling cry the whole
great mass of spectators were on their legs
and faced about for a rush to the doors, which
would have resulted in a calamity, unfortu
nately too common in modern civilization. But
the panic was arrested almost as suddenly as
it had begun. The royal box was situated in
the center of the dress-circle at the apex of
the horseshoe curve, and as the audience
faced around it necessarily confronted this
box; and in it they saw their good King Al
bert, who had fotjjght valiantly in their behalf
at Sedan, reclinug comfortably in his chair
and apparently al far from sharing the alarm
of his subjects if if lie had been safely en
sconced in his Japjhese palace up the river.
And in the involuntary moment of silence
that ensued they heard him say in German to
his companion:" “Lend me thy lorgnette,
Gretchen. I have never had an opportunity
to see Zamiel in (jishabille before.”
It was a triumph of common sense and pres
ence of mind ovT blind fear and brute self
ishness. The mob wavered, paused, broke out
in confused murmurs and exclamations, fol
lowed by laughter and applause and cries of
“Hoch! hoch!” ia compliment to his majesty,
and, for the most part, resumed its seats.
Meanwhile the baron had clambered from bis
box on to the stage, followed by the imper
turbable Herr Klesmer, and seizing the un
kempt Zamiel by the collar dragged him away
behind the scenes. The fairy queen and the
two lovers, though somewhat disorganized by
the interruption, managed to regain their self-
possession and ibe performance proceeded, in
spite of the exited buzz of conversation tbat
filled t* theaofc-'
During the tlmult Fedovsky and Vera had
quietly retaindMtheir places. The apparition
of the biood-stjfd/ed man from th9 bowels of
the stage La* doubt surprised them as
much as it the audience; but to the count
at least an explanation presently suggested it
self. His wret.iing match that afternoon with
his unseen assailant (who. however, could
have been no other than Bolan) must have
taken place near the middle of the stage, and
Bolan had previously opened the trap-door
with the purpose of throwing Fedovsky down
there after chol» : ng and robbing him; and he
probably intended to go down there afier him.
finish him off with a bludgeon, and conceal
the body in the rubbish of the basement. The
issue of the combat had turned the tables upon
the would-be assassin. When Fedovsky flung
him over his head he must have fallen through
the trap-door in-stead of on the stage, and com
ing in contact with the ground more than fif
teen feet below had been completely stunned
by the crash. There he had lain undiscovered
for hours, until the noise of the performance
had partially aroused him. Possibly some
vague recollection of his part in the drama
had visited bis bewildered brain and he had
crawled on the platform just at the moment
when the exigtiticies of the action demanded
that it should be sprung. The actor who had
assumed his part, being necessarily somewhat
unpracticed in The business, had been confus
ed by discovering some one on the platform
before him, thy darkness and the hurry had
prevented investigation and explanation, and
thus the grotesque incident had come to pass.
The wretched Bolan had alread r received a
horrowing punishment for his crimes and
there was every likelihood that the baron
would not allow his chastisement to stop
there. .
Having this i solved the matter to his own
satisfaction, J tioveky felt a curiosity to know
how it had afftAted Vera. She had leaned
forward on Bonn's appearance with parted
lips and a dilajpn of the eyes. The alarm of
fire had brought a color to her cheek, but had
seemed to restore rather than upset her com
posure. Finally, when Bolan was led away
by the baron, she turned to Fedovsky with an
arching of her eyebrows.
‘ The old proverb sometimes comes te pass,”
she said. “He that diggeth a pit shall fall
therein.”
“Do you know anything about that man?”
demanded Fedovsky, abruptly.
“I might as well ask you the same ques
tion,” she retoxtea. “But you need not answer
it. I am aware of your dealings with him.”
“How did you get your information?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I might say,
as I proved to you just now, that I am an as-
trologist. Or I might say that I am a friend
of the baron’s ”
“I should reply that neither the stars nor
the baron know my affairs.”
