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Z§4oUIS JOSEPH VANCE J
AUTHOR OP “THE BRASS BOWb.” ETC. a JJ
COPYMCHT BY LOU 43 c JOSLPH YAUC£
SYNOPSIS.
David Amber, starting for a duck-shoot-
In* visit with his friend. Qualn, romes up
on a young lady equestrian who has been
dismounted by her horse becoming fright
ened at the sudden appearance In the road
of a burly Hindu. Ho declares he Is
Beharl Ijtl Chatterll, "the appointed
mouthpiece of The Bell." addresses Amber
as a man of high rank and pressing a
mysterious little bronze box. "The To
ken," Into his hand, disappears In the
wood. The girl calls Amber by name.
CHAPTER 11. (Continued).
"You will have It that I must sur
render my only advantage—my In
cognito. If I tell you how I happen to
know who you are, I must tell you
who I am. Immediately you will lose
Interest In me, because I'm really not
at all advanced; I doubt If 1 should
understand your book If I had to read
It.”
“Which heaven forfend! Rut why,”
he Insisted mercilessly, “do you wish
me to be Interested In you?”
She flushed becomingly at this and
acknowledged the touch with a rueful,
smiling glance. But, “Because I'm
Interested In you,” she admitted open
ly.
“And . . . why?”
“Are you hardened to such adven
tures?" She nodded In the direction
the babu hjid taken. “Are you ac
customed to being treated with ex
traordinary respect by stray Bengalis
and accepting tokens from them? Is
romance commonplace to you?”
“Oh,” ho said, disappointed, "If It’s
only the adventure —! Of course,
that’s easly enough explained. This
half-witted mammoth—don't ask me
how he came to be here —thought he
recognized In me some one ho had
known In India. Let's have a look at
this token-thlng.”
He disclosed the bronze box and let
her take It In her pretty 'fingers.
"It must have n secret spring,” she
concluded, after a careful inspection.
“I think so, but . .
She shook It, holding It by her ear.
“There's something Inside —It rattles
ever so slightly. I wonder!"
"No more than I.”
"And what are you going to dc with
It?” She returned It reluctantly.
“Why, there's nothing to do but
keep It till tho owner turns up, that I
can see."
“You won’t break It open?"
"Not until curiosity overpowers
me and I’ve exhausted every artifice,
trying to flrd tho catch.”
"Are you a patient person, Mr. Am
ber?”
“Not extraordinarily so, Miss Far
rell.”
"Oh, how did you guess?”
“By remembering not to be stupid.
You aro Miss Sophia Farrell, daughter
of Colonel Farrell of the British dip
lomatic service In India.” He
chuckled cheerfully over his triumph
of deductive reasoning. “You are vis
iting the Quains for a few days, while
en route for India with some friends
whoso name I've forgotten—”
“The Rolands,” she prompted in
voluntarily.
"Thank you. . . . The Rolands,
■who are stopping In New York. You’ve
lived several years with your father
In India, went back to I/ondon to
’come out’ and are returning, having
been presented at the court of St.
James. Your mother was an Ameri
can girl, a schoolmate of Mrs.
Qualn's. I’m afraid that’s the whole
sum of my knowledge of you.”
“You’ve turned the tables fairly.
Mr. Amber,” she admitted. “And
Mr. Qualn wrote you all that?”
"I’m afraid he told me almost as
much about you as he told you about
me; we’re old friends, you know. And
now I come to think of It, Qualn
has one of the few photographs of me
extant. So my chain of reasoning's
complete. And I think we’d better
hurry on to Tanglewood.”
“Indeed, yes. Mrs. Quain will be
•wild with worry If that animal finds
bis way back to the stable without
Die; I’Ve been very thoughtless.”
“How much longer shall you stay
st Tanglewood, Miss Farrell?”
“Unhappily,” she sighed, “I must
leave on the early train tomorrow, to
Join the Rolands in New York.”
"You don’t want to go?”
"I’m half an American, Mr. Amber.
