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0 THE ELEVENTH ML
[CONTINUED FBOM FIRST PAGE;]
“Oh, yes; I have everything. The
room is bright ana pretty; the doctors
are gentle with me and the
nurses. You saw Miss Paul;
isn’t she a princess sort. of
creature to be a nurse in an hospital?”
Ruth smiled hopefully. This was a
touch of the old beauty worshipping
Claude.
“She is very handsome and gentle,
but you will soon be independent of
her care—won’t you? You will soon
get well; and then you will go home
with me.”
A change came over his face! “Not
to Lakewood!” he said—“not there.”
“No, not there,” replied Ruth quick
ly. “I have no further interest in
Lakewood. I have sold the old place.
No, we will make a home some where
else. The world is wide. Perhaps we
may fulfill an old dream—and go to
Italy. We will put the past behind us
and begin life afresh.”
He did not speak—but a gleam of
hope, of kindled interest—lighted up
his face. When the pretty nurse
brought his food, nicely arranged on
a tray, she was delighted to see that
he ate with some appetite—“for the
first time since he had been in the hos
pital,” she told Ruth afterwards.
He fell asleep soon after this, with
his sister’s hand in his. She sat by
him awhile, then gently disengaged
her hand and went away, telling Miss
Paul she would come back next morn
ing.
When she got out of doors, she
found that the short day had closed in
drearily. The wind was blowing,
bringing with it gusts of chill rain.
People were hurrying through the
streets, struggling with umbrellas and
flapping wrap?—and thinking long
ingly of the home and shelter they
were hastening to. For the first time,
since she left it, Ruth remembered
her own sinister abode—and her reso
lution to find other lodgings today.
“It is too late now, and I am worn
out,” she said to herself. “I can stand
it one more night.”
As she hurried on she approached
the brightly lighted entrance of a
fashionable theatre. The matinee was
just over, and crowds of well dressed
people were pouring out of the stately-
pillared portico. She watched the
stream of faces with admiring interest.
Most of them bore the stamp of cul
ture and luxury. Some were gay and
smiling, others languid, others full of
~ concern lest their rich fe^[hers aiyl
velvet cloaks should suffer from the
driving rain as they passed to their
carriages.
All at once, Ruth's heart gave a
great bound. Her eyes fastened them
selves in a wild stare upon one face in
the crowd—that sweet, pale, deli
cately-cut face-^-how like it was!
“Sybil!” she cried aloud, springing
forward in the direction of that face.
The next instant, she dropped back
ashamed and confused. The lady
gave no sign, but her escort, a tall,
distinguished-looking man, looked
quickly around. As his eyes fell upon
Ruth, he gave a slight start; he
seemed to hesitate—then he turned
bick to the lady, and seating her in
the carriage, he got in and took the
seat opposire her. But Ruth saw him
speak to the footman who closed the
oarriage door. She saw the man turn
and look at her. Then he touched his
hatandsaid“I understand sir,” and
the carriage was driven away, leaving
the tall footman behind. He looked
again at Ruth. She hurriedly moved
away, angry with herself for being de
ceived by a resemblance and betrayed
out of her self-control. When she had
gone a little way, she stopped to wait
for a car that was approaching. She
saw the tall footman again close to
her. He stopped also; when the car
came up, and she entered it, she saw
him get in directly afterwards. When
she left the car, he too, got out. She
saw him walking slowly on the oppo
site side of the street looking over at
her, now and then. When she stepped
up on the porch of her lodging house,
he stopped. She could see him stand
ing in the shadow of a house on
the other side of the street.
Evidently he had followed her;
he had been told to follow her
by the man who accompanied the
lady that looked so strangely like Syb
il. What could it mean? A feeling of
apprehension came over Ruth. She
shivered more with nervousness than
with cold as she stood in the porch,
waiting for her ring to be answered.
The door opened presently—the two
men whose very looks made her shud
der—came out, the big brutal son of
and his cunning-faced, cruel-eyed com
rade. The encounter did not tend to
lessen Ruth’s fears. She was trem
bling when she entered the dimly
lighted hall and made her way up
stairs,
CHAPTER XXY.
