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GRADY COUNTY PROGRESS. CAIRO, GEORGIA.
—
15 WHITE
GEORGE DARK SCUTCHEON
ILLUSTRATIONS &- RAY WALTERS
COPYMmr, ts/+.
0/ DOOO. At£AD
AffO ConPAftY
SYNOPSIS.
-11-
In the New York homo of James Brood,
his son, Frederic, tells Lydia Desmond,
Ills fiancee, of u message announcing his
father s mnrrluge. Brood and his brldo
arrive. She wins Frederic's liking at first
meeting. Brood shows dislike and veiled
hostility to Ills son. Lydia and Mrs. Brood
mot In the Jade-room, whore Lydia works
ns Broud's secretory. Mrs. Brood makes
changes In the household nml gains her
husband s consent to send Mrs. Desmond
and Lydia uway. She fascinates Frederic.
She begins to fear llanjab, Brood’s Hin
du servant, In Ills uncanny appearances
and disappearances, and Frederic, re
membering Ills father's East Indian sto
ries and tlrm belief In magic, fears un
known evil. Brood tells the story of Run-
Jaha life to his guests. “He killed a wom
an, who was unfaithful to him. Yvonno
plays with Brood. Frederic nml Lydia as
with tlguros on a chess board. Brood,
madly Jealous, tells Lydia that Frederic
Is not Ids son. and that he has brought
him up to kill his happiness at the proper
timo with this knowledge. Lydia goes to
beg Brood not to tell Frederic of ills un-
linppy parentage, but Is turned from her
purpose. Frederic, at dinner with Dawes
nnd Riggs, Is seized with an Impulse of
filial duty, and under a queer impression
that ho Is Influenced by Ranjab's will,
hunts up his father, who gives him the
cut direct, ltrood tolls Frederic the story
of his dead wife and the music muster.
CHAPTER XVI—Continued.
"It was made In Vienna,” interrupted
Frederick, not without a Btrange thrill
of satisfaction in his bouI, "and before
you were married, I'd say. On the
back of it is written: 'To my own
sweetheart’—in Hungarian, Yvonne
says. There! Look at her. She was
like that when you married her. God,
how adorable she must have been. ‘To
my own sweetheart!’ Ho ho!"
A hoarse cry of rage and pain bust
from Brood’s lips. The world went red
before his eyes.
“ ‘To my own sweetheart!”’ he cried
out. He sprang forward and struck
the photograph from Frederic’s hand.
It fell to the floor at his feet. Before
the young man could recover from his
surprise, Brood's foot was upon the
bit of cardboard. "Don’t raise your
hand to me! Don’t you dare to strike
me! Now I shall tell you who that
sweetheart was!”
Half an hour later James Brood de
scended the stairs alone. He went
straight to the library where he knew
that he could find Yvonne. Ran jab,
standing In the hall, peered into his
white, drawn face, as he passed, and
started forward as if to speak to him.
But Brood did not see him. He did
not'lift his gaze from the floor. The
Hindu went swiftly up the stairs, a
deep drend in his soul.
The shades were down. Brood
stopped inside the door and looked
dully about the library. He was on
the point of retiring when Yvonne
spoke to him out of the shadowy cor
ner beyond the fireplace.
“Close the door," she said huskily.
Then she emerged slowly, almost like
a specter, from the dark background
formed by the huge mahogany book
cases that lined the walls, from floor
to celling. "You were a long time
up there,” she went on.
“Why is it so dark In here, Yvonne?’ 1
he asked lifelessly.
"So that it would not be possible for
me to see the shame in your eyes.
James."
He leaned heavily against the long
table. She came up and stood across
the table from him, and he felt that
her eyes were searching his very soul,
“I have hurt him beyond all chance
for recovery,” he said hoarsely.
“Oh, you coward!" she cried, lean
ing over the table, her eyes blazing.
“Lean understand it in you. You huvij
no soul of your own. What have you
done to your son, James Brood?
He drew back as If from the Impact
V\ of a blow; "Coward? If I have crushed
• -.hid soul, it \yaS done In time, Yvonne,
to deprive you of the glory of doing it.
“What did he say to you about me?
"You have had your fears for noth
ing. He did not put you in jeopardy,”
he said scornfully.
: "I know. He Is not a coward, she
jsald calmly.
