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VOLUME XLWN UMBER S. EEN.
Atlanta, Ga., Week Ending June 30, 1906.
50c PER YEAR—SINGLE COPY 5c.
Che Town Gossip
By HILTON CASTLE,
Written for The SUN MY SOUTH
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ILLICENT GRiAiNT sat on
her tiny front porch in
dustriously mending her
week's wash. Now and
then she peered through
the moon-tlower vine at
some passerby, always ac-
companylngr the act with a
long-drawn sigh. Anss
Milicent was the last o£
her race. She lived In a
a little white cottage with
green trim, all alone save
for old black Sicily, who
of the *time laid up with
was most ol
rheumatism. Second to the great grip
she had borne in losing both parents in
a railroad wreck, was t>he sorrow she
was enduring now. Her long thick
lashes closed tightly over a pair of large
Celtic eyes as she bit her thread with
an emphasis.
A tell-tale tear was about to steal
down her pale cheek who nthe click
the front sate rounded, and Miss Delia
Tuty.-iier, the town gossip, walked se
renely up the path.
"Why, Millieent,’ ’exclaimed that lady
ftffusively, * you are. as white os a
dozen stiffs. I thought you had more
character that* to let a man's perfidy
make you ill. For goodness sake, child,
don't let him know you feel It so."
“Indeed.”
"Oh. don't try to hide your feelings
from me, Mtlioent," interrupted (Miss
Tutwiler; ”1 can read you like a book,
lien never was a favorite of mine any-
way, but to see him carrying on with
that strange girl is sufficient to make
you hate him. I saw them out buggy
riding Just now. and she looked as beau
tlful as a La France rose. That's the
name the boy? ha.ve dubbed her, hut to
tell the truth, Ben has never given
anyone chance to speak of her.”
"Why, Miss Delia,” Millieent at last
succeeded in saying. “I can't see why
Mr. Barnes shouldn’t enjoy the society
of a ItA'ely young girl. He certainly
has my permission to do as be pleases."
"What nonsense, Millieent; he has only
known her 11t-ee days, and they are to
gether morning, noon, and night, and
everybody thought he was engaged to
her. To be sure, you are getting on in
years. Millieent, you must be thirty now,
and that girl he is carrying on with is
scarcely out of her teens. Hasn't he
called on you since she came? No? If
that fc-n't an example of man’s treach
ery! But beauty is a jjower, isn't it?
You should have seen her last night,
dressed In a white French organdie, with
Ills flowers, La France roses, at her
waist. She looked like a dream. She
must have money, for without it she
could ft trig up as she does. You hadn't
seen theai together yet? No? Well, upon
my word, that's a pleasure In store for
you—though it can’t be much of a pleas
ure to have another woman cut you out.
Why, how long is it, Millieent, that ho
has been devoted to jou? Goodness gra
cious! Sister Sarah says that as you
were ijot at t-he meeting last night It was
a sure sign all was up between you.”
Millieent moved uneasily in her seat,
and cogitated how she might escape. "I
must realy go and give Aunt Sicily her
medicine,” she said. "Excuse me for a
moment.”
"All right, dear, and while you are gone
I'll sit here and watch. Oh, did I tell
you Milicent, thar, she is stopping at
the hotel, and alone? Sister Sarah says
there'll be a scandal yet, for Bessie Bur
roughs told her she was sure she saw
him kiss her last night. Bessie says lie
twitted her under the chin and called her
his little girl. Millieent, those La France
roses are perfectly beautiful. You should
always keep them on hand—to remind
you of Ben's disloyalty.”
Miss Tutiwller's voice had grown louder
and louder as MllHcent’s footsteps re
ceded. Suddenly she changed her seat,
and peered through the vines a.t a little
cloud of dust in the distance. In a mo
ment her manner was all animation.
"Millieent, oh, Millieent,” sihe screamed,
as she recognized the two beings she
Lad been discussing, coming down the
road behind a handsome gray mare.
“Quick, here they are, and she has on
tl at lovely French organdie, and tue
La France roses. Quick, quick.”
Millieent was but a woman. With as
much indifference as she could assume,
she hastened to the porch, and en
sconced herself 'behind the trusty moon-
flower vine. Her heart might break, but
she must glimpse this beauty who had
charmed her lover away.
“Good gracious, Millieent, if they are
not stopping! How glad I am I happened
in! And don't they make a (handsome
couple? How happy they look! I'm sure
ti.ey're engaged.”
