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MONDAY. APRIL 13. The Case of Jenny Brice ■ By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART t'RULOGUE. *- Was Jennie Brice murdered? • If the were murdered, who wii> guilty of the foul deed? If the were not done awn ; with by an assassin, what becarm of her? Whence did she disappear? These and a few other infer esting questions are raised o once in this very clever tale of mystery written by a womcr who is not only an adept r< writing fiction of this charac ter, but the possessor of a styl> that chains the interest by it : clearness and directness anc wins by its rich humor. Continued From Yesterday "If her husband says to me tlint In trants It buck, well and good." she an Id “but 1 don't give It up to nobody but him. Some folks I know of would hi glad enough to have It " I was certain It was Jennie Brice's coat, but the maker's no me had been ripped out. With Molly holding one arm and 1 the other we took It to Mr Ladley's door and knocked He o|tonei! It, grumbling. “I have asked you not to interrup; me.” he said, with his pen In his band His eyes fell on the coat. “What’s that?” he asked, changing color. “I think It's Mrs. Ladle.v's fnr coat.' I said. He stood there looking at It and thinking. Then: “It can't be hers.” lie said. "She wore hers when she went away.” "Perhaps she dropped It In tin water.” He looked at me aud smiled. "Anri why would she do that?” he asked mockingly. "Was It out of fashion?" "That's Mrs. Ladley's coat,” I per alsted, but Molly Maguire jerked ii from me and started away. He stood there looking at me and smiling in hi* nasty way. “This excitement is telling on you Mrs. Pitman." he said coolly. "You're too emotional for detective work." Then he went In and shut the door. When 1 went downstairs Molly Ma gulre was waiting in the kitchen and bad the audacity to ask me if 1 thought the coat needed a new lining' It was on Monday evening that the strangest event In years hnpiiencd to me. 1 wont to my sister's house! And the fact that I was admitted at a side entrance made it even stranger. It happened this way: Supper was uver. and I was cleaning up, when an automobile came to tilt door. It was Alma's ear. The chain' feur gave me a note: Dear Mrs. Pitman—l am not at all wen and very anxious. Will you como :o se me at once? My mother is out to ainnei and lam alone The car will bring yoi Cordially. LIDA HARVEI I put on uiy best dress at once and got into the limousine. Half tin neighborhood was out watching. ) leaned back in the upholstered seat fairly quivering with excitement This was Alma's car; that was Alma’s card case; the little clock had her mono gram on It Even the flowers In the flower holder, yellow tulips, reminded me of Alma, a trifle showy, but good to look nt And 1 was going to her house I was not taken to the main eu trance, but to a side door. The queer dreamlike feeling was still there. In this back hull, relegated from the more conspicuous part of the house, there were even pieces of furniture from the old home, and ray father's picture In an oval gilt frame hung over my head. I bad not seen n picture of him for twen ty years. 1 went over and touched II gently. “Father, father!" I said Under It was the tali hall chair that I had climbed over as a child and hud stood on many times to see myself in the mirror above. -'The chair was newly finished and looked the better for Its age. I glanced in the old glass. The chair had atood time better than I. 1 waa a middle aged woman, lined with poverty and care, shabby, prematurely gray, a little bard. 1 had thought my father an old man when that picture waa taken, and now I was even older "Father!” I whispered again Rnd fell to crying in the dlrnly lighted hull. Lida sent for me at once. 1 had only time to dry my eyes and straighten my bat. Had 1 met Alum on the stairs I would bare passed her without a word, 6he would not have known me. But 1 saw no one. Lida was In bed. She was lying there with a rose shaded lamp bealde her and a great bowl of spring flowers on a little stand at her elbow. She ■at up when i went In and had a mill-, place a chair for me beside the bed. She looked very childish with her ball In a braid on the pillow, and her slim young arms and throat bare. "I'm ao glad you camel” *be said and would not be suUsfied until the light was just right for my eye 3 and my coat unfastened aud thrown open "I'm uot really ill." she Informed me "I'm—l'm just tired and nervous, and —and unhappy. Mrs. Pltronn." "I am sorry," 1 said, 1 wanted to lean over and pat her bund, to draw the covert around her and mother her a little—l bud had no one to mother for so long—but 1 could not. Bhr would hare thought It queer aud pre sumptuous-or uo, not that, bhe wu» too sWevl to nun- ii.ui.itiu -nil. “Mrs. I*lt mu ii.” she said suddenl.v "who was this Jennie