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i r l’l T F A 1 5 f~7 ft I | I/ K L" 1 * ’ <O> A Story of Love, Mystery and Hate, with a • «<¥» By META SIMMINS
1 11 EL Nj/”\ 1 ELO \..yr 1 V>EL Thrilling Portrayal rif Life Behind Prison Bars ®r Author of‘'Hushed Up”
FIRST READ THIS:—
JACK RIMINGTON. the hero of the story, and a man with a mysterious se
cret. preposes to and is accepted by
BETTY LUMSDEN, the charming young daughter
SIR GEORGE LUMSDEN, who. however, Is opposed to Jack because of the lat
ter's poverty, hut favors
PAUL SAXE, a millionaire, whom Betty has refused to marry after telling him
that she is engaged to tack Betty's sister.
MRS EDITH BARRINGTON, suddenh returns from France and horrifies
Bettv bv declaring that her first husband.
EDMOND LEVASSEUR, whom she married secretly when a girl, and whom
she thought dead, has appeared and demands 2.000 pounds (|10.000) in ten
davs' time or he will tell
ANTHONY FARRINGTON ever: ’hing < >nh four days are left and Mrs Bar
rington begs Betty tn borrow the mone\ from Saxe Betty Is horiified at
the proposal and refuses, but after a frantic appeal from her sister, con
sents. The next dav Betty telephones tn Saxe and he consents tn give her
the monev. but insists that slip < al! at his house at 11 o'clock that night
Bettv can not refuse That afternoon Fimington gets a note from Saxe
asking him tn call at 11 30 o'clock that night Rlmlngton is puzzled, but
goes and •* astonished to see the nameplate of
j. j. FITZSTEPHENS, on the railing, this man being the money-lender whose
persecutions drove
TOBY RIMINGTON, Jack's brother, to South Africa Rlmlngton ascends the
stairs but is startled to hear a woman’s scream He dashes into a room
and *inds tn his horror Betty standing over a dead man with a dagger in
ber hard The lights suddenh go out .lark calls. "Betty!” Betty van
ishes in s he darkness and Rlmlngton manages to escape from the house tn
which he hi- been trapped Meantime Mrs Barrington anxlouslv awaits
the return of Betty, who ultimately arrives. In a distressed and exhausted
condition, without the monex Nevertheless, the SIO,OOO reaches Mrs. Bar
rington bv post the next morning
—Now Go On With the Story
What did those words which stared up 1
at her—written in that clear, colorless. ’
clerkly hand, that had the distinction of
being more clear than print Itself mean? ,
What could they mean” That Betty had ,
betrayed her. that already her secret— ,
that secret In which the happiness of 1
three lives was so Intimately bound up— ,
had passed Into other and perhaps un- I
armnulous hands”
A vision of her sister's fare flashed up 1
TftQ Dingbat Cimily Pah’PAH Is “Reshciled" Copyright 1912. National News Association RQY Y ITTI dYi
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before her. Betiy’s face, transformed and
stricken looking, with trembling Ups that
faltered out the story of her failure "I
didn't got the monev, Edith Don't ask
me what happened I don't know I can't
tell” And yet even in the light of that
memory, terrible and heart-breaking
though It was. Edith Rarrington could
not bring herself tn believe that the so
lution lav in the fact of Betty’s betrayal
Some instinct within her, an instinct ut
terly outside and beyond reason, seemed
ITTE ATLANTA GEORGIAN AND NEWS. TTESDAY, JTNE 4. 1912.
to tell her emphatically that Betty was '
Incapable of such a breach of trust —that 1
e\en in a moment of crisis such as she
appeared to have undergone, that had 1
left such terrible traces upon her. the <
girl might betray herself but never the ,
confldence of one who trusted In her.
An Unexpected Return.
A sudden light brushing of fingertips,
hardly to be called a knock, against the f
panel of the bedroom door, roused Mrs. !
Barrington from her abstraction. She '
bent tn gather the fallen papers together J
with a movement so abrupt and violent '
that it sent the dainty wicker tray, with
its fragile earlj- morning tea set, crash- 1
ing to the floor The sound mingled with
the somewhat noisy opening of the bed- 1
room door, as In a perfect frenzy of fright 1
she gathered the scattered papers to
gether and crushed them, all damp and i
stained as they were, within the bosom 1
cjf her loose gown 1
'Anthony'” The name escaped her pale 1
lips in a little gasp of terror as she turned '
and faced the man who had come smiling f
into the room and stood regarding her
with a half-quizzical expression on his '
handsome face '
"You didn't expect me. old girl!” he 1
said, ’and pon my word, I don t believe *
you're remarkably glad to see me.” ■
There was just a suspicion of reproach In f
his tone that served to put the woman on ;
her guard She forced her trembling lips ■
into a smile and put out her hands with «
a charming gesture of welcome. >
"Pleased' My dear Anthony, I am so '
absolutely surprised that I haven't room ;
for any other emotion, she said "I have
Just been reading your rwstcard from ’
Paris —and turn round and see you stand- 1
ing in the room For the moment I
doubted my eves How on earth did you
ge* here -on a Bleriot*"
"ea, with Phil hanging on to the
tail behind,” Barrington laughed. Her
explanation appeared to gratify him, his
eyes twinkling as he made his own;
“Phil—cute little beggar—l expect he
posted that card. I lust managed to get
away by the skin of my teeth- -left Puf
fy to finish up with the exhibition ” Hi?
tone softened ‘ I had to come, Edith —it
seems centuries since you went away!