Did you know he had given her a
ping pong set! He's tying the horse!
They’re coming up the walk—and see
how coquettishly she looking into his
face.”
Millieent felt her heart beating vio
lently and her cheeks growing somewhat
pale; but by the time her guests had
reached the steps there was no visible
sign of the white feather.
With a sweet dignity site extended her
hand to the most charming young girl
she thought she had ever seen; tall and
graceful, with a face In reality as fresh
ami beatiful as a La France rose.
There was a twinkle in Ben’s eye as
he placed his arm about the waist of the
young girl.
"Millieent. I told her she couldn't leave
until she had met the dearest woman
In the world. This is my niece, Caro
lyn Searles.”
And nobody knew when Miss Tutwiler
stole away to tel! sister Sarah all about
it.
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^ Lonely Bettie ^
Ufye Keeper of tine Inn
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m T caused a nine days’ won
der among the people of
Twallingham when the
news got about that Mr.
George Bafte.rsley had left
h1s wife and daughters so
poorly provided iiV>r that
they would be obliged to
leave t'helr spacious home,
and live economically In
some small house. For
years they hud classed
among gentry' of sub
stance. Mr. Batters ley
was supposed to he a very wealthy
man. with an Income derived from ap
parently Inexhaustible mines and nour
ishing plantations In transatlantic re-
Igions.
Scarcely anybody- cared for his wife—a
dull, anxious-faoed woman, credited with
being very "near" In her own expendi
ture. Of the daughters, the plain one,
Marla, was engaged to a curate whose
income would scarcely justny marriage
wiilj a penniless girl for years to come;
while Alice, so pretty that her many
admirers had been all supposed to be
thinking less of tha father’s wealth than
tile daughter's eyes, was still free when
the great change came.
The inquiry into Mr. Battersley's af
fairs showed that he had. nearly spent
the last of heavy legacies from relatives,
and that, while denying himself nothing
he could fancy, and paying lavishly for
outside popularity, he had left to ills
family but the few hundreds he did not
not live long enough to get rid of in his
usual style.
As speedily a.» It could be managed,
a great sale took place, the stately
home passed to a new owner, and the
widow, with her daughters, went to live
in a roomy cottaige ait the unfashionable
end of Twaliingham, taking with them
the oldest, plainest part of their furni
ture.
The two sisters had counted on being
able to earn sufficient money to be able
to keep their modest household going
without touching the little capital which
was to be reserved for emergencies.
They were now ffm..ng out that nobody
wanted their services; that their accom
plishments were a drug in the market;
that a.ble.r, stronger women, trained to
work, mould be preferred before them;
and that every advantage would be
taken of their Ignorance of the hucks
tering world's way*.
The cltnlax of their anxieftlos was
reached eighteen months after the
father's death, for Alice was knocked
down and so severely injured by a reck
less cyclist that she became a helpless
invalid for a while.
Maria's curate TO still working for
a stingy old rector who begrudged him
his very modest stipend, and effected to
forget when a became du*.
Maria began to look much older end
plainer as the m-ork of their smmil home
devolved almost entirely upon her; and
the pessimistic mother spent most of her
time in her bedroom, now shared by
the ailing daughter, as it happened to be
the largest apartment in the house.
“Mother," exclaimed Alice one day,
from her little bed, "leave mending that
old sheet, and tuflk! There are ghosts
in this room, who must be -exorcised by
human conversation of a practical turn.
1 have heard them slip and si de when
tlie place lias been very quiet. Talk
about something, but not about our pov
erty. We can do that when 1 get better
and And some paying work. J.ook here!
You were a baronet's granddaughter,
and have never made enough of your an
cestry. It ought to help us with rich
snobs. Bring dear old Sir James Af-
flngton's name more in your discourse
with visitors!”
"Never, my dear!” replied Mrs. Batter-
rley, firmly. "His name would only
remind people of that scandalous woman
who was his third wife. Before now ill-
natuTed persons have said she wn-s my
own grandmother—shame on them!—and
have made me afraid to talk of relations.
She disgraced your great-grandfather's
name forever!”
"How interesting!” exclaimed tlhe In
valid. "Oh, mother, do cheer me up with
the awful tale, and so make me forget
my aches! She was called Lovely Bet
ty, wasn't she, and 'became the most
talked-egf woman of her day, the idol of
jirlnces. poets anil painters? Began *.te
as a tramp's child, did she not, and end
ed it as a baronet's wife, after dukes and
all sorts bad gone mad over her? How
came great-grandfather to marry her,
mother?”
