Newspaper Page Text
“THE GATES OF SILENCE’’ Thrilling Portrayal of Life Behind Prison Bars
FIRST READ THIS:—
JACK RIMINGTON. the hero of the story, and a man with a mysterious se
cret. proposes to and is accepted by
BETTY LUMSDEN, the charming young daughter of
SIR GEORGE LUMSDEN, who. however, is opposed to Jack because of the iat
ter’s poverty, but favors , . ,
PAUL SAXE, a millionaire, whom Betty ha-- refused to marry after telling him
that she is engaged to Jack Betty's sister,
MRS. EDITH BARRINGTON, suddenly returns from France and horrifies
Betty bv declaring that her first husband.
EDMOND LEVASSEUR, whom she married secretly when a girl, and whom
she thought dead, tias appeared and demands 2.090 pounds ($10,000) in ten
days' time, or he will tell I
ANTHONY BARRINGTON everything only four days are left andMrfr Bar
rington begs Bettv to borrow the money from Saxe Betty is horrined at
the proposal and refuses, hut after a frantic appeal from her sister, con- 1
sents The next day Betty telephones to Saxe and he consents to give her i
the money, but insists that she call at his house at 11 o clock that night 1
Bettv can not refuse That afternoon Rimington gets a note from Saxe
asking him to call at 11:30 o’clock that night Rimington is puzzled, but
roes and is astonished to see the nameplate of
J. J FITZSTEPH ENS. o:i the railing, this man being the money-lender whose
FUmInGTON. Jack's brother, to South Africa Rimington ascends the ll'
stair® but i« startled to hear a woman's scream. He dashes into a room
and finds to his horror Betty standing over a dead man with a dagger in
her band The lights suddenly go out Jack calls, Betty Betty van
ishes in the darkness and Rimington manages to escape from the house in
which he has been trapped. Meantime Mrs Barrington anxiously a waits
the return of Bettv. who ultimately arrives, in a distressed ano exhausted
condition, without the money. Nevertheless, the JIO.OOO reaches Mrs. Bar- |
rington by post the next morning ,
—Now Go On With the Story 1
What did those words tjhlch stared up
at her—written in that ciear. 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
three lives was so intimately bound up
had passed into other and perhaps un
scrupulous hands’
A vision of her sister's face flashed up
The Dingbat Family
—————— —— ffyio just To 6HOUJ Vod t hat Pl N. _ ; _ _l CuTiim-d-r-fui dcx, avi nvcA
fmwr Tws fcoAuo) /' 5 DO?*- UE VOL T hide VovRsELfS - (HELP PA ~ ~ -fl 1= MPs&A)IFI&riEMI /AJS'LECT//
\ rescue. A jmam toerX ] of a dog J _==■ HQUEe. X 7 x \ R.\'BACK,
- F A HE - ,5/ 3bST ] \ HELP. - SEE HOW<JUICK ( Z \XiL HFI P W EG- ~ -U= ’L-/ TXXk GET LOSTA6A/\)p-Z7
gJISOME. OODVS' BEEA’ J E~X, HE 'LL- RESCUE VOU - ? ZanxT
==j\ »obt>l\)6 Vou ) di7'j —X—. --XXrw -_r—JL_
X ; - L~Y dJp 7*\ ' 0 11 " " C
X 6M £ '// X TM fl n « ’X. f £X S f X»»
.gaTjr QySlyy BIT] C.
- 77“ ——, CAMPBeuyAI (UOdR-RO**.- SC6TLAWB VOREVEft ’ ) idOK’»6MAT2ES") $ i ”
i ( (the CAMPBELL s AfeE-j- (M A KEMPBELLsZC 'X J. 1 t ?, 7/,
1 ,/// <7 S XXX \ COM/MG->T CO W) HIA \ ’\ • \ . / . si* ' 212E
tYxJWt xxxxX ' v;
/ // / , , _ -zz z //z„
X.