I’ve learned to love the country al
ready. Besides, we start Immediately
lor San Francisco, and it'll be such
a little while before I'll be In India.”
“You don’t care for India?”
“I've known It for less than six
years, but already I’ve come to hate
It as thoroughly as any exiled English
woman there.- It sits there like a
great, insatiable monster, devouring
English lives. Indirectly it was re
sponsible for my mother’s death; she
never recovered from the illness she
contracted when my father was sta
tioned in the Deccan. In the course
of time it will kill my father, just as
Jt did his father and his elder brother,
ft’s a cruel, hateful, ungrateful land
t—not without the price we pay for it.”
“I know how you feel,” he said with
sympathy. “It's been a good many
years since I visited India, and of
course I then saw and heard little of
the darker side. Your people are
brave enough, out there.”
"They are. I don't know about gov
ernment; but its servants are loyal
aad devoted and unselfish and cheer
ful. Ana I don't at all understand,”
she added In confusion, "why I should
have decided to inflict upon you my
emotional hatred of the country. Your
question gave me the opening, and
I forgot myself."
“I assure you I was thoroughly
shocked. Miss Farrell.’’
“Will you tell me something?”
"If I can.”
“About the man who wouldn't ac
knowledge knowing you? You remem
ber saying three people had been mis
taken about your Identity this after
noon.”
“No, only one —the babu. You’re
not mistaken —"
"I knew you must be David Amber
the moment I heard you speaking
Urdu.” *
"And the man at the station wasn’t
mistaken—unless I am. He knew rne
perfectly, I believe, but for reasons
of his own refused to recognize me.”
"Yes—?”
“He was an English servant named
Doggott, who Is—or once was —a valet
In the service of an old friend, a
man named Rutton.”
She repeated the name: “Rutton?
It seems to me I’ve heard of him.”
“You have?”
"I don't remember,” she confessed,
knitting her level brows. “The name
has a familiar ring, somehow. But
about the valet?”
“Well, I was very Intimate with his
employer for a long time, though we
haven’t met for several years. Rut
ton was a strange creature, a man of
extraordinary genius, who lived a
friendless, solitary life —at least, so
far as I knew; I once lived with nlm
In a little place he had In Paris for
three months and In all that time he
never received a letter or a caller. He
was reticent about himself, and I
never asked any questions, of course,
but In spite of the fact that he spoke
English like an Englishman and was a
public school man, apparently, I al
ways believed he had a strain of Hun
garian blood In him—or else Italian
or Spanish. I know that sounds pret
ty broad, but he was enigmatic—a rid
dle I never managed to make much
of. Aside from that he was wonder
ful: a linguist, speaking a dozen
European languages and more east
ern tongues, and dialects, I believe,
than any other living man. We met
by accident in Berlin and were drawn
together by our common interest In
orientalism. Later, hearing I was in
Paris, he hunted me up and insisted
that I stay with him there while fin
ishing my big book —the one whose
title you know. His assistance to
me then was invaluable. After that
I lost track of him.”
“And the valet?"
“Oh, I’d forgotten Doggott. He was
a cockney, as silent and self-contained
as Rutton. ... To get back to
Nokomis: I met Doggott at the sta
tion, called him by name, and he re
fused to admit knowing me—said I
must have mistaken him for his twin
brother. I could tell by his eyes that
he lied, and it made me wonder. It’s
quite impossible that Rutton should
be In this neck of the woods; he was
a man who preferred to live a hermit
In centers of civilization. . . . Cu
rious!”
“I don’t wonder you think so. Per
haps the man had been up to some
mischief. . . . But,” said the girl
with a note of regret, “we're almost
home!”
They had come to the seaward
verge of the woodland, where the
trees and scrub rose like a wild hedge
row on one side of a broad, well
metalled highway.
To the right, on the other side of
the road, a' rustic fence enclosed the
trim, well-gro«med plantations of
Tanglewood Lodge; through the dead
llnibs a window -of the house winkea
In the sunset glow like an eye of gar
net. And as the two appeared a man
came running up the road, shouting.