- “In your heart you are reviling me,
ITou judge me as one guilty soul
'judges another. Suppose that I were
ito confess to you that I left him up
[there with all the hope, all the life
blasted out of his eyes—with a w-ound
4n his heart that will never stop bleed-
dng—that I left him because I was
(sorry for what I had done and could
not stand by and look upon the wreck
|I had created. Suppose-’
. “I am still thinking of you as a cow
ard. What is it to me that you are
sorry now? What have you done to
that wretched, unhappy bo> .
“He will tell you soon enough. Then
you will despise me even more than I
[despise myself. God. He he
looked at me with his mothers eyes
Iwhen I kept on striking blows at his
ivery soul Her eyes—eyes that were
- always pleading with me! But, curse
them—ahvays scoffing at me! For a
-moment I faltered. There was p wave
.of love—yes, love, not pity, for him
aB I saw him go down before the
(words I hurled at him. It was ns if I
[had hurt the only 1thl “£ l n “l 1
world that I love. Then It passed. Ho
was not meant for me to love. He.was
thorn for me to despise. He was born
to torture me as I have tortured him."
‘“"You poo“ fool!” she cried, her eyes
! S,1 '3om n oHmes I have doubted my own
treason.” he went on as if he had not
heard her scathing remark. "Some
times I have felt a queer gripping of
the heart when I was harshest toward
him. Sometimes his eyes—her eyes-
have melted the steel that was driven
Into my heart long ago, his voice and
the touch of htB hand gently have
checked my bitterest thoughts. Are
you listening?"
"Yes.”
"You ask what I have done to him.
It Is nothing in comparison to what
he would have done to me. It isn't
necessary to explain. You know the
thing he has had In Ills heart to do.
have known it from the beginning. It
Is the treacherous heart of his mother
that propels that boy’s blood along its
craven way. She was an evil thing—
as evil as God ever put life into.”
“Go on.”
.“I loved her os no woman ever was
loved before—or since. I thought she
loved me—God, I believe she did. He
Frederic had her portrait up there to
flash In my face. She was beautiful—
she was as lovely as— But no more!
I wjis not the man. She loved another.
Her lover was that boy’s father. 1
Dead silence reigned in the room,
save for the heavy breathing of the
man. Yvonne was as still as death
itself. Her hands were clenched
against her breast.
“That was years ago,” resumed the
man, hoarsely.
You—you told him this?” she cried,
aghast.
He said she must have loathed me
as no man was ever loathed before.
Then I told him."
You told him because you knew she
did not loathe you! And you loved
Matilde—God pity your poor soul! For
no more than I have done you drove
her out of your house. You accuse me
in your heart when you vent your rage
on that poor boy. Oh, I know! You
suspect me! And you suspected the
other one. Before God, I swear to
you that you have more cause to sus
pect me than Matilde. She was not
untrue to you. She could not have
loved anyone else but you. I know-
God help me, I know! Don’t come
near me! Not now! I tell you that
Frederic Is your son. I tell you that
Matilde loved no one but you. You
drove her out. You drove Frederic
out. And you will drive me out.”
She stood over him like an accusing
angel, her arms extended. He shrank
back, glaring.
Why do you say these things to
me? You cannot know—you have no
right to say—”
I am sorry for you, James Brood,"
she murmured, suddenly relaxing. Her
body swayed against the table, and
then she sank limply into the chair
him, If you will. I shall not oppose
you. Find out what he-^expects to
do.” v
She passed swiftly by him-as ho
started toward tho door. In the hall,
which was bright with the sunlight
from tho upper windows, she turned
to face him. To his astonishment, her
cheeks were aglow and her eyes bright
with eagerness. She seemed almost
radlnnt.
"Yes: It needs breaking, James," she
said, and went up the stairs, leaving
him standing there dumfounded. Near
the top she began to hum a blithe
tune. It came down to him distinctly—
the wolrd little air that had haunted
him for years—Foverelll's!
CHAPTER XVII.
He Sprang Forward and. Struck the
Photograph From Frederic a Hand.
alongside. “You will never forget that
you struck a man who was asleep,
absolutely asleep. That’s why I am
sorry for you.”
“Asleep!" he murmured, putting his
hand to his eyeB. “Yes, yes—he was
asleep! Yvonne, I—1 have never been
so near to loving him as I am now.
I—I—”
"I am going up to him. Don't try
to stop me. But first let-me ask you
a question. What did Frederic say
when you told him his mother was—
was what you claim?"
Brood lowered his head. “He said
that I was a cowardly liar."
"And it was then that you began
to feel that you loved him. Ah, t see
You are a great, strong man—a won
derful man in spite of all this. You
have a heart—a heart that still needs
breaking before you can ever hope
be happy."