“And yet,” she said with a smile, “they
seem to be known!” At the same time she
rose, drew on her opera-cloak, and prepared
to leave the box.
“You are going?” said the count. “Tell me
where I can see you.”
“You had better not attempt to see me,”
was her reply. “If you are wise you will fol
low the advice J gave you awhile ago. It would
endanger both of us,” she added, in a more
impassioned tone, “if I were to speak more
plainly. The only chance for success of your
mission was its secrecy; and the secret is out!
You have escaped once, but you will not es
cape a second time. Promise me that you will
return.”
I can give Jsou no promises, for I don’i
S»s®S’"-tir3hsw'el^ef.—*,iot
say you have discovered my secret. I say I
will discover yours.”
She looked at him, and for a moment seem 1
ed to hesitate. Then a cold, rigid expression
came over her face. She bowed to him, took
the arm of her companion, and turned awav.
His first impulse was to follow her; but he re
flected that he could easily learn her address,
and meantime he went back to his hotel.
As he passed the office the clerk handed
him a telegraph envelope, evidently contain
ing a dispatch from the New York central of
fice. He put it in his pocket and went up
stairs. He unlocked the door of his room,
closed it behind him, and locked and bolted it
on the inside. He threw off his hat and coat,
and, seating himself at his desk, unlocked the
drawer in which he had placed his unfinished
report. The drawer had also conta’ned the
package of bogus bonds and notes, with the
hole pierced through them by Bolan s knife.
He opened the drawer. It was empty.
He started to his feet and gazed about him,
half expecting to find a thief in the room. But
no one was there. He went to the door and
examined the fastening. There were no signs
of its having been tampered with. The win
dows were ail fastened on the inside. He
next subjected the lock of the desk drawer to
a minute examination. It, was a patent lock
and no other key than the one made for it
would open it. There was a slight scratch
barely discernible at the edge of the aperture;
but the lock itself worked freely as before.
Nevertheless, his room had been entered dur
ing his absence and his papers had been sto
len. Those papers contained a complete ex
position of all that he had done and intended
to do with a view to capturing the forgers
His secret wasout indeed! He sunk into a
chair overcome with consternation; and the
last words in Inspector Byrnes rang in his
ears; “You will have to do with the cleverest
and most desperate criminals in the world!”
CHAPTER XXIII.
Fedovsky was not long in perceiving that it
would be useless to a’tempt to recover his pa
pers. The report to Inspector Byrnes must
already have been read and the bogus mate
rial being of no use to any one, was probably
destroyed. Moreover, were he to apply to the
police, he would not be able to conceal the
true nature of his mission; and, although that
was already known to the forgers (who, he
could not doubt, had committed the robbery),
yet nothing was to be gained by giving further
publicity to the iacts. He had been egregious-
ly outwitted and he had nothing but his own
carelessness and indiscretion to blame for it.
When he thought of the confidence that In
spector Byrnes had placed in him, and of the
disappointment this defeat would be to him,
he felt ready to groan with mortification. He
had not only failed, but he had failed before
dealing a single effective blow toward his ob
ject. Nor did he know which way to turn to
amend his position. He had begun to doubt
whether Bolan really belonged to the gang of
forgers which he was pursuing. Had he been
one of them he would hardly have risked the
larger objects which he and his accomplices
were pursuing by a robbery and murder that
would be certain to be investigated. Mr. Wil
lis must have been mistaken and the baron
must have been right. Bolan was following
ends of his own and acting independently of
the others, and in endeavoring to entrap him
Fedovsky hud simply been chasing a false
clew. )
He bethought him of the unopened dispatch
in his pocket With a heavy heart he took
it out and broke the seal. It was from the
Inspector, as he had anticipated, and was ex
pressed in the cipher agreed upon between
them. Fedovsky referred to the key that he
carried with him and spelled it out.
