Evening Star Newspaper, May 30, 1926, Page 46

G across the table at his , Vincent Hall dectded that most lovely, after all, in this somber mood. Her face was too young to show an un- pleasant line. Her eyes were larger and darker and deeper nmow than when she laughed. When she held her head high this way the curve of her neck where it met her smooth, white shoulders was more free and soft than ever. g He was able to appreciate Kath- erine’s freshness, for he was éleven vears older than she. He was able to appreciate her grace and the fine- ness of her features, for he was lean and angular and his face was too long for fitself and the hair on his head was thin and getting gray. He had, in fact, never been able to understand how she had brought herself to marry him in the first place. She remained a miracle to him—a woman quite beyond hoping for, fascinating in the most commonplace action. Every day he discovered her afresh. Yet they had been married four years—since the day before her twenty-first birth- day. They had always been friends, companions, Their tastes were the same; they had wanted the same things and enjoyed them together. Their very emotions werc so nearl identical that they had been able hundred times to communicate inex- pressible things merely by touching one another’s finger tip: Each had supplemented the other, had made the other’s life more pleasant by un- counted little services that were the expression of perfect devotion. They had been so openly in love that they were the talk of their par- ticular stratum of the town. People marveled at such a married couple. People wondered what they did when their nerves were ragged. Some smiled crook-d smiles at the corners of their mou"hs and hinted that the whole affair vas too good to be true, that it would all come out sooner or Jater, and thau it would make pretty reading in the newspapers when it did. But even that talk, which had sprung up during the third year of their marriage, had been refuted and hushed to an intermittent whisper by the peculiarly confidential way Kath- erine and Vincent had of looking into each other’s eyes. Their friends had come to accept them as a phenomenon beyond understanding and were will- ing to let it go at that. Katherine patted her folded napkin and nodded across at Vincent, raised her eyebrows a tiny fraction of an inch in interrogation. He pushed his chalir from the table and rose, dusting possible crumbs from his trousers. They went up to the library. Vincent was satisfied with silence. Dinner had been good and the cigar emoke was pleasane He crossed his legs and looked at the bookshelves, wondering whether this would not be a good night to mnke a fresh start on the “Outline of History.” He had been meaning to get at that again. Ie must not let his mind stagnate. *x % % A maid entered nolselessly with the coffee. He watched Katherine help herself, admired the slender symmetry of her hands as she took gar, the flicker of her eyelashes as she sald something inaudible to the mald. He took his own cup, uncross- ed his legs, leaned forward and stirred the coffeo gently, studying the little whirlpools the spoon made. He took a drop of the hot coffee be- tween his lips and found its un- sugared bitterness refreshing. He glanced at Katherine and found her intent on her cup, her eves narrow, the corners of her mouth drawn slight- 1y down. “What': “Clothes? The center of her mouth went up a little. Something ndt unlike a wrinkle appeared above and between her eye- brows. Other things, harder to define, happened to her face, and her look of seriousness became unhappy. She did not look at him. “Katherine,” he said, as though he thought she had not heard. The look on her face intensified itself. He the problem?” he asked. | co THE the Opinion. easy when he spoke. He wondered for an instant how to work his vocal v “Who?” he said. His tone was nor- mal, restrained, yet it boomed into the silent room as though he had shouted | | it. The one word seemed to go out into the air and bound back from the wall. It resounded over and over in his ears and he repeated it, his voice growing softer and softer in the repe- tition: “Who? . \\ ho? Who?" She ratsed her head slightly. she said. “Philip Oakes.” “‘Oh,” said Vincent. “‘Oh, of course.” * ok k% HE got up and walked to the win- dow. He stood there looking down into the half-lighted street, warm in the June evening. A man and a girl went by, arm in arm, glg- gling. The curtain blew inward and brushed his hand, hanging at his side. Vincent Hall thought of nothing what- ever for a great length of time. He could see his white shirt front re- flected in the glass, his long head above it. He thought of Katherine sitting there on the sofa behind him, ting there, bent over, crying. Lov- ing