“That’s Quain!” cried Amber; and
sent a long cry of greeting toward
him.
“Wait!” said the girl impulsively,
putting out a detaining hand. “Let’s
keep our secret,” she begged, her eyes
dancing—“just for the fun of it!”
“Our secret!”
“About the babu and the Token; It's
a bit of mystery and romance to me—
and we don’t often find that In our
lives, do we? Let us keep it personal
for a while —between ourselves; and
you will promise to let me know if
anything unusual ever comes of It,
after I’ve gone. We can say that I
was riding carelessly, which is quite
true, and that the horse shied and
threw me, which again is true; but
the rest for ourselves only. . . .
Please. . . . What do you say?”
He was infected by her spirit of ir
responsibile mischief. “Why, yes—
I say yes,” he replied; and then, more
gravely: “I think it'll be very pleas
ant to share a secret with you. Miss
Farrell. I shan’t say a word to any
one, until I have to.”
As events turned he had no need
to mention the incident until the
morning of the seventh day following
the girl’s departure. In the interim
nothing happened and he was able to
enjoy some excellent shooting with
j Quain, his thoughts undisturbed by
| any further appearance of the babu.
But on the seventh morning It be
came evident that a burglary had
been visited upon the home of his
hosts. A window had been forced in
the rear of the house and a trail of
burnt matches and candle-grease be
tween that entrance and the door ef
Amber’s room, together with the
somewhat curious circumstance that
nothing whatever was missing from
the personal effects of the Quains,
forced him to make an explanation.
For his own belongings had been
rifled and the bronze box alone ab
stracted —still preserving its secret.
In Its place Amber found a soiled
slip of note paper Inscribed with the
round, unformed bandwriting of the
babu: “Pardon, sahib. A mistake has
been made. I seek but to regain thai
which Is not yours to possess. There
r will be naught else taken. A thou
sand excuses from your hmbl. obt.
svt., Beharl Lai Chatterjl.”
CHAPTER 111. H
Marooned.
A cry In the windy dusk; a sudden,
hollow booming overhead; a vision of
countless wings in panic, sketched in
black upon a background of dulled
silver; two heavy detonations and,
with the least of intervals, a third;
three vivid flashes of crimson and
gold stabbing the purple twilight; and
then the acrid reek of smokeless
drifting Into Amber’s face, while from
the sky, where the V-shaped flock had
been, two stricken bundles of blood
stained feathers fell slowly, fluttering.
Shotgun poised abreast, his keen
eyes marking down the fall of his
prey, Amber stood without moving,
exultation battling with a vague re
morse In his bosom —as always when
he killed. Qualn, who had dropped
back a pace after firing but one shot
and scoring an unqualified miss at
close range, now stood plucking clum
sily, with half frozen fingers, at an
obstinate breechlock.
"Just my beastly luck!” he growled.
“It wouldn’t 've been me if—! How
many 'd you pot, Davy?”
“Only two,” said Amber, lowering
his weapon, extracting the Bpent
shells, and reloading.
“Only two!” The Information roused
in Qualn a demon of sarcasm. "Only
They Had Come to the Seaward Verge of the Woodland.
two! How many ’d you expect to
drop, on a snap-shot like that?”
“Two,” returned Amber so patiently
that Qualn requested him, explosively,
to go to the devil. “If you don't mind,”
he said, "I’ll go after my ducks in
stead. You’ll follow? They’re over
there, on our way.”
Fifty yards or so away he found the
ducks, side by side In a little hollow.
“Fine fat birds,” he adjudged them
sagely.
Satisfaction glimmering in his
grave dark eyes, he lingered in the
hollow, while the frosty air, whipping
madly through the sand hills, stung
his face till it glowed beneath the
brown. But presently, like the ghost
of a forgotten kiss, something moist
and chill touched gently his cheek,
and was gone. Startled, he glanced
skyward, then extended an arm,
watching it curiously while the rough
fabric of his sleeve was salted gen
erously with fine white flakes. Though
to some extent apprehended (they had
been blind indeed to have ignored the
menace of the dour day just then
dying) snow had figured in their cal
culations as little as the scarcity of
game. Amber wondered dimly if it
would work a change in their plans,
prove an obstacle to their safe re
turn across the bay.
