Newspaper Page Text
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u
Love
Art?” Verdict, “Tragedy
ft
By LILLIAN HUNTLEY.
Written-for CAff'Junny South
j,JIE stiadio of Robert Lynde
hurst was a beautiful
room, artistic In Its every
appointment.
The walls wore covered
with choice paintings, cop-
1 ipd from the old masters,
and among them were
I 5 - many original pieces; f>r
was undoubtedly a gen-
| $ illfl.
Here and there were del
icate bits of statuary, de
lighting the eye of every
lover of art. In perfect harmony with
Hs surroundings, was Robert’s face, the
tint a pale, cold olive, the rich, dark hair
over the classic brow, the aquiline nose,
and thoughtful eyes. Determination was
* nthroned there, for it was one of his
distinguishing characteristics. His am-
l .’lion was to have a picture accepted at
the Royal academy, and to that end he*
had b*"n working for some time.
The windows were open on a lovely
morning in May, giving glimpses of the
clustering vines that shaded them, and
admitting the delicate refreshing fra
grance of the earliest flowers.
The sun glancing in. rested lovingly on
the golden head of a beautiful girl, who
v as reclining so gracefully, but listlessly.
In a large -irm ehatr. at a short distance
from the artist and his easel.
Her hair rippled * back in loose waves
fiom her face, forming a golden halo
around her broad white forehead, a few
hi tie curls escaping to play truant.
Her face was as fair as a lily and her
eyes—who could describe them?—their glo-
lfous depths--dark dreamy, gray, shaded
by midnight lashes, were soulful and in
spiring.
Ho thought Robert, as he painted on,
over and anon glancing admiringly at
the graceful figure In the white dress.
painted the light of genius glow-
id in his eyes, and he seemed oblivious to
«'*ll save his work and his lovely model.
Presently he was aroused by a gentle
sigh, and a slight movement as of weari
ness.
“Fiobert,” said a low voice, "will my
tiresome portrait never be finished? You
have been working on It a century. Iam
sure; I think I heard mamma calling me
a few moments ago, to assist her with
th‘* new roses, but you seemed so rapt,
I dared not move or speak."
There was a slight suspicion of a pout
on the cherry lips, which only enhanced
their beauty.
"Lorraine, my dear," began Robert, in
a slightly expostulating tone. "I have been
working on the portrait only a month,
and—’" *
‘ Oh. well," she said, airily arising, "pray
do not start any tiresome tirade now,
Robert. J am really not in the mood for
arguing;* the weather is too warm”—
laughing a little—"If you were not so
enthused* over your art"—here a slightly
scornful *tone crept in her voice—"I’d ask
you to assist us In planting the roses.
As it Is. you must really excuse me
now,” and she flitted from the room.
Robert painted on for a few moments, a
slight frown on his handsome face. Why
could not she, his fiancee, enter into his
love for art? It was with difficulty he
had persuaded her to allow him to paint
her portrait, and the dainty butterflylike
creature always became fatigued and
would invariably depart before me time
was out for her sitting.
Ix»rraine had good cause for disliking
art. All her life It had been one long
struggle with poverty, her father having
chosen art as his profession, became so
infatuated with it that he utterly refused
to abandon It, though his wife and daugh
ter realized years before that he would
never be a success as an artist.
When Lyndehurst resolved to make his
home here In the small country village
his friends wondered.
He had passed his vacation here one
summer and boarded with Lorraine’s par
ents, where he became fascinated with
the lovely, golden-haired, dreamy-eyed
girl. The surrounding scenery being
picturesque and to his taste, before
many months had passed he had taken
up hi*? abode there permanently, which
ended in his being the accepted lover of
Lorraine.
Sometimes a fear entered his mind that
he was not all that she desired. There
was frequently a slight restlessness in
her manner when he became glowing in
his praise of art.
“Robert’s tiresome tirades” she called
hisl (discourses, with a little curl of her
4W11 she said she loved him dearly,
and he endeavored to be contented. The
sun seemed to vanish from the room
when she left, so he soon laid aside his
brushes and we .t to se^k her.
He found her with her mother, superin
tending the planting of the new roses.
"What are you going to do this after
noon?” she demanded, turning her large,
wistful eyes on him as she spoke.