Phil Oakes! He went back and stood in front of her. “You want to marry him?" he asked. She looked up. This time it was he who could not look at her eyes. He stared at her feet in their small satin slippers, noticed how one toe was wound about the other ankle. “Yes,” she saild from a great dis- tance. “Yes,” said Vincent. There was si- lence. He seated himself on the arm of a chair, facing away from her lest she catch his eyve. He spoke again. “Reno,” he said—"or Paris . you can get a—one quickly in Paris.” heard her own voice again ou—youwon't be very unh No,” he told her. “Oh, ‘I thought it was better to tell you. Phil sflid— Vincent Hall got up and walked from the room. He stumbled across the hall and into their bedroom. He was in front of the dresser, looking at his own face in the mirror—his funny long face with its narrow nose and the thinning, graying hair above it. It was older, much older than he had ever been able to imagine it. Its eyes were wide open, staring. He turned away and walked across the room two or three times. Then he went to the table between the beds, pulled out the drawer, and put his hand into it. He felt his fingers touch cold steel. He brought out a blue automatic pistol and held it flat in the spread palms of his hands a moment while he looked at it. It had never been fired. For four years it had lain in that drawer. For use in an emergency. He dropped the pistol into his hip pocket and went out into the hall. In the library he found Katherine curled into an indescribable, small, di- sheveled mass, her head buried in her arms. He made his lips firmer. He stepped into the room and stood there very straight. “Don’t cry, dear,” he said. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be just as you want it. I will help you ar- range everything. Please don't cry.” She stirred a little, but did not raise her head. “I am going out for a walk,” he said. “I think the alr will do me good.” He turned and walked along the hall. He hurried down the stairs. The air in the street was sticky-hot on his face as he stepped out of the front door. He walked west toward Central Park. His feet placed them- selves before each other automatically. He stared straight before him at the purple-gray splotch on the sky where the sunset had been. * ok ok ok it was over, Katherine be- ‘This Four And “Phil,” ELL, longed to him no longer. was the end of their marriage. perfect years. And two weeks. 17 days exactly. His mind lmpt cruelly back to that of all places. For, of course, there would be no children now. would not be a son to send to Harvard. No daughter to name Kath- erine. No little heart-to-heart talks between father and children. No any- thing. Just a man getting older and lonelier. Going slowly to death. He walked straight across Fifth avenue in the traffic. He thought dimly that something might run over him, but nothing did. He went north on the sidewalk be- tween .the benches. People him, laughing, talking shrilly. A man and a girl jostled him. The man swore. A bus roared by. Two boys scurried across in front of him, yell: ing. He went on. He was trying to look forward into s life. Between this moment and the moment of his death he saw noth- ing but an agony of loneliness—an agony of loneiiness that might last 40 years—or 10 minutes! The pistol was heavy on his.hip. That was the way to shorten things . . . Then he would simply be through with everything. Just as Billy French had cot through with tuberculosis last month! Out of it. The way Red Taylor had been out of it since Febru- ary. ouldn't matter. He stepped forward nore briskly. If it were done then ‘twere well— R RS souz one was muttering at his shoulder, keeping up with him lnd muttering something. . .. Just a quarter for a bite to_eat.” Just a quarter . . Vincent Hall stopped short and looked at the man. A tall man, droop- shouldered, with ragged, dirty clothes, uncut red hair cascading out from under a bent straw hat. “What?" asked Vincent. ‘a5 you could let me have a quarter,” said the man. want to get a bite to eat " The man waited while Vincent looked at him. A quarter would make him happy, Vincent thought. He plunged his hand into his trousers pocket and pulled it out full of crumpled bills— a yellow 20 on the outside and more vellow to be seen. “Here,” he said, and pushed the monay into the beggar’s hands. “You might as well have it if you need it.”" Thé man's mouth was open. He was standing there, clutching the bank notes in both hands. Vineent took off his watch and chain and laid them on top of the heap of bills. He produced a gold cigarette case and balanced that on the rest. “Walt & minute—" said the beg- gar. “You wm need them,” Vincent said. “I won ut lhe watch——"" the beggar pro: te: “Ynurs. the watch and chain and the cigarette