The flurry thickening in the air, a
shade of anxiety colored his mood.
"This’ll never do!” he declared, and
set himself to ascend a nearby dune.
Behind him a meager strip of sand
held back a grim and angry sea; be
fore him lay an eighth of a mile of
sand-locked desolation, and then the
weltering bay—a wide two miles of
leaping, shouting waves, slate-colored
but white of crests. Beyond, seen
dimly as a wall through driving sheets
of snow, were the darkly wooded
rises of the mainland.
But. In the gloom, their little cat
boat lay occult to his searching gaze.
Qualn’s voice recalling him, he turn
ed to discover his host stumbling
through a neighboring vale, and obey
ing a peremptory wave of the elder
man's hand, descended, accompanied
by an avalanche In miniature.
“Better hurry,” shouted Amber, as
soon as he could make himself heard
above the screaming of the gale.
“Wind’s freshening; it looks like
mean weather.”
“Really?” Quain fell into step at
his side. “You ’stonlsh me. But the
good Lord knows I'm willin’. Where
about’s the boat?”
"Blessed if I know; over yonder
somewhere,” Amber told him, waving
toward the bay-shore an arm as
vaguely helpful as his information
"Thank you so much. Guess I can
find her all right Hump yo’self,
Davy.”
They plodded on heavily, making
fair progress in spite of the hindering
sand.
A little later they came to the wa
ter’s edge and proceeded steadily
along it, Quain leading confidently.
Eventually he tripped over some ob
stacle, stumbled and lurched forward
and recovered his balance with an
effort, then remained with bowed
head, staring down at his feet
“Hurt yourself, old man?”
"No!" snapped Qualn rudely.
“Then what in—”
“Eh?” Quain roused, but an In
stant longer looked him blankly in
the eye. “Oh,” he added brightly—
“oh, she’s gone.”
“The boat—?”
“The boat,” affirmed Quain, too dis
couraged for the obvious retort un
gracious. He stooped and caught up
a frayed end of rope, exhibiting It in
witness to his statement. "Ain’t it
hell?” he inquired plaintively.
He cast the rope from him In dis
dain and wheeled to stare baywards.
“There!” he cried, leveling an arm
to Indicate a dark and fleeting shadow
upon the storm-whipped water. "There
she goes—not 300 feet off. It can't be
five minutes since she worked loose.
It’s the devil’s own luck!”
A biur of snow swept between boat
and shore; when it had passed the
former was all but indistinguishable.
From a full heart Quain blasphemed
fluently. . . . “But if she holds as
she stands.” he amended quickly, his
indominitable spirit fostering the for
lorn hope, “she'll go aground in anoth
er five minutes —and I know just
where. I’ll go afjer her.”
“The deuce you will! How?”
"There’s an old skimmy up the
shore a ways.” Already Quain was
moving off in search of it “Noticed
her this morning. Daresay she leaks
like a sieve, but at worst the waters'
pretty shoal inshore, hereabout.”
“Damn!” Qlain brought up short
with a shin barked against a thwart
of the row boat he had been seeking,
and in recognition of the mishap lib
erally insulted his luck.
Amber, knowing that his hurt
was as inconsiderable as his ill-tem
per, which was more than half-feigned
to mask his anxiety, laughed quietly,
meanwhile inspecting their find with
a critical eye.
"You don’t seriously mean to put off
in this crazy hencoop, do you?” he
asked.
“Just precisely that. It’s the only
way.”
“It is simple madness. I won’t —”
"You don’t want to stay here all
night, do you?”
"No, but —”
“Well, then, lend us a hand and
don’t stand there grumbling. Be
thankful for what you've got, which is
me and my enterprise."