He gasped. ’'As if my heart hasn’i
already been broken," he groaned.
"Your head has been hurt, that’s all,
There Is a vast difference. Are you
going out?”
He looked at her In dull amazement
Slowly he began‘to pull himself .to
gether.
“Yes. I think you should go to him.
I,—-I gave him' an hour to—to—" .
"To get out?”
"Yes. He must go, you see. See
Foul Weather.
To Brood’s surprise, she came half
way down the steps again, and, lean
ing over the railing, spoke to him with
a voice full of irony,
"Will you be good enough to call off
your spy, James?'
"What do you mean?” He had start
ed to put on his light overcoat.
"I think you know,” she said, briefly.
"Do you consider me' so mean, so
Infamous as—” he began hotly.
"Nevertheless, I feel happier when
I know he 1b out of the house. Call
off your dog, James.”
He smothered an execration and
then called out harshly, to Jones. "Ask
Ranjnb to attend me here, Jones. He
Is to go out with me,” he.said to the
butler a moment later. Yvonne was
still leaning•' over the banister,
scornful smile on her. lips.
"I shall wait until you are gone.' I
intend to see Frederic alone," he said,
with marked emphasis on the final
word.
"As you like,” said lie, coldly.
She crossed the upper hall and dis
appeared from view down the corridor
leading to her own room. Her lips
were set with decision; a wild, reck
less light filled her eyes,.and the smile
scorn had given way to one of ex
altatton. Her breath came fast and
tremulously through quivering nos
trils as she closed her .door and hur
ried across to the little vine-covered
balcony.
The time has come—the time has
come, thank God," she was saying to
herself, over and over again.
She turned her attention to the win
dow across the court and two floors
Above her—the heavily curtained win
dow In Brood’s."retreat.” There was
no sign of life there, so she hurried to
the front of the house, to wait for the
departure of James -Brood and his man
The two were going down the front
steps. At the bottom Brood spoke to
Ranjab and the latter, as imperturb
able as a rock, bowed low and moved
off in an opposite direction to that
taken by his master. She watched
until both were out of sight. Then she
rapidly mounted the stairs to the top
floor.
Frederic was lying on • the couch
near the jade-room door. She was
able to distinguish his long, dark fig
ure after peering intently about the
shadowy interior in what seemed 'at
first to be a vain search for him. She
shrank back; her eyes fixed In horror
upon the prostrate shadow. Suddenly
he stirred and then half raised himself
on one elbow to stare at the figure
In the doorway.
"Is It you?’.’ he whispered, hoarsely,
and dropped'back with a groat sigh on
his lips. -
Her heart leaped. The blood rushed
baok to her face. Quickly closing the
door, she advanced into the room, her
tread as swift and as soft as a cat's.
“He has gone out. We are quite
alone,” she said, stopping to lean
against the table, suddenly faint with
excitement.
He laughed, a bitter, mirthless,
snarling laugh.
“Get up Frederic. Be a man! I
know what has happened. Get up!
I want to talk it over with you. We
must plan. We must decide now—at
once—before he returns.” The words
broke from her lips with sharp, stac
catolike emphasis.
He came to a sitting posture slowly,
all the while staring at her with a dull
wonder in his heavy eyes.
Pull yourself together," she cried,
hurriedly. “We cannot talk here. I
am 'afraid In this room. It has ears,
I know. That awful Hindu Is always
here, even though he may seem to be
elsewhere. We. will go down to my
boudoir.”
He slowly shook his head and then
allowed his chin to sink dejectedly Into
his hands- With his elbows .on his
knees he watched her movements In a
state of Increasing Interest and bewil
derment. She turned abruptly to the
Buddha, whose placid, smirking coun
tenance seemed to be alive to the situ
ation In all of Its aspect's. Standing
close, her hands behind her back, her
figure very erect and theatric, she pro
ceeded to address the.Image In a voice
full of mockery.
“Well, my.chatterbox.friend, I have
pierced his armor, haven’t I? He will
creep up here and ask you, his won
derful god, to teli him what to do
about it, ai—e? His wits are tangled.
He doubts his senses. And when he
comes to you, my friend, and whines
his secret doubts Into your excellent
and trustworthy ear, do me the kind
ness to keep the secret I shall now
whisper to you, for I trust you, too,
you amiable fraud.” Standing on tip
toe, she put her lips to the Idol’s ear
and whispered. Frederic, across the
room, roused from his lethargy by the
strange words and still stranger ac
tion, rose to his feet and took several
steps toward her. “There! Now you
know everything. You know more
than James Brood knows, for you
know what his charming wife is about
to do next."-. ho««ir' onu
regarded the
closod, Binoldorlng eyes. "But ho will
know before long—before long."