*‘I intend to devote this afternoon to
working on my Saint Cecelia—the expres
sion does not quite satisfy me.” Lor
raine breathed a low sigh.
"I am going out to gather wild flowers,
the woods are just full now, and I
thought it likely you would accompany
me,” again the wistful expression ap
peared, but faded into one of sadness as
she heard his careless reply.
"I would be glad to, dear, but Saint
Cecelia’s eyes trouble me,” and he stooped
and kissed her, all unconscious of the
pain that had suddenly crept in her heart,
and he turned and left her.
“He thinks more of his art than he
does of me," she murmured, the bitter
tears welling up in the dark eyes.
Robert did not intend to be careless or
indifferent, but he was to a great extent
wrapped up In his art, and certainly
Lorraine should not have been jealous of
his profession. Many fair iadies would
give their very eyes if that was the
only rival they feared.
She saw him no more until the luncheon
hour, then she was extremely quiet,
scarcely noticing Robert, ate very little
and excused herself before the meal was
half over.
Puitlng on a large garden hat, which
only enhanced her beauty, and taking a
basket, 5he wended her way to the woods,
with a weight at her heart she could not
have explained.
That evening she did not appear at
dinner, and, complaining of fatigue, re
tired early, so It happened that Robert
did not see her till the following morning,
when the hour for her sitting arrived.
As she languidly entered the room, her
lover was struck by the change in her
face. She was pale and her eyes had a
far-away, listless expression, which wor
ried him no little.
He began to paint, talking cheerfully to
her, as was his habit, hoping to draw her
oift. but to his dismay she replied only
In monosyllables.
"Lorraine, what is the matter?" he
asked her. when he could bear the sus
pense no longer.
For reply she only burst Into tears.
Robert was really alarmed. She sobbed
convulsively. He threw down his palette
and brushes and put his arms around
her. The sunny little head dropped on
his shoulder. As he held her close. Rob
ert realized that he and his loved work
must part, if he kept as near her as he
wished. In that one moment he felt that
he must give up his life’s ambition—all—
for the frail, trembling little creature by
his side.
‘ Suddenly she lifted her tear-stained face
and saw a new expression in his.
"Why, Robert!" she exclaimed in as
tonishment. He gently repulsed her. He
felt that he could not bring himself to
speak, Just then, of the resolution which
had cost him so much.
"There—we will not worry about the
portrait any more. Come, get your hat,
and we will go In search of the wild
flowers as I promised. Dry your tears,
little one, and smile once more."
It was with difficulty he spoke so
cheerfully, but as he looked in her sweet
face he felt that "the world was well lost
for love," and that no sacrifice he
''Painting from the Same Beautiful Model Now Lying Cold and Still.”
could make for her would be too great.
Oh. why, he thought, wonderingly to
himself, could she not have had an artis
tic temperament, she whose every mo
tion was full of symphony and grace. Ah.
well, he loved her. and that was enough.
She was very happy that beautiful after
noon, poor little one, but if she could
have looked Into the future, would she
not have turned away with frightened
eyes? Chatting merrily, they roamed here
and there, and returned laden with a
profusion of flowers.
Following such pleasureable pursuits,
the days passed on golden wings. Robert
trying to deceive himself into the belief
that he was jy? happy as Lorraine, who
w v as her own sunny self again, greatly
to his satisfaction.
He turned the key in the door of his
studio, and for weeks dared not ap
proach it. He felt that something had
gone out of his life—there was a void
somewhere and his mind was filled with
vague forebodings of evil. If Lorraine no
ticed it. she wisely said nothing and was
foolishly happy, feeling sure she was now
all in all to Robert.
But was she? Alas! Time alone will
tell.
The time approached for their wedding.
Lorraine was employed with the Retails
of her trousseau and Robert engaged in
refurnishing the small Gothic cottage
across the way.
During the reception following the cere
mony which united them for life, the ex
treme pallor of Robert’s face was remark
ed by his many friends, and his occa
sional abstracted air was in direct con
trast to the radiant face of the happy
bride.
The bridal tour was a time of unal
loyed happiness to Ivorraine, but was It
such to Robert?
If at times he felt a strange restless
longing, it passed by, unperceived by
others.
"Did he repent of his choice?"