“Oh, all right”
Together they put their shoulder*
to the bows of the old, flat-bottomed
rowboat, with incredible exertions up
rooting it from its ancient bed, and at
length had it afloat.
Panting, Quain mopped his forehead
with a handkerchief much the worse
for a day s association with gun
grease, and peered beneath his hand
into the murk that veiled the bay.
“There she is.” he declared confi
dently: “aground.” He pointed. “I’ll
fetch up with her in no time.”
But Amber could see nothing In the
least resembling the catboat, and said
so with decision.
“I'm coming, too,” Amber itSA
quietly.
“The hell you are! D'you want to
sink us? What do you think this is,
anyway—an excursion steamer? You
stay where you are and—l say—taka
care of this till I come back, like a
good fellow.”
He thrust the butt of his shotgun
into Amber’s face, and the latter,
seizing it, was rewarded by a vigor
ous push that sent him back half a
dozen feet. At. the same time the
painter slipped from his grasp and
Quain, lodging an end of the ell-pot
stake on the hard sand bottom, put
his weight upon it. Before Amber
could recover, the boat had slid off
and was melting swiftly into the shad
ows.
After a bit Quain's voice came
back: “Don't fret, Davy. I’m all right.’’
Amber cupped hands to mouth and
sent a cheerful hail ringing in re
sponse. Simultaneously the last,
least, Indefinite blur that stood for the
boat in the darkness, vanished in a
swirl of snow; and he was alone with
the storm and his misgivings.
Twenty minutes wore wearily away.
Falling ever more densely, the snow
drew an impenetrable wan curtain be
tween Amber and the world of life
and light and warmth; while with
each disconrdant blast the strength
of the gale seemed to wax, its high
hysteric clamor at times drowning
even the Incessant deep bellow of the
ocean surf. Once Amber paused in his
patrol, having heard, or fancying he
had heard, the staccato plut-plut-plut
of a marine motor. On impulse, with
a swelling heart, he swung his gun
skywards and pulled both triggers.
The double report rang in his ears
loud as a thunderclap.
In the moments that followed, while
he stood listening, with every fiber
of his being keyed to attention, the
sense of his utter Isolation chilled his
heart as with cold steel.
A little frantically he loaded and
fired again; but what at first might
have been thought the faint far echo
of a hail he In the end set down reluc
tantly to a trick of the hag-ridden
wind.
An hour passed, punctuated at fre
quent intervals by gunshots. Though
they evoked no answer of any sort,
hope for Qualn died hard in Ambers
heart. Resolutely he turned to a con
sideration of his own plight and
problematic way of escape.
His understanding of his situation
was painfully accurate; he was ma>
rooned upon what a flood tide made a
desert Island but which at the ebb
was a peninsula—a long and narrow
strip of sand, bounded on the west by
the broad shallow channel to the
ocean, on the east connected with the
mainland by a sandbar which half the
day lay submerged.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
QUEENS BOROUGH TIN HORSES
How Nightmares, Hobbles and Ponies
of Beer Were Put on the
City’s Pay Roll.
“What’s all this tnlk I bear about
tin horses in Queens borough ?“
“I’m surprised at your ignorance.
Tin horses are a mere term used to
designate equines which never exlsb
ed, part of a graft game.”
"Explain some more, please." .
“Well, it was like this. If a fellow
with a pull wanted some extra money
he would have a couple of nightmares,
report to the powers that be that ha
had a team, and they would be hired,
at so much a day, for city work."
“Did all of the grafters have to
have mares?”
“O, no; one of the gang had his
wife's two clothes horses, drawing ful)
pay.”
“He was a genius."
“Yes, another man had a hobby
about not wanting to work, his son
had a hobby horse, and so he doubled
them up and sent in bills for a team,
at least, so I hoar.”
“That’s Interesting.”
“Yes, rather. There was a rumof
going around the other day that a
man who owned a pair of ponies of
beer also figured in the game."
“I suppose if one of the gang's wife
and daughters owned pony skin coats
(hey could have got on the pay ml)
too.”