After giving some directions on minor mat
ters, the dispatch ran somewhat as follows
“You appear to be on the wrong track. Yonr
confidence will be solicited by those least fitted
to possess it. Think over every one you have
met, and suspect those who have seemed
least open to suspicion. Unless you strike
soon you will be too late. Look toward Italy
—the denouement will be there if anywhere.”
“He knows more about this affair, sitting
at his desk in New York, than I do here in the
midst of them,” said the young man to him
self bitterly. “The only mistake he has made
was in sending me after them. How did it
happen that he failed to know I was a fool?
What will he he say when he hears that I have
failed?"
He got up and paced the floor in uncontrol
lable agitation.
“It would have been better for me if I had
jumped into the river as I intended," he ex
claimed. “I have done more harm than good,
and there is no chance of my ever remedying
the matter. Vera was right—I may as well
return before I make more blunders. And
as for Sallie—well, at least I can congratu
late myself on not having tied myself about
her neck. Miy she never know what an es
cape I have had!”
There was a knock at the door. It was still
early in the evening—barely 9 o’clock. The
knock was repeated. Fedovsky went to the
door and threw it open. A servant stood there,
and said that there was a man below who
wanted to see the count.
“What is his name?” .
“He said it was Herr Bolan,” replied the
servant.
“Bolan!” repeated Fedovsky, in astonish
ment. “Youmust be mistaken.” Hepaused,
ail manner of wild surmises running through
his head. “Show him up,” he said at length.
The servant retired. The count walked over
to the table, took his revolver from his pocket,
and laid it on the table. He stood near the
table, with the revolver convenient to his hand.
Another knock at the door. “Come in!” said
the count.
The door was pushed open, and a short,
sturdy figure entered. It removed its hat from
its head, and gazed earnestly at Feiovsky.
The next moment, with a shout of joy, the two
men ran together and fairly hugged one an
other.
“Tom! Tom! can this really be you!” cried
the count, shaking his old valet by both hands,
while tears stood in his eyes. “I thought you
were dead—I thought you had deserted me—
but I never thought to see you here!”
“I might have died, sir," said Tom, in a
voice tbat was by no means steady, “but it
would take more than dying to make me de
sett you—lean tell you that. I’ve been look
ing for you ihese four months, and I’d never
have given up the search if it had lasted a hun
dred years. I served your father, and I serv
ed you; and there isn’t nothing in this world
is going to keep me away from you—not for
long!”
“Where have you been? What became of
yon after you left me that day ”
“Oh 1 that was a day, sure enough! I was
expecting to meet my brother, who was going
to put me on to a good thing, he said; but *
think it’s just as well I* didn’t meet him, sir,
for, from what I’ve heard since, I fancy he’
no good. And no man that’s a thief and
scoundrel is a brother of mine, whether he has
the same name or not.”
“You did not meet him, then?”
“No, sir, not I. I went dewn to the Fulton
ferry that day, for it was in Brooklyn that we
was to meet; there was a crowd aboard, and I
got to the front, so as to be the first off when
we reached t’other side. When the boat was
within five foot of the slip I jumped; but my
foot slipped on the edge and down I tumbled
into the water. The current that was run
ning underneath took me along to the paddle
wheel, and then I apt a bang on the top of the
head; that was tb^/st l knew of anything for
a matter of six wft its of more.”
“Six weeksl i^lu were not in the water all
that time?” “ .
“Not so far as I know, sir. I was fished out,
somehow, and the water emptied out of me
and as nobody knew who I was or where I be
longed I was carried to the hospital. But that
bang on the head had knocked me silly, so they
say, and I was as daft as a monkey. What
may have done or said of course I can’t re
member; but I said nothing that could help to
identify me, and they were for sending me to
the asylum, when one of the doctors had the
sense to take a look at my skull where I got
hit; and he found a bit of the bone had been
knocked in and was pressing on the stuff in
side. So he pried the piece out and set it a' 1
smooth again, and as soon as be done that
came to myself as right as a trivet; and the
first thing I asked was: ‘Who pulled me out
of the water?’ ”
Here they both laughed, and Tom contin
ued:
•‘Well, then the doctors and the other folks
up there they made up a purse of $20 and
give it to me, and baok I started to New York
to find you. Well, sir, you took a deal of
finding, and that’s a fact. At last I thought
I’d see if the police didn’t know anything, s)
I went up to the detective office and they took
me in to the inspector. Ah, sir, he's a nice
man if ever there was one!”