One task Robert had ever before him,
from which he shrank with nervous
dread, and that was the removal of his
studio from the residence of the Mid
dletons to the Gothic cottage, where
thej* had been living some months, for he
reserved one room for the paraphernalia
of his art in his own home. He post
poned it from day to day, until he felt
he could bear It no longer. He must
have his treasures under his own roof.
Robert, being a very determined man
when his mind was made up. at once
effected preparations for the removal of
his pictures, easels, etc.
Lorraine trembled slightly when she
heard of his determination, for a vague
feeling of unrest stole over her, but she
made no comment. The day the art treas
ures were brought to the cottage, she
had busied 'herself arranging cut flow
ers in the crystal vases which orna
mented their sitting room, and ended by
arranging herself most daintily, as he
best liked her, in soft clinging mull, and
with red berries In the fair waves of her
hair. She had thought to make it happy
and pleasant for him that evening, in
their little drawing room, for she sur
mised, and • correctly, too, that his heart
would be sad and longing for his ldved
and lost art.
He was upstairs giving final orders to
the workmen and presently she heard him
slowly descenflng the stair. A faint trem
or seized her and she convulsively
clasped her delicate hands. She looked
up. breathlessly, as he suddenly entered,
and her cheek paled.
His face was haggard and In his eyes
was a peculiar glitter which sent a cold
thrill to her heart and filled her with a
nameless dread.
Stumbling blindly, he* fell down on a
divan, and with a groan covered his
face with his 'hands. Twice she essayed
to speak to him. but her tongue clove
to the roof of her mouth.
Was she growing afraid of Robert, her
own dear Robert? Surely not!
Resolutely she arose and going to the
divan, knelt by him. softly calling his
name.
No answer.
“Robert.” she cried in a frenzy of fear,
"speak to me; what is the matter with
you ?"
Robert suddenly raised his head.
"Lorraine," he said, irritably, “why are
you making such a scene? Please do not
trouble me with useless inquiries. Do go
away and leave me."
Poor Lorraine! She felt as If a cold
hand clutched at her heart. it was
the first time she had ever heard such
a tone from her husband—the first, but
alas! not the last. The lustrous eyes
slowly filled with tears and. rising, she
left the room almost heart-broken.
Lyndehurst did not even notice her
departure, so rapt was he In thoughts
of his own.
As the day advanced the suspense be
came unbearable to I^orraine and late
that afternoon she descended from her
apartment to seek Robert. was no
where to be seen and with a sigh she
was again ascending the stair when a
slight sound in the direction of the studio
made her pause and caused her heart to
palpitate.
Yes. he was there! but for some strange,
unaccountable reason she dared not go
near.
When he appeared at dinner she had
to blt£ her lips to keep from screaming
in dismay. His face was worn, haggard,
and he looked ten years older.
He made no remark during the dinner
hour, which his wife thought intermina
ble. That was the beginning. Day by
day Robert grew more silent and morose,
seeming to care for nothing around him,
least of all his wife.
Day by day she became paler and thin
ner, and the estrangement between them
grew more apparent. >^o one knew the
bitter tears Lorraine wept in secret.
Her husband rarely spoke to her now
and she grew strangely silent, ever won
dering what she should do. In her heart
of hearts she knew’ that Robert was
longing for his old work, and she felt
that she would willingly see him devoting
his time to it again If It would cause him
to regain his lost spirits. She endeav
ored to summon sufficient courage to ask
him to resume his work In art. as she
longed to- see him once more the light
hearted Robert of old.
The time arrived sooner than she ex
pected.
At breakfast the next morning, after
she had made her solemn resolution, she
fancied that Robert looked a trifle more
cheerful. She was afraid to reach the
heart of the matter at once, but said
with a boldness she was far from feel
ing:
"Robert, dear, I am sure your office
work does not agree with you. You
look pale and thin, and I fear you have
made too great a sacrifice for my sake.
I now see my mistake, and if I erred I
beg you to forgive me. To prove that
you will pardon me. you must grant
the favor I now ask of you. By* day
and by night a picture floats before my
eyes, which will, if you paint it as I see
it, make you famous.
"It is," she continued, taking courage
from his silence, but not yet daring tj
look at his face. If she had, she would
have stopped aghast. "I call it 'The Re
nunciation.’ It is a—"
"Stay!" Robert turned to her with a
lurid light in his eyes, which caused her
to shrink back appalled.