"Because he was sillier than the rest,”
replied Mrs. Battersley, Indignantly. "1
never saw the creature hut once, though
I heard all about her. She was getting
very stout, losing <her beauty, and taking
to drink; and she married a foolish old
man to have a home and behave exactly
las she liked. Well, she drank more and
more, spent nnd gambled, beat him and
knocked him about If he expostulated—
and then died In a fit one week before he
did- There was an Inquest, and scandal
without end: and very little of the' Ar
lington fortune came to my mother, who
was the second wife’s daughter! So
unfair, too, that of three wives, the last
and worst should make the title of Lady
Affington one to be remembered.”
The mother quitted the room, and the
daughter was left alone. Though free
from bodily pain, Alice was still feeble;
and she feared that months might pass
before sho could get about again. She
would have to lie there with dingy wall-
re per to look at as she turned to her
right, while on the left stood the large
old wardrobe which 'had been her moth
er’s >so many years.
Coming along the narrow garden path
were four persons: Mrs. Jay, wife of the
chaplain to the county asylum; the chap
lain himself; his brother, the naval of
ficer who had so admired poor Alice some
three years ago; and a young Jay, a
youth at home for his holidays.
Marla 'had warmly welcomed them, anil
insisted they must come in and see her
mother. It was worth while, after all,
to keep up with nice people who had
known them in better days.
Mrs. Jay was one of these women who
depart slowly, and her leavetaking had
not quite finished—her husband, son and
brother In law waiting patiently the
while—when a loud scream rang through
the cottage, followed by calls for ''Moth
er!” in Alice’s voice.
Mrs. Battersley, Mrs. Jay, and Maria
ran up the stairs, and found the ailing
girl in a dazed, half-fainting condition,
trembling and hardly awake.
"Oh. the horrible woman!” sho gasred.
"Tho groat, bloated creature who crawl
ed out of the wardrobe anil then lay
across my chest! Make her go, mother,
or I must die!"
"A dream,” Mrs. Jay ejaculated; “or
perhaps a touch of hysterics! A\ e'll stay
with you my dear, and nothing shall
hurt you! Plenty of men downstairs to
drive anything away. She will be her
self soon, though. Mrs. Battersley!”
“I am myself now,” sobbed the inva
lid, somewhat angrily; “but I know that
woman is hiding somewhere, and will
come back to me if you go. For days
and nights I have heard her rustling
and feeling about, counting money,
too, over and over again. She's Lovely
Betty, I'm sure, and she hides in that
wardrobe!' '
"She must be humored, the same as
lunatics have to be," whispered Mis.
Jay to the mother. ”I/et us open the
cupboard, and pretend to search, and
then show her nobody is there!"
Some dresses and bandboxes were ac
cordingly removed from the mysterious
piece of furniture and piled on Mrs.
Battersley's bed till very little seemed
left behind. With a great assumption
of cheerfulness, Mrs. Jay affected to
listen for possible sounds—when, to her
astonishment, and that of Mrs. Batter
sley and Maria, a grating noise was
plainly heard for a moment or two then
a rattle of small metalic objects failing
in a shower.
“Plaster or mice!” exclaimed the visi
tor. somewhat startled at the sounds.
“Lovely Befty!” answered Alice, now
well awake, and recovered from her pre
vious alarm. “You are all here, three
of you, and can bear witness to her
noSscsl (She began making them as
soon as my bed was moved to this cor
ner and the wardrobe dragged nearer
the door.”
“My dear, let Mr. Jay coma up and
see you,” asked the chaplain’s wife,
soothingly. "His iitxiy office, you know
— and then, he Is so against spirit rap
ping and such things, and could ex
plain away anything queer. And if it
is mice, you must have a cat in the
room with you!”
The Rev. John Jay willingly came at
his wife's request, gave Alice a few
cheery words, laughed at the iuea of a
ghost haunting the premises, tapped the
walls, and finally gave the wardrobe a
good shake.
“Of course, there Is a noise!” he cried.
“It is Miss Maria’s black necklace,
broken and rattling about the cup
board, or the dish running away with
the spoons. Any movement in this lit
tle old house will help these sounds.”
On being assured that no necklace or
spoons were responsible for the stir.