FOR DEAR LIFE’S SAKE.
At the head of the stair case, Ruth
met her landlady. Mrs. Yipes greeted
her with a pleasant smile—
THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GEORGIA, NOVEMBER 19, 1892.
mosfr unusual to her sallow, sullen
face.
“We’ve just beenTin your room to
shut it up,” she said, “the rain was
coming in through that broken pane
at the top, and the wind was blowing
through it and the loose fitting sash.
I made a bit of a fire in your room, I
knew you would come home cold and
wet, and so you have. I declare you re
white as a ghost. I set the tea pot by
the fire and a plate of crackers by it
so you could have something iwarm
and comfortin’. ”
“Thank you,” Ruth said rather cold
ly. It was the first time the woman
had proffered any service not in the
bond, and she could not help connect
ing this with the prying incident of
the morning and the gloating look the
woman had cast upon the roll of bank
bi'ls.
“She expects to get pay-for all* she
does,” thought Ruth.
No more suspicion had entered her
mind but when she reached her room,
she noticed at once that instead of Jfhe.
Venetian blinds, the solid plank storm
shutters had been closed over the
windows, and an iron bar placed
across it.
Before she even warmed her numb
feet at the small, but bright fire, she
went to the window and tried to push
back the bar. It resisted all her
strength to move it from its position.
It had apparently been pushed by a
strong hand into the iron receptacle
at either side. Ruth went to the door
and called Mrs. Vipes, asking her to
open the shutters as she did not like
to have the room so close. The woman
responded rather sullenly. Taking
hold of the bar,;she apparently used all
her strength to nave it.
“I can’t make it budge” she said,
“George put it up, ’cause the rain and
wind was cornin’ in as I told you.
You’ll have to wait ’till he comes back
and get him to open them. m here’s
plenty of air in the room, goodness
knows; and its gettin’ colder, you’d
better warm yourself and drink your
tea and go to bed. You look like
you’ve got a chill.”
She went out and Ruth locked the
door and sat down by the fire trying
hard to shake off the feeling of appre
hension that clung to her. She bitter
ly regretted that she had come back
to the house at all. The exciting
events of thejday made her forget the
incident of this morning and
the warning presentment that caused
her to determine to change her lodg
ing. It was to late to seek other quar
ters. The night had shut in dark and
stormy; the blowing rain had wet and
chilled her,
The fire and the steaming tea pot
looked inviting. She drew up to the
bright coals and put her little feet out
to the comforting warmth, first pull
ing off her shoes and slipping on a pair
of soft woolen boots that Sybil had
knitted and given her as a birthday
present.
The sight of the pretty black and
crimson boots brought to mind the oc
currence before the door of the thea
tre—the face she had seen so like Syb
il’s. How striking some of these ac
cidental resemblances were! But that
pale grand looking man—the lady’s es
cort—why had he tnmed round so
quickly when she called Sybil’s name?
How keenly he had looked at her. And
certainly he had pointed her out to
the man who had followed her to the
door of her lodging house. Why
had he done this? Did he imagine she
was a crank who might try to annoy
or injure that beautiful woman he was
so tenderly caring for—probably his
wife.
It was a singular adventure, but
Ru:h could not dwell upon it. The
more important incidents of the day
pressed upon her attention. She had
found her brother; she had found
Katharine’s promise that tomorrow
should be given into her hand$ that
erring one’s sworn to confession—a
confession that would no doubt clear
up the mystery of Sybil’s fate—and
exhonorate Charles Carroll.
Would Katharine do this? “I
feel sure she will keep her word.”
Ruth said to herself, remembering the
woman’s strange calmness and her
solemn, passionless tone. “I do not
believe she will even make an effort
to escape.”
What Katharine’s confession would
be Ruth dared not think. It might
implicate Claude, but in the murder
his sister felt sure that would not be,
but had he not helped the guilty wo
man to conceal her crime? Would a
jury take into consideration that he
was so completely under Katharine’s
influence that he might well be look
ed upon as a victim of mesmeric—or
hypnotic—control.?
So many things pressed upon
Ruth’s brain tonight, that she felt be
wildered.