"Stay! I command you! Never broach
that subject again. It was you. you who
caused me to give tip my loved art—
the ambition of my life—you and non>
other: and now\ now when I have lost
my power to paint, when the god of ge
nius has turned his back on me. when
my band has lost its cunning, you taunt
me with It.
"On yesterday, feeling I could bear it
no longer, T resigned my position at the
office, and once more began my work,
striving to regain my lost talent, but to
no avail, until I felt I was mad—mad.
"Say no more. It was for you I gave
up my ambition, for you T renounced my
heart’s desire, for you I ceased my life
work. It Is you who have caused my
ruin; it is you who have shattered my
hopes—you, who should have been my
mascot, have prove-d to be my evil ge
nius."
He ended with a maniacal laugh, which
froze her blood and made her eyes dilate
with terror. As she sat. horror-stricken,
gazing at him. he left the table and came
toward his wife with uplifted hand, as if
to strike her.
FTer nerves could endure no more. She
uttered a scream, and fell senseless at his
feet.
As he stood with clenched hands. look
ing down on her fair, pale face, his own
softened slightly, and the wild light, in
a measure, died out of his eyes.
“I must be mad,’’ ho muttered, and
Stooping, ho gently liftod hor, carrying
her to a divan, where he carefully de
posited his burden.
In a moment she opened her eyes and
gazed at him. too terrified to sponk. but
he gently soothed her. bogging her to
sleep, and though she fought against it.
reaction took place, and she was soon
slumbering peacefully. As soon ns Rob
ert satisfied himself that she slept, h*'
quietly stole away for a long tramp in
the beautiful woods, which harmonized si
well with his softened mood. As he walk
ed. ho ponderod over his life, ruined,
blighted, forevor saddened by one irre-
I’ocable mistake. Then his thoughts turn
ed to her—she, who had caused all this
misery by a mere whim, and his heart
hardened.
"Why did I give up my art for her?”
he muttered, and again his eyes flashed
in lurid fire as he turned to retrace his
steps.
He met his wife coldly, and she was
afraid to look into his eyes—fearing, she
knew not what.
And so it was. They lived In almost
total silence.
If Robert could have been more hag
gard or gloomy, he became so.
And Lorraine, poor, frail little creature
—the agony she endured was undermining
her strength and sapping her vitality.
Every one (save Robert) who saw her
knew she was not in this vale of tears for
long. He appeared not to see, nor did he
seem to care.
The end came sooner than was ex
pected.
One afternoon Robert came in—a stony
stare on Hs face, and a wild sinister glit
ter In his eyes.
Lorraine was looking dreamily out of .
the window as he entered and ascended
at once to his studio. She could not un
derstand this, and with a vague un
easiness she arose and followed him.
Throwing open the door of his studio,
and tottering toward him, she fell on
her knees by his chair.
"Robert," she cried in a frenzy of
despair, throwing her arms around him,
"I can endure this torture no longer.
Love me, love me, or I shall die."
Her head suddenly fell forward and
rested on his shoulder. Lyndehurst rais
ed her impatiently.
The teautiful arms relaxed their hold,
and Lorraine fell back and was still.
Thus they were found. She pale, beau
tiful, dead on the floor beside him.
The god of genius had returned, but
was now enthroned in the brain of a
madman, whom we see, as when we first
met him. painting from the same beau
tiful model, now lying cold and still,
painting feverishly and laughing horri
bly.
Hound of the BasKervilles
CONTINUED FROM FIRST PAGJ*
away baffled and disheartened. Once
again V. had reached that dead wall which
seemed to be built across every path by
which I»tried to get at the object of my
mission. And yet the more I thought of
the lady’s face and of her manner the
more I flelt that something was being
held back,from me. Why should she turn
so pale? Why should she fight against
every admission until it was forced from
her? Why should she have been so reti
cent at the time of the tragedy? Surely
the explanation of all this could not be
as innocent as she would have me be
lieve. For the moment 1 could proceed
no further in that direction, but must
turn back fo that other clew which was
to be sought for among the stone huts
upon the moor.
And that was a most vague direction.