It’s a good job I did. it seems to me
You're looking pretty queer—has anything
happened?”
He put his hands on her shoulders and
looked down into her face with a ques
tioning look in his shrewd gray eyes
Very charming eyes, with their ever-lurk
ing suggestion of laughter, well set be
neath level black brows. He was a tall
man. but, tall as he was, they w>re pret
ty well matched in height, and her brown
pvea looked into his gray ones unflinching!
as they stood.
"What sort of thing?” she asked, light
ly "Does anything ever happen at the
t.rnft? No, I am maligning It—l believe
my father has given his el ght-hundred
eighty-eighth cook notice —and—yes, this
Is rather astonishing—Betty had a head
ache last night and is in bed—l hope
asleep So she will not be able to pre
side over the breakfast table —where I
am therefore morally bound to put in an
appearance—unless T wish to upset my
father for the whole day. Can t you run
away and amuse yourself while I dress,
Tony?” She paused and looked at him
with her head on one side for a mo
ment.
“Do you know that yfur spruceness
1 is positively amazing?” she said "You
look as though you had stepped out of
■. the proverbial band-box instead of out of
■ the train."
. "I have stepped not so very long age
out of a cold tub at the Weybourne
Arms,” Barrington replied. "I arrived
late last night—or, rather, extraordinarily
t earlj* this morning—and I hadn't the
cheek to ring up my respected father-in
law at such an hour.”
; He bent suddenly and kissed her, press
! ing her against his breast with that lover
like fervor that the years of their mar
j riage had never staled, but for the first
time his caress failed to thrill the woman.
] She was conscious of one thing and of
one thing only—the almost cruel pressure
of those damp, roughly folded papers
. against her breast
"I'll go down and have a look at the
1 papers before your father comes down to
sit on the Times.” Barrington said.
Dreading the Worst.
I As the door closed behind her husband
Edith gave a long, sobbing breath of re
lief and turned the key in the lock, lean-
1 ing against the woodwork, her breath
‘ coming quickly, like that of a woman
well nigh spent with running But with
an effort she recovered herself and, tak
ing the papers from their hiding place.
- smoothed them out and folded them into
a neat, unobtrusive packet which she
[ stowed away in the innermost recess of
1 her jew’ei case.
Just for the first moment of her sur
-1 prise, when she had turned to find her
• husband standing there in the bedroom
1 behind her. Edith Barrington had dreaded
• the worst Her mind had leaped to the
conclusion that it was as an accuser An-
s thony had come to England—that he had
1 heard Edmond Levasseur’s story already,
r But the first glance of his eyes had re
f assured her; they were devoid of any sus
picion—the same frank eyes that had 1
never looked at her except with tender-
‘ ness.
• The thought brought no comfort with 1
it; it was like a stab in the heart. She
shivered, for all the soft warmth of the
as she set about her toilet, won
dering with a sick dread how long this 1
■ fool’s paradise of love's creation would
• last—-how long it would be before that
dread specter, started up out of her
past, would drive her out into the thistle 1
. strewn desert of the world that laughs. <
f Before going dowmstairs she slipped :
1 along the corridor to Betty’s room The
: girl was still asleep. She lay on her side,
one closely-clenched hand under her
‘ cheek. Her breathing was quick and un- ;
1 even, and her face was slightly flushed.
There was something so unnatyral in her
look, in this prolonged sleep, that Edith
I Barrington's heart sank as she stood
there looking down at her. For Betty, (
■ .who, like a child, seemed to rise with the
1 birds, to be sleeping so profoundly now! ,
1 Certainly it might be the sleep of pro
-1 found exhaustion, yet she was afraid.
She lingered reluctantly, even after the
. second gong had sounded a summons of .
) such shrill impatience that she knew it
? had been beaten out by her father’s hand;
1 and as she lingered the girl in the bed
stirred and flung out a protesting arm.
The movement disclosed something fallen
• on the bed from her suddenly relaxed
• hand.
I Edith bent and picked it up—a small
• scrap of paper, on which were written,
in that same clerkly handwriting which
had come to her by that morning post,
the words of an address* 88-B Tempest
street, W.C. She stared at it question
ingly, and from it to the girl, sleeping
still. Then, as she heard her father's
voice in the hall below, calling alternate
ly for herself and Betty, she dar®d to
delay no longer. She went downstairs.
In the hall she came face to face with
her father
"Morning, Edith.” He scarcely brushed
the cheek she extended to him —scratched
it with his moustache, that had been
Betty’s childish description of her father's
perfunctory kiss. "I’m glad to see you
alive. 'Pon my soul, I was beginning to
doubt it—thought some tragedy had
swept the boards clean in the night.
Where's Betty? Headache? I don’t be
lieve It. And where the plague are my
papers? That fool over there" —he jerked
an angry head in the direction of tho
slightly ruled-looking butler—"saV he left
them as usual on the waiter by my chair.
.As though, if he left 'em there, they
wouldn't be there now! What the mis
chief are you laughing at, Edith?”
For Mrs. Barrington, though not laugh
ing. was certainly smiling, having caught
sight of her husband standing in tho
French window behind Sir George, an ir
resistibly mirth-provoking figure, laden,
as he appeared to be, with innumerable
badly folded sheets of newspaper the re
sult of an ineffectual struggle with a
blown-away "Times,” swollen to incredi
ble proportions by a financial supplement.
"There are your papers, father," she
said, with a little gurgle of nervous
laughter.
Continued Tomorrow.