"What are you doing, Yvonno?" de
manded Frederic, unsteadily.
She whirled about and carno toward
him, hor hands still clasped-behind her
back.
"Come with me,” she said, Ignoring
his question.
"lie—he thinks I am In love with
you," said he, shaking his head.
VAud aro you not In love with mo?”
H«i was startled. "Good Lord,
Yvonne!”
She came quite close to him. Ho
copld .feel tho warmth that traveled
from her body across the short space
that separated them. The intoxicat
ing perfdme filled his nostrils; he
drew a deep breath, his eyes closing
slowly aB his senses prepared to suc
cumb to the delicious spell that camo
over him. When he opened them nn
Instant later, she was still facing him
She drew back and
Image through half-
She Watched Until Both Were Out
of Sight.
as straight .and fearless aB a soldier,
and the light of victory was In her
dark, compelling eyes.
"Well,” she said, deliberately, "I am
ready to go away with you.”
He fell back stunned beyond the
power of speech. His brain was filled
with a thousand clattering-noises.
"He has turned you out,” she went
on rapidly. "He disowns you. Very
well; the time has como for me to
exact payment from him for that and
for all that has gone before. I shall
go away with you. I—”
“Impossible!” he cried, finding his
tongue and drawing still farther away
from her.
“Are you not In love with me?" „ )
whispered softly.
He put his hands to his eyes to si-at
out the alluring vision.
"For God’s sake, Yvonne—leave me.
Let me go my way. Let me—”
“He cursed your mother! He curses
you! He damns you—as he damned
her. You can pay him up for every
thing. You owe nothing to him. He
has killed every—”
Frederic straightened up suddenly,
and with a loud cry of exultation
raised his clenched hands above his
head.
“By heaven, I will break him! 1
will make him pay! Do you know
what he 1ms done to me? Listen to
this: he boasts of having reared me
to manhood, as one might bring up a
prize beast, that he might make me
pay for the wrong that my poor
mother did a quarter of a century
ago. All these years he lias had In
mind this thing that he has done to
day. All my life has been spent In
preparation for tho sacrifice that came
an hour ago. I have suffered all these
years In ignorance of—’’
“Not so loud!” she whispered,
alarmed by the vehemence ’of bln re
awakened fury.
"Oh, I’m not afraid!” he cried, sav
agely. ■''Can you Imagine Anything
more diabolical than the schen ) he
has had In mind all these years .'
pay out my mother—whom he ,oved
and still loves—yes, by heaven, he still
loves her!—he works to this be. istly
end. He made her suffer the agonies
of the damned up to the day ot her
death by refusing her the right to
have the child that he swears 's no
child of his. Oh, you don’t knot-, the
story—you don’t know the kin- of
man you have for a husbaud—you
don't—"
“Yob, yes, I do kpow," sho cried, vio
lently, beating her breast with clinched
hands. "I do know! I know that he
still loves the poor girl who went out
of this house with his curses ringing
In her ears a score of years age, 'and
who died still hearing them. Al'd
had almost come to the point of pity
ing him—I was falling—I was weaken
ing. He Is a wonderful man. I—I
was losing myself. But that Is all
Over. Three months ago I could have
left him without a pang—yesterday 1
was afraid that It would never -o pos
sible. Today he makes It easy i r me.
He has hurt you beyond all reason, not
because he hates you but because he
loved your mother.”
“But you do love him," cried Fred
eric, In stark wonder. “You don't care
tho snap of your finger for me. What'
is all this you aro saying, Yvonne?
You must be mad. Think! Think
what you are saying.”
"I have thought—I ain always think
ing. I know my own mind well enough,
it Is settled; I am going away and I
am going with you.”
"I cannot listen to you, Yvonne,”
cried Frederic, aghast. His heart was
pounding so fiercely that the blood
surged to his head in groat waves; al
most stunning him with Its velocity.
"Wo go tomorrow," she cried out,
In nn ecstasy of triumph. Sho was
convinced that he would got "La
Provence!" ’
"Good God In henven!" he gasped,
dropping suddenly into a chair and
burying his face In hts shaking hands.
"What will this mean to Lydia—what
will sho do—what will become of her?”
