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8 E HEARST’S SUNDAY AMERICAN, ATLANTA, GA„ SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 30. 1913. The Thousandth Woman' in Harper’s Bazar E ^VBRY man may think he known the "one woman In a thou- j sand,” but E. W. Homunjr, the famous creator of "Raffles,” has his own conception of her He portrays her 1n the currect Installment of that most fascinating of mystery stories, "The Thousandth Woman," In the cur rent number of Harper's Hazar (laatUot, an Englishman, golnq home after many years spent In Aus tralia, returns to his ship at Genov having been left behind at Naples. II? tells his cabin mate, Hilton Toye, an American, of a dream in which he has seen an old enemy. Henry (.’raven, lying dead In his library at Kingston, a suburb of London. When they ar rive at Southampton, tbev discover that (’raven has been murdered and ail England Is excited over the search for the murderer, to whom there la no clew. Only the old gardener at Craven s home has seen the bearded man, who escaped bareheaded, though no hat or cap was found. The butlsr had answered a telephone call from a otranger. Toye suspects Seruton, n business associate of (’raven’s, who has Just finished a fourteen years term In Jail for a crime really In spired by Craven. Cazalet defends Seruton because the older man had been kind to him. Cazalet’s first thought Is to ren *\v acquaintance with Blanche Macnalr his childhood friend, with whom h< has kept up a desultory correspond enee, and who Is to prove herself “Thr Thousandth Woman." He runs out In a taxi and finds her In a new llttl? home. She, too. Is depressed by th« murder of the old neighbor. He tells her that Toye has spoken of knowin. her Blanche’s old nurse. Mart h i welcomes Cazalet and rejoices that n» has removed the beard that she ha? disliked In a photograph sent to Blanche. Hornung thus describes Blanch- and her first real step Into the gre * mystery. (Reprinted from the Deoember num b«r of Harper's Bazar b psrmissioi of Harper’s Bazar.) B LANCHE really was a girl still; for In these days it Is an elas tic term, and In hor case there was no apparent reason why It should ever cease to apoly, or to be applied by every decent tongue except her own. If, however. It be conceded that she herself had reached the pure ly mental stage of some self conscious ness on the point of girlhood, It can not be too clearly stated that It wat the only point on which Blanche Mac. nalr had ever been self-conscious In her life. Much the best tennis player among the Indies of the neighborhood, she drove an almost unbecomingly long ball at golf, and never looked better than when paddling her old canoe or punting In the old punt. And yet this wonderful September afternoon she did somehow look even better than at either or any of those con genial pursuits, and that long before they reached the river; in the empty house, which had known her as a baby, child and grown-up girl, to the companion of some part of all three stages, she looked u more lustrous and lovelier Blanche than he remem bered even of old. But she was not really lovely In the least; that also must be put be yond the pale of misconception. Her hair was beautiful, and perhaps her skin, and. In some lights, her eyes, the rest was not. It was yellow hair, not golden, and Cazalet would have given all he had about him to sec it down again as In the oldest of old days; but there was more gold in her skin, for so the sun had treated it; and there was even hint or glint (in certain lights, be it repeated) of gold mingling with the pure hazel of her eyes. But in the duty shad ows of the empty house, moving like a sunbeam across Its hare boards, standing out against the discolored walls In the place of the discolored standing out against the discolored walls in the place of remembered pictures not to be compared with her. it was there that she was all goledn and still a girl. • • • “And why do you think he can’t have done it?” “Blansh* was hardly paddling in thr glassy strip alongside the weir.” of A. B. Wenzell’s Charming Illustration* for E. W. Hornung’* Great Mystery Story in HARPER’S BAZAR. Cazalet had hauled the old canoe over the rollers, and Blanche was hardly paddling in the glassy strip alongside the weir. Big drops clus tered on her idle blades, and made tiny circles as they met themselves in the shining mirror. But below the lock there had been something to do, and Blanche had done it deftly and silently, with almost equal ca pacity and grace. It had given her a charming flush and sparkle; and. what with the sun’s bare hand on her yellow hair, she now looked even bonnier than indoors, yet not quite such a girl. But then every bit of the boy had gone out of Cazalet. So that hour after hour stolen from the past was up forever. "Why do the police think the other thing?” he retorted. "What have they got to go on? That’s what I want to know. 1 agree with Toye in one thing.’’ Blanche looked up quick ly. "I wouldn’t trust old Savage an Inch. I’ve been thinking about him and his previous evidence. Do you realize that it’s dark now soon after 7? It was pretty thick saying his man was bareheaded, with nei ther hut nor cap left behind to prove it! Yet now it seems he’s put a heard to him, and next we shall have the color of his eyes!” Blanche laughed at his vigor of phrase; this was more like the old hot-tempered, sometimes rather over bearing "Sweep." Something had made him Jump to the conclusion that Seruton could not possibly have killed Mr. Craven, whatever else he might have done in days gone by. So it simply was Impossible, ami anybody who took the other side, or had a word to say for the police, as a force not unknown to look before it leaped, would have to reckon henceforth with Sweep Cazalet. It had been his wish to start up stream. But she could see the wist ful pain in his eyes as they fell once more upon the red turrets and the smooth green lawn of Uplands. And she neither spoke nor looked at him again until lie spoke to her. "I see they've got the blinds down still," he said detachedly. "What’s happened to Mrs. Craven?” "1 hear she went Into a nursing home before the funeral.” "Then there’s nobody there?” "It doesn’t look as if there was. does It?” said poor Blanche. "I expect we should find Savage somewhere. Would you very much mind, Blanche? I should rather like Vz * ‘even if it as Just seting foot * * * with you!” But even that effective final pro noun failed to bring any buoyancy back into his voice; for it was not in the least effective as he said it, and he no longer looked her in the face. But this all seemed natural to Blanche, In all the manifold and overlapping circumstances of the case. • • • But for the fact that these win dows were wide open, the whole place seemed as deserted as Little- ford. but just past the windows, and flush with them, was the tradesmen’s door; and the two tresspassers were barely abreast of it when this door opened and disgorged a man. The man was at first a most in congruous figure for the back prem ises of any house, especially in the country. He was tall and portly, very powerfully built, and rather handsome in his way; his top hat shone like his patent leather boots, and his gray cutaway suit hung well in front and was duly creased as to the trousers; yet not for one mo ment was this personage ia the pic ture, in the sense in which Hilton Toye had stepped into ilie Littleford picture. "May I ask what you’re doing hero?’ he demanded bluntly of the. male intruder. "No harm, I hope." replied Cazalet, smiling, much to his companion’s re lief. She had done him an injustice, however, in dreading an explosion when they were both obviously in the wrong, and she greatly admired the tone he took so readily. "I know we’ve no business here whatever; but it happens to be my old home, and I only landed from Australia last ’ night. I’m on the river for the firs* ! time, and simply couldn’t help com ing ashore to have a look around.” The Man From Scotland Yard. The other big man had appeared ; *ar from propitiated by the earlier of | hese remarks, but the closing sen- j cnees had worked a change. "Are you young, Mr. Cazalet?” he ried. "I am, or rather I was,” laughed ’azalet, still on his mettle. ‘ You’ve read all about the case, hen, I don’t mind betting!” ex claimed the other with a jerk of his topper toward the house behind him. ■’I've read all I found in the papers last night and this morning, and such arrears as I’ve been able to lay my hands on," said Cazalet. s ' But, as I tell you, my ship only got in from Australia last night, and I came round all the way in her. There was noth ing in the English papers when we left Genoa." "I see, I see.” The man was st 13 looking him up and down. "Well, Mr Cazalet, my name’s Drinkwater, and I’m from Scotland Yard. I happen to be In charge of the case.” "I guessed as much,” said Cazalet, and this surprised Blanche more than anything else from him Yet noth ing about him was any longer like the Sweep of other days, or of any pre vious part of that very afternoon. And this also was easy to understand on reflection; for if he meant to stand by the hapless Seruton, guilty or not guilty, he could not perhaps begin better than by getting on good terms with the police. But his ready tact, and in that case cunning, was cer tainly a revelation to one who had known him marvelously as a boy and youth. ‘We’ve Got the Man.” "I mustn’t ask questions," he con tinued, "but I see you’re still search- ; ing for things, Mr. Drinkwater.” "Still minding our own Job,” said ! Mr. Drinkwater, genially. They had • sauntered on with him to the corner of the house, and seen a bowler hat bobbing in the shrubbery down the . drive. Cazalet laughed like a man. “Well, I needn’t tell you I know j every inch of the old place,” he said; "that is, barring alterations," as Blanche caught his eye. "But I ex pect this search is narrowed, rather?” "Rather,” said Mr. Drinkwater, standing still in the drive. He had also taken out a presentation gold hunter, suitably inscribed in memory of one of his more bloodless victories. But Cazalet could always be obtuse, and now he refused to look an Inch lower than the Detective-Inspector’s bright brown eyes. "There’s Just one place that’s oc- . curred to me, Mr. Drinwater, that perhaps might not have occurred to you.” ' "Where’s that, Mr. Cazalet?” ' "In the room where—the room it self!” Mr. Drlnkwater’s long stare ended In an indulgent smile. "You can show me, if you like,” said he, indiffer ently. "But I suppose you know we’ve got the man?” (Th® full installment of this most gripping of mystery stories will bo found in the current December num ber of HARPER'S BAZAR.) PREMIUM Offered to New and Old Subscribers to PREMIUM OFFER No. 12 A Beautiful Seven-Piece Glass Berry Set LOOKS LIKE CUT GLASS This glass Berry Set consists of one large eight- inch bowl and six small four - inch bowls. 