Mr. Jay gave a few more raps and
thumps, and then asked if his brother
and son would be allowed upstairs for
a minute.
The Chaplin, the captain and the school
boy 1 aving piiUtvl t:he old wardrobe closer
to the window, Mr. Jay announced that,
from the inside, part of the back seemed
to Ibe sliding down, revealing a gap be
hind, which was apparently filled with
rags. A roll of these rags being pulled
cut by the school boy’s daring hand
proved to be an ancient and much dis
colored pair of corsets, of very large size
and extremely heavy; and another pair
then followed, much the same in quality,
nnd with gold coins escaping from the
patches in which they had been sewn.
The ladles screamed and shuddered at
these objects, and the quest norw became
so exciting that the men soon broke
down tiie remalnUic-r of tho false back
Which hid the rest of the treasure.
The famous Lovely Betty's private
Liard was laid bare. In three little bags,
added to tlie corsets first discovered, were
\ery many guineas. A small bundle com
posed of a shabby silken skirt contained
necklaces, brooches and bracelets, old-
'fasbloneJ, yet of a certain value; and a
oeidboard )x>x inclosed t wo splendid dia
mond rings. Fitting- closely in the nar
row space available was an unframed oil
P«;r:ting, which Captain Jay extricated
most carefully from its hiding place.
This picture represented such a beauti
ful young woman, so sweet of aspect and
fair of face, tlia't a general cry of admi
re lion greeted it when first shown. Two
'miniatures—one evidently of the same girl,
the other of a man—next came to light;
ar.a, as a finish, several packets of let
ters.
By HERBERT SHAW.
The sale of the notorious Lady A fling-
ten's portrait made a gicnt sensation. It
bring pronounced by expeits to be the
finest ever painted of her as a girl. A
millionaire paid a fancy price for it, anil
would gladly have seoured other relics of
Ix/vv ly Betty at a proportionately high
figure 1 . Alice, however, held to the ex
quisite miniature of the step-great-grand-
'inotlior whose hoardings hail proved of
such benefit in the time of need; and
Maria took the best of the Jewelry when
she married her curate.
Mrs. Battersley burned the letters, act
ing on the advice of the Rev. John Jay,
Lo w horn they had been entrusted for pe
rusal.
When Alice had recovered htr strength
.and could walk again, more than one
•match was arranged for her by Twalling-
lmm gossips, and the first favorite with
them seemed to be Captain Jay; yet
Mrs. Battersley would sometimes say
that she found it a great trial to meet
him. as he must remember what dreadful
tilings he had handed her fro.n her very
cwn wardrobe.
HEN Harold McKergow was
tweniy-thice he came into
money—not much—anil for
a year or so he went a lit
tle wild. The technical
term that young bloods use
in conversation afterwards,
when talking of this part
of their existence, is
“Years a.go, you know, old
chap, when I was flying.
• • *” But McKergow was
of stronger s'.uff than tho
average young blood, al
though that Is going too far In front.
Hard pressed for money at the end of
•Ills brief flight, lie tried—something. It
faded, of course. It was an incident, a.nd
no more, which was known only by hift
mother and two men.
It failed* and he went abroad. He
worked like ithe very deuce. He returned,
after weary years, with money, which
was good, and a knowledge, of the proper
value of money, which was better. Also
he was a strong man who was still a
toy at heart, and he had cleared the
rust.
And he mot Erica Marsden and loved
her. as others dkl or had done.
It was not Erica Marsden's fault (and
certainly not hor desire) t.ha.t her name
had been coupled at tiroes with different
men, more especially with Marker, once
a man about town (with a strange repu
tation) and now a wanderer, whom Mc
Kergow had known.
On a night McKergow went to her, told
htr, and asked her a quesition. AicKer-
gow, who knew a little about women by
now. told himself that no woman had a
r.'ght to hesitate to the point of inde
cision inecau.se a man went straightfor
ward to her. Or rather, his thoughts
went on, no man had a right to marry
a woman who did hesitate because—
“Erica,” said he, “I love you. But I
am going away because you arc not cer
tain of yourself.”
She did not think these words strange,
because she also knew him a little.
“I have had a better training than
yen,” lie went on. "God knows I love
you, Erica, but there can be no love tiiat
shall be love with one alone. One mo-
m'c-nt; as it is now, you have all the will
in the world to love me. The next you
are not quite certain of yourself.”
"Where are you going?” she asked
him.
