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“THE GATES OF SILENCE”
FIRST READ THIS:—
JACK RIMINGTON, the hero of the story. and a man with a mysterious se
cret. proposes to an»i ts accepted by
BETTY LUMSDEN, the charming young daughter of
SIR GEORGE LUMSDEN, who. however, is opposed to .Jack because of the lat
ter's poverty, but favors
PAUL SAXE, a millionaire, whom Betty has refused th marry after telling him
that she is engaged to Jack. Betty's sister,
MRS. EDITH BARRINGTON, suddenly returns from France and horrifies
Bott' b> declaring that her first busband.
EDMOND LEVASSEUR, whom she married secretly when a girl and whom
she thought dead, has appeared and demands 2.M0 pounds <$!0,O00> in ten
davs' time, or he will tell
ANTHONY BARRINGTON everything only four days are left and Mrs Har
rington lags Bell' to borrow lhe ntone' from Saxe. Betty is horrified -at
the proposal and refuses, but after a frantic appeal from*her sister, con
sents
—Now Go On With the Story
She felt the ejes of the girl behind
the counter in the library Pierre her when
she passed through the shop to the box
“0061 City.” Once the number was given
her nerve steadied a little Her voice
was quite normal when, the ordeal of
getting through over she spoke Saxe’s
name
“Yes. Mr. Saxe is in. But who s speak
ing? Miss Lumsden? Hold on, will
you?” And then Paul Saxe's voice: “That
you. Miss Betty* Good morning This is
a very pleasant surprise
“I —want to see you Mr Saxe I was
dreadfully disappointed to find you gone
No. it isn’t a bit kind of me to say it I
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want to trespass on your friendship al
ready. to ask you a favor.”
'!♦ is granted already.”
“Oh. no, it s not so easily disposed of as
all that ’ She was gaining courage It
was easier than she could have imagined
possible tn speak with the barrier of
space between them I-I’m in trouble.
I want 3ou to help me.”
‘ I'm sorry In bear that! What is it?
Don't think me brutal, but is it money?”
“Yes
“Well, now. how much.’ Tell me.”
Far off and thinking as his voire was.
it seemed to Betty that it had changed
”1 can’t here,“ Betty said, desperately.
i-jtiis aiijA.a i a tjrvrotiAA aiw JXtswa: rrtiDAT. mat 41,
“Can I see you—-can’t 1 run up? I wouldn’t
keep you long. It’s - it’s very’ serious.”
There was a pause, a confused buzxing
of the wires. For a moment the girl
dreaded that Saxe was about to ring off
“How much it it? No. you mutt tell
me. Two thoutand poundt! Good Lord
I beg your pardon, but it it a fairly
large turn.’’
“An immense, an impossible, sum
Betty’s cheeks were flaming, the hand
that pressed the receiver against her ear
shook
“No. not that. You* shall have it with
pleasure Rut there are difficulties. I d
like to see you indeed. 1 must. Unfor
tunately. I’m going away tomorrow for a
month or so, and today—well, today's
practically impossible, unless”
“I’m afraid after today it will be use
less ’ Betty said.
“Weil Are you there? Yes. Now.
look here it needs pluck, ’but you have
that. Will you come up to my rooms to
night? I hate to ask you to do it. I’d
ask no other w»»man; she’d imagine--
well, you know But you're different I
know this must be serious, you Wouldn't
have asked me else Now. it’s not pos
sible to see you till late this evening
Could you come to my rooms here at
Tempest street about eleven?”
Betty hesitated. Her first impulse was
tn ring off. It was an insult- a studied
insult A mist swam before her eyes
It was only mechanically that her ha rid
held the receiver in place. Then acrosa
vO, A Story of Love, Mystery and Hate, uith a
Thrilling Portrayal of Life Behind Prison Bars
the wires came the tinkling voice:
"T guess I know what you’re thinking.
Miss Betty. Its natural, but it's far
wMe of the mark Honestly. 1 want to
help you. but it's not in my power to
see you till then, and I suggest' Tempest
street because we can talk there quietly
perhaps I can help you in other ways
than money—and we couldn’t do that In
a more public place I’ve got an excellent
old housekeeper who will assuage the
anxiety of Mrs. Grundy."
Surely he was to be trusted" And
the matter one of hours now. Beggars
could not be choosers
"I’ll —come," she said.
"Bravo! I'm grateful for your trust in
me—l admire your pluck."
Betty walked out of the library quick
ly. her face white and set. The young
woman behind the counter who wished
her a civil "Good morning" tossed her
head with quite justifiable indignation.
