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In Silence
Silence is the element in which
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LET US TELL YOU
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it? Hidden Wavs
FREDERIC F. VAN DE WATER ®
CHAPTER XVl—Continued
—l7
"‘You’re not,” Miss Agatha asked
slowly, ‘‘a very generous young
man, are you?”
“I have too little,” I told her, still
tingling, “to be generous. That, I
suppose, is why I fight to keep it.
I’m so far beneath the Pagets—”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” she bade.
I shrugged, deliberately provoking
my hurt.
“So much that is—uncomfortable
to me, is nonsense to a Paget,” I
answered.
She grinned mockingly.
“How proletarian! You care less
about lifting yourself than pulling
others down?”
“Let’s drop it,” I said and flipped
my cigarette into the wastebasket
with needless force.
“Willingly,” she agreed and laid
hold of the rim of her chair’s
wheels. “Will you stay to lunch,
David?”
“No,” I said ungraciously, “I have
an engagement. With Cochrane of
the Press,” I added to rub it in.
“I see,” said Miss Agatha calm
ly. “When you come back this aft
ernoon, we’ll get the typewriter from
the basement. And before you go
out, you might see that whatever is
kindling in the wastebasket is ex
tinguished. We’ve enough on our
hands without adding arson.”
I smelled scorching paper and
bent over the basket.
"Annie,” said Miss Agatha, mov
ing toward the door, “should have
emptied it, but when the police come
in the door reason flies out—”
“Wait a minute,” I begged. There
was a single balled sheet of paper
In the wastebasket and the tip of
my castaway cigarette lay on it. I
picked up the crumpled wad and an
odd feeling, half inspiration, half
theory, excited me. My fingers
trembled as 1 undid the ball. It
was a half-completed letter, broken
off in mid-sentence. As I read it I
could see Grove, blindly in love as
twenty-odd can be, hammering out
reproach and devotion to the woman
who had not kept their tryst. I
could see him look up, where the
typing ended, and mark that a win
dow in the Ferriter flat was bright,
lone had returned. She had not
failed him. He had torn the paper
from the typewriter, cast it into the
basket and rushed, headlong, into
i disaster. I handed the crumpled
i sheet to Miss Agatha without a word
and she, too, read it through be
fore she spoke.
“Poor boy,” she said at last, and
there was tenderness in her usually
brisk voice. “Poor, passionate, fool
ish Grove.”
I had expected something more
from her than this, though even to
mo the missive was more pitiful
and less ridiculous than most letters
of its sort.
“But don’t you see,” I asked,
“what this means?” She turned to
ward me and replied with equal
tartness.
“See? Of course I see? This is
what put my nephew’s fingerprints
on those typewriter keys. This is
the letter he said he had been writ
ing. That note the police found on
him was written by Everett, bent
on suicide, earlier. This merely
proves that Grove has told the truth.
It seems more of a surprise to you,
David, than it does to me."
She read it over again with a
crooked little smile and folded it
with gentle hands.
I suggested:
“Shan’t we turn it over to Shan
non, It proves—”
“Shannon?” she repeated with odd
Indecision. “I don’t know. It seems
to me a rather sacred thing. You
see, no one ever wrote such a letter
to me. Let me think it over, Da
vid, We’ll talk of it later.”
She rolled herself away without
another word. I looked at the clock.
It was almost time for my appoint
ment with Cochrane.
CHAPTER XVII
The food before us cooled while I
talked and Cochrane listened. Like
the Ancient Mariner’s stooge, Jerry
had to take it and like it. I had
come to the beanery to Tell All. My
mind had been partly laundered by
my confession to Miss Agatha. I
wanted to complete the cleansing
by holding back nothing from Jer
ry. There was too much darkness
for me to increase it by further reti
cence.
It was bitter, under his mild and
trustful regard, to lay bare things
I might have told long ago, but I
went through with it. I saw his
eyebrows go up, and up, as I told
of Grove’s earlier visit to the Fer
riter apartment, of the voice I had
heard in Mine’s and, finally, of
Duke's letter. Then I leaned back,
feeling empty but easier and Coch
rane looked from me to the salt
shaker he fingered.
“Duke,” he said, still watching it,
“was sore, of course, over the skin
ning we’ve handed him. He doesn’t
know how much worse it might have
been, if—” He stuck.
I said, “If I hadn’t held out on
you. Go ahead and tell me what I
am. I won’t argue it.”
I He looked at me again and gave
his beaming smile.