“I will drink a cup of this hot tea
and lie down and rest a little” she
thought* “I am not sleepy, I will not
go to bed finally, yet awhile. I will
wait and have that shutter unbarred,
I feel as if I was in prison, and if any
thing were to happen, no one could
hear me call for help.
She poured out a cup full of the tea,
it was amber, clear and fragrant. She
dropped the lump of sugar into the
cup and drank half of its contents at a
draught. Did it not have a slightly
curious bitter taste, or was it her im-
magination? Perhaps she had not atir-
red it enough. She stirred it again and
tasted it. There was certainly some
thing peculiar in its flavor.
At this instant, she heard a slight
noise outside the door. She recalled
her landlady’s deceitful smile and her
unusual solicitude for her lodger’s
comfort tonight. What if this tea were
dragged! If it contained laudanum?
to make her sleep profoundly?
She set down the cup making a little
clatter with the spoon to convey the
idea to one listening at the key hole
that she was drinking the tea.
Decidedly, I will not take off my
clothes. I will lie down and get a lit
tle rest, but I will be on the watch.
But when she was warmly cuddled
under the bed clothes, a drousiness
stole over her that she could not re
sist. The sound of the rain and the
wind outside came faintly and sooth
ingly like a murmured lullaby. In
spite of her strong efforts to keep
awake, she drifted into the uncon
sciousness of sleep.
She dreamed that she was lying on
the silken cushions of a pleasure boat,
gliding gently down a pleasant stream
when suddenly a voice cried in her
ear, “Wake, wake up; there's danger
ahead.” At the same instant she
heard the roar and saw the white
foam of a cataract before her.
With the sound of the warningvoice
in her ears she opened her eyes. At
once, she was completely awake.
The room was in semi-darkness;
the fire was nearly out, the lamp
burned low, as though its oil were
nearly exhausted, though she had
filled it the night before.
“Have I slept so long, she thought.”
She was about to spring up when
she heard a sound in the next room,—
the one which opened. into hers by
that door in the partition through
which Mrs. Vipes had peered. The
sound was that of a stealthy, step. She
lay perfectly still, listening. She
heard a low whisper—another—hoar
ser—interrupted by a sibillant “rush.”
Instantly every faculty was on the
alert. She realized that she was about
to be robbed—probably murdered as
well—since a dead woman could tell
no tales. She realized the meaning of
the bolted door, the bitter tea. In
this lonely back room of an iso'jated
house on this stormy night, the itiur-
derops deed could jj?e done and nqiane
ever know her fat£i !
What could she do? If she screamed,
who could hear her in that close shut
room on such a night? And with the
first cry they would rush in and stran
gle her. If she could escape from her
room, the door of exit down stairs
would be found locked and bolted.
And she could not escape from the
room. Some one stood outside at the
door, the one that opened in the pas
sage. She heard the handle turn,
softly, as some one tried if the door
was locked. One of the men was
standing outside there to seize her if
she attempted to escape; hut the
others were at the partition door. It
was at this door they would come in
to do their dark work. She heard
their steps close to the door.
Quickly, noiselessly she got out of
bed, letting the cover remain in place.
She crept close to the partition door;
she crouched behind a tall, old-fash
ioned dressing case that stood near
the door. She waited there, holding
her breath, nerving herself for the
effort she meant to make to save her
self. She heard the key turn softly in
the lock; then an interval of silence;
a sound; the handle of the door was
turning; the door opened, the big
brute crept in; the woman crept in
after him. She stopped at the door;
the man stole in—towards the bed.
“Oh, why does she not follow him?”
thought Ruth. “Why does she not
leave the door one instant—only one
instant!”
Slowly the man crept towards the
bed—listening. The woman watched
him with intent gaze. Suddenly he
stumbled against the rocker of a chair;
he muttered an oath; the woman in
her anxiety made a step forward; the
eyes of both were fixed upon the bed
where they believed their victim to be
lying. Ruth saw her opportunity.
Quick, and noiseless as a thought, she
glided from her covert; she slipped
through the half-open door the woman
had left unguarded—through into the
next room.