A quiver of pain crossed the wom
an's face, her oyellds fell as It to shut
out something that Bhamcd her -In
spite of all her vainglorious protesta
tions, Thon tho spirit of exaltation re
sumed Its sway. ■
You cannot marry Lydia no\v," sho
said, affecting a sharpness of tone that
cahsed him to shrink Involuntarily. "It
Is your uty to write her a letter to-
nlkht, explaining all that has hap
pened today. Sho would sacrifice her
self for you today, but there Is—to*
morrow: A thousand tomorrows: Fred
eric. Don't forget them, my dear.
They would be ugly after all, and she
Is too good, too fine to be dragged
Into-"
"You are right!" he exclaimed, leap,
ing to his feet. "It would be the vilest
act that a man could perpetrate.
Why—why It would be proof of what
he says of me—it would stamp me
forever the bastard he—No, no, I could
nover lift my head again If I were to
do this utterly vile thing to Lydia. He
said to me here—not nn hour ago—
that he expected me to go ahead and
blight that loyal glri’B life,' that I
would consider It a noble means of
self-justiflcatlon! What do you think
of that? He— But wait! . What Is
this that we are proposing to do?
Give mo time to think! Why—why,
I can’t take you away from him,
Yvonne! God In heaven, what am I
thinking of? Have I no sense of
honor? Am I—”
"You are not his son,” she said,
significantly.
"But that is no reason why I should
stoop to a foul trick like this. Do—
do you know what you aro suggest
ing? 1 He drew back from her with a
look of dlsguBt In hts eyes. "No! I’m
not that vile! I—
"Frederic, you must let rae-i-"
"I don’t want to hear anything
more, Yvonne. What manner of wom
an are you? He Is your husband, he
loves you, he trusts you—oh, yes, he
docs! And you would leave him like
this? ’You would—"
"Hush! Not so loud!" she cried, In
great agitation.
"And let me tell you something
more. Although I can never marry
Lydia, by heaven, I shall love her to
the end of my life. I will not betray
that love. To the end At time she shall
know that ray love for her is real and
true and—”
Walt! Give me time to think," she
pleaded. He shook hlB head reso
lutely. “Do not judge me too harshly.
Hoar what I have to say before you
condemn me. I nth not the ,vile crea
ture yqu.ttilpk, Frederic, war’ T
me think!” **>.-’
Jle stared at her for a moment In
deep perplexity, and then slowly drew
near. "I do not believe you mean to
do wrong!—I do not believe it of you
You have been carried away by some
horrible—"
Listen to me,” she broke In, fierce
ly. “I would have sacrificed you—ay,
sacrificed you, poor boy—tor the joy
It would-glve me to see James Brood
grovel in misery fpr the rest of his
life. Olj!” She uttered a-groan of
despair and self-loathing so deep* and
full of palp |hflt his heart was chilled,
“Good' Ki)rd, Yvonne!" he gasped,
dumfounded.
“Do not come near me,” she cried
out, covering her face with her hands,
For a full minute she stood before him
straighf-and' rigid as a statue, a tragic
figure he was never to forget. Sud
denly shq. lowered her hands. To his
surprise, a smile was on her lips. "You
would never have gone away with mej
I know It now. All these, months
have been counting on you for this
very hour—this culminating hour—and
now I realize how little hope-I have
really had,-even from the beginning
You are honorable. There have been
times when my Influence over you was
such that you resisted only because
you were loyal to yourself—not to
Lydia, not to my husband—but to
yourself. I came to this house with
but one purpose In mind. I came here
to take you away from the man who
has always stood as your father,
would not have become your mistress
—pah! how loathsome It sounds! But
I would have enticed you away, be
lieving myself to be justified. I would
have struck James Brood that blow,
He would have gone to his grave be
lieving himself to have been paid
full by the son of the woman he had
degraded, by the boy he had reared
for the slaughter, by the blood—”
"In God’s name, Yvonne, what
thlB you are saying? What have you
against my—against him?"
“What! I shall come to that,
did not stop to consider all that
should have to overcome. First, there
was -your soul, your honor, your in
tegrity to consider. I could see noth
Ing else but triumph over James
Brood. To gain my end lt.was ni
sary that I should be his wife,
came his wife—I deliberately took that
step In order to make cbjfiplete my
triumph over him. I became the wife
of tho man I hated with all my soul
Frederic. So you can see how» far
was willing to go to—ah, It was a hard
thing to do! But I did not shrink,
went Into It without faltering, without
a single-thought of the cost, to myself.