Brice?" "She was an uetress. She ami her husband lived at my house." "Was she—was she beautiful’" "Well,” I said slowly. "I never thought of that She was handsome, in a large way.” “Was she young?" "Yes. Twenty-eight or so.” "That isn't very young." ahp said looking relieved. "But I don't think men like very young women. l>o von?' “I know one who does.” I said, smll lng. But she sat up In lied suddenl.v and looked nt me with her clear, child Ish eyes “I don't want him to like me.” she flashed. "I—l want him to hate nu*.' “Tut. tut!. You want nothing of th> sort.” "Mrs. Pitman.” she said. "1 sent f«> you because I'm nearly crazy. .Mi Howell was a friend of that woman He has acted like a maniac since sb* disappeared. He doesn’t come to sei me. he has given up his work on tin pnper, ami I saw him today on tin street—he looks like a ghost” That put me to thinking. "He might have been a friend." 1 admitted, "although as far ns 1 know be wss never nt the house hut mu e and then lie saw both of them." “When was that?” “Sunday morning, the day before she disappeared They were arguing some thing.” CHAPTER VIII. SHF looked at me attentively "You know more than you are telliug me, Mrs. Pitman.’ she said. “Y'ou—do you think Jennie Brice Is dead and that Mr Howell knows—who did it?” “I think she is dead, and I think pos slbly Mr. Howell suspects who did It He does not know, or he would havi told the police.” “You do not think he was—was Id love with Jennie Brice, do you?" “I’m certain of that.” 1 said. "He Is very much In love with a foolish girl, who ought to have more faith in him than she has." She colored a little and smiled at thnt. but the next moment she was sitting forward, tense and questioning again. "If that is true, Mrs. Pitman,” she said, "who was the veiled woman he met that Monday morning at daylight and took across the bridge to Pitta burgh? I believe it was Jennie Brice If it was not. who was it?" “I don't believe he took any womni across the bridge at that hour. Wl.i says he did 7“ “Cncle Jim saw him. He had beet playing curds nil night nt one of tha clubs and was walking home. He say he met Mr Howell, face to face and spoke to him. The woman was tall and veiled. Uncle Jim sent for him a do? or two later, and he refused to ex plain. Then they forbade him tlv house. Mamma objected to him any how. and lie only came on sufferance He Is a college rnnu of good family, bu: without any money at all save what In earns. And now”— X bnd had some young newspapc men with me. and 1 knew what the got They were nice boys, but, the.' made sls a week. I’m afraid I smilee a little as I looked around the room with its gray grass cloth walls, its toi let table spread with ivory and gold and the maid in attendance in her black dress and white apron, collat and cuffs. Even the little nightgown Lida was wearing would have taken r week's salary or more. She saw uij smile. , "It was to be his chance," she said “If he made good lie was to have some thing better. My Uncle .Ilui owns the paper, and lie promised me to help him. But" So Jim was pinning a newspaper' That was a curious career for Jim to choose—Jim. who was twice expelled from school and who could never write a letter without a dictionary beside him! 1 had n pang when I heard Ills name again after all the years, for 1 had written to Jim from Oklahoma after Mr. Pitman died asking for mon ey to bury him and had never even had a reply “And you haven't seen him since?" “Once. I-dldn't hear from him, and I called him tip. We—we met In the park. He said everything was all right, but be couldn't tell me Just then. The next day he resigned from the paper and went away. Mrs. Pitman. It's driving me ernxy. for they have found a body, and they think It la hera. If It Is and he was with her”— "Don’t be a foolish girl," I protested. "If he was with Jennie Brice abe Is still living, and If he was not with Jennie Brice’’— “If it was not Jennie Brice then 1 have a right to know who It was." she declared. "He was not like hlmaelf when I met him. He said such queer things—be talked about an onyx clock and said be bad been made a fool of and that iio inattor what came out J was always to remember that he had done wbnt he did for the best and ttiu■ —that he cared for mo more than fu anything In this world or the next " "Tbut wasn't so foolish!" 