"I shall 'be away six months. But I
will leave you an address and se.nd to
you as I change it. If at any time you
cere to write, expect me home the next
day, or the next. Goodby,” he said, and
shook bands gravely.
He went first to Dieppe. Drawn by
Mont St. Michel Rock, whose memory
he loved, he came slowly down the coast.
Two months of the time had gone when
came to Avranches; three when be reach
ed the Hotel de 1'Europe in Pontorson,
and settled there, an Englishman by him-
sell, but far from lonely.
He was very fond of Pontorson—the
long straggling street; at the bottom of
Hit brioge over the leaden water where
the women beat out their clothes of
c\ei:ings, the Lombardy poplars s.re tell
ing out to Dol lroin Where Pontorson»
houses endeu; and, six inlies away, on
another road, the wondertul, oeaumfui
lies. No man, they say, horn witnin
sight of C’hanoionbury Ring, la Sussex,
ever leaves his cOUii'-'y lor long. The
Scvuie roust be true ol ihe people in tne
country round fit. Michel, or x u»e lo ue-
lu vo mat it is true-.
/ii'ier a sturdy walk back along Hie
road prom 'the rock, McKergow swung
into tue courtyard one ivcin.g as -vio..-
s.tur cituvuiu was pulling uic tui lope
lor dinner, in tue Iiaci ue • am. ape one
L. n rope lianas u-niy uuvtii the wail. r.
is a small, quiet piacc, with tew visitors
ai iii.s season, and AieKiUgow lian never
trouoieu to get home in proper time for
mi i.er.
A! sieu Bouvurd was all smiles. "Th’tre
is an Englishman here," said he.
"Indet'd,” said McKergow.
"He caime just after you had gone,”
s^iii Bouvard.
"Oh.” said McKergow, and went into
the house.
Directly he was over the threshold liis
mlr.d ran queerly. What a nuisance that
fctli was, clanging like that; it was ex
actly like * * * a tolling bell.
Al'sieu Bouvard had not brought In the
lamps. The room was dim. McKergow
said “Good eventing,” and sat down, feel
ing awkward. Presently M’steu Bouvard
tnc.ught In the lamps and placed them on
the table. As ho was shifting them to
his liking McKergow found his eyes after
the time in the black dark. "Harker!”
he cried.
"Hullo!” said the other. "Why, It's
McKergow. A funny meeting. If you
like.”
The door h.al shut behind M'sJeu Bou-
vsrd. "It is rather," laughed McKer
gow, mamer-of-faot once more. "Where
l.ave you been';”
“Everywhere, I fancy—anywhere and
everywhere. But I’ve alway had a liking
fur this place, and I thought 1 would put
in a fortnight before 1 went home."
AlcKergow, who had never liked Harker
even in the old days, was conscious of
Belief at this. “You're going back soon,
then?” said lie.
"I am. And you? I haven't seen you
for years. Not since—”
Just then Msieu Bouvard came in, fol
lowed by his daughter* Cm.-iluc, who was
carrying dishes.
Somehow it interrupted the conversa
tion.
In the week that followed, McKergow's
dislike of his companion remained at a
fixed point. At least it never lessened.
Marker's presence irritated him. It may-
have been that he did not care for any
man or shadow to blur his thinking of
Her. He had made up liis mind for
loneliness, and Marker's coining had
spoiled it.
He never showed this, of course. They
went long walks together, and they cycled
on rickety _machir.es procured from the
local store. They loafed in the village
during all one market day, and Marker
made little sketches. Certainly, Marker
should not have' worried iMcKergow very-
much, for lie talked hut seldom. McKer
gow's great comfort at this time consisted
of this, that lie was quite confident of
his own end in the matter of Erica,
waiting in England. He knew that she
would send for him. A big comfort tills,
too, so straight and white he pictured
her always—as, indeed, she was. When
he had written to her he had only sent
his change of address, as he told her.
He had not needed to do even that now
for a long time.
One morning Harker happened to come
down before McKergow, which was out
of the usual run of things. This made
all the difference In the world, for the
letter lay beside McKergow's plate, if
he had come down first he wouid have
pocketed it at once, although he would
have known what was in it.
As It was, he came down to breakfast
late, said "Good morning" to Harker,
and took up the letter carefully. Harker
looked at him queerly. At breakfast, ‘T
seemed to know that writing, McKer
gow,” said Harker. McKergow of the
singing heart said curtly, "Indeed!" Har
ker, no way- put out, said; "Yes. Do you
mind telling me if I am wrong? it
was Erica Marsden's writing?”