1 Large 8-Inch Bowl AND Made of selected glass, and will be an ornament to any household. ====== 6 Small Dishes ===== Cash 25 Cents—Worth $1 On an agreement to take the HEARST’S SUNDAY AMERICAN and ATLANTA GEORGIAN for a period of six months, paying the regular subscription price for same. Send in your subscription at once. WHEN PREMIUM IS TO BE SENT OUT OF TOWN 15 CENTS EXTRA TO COVER CX>ST O* SKIPPING CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 20 East Alabama St. Atlanta, Ga BOOK REVIEWS By JUNE T RE MONT A Yuletide Tale. "In the Heart of the Christmas Pines,” by Leona Dalrymple, has all the "heart api*»al” one could wish in a Yuletide tale. Mother and son reunited, estranged lovers the same, and a rich relative supplied for a poor lad—that makes the story. There are pretty passages through the pages. It’s a book which leaves one warm around the heart. McBride, Nast * Co. are publishers. Price, 50 cents net. A Tender Story. If you are one of those Scrooge- l!k«‘ persons, tired of Christmas and thi> things it brings, here’s a chance to become human again. The way lies through "The Man Who Found Christmas.” by Walter Prichard Ea ton. published by McBride, Nast & Co. It’s a simple little tale of how a world-weary New Yorker found Christmas joy and a life's happiness •In rural New England. And it’s well worth the reading. By EDWIN MARKHAM A Story of Arizona Wilds. An Indian carrying a white girl to captivity—nothing new about that plot says the critic in his haste. But hold. Honoro Willsle, in his novel. “The Heart of the Desert" (The Fred erick A. Stokes Co., $1.25). has caught a new angle. Kut-le, the Indian hero of the story, is a handsome young man of breeding. Although a full-blood he Is a Yale graduate, and the peer of any white in courtesy. The young woman he steals from a ranch In Arizona is a beautiful, hvper-sensitive girl, who has come to the desert to die. Every one spoils her and adds to her useless ness. Kut-le abducts her to teach her how to be human, hoping incidentally to win her affection. The long raarenas. eluding the pursuers, the strange new world, the perils and escapes, the knightly reverence of the Indian, the homely wisdom of the wilderness, these add to pages of good reading, surprise and suspense. You will not soon find a more ex citing tale. The White Thread. Sympathetic and pulsing with the red blood of real life Is "The White Thread," by Robert Halifax (The Frederick A. Stokes Co., $1.25). Here is a novel dealing with the seamy side of London, the side where mar riage too often means lack of work and “xcurs!one to the public house Now to be able to construct out of f.<* short and simple annals of the •or such a story as Mr. Halifax has produced argue.-, real talent, v good uiany reader* will find tins fault with his narrative they will say It is painted on too drab a background and contains too many heartaches. Of Its realism there can be no question. On that, indeed, rests its claim to consideration. The little slavey, Tillie Westaway, who forms the pivotal character of the book, Is a typical product of a discouraged father and a beer-drinking mother. Her brother, Jimmie, is in the "Overflow." which is to say, the asy lum. and as Tillie g*>< » to visit him she hears one of the attendants say: "But. worse still, when their children, and THEIR children come in.” This child, with a soul brimming with an affection she can not stifle nor yet understand, tries hard to re generate her mireable home, but the task is too great for even that one heart full of love. To sum up the story. It is a tribute to its sincerity that it holds the at tention through nearly four hundred pmes. without dramatic action, with out stirring climax, but with Just the uneventful happenings of uneventful lives. "The White Thread” is as a mighty hempen hawser in strength as com pared with the ordinary built-to-sell novel. The Broken Halo. When an author’s books sell after the accumulative fashion of Mrs. Barclay's, it Is <afe to say that the judgment passed by the many must i be something more than mere ca price. In "The Rosary" we have had a ' story of compelling love written so since,e t y that it uppealed to tho im agination of everyone who had ever known what honest affection means. It may be said that Mrs. Barclay knows how in a popular Way to play on the heart strings, so as to get from them the fullest resonance. For Instance, her latest hook. "The Bro ken Halo” (G. P. Putnam’s Sons, $1.85), has for a setting as simple a story as one could well imagine. Starting with the meeting of Dick Cameron with The Little White Lady in the vestibule of a stuffy English church, It carries on to the end a romance thus begun. • The young doctor who, during a pathetic boyhood, smashed