case. You might as well have them.” Vincent turned and con- tinued on his way north. He had found it pleasant making the beggar happy for the moment while it lasted. But his mind could not long leave Katherine—Katherine, lying huddled at the end of the sofa, thinking of Phil Oakes . . . The pistol was heavy on his hip. The beggar stood and stared after his northbound benefactor. clutched the money and the watch and the cigarette case in his outstretched hands. Vincent had gone 30 or 40 steps before the beggar moved. Then the man crammed the treasures into his coat pockets and walked north. EREE Vl NCENT turned in at the park en- trance. The beggar hastened after him. Vincent took a path to the left. The beggar slowed his pace a little and followed. In this fashion they went forward for 5 full minutes, taking winding A few years more or less|. éUN'DAY STAR, ‘WASHINGTON, D. O, MAY . 30,.1926—PART 5 ONE GOOD TURN Every One Thought Vincent Hall the Happiest of Husbands and He Had Shared “Is that so?" Vincent's voice was] “I' wanted to know, why you wouldn’t need your money any more." ‘There | hard. anything, it that's what you're wait- ing for. Would you mind going uway?” Vincent Hall was not cordial, but the beggar seemed unaffected by hl- manner. He came forward. h::!:l no right to commit sul- 1 “No? i think of 1t?" “Oft and on for a £00d many years. Every one does, I gu “But when did you first think of it seriously?” asked the beggar. ““When did you first consider applying it to yourself as a sedative?” “Tonight."” “I thought so. That's why I say you have no right to do it.” The beg- gar came closer still. 'When you have thought of it as much as I have ——please don't point that gun at me! —when you have thought as much as 1 have about suicide, you will be quali- fled to reach a decision.” “Really,” said Vincent, “I don't see how it concerns you at all. You have made two or three hundred dollars by it already; I should think you'd be satisfied.” The beggar laughed softly. “On the contrary,” he said, “if’ you kill yourself and your body is found stripped of money and valuables, the case will be called a murder, and I will be caught and electrocuted. “I see,” sald Vincent. “There is more to it than appears at the first glance. Then why don't you give me the watch and the cigarette care ‘When did you 'first —BY— EDWARD HOPE He | hil back and keep the money? Nobody will be able to identify the money.” ‘The beggar saw fit to laugh again. “Because,” he said. “I do n’t believe any man should kill himself over a woman.” Vincent jumped. What—what makes you think a ~oman has anything to do with 1t?”" ‘A number of things. For instance, ‘he fact that you have come 'way out nere in the park to do it. siderate.” The man insisted gling quletly. Vincent did not like him. “Look here,” he said. *'This is none | Side. He put his hand on her bare of your business. You don't know [shoulder. = prevT anything about it. And I'd appreciate Py R sm'» ressea Her Tocd it if you'd go away. shoot myself what's it to ‘That’s con- upon gig- It I want to you?" “You don’t want to shoot yourself. You're just set on mkln; yourself."” a fool of “What do you know about it?"” Vin. cent’'s jaw protruded da ngerously. But.the beggar remained calm. “I know a great deal about it. know that no woman know: I s her own mind, because no woman has a mind of her own. A woman has tions, and h.r emotions get for her. only emo- 100 strong That's why I don't believe any man should kill himself over a woman.” * % kX% his patience. INCENT HALL was at the end of He spoke crisply: a5 am not interested in your philosophy. Will_you have the decens away?” m. “Two years ago, cy .to go Apparently the beggar dhi not hear he said softly, “my wife told me she hated the sight of me. She said she wished I would g0 away and went away. Instend of to the park. I did not want to die cent was listening. tinued: er come 'rh'a beggar con- back. I I went down to the river Then I found Vin- “I went to a hotel und wrote her a suicide note and mailed it .to her. said T was killing myself as 1 a favor to her and that my body would never be found.” paths through shrubbery, up little hills and down into little valleys. 