“It was." McKergow was quite calm
against the overwhelming sense that
something was going to happen. "I am
going home today to marry her, as soon
as possible.”
"Do you know,” said Harker, "I was
going home for that?" His voice was
level, but McKergow could stand It no
longer. He rapped out, "By , Harker,
she's mine!" and they faced each other
squarely.
They- finished breakfast without any
thing further. It was a strange meal.
Of course. McKergow did not go home
that day. or the next. Instead, oppressed
by a great fear, he wrote a letter to
her.
'T know you will understand my writ
ing to you like this. Was there anything
between you and Roland Harker years
ago
While he waited for an answer to this
he suffered. Harker and he avoided each
other; they had their meals at different
times. One would wait in his room up
stairs till he had heard the other go
to
out. M’sieu Bouvard did not seem
notice anything strange In this. Only
once, when Harker, just going out, turn
ed on the threshold for something, he
found the landlord grinning openly- at
what should have been his back. It was
an ugly- grin, and Harker, on the point
of angry- speech, stared at ‘M'sieu Bou
vard. M'sieu Bouvard stared back, with
interest. Marker's eyes dropped first,
and he went out puzzled. "Now where on
earth." said Harker to himself, "have
I seen that face before I came here?”
If Harker had looked back he would
have seen that M’sieu Bouvard had ad
vanced to the doorway- and stood watch
ing his going.
“There was nothing whatever; I do not
want to see him again. And when may
1 expect you here?”
Two lines from the letter in reply. It
came In the morning, and McKergow,
once more at peace, finished his break
fast and waited deliberately. Harker,
tired of waiting upstairs to hear him go
out, came down at last.
''Harker,' 1 said AlcKergow, “I'm going
hontft first thing tomorrow. I waited, be
cause I thought you might have a claim
upon her of which I did not know. You
haven't. I’m going home. I am not
sure, if her answer had been different,
that I would have let her be married
to a swftgp like you."
"Oh, that's your opinion, is it?” said
Harker.
"It has been my opinion,” said Me-
ivergow, "for about thirteen years.
Marker's face was not nice at this
moment. Rage took him, and at first he
gulped rather than spoke. "I think I
can hit back,” he said "It's just about
thirteen years—since there was a certain
business with a check. You had to go
abroad afterward."
"Well,” said AlcKergow, "I don't de
fend myself to you, but I've always been
straight with women. And I’ve worked
the other out. There wasn't much in it,
after all. It's not going to hurt me
now.”
"I shall write and tell her—that's all,’
said Harker.
At this McKergow’s mind was a mill-
race of swift, clear thinking. He would
not have her know this .this old trans
gression against the code. He had fought
that fairly down, and he would not have
her think differently of him now, as
such a woman was bound to do—if she
knew. When he spoke his voice rose a
little, lft.it it was not In temper, for he
was holding himself splendidly.
"Before God, Harker,” he cried, "if you
tell her I will kill you.”
At a slight noise both men looked
up. It was M'sieu Bouvard who stood in
the open doorway, bringing in Harker's
chocolate. * * *
McKergow sat long, thinking, at the
foot of the great gilt cross upon the
rock. The bright early morning had
changed, and the afternoon wa s of thin.
Insistent rain. He went down the steps
and leaned his elbows on the wall, look
ing far below him and around at the
sullfn sands and sea. At a time of any
moment McKergow was all for smoking,
and he had smoked incessantly since the
encounter with Harker in the morning,
lie had been to Poulard’s for lunch, but
h ( . had eaten nothing. Presently he was
swinging back in the dusk along the de
serted, rain-swept road with the same
drumming thought. She should know
nothing to lessen her idea of him.
In the 'black passage to the common
room he bumped against a man.
"Oh, is that you, McKergow?” said
the sne ring voice, and on the answer
came the challenge: "I shant be long.
I'm just going out to post a letter.”
“Come in here,” said McKergow at
once, and ffIt his way into the room. It
was quite dark, but neither troubled
about a light.
"You’re writing to Erica?” McKer
gow was strung to the topmost pitch, but
perfectly resolute.
"I am.”
“The letter you spoke of?"
"Yes.” *
“You're not to send that letter."
“On the contrary,” said Harker. "I'm
Continued on Last Page.
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