1 eouldu l help It 1 leaned over and drew lie. nightgown up over her hare whip ahoulder. "You won't help anything oi anybody by taking cold, m,v dear," I •aid. "Call your maid and have bet put • dressing gown around you.” I left soon after. There waa little l could do. But l comforted her ns best J could and said good night My Ueurt was heavy us I went dowustulrs. For twist things as I might, it was clear that in some way the llowell boy was mixed up 111 the Itrlce ease. I’oor lit tle troubled Lida! Poor distracted boy! I had a curious experience down stairs. I had reached the foot of the •tnlrcnse and was turning to go back and nlong the hull to the side en trance when I came face to face with Isaac, the old colored man vvho had driven the family carriage when I was a child and whom I hud seen at in tervals since I came back pottering around Alum’s house The old man was bent and feeble He came slowly down the hall with a bunch of keys In bis hand, i had seen him do tbe same thing many times. He stopped when he saw me, and 1 shrank back from the light, but be had seen me. "Miss Bess!" he said. "Foh Gawd’s sake, Miss Bess!” "You are making a mistake, my friend," I said, quivering; ‘T am not ‘Miss Bess!'" He came close to me and stared into my face. And from that he looked nt my cloth gloves, at my coat, and be shook his white head. "I sure thought you was Miss Bess,” he said and made no further effort to detain me. He led the way back to the door, where the mncblno waited, his head shaking with the palsy of uge, muttering as he went. He opened the door wtth his best man ner and stood aside. “Good night, ma’am." he quavered. I had tears In my eyea. I tried to keep them back. “Good night.” 1 said. "Good night. Ikkie." It had slipped out, my baby name for old Isaac! "Miss Bess!” he cried. "Oh. praise Gawd, it's Miss Bess again!” He caught my arm and pulled me 'back into the hall, and there he held me, crying over me. muttering praises for my return, begging me to come back, recalling little tender things out of tbe past tbut almost killed me to hear again. But I bad made my bed and must lie in it I forced him to swear silence about m.v visit; I made him promise not to reveal my identity to Lida; and I told him—heaven forgive me—that I was well and prosperous and happy. Pear old ls:wte! I would not let him come to see me. but the next day there came a basket with six bottles of wine and an old daguerreotype of my mother that hud been his treasure. Nor was that bnsket the last. The coroner held an inquest over the headless body the next day, Tues day. Mr. Graves telephoned me in the morning aud I went to tbe morgue with him. I do not like the morgue, although some of my neighbors pay it weekly visits. It is by way of excursion, like nickelodeons or watching the circus put up its tents. 1 have heard them threaten the children that if they mis behaved they would not be taken to the morgue that week! I failed to identify the body. How could 1? It bad been a tall woman, probably five feet eight, and I thought the nails looked like those of Jennie Brice. Tbe thumb nail of one was broken short off. I told Mr. Graves about ber speaking of a broken nail, but he shrugged Ids shoulders and said nothing. There was a curious scar over the heart and he was making a sketch of It. It reached from the center of the chest for about six inches across the left breast, a narrow thin line that one could hardly see. it was shaped like this: —l—. I felt sure that Jennie Brice had had no such gear, nod Mr. Graves thought as 1 did. Temple Hope, called to the Inquest said she had never heard of one. and Mr. Ladley himself, at the In quest, swore that his wife bad had nothing of the sort 1 was watching him. and I did not think he was lying. And yet the hand was very like Jen nie Brice’s. It was ull bewildering. Mr. Ladley’s testimony at tbe In quest was dlsnpiKiintlDg. He was cool and collected; said he bad no reason to believe thnt his wife was dead and less reason to think she had beeu drowned; she had left him in a rage, and if she found out that by hiding she was put ting him In an unpleasant position she would probably hide Indefinitely. To the disappointment of everybody, tbe identity of the woman remained a mystery. No one witli such a scar was missing. A small woman of my own age. a Mrs. Murray, whose daughter, n stenographer, had disappeared, attend ed the inquest. But her daughter had bad no sucb scar and bad worn ber nails short because of using the type writer. Alice Murray waa the missing girl’s name Her mother sat beside me and cried most of tbe time. One thing was brought out at the In quest- the body had beeu thrown Into tbe river after death. There was no water in the lungs. Tbe verdict was "death by the hands of some person or persons unknown.” Sir. Holcombe was not satisfied In some way or other he had got permlx sion to attcud the autopsy and bad brought away u tracing of the scar. All the way home in the street car he stared at the drawing. holding first ono eye shut and then The other. But, like the coroner, lie got nowhere. He fold ed the paper and put It in bis note book. To Be Continued Tomorrow THE AUGUSTA HERALD, AUGUSTA. GA. DOES HE DESERVE CREDIT? a/ mx „ w We arc the result of rnvironmo nt, good or bad fortune and oppor tunity. And we are grown men, th e fruit of our childhood. Study care- “I Am Part of All That I Have Met” -Tennyson