“Quite right, Tom,” assented the other, with
a sigh, “Well what did he say?”
“He asked me some pretty sharp questions,
and when he’d found out what I was and all
about me, and had sized me up from top to
bottom, he told me that I’d better stay where
Jjtas, for rthat-ye.?> wte.gono -to Er.ropa ?.nd
you wouldn't be back till may be next spring,
‘And as you seem to be a worthy ebap,’ says
he, ‘I don’t know but what I might find you
some odd job to do here around the office.’
Well, I thanked him heartily, but I told him I
couldn’t wait. I’d have to go after you, and
that I’d take the next steamer that started.
‘And how are you going to get across?’ says
he. ‘Ask a sailor that?’ says I. ‘I’d work my
passage before the mast, to be sure. I ain’t
no first-cabin dude!’ Well, he laughed and
told me to come again the next day, and next
day I went, and he told me he’d got me a place
as an assistant to the steward of one of the big
steamers that goes to Havre; it was to leave
on the Saturday, and he tipped me a $5 bill,
and said he: ‘I guess your master will be glad
to see you, Tom!’ Sol thanked him again,
and off I went; and to make a short story of it,
sir, here I am, and right glad I am to be here!”
“And right glad am I to have you here,”
said Fedovsky, “though you have reached me
at what is perhaps the most unfotunate mo
ment of my life, I am powerless to be of any
use either to you or to any one else.”
“It wasn’t to have you of use to me tlat I
came here, sir,” said Tom, growing quite red
in the face; “the boot is on the other leg, if
you please, sir I may be conceited, but it’s
my idea that I can be of some use to you in
this particular affair you’re busy with.”
“What affair aie you talking about, Tom?”
inquired the count, opening his eyes.
“Now, look here, sir,” said Tom, leaning
forward over the table and assuming an ex
pression of vast sagacity. “I was a fool
New York, and I know it. I didn’t under
stand the way you ought to have carried on
there, and I gave you bad advice. I see it now
and sorry I am for it. But in a thing of this
kind it’s different. I know my way about.
You’re doing something for Inspector Byrnes,
ain’t you?”
“What put such an idea into your head?
What should I be doing for him?”
“Well, two and two make four, that’s all I
can say! Thinks I to myself: How does it
happen that the inspector knows so much
about the count over in Europe? Then
heard something about a gang of American
forgers out here, and in hunting after you I
found that you had been wherever they had;
and, altogether, I made up my mind that you
was after them, and I don’t think you’ll say
I’m wrong.”
“I don’t know as I shall, Tom,” said the
other, with a melancholy laugh “Everybody
seems to know my business better than I do,
and there’s no reason why I should make it a
secret from you. You are quite right; I am a
member of the secret service detailed to effect
the arrest of the head of this forgery scheme;
and I have succeeded so well that the whole
gang know all about me and my designs, and
have this evening entered my room during
my absence and stolen from my desk the re
port that I had just been writing to the in
spector.”
“Thev did, did they? And who might they
be, sir?”
I haven’t the least idea! I thought I had
identified one of them; he was no less a per
son than that brother of yours, Tom, whom
you had such hopes of in New York. I had
an interview with him this afternoon; he tried
to garrote me, and I threw him down the trap
door in the stage of the theater; and now the
baron has got him—the chief of police, that is.
But, though he’s a thief, I don’t believe he has
any connection with the forgers.”
“What brought you to think he had, sir?”
Tom asked.
Something that an acquaintance of mine
told me—that Mr. Willis, by the way, whom
you and I met last year in Monte Carlo.’’