'Once Vincent hesitated, and the beg- gar froze in his tracks under a tree. Vincent went on, and the pursuit con- tinued. They came to a bridge. Vincent stopped, looked ahead and then ‘The man pulled Vincent Hall's gold cigarette case from his pock et. “Have a cigarette?” he asked. Vin- cent took one. ‘The beggar struck a match and both men smoked. There e. 7" Vincent asked fin: Two days later,” “T picked up a newspaper. ally. sald the beggar, . _On the placed his coffee cup on the little table beside his chair. “ ‘KATHERINE” HER CAME GASPINGLY' FROM HIS DRY THROA' coming back into his face. He could not move. He could not speak again. He stood and watched the pillow mov- ing, back and forth, back and forth. His mind was slow and infinitely pain- ful. He did not know what to do. Then Katherine sobbed audibly and broke the spell. He walked around the bed and got to his knees at her into the pillow. She hugged it to her all the more tightly. Words came to him and he said them, kneeling there on the floor, his arms out on the bed, his fingers interlaced. “You mustn’t feel bad, dearest. You mustn't You have your life before you, dear. I am old. You mustn’t think of me. You mustn't feel that you have done any- thing wrong. It's—your life, your life. Don’t you see? You mustn't be sorry . . .” He could not argue for himself. He untwined his fingers, reached out one hand to put it on top of hers, hers that was smooth and firm. “We have been friends, Kath- erine. We must understand each other. must have the man you want. I understand that. I want to make it easy for you . . ." He realized that he had no idea what was in his mind. He stopped, took his hand away from her, tapped his fingertips on the coverlet and stared at them. He saw her arms about the pillow loosen slowly, her head raise itself an inch or two. Then suddenly she was in his arms, one of.her arms about his neck, her head bent down against his chest so that he saw only the back of her neck. And that he saw dimly— blurred. He heard her voice. “I thought you had—killed your- self,” she sald In a voice so tiny he could scarcely distinguish the words. He patted her shoulder very softly. She tightend her grip on him con- vulsively. “Oh, Vin, Vin, Vin!" All at once her body was limp. Her hand slid from the back of his neck. He lifted her from the floor and laid her on the bed. He strode into the bathroom, ran cold water on a towel, and came back to bathe her face that was puffy and red with her crying. Ever so gently, he smoothed her fore- front page I found & piece about my |head. He talked to her softly. wife's suicide. She had left a note “There, now. Katherine. There, that said she could not live without |now . . Don't worry about me. me.” The man blew the ashes from |It's your life, your life . “You have been extravagant,” #aid. “You've spent a sma' fortu the tip of his clgarette. “I tell you,” on something and you're getting rea he said, “no man should k! {11 himself 1o show me the bill.” But he didn't believe what he was saying. She shifted her glance from her cup to her knee, Still she sald nothing. Vincent pulled his 1f out of the soft chalr, took two 18ng steps to the sofa, seated himself on the edge of it at her side. He could see that her hands were trembling. He leaned to- ward her and spoke in a slow, gentle A}otyou ill, dear?” He knew she she sald, still staring at her I am quite well ‘Vincent felt a shiver wriggle down his spine, “Katherine—dearest—you must tell me! What is it?” He put his arm around her shoul- ders, but her body grew rigid under his fingers and she pulled away. He let her go. He spoke as one speaks to a child: “Please, dear. You see I can’t help you un}ess you tell me. You must 1ell mq She answered in a strange, taut voice, “Yes . . I must tell you. Again he tried to take her ln hl' arms. She was still stiffened, pulling away. For no reason his mind noted details about her hair—just how ic glistened, in waves . ““Whatever it is ." he said. ou must tell me: You know you can tell me everything.” She took one of her hands from him end produced a tiny lace handkerchief, quite inadequate. She turned her body away. “Vin—you remember <" Her voice stopped. “Yes, darling,” he encouraged. There was a silence. Then: “You remember we agreed—a long time ago—before we were married— when we first talked about being mar- ried—" She stopped. She need not have gone on. He felt his muscles tighten at his foreknowledge. She went on: “You remember . . ‘we agreed that if ever one of u: she sounded as though she were read- ing words she could not understand— “if ever one of us should stop—stop— if ever one of us should feel—"" He did not know why he had let her stumble on so long, Now, at last, he broke in and spared her the rest of it. He picked his words carefully. “You have found you do not love me?" he whispered. He saw the back of her head trembling. He felt a chill over his whole body. She said noth- iny RBo pressed his teeth together rd. “Do you"—his whisper became a munluuu gurgle in his throat, and again—*"do you love some ona else?” He watched the back of her head, saw it moving, realized sud- denly that she was nodding assent. His muscles loosened all at once. He was not sure what was going to happen to him next. He swayed to- ward his wife. He caught himself. He sat gaping at Knthennel back, noting inane, irrelevant