He was to pay for all that, too, in the
end! Look into my eyes, Frederic,
want to ask you a question. Will you
go away with me? Will you take me'
He returned her look steadily. "No
“That Is all I want to hear you say
It means the end. I have done
that could be done and I have failed.
Thank God, I have failed!” She came
—
swiftly to him and, bofore no wa«
aware of hor Intention, clutched his
hand and pressed it to her lips. He
was shocked to find that a sudden
gush ot tcnrB was wotting Ills hand.
“Oh, Yvonno!" he cried miserably.
Sho was sobbing convulsively. Ho
looked down upon hor dark, bowed
hand and again folt tho mastering de
sire to crush hor slondor, beautiful
body In Ills arms. Tho spell of hor
•was upon him again, but now ho real
ized that tho oppenl was to his spirit
nnd not to his flesh—as it had been all
along, he was beginning to suspect
"Don't pity me," she choked out
"Tills will pnss, ns everything olso
has passed. I am proud of you now.
Frederic. You aro splendid. Not mnny_
men could have resisted In this hour’
ot -despair. You have boon cast off,
despised, dogrddod, humiliated. You
were offered the rnennB to retaliate.
You—"
"And I was tempted!” ho cried bit
terly. "For tho moment I was—’’
"And now what Is to become ot
mo?" sho walled.
Ills heart went cold., "You—you
will leave him? You will go back to
Paris? Good Lord, Yvonno, It will bo.
blow to him. Me has had one fear
ful slash In tho back. This will break
him.”
"At least, I may havo that consola
tion,” she cried, straightening up in
an effort to rovlvo.hor wnning put* '
pose. "Yes, I shall go. I cannot stay
lioro now. I—’’ She paused nnd shud- .
dored.
“What, In heavep’s name, have you
gainst my—against him? What does
It all mean? How you must linvo hated
him to—”
Hated him? Oh, how feoblo tho word
Is! Hate! Thero.should he a word
that strikes more terror to tho soul
than that ono. But wait! You shall
know everything. You shali have tho
story from the beginning.There Is
much to tell and there will be consola
tion—ay, triumph for you in tho story
shall tell. First, let mo say this to
you: When I came here I did not know
that thero was a Lydia Desmond. . I
would have hurt that poor girl, but It
would not linvo been a lasting pain.
In my. plans, after I came to know her,
there grow a beautiful hltornatlvo
through which she should know groat
happiness. Oh, I have planned well
and carefully,-but I was ruthless. I
would havo crushed her with him rath
er than to have failed. But It 1b all a
dream that has passed and I am awako.
It was tho most cruel but tho most
magnificent dream—ah, but I dare not
think of It. As 1 stand here bofore
you now, Frederic. I am shorn of .pH '
my power. I could not Btrlko him as I
might have dono n month ago.’ -Eyon'.
ns I was cursing him but a .moment
ago I realized that I could nbt hnvo
gono on with tho game. Even as I
begged you to take your revongo. I
know that It was not myself who
urged, but tho thing that was having
itk death struggle within rao.”
"Go on. Toll mm Why do you
stop?"-
.She was glancing fearfully toward
the Hindu’s doof. “Thoro is one man
In this Iioubo wiio knows. Ho reads
miy every thought. He. does not know *
all, but he knows me. Ho has known ;
from tho beginning that I was not to
bo-trusted.’ That man Is nover out ol
my thoughts. I fear him, Frederic—l
fenr him as I fear death. . lt--l}0 had not
jeen hero I—I bellovo I should havo
"Ah, It Was a Hard Thing to Do!”
dared anything. I could have takon
you away with me, months-ago. But
ho worked his spell and I was afraid.
I faltered. He knew that I was,afraid,
for he spoke to. me one day of the
beautiful serpents in his land that
were cowards in spite of the death
they could deal with one flash of their
fangs. You were Intoxicated. I am a
thing of‘beauty. I can charm no
the—”
"God . knows that Is true," he Bald
hoarsely.
“iiut enough of that! I was stricken
with my own poison. Go to the door!
See if ho Is there. I fear—’’
“No one is near," said ho, after strid
ing swiftly to both doors, listening at
one and peering out through the othor.
"You will have to go away, Frederic.
I shall have to go. But wo shall not
go together. In my room 1 have kept
hidden the sum of ten thousand dol
lars, waiting for the day to come when
I should use’it to complete the game
I have played. I knew that you would
have no money oi, your own. 1 was
prepared evon for that. Look again.
See If anyone Is there? I feel I foul
that someone is near us. Lqok, I Bay.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)