The Man Whom You PRAISE, the Criminal Whom the State IMPRISONS—Are Made Up of That Which THEY Have Met. Copyrighted, 1914, by filar Company. A picture is better known than a sermon. That is why the moving picture shows are crowded FOR PAY, while many churches that make NO CHARGE are half empty. The church has a better story to tell—hut gannot tell it as vividly as that moving pic ture film. There Is a picture at the top of this page. Look at it. One-half of the picture shows toe man whom you admire, the good citi zen. the good father. He lives happy and respected. And when they bury him, they chisel complimentary things on his marble headstone. The other half of the picture shows the poor creature who ends In jail and lies at last in the Potter’s field. Take each of these men by him self. One is admirable and you praise him. The other is a criminal and you despise him. But look at the little picture above each of them—and you Hee the truth of Tennyson's saying at the top of this editorial, “I am part of all tha* I have rnet.” Each of these men Is made up of those tilings WHICH HE HAS MET. The successful man represents NOT HIS OWN VIRTUES OR SU PERIORITY, but the Inheritance from his father and mother, the kindness, opportunity, warm bed and good teaching. He GROWS straight because he is BROUGHT UP straight, And the little picture above the unfortunate man show* thai he IS what he Is INEVITABLY. He could not be anything else. Brutalities, vice, NO OPPORTUN ITY, those have made him what he is. "But for the grace of God there lies John Wesley,” said the great, preach er, pointing to the drunkard in the gutter. When you'see the "Black Maria” going along the streets, when you look with horror at the white-faced, trembling, handcuffed criminal, and the policemen sitting indifferent be side him, you might well say “There, but for early training and fortunate surroundings, AM I” Tha very power that makes a man good when he is directed properly MAKES’ HIM A CRIMINAL, BADLY DIRECTED. The locomotive off the track that plows through (he workman's cot tage, destroying life and property and tearing up the ground, Is the same locomotive, inuved by the same force, that would have gone smoothly on Its way under better conditions. The greater its power on the track, the greater its destruction off the track. The greater the power for evil In a man, the greater the possibility of good with the right opportunity and start in life. Remember that. laiok with pity upon the poor child (torn in the tenement, acquainted witli vice before virtue hits been heard, tormented by older children, frighten ed by i asslng traffic, pursued by the policeman when he plays, poisoned with filth, starving for lack of sun shine, affection and good food. Think of such a child, before you condemn the poor creature of the gal lows who is the result of such a child hood. MINUTES IN MANHATTAN (By Gotham Knickerbocker.) New York. Nume*_are no longer to In- applied by chance. Mother and fnther should not argue whether the little "what Is It” I* to be plain "John” or "Clarence de Puyster.” Mrs. Aho-Nelth-Neypa-Cochran ho* It all reduced to nn exact science. fihe is “the author, founder and teacher of the Aso-Nelth Orupto gram, a science of numbers and let ters," Bo ber business cards read. To me In her University Heights flat Mrs. Cochran explained It all. The sexes are suspended between the nebulous peaks of the two externlties by a cer tain geometrical sign or symbol. This sign I* expressed by a digit number. The digit, number exclude nine, said M ry. Cochran, for nine is simply a number one with a zero riding on Its back. Nine begins and end* a cycle. You see? My, how stupid! Every digit has it* own Individuality, rhsraeterlstlc and temperamental rnu siesl vibration. Each number ha* Its own peculiar musical tone. Kind the tone and learn your being. Life harmony consists in adjusting fully the LITTLE pictures above eh 'f tli c men unci nee what MADE the man. one’s being, one's cosmic urges to vi brations which give forth a concord Instead of a discord. if tk* vibration number ol your name and your blrtii date form a harmony—ls they coa lesce lyou'll bo happy, if they form a discord you will bo wretched while others are gay. Mrs. Cochran looked fairly happy and prosperous. She evidently was In harmony. Hhe said she could find a name for anybody and was naming thousands of children every year. "Calls come to me over the phone. I gel telegrams begging for names. I get letters by every mall, ull seeking names.” Driven from behind by business, so ciety is retreating around the north eastern end of Central Park, across the Caetbedral Parkway, to Morning Hide Heights. Ho we are informed by no less an authority than Louis Keller, tbe social register. II Is Ibis conclusion he draws from the news Item that Mrs. Cooper Newltt will build a now