I realized it as I drove back and noted
how hill after hill' showed traces of the
ancient people. Barrymore’s only indi
cation had been that the stranger lived
In one of these, abandoned huts, and
many hundreds of them are scattered
throughout the length and breadth of the
moor. But I had my own experience for
a guide since it had shown me the man
himself standing upon the summit of the
Black Tor. That, then, should be the
center of my search. From there I sl^iuld
explore every hut upon the moor until I
lighted upon the right one. If this man
were inside it 1 should find out from his
own lips, at the point of my revolver if
necessary, who he was and why he had
dogged us so long. He might slip away
from us in the crowd of Regent Btreet,
but it would puzzle him to do so upon
the lonely moor. On the other hand, if
I should find the hut and its tenant
should not he within it I must remain
there, however long the vigil, until he
returned. Holmes had missed him in
I^i>ndon. It would Indeed be a triumph
for me if I could run him to earth, where
my master had failed.
Luck had been against us again and
again in this inquiry, hut now at last it
came to my aid. And the messenger of
good fortune was none other than Mr.
Frankland. who was standing, gray-
whiskered and red-faced, outside the
gate of his garden, which opened on to
the high road along which I traveled.
"Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he,
with unwonted good humor. "You must
really give your horses a rest, and come
in to have a glass of wine and to con
gratulate me."
My feelings toward him were far from
being friendly after what I had heard
of his treatment of his daughter, but I
was anxious to :|*nd Perkins and the
wagonette home, and the opportunity
w-as a good one. I alighted and sent a
message to Sir Henry that I should walk
over In time for dinner. Then I followed
Frankland into his dining room.
“It is a great day for me, sir—one of
the red-letter days of my life," he cried,
with many chuckles. "I have brought
off a double event. I mean to teach them
in these parts that law Is law’, and that
There is a man here who does not fear
to invoke It. I have established a right
of w*ay through the center of old Mid
dleton’s park, slap across it, sir, within
a hundred yards of his own front door.
What dt) you think of that? We’ll teach
these magnates that they cannot ride
rough shod over the rights of the com
moners, confound them! And I’ve closed
the wrood where the Fernworthy fc%k
used to picnic. These infernal people
seem to think that there are no rights
of property, and that they can swarm
where they like with their papers and
their bottles. Both cases decided. Dr.
Watson, and both In my favor. I haven’t
had such a day since I had Sir John
Morland for trespass, because he shot is
his own warren."
“How on earth did you do that?"
"Look it up in the books, sir. It will
repay reading—Frankland v. Morland,
court of queen's bench. It cost me £200
but I got my \*erdlct."
"Did it do you any good?"
"None, sir, none. I am proud to say
that I had no interest in the matter. I
act entirely from a sense of public duty.
I have no doubt, for example, that the
Fernworthy people wilj burn me in ef
figy tonight. I told the police last time
they did it that they should stop these
disgraceful exhibitions. The county con
stabulary is in a scandalous state, sir,
and it has not afforded me the protection
to w’hich I am entitled. The case of
Frankland v. Regina will bring the mat
ter before the attention of the public. I
told them that they would' have occasion
to regret their treatment of me, and al
ready my words have come true."
"How so?" I asked.
The old man put on a very knowing ex
pression.
"Because I could tell them w’hat they
are dying to know; but nothing would in
duce me to help the rascals in any way."
I had been casting round for some ex-
djse by which I could get away from
his gossip, but now I beg^i to wish ro
hear more of it. I had seen enough of
the contrary nature of the old sinner to
understand that any strong sign of in
terest would be the surest way to stop
his confidences.
"Some poaching case, no doubt?” said
I, with an indifferent manner.
“HHr, ha. my hoy, a very much more
important matter than that! What about
the convict on the moor?"
I started. "You don’t mean that you
know where he is?" said I.
4 1 may not know exactly where he is.
but I am quite sure that I could help the
police to lay their hands on him. Has
it never struck you that the way to catch
that man was to find out where he got
his food, and so trace it to him?”
He certainly seemed to be getting un
comfortably near the truth. "No doubt,
said I; “but how do you know that he
is anywhere upon the moor?"
"I know it because I have seen with
my own eyes the messenger who takes
him his food.”
My heart sank for Barrymore. It was
a serious thing to be in the power of
this spiteful old busybody. But his next
remark took a weight from my mind.