Ob, that cove!” said Tom, with a very dis
tasteful air.
You were mistaken about him,” rejoined
the other with a smile. “He is not the same
person as the swindler who cheated you on 4th
street," and the count pmceeded to relate the
visit of himself and Mr. Willis to the baron’s
effiee and what Mr. Willis had said and done
there in support of his identity.
Tom listened closely, and shook his head.
“Do you believe all that, sir?” he said. “I
don’t; it’s a tiick of his from beginning to end!
Where did you get all those papers from to
prove he was Willis ard not Wilkes. Ain’t
he a forget? And what’s a forger good for if
not to do forgeries? All those papers wa9 for
geries—letters, receipts, passports, letter of
credit, and ail! Why, his game’s plain enough,
it stands to reason. And he was the one that
opened your desk this evening and walked off
with your papers!”
“That is impossible, Tom. He is in Cologne
at this moment.”
“Is he? Then he must travel quick to get
there, for I saw him not half an hour ago a
quarter of a m le from where we’re sitting!”
“What’s that? You saw him?”
“As plain as I see you, and he wasn’t up to
any honest business, either. I’ll tell you how
it was, s r. I got to this town about six hours
ago, and I spent a couple of hours or so run
ning about to find the hotel you was stopping
at. When I found ’twas the Bellevue I came
and asked to see you, and they said you was
out but would be back later. So I waited
around, and presently I saw a chap come
along—a small, light chap, with a knowing
face and an expression like butter wouldn't
melt in his mouth—and he went up and spoke
to the porter there at the door. I didn’t hoar
what he said, but the porter said: ‘No, sir,
the count has gone to the theater, and won’t
be back before 9 ’ Well, the chap went r ff,
and, thinks I, what does that fellow want with
the count, I wonder? So, having nothing bet
ter to do, I walked along after him, and lie
crossed the square and turned down a side
street and whipped into a house there with a
big gable to it and a milliner’s shop under
neath.
“There was a cigar store on t’other side of
the street, and I went into it and bought a
cigar and stood talking with the shop-keeper
and looking across at the door the fellow went
in at. In about ten minutes out he came
again, though at the first look I didn’t recog
nize him. He had on a pair of black whiskers
and no overcoat, bnt only a dirty old dress-
suit like the waiters wear, and a napkin over
his arm. He was carrying something ui dir
his napkin—a black box about a foot long and
half as broad; it looked to be made of iron,
with a shiny lacquer over it. Well, he trotted
along, walking with them short steps the wai
ters use, as if he’d just run out to fill an order.
I put after him, smoking my cigar and looki g
in at all the shop windows, like I was out for
a stroll to amuse my self. He got back to the
hotel and trotted right in past the porter, who
just gave him a look, but didn’t say nothing,
supposing him to be one of the waiters that
belonged there. I stood off near the bridge,
about a hundred yards away, staring at the
boats down in the river, but keeping an eye
out on the door of the hotel just the same.
And by and by out comes my man, just as he
went In, with the box under his arm and the
napkin over it, and starts across the square
toward that big covered archway tbat leads
into the town. It was dark under there, but I
hurried up and wasn’t more than fifty yards
away when he went into it. Just in the mid
dle of it he met a man coming the other way
with a big overcoat on, and they sort of run
into each other and stopped a moment close
together, and then went on again, each his own
way; but the waiter fellow didn't have the box
any longer. I turned right round then and
walked along toward the bridge; and pretty
soon the fellow in the overcoat passed me—
he was walking fast—and I noticed two things
about him—he had something under his over
coat, and he was your friend, Mr. Willis!”
[to be continued.]
Lay of the Orange Feel.
I lie supine in the soft sunshine,
Where the people come and eo;
I strive to wear an innocent air,
Because I am humble and low;
But when the heel of the proud 1 feel,
Which would crush me Into the stone,
Ah. woeful hour, I evolve the power
That Keeley never has shown.
My plaoe I bold on the pavement cold,
And never move ont of my tracks.