home, witli a garden, on nine city lots at the westerly corner of Cathedral Park way and Lenox avenue. Hoclety Is now a thin, seraggly line stretching five miles from Washing ton .Square on the south to Harlem en the north. A social map of New York reminds ine of the Milky Way alm- Iraxly wandering across the sky. A nice little business is being built up by a group of men who are taking advantage of the law forcing every corporation to show Its stock lists to any stockholders who demand to see them. These men purchase a single share of corporation, say, for Instance, United (States Hteel, and then copy off every one of the tens of thousand* of names on the lists. They then sell the share of stock at about what they paid for it. Next day they buy a share of another tog concern and copy Its stock list. The ‘'mulling list” thu* compiled Is sold then to the highest bidder. A* the corporations are liable to a fine of $250 every time they refuse to hliow their books, they have a* yet de vised no wny to stem the inroad* of these list stealers. Private detectives located the headquarters of one such groups and the names of men en gaged In the practice were published, but exposure does not stop them. Manhattan nnd the Bronx con sumed 29,202,41i7,1170 cubic feet of gas last year. Despite the use of elec tricity, ga* Is Increasing Its sales, 1913 showing a gain of 0.39 per cent. There I* tremendous responsibility on tho men who govern the supply of gas to the main. All over the city tbe gas company has little Instrument* which gauge the exact pressure In the mains at that point. By law, this pres sure at the street level rnu*t be from ono to two and a half Inches. When tbe pressure Is lowered anywhere the little gauge automatically communi cates this fact to another gauge on the wall of one of the engine houses, where the bell rings. A valve man, who Is supposed to have his eye con stantly on the needle of tin- gauge, Im mediately throws over a lever which raises tbe pressure by admitting ga* from the storage tanks. Tip- entire time consumed from the registering IS IT HIS FAULT?' of the falling off In tlie pressure to tlm moment when the fresh supply be gins to flow Into the milns Is gen i rally not more than fifteen set oiuls. There Is enormous hanger in lulling the prassure fall. All over the city* at an hum nl the day tinny persona sleeping. If It Is night n large number have gMs Jets t limed hoy In their chambers. Even In the <luv night workers are asleep in "Inside rooms, ’ with a little light burning. If the gas is turned off fer an Instant, "puff!” out goes tlie I lame. A moment later the gas begins to flow again. The gas men Imve a grim term for this dreaded uecldnnt. They eall It "help ing out .the coroners." NO TWELVE MONTHS SCHOOL New York Evening Hun. The recommendation in a publica tion of the University of Citi ugo lor running grammar schools the «If e year round .In order to pre <-nt "nor - al and scholastic delinquency" as well as "economic d waste." seem . Ut yh>»' curiously timed, since the present -'on -V (ern of tin public in practically overV slate Is In prohibit tin- o\ei-working of children. Looked at through an efficiency microscope, It may seem prodigal to send youngsters to school only nine or ten mouths, while the uliole expen sive machinery lies fallow a quurter of Ihe year prodigal if one could up ply lo children purely mechanical the ories. Hut Inasmuch us the normal In fant sleeps 20 hours out of the 24 which might strike an efficiency ex pert aa a sinful waste of time —in the same ratio, It appeals highly unreas onable In expect children of ulns or ten to keep to an adult schedule of 13 months' lalsir In a year. Even If their bodies could stand It, their capacity for assimilation could not. They need the summer months to digest, even If by forgetting, that which they have acquired. Without vacation it Is likely that children would soon reach a point of saturation beyond which they might be unable to learn ut all, but in any event thetr brains would not have that fresh lm i and enlarged comprehension which responds quickly to new In struction. M 0 DERATION,” EQUANIMITY, WORK AND LOVE Be moderate In the usn of all things, Have fresh air and sunshine. The one themo of Eocleslaetss is moderation. Buddha wrote it down thst the greatest word in any language Is '‘equanimity.” St. Paul declared that the greatest thing In life waa love. Moderation equanimity, work and love -you need no other physician. In so saying I law down a proposi tion agreed to by all physician*: which was expressed by Hlppocrate , the father of medicine, and then r • pouted In better phrase by EpUetuJ, the slave to hla pupil, the great IE man Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, i <• which has been known to evarv thlt irtg man and woman since; Mod'ra-j tlou, Equanimity, Work and Lav*!' THREE