the halo in the village church learns to love his patient and in the end marries her His devotion to this woman so much older lifts him out of his lack of rev erence and her death brings to him a lasting faith. One of the books which appeal to that great majority of readers which does not care to be troubled with problems, but does like to feel its sympathy called into use. No doubt "The Broken Halo” will duplicate the success of Mrs. Bar clay’s other works. The Way of Ambition. A novel by Robert Hlchens is al- ways an intellectual and artistic treat. In his latest book, "The Way oC Ambition” (Frederick A. Stokes Company, publishers, New York: $1.25 net), he takes us from London to Africa and thence to New York. The theme is more introspective and less dependent upon romantic sit uation than have been some of Mr. Hichens’ former stories. Indeed, most of Its action is that which takes place in the quiet of the spirit rather than in the rush of the world. A very modern young English girl, desirous of being a personage of im portance, contrives to marry a shrink ing musical genius, whom she has re solved to make famous. She subtly deflects him from his own grave, re ligious bent, and forces him into commercialized opera writing. The psychology of this compulsory musical composition, the intrigues of rival social schemers and operatic as pirants. the huge activity of the blus terous Impresario—these carry us with a feeling of vivid life, which has j tlio smack of drawing room, stage 1 and studio. Mr. Hichens has an abiding sense of the real values of life, a deep sense of the virtue of tranquillity of spirit above the loud clamor for fame and fortune, a deep sense of the necessi ty of sinking the mere personal that perishes into the larger humanities that endure. The Are of this fine spir it lights all his pages. The Main Road. Maude Radford Warren, as author and pilot, has laid the career of her latest novel, "The Main Road" (Har per & Bros., $1.35), along the devious byways of sentimentalism and love. Her heroine, Janet Bellamy, man ages to avoid the pitfalls of life and arrives at last to a safe anchor after steering dangerously close to the rocks. The story is the everyday one of any girl who plunges into existence with the advantage of birth and education and rich friends. There are dozens of paths open to her. In this case Janet was an idealist. She longed for love with out knowing why. And having re ceived the outward expression of it was shocked to discover that it counted for nothing as opposed to money with some men. It was her first misfortune to bestow her affec tions on one of this kind. The awak ening left her with a wounded soul. The author writes at great length, carrying on the careers of a good many persons with a proneness to analysis that wearies at times. There is no new keynote to her plot, yet it is evident she has worked with sincerity and care through close to 400 pages. It is to be hoped that the solitary picture in the book is not of Janet, for if it is she is far from an inter esting personality. Better no illus tration than an unsatisfactory one. Whistler Stories. Don C. Seitz, who, besides being an important figure in the newspaper world, finds times to travel, to write poetry and even to put his impres sions into prose, has collected a num ber of stories and anecdotes of Whistler, the artist. In & neat volume these are issued b> Harper Bros. (75c). making the fifth volume sent forth by the same house from the same autlioA BALL AT £ Special Price 0 With 1 Heading of The American or The Georgian Postage Extra Weight 30 Ounces NOT a TOY but a GAME Every Move a Play SOME FEATURES OF THE GAME Call to-day at The American and Geor gian office. If you can't call, ascertain from postmaster the postage on a thirty- ounce game by par cel post from Atlan ta. Send it with 50c and one American or Georgian heading EALLS. A batter may ‘‘get on” by draw ing four balls. Some of the provi sions in connection with a ‘‘ball’’ cover a “wild pitch and passed ball; ’ ’ runner out attempting to steal second; runner safe stealing seoond or third. < STRIKE3. A strike either may be called or a foul. In conjunction with a strike, a runner may be enabled to steal home or be put out in the effort to steal third. OUTS. Put-out3 are indicated, such as ‘‘third to first;” ‘‘fly to center;” “double play, second to first,” etc. A groan or a cheer, according to one’s sympathies, often accompanies a double play with one out. HITS. Singles, two-baggers, three-base hits and home runs are all provided for. Just as in the regular game, three-base hits are scarcer than two- baggers, and home runs are not at all common. Frequently a game is played with very little hitting, the batters going out ‘‘one, two, three.” SCORING. Indicators are provided to register the runs and hits of the visiting team. Indicators for strikes, balls and outs also are provided and also an in nings indicator for each team. Run ners on bases are also shown and the team at bat is not overlooked. All these devices are self-contained and neither pencil nor paper is required to score the game. HEARST’S Sunday American and Atlanta Georgian CIRCULATION DEPT, 20 EAST ALABAMA STREET. ATLANTA, GA.