"You’ll he surprised to hear that his
food is taken to him by a child. I see
him every day through my telescope
upon the roof. He passes along the same
path at the same hour, and to whom
should he be going except to the con
vict?"
Here was luck indeed! And yet I sup
pressed all appearance of interest. A
child! Barrymore had said that our un
known was supplied by a hoy. It was
on his track, and not upon the convict’s,
that Frankland had stumbled. If I could
get his knowledge it might save me a
long and weary hunt. But incredulity and
indifference were evidently my strongest
cards.
"I should say that it was much more
likely that it was the son of one of the
moorland shepherds taking out his fath
er's dinner.”
The least appearance of opposition
struck fire out of the old autocrat. His
eyes looked malignantly at me, and his
gray whiskers bristled like those of an
angry cat.
“Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over
the wide-stretehing moor. "Do you see
that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do
you see the low hill beyond with the
thornbrush upon it? It is the stoniest
part of the whole moor. Is that a place
where a shepherd would be likely to take
his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a
most absurd one.”
I meekly answered that I had spoken
without knowing all the facts. My sub
mission pleased him and led him to fur
ther confidences.
“You may he sure, sir, that I have very
good grounds before I come to an opin
ion. I have seen the boy again and
again with his bundle. Every day, and
sometimes twice a day, I have been able
—but wait a moment. Dr. Watson. Do
my eyes decieve me, or is there at the
present moment something moving upon
that hillside?”
It was several miles off, but I could
distinctly see a small dark dot against
the dull green and gray.
"Come, sir, come!” cried Frankland,
rushing upstairs. "You will see with your
own eyes and judge for yourself."
The telescope, a formidable instrument
mounted upon a tripod, stood upon the
flat leads of the house. Frankland clap
ped his ej’e to it and gave a cry of sat
isfaction.
"Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he
passes over the hill!"
There he was, sure enough, a small
urchin with a little bundle upon his
shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When
he reached the crest I saw the ragged
uncouth figure outlined for an instant
against the cold blue sky. He looked
round him, with a furtive and stealthy
air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he
vanished over the hill.
"Well! Am I right?"
"Certainly, there is a boy who seems
to have some secret errand."
"And what the errand is even a county
constable could guess. But not one word
shall they have from me, and I bind you
to secrecy also. Dr. Watson. Not a word!
You understand!"
"Just as you wish."
"They have treated me shamefully—
shamefully. When the facts come out in
Frankland v. Regina I venture to think
that a thrill of indignation will run
through the country. Nothing would In
duce me to help tlir police In any way.
For all they cared it might have been
me, instead of my effigy, whiefc these
rascals burned at the stake. Surely you
are not going! You will help me to
empty the decanter in honor of this great
occasion!"
But I resisted all his solicitations and
succeeded in dissuading him from his
annnounced intention of walking home
with me. I kept the road cs long as his
eye was on me, and then I struck off
across the moor and made for the stony
hill over which the boy had disappeared.
Everything was working in my favor,
and I swore that it should not be through
lack of energy or perseverance that 1
should miss the chance which Fortune
had thrown In my way.
The sun was already sinking when I
reached the summit of the hill, and the
long slopes beneath me were all golden-
green on one side and gray shadow on
the other. A haze lay low upon the far
thest sky-line, out of which jutted the
fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen
Tor. Ot*er the wide expanse there was
no sound and no movement. One great
gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft
in the blue Heaven. He and I seemed to
be the only living things between the
huge arch of the sky and the desert be
neath it. The barren scene, the sense of
loneliness, and the mystery and urgency
of my task all struck a chill Into my
heart. The hoy was nowhere to he seen.
But down beneath me in a cleft of the
hills there was a circle of the old stone
hiAs. and in the middle of them there
was one which retained sufficient roof to
act as a screen against the weather
My heart leaped within me as I saw
it. This must be the burrow where the
stranger lurked. At last my foot was on
the threshold of his hiding place—his se
cret was within my grasp.
As I approached the hut. walking as
warily as Stapleton would do when with
poised net he drew near the settled but
terfly, I satisfied myself that the place
had indeed been used as a habitation. A
vague pathway among the boulders led
to the dilapidated opening which served
as a door. All was silent within. The
unknown might he lurking there, or he
might be prowling on the moor. My
nerves tingled with the sense of adven
ture. Throwing aside my cigarette. I
closed my hand upon the butt of my re
volver and, walking swiftly up to the
door, I looked In. The place was empty.