“A guy who’s That Way is never
quite normal. I might have done
worse myself. You have large ideas,
Lochinvar.”
“Listen,” I told him. “I’ve got
one idea. That, is to get that noble
and highbred sap out of this jam
wtd then fade out of the picture.”
“I get you.” He grinned. ‘‘With
b sad renunciatory gesture that will
live forever in her memory.”
I checked what I started to say.
“Go ahead,” I answered. “Rub it
in. I rate it.”
He still played with the shaker.
He asked at last;
“So the old lady didn’t have Win
terbottom show you the door?”
‘‘No. All I have to do is help her
get her nephew out of the coop and
substitute the murderer.”
‘‘Which should keep you busy,”
Jerry said, ‘‘at least until day after
tomorrow. Would you like any
help?”
1 did not understand him.
‘‘l mean,” he went on, “is this
just a personal or a professional
conference? Do 1 forget all you’ve
told me, or do we work it out to
gether?”
His generosity threw me off bal
ance,
“If you still want me to play ball
with you,” I began, “after—”
“I don’t quite see how I’m to fin
ish it off solo,”
He seemed relieved and went on
more briskly.
“Since we’re still accomplices,
I’ve got something to show you.”
He pulled from his pocket a
creased and glazed placard, bear
ing the picture of four men in tights
and spangles, posed beneath a good
deal of dangling cordage. Below the
half-tone was the legend “The Four
I picked up the crumpled wad.
Flying Ferriters.” Cochrane gave it
to me and said:
“Handle it gently. I got it from
Henkel, old-time vaudeville agent,
and I’ve got to return it. Recog
nize anyone?”
I did and started to speak. I
looked more closely and at last
faced Jerry’s expectant grin.
“Either of the two middle ones,”
I said at last, “could have been
Lyon Ferriter, ten years ago.”
“Excellent, Watson,” Cochrane
crooned. “My own idea. The one
on the left, Henkel tells me, was
Lyon Ferriter. His neighbor was
his cousin, Andrew Horstman. The
other Ferriters were named Levine
and Pappas. They were semi-head
liners in the old two-a-day era.”
“Proving what?” I asked him,
folding the placard carefully and
returning it.
“Not a thing in the world,” Jerry
answered, “except that your friend
used to be the daring young man
on the flying trapeze. Henkel has
the memory of an elephant but even
he doesn’t know what happened
next. He does say that Lyon and
his cousin were very intelligent, for
acrobats. When the movies ruined
Art, and the Four Flying Ferriters
flew apart, Henkel thinks that Horst
man went into acting and played in
stock for a while and that Lyon
went to Alaska.”
“Part of which,” I told him,
“checks.”
“It does more than that,” Coch
rane drawled with the sleepy air
that was his mask for excitement.
“It practically proves that the
Horstman who joined the Ferriters,
Lyon and lone, in their honky-tonk,
or whatever, in Alaska was their
cousin. And he, if you recall, went
out looking for gold with them. They
found it and lost Horstman. He
never came back.”
“Well?” I asked, at last, for he
seemed to have run down, yet I
knew the pause was for dramatic
effect.
“Neither,” Cochrane crooned,
“did Lyon and lone.”
He beamed.
I said, “All right; spring it.”
“They never came back to their
cozy little shack,” Jerry went on.
“That’s pure Robert Service, eh?
lone and her brother showed up the
following spring in Fairbanks, which
is a considerable hike from Tanana
Crossing, where their place stood.
“They claimed that Horstman got
lost in a blizzard and he wasn’t
there to say he didn’t. They had
samples with them that started a
stampede. Lyon went in with it
and sold his claim. When he came
back, he and sister went down-river,
took steamer for the states and van
ished. They left so fast, they forgot
to do anything about the dump at
Tanana Crossing. This was sold last
year for taxes. And, thanks to the
assiduous Fairbanks correspondent
of the Press, there you are.”
“Where?” I asked.
Cochrane chuckled.
“It all adds up,” he admitted, “to
whatever you choose to make it. It’s
background on the guy you and the
old gal have elected murderer, any
way.”
I said, “It’s also a problem in
relationship. Everett used to be a
Horstman. Then he wasn’t brother
to Lyon and lone. He may have
been—”
I bogged down.
“Brother or something to the
Horstman the blizzard is alleged to
have abolished,” Cochrane finished
for me. “It’ll take a genealogist to
figure it out, eh? And the authority
on the subject broke his neck last
night. That’s too bad. We need
him.”
“No,” I told him, “what we really
need is Lyon’s weakness. That’s
what Miss Agatha Paget wants.”