But I spurn the feet of the Indiscreet,
And land ’em upon tbelr b teks.
The motive mule beside me's a tool,
ThouKb a dozen feet bs-nrigiu-clafm. ?
I may look sick, but I’m mighty slick,
Ann am loaded all the same.
I floor the strong as tbey prance along,
in all their princely style.
One touch of a toe and away they go,
Tbey Imagine a half a mile;
I feel so good when I shock a dude
Tbat I chuckle at my luck,
While he thinks outright It Is dynamite
Or swears he was lightning struck.
I bid beware to the man without care,
Who goes with mind on bis gains.
And the poet oft takes a flight aloft—
Though be comes down for bis pains.
1 was always known to bold my own,
But folks I let go, yon see.
And there’s plenty of fun ’neath the summer sun,
When they toboggan on me.
Could they utilize the power that lies
lu me, they could move t he earth,
They would laugh at steam as a by-gone dream,
And value me at my worth.
Still 1 lie supine In the soft sunshine,
And the people think me asleep,
But the cautious heel from the orange peel
Will a courteous distance keep.
“I’ll Take What Father Takes.”
“What will yon take to drink?” asked a
waiter of a young lad, who, for the first time
accompanied his father to a public dinner,
Uncertain what to say, and feeling sure that
he could not be wrong if he followed his fath
er’s example, he replied, “I’ll take what father
takes.”
The answer reached the father’s ear, and in
stantly the fall responsibility of his position
flashed upon him. “Waiter, I'll take water."
And from that day to this strong drink has
been banished from that man’s home.
A man should never be ashamed to own he
has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in
other words, that he is wiser to-day than he
was yesterday.
What was it a blind maD took at breakfast
which restored his sight? He took a cup and
—saw, sir.
A young correspondent wants to know:
“What is the critical period in a man’s life?”
Well, my boy, it usually begins about six weeks
after he is married, and lasts all the rest of his
life. v
Persecution is often the wind that scatters
the good seeds of the kingdom.
Who Should Wear the Breeches.
Now when a young man woos a girl—
In wedlock with her bitches,
He ought to have It understood
That he’s to wear the breeches.
If he’s the man he ought to be,
lu poverty or rlcbes,
He knows tbat he’s tbe proper one
To always wear the breecnes.
Ah! what a torment here on earth.
For wife to leave her stitches—
Against tbe husband always strive
And try to wear the breeches.
Bat If a spendthrift he should be,
And throws away tbelr rlcbes,
The wife had better stay his hand,
And also wear the breeches.
And if along tbe track of life,
He’s olt derailed In ditches.
A "mofber hubhard” he should wear—
The wife suould wear the breeches.
There were only seven wonders of the world
in ancient days. That was before the dune
was invented.
“No," said the old maid, “I don’t miss a
husband very much. I have trained my dog
to growl every time I feed him, and I have
bought a tailor’s dummy that I can scold when
I feel like ii”
Politeness to others is a debt due to our
selves.
Bystander—“Doctor, what do you think of
this man’s injuries?”
Doctor—“Humph! Two of them are un
doubtedly fatal, but as for the rest of them,
time alone can tell.”
The importance of purifying the blood can
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you cannot enjoy good health.
At Uiis season nearly every one needs 3
good medicine to purify, vitalize, and enrich
the blood, and we ask you to try Hood’s
_ Sarsaparilla. It strengthens
Peculiar an j builds up the system,
creates an appetite, and tones the digestion,
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Hood's Sarsaparilla pecul- *t-q ItSGlf
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Hood's Sarsaparilla is sold by all druggists.
Prepared by C. I. Hood & Co., Lowell, Mass.
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‘Why, Frauky,” exclaimed a mother at the
summer boarding house, “I never knew you to
ask for a second piece of pie at home." “I
knew ’twau’t no use,” said Franky as he pro
ceeded with his pie eating.
Do you suffer with catarrh? You can be
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FAITH CUBE fAlHLY BEATEif.