She found the door; it was not
locked; she stepped out into the hall;
she Cast a trembling look at the door of
her room where she knew the red-
haired man was standing. .He was
crouched down, his ear to the key
hole, listening to what was going on in
side. He did not see her as she flew like
a bird across the passage to the stair
case; then down the stairs, her feet in
the soft knitted shoes making no
noise.
She was half way down when she
heard sounds in the room above—an
angry oath, confused hurrying of feet.
They had found out she was not in the
bed; they were searching for her, first
in that room, then in the next; now
the woman has seen her from the bead
of the stairs, seen her where she
stands at the bolted outer door, trying
desperately to open it. She tries to
scream for help; she can only utter a
hoarlfe sound, she knows win not, be
hear* outside. With the blind in
stinct of an animal at bay, she turns
and darts through an open door into a
front room, half furnished, used as a
reception room. She flies to the win
dow ; one of the shutters is broken;
she tries to push up the sash; it will
not move, it is fastened down, bne
hears her pursuers rushing down the
stairs; she seizes a heavy footstool;
with the strength of desperation she
burls it against the window; sash and
glass give way and she plunges
through the opening, heedless of the
splintered glass that tears clothes and
flesh, and falls, not to the ground, but
into the outstretched arms of a man
who has seen her from the porch and
has leaped down over the railing in
time to catch her as she is falling in a
half-conscious heap to the ground.
For a moment she cannot speak or
move; then recovering herself, she
struggles wildly with the strong arms
that hold her.
“Don’t,” says the man.“Be calm, Miss
Ashton, I am a friend from the South;
I have good news for you.”
He repeats his words before she can
take in the meaning. He had set her
upon her feet, and he stood a little way
from her, letting the light of the lan
tern he carried fall upon his face.
Even her agitated glance could see
the face waS that of a gentleman—re->
fined and kindly, but he was a stranger
to her.
“I do not know you,” she said, pant-
ingly.
“You will remember me presently.
Don’t be afraid of me. Lean on my!
arm. Tell me what has happened?
Why did you jump through the win
dow?”
“They were going to rob me; to mur
der me. They came to my room; I es
caped from it and they followed me;
the door was bolted and I burst
through the window ”
“The scoundrels! They will get
their- deserts. Officer, do you hear
what this young lady says?”i'
He turned to some one behind them.
Ruth looked and saw two burly men
in the uniform of the police.
“We heard sir; and we will bag the
game presently. Kearney and Camp
have gone round to the back door. I’ll
knock, and if they wont open, I’ll
break the door in. Kearney is sure
the big fellow is the woman’s son, an
escaped jail bird; the other is Slick
Sandy, the counterfeiter.”
While he was speaking be stepped
upon the porch and gave a violent
pull at the bell, then he knocked
loudly on the door. There was a mo
ment’s silence and then the door was
opened a little way by the woman.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“We want to see the two men you
have in your house.”
“I have no men in my house. I had
two men lodgers, but they left.
There’s nobody staying here but me
and that giri there. She walks in
her sleep; she’s just jumped out of the
window. I wish you’d take her some
where else; she scares me with her
fits.”
Instead of answering the officer
gripped the woman by the shoulder.
“Clapp the bracelets on her Jack,”
he said. “She’s talking to give the
boogersa chance to get away; we’ll go
in and have a look for them.”
There was a sharp click as the hand
cuffs were fastened on the woman’s
wrists; she screamed and poured out a
torrent of abuse; the men pushed
through the door and shut it behind
them.
You see you were a r lamb in a
wolf’s den,” Miss Ashton, said
the deep, soft voice of the man
who stood beside Ruth. She made
no reply; she felt faint and stunned.
She suffered him to put his
silk-lined water proof cloak about
her and drew the hood over her head
to protect her from the rain.
“Now let me put you in the car
riage; it is waiting for you,” he said.
His voice, gentle though it was, had a
tone that commanded obedience, as
well as inspired trust. She gave him
her hand without hesitation,^ and he
led her to the carriage, and helped her
into it; then saying to the coachman:
“Drive back to the hotel Thomas,” he
got it and took the seat opposite to
Ruth.
The carriage rolled away over
through the night and the rain.
Ruth was seized with momentary dis
trust.