I went over my recent talk with
her. Cochrane ate and then forgot
his food to sit listening, apparently
half asleep.
“You know,” he said when I end
ed, “that’s a pretty unusual crone,
I’d like to meet her.”
“Why not?” I asked.
He had been too generous for me
to hold back now. The question shook
him out of his drowsiness.
“Do you mean it?”
“I’ll phone and see,” I said, ris
ing. “But you’ll have to keep her
out of the papers.”
“Oke,” Jerry beamed. “It'll be
enough of a thrill just to get Inside
the Morello.”
At the telephone, I told Miss Aga
tha I was bringing Cochrane up to
see her. If I had asked permission,
I think she might have forbidden it,
but I followed up with persuasion
and reassurance until she consented
and promised at my suggestion to
clear our way through the hostile
lobby. She was in the workroom
when we entered. She seemed re
lieved that Jerry had neither horns
nor tail and welcomed him serenely.
I had grown accustomed to the
spirit that dwelt intact in that crip
pled body, but Cochrane was a lit
tle dazed.
The tea-wagon, glass and bottle
laden, stood beside the old lady’a
wheel chair.
“One of the few perquisites of
age,” Miss Agatha told us briskly,
“is liquor. I hope you drink, Mr.
Cochrane?”
“Only,” he said solemnly, “in my
social moments.”
Miss Agatha’s face changed and
she glanced at me. She picked her
words:
“I had understood that this was
a social call.”
“It is,” Jerry told her, and she
chuckled as she reached for the
glasses.
We talked and sipped our high
balls. I watched Cochrane’s reti
cence melt, and saw the old lady’s
stiff face relax. Presently, with his
doubt completely gone, Jerry was
telling her in a low intimate voice
all he had learned from Henkel and
the Press’ Fairbanks correspondent,
of Lyon’s past. Miss Agatha heard
him through, with slowly narrowing
eyes. She surveyed the placard
Cochrane showed her and looked at
it so long that Jerry repeated:
“Ferriter is the second man from
the left.”
This seemed to rouse her.
“Yes,” she said with forced brisk
ness, “yes, I see,” and threw off
whatever odd abstraction had held
her. “He and his neighbor look
much alike. So he’s the one who
went with his beloved sister to the
Arctic. I do.'.’t think I’m over-inhos
pitable in wishing they’d stayed
there.”
“Is she,” Cochrane asked sudden
ly, “his ‘beloved sister’?”
Miss Agatha looked at him hard
before she spoke.
“I’ve seen no birth certificates,”
she replied tartly, “but there cer
tainly is a family resemblance. And
he is utterly devoted to her. If
he were less so, my nephew mightn’t
be in jail at the moment.”
“Because,” Cochrane went on, “I
gather from our Fairbanks man—l
wish I’d brought along that dispatch
—that they quarreled a good deal
while they were living at Tanan*
Crossing.”
“Pooh,” said Miss Agatha, “broth
ers and sisters always quarrel. Sh«
was good-looking, in a region of few
women, and he probably was jeal
ous.”
“Our correspondent’s idea,” Jerry
answered, “is just the opposite. H*
wires that Lyon objected because
she wasn’t attentive enough to cus
tomers. After Horstman arrived,
there was a blow-up. He and Lyon
had a fight. That was just befor#
the three of them went prospecting.”
“And Horstman didn’t com#
back,” Miss Agatha thought aloud,
and was silent for an instant.
“Well,” she added, pulling herself
together, “Lyon and lone probably
murdered him. There’s nothing t«
compare with a murder as a solvent
or maker of trouble.”
Yet when Cochrane had gone, that
part of his narrative seemed to irri
tate her. She spoke of it while An
nie rolled away the tea-wagon.
“You’ve seen for yourself,” sh«
appealed to me, as though she need
ed endorsement, “there never wa|
a more devoted brother than Lyga."
I nodded as the bell rang.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
IMPROVED
UNIFORM INTERNATIONAL
SUNDAY I
chool Lesson
By HAROLD L, LUNDQUIST, D. D.
Dean of The Moody Bible Institute
of Chicago.
(Released by Western Newspaper Union.)
Lesson for February 23
Lesson subjects and Scripture texts se
lected and copyrighted by International
Council of Religious Education; used by
permission.
JESUS CALLS TO PRAYER
LESSON TEXT—Luke 18:1-14.
GOLDEN TEXT—Lord, teach us to pray.
—Luke 11:1.