What was Miss Lomsden that she should
look at her as though she did not exist?
But, indeed, for Betty In that moment she
did not exist.
Leaning hack in the corner of the cab.
Jack Rimington examined the letter once
again. It was by the merest fluke that it
had reached him at his lodgings in Chan
dos street. Only that unexpected wire
from Westport that had delayed Iris de
parture till tomorrow was accountable
for his being in London at all. and there
fore al Mr. F’aul Saxe's service
"And what the deuce does that suave
individual require of me?" he asked him
self. scanning the lines that, in a man's
bold handwriting, set forth as follows:
“88-B Tempest Street, W. C.
"Dear Mr. Rimington: I would esteem
It a favor of the greatest possible kind If
you could call upon me at my rooms In
Tempest street tonight at 11:30. t should
hesitate to ask this, knowing as 1 do your
engagements at the moment, were not
the matter one of the most urgent Impor
tance, not only to yourself, but to the lady
I understand Is to be your wife.
"PAUL SAXE.”
"Hang his impudence!" Jack had said
when he read that "How much dotfs he
know ?" But wild horses would not
kept him back from Temple street that
night, as no doubt Mr. Saxe probably
knew. •
The name of Tempest street recalled
memories to Rimington. but rather shad
owy ones. He was surprised at Mr.
Saxe's choice of address. A suite at the
Savoy or some such caravansary seemed
so very much more in the line of that
magnificent personage
As he turned into the street his wonder
deepened. It was such an odd neighbor
hood, this, for a man of Saxe's fastidious
ness to choose tn lodge in—this place of
narrow streets and tall, dull houses whose
windows bore a sly, curtained look. There
were flower boxes in some of the win
dows—boxes filled with common flowers,
nasturtiums and geraniums, that hung
drooping in the heat. Here and there at
the top of one or two of the area steps,
women were standing, who slunk below
as he passed and regarded him furtively
from their doorsteps.
He was one of the least imaginative of
young men: his nerves were in superb
condition; yet. for all that, he was con
scious that there seemed to be about this
still, old street an almost palpable at
mosphere of gloom and depression —
something more—an atmosphere of actual
fear.
No. 88-B was a hduse, if possible, more
dingy than the rest. The long, unpainted
stucco was peeling from the bricks, and
the uneven stone of the steps looked as
though It had not known water and a
scrubbing brush for a decade. On the
railings a smalt brass plate bore the name,
"J. J. Fitzstephen.”
The Carrion Crow.
The sight of that discolored plate
brought those vague memories to a dis
tinct coherence. “,T. J. Fitzstephen.
Jack Rimington remembered now, with
a sudden straightening of the shoulders
and a hardening of the lips. That was
the. euphonious sobriquet of the carrion
crow who had picked poor Toby's bones
white. For the moment he suspected a
trap. Could the blackguard have got
some inkling or suspicion of what lay in
store for him? Could he be in league with
Saxe, or Saxe with him? Almost before
the thought was definite Rimington dis
missed it. He hated Saxe, mainly, per
haps. because, until a day or two since,
By META SIMMINS
Author of “Hushed Up”
he dreaded in him the successful rival;
hut he did not believe that of him. Fitz
stephen was a pariah even to his own
class. It was merely a coincidence that
had brought the men to lodge under one
roof Perhaps, no doubt, in fact, the
house belonged to the money-lender and
he. let it out as chambers for bachelors.
The fact that the hall door stood wide
open lent countenance to the idea. Rlm
ing'on entered it and looked for a name
rack on the inner wall instinctively. It
was while he looked, and looked in vain,
that he became aware bewilderingly of
the intricate chorus of ticking clocks.
He wondered if there was a watchmaker s
shop next door, and turned to see, with
a new astonishment, the manner of en
trance hall in which he stood.
If a man is to be judged by the house
he inhabits, what a strange man Saxe
must be! That was Rimington's first
thought. Then he sickened, remembering
the house was Fitzstephen's, the . usurer.
No doubt these things, singly so valuable
and lovely, so tragically ugly in their hud
dled confusion, were wreckage from half
a hundred of the homes that he had
ruined.
And as he stood there staring about
him in the economical glimmer of light
to which the solitary gas Jet had been
turned, sharply through the stillness of
the house, whose silence, save for the
tick-tacklna of the clocks, seemed to
brood like a tangible presence, came the
sharp shrillness of a frightened woman's
To be Continued Tomorrow.