detalls; n-e gold braid that edged her dress; the suggestion of a spine under her soft, white skin; the two little curls on her e bottom of her hair. pouring back into his brain. smduutlovehlm. She | by He declded flld love some one else. himself. Mhllvmmnmb‘umralud May afternoon. e smelt the heavy perfume of the flowers in the church. He saw a flash of the minister in his white surplice—and just a giimpse of Katherine at the corner of his eye . . Four years. after all, l%:t was more than mast men got. perfect years. Ve pictured Katherine there at her end of the dinner table, straight and young, her lips smiling at him. As he would -never see her again. Something must be done about fit. He must not stand in her way. She ‘was made to love and to be loved. He could not hold her. He tried to think |behind. The beggar faded back into “NOW, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO THAT FOR?" VINCENT STARTED. “WHO—-WHO IS the shrubbery. Vincent eased the col- lar about his neck. He stepped from the path to the steep bank at the side of the bridge and climbed down the soft earth to the bottom Vincent was holdlu the pistol in his right_hand, studying it in the gloom. Perfect silénce surrounded him, He could neither see nor hear the bc(nr. who stood not 10 feet away him. Vincent shivered. He mz hu mouth pulling itself into He wanted Katherine of life without her, but his imagina- | her to tell tion failed him. Since their marriage they had not been apart 24 hours on end. He had bullt everything about her, had taken her friends for his own, had allowed Bimoeif to become utterly dependent |ipas s upon her . . . He saw her her eyes laughing up at him as she kissed him under the chin—as she never would again; as she had prob- |gap, ably kissed Phil Oakes. Though he could not belfeve that. He could not | ¢ Oakes nu.d the red-haired man to whom he had given his money and his valu-|t “What ave you doing here?” asked it. 3 followed ydéu,” the beggar told see her kissing Phil Something must be done. He g0 to live in the house in Greent himself. But he couldn’t do that without Katherine. Not in that house they had built for their children when they should have children! Not there \ Vincent that?” He pointed the pistol. “Don’t point it at me,” said the beg- tion. Vlnem saw him a: forward from the shadows. He recog- him. “I asked you a friendly ques. mwh H he stepped |n over a woman.” “Your wife didn't himself over a woman.” 1 tell you that no man should kill love another Vincent Hall's voice was bit- “I tell you you don't know what you're talking about,” said “Listen,” said the beggar. you like to live some more? were straightened out? If ‘Vincent. “Would 1t things you found your wife didn’t love another man Vincent Hall h.sitated. said at length. “Of “I'll make you a bet,” said the beg- gar, chain against your pistol.” “I'll bet you your watch and Tow do you mean” Vincent asked. give you your watch and chain, You go home to give me the pistol. your wife and—use your head. for an hour. Then if she the other man, come back meet me on the bridge at 11. You Try it still loves here and It you're not back by 5 minutes after 11, the pistol’s mine."” “But—but you could gef pistols for the watch.” The r giggled. “I dozen watches with the pistol.” t a dozen can get a Vincent considered. He admitted to himzelf that he did not want to die, that he was puttting the pistol in pointingup . . . erine was worth another tr: one chance in a million sick at the thought of mouf Certainly Kath- ith and 'y, éven on saw the disheveled heap on the sofa . . He took the auto- again matic by its cool barrel and extended the butt end to the beggar. “You will be on the bridge at 11.” he asked. ‘‘You promise?” “On my word of honor as a—senti. mentalist,” said the beggar. Vincent scrambled up reached the path, the Olrthl“y bank, and hurried away in the direction from which he had come. * % % X where he had Jeft it. Katherl ‘Vincent swallowed. As he unlocked the front door he mmhlod from head to foot. His coffee cup was on tho table | The ne's cup The After & while he moved his feet again. He turned himself about. He went into the hall, to the closed door bedroom, wlthhhhuulon ududuu‘door ‘white, sed a moment She did tbo cmnlnplaamulllun of it, her dark hair A preckly sensation fron Vincent's heart over his until his finger twitched. He felt llm ) to left, left to right. ingled l-lld It swaying. My it He felt wlrm"‘lhh ‘What happens to me doesn't matter. You're young, dearest. You must; live your life. I'm gemng old and | tired of it . . . There, now. Her eyes opened suddenly. They opened much too wide and stared at him as though he were a ghost. | “Where's s——(hhplnol"‘ she asked. “There, now . . “You took it with )Ou when \u\ll went out. You did.” Vincent