“Where are you taking, me?” she
asked.
“To a quiet, family hotel, where
your friends are stopping.”
“Friends?” - • .
“Yes; you shall soon'kilow who they
are. Compose yourself, Miss Ashton.
Be assured that you are in the hands
of those who will care for your inter
ests.”
She took him at his word. Any
woman would have done so; and she
leaned back among the silken cushions
with a comforting sense of rest and
protection.
The carriage rolled into brightly-
lighted Broadway. It could not be so
late after all. Ruth saw many people
in the streets. They stopped in front
of an imposing building—all its many
windows—glowing with light. Ruth
read the name of a well-known, popu
lar hotel. , , . ,
The tall stranger helped her from
the carriage and led her up stairs to
the office, where he gave her name to
be registered, directing that a fire be
made in the room that was assigned.
“She comes from the South,” he said.
“A fire will seem more home-like than
your steam heat.”
He conducted Ruth to the Ladies
reading-room. It was deserted at this
hour, though a fire was smouldering
on the hearth. Seating her in a big,
sleepy-hollow chair, he said :
“You will find it pleasant to wait
here until your room is ready.”
He stood on the opposite side of the
hearth, leaning against the mantel
piece, looking down on her with a pe-
cular expression. A smile, slightly
quizzical in its expression, played
about the corners of his thin, well-cut
mouth.
“So, you do not remember me?” he
said at last.
“I surely do not remember that i
ever knew you,” Ruth answered, look
ing earnestly into his face.
“ ‘Should auld acquaintance be for
got?”’ he quoted, with mock reproach.
“I knew you when you were a brown
eyed little maid in white aprons.”
“That was long ago.”
“And I knew you in later, sadder
years,” he went on. “Ah! well, it is a
good thing I had not forgotten you"
It is fortunate I recognized you in
the street tonight.”
.-•‘Tonight—in the street,” cried Ruth
springing to her feet. A sudden Hash
of recognition in her eyes. “Then
you are—yes, you are the man I saw
in .front of the theatre. There was a
lady with you who
“Who you took to be some one you
knew. Tligse chance resemblanees
often -deceive us. Yes, it was I you
saw before the theatre; I had no time
to speak to you; the lady was feeling
ill and I was hastening, home with
her. But I sent-a- man to follow you
to your lodging and bring me your ad
dress. The man had once served on
the police forfce. When he came back
to me, he said that if the lady was a
friend of mine; 1 ought to advise her
to leave the house she was staying, in
immediately. It belonged to a noted
gambler and counterfeiter, who had
died not long since. It was his sister
who kept the lodging house. Her son
had been in the penitentiary out
West the was here now; lie had seen
the young scamp and his uncle—a
slick counterfeiter—come out.of the
house while he' was watching it. So
you were in queer-company, my inno
cent little country school ma’am, and
it was well that I recognized you,
though you, it seems—have entirely
forgotten an old acquaintance. Well,
young people have short memories. I
will see if you have forgotten another
old acquaintance of yours. He is
stopping here; I will bring him to see
you.”
He went out, bowing with that same
quizzical, half-smile on his face and
leaving Ruth in a maze of wonder and
conjecture.
Who was this man who had known
her as a child and then in later, sadder
years?
Who was the lady she had seen with
him—bearing such a likeness to the
lost Sybil?
In the -midst of her bewildered
thinking, a gentle knock fell upon the
door:she turned around as a figure
entered the room familiar to her in
every line. She uttered a little cry of
amazement, and ran to meet him.
[This story will be concluded in cur
issue of December 3d. The great volume
of matter prepared for the Thanksgiving
issue will prevent its publication in that
number.]
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Mrs William Lohr
Of Freeport, 111., began to fail rapidly, lost all
appetite and got into a serious condition from
DvQnpneis she coultl not eat vege-
UJfo|jC>|Jbla tables or meat, and even
toast distressed her. Had to give up house
work In a week after taking
Hood’s Sarsaparilla
She felt a little better. Could keep more food
on her stomach and grew stronger. Slie took
3 bottles, has a good appetite, gained 22 lbs.,
does her work easily, is now in perfect health.
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