J ~
Sherlocko the Monk The Adventure of the Pack oT Wolves; c„>™>,.. »>. N «.«... By GllS Mager
lice/I. A euesrciie ) (c OMe x**.) H 0” Sheßlocko -) ?As i Deoucep ! L ‘■^ S|SB (the FRONT Rjpvx} - »«- ■ ■»- CARnag-e
On the Rialto. TWO ' otsautse somebody's -stolen the iuholesalf thief \ , IriEFte s THE ItAGON \ ? watso. r" ——— / affright the
OF STUFFED WOLVE&) i A V NO '* OF/ —X t Tp h A TS
HAVE BEEN STOLEN X p »ome NM > e the h - J
from THE sqeivaix’J I RIALTO', r~ ■ VIH I * X V /Qft one > —-7— —HAmfatto. mlklVX™ I I
—z— <_ZX_J ■ I M /^3^ 7 -
& 117. kxdkT ( jhXi solves rogive < >
\ H (
I 11 i ' / u j nl ' ! performance ofl ,' / J
fk. zx ® xxv
ii* mxsW & —— W x//J s L I W
‘/ X XX Tvr n > Z/ M '■ 4l" cM
k -- 4 xx t- : " JI er B
Mr. Inbad’s Rules Were Out of Date ® <?> ®<i!> © © By H. B. Martin
• - ... ._ -- I P r XI. BELIEVE WHA r YoO'TouP \
pTHAT REMINDS '
IML OF Arts Qny I \NELE ITS BHEN A [ vhhV CANT ) WHY I SZ4W HIM ToOHY s
i HOOD DAYS A LONG Tr/VJE HE l£T / B UP ft BOYS B»SE Bfi LU
1 -SAY 5/NCS I PiflVfD \ CBM JUST OUT M PUKE J
1 will you / \ ©all but i guess <k alone! A GvXXXi one an mess
C 3 , — s COfifiE oVeC / I l CBN REAnEMBER.I -ECCD o's |Xx -di, '■ 'X J
/K, cec.oe the rules Z LX
aPm c o<i Mi If w ■ fe. X?'-- X?\wl f
"T'- * X j ( XnX n c 5“ A z j <* JgjjF 1 ( <gyg-. /
7-- Xy < dts^XXX/’' 4 k i
1 7’- ,__Js k Csfe§l* tv z i X' rXXX'A Hr » >X> i
XX X XXIxZ X . '3 c ,I,X . |
■— ( 11 J
b.fnre her. Betty's face, transformed and
stricken looking, with trembling lips that
faltered out the story of her failure: “I
didn’t get the money. Edith Don't ask
me what happened. I don’t know—l can’t 1
tell." And yet even in the light of that 1
memory, terrible and heart-breaking
though it was, Edith Barrington could 1
not bring herself to believe that the so
lution lay in the fact of Betty's betrayal
Some instinct within her, an instinct ut
terly outside and beyond reason, seemed
THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN AND NEWS. TUESDAY. .TUNE 4. 1912.
to tell her emphatically that Betty was
Incapable of such a breach of trust —that
even in a moment of crisis such as she
appeared to have undergone, that had
left such terrible traces upon her, the
girl might betray herself hut never the
confidence of one who trusted in her.
An. Unexpected Return.
A sudden "light brushing of fingertips,
hardly to be called a knock, against the
panel of the bedroom door, roused Mrs.
Barrington from her abstraction. She
bent to gather the fallen papers together
with a movement so abrupt and violent
that it sent the dainty wicker tray, with
its fragile early morning tea set, crash
ing to the floor The sound mingled with
the somewhat noisy opening of the bed
room door, as in a perfect frenzy of fright
she gathered the scattered papers to
gether and crushed them, al! damp and
stained as they were, within the bosom
of her loose gown.
"Anthony!” The name escaped her pale
tips in a little gasp of terror as she. turned
and faced the man who had come smiling
Into the room and stood regarding her
with a half quizzical expression on his
handsome face.
"You didn’t expect me, old girl!” he
said, "and 'pon my word, I don’t believe
you're remarkably glad to see me.”
