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“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,