saw fit | to say nothing. She went on. “And| suddenly I knew you had taken the pistol with you. And I couldn't get up to comé in here and look. 1 couldn’t move. ©Oh, for the longest time.” She twisted her body so that her nose bent itself against the pillo +. | “‘And finally I came in here and the drawer was open. And the pistol was gone. And you were gone A sob canght her voice and broke it in the middle. She cried convulsively. | She pulled her hands away from him, pressed her fists against her eves. \'lm ent felt his cheeks twitching, his eyes aching. ““There, now : he whisper- ed. But only he could hear it. Kath- erine was speaking again. Into the! pillow—through lips that were pouted out and wet: “I thought you had gone to kill yourself. And then I knew I had been crazy. I knew I could never love any one else. I knew I would love you always—always—always. Whether you were alive—or dead. Vincent Hall did an ungallant thing. He got up and walked away from her. He went to the mantelpiece on the other side of the room, crooked his arm on it, and buried his face in his sleeve T was the middle of a night about a week later. Vincent was sleeping soundly with his mouth just corifort- | e became conscious of | ably open the fact that something had him hy the elbow. He grunted, closed his mouth, tried to roll over and shake off whatever it was. Then he heard Katherine speak his name. e opened his eyes. “Vin, there's a burglar downstairs.” He reached out and snapped on the bed lamp, sat up in bed and rubbed his forehead. “What?" “There's a burglar downstairs. I've anwuuvws pressm——— i —— A i i been listening to him for a long time. | He's in the dining room at the silver.” Katherine was sitting up in her bed with the clothes pulled up about her necl to sleep,” said Vincent. “Bur- glars don't rattle silver.” “This one does,” said Katherine. Vincent got up and slid his feet into his slippers. He stood beside his wife's bed and listened. He heard nothing. “You're a funny old thing,” he said. “I'll bet you $10 there’s no burglar down there.” He took his bathrobe from the foot of his bed and wriggled into it. He went to the door and turned the key in the lock. “Oh, don't go down!" said Kath- erine. “Of course I'll go dow: Vincent ald. “What did you wake me up for, if you didn’t expect me to go down? I'll be back in a minute.” He opened the door and made his way down the in pitchy blagkness. He was ifully drugged with sleep and un- afraid. In the hall’of the drawing room floor he felt convinced of his rightness about the burglar. There was nothing to be seen or henr(l light. Just to make sure, he picked his way into the dining room, slid his d across the paneled wall until l;{ia e fingers came to the light button. pressed it. “Stick ‘em up!” said a voice from behind him. Vincent leaped perhaps only 6 inches or so from the ground; he stuck 'em up as high as they would go and turned slowly around. He found a bluish, businesslike automatic pistol staring him in the chest. Be- hind the pistol crouched a man, a long, droop-shouldered man in ragged, uncut red hair in a dis- | heveled mass on his head cascading down over his ears. Vincent Hall laughed suddenly and started to let his arms down. The man straightened the pistol. “Keep 'em up!” Vincent corrected the error, but continued to laugh. The burglar didn't seem to see the humor of the situation. “Have you come back for the watch and chain?” Vincent asked. The bur- glar's face changed. His eyes ex- pressed puzzlement. Vincent was 2ompelled to throw out another hint. Scte ey nd | “Do you find the pistol satisfactory?” And then the burglar saw. A friendly smile came over his face. “I didn't know you in_ your pa- jamas,” he apologized, and laughed. ‘Vincent held up a warning hand. Not 8o loud,” he said. “My wife ——" He waved toward the ceiling. The burglar’'s grin became broader. “No man,” he said, “should kill him- self over a woman.” Vincent looked at the cloth spread out in front of the sideboard on which the family silver was piled. He indi- cated a pair of candlesticks on the floor beside the sack of loot. “I can't recommend those,” he said. “They're cheap plate, heavily weighted. But you'd do me a big favor if you'd take that fruit bowl over there. It is the awfulest-looking fruit bowl I ever saw. But I think it's worth quite a lot, so you may as well have it.” The burglar scratched his messy red hair with the unarmed hand. “You're Just as big-hearted as ever, aren't you?” “Oh, no,” said Vincent. “The in- surance company will have to pay me for your efforts” He yawned and stretched, but did not bring his arms below the level of his shoulders. “Well, good-night. You'll close things up after you go, won't you?" Still holding his arms high, Vincent did an about-face and started from the room. At the door he turned and bowed the burglar. “Thanks.” " “Not at all,” sald the victim of the robbery. “Thank you!" And Vincent walked into the hall and up_ the stairs and into the bed- room. He locked the decor behind him and smiled at his wife. “You see, my dear, I told you it was your imagination. You = probably dreamed it.