There was just a suspicion of reproach in
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 postcard from
Paris —and turn round and see you stand
ing in the room For the moment I
doubted my eyes How on earth did you I
get here —on a Bleriot" ,
”es, with Plail hanging on to the ’
tall behind," Barrington laughed. Her ’
explanation appeared to gratify him, his
eyes twinkling as he made his own;
"Phil—cute little beggar—l expect he i
posted that card. I lust, managed to get i
away by the skin of my teeth —left Duf- '
fy to finish up with the exhibition His '
tone softened. ”1 had to come, Edith —it
seems centuries since you went away! >
It’s a good job I did, it seems to me. 1
You’re looking pretty queer—has anything i
happened?” ’
He put his hands on her shoulders and I
looked down into her face with a ques- <
tlonfng look in his shrewd gray eyes. <
Very charming eyes, with their ever-lurk- t
Ing suggestion of laughter, well set be
neath level black brows. He was a tall i
man. but, tall as he was, they were pret- i
ty well matched in height, and her brown
eyes looked into his gray ones unflinchingl
as they stood.
"What sort of thing?" she asked, light
. ly. "Does anything ever happen at the
uroft? No, I am maligning it—l believe
. my father has given his eight-hundred
. eighty-eighth cook notice —and —yes. this ;
Is rather astonishing- Betty had a head-
L ache last night and is in bed—l hope
i asleep So she will not be able to pre
i side over the breakfast table—where I
, am therefore morally bound to put in an
appearance-—unless I wish to upset mj
, father for the whole day. Can’t you run
i away and amuse yourself while I dress,
> Tony?” She paused and looked at him
i with her head on one side for a mo
| ment.
I "Do you know that your spruceness
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 ago
out of a cold tub at the Weybourne
Arms." Barrington replied. "I arrived
late last night—or. rather, extraordinarily
early 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
riage bad never staled, but for the first
time his caress failed to thrill the woman.
She was conscious of one thing and df
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
papers before your father comes down to
sit on the Times,” Barrington said.
Dreading the Worst.
As the door closed behind her husband
Edith gave a long, sobbing breath of re
lief and turned the key in the lock, lean
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
stow'ed away in the innermost recess of
her jewel case.
Just for the first moment of her sur
prise. when she had turned to find her
husband standing there in the bedroom
behind her, Edith Barrington had dreaded
the worst. Her mind had leaped to the
conclusion that it was as an accuser An
thony had come to England—that he had
heard Edmond Levasseur’s story already
But the first glance of his eyes had re
assured her; they were devoid of any sus
picion—the same frank eyes that had
never looked at her except -with tender
ness.
The thought brought no comfort with
it; it was like a stab in the heart. She
shivered, for all the soft warmth of the
morning, as she set about her toilet, won
dering with a sick dread how long this
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
strewn desert of the world that laughs.
Before going downstairs she slipped
along the corridor to Betty’s room. The
i girl was still asleep. She lay on her side,
one closely-clenched hand under her
1 cheek. Her breathing was quick and un
' even, and her face was slightly flushed.
There was something so unnatural 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
i birds, to be sleeping so profoundly now!
i Certainly it might be the sleep of pro
i 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
j had been beaten out by her father's hand,
I 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
i hand.
1 Edith bent and picked it up—a small
? scrap of paper, on which were written,
■ in that same clerkly handwriting which
i had come to her by that morning post.
By META SIMMINS
Author of “Hushed L p'
the words of an address: 88-B Tempest
street, W.C. She stared at it question
ingiy, 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 dared to
delay no longer. She went downstairs.
In the hail she came face to face with
her father.
“Morning, Edith.” He scarcely brushed
the cheek she extended to him —scratched
it w’ith 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 the
slightly ruled-looklng butler —“say 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 iti the
French window behind Sir George, an ir
resistlbly mirth-provoking figure, laden,
as he appeared to be, with innumerable
• badly folded sheets of newspaper—the re
-1 suit of an ineffectual .struggle with a
1 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
j laughter.
t
. Continued Tomorrow,