Chaplain Hall Writes the FollowlBf
markable Letter.
| Pr»m the Albany N. Y., Express.
For many years my wife had bees
the victim of nervous dyspepsia, of the
chronic, distressing and apparently in
curable type from which so many of her
sex suffer, languish and die. It was all
the worse because the tendency to it
was inherited. She had been under the
systematic treatment of many of the
best physicians in New York andBrook-
lyn and elsewhere for twenty years with
only temporary relief. In fact, there
were few, if any, kinds of food that did
not distress her, so diseased, sensitive
and torpid were all the organs of diges
tion. The usual symptoms of dyspep
sia, with its concomitant ailments, were
all present—bad taste in the mouthy
dull eyes, cold feet and hands, the sense
of a load upon the stomach, tenderness
on pressure, indigestion, giddiness,
great weakness and prostration, and fu
gitive pains in the sides, chest and back.
I have often risen in the night and ad
ministered stimulants merely for the
sake of the slight and transient relief
they gave.
Intermittent malarial fever set is,
complicating the case and making
every symptom more pronounced and
intense. By this time the pneumo-
gastric nerves had become very seri
ously involved, and she had chronic
Gastritis, and also what I may be al
lowed to call chronic intermittent ma
larial fever all at once. For the latter
the physicians prescribed the good, old-
fashioned, sheet-anchor remedy, Quin
ine gradually increasing the doses, until
—incredible as it may seem—she actu
ally took THIRTY GRAINS A DAY IOR
DAp in succession. This coujd not
last. The effect of the quinine was,
if possible, almost as bad as the two
fold disease which was wearing away
her strength and her life. Quinine
poisoning was painfully evident, but
the fever was there still. Almost every
day there came on the characteristic
chill and racking headache, followed
by the usual weakness and collapse.
About this time I met socially my
friend Mr. Norton, a member of the
firm of Chauncey Titus & Company,
brokers, of Albany, who, on hearing
from me these facts, said: “Why, I
have been through almost the same
thing, and have got over it. ” “ What
cured you?” I asked eagerly. “ Kas-
kine,” he said, “ try it for your wife.”
I had seen Kaskine advertised, but had
no more faith in it than 1 had in saw
dust, for such a case as hers. * Mrs.
Hall had no higher opinion, yet on the
strength of my friend’s recommenda
tion I got a bottle and began its use
as directed.
Now recall what I have already said
as to her then condition, and then read
what follows: Under the Kaskine
treatment all the dyspeptic symptoms
showed instant improvement, and the
daily fever grew less and soon ceased
altogether. Side by side these diseases
vanished, as side by side they had tort
ured their victim for ten years—the
dyspepsia alone having, as I have said,
existed for twenty years. Her appetite
improved from week to week until she
could eat and digest the average food
that any well person takes, without any
suffering or inconvenience. With re
newed assimilation of food came, of
course, a steady increase in flesh, until
she now looks like her original self.
' She still takes Kaskine occasionally,
but with no real need of it, for she if
well. I consider this result a scientific
miracle, and the “ New Quinine ’ is en
titled to the credit of it, for from the
time she began with Kaskine she used
no other medicine whatever.
| If you think a recital of these fact!
calculated to do good you are welcome
to make them public,
j (Rev.) JAS. L. HALL,
Chaplain Albany, N. Y., Penitentiary.
| P. S.—Sometimes letters of this kind
are published without authority, and in
case any one is inclined to question
the genuineness of the above statement
I will cheerfully reply to any commu
nications addressedto me at the Pent
tentiary. Jas. L.’Hall.
! Other letters of a similar character
from prominent individuals, which
stamp Kaskine as a remedy of un
doubted merit, will be sent on appli-
cation. Price $i.oo, or six bottles,
$5.00. Sold by Druggists, or sent by
snail on receipt of price.
| The Kaskine Company, 54 Warren
St., New York, and 35 Farringdo*
Road, London. j