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “Good-night!” He snapped off the lights and got into bed. He stayed awake a good while, thinking of a number of things. At length, long after Katherine's regular respiration told him she was asleep, he found himself ready to doze. Very faintly from downstairs he heard the rattle of silver. He smiled. (Copyright. 1926.) Unknown Soldiers in Wars of the Past Were Very Numerous on the Death Rolls BY LEE POE HART. IXED emotions, as women weep audibly and men kneel in solemn reverence and holy prayer, today, while we pay tribute to our common “buddy” before the tomb of the Un- known Soldier at Arlington. Amia chaplets of laurel and flowers, the American flag serves as sentinel over his sarcophagus. The burial of the lone World War veteran, Novem- ber 11, 1922, out of respect to our very many unknown soldiers, is recalled. An _Army bugler sounding ‘‘Taps” was the only one of us he could hear. Yet a whole Nation, in thought, if not ‘n actual presence, stood with bowed heads and honored the memory of the “unknown” men who have died that the Republic might live. It is Memorial day, a time of sol- emn requiem for the dud, particular- ly the Nation’s war dead. Again our “buddy” will hear the fa millar sound of the bugle. Let it be understood, he is our composite “bud- dy,” for in reality he was only one of the American soldiérs killed “over there” whose names and personal histories were unknown, He is our national hero. He is espe- cially the hero and son of each mother and father of all the gallant warriors who still remain unidentified. To each of these proud and pnrlotlc though grief-stricken parents, is “known. Evory one of us “knows” our Imddy, At the time he was given a soldier's last rites about 4,000 were numbered nmon&flu World War unknown dead. ent today reports only 1,662 remain unidentified. In choosing the body that should represent this national hero, thanks to the foresight of the War Department, utmoSt care was taken to pick out t.h-t of & bnddy who could not by any posaibility be identified. Thus the 6ne who lies in the known Soldfer never have been Figures at the War Department show 36,981 Americans were killed in battle during the World War. With only 1,662 of that number now re- unmnmu the pi is remarkably H.a it not been for the intelligent system lnnuflmd by the War Depart- ment_for purpose of identifying men killed in battle, the World ‘War unknown would have mounted to un- told thousands. There was no such system adopted during the Spanish. American War. Only within recent years have civilized nations establish- ed an_efficient method of identifying their dead. enul‘ofmnumn Experi batan ted America to d"u. than in e psmtlfl’mdflum ‘The War |in an eq:a.nl, officer and soldier of the American Expeditionary forces to wear about his neck two identification tags of aluminum, stamped, in the case of an officer, with his name, rank and regiment, cqrpl or department. On the tag of jevery enlisted man was lbeocnbed s name and serfal num- r. / 'h tag was the size of a silver half dollar. The regulation stipulated that one tag be suspended from the neck, and the other, a duplicate, be attached to the necklace by a short string or tape. In case the wearer was killed, one tag was buried with him, and the other was usually at- tached to the cross which marked his grave. A cemetery was established near every battlefleld, when practicable. A temporary headboard giving the name | and rank of the interred, with the or- nnlutlon to which he belonged, each grave. Further precau- uon taken by the War Department was to make the company officer re- sponsible for the burial of his men. It was his duty to show the exact lo- cation of each grave with a sketch maj ‘When a soldier was killed, this sys. tem permitted little chance for his es- caping identification. It is remark- able that the number of unidentified ‘World War 18 8o small, consider- ing the fact that many men were lit- erally blown to un: ble ments by high explosives. In the days of the internecine strife between the North and South, the unknown killed made up a large pro- portion of the total number who lost their lives in battle. '‘An official list of the graves in a few of the national cemeteries where Union soldiers who fell in the Civil War are buried shows a striking contrast to the mod- ern system. t the Fredericksburg, Va., ceme- Al . | tery, 12,788 graves are marked ‘“‘un- 