But there were ample signs that I had *
not come upon a false scent. This was
certainly where the man lived. Some
blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon
that very stone slab upon which neolithic
man had once slumbered. The ashes of a
fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside
it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket
half full of water. A litter of empty
tins showed that the place had been oc
cupied for some time, and I saw. as my
eyes became accustomed to the chequer
ed light, a pannikin and a half full bottle
of spirits standing in the corner. In the
middle of the hut a fiat stone served
the pvirpose of a table, and upon this
stood a small cloth bundle—the same, no
doubt, which I had seen through the
telescope upon the shoulder of the boy.
It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned
tongue, and two tins of preserved
peaches. As I set it down again, after
having examined it, my heart leaped to
see that beneath it there lay a sheet of
paper with writing upon it. I raised It,
and this was what I read, roughly
scrawled in pencil:
"Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tra-
angel? I swore that I would not leave
the hut until I knew.
Outside the sun was sinking low and
the west was blazing with scarlet and
gold. Its reflection was shot hack in
ruddy patches by the distant pools which
lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There
were the two towers of Baske’-vlUe Hall,
and there a distant blur of smoke which
marked the village of GrlmpeiT. Be
tween the two. behind the hill, was the
house of the Stapletons. All was sweet
and mellow and peaceful in the golden
evening light, and yet as I looked at
them my soul shared none of the peace
of nature, but quivered at the vagueness
and the terror of that Interview which
every instant was bringing nearer. With
tingling nerves, hut a fixed purpose, I
sat in the dark recess of the hut and
waited with somber patience for the com
ing of its tenant.
And then at last I heard him. Far away
came the sharp clink of a boot striking
upon a stone. Then another and yet
another, coming nearer and nearer. 1
shrank back Into the darkest corner, and
cocked the pistol in my pocket, deter
mined not to discover myself until I
had an opportunity of seeing something
of the stranger. There was a long pause
which showed that he had stopped. Then
once more the footsteps approached an4
a shadow fell across the opening of the
hut.
"It is a lovely evening, my dear Wat
son." siad a well known voice. “I really
think that you will be more comfortable
outside than in?”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Copyright, 1902.
JS?
cey..
For a minute I stood there with the pa
per In my hands thinking out the mean
ing at thus curt message. It was I. then
and not Sir Henry, who was being dogged
by this secret man. He had not followed
me himself, but he had set an agent—
the boy, perhaps—upon my track, and
this was Ms report. Possibly I had taken
no step since I had beet: upon the moor
which had not been observed and re
peated. Always there was this feeling of
an unseen force, a fine net drawn round
us with infinite skill and delicacy, hold
ing us so lightly that It was only at some
supreme moment that one realised that
one was Indeed entangled In Its meshes.
If there was one report there might be
others, so I looked round the hut In
search of them. There was no trace,
however, of anything of the kind, nor
could I discover any sign which might
indicate the character or Intentions of the
man who lived in this singular place, save
that he must be of Spartan habits, and
cared little for the comforts of life.
When I thought of the heavy rains and
looked at the gaping roof I understood
how strong and Immutable must be the
purpose which had kept him In that in
hospitable abode. Was he our malignant
enemy, or was he by chance our guardian
How He Lost Her.
He hardly dared to touch her hand;
He deemed she was so far above him
That he would never have the sand
To even think that she could love him.
And so he let concealment prev
I'pon the cheek he lacked so badly,
And dumbly watched her day by day
And moped about and acted sadlv.
It may be she his secret guessed-
If so. she never seemed to show it
But then, if love is not expressed
A girl can't be supposed to know it
She let the foolish fellow call.
He had a crude idea of spooning-
He seemed afraid to talk at all
And sat and took it out in mooning.
Another suitor came at last.
Who was not shy about his’ wooing;
She knew ere many minutes passed
That there was something certain doing.
And one week from the day they met
His ring was on her second finger-
Also, the happy dav was set—
That lover surely did' not linger
And So. 1 he drooped and pined
Recovered, some time later mated
And ever after was inclined
To thank his lucky stars he'd waited.
The moral is. when all is done
Our love we should not hide nor
smothei.
But. anyway. It's six of one
And half a dozen of the other.