Imitations may be so clever as
to cause us to marvel, but to the one
who knows the real thing, they are
“just imitations.” Particularly is
that true in the realm of the spiritu
al. Make-believe faith in God fools
only the hypocrite and those who
know as little as he does of real
Christianity.
Prayer is undoubtedly the great
est privilege of the Christian, put
ting him and his life in touch with
the omnipotence of God. But it must
be real prayer, not just some formal
exercise which masquerades under
the name of prayer. We combine
the two parables of our lesson to
contrast prevailing prayer and pow
erless prayer.
I. Prevailing Prayer.
The prayer which really lays hold
upon God and brings results must
be the expression of a life of prayer.
It is no occasional effort brought
about by a great need or a deep
sorrow. We must pray
1. Without Ceasing (v. 1). Jesus
had just been talking of the trying
days which were to come (Luke
17:26-30). To stand fast for Christ
in a day when almost all the influ
ences are against such faith, a man
needs real prayer or he will surely
faint.
To pray constantly is not neces
sarily to be saying the words of
prayer, but is the outreach of the
life toward God, the setting of our
minds on things above. That we
can and may do at all times and in
all places.
2. With Assurance (vv. 2-9). If
an unjust judge will respond just
to escape the constant plea of a
widow, we may rest assured that
God, who is just and looks upon
His people in loving-kindness, will
not fail to respond to their plea. He
says, “Call unto me, and I will an
swer thee, and show thee great and
mighty things, which thou knowest
not” (Jer. 33:3).
3. In Humility (vv. 13, 14). We
come to God, not to demand, but to
humbly plead the blood of Jesus
Christ. That was what the publican
did. When he said, “Lord, be mer
ciful,” he used the word “propitiat
ed,” which refers to the mercy seat
on which the blood was sprinkled as
a propitiation for sin (see Exod.
25:17, 18, 21; Heb. 9:5; Lev. 16:5).
Such a plea brought salvation to the
repentant sinner.
11. Powerless Prayer.
We use the word prayer here in
the broad sense, for strictly speak
ing there is no such thing as prayer
without power. Men call it prayer,
but it accomplishes nothing because
it is offered
1. In Self-sufficiency (vv. 9, 11).
Those who trust “in themselves”
will naturally do what the Pharisee
did; he “prayed with himself.” “He
had an intellectual conviction, but
that does not make a contact with
God. Hell is full of intellectual con
viction. God? Oh, yes. But he was
so occupied with himself he could
not get away from himself” (Mor
gan).
2. With Boastful Pride (w. 9, 11,
12). Despising others, the Pharisee
boasted of his own fine character
and good works. “God resisteth
the proud, but giveth grace unto
the humble” (James 4:6). It is prop
er that a man should live uprightly,
but if it only makes him self-right
eous it becomes a barrier between
him and God (Luke 18:14).
3. For the Sake of Publicity (v.
11, cf. v. 13). While the publican
hung his head and stood afar off to
offer his prayer, the Pharisee ap
parently took a prominent place and
spoke with a loud voice. Jesus de
scribed that kind of prayers in Mat
thew 6:5 as just putting on a pub
licity “stunt.” When men had seen
them pray, the transaction was fin
ished. They had not been in touch
with God at all.
The result of the two prayers is
so well described by Dr. J. Camp
bell Morgan that we quote his
words:
“Two men at prayer. One, elo
quently, in phrases circling round
his own personality with which he i
was pre-eminently pleased. The oth- I
er, hating his sin, and grasping out
after the infinite and tender com
passion of God to operate for him. .
. . . The man who justified him- !
self remained unjustified. The man !
who sought the compassion of God
went back to his house justified.”
There Is Another Life
I cannot believe, and cannot be
brought to believe, that the purpose
of our creation is fulfilled by our
short existence here. To me the
existence of another world is a nec
essary supplement of this, to adjust
its inequalities, and imbifg it with
moral significance.—Thurlow Weed,
The Road to Pow'cr
Self-Reverence,
Self-Knowledge
Self-Control—
These three alone lead life to sov
ereign power.—Tennyson.
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A Good Name
Good name, in man or woman,
is the immediate jewel of their
souls—Who steals my purse steals
trash; but he that filches from me
my good name, robs me of that
which not enriches him, and
makes me poor indeed.—Shake
speare.
Courage and Faith
There is a courage which is
only another name for faith. Many
a battle is lost before the soldier
leaves his tent. The first step to
victory is to believe that the battle
need not be lost at all.— Hugh
Black,
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