103485, A even grester proportion ::o:'nmnnflzd graves is the m‘ S SR ence, 8. c.. has S.lo';‘ nown against on%w. who lnw their Mmrym-ummnmgun"‘"“ Rappahannock along the River, whleh Lee's army. chose as a main line of defense. ‘The disproportion of ‘“un. known” found in the cemeteries at Salisbury and Fredericksburg proba- bly is explained through their being the burial grounds for those who, (ell in the Rappahannock fighting. There were four great'battles in the course of that fighting, and it has been said that more men were killed | M other part of the world, hical area, Dmrtment regulations required every ' any war up to the time of th:e ‘World War. At Marye's Heights alone, ac- cording to historians, Gen. Burnside, in 1862, literally sacrificed 11,000 men, as the Confederates were so well pre- pared that his attempt was hopeless. Another massacre of human lives was staged at the famous Battle of the Wilderness in that sad conflict. Here, in a region most bitterly fought over, that extends all the way from a few miles south of Washington to the Rappahannock, the opposing armles could not see each other, yet ferociously fought on. It is estimated the Wilderness battle cost 5,597 Union soliers, and the Con- federate lpss was even more. The real horrors of the Civil War, however, seem to be recorded in the surgical dreadfulness. Often ampu- tation and other major operations had to be hastily performed in improvised fleld hospltals without anesthetics. Chloroform, considered very danger- ous, and undoubtedly causing death in many instances, was the only anes- thetic available in favorable circum- stances. Like flies, men dled at the base hos- pitals from infected wounds and epi- demics of gangrene, usually spread by the hands and instruments of the sur- geons themselves. They were too busy with other things even to imagine the existence of germs. Nearly four men died of disease for every one killed in battle during the Clvil War, which is a striking contrast to the record in the great conflict of 1917, when much less than two for each man killed in action died of disease. Is it any wonder that American 'hn.ru are stirred in observance of Memorial day? The human heart is deeply affected through honoring the graves of loved ones and national ‘heroes. Ot such import is Memorial day in the human scheme of things that Con- gress, in 1874, designated May 80 for its o!uervnnco. further declaring it to of Memorial be a National holiday. How the observance of 5, 1868, whfls com- rand Army The touching origin in this eoung “Col, Charles Wilson, editor of the order on mndnhlnnm! the Gi iblic. count of i Journal, and a party of prom- inent women from Boston Chicago/ ruary, 1868, and invited Ge: Logan to go with them to that city, vented Gen. Logan P and came to Washington in Feb- nd Mrs. ichmond to visit the historic ground around His duties in Congress pre- from_going, but Mrs. Logan went, and when she re- turned she told her husband of the during | simple decorgtion on the Confederate graves. This touched hlm deeply, and he at once alluded to the custom, which prevailed among the Greeks, of honoring the graves of their dead with chaplets of laurel and flowers. As commander-inchief of the G. A. R., he immediately issued the order for the annual decoration of the graves of the loyal deceased. He also interested himself in getting the bill through Congress, setting apart a day for the honoring of the graves of dead soldiers as a legal holiday, and he succeeded in accomplishing this de- sign of his patriotic heart.” Decoration day was the appellation used for some years following Gen. Logan's order, but today it is national ly _referred to as Memorial day. Today the Grand Army of the Re- public will have charge of the Memo- rial day exercises at Arlington. President Coolidge 1s scheduled to deliver the principal address at the great amphitheater within the shadow of that national shrine—the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. To the sad roll of muffled drums the remaining veterans of the Na- tion's conflicts—World War, Spanish- Americar and Civil Wars—will journ to the vast area of graves and hono the memo:y of those “buddies” wh have passed on. Novel Landing Lights. GLABS-COVERHD parallel trenches in which “neon” light tubes are installed have been dug across the British landing fleld at Croydon to aid fiyers to descend safely in fogs. The reddish glow of the lamps, it has beep found, penetrates the mist more ef- fectively than other kinds of light. Between the tubes is a “leader cable” which affects 4 sensitive instrument in an airplane flying above it. Having been guided to;the fleld by radio, the pilot, after picjing up the boundaries EGGS that food value|goes are not wasted with kerosen treated with i l