“Sure thing; it was a pony skin
game, all the way through.”
“And all that these fake horses ever
drew was pay?"
“That's true, although they have set
tongues a-wagging.”—Brooklyn Times.
The Siamese Cat.
Siamese cats, with their curious
markings and loud, discordant voices,
are favorite pets.
In many respects these animals of
Siamese breed are unique among fel
ines. They follow their owners like
dogs; they are exceedingly affection
ate and insist upon attention, and
they mew loudly and constantly, as il
trying to talk. They have more vivac
ity and less dignity than usually fall*
to the lot of cats.
In color they vary from pale fawr
through shades of brown to chocolate
There are two varieties, the temph
cats and the palace cats, the princi
pal difference between the two bein)
that the palace breed is darker ii
color.
inealthA
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| EVIDENTLY SHE WAS ANNOYED
Good Wife's Punishment, Intended for
Husband, Poor Compensation
to Revivalist.
A popular revivalist had been hold
i ing services at a town in Mississippi
when a heavy rain came on, and he
accepted an invitation to pass the
night at the house of one of the
townsmen. Observing the preacher’s
drenched clothing, the host brought
out a suit of his own and sent his
guest upstairs to don it.
The good man had made the change
and was on his way back to the sit
ting room, when the woman of the
house canje out of another room, hold
ing in her hands the big family Bible,
out of which the minister was to be
Invited to hear a chapter before the
family went to bed.
She was not, however, in a very
amiable frame of mind, for careful
housewives are likely to be put out
of sorts by the advent of unexpected
company. Seeing the revivalist in his
borrowed garments, she mistook him
for her husband, and as he passed in
front of her she lifted the book and
brought it down sharply on his head.
“There!”* she exclaimed. "Take
that for asking him to Btay all night!”
night!’’—Lipplncott’s Magazine.
HOW IT HAPPENED.
“Poor man! How did you become a
tramp?”
“I wuz a war correspondent In Man
churia, mum. I got so used ter doing
nuthin’ dat I hain't been no good
since.”
Tit for Tat.
A young man, who had not been
married long, remarked at the dinner
table the other day:
“My dear, I wish you could make
bread such as mother used to make.”
The bride smiled and answered in a
voice that did not tremble:
“Well, dear, I wish you could make
the dough that father used to make.”
Immortality.
“Speaking of immortality, what’s the
matter with the hen?”
“Go on."
“Her son never sets.”
STRONGER THAN MEAT
A Judge's Opinion of Grape-Nuts.
A gentleman who has acquired a ju
dicial turn of mind from experience
on the bench out in the Sunflower
State writes a carefully considered
opinion as to the value of Grape-Nuts
as food. He says;
“For the past 5 years Grape-Nuts
has been a prominent feature in our
bill of fare.
“The crisp food with the delicious,
nutty flavor has become an indis
pensable necessity in my family’s
everyday life.
“It has proved to be most healthful
and beneficial, and has enabled ua to
practically abolish pastry and pies
from our table, for the children prefer
Grape-Nuts, and do not crave rich and
unwholesome food.
“Grape-Nuts keeps us all in perfect
physical condition —as a preventive of
disease it is beyond value. I have been
particularly impressed by the benefi
cial effects of Grape-Nuts when used
by ladies who are troubled with face
blemishes, skin eruptions, etc. It
clears up the complexion wonderfully.
“As to its nutritive qualities, my ex
perience is that one small dish of
Grape-Nuts is superior to a pound of
meat for breakfast, which is an impor
tant consideration for anyone. It sat
isfies the appetite and strengthens the
power of resisting fatigue, while ita
use involves none of the disagreeable
consequences that sometimes follow
a meat breakfast.” Name given by
Postum Co., Battle Creek, Mich.
Read the little book, “The Road to
Wellville,” in pkgs. “There’s a reason.”
Ever read the above letter? A new
one appeara from time to time. They
are genuine, true, and fall of human
Interest.